Phantom Marriage Read online

  Sue and James seldom mentioned her, and Tara suspected that the marriage was not a happy one. Why had James married Hilary? Tara often wondered. He was considerably younger than Hilary, an immensely attractive and virile man in his late twenties with a successful business which he had apparently inherited from his uncle. Her mind refused to accept that James might love Hilary. So why had he married her? Tara was not as naïve as her classmates liked to think. For one thing, she was extremely widely read and by no means ignorant of the power that wealth wielded, and yet everything within her revolted against the idea of James marrying Hilary for financial gain. It was none of her business, she reminded herself, firmly closing the door on her doubts, concentrating instead on the heady pleasure of the increasingly precious time she spent with James. That Sue was always there as well did not detract from her enjoyment. Her burgeoning love for James was her own secret and she meant to keep it that way. James treated her much as he treated Sue, although sometimes there was a look in his eyes when they rested on her that made the blood beat faster in her veins, frightening her that he might guess how she felt about him. On those occasions she was more careful than ever not to betray herself.

  One afternoon when the two girls had cycled back to Sue’s house together after school, Tara found herself alone with James when Sue was taking a transatlantic call from her mother. Tara’s own mother was beginning to complain about the amount of time Tara was spending with Sue, reminding Tara that she had important A levels coming up and adding bitingly that it was a fine thing indeed when a man married a woman close on ten years his senior and that she had no need to guess the reason why.

  Her mother seemed to have taken an intense dislike to James. Tara had noticed it on the first occasion that James had run her home—the morning after his arrival it had been, and when she saw his lean frame uncurling itself from the interior of the Porsche car, Tara’s mother’s mouth had turned down angrily, her eyes hard and watchful.

  ‘How’s the studying coming along?’ James asked casually reaching for the knot in his tie and loosening it tiredly. It was June and the whole month had been unusually warm. Tara’s skin had been turned creamy gold by the sun, a tiny smattering of freckles marching across the bridge of her nose.

  ‘Fine,’ she responded unenthusiastically, absurdly conscious of the lean column of James’s throat where his unbuttoned shirt revealed the warm flesh. Her breath seemed to be oddly constricted in her throat, tiny frissons of awareness shivering over her skin bringing out tiny goosebumps on her arms.

  James frowned, warm brown fingers curling round her upper arm as he asked frowningly, ‘Cold?’

  With his fingers circling her skin, the warm male scent of him tantalising her nostrils, and her eyes on a level with the darkly curling body hair exposed by the opening of his shirt, it was as much as Tara could do to shake her head.

  ‘So what are these?’ Tara shivered as James’s eyes rested on the small goosebumps. ‘Tara?’

  James’s hands left her arm to grip her shoulder and Tara knew that he must be able to feel the way her body trembled. Uncertainty and fear mingled in the eyes she kept averted from him, her one fear that he might guess the truth.

  ‘Tara?’

  This time there was a husky urgency in the way he said her name that brought new sensations washing over her. She looked up just in time to hear James swear suddenly as he released her, and Sue came rushing into the room.

  ‘It was Ma,’ she announced unnecessarily. ‘She’s sending me a cheque for my birthday.’ She pulled a face. ‘Big deal—it’ll take her all of two minutes to write it out and have her secretary post it.’

  ‘Didn’t your mother want to speak to James?’ Tara heard herself asking in a shrilly challenging tone that surprised herself as well as Sue.

  ‘Hilary never did have much time for talking to the men in her life,’ James responded drawlingly, to Sue’s surprised ‘No,’ the smile he gave Tara mocking as he added, ‘Shocked? How young you are, Tara!’

  The way he said it wasn’t complimentary and there was a closed-up bitterness about his face that warned Tara from pushing the matter further. Sue started to talk about her birthday. She wanted James to take her out for a meal; to take them both out, Tara realised in dismay as the younger girl’s excited chatter burst in upon her own private thoughts.

