Kitabı oxu: «A Secret Rebellion»

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Copyright

PROLOGUE

ALEX noticed her as soon as she came into the room.

He had been standing in the broad bay of the window, a glass of some obnoxious liquid in his hand, wondering how soon he could decently make his excuses and leave. Gatherings like this were not his scene, and he had only agreed to come because it was his nephew’s birthday, and someone had to represent the family. Or at least that was his father’s excuse. In any other circumstances, he would have refused, but the old man was unwell, and for once Alex had been persuaded to do his bidding.

Consequently, it was not surprising that his restless gaze should alight on the one woman at the party who wasn’t underdressed. For the past hour—was it only an hour?—he had been discouraging the advances of a parade of females, in most cases young enough to be his daughter, all of whom seemed to consider it necessary to wear as little as possible. That was why the newcomer’s appearance, in a plain black dress, was so startling. Among this crowd she stood out like the raven at the feast.

Not that the dress itself was unattractive, he amended, with a critical frown. The neckline was modest, but appealing, and her skirt ended several inches above her knee. Of course, the fact that she was also wearing opaque black tights added to the illusion of propriety. And only the fact that the light was behind her revealed the length and beauty of her legs.

It hadn’t occurred to him that he had ignored her face. In truth, he wasn’t much interested in anything except the unusual mode of her appearance. He’d registered that she was fairly tall, and slim, and that she evidently dressed with some regard for the weather. Outside the apartment, the temperature was dipping to somewhere near freezing point.

Alex propped his shoulder more comfortably against the wall, and looked down into his glass. The drink it contained was a curious greenish colour. His nephew’s girlfriend—what was her name? Christina?—had informed him it was punch, but it didn’t taste like it to him. He must be getting old. He would have much preferred Scotch, or even the spirit he had been weaned on. These designer drinks were all very well, but he had no intention of risking a driving violation.

‘Hi.’

The casual overture arrested the downward spiral of his thoughts, but he had physically to steel himself to face the confrontation civilly. To hell with it, he thought; as soon as he could find Nick, he was getting out of here. He’d shown his face; he’d done his duty. If his nephew didn’t like it, then that was his hard luck.

He lifted his head slowly, preparing himself to face yet another unsubtle come-on, and then felt his focus shifting. The young woman who had issued the friendly greeting was the woman in black, as he had mentally dubbed her, the newcomer, whose appearance had so compulsively drawn his attention.

‘Um—hi,’ he offered politely, realising he had done her an injustice by ignoring her pale features. She was quite startlingly good-looking, and although she might not fit his normal assessment of what made a woman beautiful her face was none the less worthy of approval.

‘You don’t mind if I join you, do you?’ she added, and although Alex had been determined not to get involved in any pointless exchange he found himself shaking his head, as if in acknowledgement of her proposition. ‘I thought you looked lonely,’ she added, her lips parting to display white, white teeth. And, although he had heard that line half a dozen times already that evening, from her it actually sounded sincere.

‘Bored,’ he amended drily, and then, remembering his manners, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound rude.’

She smiled, and Alex was struck again by the flawless delicacy of her beauty. She was very fair, of course. Much different from the women of his family. And with pale skin, and deep blue eyes, she could not have displayed a greater contrast to his own swarthy appearance.

But, as he acknowledged the narrow cheekbones, and straight, unblemished nose, the wide, sensual mouth, and small but determined chin, Alex couldn’t help wondering what she was doing with him. With long lashes, several shades darker than her silvery cap of hair, and a slim, yet not unshapely figure, she could have approached any man in the room, and not been repulsed. In fact, he found her comparatively modest style of clothing unexpectedly sexy, among so much exposed flesh. And, judging by the glances she was getting, he wasn’t the only man to think so.

Which brought him back to his original query as to why she should have made a bee-line for him. It wasn’t as if he had encouraged her. Dammit, he hadn’t even looked at her, until she spoke to him. And it couldn’t be his appearance. In worn jeans and a leather jacket, he looked little different from a dozen other males in the room, and decidedly older.

Unless …

‘I must admit I don’t like parties much either,’ she said ruefully, interrupting his train of thought. She indicated the glass she was holding and which contained an identical concoction to his own, and grimaced. ‘What do you think this is? Moonshine?’

Alex found his lips twitching. ‘I wish it were,’ he replied, pulling a similar face. ‘Cat’s you-know-what is my guess. I’d suggest you treat it cautiously.’

‘Oh, I will.’

Her laughter was infectious, and several pairs of eyes turned in their direction. Including his nephew’s, Alex noticed. He hoped Nick didn’t think he had orchestrated this encounter.

‘What’s your name?’

