Seduction Never Lies(28)

The girl she no longer wished to be, she thought, her bare feet making no sound on the stairs as she descended to the hall.

He wasn't watching television. The room was in darkness, but as she  pushed the door wider, the lamp by his sofa came on, and he sat up, the  quilt falling away from his body as he stared at her.

He said sharply, 'What's the matter? Did you hear someone? Something?'

'No.'

'Then why are you here?'

Upstairs it had all seemed so simple. He might not love her, but he  wanted her. His kisses had told her that, even if he hadn't kissed her  for quite some time.

She said huskily, 'I can't sleep. I don't like being alone.' She  searched the dark face, the narrowed tawny eyes for some response, and  swallowed. 'Jago-I-I want you to be with me-please.'                       
       
           



       

She stared down at the carpet and waited in a silence that seemed to stretch into for ever.

And when he eventually spoke, his voice was light, almost amused.

'In that case, sweetheart, take off that pretty piece of nonsense you're wearing and come here.'

Her head jerked up in disbelief. He was leaning back against his  pillow, arms folded across his bare chest. The faint smile curling the  corners of his mouth said nothing of desire. Even the uttered endearment  had been casual, almost mocking.

She said, 'I don't understand...'

'It's quite simple,' Jago drawled. 'It seems we're about to have an  intimate encounter which I want to begin with the pleasure of seeing you  naked. Therefore...' His hand moved in a gesture of explicit and  sensual command.

But this isn't how it's meant to be. The words shivered through her brain. It can't be...

She'd imagined he would come to her, take her in his arms. That she  would bury her face rapturously in the satin of his skin, breathing the  scent of him, the taste of him before offering her mouth to his kiss,  and her body for his undressing.

That she would welcome with eagerness the exploration of his eyes-his  hands-his mouth-her own shyness and uncertainty lost in the glory of  their unstinted mutuality.

Something, she realised, her throat tightening painfully, that did not exist outside her imagination.

And, at the same time, she knew that she could never do as he required.  Could not just strip-and have him look at her as if judging whether or  not she warranted his time and attention.

Told herself that if she mattered to him at all, he would never ask such a thing of her.

'Having second thoughts?' His harsh query held a jeering note. 'How  very wise. Because, understand this, Octavia. I'm not your comfort  blanket, nor your consolation prize.'

He added, 'And whatever you may choose to believe, I'm here tonight  only to ride shotgun, not to exploit the situation by using you for a  few hours of casual sex.

'And if you were thinking straight, you'd be grateful to me, because  that's not how it ought to be when it's your first time with a man. It  should actually mean something.'

She closed her eyes, standing rigid under the shock of his rejection.  Her voice trembled. 'Will you-please-stop treating me like a child?'

'On the contrary,' he said. 'It's a damned sight safer than treating  you like a woman. Now go back to your room, and let's both try and get  some rest for the remainder of this eternally bloody night.'

It was over. And there was nothing more to say or do. She had made a terrible, sickening mistake.

Now, all that was left for her was to get out-get away from him-with  some few shreds of dignity. Walking steadily out of the room without  hurrying, or stumbling over the hem of her robe.

As she closed the door behind her, she heard the faint click as he  switched off the lamp, and the creak of the sofa as he turned over,  composing himself for sleep again after that brief, unwelcome  interruption.

And she felt the first hot wave of humiliation sweep over her, before  gathering the skirt of her robe in one fist, and pressing the other  against her shaking mouth, she fled up the stairs, back to the darkness  and silence that waited for her there.

She did not allow herself to cry. Tears were an indulgence that her stupidity did not deserve.

She dropped the robe to the carpet and slid into bed, shivering as the  chill of the sheets met her heated flesh, and burying her face in the  pillow, in a futile longing to blot out the whole of the last half hour.

What in the world had possessed her to forget every principle she'd ever believed in and throw herself at him like that?

Because he'd never wanted her-not seriously. And particularly not when  Barbie was coming back into his life. His kisses had been no more than a  conditioned reflex response to a female presence, but one he was well  able to control.

His casual reference to Fiona Culham should have warned her, and it was  no consolation to know that Fiona too had offered herself without  success.

Oh, why the hell had she spoken to him? she wailed silently. If she'd  just stood there in silence waiting for him to make the first move, she  might have managed some ludicrous pretence that she was sleepwalking.

He wouldn't have believed her-that was too much to hope-but at least  she'd have spared herself his refusal of her stammering offer, and been  able to make a face-saving exit.

Whereas now...

The thought of having to face him in the morning made her feel cold all  over. And empty too, as if everything joyous and hopeful had withered  and died inside her.                       
       
           



       

The probability of leaving Hazelton Magna no longer seemed a disaster  but a kind of practical salvation. She would have to stop working for  him, of course. And moving from the village provided her with a feasible  excuse for the world at large.

Although it meant, she realised with aching wistfulness, that she would  never see the work on Ladysmere completed, and the place reborn in all  its new glory.

On the plus side, she would not have to witness him living there with  Barbie, she thought, pushing herself into the mattress as if hoping it  would open and swallow her, never to be seen again.

But at least she hadn't committed the ultimate folly of telling him she  loved him, and she would have to be eternally grateful for that.

Let him think it was a mixture of sexual curiosity and a need for  reassurance that had driven her to seek him out. Still embarrassing but  not terminal.

Which, under the circumstances, was as much as she could hope for. And if her heart was breaking, at least he would never know.

* * *

Her eyes felt as if she'd rubbed them with grit, when she opened them to another sun-filled morning.

Not surprisingly, she had slept badly, but she had also slept late, and  she could only hope that by this time Jago would have removed himself  from the Vicarage.

But the sound of the shower running in the bathroom told her that she hoped in vain.

She washed at the old-fashioned basin in her room, and dragged on denim  shorts and a white T-shirt before plaiting her hair into a thick braid  and going downstairs.

In the sitting room, the quilt was neatly folded at one end of the  sofa, with the pillow on top of it. Resolutely turning her back on this  unwelcome reminder, Tavy pulled back the curtains, and opened the  window, then went into the hall and, with a certain amount of  trepidation, unfastened the front door.

It still looked messy, but there'd been no additions in the night, which was one relief, she thought, heading for the kitchen.

Be relaxed, be casual, she adjured herself as she spooned coffee into  the percolator, and sliced bread for the toaster. But make it clear, if  mentioned, that last night is a taboo subject.

As the kitchen door swung open behind her with its usual squeak, she  braced herself and turned, hoping that her face did not betray her inner  emotional turmoil and wretchedness.

But to her astonishment, it was not Jago but Patrick who stood there, looking daggers at her.

'So,' he said bitingly. 'I hope you're pleased with yourself.'

Never less so, she thought, but you, thank heaven, don't ever need to know that.

She lifted her chin. 'I didn't hear the doorbell.'

'Because I didn't ring it. I imagine you were expecting me.'

'No,' she said. 'Unless you've come to apologise for your girlfriend's act of vandalism.'

'In your dreams.' He walked to the kitchen table, spilling the contents  of a manila envelope he was carrying across its surface. 'See these  photographs?'

'She could hardly miss them,' Jago said from the doorway. He was  wearing the dark jeans, his hair was damp and he was barefoot, moving  silently as a cat as he came to Tavy's side.

'Brought your holiday snaps to show us, Patrick?' he asked affably. He  picked up some of them, brows raised. 'A block of flats, rather than  luxury apartments in the sun, I'd say. And there's Fiona leaving, and  you on the doorstep kissing her goodbye in your bathrobe, of all things.  Just a hint-do you think the world is ready for those legs?'