Woman To Wed? Page 7

  But Claire shook her head quickly, her voice slightly huskier than normal as she said, ‘No, no, it’s all right...’

  As he hesitated she added quickly, ‘It’s still raining and there’s no point in you getting wet again. I’ve got my keys here and...’

  For a moment Claire thought that he was going to insist on going with her; his body tensed and hers did too, but then he seemed to change his mind, simply telling her, ‘Don’t forget that hot shower or that drink. I’m not sure what time I’ll be through with the hotel in the morning but I’d like to bring my stuff over before lunch if that fits in with your schedule. I’ve got an appointment with our bankers in the afternoon and then in the evening we can talk terms.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, morning will be fine,’ Claire confirmed.

  As he watched her run towards her door through the still heavy rain Brad wondered if he was doing the right thing. There was no denying that the feeling she aroused in him, his desire for her, was more than just a subliminal male impulse.

  Earlier, holding her in his arms in the street, watching the way she had looked at him...it his mouth...

  Come on, he warned himself; you haven’t flown right the way across the Atlantic ocean to mess up your life with those kinda complications, to get hung up on a woman who may or may not be involved with another man.

  And he wasn’t the sort to want to indulge in some kind of casual, no commitment, no future type of sexual fling. Nor, he judged, was she. Which meant...which meant that he’d better put the thoughts and desires which had been running wild through his head virtually ever since he had met her way, way back in the darkest and most unreachable recesses of his mind, he told himself firmly as he saw the door close behind Claire’s retreating figure.

  After a brief pause he put his hire car into gear and backed out of the drive.

  ‘No!’

  The sound of her own voice uttering the sharp, high-pitched, frantic protest brought Claire abruptly awake, to sit upright in her bed, hugging her arms around her knees as she tried to control her body’s frantic shivering.

  Dry-eyed, she stared fiercely into the darkness, willing the nightmare to relinquish its hold on her.

  It was not as though it was something she had never experienced before, even if over the years its frequency had decreased so that now it was something that occurred only when she was under some kind of stress.

  No, the reason for the agitation that she was fighting so hard to banish now wasn’t so much the fact that she’d had a nightmare—it was over now, after all, and she was awake—but that somehow it had developed a new plot—a new and extremely upsetting ending.

  In the past it had always followed a familiar and recognisable pattern. The man...the darkened room, his hands reaching for her...his anger when she rejected him, her escape and his pursuit down narrow, dark, wet streets in which she was completely alone and unprotected, the only sounds those of her own terrified breathing and the pounding, ever closer footsteps of her pursuer.

  In the past she had always managed to escape...to wake up before he caught up with her, but this time...this time...

  Her teeth chattered together as her body gave a deep shudder.

  This time she had not escaped; this time he had caught up with her, his hand...both his hands...reaching for her, holding her prisoner.

  She had fought frantically against the horror of his remembered and loathed touch, finally managing to turn round to face him, to plead with him for mercy.

  Only when she had turned round the face she had seen had not been the one she had expected. Instead it had been Brad who had looked back at her, and inexplicably, as she’d recognised him, somehow the touch that had felt so terrifying and so loathsome had become comforting and even more disturbing, actually welcome to her body.

  Relief had filled her sleep-sedated body as her fear had turned to joy, and she’d actually stepped towards him, welcoming the firm warmth of his arms around her, the scent of his skin as he’d held her close, his jaw against her hair as his arms had tightened around her and his voice had soothed her.

  ‘It’s you,’ she had said softly, breathlessly as she’d pressed her trembling body against his, drawing support from his proximity and strength, luxuriating almost in the closeness of him, in the knowledge that with him she was safe and protected, trembling between laughter at her foolishness in ever having been afraid and tears because of the memories that had caused that fear.

  As he’d cupped her face in his hands and bent his head to kiss her she had responded eagerly to that kiss, tightening her own arms around him, opening her mouth beneath his, anticipating in her mind the sensual pleasure of feeling his naked body against her own—a pleasure which, in her dream, both her body and her mind had recognised as one with which it was already familiar. They had not been new lovers unaccustomed to one another or unaware of one another’s needs; there had been a harmony between them—an acceptance, a knowledge...

  He had been so tender with her, so gentle, wiping away her tears, sharing with her her emotional relief that he was there holding her and that she had nothing, after all, to fear, that with him she was safe...protected ...loved...a woman at last in every sense of the word...

  A woman at last. Claire bit her lip now, balling her hands into two tight fists of angry rejection. She was already a woman; she did not need a man—any man—to reinforce that fact, and most especially she did not need Brad to reinforce it.

  She had no idea why on earth she had dreamed about him like that and her face burned in the darkness as she could feel the heat of desire, her dream of him affecting her still...echoing through her body...

  When Sally had talked about her marrying again it had been easy for her to shake her head and say sedately that she was happy as she was.

  No needs or desires had ever troubled her celibate sleep, and a comment made by another woman friend, when they had been having lunch together one day—that the young waiter serving them had a fantastic body—had left her feeling slightly shocked that her friend should have noticed and inwardly relieved that she herself had not.