Her question was not unexpected, and Alex dragged his eyes away from her smiling mouth, and endeavoured to give it serious consideration. But he was unwillingly aware of a certain disappointment. If she knew who he was, all his questions would be answered.

‘I—Alex,’ he said, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Alex—Th—Thorpe.’

‘Nice name.’ Her response was guileless, as far as he could tell, and there had been no glimmer of suspicion in those wide indigo eyes. ‘I’m Elizabeth Ryan.’ She held out her hand. ‘How do you do?’

Alex took her hand in his much larger one, noticing the contrast between her flesh and his. And he was irritably aware of his own reaction to the contact. Her skin was as smooth and soft as silk, and he wanted to hold on.

Amazingly enough, she seemed to feel the same. Even though he held her hand far longer than was necessary she made no move to pull away. On the contrary, she looked up at him with a curiously satisfied look in her disturbing eyes, and Alex had the distinct impression that she was well aware of his response.

In the event, he broke the contact, thrusting his hand into the back pocket of his jeans, as if to remove it as far as possible from danger. Danger? He took a less than cautious swig of the punch in his glass, and swallowed the oath that sprang unguarded to his lips. God, this stuff must be stronger than he thought, he chided himself harshly. It was years since he had felt so—aroused.

‘So who do you know?’ she asked, sipping her own drink, and then pulling a face, and Alex frowned.

‘I beg your—–?’

‘Nick or Christina,’ she prompted, moving out of the way of a couple, who were performing a rather heavy-footed version of the lambada. ‘I work with Chris, and I don’t believe she’s mentioned you before.’

‘No.’ Alex endeavoured to soften his stiff features. ‘No, I—know Nick. Um—from way back.’

‘I see.’ She nodded, glancing round at the thickening crowd that was filling the living-room of the apartment. ‘I must admit, I didn’t realise Chris had asked so many people. I wonder if they all had an invitation?’ Her lips parted, giving him another tantalising glimpse of her tongue. ‘Probably not. But who’s going to ask if they’re gatecrashers?’

‘Well, not me,’ remarked Alex drily, and she laughed.

‘Me, neither,’ she agreed, and as she moved back again her hip brushed the taut muscles of his thigh.

He could smell her now. The faintly musky fragrance she was wearing filled his senses, and combined with the indefinable femininity of her body. Her hair smelt deliciously of lemon, and where it turned into her nape it was inclined to curl. It was short hair, straight, but expertly cut. It framed her face quite delightfully, and she had a habit of pushing her fingers through it. Alex thought he would like to push his fingers through it too, before he could stifle the impulse. For even though it clung silkily to her fingers it always returned to its original shape.

He was crazy, he told himself severely. It was long past the time when he had intended to get out of here, and he ought to make a move. Before her—Elizabeth’s—arrival, he had been itching to make his excuses and leave. Yet now he was reluctant to do so.

He could imagine what his father would say if he knew why Alex was delaying his departure. The old man had asked him to come here to keep an eye on Nick, for God’s sake. His nephew was known to be reckless, and too impressionable for his own good. And, although the family were prepared to tolerate his relationship with Christina Lennox, no one was in any doubt that he would eventually marry the girl his grandfather had chosen for him.

It didn’t matter that Alex thought his father had rather too much to say where his grandsons were concerned. It was the way things were done in his family, but—please God!—he’d never get like that. Yet with his brother too ineffectual to stand against the old man’s wishes, it was usually left to Alex to play devil’s advocate. It was not a role that lay comfortably on his shoulders, and as far as Tony was concerned he played it far too well. But that was why he was here tonight: to provide a stabilising influence. Not find himself attracted to a woman who was not only unsuitable, but whom he didn’t even know.

‘Have you eaten?’

The words were out before he could prevent them, and the young woman looked up at him with warm enquiring eyes. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, actually, I haven’t. But I expect there’s some food around here somewhere. I think Chris said something about a buffet.’

It was his let-out, but he didn’t take it. ‘I meant, would you like to get out of here, and find some place where we could have supper?’ he explained. He indicated the smoke-laden atmosphere. ‘I don’t know about you, but I could stand some fresh air.’

‘Oh.’ Elizabeth appeared to give his invitation some thought. ‘Well—I’m not sure—–’

‘I’m quite respectable,’ he offered, realising he had never done anything so impulsive in his life. ‘And I do mean supper. It’s not an unsubtle excuse to get you into bed.’

She smiled. ‘Isn’t it?’ And he felt the incredible awareness of heat invading his neck. ‘Oh, well, I’ll have to make do with supper, then, won’t I? Give me a minute, and I’ll go and tell Chris what’s going on.’

