The Pleasures of Winter (37 page)

She had never made an entrance before, but the green dress certainly drew attention. She spotted Martin in the crowd, wearing a formal dinner jacket. He was chatting to the ambassador and another man in his forties. Barbara was at the centre of the crowd as usual.

An octogenarian friend of Martin’s who had been at the Christmas party offered her his arm. His suit was shiny in places and he smelled faintly of mothballs. ‘You haven’t forgotten you promised me a dance tonight, have you?’

Abbie smiled. He was a sweet old guy. ‘Of course not, lead the way.’

Three dances passed before she could politely disentangle herself from his grasp. For an old guy, he had a lot of moves and some of them weren’t polite. She made her way through the heaving crowd to where Martin and the others were still chatting. Drink in hand, Martin was holding forth about his favourite subject.

‘Do you ever stop talking about horses?’ she asked.

He glanced around the room at the swathe of female flesh on view. ‘Sure, what else would we talk about? Mind you, there’s a few fine fillies about the place tonight, including yourself. Have you met Tom? He’s with the ambassador.’

So this was Tom Breslin. Forties, handsome, dark hair and beautiful tailoring. Thanks to Miffy, Abbie knew enough about clothes to recognize that Breslin’s tuxedo was handmade and that the black pearl stickpin was real. His sharp eyes drank her in from head to foot before returning to her boobs. Abbie ignored his impolite stare and offered her hand. ‘I’m Abbie, Martin’s niece.’

There was no recognition on his face. Good. Maybe he hadn’t associated her with the reporter who had been trying to get an interview with him for weeks.

‘Delighted to meet you, Abbie.’ He took her hand in his.

Abbie tried not to grimace when she felt his clammy hand. She hated men with sweaty palms. She forced a
bright smile. ‘So, you work with the ambassador. My, that must be interesting. I bet you get to travel a lot.’

Breslin returned her smile and moved closer. ‘Yes, I do. Europe, South America –’

‘South America? Wow! I’d love to hear about that. That part of the world has always fascinated me.’

Breslin took the bait. ‘Why don’t we dance?’

Jack eyed the house where the East Meath Harriers’ Hunt Ball was in full swing. He didn’t have an invitation and he had no interest in horses, hunting or the horsy set, but if this was where Abbie was, he was definitely interested.

No one was going to keep him from Abbie.

He marched up to the wide front door, where a group of men were smoking and discussing the prospects for hunting the following week, if the snow melted enough. He had no doubt he could mingle with them and get in but their slow pace would drive him mad. He needed to see Abbie.

When a pompous little man with a list tried to stop him, Jack waved him away. ‘I’m here to see Abbie Marshall. Can you direct me?’

‘Um.’ The man with the list was thrown. He looked from Jack’s face to the list. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sure I know you, but …’

‘That’s OK,’ Jack said, walking past him. ‘Happens all the time.’

He strode down the hallway towards the sound of music, voices and laughter at the back of the house. All the partitions between the living room, dining room and
conservatory had been pulled back, creating a long, high room which was thronged with brightly clad, boisterous partygoers, all intent on having a good time.

There was a small band playing Tom Jones at one end of the room, and a dozen couples were dancing with more energy than grace. Ten tables seated large groups of diners who chatted loudly and occasionally cheered for no reason that Jack could see.

The men were dressed like him, in dinner jackets and suits, apart from a few in hunting pinks, and the women wore long dresses which revealed a lot of cleavage. The makeshift ballroom was decorated with a ceiling-scraping Christmas tree, tinsel, balloons and rosettes. The revellers varied in age from a babe in arms to an elderly lady with a walking stick, thinning white hair and bright red lipstick.

Where was Abbie? If this was another dead end, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions. She had been away from him for too long.

The crowd parted, and he caught a glimpse of green and a couple of waving feathers. Abbie looked as if she had stepped from a 1920s movie. She eclipsed every other woman in the place in a vintage dress that made her eyes seem like pure jade. The silk gown shimmered with every step she took. She wore a beaded headband trimmed with feathers that should have looked ridiculous, but instead made him want to strip her and use those feathers to torture her.

He strode forward, anxious to claim her and put her back where she belonged, in his arms and in his bed.