  ‘No, really, she protested. ‘There’s no need to invite me, Sue… I…’

  ‘It will be my pleasure to escort you both,’ James interrupted calmly. ‘I’ll book a table for us. Don’t refuse,’ he muttered softly to Tara under cover of Sue’s eager enthusiasm. ‘Can’t you see how bitter she feels that her mother can’t be bothered? She thinks a lot of you, Tara—and with good reason, don’t let her down now.’

  Sue’s anxious, ‘You are coming, aren’t you?’ only underlined his comment, and Tara heard herself saying weakly, ‘Of course I am,’ even though she knew in her heart of hearts that she was playing with fire.

  Tara’s mother, when she told her, made no secret of her disapproval. ‘Dinner at a hotel for a fourteen-year-old? Foolish nonsense!’ she snorted, and Tara had to plead with her to be allowed to accept the invitation. Her clothes were chosen for her by her mother, and apart from the jeans and tee shirts she favoured out of school hours Tara had very little in her wardrobe other than her school uniform and one or two sensible and staid outfits which she loathed wearing.

  Sue, in contrast, had more clothes than she knew what to do with. Her mother gave her a generous allowance—conscience money, Sue called it scoffingly—and when Tara confided her doubts about dining at the prestigious Davenport Arms, which was the town’s most expensive hotel, in the childish ‘best’ clothes which were her mother’s choice, Sue dragged her upstairs to her bedroom, flinging open her wardrobe doors to announce, ‘Take your pick—there’s sure to be something here that will fit you. You’re taller than me, I know, but you’re so slim…’ She rummaged through the tightly packed cupboard, ignoring Tara’s protests.

  ‘Here, try this,’ she mumbled, flinging half a dozen outfits onto the bed and reaching into the depths of the wardrobe to produce a crinkle cotton dress in a cool shade of green, the colour deepening to jade at the hem.

  The dress was similar to several Tara had seen in Hillingdon’s shop windows—at least at first sight, but when she picked it up from the bed where Sue had flung it, she realised instantly that it was a far more expensive model than anything Hillingdon had ever stocked. The cotton was soft and fine, the full skirt banded with rows of handmade lace dyed to match the fabric, a peasant-style neckline with tiny puffed sleeves was trimmed with satin ribbon, and when she held the dress against her Tara knew instinctively that it might have been made for her. Later she was ashamed of how little persuading she needed to try the dress on. As Sue had suggested, it fitted her perfectly, causing Sue to say blithely, ‘There, I told you, and it suits you far more than it ever would me. I’m too plump for such a full-skirted style. There’s a flounced petticoat to go with it,’ she added before Tara could speak, ‘and a toning cotton waistcoat. Here, take them.’

  Tara tried to protest, but Sue wouldn’t listen. ‘If you don’t take them they’ll never be worn,’ she insisted. ‘Ma bought them for me—another conscience-easer.’

  Tara dressed for Sue’s birthday meal without enthusiasm. To her surprise her mother had made no comment about the dress Sue had ‘loaned’ her. As Sue’s birthday had fallen on a Saturday and there was no school Tara had the whole day to get ready. She had never spent so much time getting ready to go out. She washed her hair, letting it dry naturally, and grimacing a little over its stubborn tendency to curl. Most of the girls at school had short hair, but she preferred to keep hers long. A touch of green eye-shadow emphasised the colour and size of her eyes, mascara darkening her thick lashes. Wriggling into Sue’s dress, Tara studied her reflection in the mirror and pulled a wry face. She had forgotten that the style was meant to be worn slightly off the shoulders and the neckline re
vealed the straps of her bra slightly.

  After experimenting for a few minutes Tara was forced to the reluctant conclusion that it would be better to do without her bra altogether rather than risk everyone catching glimpses of her straps. She shuddered to think of James’s reaction to such gaucherie; no doubt in the circles in which he moved women thought nothing of a little thing like not wearing a bra. Having removed it, Tara studied her reflection critically. With the waistcoat on she looked perfectly respectable. She refused to think about the softly provocative thrust of her breasts beneath the fine cotton fabric without it.

