Instant Fire

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS late when Jo finally parked the car behind the old house in the nearby market town of Woodhurst. She let herself into the first-floor flat that she had rented for the duration of the job and dumped her shopping on the kitchen table.

She wasted very little time in the shower and quickly dried her hair, a thick, dark blonde mop, streaked with pale highlights from so much time spent out of doors. There had been a time when she had wondered what it would be like to have curls like her sister, but had long since accepted the fact that they weren’t for her. Her nose was a little too bold and her mouth overlarge. Curls, a kindly hairdresser had told the fourteen-year-old Joanna as he’d cut away the disastrous results of Heather’s attempt to provide the missing locks with a home perm, were for those girls whose face lacked character. She hadn’t believed him, even then, but these days she was content with a style that needed little more than a cut once every three weeks to keep it looking good.

Satisfied with her hair, she spent a great deal longer than usual on her make-up and painted her nails pale pink. Tonight she was determined to be Joanna Grant. Jo the site engineer could, for once, take a back seat.

She had few evening clothes and she hadn’t needed to deliberate on what she would wear. She stepped into a floating circle of a skirt in pale grey georgette and topped it with a long-sleeved jacket in toning greys and pinks with a touch of silver thread in the design. She fastened large pale pink circles of agate twisted around with silver to her ears and regarded the result with a certain satisfaction. It was quite possible, she thought, with some amusement, that, in the unlikely event they should bump into any of her colleagues tonight, they would be hard pressed to recognise her.

Slipping her feet into low-heeled grey pumps, Jo spun in front of her mirror, coming to a sudden halt at the sound of her doorbell. She stood for a moment, as if rooted to the spot, vulnerable, uncertain of herself. Then the fear that he might not wait lent wings to her heels as she flew to the door.

Clay, his tall figure a study in elegance in the stark blackness of a dinner-jacket, was leaning against the stairpost regarding the toe of his shoe, and he glanced up as she flung open the door. He started to smile and then stopped, cloaking the expression in his eyes as he straightened and stared at the girl framed in the doorway.

‘Are those for me?’ Jo asked finally, to break the silence.

He glanced down at a spray of pink roses as if he couldn’t think where they had come from, then back at her.

‘I rather think they must be.’

‘Come in. I’ll put them in some water. Would you like a drink?’ she asked, trying to remember what she had done with a bottle of sherry left over from Christmas.

‘No, thanks.’ He followed her into the cramped kitchen and watched as she clipped the stems and stood them in deep water to drink.

She turned to him. ‘These are lovely, Clay. Thank you.’

‘So are you, Joanna. No one would ever mistake you for a boy tonight.’ He took a step towards her then turned away, raking long fingers through his hair. ‘I think we had better go.’ For the briefest moment it had seemed as if he was going to kiss her, and the thought quickened her blood, sending it crazily through her veins. Instead he opened the door and she followed him down the stairs to the waiting taxi.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

‘A little place I know by the river.’ This deprecating description hardly did justice to the elegant restaurant overlooking the Thames and she told him so.

‘I thought you would like to come here.’ He seemed oddly distracted.

‘It’s beautiful.’

He turned and looked down at her. ‘Yes. It is.’ He lifted his hand to her cheek, his fingertips lingering against the smooth perfection of her skin. ‘Quite beautiful.’

‘May I show you to your table, sir?’

Clay dragged himself back from wherever his thoughts had taken him and he tucked his arm under Joanna’s. They made a striking couple as they walked across the restaurant and several heads turned to follow their progress. Joanna was usually forced to disguise her height when walking with a man, never wearing high heels and, if not exactly slumping, at least keeping what her father had laughingly described as a very relaxed posture. Now, beside the strong figure of Clay Thackeray, the top of her head just reaching his ear, she stretched to her full height, human enough to enjoy the knowledge that she was envied by at least half the women present. Probably more.

Afterwards she couldn’t have described anything they had eaten or much of what they had talked about, although she thought he had told her something about a consultancy that he had begun in Canada and his plans for expansion into Britain. All she could remember was Clay’s face in the candlelight, his hand reaching for hers across the table, the words, ‘Let’s go home.’

In the back of the car she curled against him as if she had known him for years. His arm drew her close and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to rest her head on his shoulder. She didn’t think about where they were going. She didn’t care, as long as he held her.

The car eventually stopped and she lifted her head. ‘Where are we?’ she asked.

‘You are home, fair lady. Where did you expect to be?’

Glad of the darkness to hide her blushes, she allowed him to help her from the car.

‘I’ll see you to your door.’

