His Blackmail Marriage Bargain Page 12

  Yorke’s mouth moved softly against her temple, her protest smothered against him.

  ‘We’re being watched,’ he told her softly.

  She stiffened and tried to peer over his shoulder, but the movement merely brought her into closer contact with his body. She shivered, mutely protesting as his fingers found her spine and moved seductively along it.

  Her nerves screamed in protest at what he was doing to her. The music had a slow, hypnotic beat, the movement of his thighs against hers dauntingly evocative, and all the time he was holding her closer and closer, crowding in on her, using the situation to try and reinforce his domination of her body.

  The dance seemed to last for ever, and when at last it finished her muscles ached with the effort of holding aloof.

  ‘Quite takes me back,’ Sir Giles chuckled reminiscently. ‘Charles is leaving shortly,’ he added to Yorke.

  ‘It was very pleasant meeting him,’ Yorke replied formally.

  The party appeared to be breaking up. Yorke left Autumn with Sir Giles while he went to collect Autumn’s wrap. Autumn had commented upon the attractive design of his house and he invited her out into the hall to show her a portrait of the ancestor who had been responsible for its erection. They were standing in front of it when a faint movement in the shadows caught her eye and she heard Annette’s voice, breathless and husky, say softly, ‘Kiss me, Yorke…’

  Sir Giles must have heard too, and Autumn daren’t look at him.

  He touched her arm awkwardly,

  ‘Sorry about this, m’dear. Annette’s got a crush on your husband, I’m afraid. Nothing to worry about.’

  It came to Autumn that he thought she might be jealous of his daughter, and she gave him a brittle smile.

  ‘I’m not concerned.’

  It was true, or so she told herself, forcing her stiff lips into a thin smile as Annette and Yorke emerged from the darkness, Annette’s expression smugly triumphant, as she darted past them.

  Yorke exhibited neither embarrassment nor confusion, but merely placed Autumn’s wrap on her shoulders, his hands lingering against her skin, until she was ready to scream with tension. Sir Giles excused himself, leaving them alone.

  ‘I should have thought you’d be content with one conquest,’ Autumn said icily, under her breath, her lip curling faintly. ‘Or is it just that you find schoolgirls easy prey?’

  She was about to stalk past him, but his hands slid upwards, his fingers biting into her shoulders, his face livid with rage. She cringed instinctively as though awaiting a blow, but when it came it was not the one she had expected.

  ‘Being a little dog-in-the-mangerish, aren’t we?’ he asked silkily.

  ‘I was thinking of Sir Giles.’ The words sounded stilted and false, and she could not bring herself to meet the mockery she knew would be in his eyes. She had been concerned for Sir Giles, but she had been jealous as well, searingly and bitterly jealous. And yet why? She was over Yorke and had been for years. He had humiliated and denigrated her, and yet for a moment she had passionately wanted to change places with Annette. The knowledge disturbed her. She sat in silence as they drove home, unnerved by the triumphant power she sensed in Yorke. His body was throwing out a powerful sexual stimulant and her own was responding to it whether she was prepared to admit it or not; the atmosphere in the car was highly charged with a sensual tension that stirred her pulses, and triggered off a physical reaction that made her body ache with the effort of denying its existence.

  The trouble was that when she agreed to come back to him, she had made no allowances for any physical communication, forgetting how, in the intimacy of marriage, even the slightest touch could fuel a sexual explosion. The man seated next to her had once brought her body the most exquisite physical pleasure. She had denied it that pleasure completely, even to the extent of trying to pretend it had never existed, and now her body was in revolt against her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SHE went straight to bed the moment they got in, undressing quickly with jerky, ragged movements as though the impatient physical action could dispel the sensations curling insidiously in the pit of her stomach. She remembered how Yorke had held her as they danced and her muscles bunched protestingly a sound that was almost a groan forced past trembling lips. From the other side of the communicating door she heard movements, shivering feverishly as she heard again Yorke’s voice telling her tauntingly that it would never be opened except at her request.