  She had just finished applying a delicate coat of pale lip-gloss when she heard James’s Porsche draw up outside.

  Sue was seated in the back, but when Tara reached for the door, James emerged from the car and opened the front passenger door.

  ‘Sit in the front with James,’ Sue insisted. ‘Doesn’t she look fantastic?’ she demanded of her stepfather. ‘That dress really does something for her, doesn’t it?’

  Tara was glad of the falling dusk to conceal her flushed cheeks. Was it merely her imagination or had James’s eyes lingered deliberately on the taut curve of her breasts?

  It was barely ten minutes’ drive to the hotel. The car-park was already quite full when they arrived. A uniformed commissionaire unbent enough to smile warmly at them, plainly recognising James.

  They were shown to one of the tables set apart from the main body of the restaurant in one of the window alcoves. Beneath them the river flowed smoothly, its banks illuminated with coloured lights. A re-vamped longboat was tied up at the hotel’s mooring and there was just sufficient light for them to be able to pick out the intricate designs painted on it.

  ‘What a fantastic life,’ Sue said dreamily. ‘Always on the move, new faces, new places.’

  ‘What about you, Tara?’ James asked. ‘Do you yearn for change and excitement?’

  ‘I’d like to see something of the world,’ Tara admitted slowly. ‘But people are the same the world over; problems don’t disappear simply because one changes one’s surroundings.’

  ‘Very true—and a very profound statement for a girl your age. What do you know of life’s problems?’ James scoffed lightly.

  The mockery in his tone inflamed Tara’s already over-stretched nerves. Perhaps she was being oversensitive, but it seemed to her that James constantly referred to her age—or lack of it, to be more precise, and always in that same tone of sardonic mockery.

  ‘It isn’t always necessary to personally experience something to know about it,’ she retorted angrily. ‘There’s such a thing as imagination…’

  ‘Nothing that’s worth experiencing can ever be truly experienced second-hand,’ James told her softly, and something in his voice brought the colour surging to Tara’s cheeks, forcing her to realise that with James she was way, way out of her depth and that it was folly to treat him as she might a boy of her own age.

  To please Sue she joined her in ordering steak Diane, followed by a rich chocolate mousse, although she noticed that James refused the rich sweet in favour of a wedge of Stilton and some water biscuits. In honour of the occasion he had also ordered a bottle of wine—a warm, full-bodied Burgundy of which Sue had only taken a mouthful before pulling a wry face.

  James had laughed, and Tara had forced herself to empty her glass even though privately she shared a little of Sue’s dislike of the wine.

  It was hot in the restaurant and while they were waiting for their coffee Tara surreptitiously removed her waistcoat, conscious that her cheeks were already betraying a heated flush—a combination of the unaccustomed strength of the wine and her own tense state. James was talking to Sue and as she straightened up from slipping her waistcoat on to the back of her chair, Tara found that his glance was focused on her, his eyes probing the soft hollows of her throat and the fragile bones of her shoulders before moving slowly downwards. Her heart seemed to lodge in her throat, her mouth was dry. Under the thin cotton of her dress her skin burned, the totally unexpected burgeoning of her nipples beneath his deliberate scrutiny, flooding her with shamed embarrassment. She longed to reach for the protection of the waistcoat she had just discarded, but her mortification was too great for her to do anything but sit rigidly in her chair, longing for the evening to be over. Tears seemed to have lodged in the back of her throat. What on earth must James think of her? She still couldn’t fully understand what had happened, but even in the midst of her inexperience she was aware of the sudden melting sensation in the pit of her stomach, the desire beating up hotly inside her.

  Her hands started to shake, the palms damp her face paling. It was just a silly schoolgirl crush, she told herself, something millions of teenage girls experienced—childish really. But there was nothing childish about the physical longing swamping her; about her suddenly urgent need to feel James’s lean hands on her body where his eyes had lingered.

  ‘Tara?’ She realised that Sue had asked her a question and forced a shaky smile. ‘Are you okay? You look pale. I was just saying that I’m ready to leave, unless you want more coffee.’

