A Guilty Affair

Not that he needed much urging. He ran a finger round the inside of his shirt collar and muttered, ‘How did she latch onto him? I don’t know what they see in her. And he looks far too astute to be taken in by all that glitz.’

‘Does it matter?’ To be seen with Helen Ryland, supermodel, a man had to be a millionaire at the very least. Looks didn’t mean a thing—or hadn’t in the past, anyway. Helen went for the prestige of being seen with money—preferably old money—and the more of it the better. As well as no doubt possessing the mandatory millions, this new guy looked spectacular enough to take any woman’s breath away, so no wonder she’d lowered herself to attend her kid sister’s party. She had probably decided to upstage her.

Luke Vaccari was the first man-friend she’d ever introduced to her family.

And Bess wasn’t the only one to have taken this on board, she discovered as her mother, still striking despite her fifty-odd years, bore down on them, closely followed by Barbara Clayton.

‘Time to eat, you two. Barb reserved a table and the partners are filling plates at the buffet. I’d nab Helen and Luke too, but they’re so wrapped up in each other it would be a pity to intrude.’ She tucked her arm through Bess’s and hauled her away in the direction of the room set aside for the buffet and bar while Barbara Clayton brushed imaginary lint from her son’s dinner jacket, forcing him to lag behind, then promptly despatched him to help the two older men at the buffet.

Jessica Ryland lowered her voice and confided, ‘If you and Tom had delayed your engagement a little while it could have been a double celebration.’

‘It’s serious, is it?’

Barbara’s pale blue eyes, so like her son’s, fastened intently on her old friend’s complacent features and Jessica nodded.

‘A mother knows these things. He’s a wonderful catch. A highly respected financier, and although his father was Italian his mother was one of the Gloucestershire Dermots.’ She leaned further over the white-covered table. ‘Mother’s instinct apart, just ask yourself when Helen has ever brought one of her man-friends home—let alone invited one to stay for a family long-weekend gathering!’

So that was what he’d meant when he’d said he was looking forward to seeing more of the area. Bess’s heart plummeted to the soles of her feet. He made her uneasy just by being here tonight—spending the Easter break with him underfoot would be intolerable! And the thought of him married to Helen filled her with sudden, unreasonable panic.

‘She’s so lovely, she can have her pick,’ Barbara was saying, the wistful note in her voice a reminder that, for a long time, Helen would have been the wife she would have hand-picked for her only son.

Wondering if her future mother-in-law still regretted her son’s choice, Bess heard her own mother boast, ‘She takes after me in looks, while little Bess here is an exact replica of her father.’

‘I wondered why I have to shave twice a day,’ Bess put in drily, not taking offence because she was used to put-downs and knew, in her mother’s case, they weren’t intentionally hurtful. Just thoughtless. Whereas in Helen’s case...

Thankfully, the menfolk arrived with loaded plates, one of the white-coated waiters following with the obligatory champagne. Bess didn’t think she could eat or drink a thing. For some crazy reason the whole evening seemed ruined.

Catching her troubled green eyes, Arnold Ryland asked, ‘Enjoying yourself, Bessie?’

She nodded—what else could she do?—making herself smile as Tom slid into the seat beside her, and lied, ‘Very much, Dad. You’ve done us proud.’

She would have much preferred a smaller gathering back at home, or best of all, a comfortable evening for two—just her and Tom quietly celebrating their engagement over a simple meal in a country pub. But her objections to this opulent thrash had been blithely dismissed. When her mother decided she knew best nothing could make her change course. Jessica Ryland sailed through life making everything go her way.

‘Room for two more?’ Helen’s assertive, highpitched voice made Bess flinch. She didn’t know what was wrong with her this evening. She was used to her glamorous sister’s need to be the centre of attention; she had lived with it all her life and it had never bothered her before.

But tonight things were different, and she didn’t know why.

‘Luke’s finding me something to eat. The darling knows what I like.’ Her slanting blue eyes swept round the table, not seeing anyone, simply lapping up the reaction to her golden presence, until Tom muttered, ‘Two lettuce leaves and an inch of celery shouldn’t tax him,’ and then the fabulous lashes closed, the lancet glimmer between turning to frosty black ice, making Tom go red to the roots of his hair.

Bess muttered hastily, ‘Let’s go back and dance.’ Anything to get away, stop the fight that was inevitable when those two spent more than half a second in each other’s company.

And that suave, velvety voice said right behind her, ‘It would be my pleasure.’

Bess froze, her heart thudding stupidly. She watched Vaccari’s strong, elegantly boned hand place the tiny salad on a gold-rimmed china plate in front of Helen, saw her sister’s brows peak with incredulity, and knew that unless Tom came to her rescue and claimed her there was no way she could get out of this.

But Tom had his head down, his face still flushed as he forked up cubes of lemon chicken. She could expect no help from that quarter, she thought wildly as Vaccari put a lean hand round her tiny waist and urged her to her feet.