  Of course, there had been occasions over the years when she had felt uncomfortable with the knowledge that her own sexuality—or rather the lack of it—was so out of step with the times, but during the years of her marriage her life had been a very busy one. John had, in his own way, been a very quietly strong-willed man, and his confidence in the way their marriage worked had made it easy for her to ignore her own doubts about her lack of sexual desire.

  Before now, at thirty-four and a widow, she had felt herself safe on the small plateau of security that she had thought she had found. There had, of course, been men who had shown signs of sexual interest in her, but she had gently and tactfully made it clear that she felt no corresponding interest, and the last thing she had ever expected to happen was that she should so unwontedly and inappropriately develop a personal sexual awareness of a man.

  As she continued to stare into the darkness she felt as though a part of herself had suddenly betrayed her, become alien to her...and, because of that, somehow out of her control. Dangerously out of her control, she acknowledged, blushing as she fought to ignore certain memories of just how enthusiastically and passionately she had not just responded to Brad in her dream but actually initiated the sensuality between them.

  Another shudder tormented her body, her skin now chilled by the cool night air, but her heartbeat was starting to return to its normal rhythm. Tiredly Claire lay down again, closing her eyes and willing herself to go back to sleep, but this time without dreaming about Brad.

  Claire smiled ruefully as she reread Sally’s postcard. It had arrived in the morning’s post and showed an idyllic view of a soft white half-moon beach and an impossibly azure sea—‘the view from the veranda of our beach-side bungalow’, Sally had written.

  They were honeymooning in the Seychelles and their hotel, according to Sally’s ecstatic card, was every bit as wonderful as the brochure had prom
ised.

  Typically, though, as well as reassuring Claire that she was wonderfully, blissfully happy, Sally had added a cryptic postscript to her message, teasing Claire about the fact that she had helped to catch her wedding bouquet.

  ‘Remember,’ she urged her stepmother, ‘you want a man you can have all to yourself, not one you’ve only got a share in.’ A reference, Claire knew, to the fact that she had not been the only one to catch the wedding bouquet.

  The arrival of Sally’s card had helped distract her thoughts away from Brad and the disruption he was causing in her life. Nonetheless, when she heard a car pulling up outside her whole body tensed, and it was a relief to discover when she went to the door that her visitor was Irene.

  ‘I’m just on my way to the supermarket and I thought I’d call to see if you needed anything,’ her sister-in-law informed her as she came in. She gave a small sigh. ‘Poor Tim; he hardly slept at all last night. Claire...if Brad should happen to mention anything about the company to you—’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he won’t,’ Claire interrupted her.

  ‘Well, maybe not, but he is, after all, over here on his own and you do have a way of... Well, people do tend to confide in you...and the two of you will be spending quite a lot of time together...’

  Claire stared at her.

  ‘No, we won’t,’ she protested. ‘We’ll hardly see one another.’

  ‘He’ll be here at mealtimes...in the evening...you’ll be having dinner together,’ Irene pointed out. ‘I mean, that was one of the reasons he wanted to live somewhere en famille, so to speak—because he didn’t want the anonymity of dining alone in a hotel restaurant.’

  Eating together... Claire swallowed nervously.

  Later, as she walked across the kitchen, the American cookery book that Irene had given her caught her eye. Glaring irritably at it, she suffered an unfamiliar surge of rebellion.

  If she had to feed Brad, then at least she could exercise some form of control over the situation by feeding him food of her own choice.

  Determinedly she walked towards her freezer and removed the ingredients she wanted.

  John had always praised her cooking. He had liked old-fashioned, simple home-made food, and over the years Claire had found ways of adapting recipes so that she was able to satisfy his taste for the food he remembered his mother making and also ensure that the meals she served were nutritious and healthy.

  She had been particularly pleased with her version of his favourite beef-steak pie. That was as traditional a British dish as you could get, especially when served with her light-as-air dumplings and garden-fresh vegetables.

  Pumpkin pie and pot-roast it wasn’t, but it had been Brad’s desire, his decision, to live ‘ en famille’, as Irene had put it, and part of that, as far as she was concerned, meant eating the food she chose to serve.

  She was too busy to be aware that it was gone eleven o’clock until she happened to look and see that it was almost twelve. Frowning, she lifted her hand to her face, depositing a smudge of flour on her cheekbone. The phone rang and she tensed. Somehow—she had no idea how—she knew that it was Brad who was ringing.

  Reluctantly wiping her hands on her apron, she went to lift the receiver.

  As she had known it would be, her caller was Brad.

  ‘I’m just ringing to apologise for being late,’ he told her. ‘Unfortunately there was a slight problem here at the warehouse. Will it be all right if I come round now, or will that be inconvenient?’

  ‘Now will be fine,’ Claire confirmed, proud of the way she managed to keep the trembling in her body out of her voice.

  Reaction set in after she had replaced the receiver, though. It was gone twelve now; would he expect her to provide him with lunch? All she had been intending to have was some left-over soup and fresh fruit. And what exactly, anyway, did he mean by saying that he wanted to live as part of a family? Hopefully, and if the hours that Tim worked were anything to go by, she wasn’t going to have to see too much of him, and when she did...

