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Sandra was silly, self-indulgent, pretty worthless. She pursued her own pleasure whatever it cost others; her son included. She had left him behind and gone off because she wanted the life Jack offered her. Sean even looked like his mother; fair, with a smooth, epicene softness to his face, and the same greedy eyes and mouth.
Poor Terry.
Alex came back. ‘Everything’s OK.’ He walked over to her, gazing down into her face. ‘You look tired, poor girl. Better get to bed at once. You’ve had a busy day.’
She leaned her cheek on his chest, listening to the beat of his heart underneath her. ‘How long are you staying? Now that Terry isn’t coming do you have to go back at once?’
He put his face down against her hair. ‘Do you want me to stay?’
She nodded, too shy to say it aloud, to beg, as she wanted to. Please stay, please don’t go away again, I need you here, I feel safer with you around.
Alex slid his index finger under her chin, lifted her face so that he could look into her eyes. Her lids flickered up and down, she was afraid to meet his stare.
‘Miranda,’ he whispered huskily, then his mouth was on hers, heat between them, a fire that consumed her entire body, made her shake and shocked all the air out of her lungs.
Her arms went round his neck, she clung to him, kissing him hungrily, wanting him in a way that was totally new to her, totally unexpected. If she hadn’t been so inhibited she would have told him, cried out her desire, babbling like an idiot, I want you, I want you.
She didn’t need to say it, he gave a groan, said, ‘Oh, God, Miranda . . .’ then picked her up and carried her to the bed.
He undressed her, hurriedly, roughly, while she trembled and burned, waiting for him, staring up at his white face, barely able to breathe.
Their bodies merged with a shock like the collision of trains running out of control, unable to stop. She cried out in pleasure and need, twining with him, arms and legs around him, their mouths hotly devouring each other.
It was too intense, too agonising; tears ran down her face, the piercing desire almost broke her body in two as she rode under him, with him deep inside her, driving her up the bed. She had never been so aware of being animal. Her mind wasn’t operating. Only her body worked, reacting to his, more and more wildly, until the clamour and tension broke and she let out a high shriek of exquisite, unbearable pleasure.
She had known, the minute she first saw him, on that ship, that this was how it would be if they ever made love. The gentle affection between her and Tom had been a million miles away from this fierce mating. That was why she had rejected Alex, denied her true feelings, hidden them deep inside herself. She could not admit to them because they betrayed her love for Tom. Her guilt had made it impossible for her to face up to what she wanted. Now she had. The sharp, tortured desire emerged from where she had hidden it all these years, she moaned it out into the night air, sobbed and wept with it.
Afterwards they lay still together, their breathing slowing, the heat in them dying down, the room no longer spinning round for them.
Had she told him she loved him? She had no idea, could not remember anything she had said, or if she had spoken at all. All she knew was that she had never realised pleasure could be so painful, or pain so pleasurable.
She felt she had died in this bed, with him; died and gone to heaven.
But life was never that easy or simple.
‘I’d love to stay all night,’ he huskily murmured. ‘But I have too much to do. I’ll have to go.’
He unwound himself and got up, naked and golden in the glow of the bedside lamp. Why was he leaving her? she thought, anguished. To find Elena?
Pain pierced her breast. She had lost all control, had eagerly offered herself, lost to everything but her need for him. He had taken what she gave, but did he feel anything more than desire for her? Was it still Elena he loved?
Chapter Thirteen
Bernie’s son and another man arrived promptly at ten o’clock. Terry greeted them himself in reception, forced a smile and made polite remarks as he escorted them up to his office. ‘How’s your father? I hope he’s well? And your mother? We go back a long way, you know. You won’t remember me but I remember you as a little kid.’ He laughed. ‘You’ve grown a lot since then, of course.’
Andy Sutcliffe resembled his father as Terry remembered him years ago; wiry and potentially powerful, with rough brown hair and the same quick, easy, cheerful smile. He gave the impression of being laid-back, easy-going, but then so had Bernie. The charm was deceptive, hid a ruthless focus on getting his own way. Power, that was what Bernie had always wanted, and had got, by one means or another.
‘I’ve heard my parents talk about you. Afraid I don’t remember y
ou, myself; I guess I was too young to notice much when you were around. Oh, this is our computer anorak, Liam Grady,’ he introduced him and Terry looked hard at the other man, shaking hands.
‘I suppose you could say I was a computer anorak, too,’ he smiled. His obsession with computers in the beginning had led him to another world, a new career. What had begun as a passion had become a business. Sometimes he regretted that, wished he still felt the same eager excitement.
‘Yeah, well, we all need to understand computers and use them, or lose out in the modern world.’
Liam Grady was dogmatic, a small, sharp Irishman with spiky yellowish hair, bright blue eyes and a touch of belligerence in his manner. No room for discussion or argument in his view of life. Liam Grady knew what he was talking about and anyone who didn’t agree with him had to be taught he was right. He was the type to have a fight in every bar he walked into. Terry had known a lot of men like Liam Grady when he lived in Manchester and moved in the Irish Catholic enclave centred on the local church and the social life held there in the club.
He had been that way himself, when he was young, before he caught on that fighting wasted energy you could better use in making a success of your life.