There was an awful inevitability about all this, she thought numbly, her heart pounding so heavily that she felt light-headed. Helen’s face was stony and Barbara Clayton said something to her son, but he huffed a low reply and continued eating and the partners were discussing golf handicaps—and Vaccari was sweeping her onto the dance-floor and there was nothing she could do about it.

The music was slow and smoochy, the lights dimmer now, the dance-floor empty apart from a couple who were wrapped together like cling film, most of the guests having taken off for the lavish refreshments, just a few of them still sitting at tables round the edge of the floor screened by the riot of hothouse flowers that proclaimed that when Jessica Ryland did something she did it in style.

His lean hand tightened around her waist and all at once, like the rush of a riptide, anger replaced that feeble compliance to the inevitable.

There was no law that said she had to do anything she didn’t want to do. She hadn’t wanted this ostentatious celebration but for her mother’s sake she’d given in. But no one could make her dance with this man. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but the thought of having him touch her, hold her against that elegantly clothed, painfully masculine body, made her feel frenzied.

‘I don’t want to dance,’ she told him bluntly, her mouth mutinous, and he dipped his head slightly, his silvery eyes making a slow and deliberate appraisal of her features. His sensually crafted mouth barely moving, he told her, ‘Of course you do,’ and enfolded her within his strong arms, the sheer arrogance of his attitude making her stiff and unyielding. ‘Relax. There’s no need to be frightened.’

Frightened? The word hit her like a blow. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said rigidly. ‘And I don’t think you do either.’ Instinctively, she bunched her fists and pushed them ineffectually against his chest, feeling the beginnings of panic now because the heat of his body was getting through to her, making her legs go weak. Her voice was croaky as she demanded, ‘Why on earth should I be frightened?’

‘You tell me.’

He was moving to the slow, seductive beat of the music, just slight body movements, but every sway and thrust of muscle and sinew and bone burned into her flesh.

The sensation was unbearable. Shocking.

She tried to move away but a dictatorial hand fastened on the lower region of her back, forcing her closer still, his head dipping down as he murmured against her ear, ‘When a woman displays a mixture of antagonism and fear towards a lone male, there can only be one reason. Work it out for yourself.’

She shuddered uncontrollably. Work it out? It was so humiliating, she thought hysterically. He had picked up on the instinctive flashes of fear, of definite antagonism, and had come up with an answer she would never fathom.

And he wasn’t a lone male. He was with Helen, part of a couple, and she couldn’t think straight. Her brain was wallowing in fog because her body had unwittingly melted into his. They were close enough now to be one entity.

One of his hands slid to the back of her head. Her eyes languidly closed, and she felt the weight of her silky hair fall down to her shoulders as long, deft fingers removed the pins. And when he murmured, ‘That’s better. You have glorious hair, you shouldn’t hide it,’ she felt, just for a moment, an upsurge of unadulterated femininity; she almost felt abandoned, free...

Until she felt the heat of his mouth stroke the pulse-point at the base of her throat. She drew in a whimpering breath and opened hazy eyes on the dim and dreamy seclusion of a stand of potted palms—and the fear came surging back.

Fear of what he could make her feel. Something raw and primitive was calling from the depths of her being, singing out to him, to the man who was out of bounds for two very good reasons, and, on a choking gasp of panic, she opened her mouth on a defensive demand that they join the others.

Instead, however, she found herself welcoming the destruction of his lips as he ravaged her senses, sending her into a whirlpool of dark desires where nothing existed but the primitive beat of blood, pulses of sheer wickedness that burned out her brain, stripped her of every ounce of will-power, of decent behaviour, igniting her.

She had never dreamed that such sensations existed. How could she have known? Nothing about Tom’s kisses had—

Sobbing with self-disgust, she found the strength to twist her head away.

‘Don’t! Oh, how could you?’ Panic and shame roughened her voice, and she stared frenziedly into the silver gleam of his eyes and hated him.

His Italian genes would be responsible for his outrageous behaviour, she told herself, making him believe he could make it with any passable female under forty—even if he was a guest at her engagement party.

But what part of her was responsible for what she had done? She couldn’t think about that. The thought of it twisted her brain into knots.

She was in agony as he whispered his reply. ‘Easily. With great pleasure.’ A dark and sinful smile played around the corners of his passionate mouth. ‘And your response was...’ One black brow drifted upwards consideringly as he chose his word carefully. ‘Promising.’ He touched her trembling mouth with a soothing finger. ‘Put that fact together with the statement I made earlier and you might learn something to your advantage.’

Bess dragged in a sharp, painful breath. She didn’t know what he was talking about. She didn’t want to know what he was talking about.

Dragging her shaking fingers through the riot of her hair, hopelessly trying to restore some order, she walked away.

She would never forgive him. Never.

CHAPTER TWO