She turned to him at the top of the stairs. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

‘I think I’m going to have enough trouble sleeping, Jo.’ His arm was around her waist and she didn’t ever want him to let go of her. As if reading her mind, he pulled her closer. ‘But, before I go, I believe you promised me a kiss.’

She lowered her eyes, suddenly shy. ‘Now?’ she asked.

‘Now,’ he affirmed, and his lips touched hers for the briefest moment, the time it took her heart to beat. He drew back the space of an inch, no more. ‘Joanna?’ His voice was a question and an answer. Then his mouth descended upon hers and her willing response answered any question he cared to ask.

When at last he released her she could hardly support herself, and he held her in the circle of his arms and stood for a moment with her head upon his shoulder.

‘I must go.’

‘Must you?’

‘Don’t make it any harder.’ He kissed the top of her head and she looked up, but he seemed to be far away, no longer with her. She fumbled in her bag for her key and he took it from her and opened the door.

‘Can I see you tomorrow?’

She hesitated for a moment, but then he smiled and on a catch of breath she nodded. ‘Yes.’

He raised his hand briefly. ‘I’ll pick you up at seven.’ Then he was gone without a backward glance and for the first time in her life she felt the pain of being torn in two. Her other half had walked down the stairs in the palm of Clay Thackeray’s hand.

Joanna wondered briefly, as she stood under a reviving shower, exactly what she had thought about before the appearance of Clay Thackeray. Since his appearance a week earlier he had filled her waking hours completely, and a good few of her sleeping ones.

A ring at the door put a stop to these thoughts and she grabbed a towelling wrap and went to answer it.

‘Clay!’

‘I’m a little early,’ he apologised.

‘Just a little,’ she agreed, laughter dancing in her eyes. ‘I thought we were meeting at seven p.m., not seven a.m.’

‘I had this sudden yearning to know what you looked like first thing in the morning.’ His eyes drifted down the deep V of her wrap and she grabbed self-consciously at it and tightened the belt, feeling at something of a disadvantage alongside the immaculate dark blue pin-striped suit and stark white shirt.

‘Well?’

‘Exactly as I imagined. No make-up, bare feet, hair damp from the shower …’ she lifted her hand self-consciously, but he anticipated the move and caught her fingers ‘… and quite beautiful.’ He stepped through the door and closed it firmly behind him.

She laughed a little nervously and stepped back in the face of such assured advances. ‘Compliments so early in the morning deserve some reward. Would you like some breakfast?’

One stride brought him to her side. He slid an arm around her waist and drew her close. ‘That, sweet Joanna, rather depends upon the menu.’

Jo’s breathing was a little ragged. ‘Eggs?’ she heard herself say. He made no response. ‘I might have some bacon.’ His eyes never left hers. ‘Toast?’ she offered, desperately. ‘I haven’t much time. I have to get to …’ He leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers and she no longer cared about the time.

‘You, Jo. Don’t you know that I want you for breakfast?’

He pulled the knot of her wrap and she made no move to stop him. Last night she knew that with very little persuasion she would have fallen into bed with him. He had known that too. It had been far too easy to fall in love with him. In the long, wakeful hours of the night she had determined that this evening she would put on some emotional armour along with her make-up. But, almost as if he had anticipated this, he had outmanoeuvred her, taking her by surprise with this early-morning raid. No make-up. No armour. No clothes. The harsh ring of the doorbell made her jump and he straightened, a crooked smile twisting his mouth.

‘Saved by the bell, Jo.’ For a moment he held the edges of her robe, then he pulled it close around her and retied the knot before standing aside for her to open the door.

‘Sorry, Miss Grant. Another of those recorded delivery letters for you to sign. You’d better pay up!’ She smiled automatically at the postman’s bantering humour and signed the form. This time she didn’t bother to open the letter, but threw it on the hall table.

‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ Clay asked. ‘It looks urgent.’

‘I know what it says. It’s from someone who wants to buy some shares I own. I’ve already told them I won’t sell.’

‘Oh? Maybe they’ve increased their offer.’

She frowned. ‘Do you think so? I wonder why they want them?’ Her eyes lingered for a moment on the envelope. ‘Perhaps I ought to find out—’

‘Forget them! They’re not important.’ She lifted her eyes to his and all thoughts of shares were driven from her head as he kissed her once more. But the moment of madness had passed and when he finally raised his head she took an unsteady step back.

‘I really must get ready for work, Clay.’

‘Must you?’ He frowned, then shrugged. ‘Of course you must. And I’m delaying you.’ He turned for the door.

‘Clay, why did you come here this morning?’

He paused for a moment, his knuckles white as he gripped the door-handle, as if debating with himself. When he looked back it was with a deadly and earnest force. ‘I thought we might have dinner at the cottage tonight,’ he said. His eyes were unreadable.