  Tonight, when they discussed the terms of his stay with her, she would just have to make it plain that as far as she was concerned the less contact there was between them the better.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IT WAS almost one o’clock when Brad finally arrived. Opening the boot of his car, he removed a couple of suitcases and carried them into the house.

  ‘Is it OK if I take these straight up?’ he asked Claire tersely.

  A little taken aback by his abrupt manner, Claire nodded.

  Was he, like her, having second thoughts about the wisdom of moving in with her? she wondered as she waited downstairs for him to return.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t make our original time,’ he apologised as he came back down again. ‘There was a slight problem at the office. They had a break-in last night and although no stock was stolen we lost an extremely expensive piece of computer equipment.’ His frown deepened. ‘It looks very much like whoever broke in knew exactly what they were going for...’

  ‘But what about the on-site security guards?’ Claire asked him. ‘Surely they must—?’

  ‘What security guards?’ Brad queried with dry emphasis. ‘It seems that for reasons of economy the security guards had been cut down from the original four to just one, and he was in another part of the site when the break-in took place. False economy, as it turned out...’

  Claire winced as she heard the irritation in his voice, her mind going anxiously and immediately to Tim. She sincerely hoped that the blame for what had happened wouldn’t fall onto his shoulders; technically he was not in charge of the site which housed the office and distribution centre...

  ‘At least no one was hurt,’ was the only comment Claire could think of to make.

  ‘Somebody, no,’ Brad agreed, ‘but something, yes.’ His voice had become a few degrees colder and very much harder as he told her, ‘Ultimately our overall profits and, through them, the feasibility of the British side of our business are bound to be hurt by the cost of replacing the stolen equipment—even if our insurers pay out it will result in an increase in our premium, plus the business lost through the loss of the equipment...’

  He shook his head, his frown lifting slightly as he added, ‘However, none of this is your concern...’

  ‘Tim is very conscientious,’ Claire felt bound to point out to him in defence of her brother-in-law, her voice dropping huskily. ‘Irene’s concerned about him. We both are. He’s been working such long hours recently and the stress—’

  ‘You’re obviously very fond of him,’ Brad interrupted her.

  ‘Yes, very,’ Claire confirmed protectively, missing the quick, frowning glance he gave her.

  Sally’s postcard lay face down on the table next to him and he read it without meaning to. Who was the man in whom Claire only had a share? Was it Tim? Claire was certainly very close to him and very protective of him.

  He liked Tim well enough—he was obviously a kindhearted man although a little on the weak side—but the thought of him being Claire’s lover filled him with such a surge of angry antagonism that he knew that if Tim had actually been there...

  Hey...ease back, he warned himself. You’re not here to get involved. Just because she’s alone and vulnerable, just because it sounds like her marriage wasn’t much of a marriage at all...just because she makes you feel as horny as hell and when you touch her all you can think of is taking her to bed, that doesn’t mean...

  ‘I...I’m not sure exactly what arrangements you want to come to as regards meals and so on,’ he heard Claire saying. ‘We haven’t discussed... Irene did intimate that you wanted to live somewhere en famille...’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do,’ Brad agreed, struggling to suppress an alluring vision of sharing breakfast with her, of watching her move about the kitchen, her hair still damp from her shower, her face free of make-up, her body tantalisingly naked beneath her robe.

  When she stood next to him he would be able to smell the clean, fresh,
feminine scent of her skin, the exposed V of the valley between her breasts headily close to him—so close that if he turned his head he would be able to reach up and pull her down onto his lap, burying his face... his mouth...in that deliciously fragranced, womanly secret place.

  Was he experiencing some hormonal overload which resulted in thoughts more appropriate to one’s teenage years than to one’s present maturity? Brad wondered grimly.

  ‘You’ll want me to prepare dinner for you in the evening?’ Claire was persisting.

  ‘Ultimately, yes,’ Brad agreed, ‘but initially I’ll probably be working into the evening so I’ll grab something to eat myself...’

  He was frowning again, remembering Tim’s defensiveness over the problems he was having in meeting their high standards. It was Brad’s view that Tim simply wasn’t assertive enough, but he didn’t want to make overhasty judgements.

  He had known all along that the task his uncles had forced on him wasn’t going to be easy, but now... And getting involved with Claire, when she was Tim’s family and when she obviously felt so strongly about him... One thing he did know, though, he recognised, was that if she and Tim were lovers then it couldn’t be a very passionate relationship.

  ‘Is that everything?’ he heard Claire asking him. ‘Have you anything else to bring in from the car?’

  ‘Er...yes...as a matter of fact there is something. I’ll just go and get it...’

  He was only gone a few moments, returning with what looked like a very expensive balled-up cashmere sweater, which he was carrying very carefully.

  ‘Er...we...I...we found this in the boiler room. Looks like it’s been abandoned by its mother, and I...’

  The cashmere bundle started to move, a surprisingly strong mewing sound emerging from it.

  ‘It’s a cat,’ Claire protested.

  ‘A kitten,’ Brad corrected her, opening the cashmere to reveal its occupant. ‘Not even six weeks old yet, I guess... Too young to survive on her own, anyway, that’s for sure...’