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MEETING his eyes, Georgia sucked in her breath. Seven years had stamped authority on those harshly handsome features, on the wide-shouldered, lithe male body. And although she never looked back, not ever, there was nothing she could do now to stop her mind flying to the hollow echoes of the past. Just seeing him again made it happen…
She was eighteen years old and besottedly in love. Had loved him ever since she’d first set eyes on him at her mother’s marriage to his adoptive father, Harold Harcourt, three years before.
He liked her; she knew that. On his occasional visits to Lytham Court, the luxurious family home, he made a point of spending time with her, unfailingly interested in her, always kind. And what gave her hope that liking her might develop into something more was the snippet of information that Mrs Moody, the battleaxe housekeeper, had let slip: Jason never visited Lytham while she was away at the boarding school her mother had packed her off to as soon as she’d married money.
So here she was, a naive, plump eighteen-year-old, sitting up in bed long after her mother and Harold had retired for the night, screwing up her courage to go to Jason’s room and talk to him, tell him about the job offer in New York, ask him if he’d miss her—because if he said he would, she wouldn’t go.
Since she’d been back at Lytham, after finishing her A levels in the early summer, Harold had been making her feel horribly uncomfortable, asking her about her boyfriends, his hot blue eyes undressing her—especially when Vivienne, her mother, wasn’t around. And her mother didn’t want her around; she never had. If it hadn’t been for Jason’s occasional visits Georgia wouldn’t have spent any time here this summer, would have accepted the standing invitation to stay with her friend Sue, would have been making plans to go to New York with the family in November, making a firm decision to accept the exciting offer of a job in the new advertising agency Sue’s father was setting up over there.
But how could she leave Jason? How could she go if there was even the smallest hope that he could come to love her as she loved him?
Sue’s phone calls, begging her to make up her mind to go with them, were becoming more frantic. She had to reach a decision, and the only person who could help her do that was Jason.
But sitting up in bed in the thick darkness, chewing it over, wasn’t going to achieve a thing! She threw back the light counterpane and slid her legs out of bed. When he’d arrived for his eagerly awaited weekend visit he’d declined the evening meal and gone to his room.
‘I think I’m coming down with flu,’ he’d told them. ‘The symptoms started on the way here. So I’ll dose myself with aspirin and whisky and keep out of everyone’s way.’
‘You do that.’ Vivienne had taken herself to the far side of the room, flapping her hands in front of her as if to get rid of some unspeakable contamination. ‘I don’t want your nasty virus! And neither does Harold!’
Harold had merely shrugged, and Georgia could have smacked the pair of them. Couldn’t they see that Jason looked far from well? Didn’t they care?
‘I’ll make a hot drink and bring it up for you, shall I?’ Georgia had volunteered, determined to let him know that she, at least, cared about his state of health. ‘Some soup, perhaps?’
‘Thanks, poppet.’ He’d smiled for the first time, his eyes brightening momentarily as they rested on her. ‘But I really couldn’t face it. See you in the morning.’ He’d taken the whisky bottle from the drinks tray and walked out of the room, so she hadn’t been able to talk to him then. But she could now.
She wouldn’t disturb him for long, just explain about the job offer and tell him how she felt about him. She couldn’t put the width of the Atlantic between them if there was the slightest chance he could one day return her feelings.
If he couldn’t, if friendship was all he could ever offer her, then she’d make a new life for herself in America. The thought of baring her soul to him was scary, but she had to do it. Sue’s parents wouldn’t wait for her decision for ever.
She was shaking with nervous tension as she slipped down the corridor and into his room.
He’d fallen asleep with the bedside light on. The coward in her recognised it as a reprieve and she felt herself begin to relax, her breath coming more easily. She knew she should walk out and leave him to his healing sleep, but couldn’t make herself.
She padded over to the bed, her bare feet soundless on the thick carpet, only now realising that the in-depth discussion she’d intended they have should have demanded at least the sobriety of a robe to cover the too voluptuous curves which were barely hidden by her short, thin cotton nightie.
But the night was hot and she hadn’t been thinking straight, her mind rehearsing what she had to say to him over and over again. In any case, it didn’t matter now. He was asleep and she wouldn’t wake him.
Very carefully, her heart in her mouth, she sat on the edge of the bed. He still looked feverish, sweat gleaming on his olive-toned skin, the sheet tangled around his hips. She could smell the whisky he’d dosed himself with and realised hopelessly that she had to be grateful for the virus, for the alcohol that had knocked him out.
He was so beautiful. He could have any woman he wanted. So how could she have been crazy enough to hope for one moment that he would want her?
The sudden film of tears made her eyes sting. She blinked them away and told herself to be grateful for having been saved from a huge humiliation.
If he’d been awake and she’d come out with all that stuff she would have embarrassed them both; she could see that very clearly now. His past friendship and kindnesses meant only one thing—that he was compassionate enough to care about the plain, over-plump teenager who was like a fish out of water in the opulence of Lytham Court, whose mother plainly showed she didn’t want her around.
So she would go to New York and make something of her life, but first she would give herself this quiet, secret time with the man she loved with an emotion so intense it made her heart feel heavy and sharp inside her. Just a few more minutes to say her silent goodbyes.
Tears shimmering on her lashes, she softly, oh, so softly, touched his naked shoulder. The last thing she wanted to do was wake him, but she needed to have the memory of how his skin felt beneath her loving fingers.
He was burning, feverish. She lifted her hand and laid the backs of her fingers against his brow, where strands of damp, dark hair tumbled onto his forehead, then feathered them gently over his jagged cheekbones, down to the corner of his mouth, and then, because she simply couldn’t stop herself, trailed her hand over the taut muscles of his arm, down to the loosely clenched
long bones of his hand, completely absorbed in him.
And then, in the space of time it took to draw a breath, his eyes opened, his fingers tightened convulsively around hers, drawing her hand up until her palm was splayed against his wide chest and she could feel the rapid, heavy beats of his heart.
After that there was no time to explain what she was doing in his room as his mouth descended in a bone-melting kiss. No time to think as she drowned giddily in a vortex of passion, his passion and hers, the driven need taking them both by storm.
She didn’t have to ask if he could ever love her. He had given her the answer.