His nephew was not unnaturally shocked to hear why he was leaving. ‘You’re taking a strange woman to supper!’ he exclaimed, staring at Alex as if he’d suddenly grown two heads. ‘So—who is she? Tell me. Do I know her? Good God, I can’t believe you’re doing this!’

‘Her name is Elizabeth Ryan, and she’s a friend of Christina’s,’ declared Alex flatly. ‘And I’m only taking her for something to eat. Nothing else.’

‘I should hope not.’ Nick’s dark eyes were frankly amazed. ‘Does she know who you are? Have you told her?’

‘She knows I am a man who has offered to buy her a meal.’ Alex was dismissive. ‘That’s enough.’

‘But if she knows—–’

‘She doesn’t.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘I am not offering her marriage, Nico.’ Alex sighed. ‘Do not concern yourself with my morals. You are too young to give advice to someone old enough to be your father!’

‘Hardly that.’ Nick was indignant.

‘Oh, I think so,’ responded Alex lazily. ‘I was a very mature teenager.’ He cuffed his nephew on the shoulder. ‘Enjoy yourself, Nico. With God’s grace I should see you in the morning.’

Elizabeth was waiting for him in the foyer. She had put on a dark green raincoat that almost reached her ankles, and knee-length boots that disappeared beneath the hem. She was certainly prepared for the weather, he reflected. Only her silvery head was uncovered.

She ran her fingers through her hair as he came towards her. It occurred to him that it was a faintly nervous gesture. And why not? he asked himself, zipping up his jacket. She knew even less about him than he did about her.

‘Did you find Christina?’ he asked, leaning past her to open the door, and for a moment her expression was blank.

Then, ‘Chris? Oh—yes.’ He stood back and she hurried into the hall outside. ‘Mmm, it’s chilly. Are you sure you’ll be warm enough without an overcoat?’

Alex closed the door behind them, and pulled a wry face. As he went everywhere by car, he seldom considered the weather. But it was possible she didn’t have a car. That she used the bus or the Underground. And his appearance had evidently not led her to believe he was particularly affluent.

He frowned, as the realisation that she would soon know quite a lot more about him surfaced. It had been easy enough maintaining his anonymity in Nick’s girlfriend’s apartment. At least half the men present had been wearing jeans and casual jackets. But how many of them had come here in a year-old Ferrari?

As they went down the stairs and out into the chill of a March evening, Alex examined his alternatives. He could pretend he had had too much to drink and suggest they hail a cab. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find a cruising taxi on the Embankment, and Christina’s apartment was only a stone’s throw from there. Indeed, Alex had been relieved to find her address was in a reasonably respectable part of the city. There were areas of London where he’d have had some hesitation at leaving his car unattended.

Or, he could suggest they walk along the Strand, where they were bound to find a suitable restaurant. In fact, he knew of an Italian establishment just off William Street, where they served the juiciest pizzas he had ever tasted.

Or, and it was probably the most sensible, whatever his misgivings, he could collect his car, and drive to a decent hotel that provided valet parking. He could always pretend he was looking after the car for a friend—if indeed she knew anything about Italian sports cars.

‘My car’s over here.’

For a moment, he thought he had said the words, but almost immediately he realised he hadn’t. Elizabeth was indicating a dark blue Peugeot, parked precisely in front of a dark green Ferrari, and Alex allowed his breath to escape an a rueful sigh. Evidently, she had chosen to take charge of their transportation, and, while it solved his problem, he felt a fleeting sense of regret at having the decision taken out of his hands.

She unlocked the car as he walked round to the passenger side. He chose to walk round the back of the car, running his fingers regretfully over the Ferrari’s grille. Whatever happened to male domination? he wondered drily. Still, at least it would save him the trouble of taking her home afterwards.

The passenger seat was too far forward, and his knees nudged the dashboard. ‘Make yourself comfortable. That seat’s seldom used,’ she advised him easily. Then, looking through her rear-view mirror, ‘Goodness, why do people park so close to the boot? I’ve hardly got enough room to get out of here.’

Alex deliberately refrained from glancing over his shoulder. He knew exactly how close the Ferrari was. ‘Shortage of space, I guess,’ he volunteered lightly, and she muttered something about power-steering as she manoeuvred out into the traffic.

It was cold in the car, and the windows were misted with their breath, but she seemed to know where she was going. Alex wondered if she was going to ask him where they ought to park, but then decided she probably knew the city better than he did. He was all right in the well-lit streets and main thoroughfares, but when it came to negotiating its one-way system he was soon in trouble.

The heater began working as they drove along the Embankment, and the windows started to clear. It meant he had more light to see the delicate curve of her profile, and the determined way she held her tongue between her teeth when she was concentrating. He still couldn’t get over the fact that he had actually invited her to have dinner with him. Nick was right. It wasn’t like him. Dear God, what kind of a woman was she, to leave the party with a man she had only just met?