  She reached behind her to unpin her hair, then remembered the necklace. The safety catch was too stiff for her to unfasten and she twisted angrily trying to prise it apart. Damn the thing! She could hardly go to bed wearing it. She glanced at the door, her mouth folding in a stubborn line. When she failed to unfasten the necklace she walked into her bathroom, grimacing at the sight of her naked body in the mirror, the necklace glittering around her throat in barbaric splendour. It looked like a collar, she thought disdainfully, subduing the urge to tear it from her neck. When she stepped out of the bath she realised that she had left her nightdress on the bed and swore angrily, wrapping a fluffy, thick towel around herself sarong-wise and opening the door.

  Yorke was propped up against the wall, and the sight of his naked torso jolted the breath from her throat.

  ‘What do you want?’ She made no attempt to hide her hostility, her eyes burning with anger as she stared at him.

  ‘What do you think?’ he taunted, stretching out to grasp the towel. ‘You’ve been playing the loving wife so well all evening, I wanted to see if we could take the part any farther.’

  Fear paralysed her, and her hands went instinctively to the towel, but Yorke was too quick for her, twitching it away before she could stop him, the muscles in his jaw clenching convulsively as he stared avidly at her.

  ‘Stop it, Yorke,’ Autumn warned him, stepping back. ‘I didn’t invite you in here.’

  ‘Like hell,’ he swore thickly, grasping her wrists. ‘You’ve done nothing else all night. You want me, Autumn,’ he said with bitter ferocity. ‘And by heaven you’re going to have me!’

  He was beyond all reason, and if she hadn’t known better she might have suspected he had been drinking. His eyes had a fierce glitter she did not remember, burning with a hot intensity that made her skin prickle with answering heat.

  ‘I don’t want you, Yorke,’ she insisted, trying to drag her eyes from the bare skin of his chest; flesh she had once mutely adored with shy, passionate kisses. Memories rose up inside her, forcing a groan to her lips, and her eyes fastened on the dark column of Yorke’s throat as she tried not to remember the male saltiness of it beneath her lips.

  She raised her hands to push him away, caught off guard by the speed with which he moved, jerking her against him so hard that the breath left her body, her hands trapped against his chest.

  She moaned softly, twisting away, but he held her against him, moulding her to his body.

  ‘You want me, Autumn, and before tonight’s over you’re going to admit it to me, in words as well as actions.’

  She felt sick, nausea churning inside her, her frantic protest lost as his fingers sealed her lips.

  ‘Let me go, Yorke,’ she pleaded, gasping as his lips touched her throat, the weight of his body forcing her back against his arm. She flailed wildly at his chest, but he captured her wrists, pinioning them behind her back with one hand, despite her agonised protest, no mercy in his eyes as they surveyed her bone-white face, before tipping her firmly over his hard arm. A pulse worked frantically in her throat. ‘Don’t do this, Yorke,’ she begged frantically in a hoarse whisper, but his mouth was exploring her skin, with deliberately arousing langour, moving slowly over every inch of flesh until her breath was jerking painfully between clenched teeth, her eyes wild with fear and anger.

  ‘You like it, Autumn, don’t pretend you don’t,’ he muttered hoarsely against her ear.

  ‘I hate it,’ she panted back. ‘And I hate you!’

  ‘At least that’s some pro
gress from indifference,’ he mocked. ‘You were never indifferent to me, were you? That was all just an act to keep me at bay.’ His mouth slid across her cheek, feathering light caresses, hovering above hers before lowering slowly. She watched its downward movement like a rabbit transfixed by a stoat, muscles tensed, even her breathing suspended to a shallow sob.

  ‘You want me, Autumn,’ he breathed into her mouth, running his tongue delicately over her lips. ‘You want me.’

  ‘I don’t!’ she screamed back, but the sound was lost, obliterated by the pressure of his mouth. A pressure that went on, and on, ruthlessly demanding her total surrender, making her heart throb painfully, and suspending all rational thought.

  When he raised his head he was watching her with an odd, watchful expression, his fingers gentle as they touched her bruised mouth.

  ‘Did I hurt you?’ he said softly. ‘I’m sorry. Shall I kiss it better?’