She didn’t stop to think. It was already far too late for thinking. ‘I’d love to,’ she said, the words barely escaping her throat.

She stood in the hall for a long moment after he had left, then, gathering her wits, she turned to get ready for work. Her eyes fell on the letter and impatiently she tore it open. Clay had been right, the offer had indeed been increased. His apparent omniscience gave her a ridiculous burst of pleasure.

Clay arrived on the stroke of seven and Jo picked up the soft leather bag that held everything she might need. She locked the door behind them and opened her bag to drop in the key, then turned to see him watching her.

‘Got everything?’ he asked.

‘Yes, thank you.’ Her cheeks were warm as she turned to follow him down the stairs to the waiting car.

The cottage was beautiful and very old, built of narrow autumn-coloured bricks, with a drunken pantile roof where a pair of fantail doves, golden in the evening light, were flirting. The garden had been neglected, but already work had begun to restore the stone pathways and a dilapidated dovecote. He helped her out of the car and for a moment she just stood and took it all in.

‘It’s lovely.’

‘I’m glad you like it. Come and see what I’ve been doing inside.’ Her heart was hammering as he led her up the path and opened the door, standing back to let her step across the threshold and into the hall.

The floor had been newly stripped and repolished and a jewel-rich Persian rug lay before them. She dropped her bag at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Hungry?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘Not very. Will you show me round?’

‘The grand tour?’ He laughed. ‘It won’t take very long.’

The colour in her cheeks deepened slightly. She just needed a little time to gain her bearings. It would have been so much easier if they had gone out somewhere first. Good food, wine, eased the way.

‘This is the study.’ His voice made her jump. He opened a door on the left and led the way into a square room littered with wallpaper off-cuts. ‘I’ve been trying to decide which paper to use.’

Glad of something positive to think about, Jo picked up various samples and held them against the wall. ‘I like this one,’ she said, finally.

‘That’s settled, then.’

She spun around. ‘But … it’s your choice.’

‘Yes. I know.’ He held the door to let her through. ‘That’s the cloakroom. Storage cupboard,’ he said carelessly, as they passed closed doors. ‘And this is the morning-room.’

‘This is a cottage on a rather grand scale,’ she said, admiring the use of yellow and white that would reflect the morning sun. She walked across to a pair of casement windows and opened them, stepping out into the garden. ‘You’re on the river!’ she exclaimed. ‘I hadn’t realised.’ She walked quickly down to the small mooring with its tiny dock.

‘There’s a boathouse behind those shrubs, but the roof has collapsed.’

‘Will you rebuild it?’

‘Maybe. Is it warm enough to eat out here, do you think?’

‘Oh, yes! I’ve a sweater in my bag.’ Once again the betraying heat stained her cheeks at this reminder.

‘Go and get it while I organise the food.’

‘You haven’t finished the guided tour,’ she said quickly. Then wished she hadn’t.

‘We’ve the whole evening. Don’t be so impatient, Joanna. You’ll see everything, I promise.’

She stood for long moments in the hall, making an effort to bring her breathing back under control. It was idiotic to be so jumpy. She was grown up. Twenty-four years old. She found the cloakroom and splashed cold water on to her face. Her eyes seemed twice their normal size in the mirror, the grey abnormally dark. ‘Come on, Jo,’ she told her reflection. ‘You want this man so much it hurts.’ If only he would make love to her, all her nerves would be swept away. But it was almost as if he was going out of his way not to touch her.

He had spread a cloth under a willow tree, its curtain providing a cloak of privacy from the passing boats, and was uncorking a bottle.

‘Mrs Johnson has done us proud,’ he said, as she settled on the rug beside him.

‘Mrs Johnson?’

‘She cooks, cleans, looks after me like a mother hen.’

‘Oh.’ Jo wasn’t sure she liked the idea of an unknown woman cooking a seduction feast, wondering how many times she had done it before.

He handed her a glass of wine and touched the rim with his own. ‘To Love.’

‘Love—?’

‘‘‘‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my meat.’ So I did sit and eat.’’’ He solemnly offered her a crab bouchée.

She quickly took one, but it seemed to fill her mouth and stick there. He topped up her glass and she drank nervously. For a moment he watched her, then he toyed with his food.

‘How’s Charles Redmond these days?’

‘Charles?’ She frowned. ‘Of course, you must know him. He’s made a good recovery by all accounts.’

‘Will he retire, do you think?’

‘I doubt it. The company is his life.’ She was so glad of something ordinary to talk about, she didn’t stop to consider that her boss was a very odd topic of conversation in the circumstances. She even began to enjoy the food. At last, though, the late May sun had dipped behind the trees and the temperature dropped sharply.