She threw back her head and laughed. She was dancing
with another man, a man who had his arms around her. And she wasn’t fighting him off.

‘Hi, Abbie,’ he said, stopping right beside her and keeping his voice level, which took some effort. ‘My dance, I believe.’

He got a certain amount of satisfaction from the shocked expression on her face. Her jaw slackened and her eyes rounded. There was a mix of elation and anger in her eyes but she recovered herself quickly.

‘Sorry. What do they say at these things? My card is already full.’ She turned her attention to the man she was dancing with. ‘What were you saying, Tom?’

No way. No fucking way. He had come halfway across the world for her, faced down his father for her, gatecrashed a stupid hunt ball, and she was blowing him off. He fed his anger so the desolation inside couldn’t take over.

Jack turned to the other man, using his extra height to intimidate him. ‘You won’t mind if I cut in, will you?’ He was pretty sure he’d once used those lines in some crappy historical play.

Something in his face must have been a warning. The other man backed away, hands up. ‘No, that’s fine, you have your dance.’

Jack took Abbie into his arms. She fitted there as if she had been made exclusively for him. Her perfume, subtle and enticing, teased his senses. The sense of rightness was overwhelming. Abbie leaned against him for a moment, letting him take her weight, before she pushed back and stared at him coldly.

‘What are doing here, Jack? You sent me away, remember?’

She held herself stiffly in his arms. Her expression was a mask of cool indifference, but the small pulse hammering at her throat told a different story. Abbie was hurt and she was still angry with him. She wasn’t going to give in easily.

‘Just tell me one thing. Did you write that story?’

‘You have to ask?’ The hurt in her eyes was his answer.

She wrenched herself away from him and marched back to the man she had been dancing with before. Jack didn’t hear what she said to him, but he smiled at her and swung her back on to the dance floor.

Jack was about to go after her when a hand on his arm stopped him. Fists clenched, he swung round, but the elderly man with shrewd blue eyes carefully kept a non-threatening stance. ‘No need to get riled, son. So you came to get her?’

‘Yes, and you’re not going to stop me.’

The old man grinned. ‘You don’t think she’s going to just let you take up where you left off? That girl has her mother’s temper and something tells me you’ll be getting a taste of it shortly.’

Jack wasn’t paying much attention. Abbie was dancing too close to the stranger, smiling at him flirtatiously.

‘Who the hell is she dancing with?’ he said to the old guy.

‘You don’t learn, do you?’ The older man held out his hand to Jack. ‘I’m Martin Locke, Abbie’s uncle.’

Jack shook hands briefly, without taking his eyes off Abbie. When her partner swung her out and pulled her
back against his body, he had had enough. He pushed through the other dancers, pulled Abbie away from the other man and into his arms. This was where she belonged.

‘You’re mine,’ he told her. ‘We signed a contract and I haven’t released you from it.’

Abbie stiffened. She muttered furiously. ‘Are you out of your mind? I’ve had enough of D/s to last me a lifetime.’ She laughed at him. ‘I’m not a sub. You are not my Dom and you can take your overbearing attitude and shove it where the sun don’t shine.’

Abbie stamped on his foot, her spike heel doing enough damage to make him wince. She tore herself from his slackened grasp. ‘Martin, this gentleman is leaving. Can you show him out please?’

To Jack’s fury, four men surrounded him and indicated that they wanted him to leave. He had no option but to go.

Abbie watched as her uncle and cousins manhandled Jack and escorted him from the hunt ball. It felt so good to see him at a disadvantage for once. When she had heard his voice and looked up to see him standing beside her, the flood of joy had been so strong it was terrifying. He was a son of a bitch, he had treated her like dirt, but as soon as she saw him she’d wanted to throw herself into his arms and beg him to make love to her.

So
not going to happen.

Even if he was the most ravishing man she had ever seen. The way Jack looked at her, the intensity in those glittering blue eyes made her feel as if she was the only woman in the world. All his attention, all his passion was
focused on her. But now she knew she wasn’t content to have that for the duration of a contract. She wanted it for ever.

What was it Jack had said – a strong Dom needed a strong sub?
Well, Sir, you’re getting your wish. I’m about to become the most difficult sub in the world. Let’s see if you’re ready for me.