  She knew that he was deliberately playing on her emotions, playing a dual role of antagonist and protector, and it came to her that there was no way he was going to let her go until he had achieved his ends. She had once thought that the only way to truly exorcise the past would be to lie in his arms and experience his lovemaking without feeling or emotion. Now she accepted that that could never be, and with a dull inevitability she acknowledged that she could never be indifferent to him. His lips touched hers playfully, his hands were gentle on her skin, and with limp resignation she knew that she could not fight him any longer.

  The admission tore through her like a physical pain followed by a sensation of something actually breaking apart inside her. Yorke was murmuring softly against her skin and something snapped inside her, her eyes bleak and despairing as her arms jerked upwards like those of a puppet to enclose his dark head, her face anguished as she stared helplessly at him.

  The moment his mouth touched hers her senses ignited. She moaned huskily deep in her throat, her fingers stroking feverishly across his back, tensing into his flesh, as he deepened the kiss, suffocating on a burning wave of need.

  Yorke lifted her in his arms and she writhed feverishly at the cessation of intimate contact. When he laid her on the bed he was shaking with passion. Without a word his mouth fastened hungrily on hers, draining it, his heart racing against her flesh as his hands stroked possessively along her body.

  He released her, holding her slightly away from him while his eyes devoured her, resting heatedly on the pale flesh the sun had never touched. Autumn could feel her heart thudding as his mouth brushed tormentingly across her skin, her lips muttering frantic little pleas as her hands reached achingly for his body, her lips pressed hotly against his throat.

  She didn’t realise she was crying until she tasted the salt of her tears against Yorke’s skin, but once she had started it was impossible to stop, her tears silent and unceasing, pouring from her until she felt she was dying with the pain.

  ‘You’ve melted at last,’ Yorke muttered triumphantly above her. ‘You crazy little fool! What the hell were you trying to do to yourself?’

  Like a hunted animal driven crazy by its pursuers, she wanted only to escape, but Yorke wanted to savour his triumph in full, holding her against him as she gasped and shuddered as the emotional storm swept over her.

  When it had finished she lay quietly against him, too limp and exhausted to protest when his hands started to move slowly over her.

  ‘Now that that’s out of the way, do you know what I’m going to do to you?’ He spoke in a slow deep voice, the words shivering through her, touching the deepest, most sensitive parts of her body. ‘I’m going to make love to you until you’re begging me to take you. Until you’re crying my name with pleasure—and you will, I promise you.’

  She knew she ought to protest that the purely physical arousal he was talking about had nothing to do with love, and that to speak of it in such terms debased and devalued it, but she felt too drained to do so, battered and defeated by the intensity of her emotions. Nothing had changed, she thought sickly, and she had been a fool to think it had. You didn’t love someone—feel about someone with an intensity that was close to obsession—and then calmly sweep it all away. Yorke moved and she felt the hard warmth of his chest beneath between her palms. Longing obliterated reason as her hands moved yearningly against him, her fingertips spreading out against his chest, touching him lightly and sensuously, her eyes tightly closed.

  When her fingers stroked over his stomach he groaned deeply, cupping her face and kissing her deeply and slowly.

  The kiss went on and on, burning away everything but the deep core of mutual need. Autumn’s hands traced the familiar paths of his body of their own volition, her muscles clenching in answering satisfaction as he jerked convulsively against her, removing her straying fingers and placing her arms round his neck.

  His body was as lean and taut as ever, his stomach flat and hard, and as she breathed in the aroused, musky scent of his body the last of her willpower started to drain away, and her body reached out, blindly, imploring his touch.

  ‘Say it, Autumn,’ he urged her huskily, his breath filling her mouth. ‘Say you want me…’

  She moaned in protest, trying to blot out the words, but his hands held her face, his lips driving her into frenzied convulsions against him.

  ‘Say it, damn you,’ he insisted hoarsely, probing the hard line of her mouth, forcing it into mute surrender. ‘Your body is saying it already…’

  Tears of frustration dimmed her eyes. She wanted to tell him to go to hell, but somehow her lips were framing other words, weak damning words, which brought grim pleasure to his eyes.