‘Come on, you’re shivering. I’ve kept you out here far too long.’ He caught her around the waist and hurried her indoors. ‘This way.’ Clay led the way through a door to the right and turned on a lamp which softly illuminated the drawing-room. The floor was richly carpeted in Wedgwood-blue and a large, comfortable sofa was set square before the fireplace. Behind it stood an eighteenth-century sofa table. A well-rubbed leather wing-chair flanked the hearth. The only modern touch was the hi-fi equipment tucked away in an alcove. He bent and put a match to the fire. ‘Warm yourself. I won’t be a moment.’

Jo stood in front of the large open brick fireplace, watching the flames lick around the logs, wondering, with a sudden attack of nerves, if she was being an absolute fool. She had prided herself on her detachment, her ability to hold herself aloof from the idiotic disenchantment and pain she had seen her friends put themselves through. She had her job, her career to keep her content. Now here she was, in danger of falling into the same dangerous trap.

‘Joanna?’ His voice pulled her back to him and she understood then, as they stood side by side in the flickering firelight, just why people made such fools of themselves. Clay solemnly handed two glasses to her and, not once taking his eyes from hers, opened a bottle of champagne and allowed the golden bubbles to foam into them.

He raised his glass in silent homage to her. Jo sipped the champagne, hardly conscious of the bubbles prickling her tongue; only the heightened sensation of expectancy seemed real. The tiny nerve-endings in her skin were all at attention, tingling with nervous excitement, and quite suddenly she was shaking. Clay rescued her glass and stood it on the great wooden beam that formed the mantel.

He drew her into his arms, moulding her against his body, his eyes hooded with desire. ‘I want you, Joanna Grant,’ he said, and his voice stroked her softly. She leaned her head back slightly and smiled up at him, her self-possession a paper-thin veneer masking the ridiculous racketing of her heart, and as his lips touched hers she closed her eyes.

She thought she knew what it was like to be kissed by Clay Thackeray. Perhaps it was the champagne, or perhaps it was just that she had been anticipating this moment all day. For a few moments his wide, teasing mouth touched hers in a gentle exploration of the possibilities. Then he paused and she opened her eyes, parting her lips in an involuntary sigh as old as time, any lingering doubts having long since evaporated in the heat beating through her veins. He kissed her again, fleetingly, his eyes locked on to hers, then swung her into her arms and carried her to the sofa, sitting with her across his lap, her arms around his neck. For a moment his gaze focused on her mouth. Gently he outlined her lips with the tip of his finger. She moved urgently against him and whispered his name.

‘Patience, my love. I want to enjoy you. Every bit of you.’

He peeled away her sweater, but his fingers were almost unbearably slow as they undid the buttons of her blouse and pushed the heavy cream silk aside. He kissed the soft mound of her breast where it swelled above her bra, then, edging the lace away, his mouth sought the hard peak of her nipple and she cried out as he drew it between his teeth and caressed it delicately with his tongue. Her breathing was ragged and there was a throbbing, desperate ache between her thighs which was strange and wonderful and which she was woman enough to know that only he could ease.

Her fingers dug into his shoulders. ‘Clay …’ Her voice was pleading.

He raised his head and frowned slightly. ‘Have all your lovers been so hurried?’

‘No …’ But he wanted no answer; his mouth began a thorough and systematic plunder of hers, preventing her attempts to explain, then driving them out of her head altogether.

After a while he raised his head. ‘I think it’s time we went to bed.’

She raised lids heavy with desire and with her fingertips traced the strong line of his jaw and the small V-shaped scar on his chin. She drew her brows together in concentration. ‘Clay …’ He caught her fingers, kissing each one in turn as she struggled to sit up. ‘You should know … that is, I think I’d better tell you that I haven’t ever—’

‘Haven’t what?’ His mouth continued to caress her fingers and for a moment there was only silence in the flickering firelight. Then he realised that she had ceased to respond and he raised his head. ‘What is it?’

‘It was nothing important, Clay.’ She tried to keep her voice light, conversational, but to her own ears failed dismally.

‘You picked a hell of a moment to play games, sweetheart.’ There was a slight edge to his voice. ‘If you’ve got cold feet you only have to say.’

‘No.’ She threw him a desperate look. ‘I just wanted you to know. That’s all. I wanted you to know that I’m …’ She cleared her throat. ‘I haven’t …’ Why was the word so difficult to say? It was nothing to be ashamed of, after all. It just seemed silly. But surely by now he must understand what she was trying to tell him. Why on earth was he being so slow?