  Shaking her head, Tara fought down the feelings tearing into her, deliberately hanging back as they left the restaurant in the hope that Sue would get into the front of the Porsche with James.

  She was out of luck. As James unlocked the car Sue announced sleepily, ‘Mm, I’ll sit in the back. I’m going to stretch out there and I’ll probably be asleep before we get home.’

  The night had turned cool, and Tara shivered in her thin dress as she slid into the Porsche’s luxurious seat.

  ‘Cold? The heater will soon be working.’

  James made no further comment until he brought the car to a halt outside Tara’s home.

  She fumbled with the door handle in her anxiety to get out of the Porsche, biting back a startled cry as James leaned across her, his breath fanning her cheek, as he thrust open the door. Tara thanked him without daring to look up, turning quickly to say goodnight to Sue, her slight movement checked by the pressure of James’s hand on her arm as he said quietly, ‘She’s asleep.’

  Tara knew she had started to tremble. She started to move away, startled eyes widening as James muttered something under his breath, his arms fastening round her, his lips brushing the slightly parted curve of hers.

  His husky, ‘I’ve been wanting to do that ever since I met you,’ discomposed her even more. Common sense told her that she ought to move away, to make some mundane comment that would break the spell which seemed to hold them both in thrall, but instinct urged her to remain where she was, savouring the intoxicating proximity of James’s body, the heady delight of the hand that curved just below her breast.

  ‘Sue was right.’ In the darkness James’s eyes gleamed softly. ‘That dress does suit you. I like it.’ His hand cupped the soft swell of her breast, his thumb stroking lightly over the sudden hardening of her nipple. Tara sucked in her breath in mingled shock and desire. James bent towards her and excitement spiralled crampingly through her.

  ‘God, I must be going crazy! You’re still a child…’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ All at once it was too late to pretend any more, tonight without being aware of it she had crossed the Rubicon that divided adolescence from womanhood, and she knew with an instinct as old as time that what she felt for James was no mere teenage idolatry. ‘I love you, James,’ she heard herself saying huskily. ‘I want you, I…’

  His groaned, ‘You don’t know what you’re saying,’ was lost against her skin as he buried his mouth in the warmth of her throat. Tara knew that she should object, but everything that was feminine in her was glorying in her response to his touch. In the back seat Sue stirred and James drew away. He was breathing hard, a disturbing glitter icing his eyes, and Tara knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that he wanted her.

  ‘Tara, it’s no use,’ he told her emphatically. ‘It just can’t be. If you were older, more experienced, or if I were less…’ She saw him shake his head. ‘I just
can’t do it to you, much as I want you. It wouldn’t be fair.’

  ‘So what is fair?’ Tara hissed back, for once forgetting the huge gulf between them; fogetting his married status and the difference in their ages and knowing only that he was a man who desired her and whom she in turn loved intensely. ‘Is it fair to make me feel like this and then push me away?’

  His smile was full of self-mockery. ‘Oh, Tara,’ he said softly, ‘Don’t tempt me. It’s for your sake that I’m doing this. Have you the slightest idea of the effect you have on me, or just how hard I’m finding it to stop myself from driving home with you and taking you to my bed? I want you in the fullest sense of the word. I’m a man, Tara, not a boy, and I’m way, way beyond playing the games you haven’t even started to experiment with yet.’

  In the back seat Sue moved restlessly again. Torn with pain and chagrin, Tara pushed away his restraining arm and got hurriedly out of the Porsche, tears stinging her eyes.

  In the morning Tara couldn’t understand what had come over her. In her narrow single bed she rolled herself up into a small tight ball, groaning with the realisation of her own folly. It had to be the wine; she could think of no other reason for her behaviour. She had actually let James see how she felt about him—no, not simply let him see, but told him.

  In the normal course of events she would have spent part of her Sunday with Sue, but feeling completely unable to face James, Tara told her mother after breakfast that she intended to go out for a walk and would be gone for most of the day. Her mother raised no objections; before her friendship with Sue Tara had been a keen walker.