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It was no use trying to convince herself that Jago’s interest could ever be anything than merely physical, and to be fair to him he had never suggested that it might. It was only her imagination that kept tormenting her with images of what might have been had he returned her feelings. Which was all so much nonsense, she told herself feelingly as she drove home, because Jago Marsh was most emphatically not the tame, domestic type.
Her father’s daily paper was lying on the mat behind the front door when Storm unlocked it. She hadn’t bothered cancelling it, and she glanced through it while she had her tea.
Jago’s familiar features stared back at her from the centre pages, sending disturbing sensations cramping through her stomach. The photograph was accompanied by an article describing his involvement with Radio Wyechester, and the reporter had obviously questioned him about his future role with the station when combined with his other business interests.
His reply was determinedly noncommittal. As he pointed out to the reporter, he had run City Radio, his London station, for five years, during which time it had crept steadily up the ratings charts until it reached the top, where it had remained for close on two years. With his management team all hand-picked the station no longer needed his constant attention, so it was plainly time to turn his sights in other directions.
The reporter had mentioned the offers he had received from the States, and Storm’s stomach lurched protestingly at the thought of the width of the Atlantic between them. Again Jago had been circumspect in his response, but there was nothing to reassure her in his claim that one must take life as it came, living each day as it happened.
A man of his drive and ambition wouldn’t be satisfied with a small station like theirs for very long, s
he admitted miserably, folding the paper. She had perhaps twelve months before he went out of her life altogether. And she didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry. Twelve months was a long time to hold him at bay—always supposing he didn’t lose interest and grow bored with her. But on the other hand, it was far too fleeting to allow her to gather enough memories to last through the long, love-starved years to come.
Saturday was also Storm’s birthday, and she woke up in the morning feeling rather downcast.
The postman had been by the time she was washed and dressed, but apart from a handful of cards from friends, there was nothing for her.
In the past both Ian and John had remembered her birthdays with lavish gifts, and although she could understand that her elder brother was probably far too busy to remember the date, let alone buy a present, she was disappointed that there wasn’t something from Ian. A long, newsy letter would have helped to alleviate the despondency creeping over her.
It was just as well her mother couldn’t see her, she admitted wryly, pulling a face at her own reflection as she walked through the hall.
She couldn’t stay miserable all day just because her family appeared to have forgotten her, and she was in her room changing into a clean pair of cords when the phone rang. The nearest extension was the one in her parents’ bedroom, and she hurried to answer it, pulling a soft pale grey angora sweater on as she did so.
‘Storm?’ The sound of her mother’s voice almost brought tears to her eyes. ‘Happy birthday, darling. Is David taking you somewhere nice this evening?’
‘It’s Jago’s party, Mum,’ Storm replied, glad that she had no need to explain exactly why she wasn’t going out with David. Her excuse seemed to satisfy Mrs Templeton, for she said happily, ‘Of course—I’d forgotten.’
The call was only a short one—there was barely time for Storm to do more than say ‘hello’ to everyone, including her sister-in-law-to-be—but when she hung up she was feeling considerably less lonely.
Back in her room she slicked lip gloss over her lips, and brushed her hair. Mrs Jennings, her mother’s ‘daily’, did not come at weekends, and by the time she had cleaned away her breakfast things and tidied up it was nearly lunchtime.
She was just debating about whether to bother with a meal when the front door bell pealed. When she opened it, Jago was standing there. Dark cords hugged his lean hips and long, muscular legs, a soft shirt open at the neck to reveal the tanned warmth of his chest, a leather jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder as his eyes slid appreciatively over the soft curves beneath her sweater, and the slender length of her legs in their damson cords.
‘Hello.’ It was an effort to drag her eyes away from him, and she veiled them quickly with her lashes, hoping she hadn’t betrayed the hunger he aroused in her. His Ferrari was parked in the drive and she wondered why he had called.
‘Not going to invite me in?’ he asked softly.
A crazy nervousness was spiralling up inside her, her mouth dry as her pulses pounded out their urgent message. As Jago walked past her, his eyes lingered on her mouth, and the sensual scrutiny increased her inner tension.
‘I was just going to have lunch.’
‘Then I’m just in time,’ he said smoothly, the comment betraying her into lifting surprised eyes to his face.
‘You’re having lunch with me,’ he told her, as though she had no say in the matter. ‘A birthday treat.’ His mouth twisted sardonically before she could refuse. ‘Call it a form of recompense for depriving you of Winters’ company. Had it not been for me no doubt you would have spent the day with him.’ His eyes dropped to her hand, his fingers grasping it, running lightly along the knuckles, his expression unfathomable. ‘Who knows, perhaps he might even have given you a ring.’
Something in his satirical expression caused a shaft of pain so intense that she almost gasped out loud, snatching her fingers away.
’I don’t think so,’ she replied in a low voice. ‘David never loved me, I know that now…’
‘And I’m the cruel bastard who forced the knowledge on you, is that it? Get your coat, Storm. I’ve booked us a table for one.’
‘Without asking me?’ Storm demanded. He was treating her like a Dutch uncle and she wasn’t sure if she liked it. The intense excitement she had experienced when she saw him standing outside the door had given way to increased depression, a vague aching in her temples warning her of a latent headache.
‘Without asking you,’ Jago agreed urbanely. ‘But you’re coming with me if I have to bundle you into the car myself. And don’t bother telling me that no company is preferable to mine—your expression when you opened the door was very illuminating,’ he concluded dryly.
She was glad of the excuse of fetching her coat, for it meant that she could turn away from him to hide her confusion. She had a very good idea of how she had looked when she opened the door, and if he hadn’t guessed how she felt about him by now, he was not the man she thought.
He had booked a table for them at a well-known and extremely exclusive country club several miles away, and Storm sat silently at his side as the powerful car responded to his touch.
