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She had known perfectly well that if she stayed here alone with him, this would happen—Joe's intentions had been obvious to her ever since the night he spent on the couch in Lilli's flat. He was a sophisticated man who had travelled all over the world and had presumably forgotten most of the women who had lain in his arms like this—his teasing, arousing kisses
had been learnt with experience, whereas Quincy was entirely untutored, her mouth softly submitted to him with an innocence she couldn't disguise from him. Desire was mounting inside her like some elemental force she had no idea how to control; her husky little moans of pleasure stifled by Joe's searching mouth.
'I need you,' he whispered hoarsely, his lips wandering down her throat to explore the warm cleft of her white breasts, and she shook like a leaf at the sound of his voice, her eyes closed to shut out the light, her hand lifting to stroke his tumbled hair as his black head burrowed into her.
'You're so warm and soft, I want to hold you in my arms all night and wake up feeling you close beside me,' he said, his hands moving in slow, seductive caresses that sent her temperature climbing. She was lost in a burning sensuality, abandoned to the wild fevers of a desire she had never known before, wanting him so much it was like dying, an extremity of passion which held her speechless and helpless in his arms.
When a sudden blinding light exploded close beside them she was too dazed for a second to think. Her lids fluttered as she was broken out of her trance of excitement. The next second she heard Joe's voice swearing thickly and he had leapt off the couch.
Quincy opened her eyes, blinking, so startled she didn't move, staring as Joe broke into a run in pursuit of the man leaving the room.
Quincy just had time to see the camera the other man held before he and Joe had vanished. The sound of their struggle brought her to her feet, swaying, shocked and suddenly icy cold.
Angry voices, a crash, were followed by the slam of the front door of the suite.
While Quincy struggled to pull herself together, Joe came striding back into the room, a camera dangling from his hand. He walked to the telephone and lifted it, dialled. 'This is Mr Aldonez,' he said in a deep, harsh voice. 'A press photographer just broke into my suite and took a picture of me. I want him stopped before he gets out of the hotel and charged with breaking and entering, and I want to know how he got in here. I don't expect to have pressmen wandering in and out of my suite as though it was public property, I don't pay the fantastic sums you charge to have my privacy invaded by anyone who cares to open my door.'
Quincy was feeling sick as she listened. A stranger had come in here and taken a picture of her and Joe— had seen them on that couch, making love. She tugged up her tumbled dress, adjusting the bodice over her half-exposed breasts, shuddering with distaste and self-disgust. What must she have looked like to that man? The thought of someone watching them made her want to throw up.
'Apologies come a bit late,' Joe was saying furiously. 'What sort of hotel is this? What sort of security do you have?'
Quincy picked up her fur jacket and wrapped it around herself as if the room had suddenly turned cold. All the hot colour of sensual excitement had left her face. She was white and drawn, her green eyes full of bitter realisation. She had come within a hair's breadth of letting Joe make love to her—another few minutes and they would have been in bed together. She hadn't had any intention of stopping him just now. She had been too wrapped up in sensations of agonising desire to think of anything but the satisfaction of a need she had never felt before.
'Get on to it right away,' ordered Joe, and slammed the phone down. He turned, opening the camera and removing the film. Quincy watched as he dropped it into a wastepaper basket and flung the camera down on to a table. Joe stared at it, his mouth a grim, hard line. 'The guy himself got away,' he said tersely. 'If I'd caught him I'd have broken his neck, so it's probably just as well.'
Quincy couldn't speak.
He looked up and stared at her, his brows dragging together as he took in the expression on her face. 'Don't look like that!'
'How do you expect me to look?' she whispered, the sound issuing from between her lips like a dry haze of smoke, so low he had to bend forward to hear her.
'I'm sorry it happened,' Joe said.
'So am I.' Her lips moved in faint irony, trying to smile, but only succeeding in trembling slightly.
'You see what sort of thing I have to expect,' said Joe. 'It's a professional hazard, it happens all the time.'
Quincy looked at her watch. She didn't really see the time, although she stared at the little gold face, the minute hands fixed briefly at some hour. 'I must go,' she said politely, as if they were strangers. 'My sister will be worried about me.'
'Quincy...' Joe began abruptly, taking a step towards her, and she shrank involuntarily, her hands clutching at her jacket, her head lowered.
Joe halted in mid-stride and stood there, his eyes on her averted face. She heard her own heart beating in a sick, ragged rhythm and, above it, the deep uneven sound of Joe's breathing.
He suddenly turned towards the door. 'Okay, I'll drive you home,' he said as he walked away. Quincy followed him unsteadily out of the suite and down the corridor to the lift. Joe didn't say a thing as they made their way through the hotel. Around them hung a sleeping hush, the sound of their footsteps seeming too loud, and, as they got down to the lobby, the man at the reception desk looked up and got to his feet with a concerned expression.
As he started to speak, Joe shook his head at him. 'I'll be back later,' he said curtly, and steered Quincy out of the door into the chilly air of the spring night.
The limousine was parked along the street. As they walked to it, Quincy glanced up miserably at the sky and saw the pale points of light glittering remotely far above them, the stars unhidden by cloud tonight in this cold, clear weather. The fine silver disc of the moon had a silent eloquence which deepened her sense of misery, making her even more aware that she would never see Joe again, that the brief days she had spent with him in London were over, were ending in a fashion that lanced her with pain. She would never be able to forget either her own hectic abandonment in his arms, or the shock of being wrenched out of it by the intrusion of a curious, prying stranger. It seemed to encapsulate the whole situation—underline both the unreality of her relationship with Joe and his public situation.
Joe Aldonez was not an ordinary man—he lived in public, like some golden icon, always watched by fascinated eyes, and his emotions and thoughts were as much public property as his singing. He had no right to a private life of his own, as far as the press were concerned. Quincy did not want to live like that. She remembered her sense of his isolation, as she watched that concert last night, seeing him in the dancing, blinding spotlight, trapped like a moth in the glare of a radiance which held all eyes. Then she had seen his humanity, his loneliness, but now she saw other things. How could he not be aware of always performing under watching eyes? And how could his emotions have any depth, any reality, when he must constantly guard himself? Joe was not physically inhibited, but there must be a mental inhibition, a shield lowered between him and the world.
Joe put her into the passenger seat, walked round and opened the driver's door. She sat in a huddled silence as he started the engine, staring straight ahead. The car drew away from the kerb and turned out of the side-road. Without looking at her, Joe said: 'I understand how you must feel, you know.'
'Do you?' Her lips were dry and barely moved as she spoke.
'I live in a goldfish bowl. Do you think I enjoy it? When something like this happens I get so mad my head nearly blows off.' His powerful hands flexed on the wheel and he muttered: 'If I'd got my hands around his neck I'd have choked him to death!'
Quincy stared at the empty silent streets through which they were driving. No doubt it happened to him all the time—how often had he begun to make love to some girl only to have a sneak photographer pop up at an inconvenient moment?