The little scene had attracted the attention of all the guests. She could see some of the women whispering to each other ‘Was that Jack Winter? Oh my god!’

Barbara came over and patted her on the back. ‘Well done, dear. It’s time you stood up for yourself. Do you want me to call the police and have him arrested for trespassing?’

For one moment, Abbie was tempted. The idea of Jack locked up in a cell, perhaps an old-fashioned one where he would be manacled to the wall and she could visit him and … OK, not somewhere she wanted to go. Abbie shook her head. ‘No, that’s fine. He won’t bother me again.’

She knew – or at least, she hoped – she was lying. She wanted Jack to bother her again. She wanted him to pursue her with the same ruthless intensity he had used to get them out of the jungle. Not that he was going to catch her, but she would enjoy his efforts.

Her stomach lurched at the thought of Jack’s pursuit and heat coiled low in her belly. Unconsciously, she shifted her thighs together, trying to ease the ache that Jack always inspired. OK, perhaps she might let him catch her eventually, when he had suffered enough.

There was still a trace of Jack’s distinctive man-and-musk scent on her skin. She took a deep breath to inhale
it then caught herself. She was over Jack. She had thrown him out – and it felt good. No more running after him. It was time to get back to work.

She turned back to Tom Breslin, whose gentle features were belied by the intelligence in his steady gaze.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said. ‘Now where were we?’

‘You’re
that
Abbie Marshall, aren’t you? I didn’t realize that reporters lead such interesting lives. Crashing in a jungle, and now being pursued by Jack Winter.’ His smile took the sting out of his words. He had a Connecticut accent that reminded her of home.

It was time to take the gloves off. ‘I’ve had enough excitement, thank you. But you had your adventures in Honduras as well, didn’t you? Why don’t we talk about your involvement with the DEA there? What was your impression of the country?’

The music changed to something slower. Breslin took her into his arms and circled the small dance floor. He was a good dancer and although he held her close, there was still an air of impersonal politeness about him. ‘Such a poor country. I hope that American influence might help. We have to help stop the trans-shipment of drugs through there.’

It was a stock answer, one he had clearly rehearsed and used many times before. She asked him more questions and he gradually loosened up.

‘How well do you know Antonio Tabora?’ she asked, just as the band started to play Horslips’ ‘Trouble’. It was a loud, rousing song and the dance floor was inundated with boisterous dancers.

Breslin shook his head, frustrated. ‘It’s too noisy here.
Why don’t we go for a walk outside? It’s quieter there and I’ll tell you all about Tabora.’

She agreed, eager to get him to answer her questions. She was close, she knew it.

Breslin led her down to the stable yard, where the snow had been cleared and night lights lit their way. The half doors on the stables were still open and a dozen horses poked their heads out, eager to see what was happening. Breslin led her through the yard to where a sports car was parked in front of the hayshed. ‘It’s cold out here. Get in and I’ll tell you about Tabora.’

‘I don’t think …’ Abbie stopped, uneasy. They were still close enough to the house that the music was audible, but it was dark and they were alone. The thin silk of her dress offered little protection against the biting wind. ‘Maybe we should go back to the house?’

She tried to pull away, but Breslin had a firm hold on her elbow. He didn’t let go. ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘You wanted to know about Tabora. I’m going to tell you. Now get into the car.’

He unlocked it with a click, still holding her arm. Abbie’s journalistic instincts warred with her feminine ones. She didn’t want to be near anyone who wasn’t Jack but she needed this interview.

The strength of her revulsion took her aback. Bloody Jack Winter – he had ruined her for other men. She couldn’t even sit in a car with someone to ask him questions. She was tougher than that. If she had to interview someone, she would do it.

‘Let me get my notebook,’ she said.

‘I have paper in the car, you can use that.’ His grip tightened, urging her further into the car.

There was something wrong here. ‘No, I’d rather get my own notebook.’ She tried to move backwards, but Breslin prevented her. He pushed her on to the seat and closed the door.

‘Take your hands off her,’ a furious, familiar voice snarled.

Jack lunged out of the darkness and grabbed Breslin by his lapels. ‘When a woman says no, you should listen. Do you hear?’ He hauled him up so that he could look the smaller man in the eye. ‘She said she wants her own notebook.’