  ‘That’s better. Say it again, Autumn, louder this time—I want to make sure that we both hear it.’

  ‘I want you… Oh God, I want you!’ The sobbed words ripped from her, leaving her shaking with pain and anguish, but still it seemed he hadn’t had enough.

  ‘Now beg me to make love to you… Beg me, Autumn,’ he muttered as she tried to arch away from him, his hand on her breast feeling its hardening betrayal.

  Never! Never! Her brain screamed, but his touch was doing unbearable things to her self-control and on a bitter moan she gave him the victory he had sought, the words shuddering from her in a mindless refrain that ceased only when they were silenced by his mouth.

  The passion that exploded between them was savage and total, as though by surrender and victory they had both passed some invisible barrier into a place where nothing existed but their desire. In a moment of intense clarity Autumn thought that they weren’t so much making love as each trying to exorcise a private devil, taking one another from heaven to hell in their attempts to do so.

  The climax, when it came, was exquisite and prolonged, far exceeding anything she had known in the past; a total letting go of past, present and future, but as passion gave way to a languor and languor to reality, the memory of her moaned, abject capitulation returned to mock her and she turned slowly to look at Yorke. His face was drained and blank, and it came to her on a wave of suffocating awareness that she still loved him. Her passion had cooled and she was left only with the bitter aftertaste that must always come from one-sided love.

  Yorke looked at her, his eyes fathomless.

  ‘You wanted me, Autumn.’

  The words filled the cavities of her mind and soul, denying escape.

  ‘Yes.’ The admission filled her with pain. A faint sigh brushed past her lips. She was too lethargic to move, but physical release brought crystal clarity to her thoughts. ‘I hope it was worth it, Yorke. Not many men would have the stomach to enforce such degradation. I can’t deny the obvious, but I want you to know how much I hate and loathe myself. If it was possible to drag you down to share my own private hell I would. Because that’s where you’ve put me Yorke—in hell!’ Her body started to shake with soundless, hysterical laughter. ‘You wanted to vanquish my body, but you’ve achieved something far better. You’ve destroyed me, Yorke, branded me as effectively as though you’d sc
arred me physically.’

  ‘I’m paying well for it,’ Yorke said harshly. The blood had left his face, turning it white with anger. ‘You’ll get your divorce.’

  She started to laugh properly then, the high wild sound filling the silence.

  ‘And I’ll be free—but for what? Another marriage? Do you think I could insult another man by giving him what you’ve made me?’

  His face livid with rage, Yorke thrust himself off the bed, picking up his clothes.

  ‘We made a bargain,’ he began tersely, but Autumn cut through his words.

  ‘And I’ll stand by it. But you wouldn’t, could you, Yorke? I’d have to beg to get you into my bed, you said, but it wasn’t quite like that, was it?’

  Without a word he turned on his heel, the coldly decisive closing of the communicating door making her shiver with apprehension.

  * * *

  It wasn’t until she woke up in the morning that Autumn realised she was still wearing the sapphires. She hadn’t asked Yorke what time Beth and Richard were arriving, but she guessed it would probably be in time for lunch, and she dressed carefully in a soft blue cashmere sweater and toning blue and heather tweed skirt.

  The dining room was empty and she found Mrs Jacobs in the kitchen.

  ‘I would have woken you,’ she smiled, ‘but Mr Laing said to let you sleep. Was it a good party?’

  ‘Very pleasant,’ Autumn responded, stroking the labrador as he pushed his wet nose into her hand. ‘Is my husband in?’

  ‘In his study,’ Mrs Jacobs supplied. ‘Will you be wanting any breakfast?’

  ‘Just fruit juice and coffee, I think. Will Beth and Richard be here for lunch?’

  ‘They normally arrive about eleven, and leave about five.’

  She could have asked Mrs Jacobs to help her with the necklace, Autumn reflected as she opened the study door, but some instinctive distaste of involving any outsider in their private affairs made her hesitate. Mrs Jacobs would think it odd to be asked to perform the sort of service a woman normally requested of her husband.