He was so busy thinking about his reasons, and hers, that he was paying little attention to their surroundings. He had assumed she knew a short cut to the West End. He knew, because he had done it, that it was possible to run up one of these streets into Whitehall, or Piccadilly. He had expected her to do that. But he suddenly realised they were crossing the river, and that was not the way to reach their destination.

Alarm flickered along his veins, but it was only a momentary thing. He knew he was perfectly capable of overpowering her, any time he chose, and that if this was some crazy attempt at kidnapping she had chosen the wrong man. But what if she had accomplices? What if when she stopped there were a couple of hoodlums waiting for him? He ought to do something now, before he lost the initiative.

But, before he could marshal any defence, Elizabeth braked, and turned the car into a narrow street of tall Victorian houses. ‘Nearly there,’ she said, turning and giving him a winsome smile, and he had the uneasy suspicion that she knew exactly what he was thinking.

‘Nearly where?’ he responded, his tone much less cordial than hers, and she tucked her lower lip between her teeth.

‘My apartment,’ she replied, braking again, as she swung the Peugeot over to the kerb. There was just room for her to squeeze the little saloon between a dust-smeared Renault and an ancient convertible. ‘I thought I’d cook you supper. Do you mind?’

Alex stared at her. ‘You!’

‘Hmm, me,’ she agreed, putting the car into neutral, and turning off the engine. ‘Believe it or not, but I can cook. Nothing fancy, you understand, but good wholesome food.’

Alex didn’t know whether to laugh or give her a piece of his mind. It was his own fault, of course. If he hadn’t been so ambivalent about revealing that he owned a Ferrari, he’d have been in control. As it was, she had taken events into her own hands, and he could either like it or do the other thing.

He shook his head. He could always call a cab, he supposed. But that would definitely seem ungracious. And, after all, it didn’t really matter where they ate. If she was prepared to invite a stranger into her home, why should he grumble?

‘Are you serious?’ he asked, putting his hand on the door-handle, and she nodded.

‘Of course.’ She licked lips that suddenly looked a little uncertain. ‘You’re not a rapist or anything, are you?’

Alex grimaced. ‘Would I tell you, if I were?’

Elizabeth bit her lip. ‘I suppose not.’

‘Well, I’m not,’ said Alex shortly, thrusting open his door. ‘Come on. It’s too cold to sit here discussing my sexual habits.’ He grinned. ‘We can do that much more comfortably inside, hmm?’

Elizabeth got out, but she still looked uncertain. ‘I have neighbours,’ she informed him. ‘If I screamed—–’

‘Oh, please.’ Alex spread his hands. ‘I’m not a rapist. Nor do I prey on lonely women. Now, can we go inside?’

Her apartment was on the third floor, and Alex groaned as they reached the landing. ‘Someone ought to teach the English to install elevators in their apartment buildings!’ he exclaimed, leaning against the wall, as she searched for her keys. ‘This is the seventh flight of stairs I’ve climbed tonight!’

She frowned. ‘You said—the English; aren’t you English?’

Alex could have bitten out his tongue. ‘Half,’ he said, hoping she wouldn’t ask what the other half was. The door opened, and he followed her inside. ‘Hmm, this is—nice.’

‘It’s awful,’ she assured him fervently, closing the door and securing the lock. ‘But—it’s rented. The furniture, too. It’s practically impossible to rent a decent apartment in London without its being furnished.’

‘Hmm.’ Alex pushed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and looked about him, as he followed her into a lamplit living-room. Happily, she seemed to have been diverted from asking about his nationality, and he was more than willing to keep her talking about the apartment if that would do the trick. ‘Do you live here alone?’

She looked at him quickly and then away. ‘I—yes,’ she replied, shedding her raincoat on to a chintz-covered sofa, and stepping into the tiny kitchen, which opened off the living-room. She switched on a track of spotlights. ‘So—what would you like to eat? I’ve got steak, chicken, frozen pizza? Or I could scramble us some eggs.’

Alex propped his hip against the fixture. ‘Frozen pizza sounds good to me,’ he declared, choosing the one that required the least preparation. He had noticed the microwave oven standing at one end of the Formica-topped counter, and he had prepared himself enough frozen meals to know it was a simple matter to defrost and cook the pizza. ‘How about you?’

‘Mmm. That sounds good to me, too,’ she agreed, bending to take the box from the freezer. ‘Er—it’s cheese and tomato. Is that all right?’

‘Whatever.’ Alex turned away from the sight of her neatly rounded buttocks, and the way her skirt rode halfway up her thighs as she bent over. It exposed the fact that she wasn’t wearing tights at all, but black stockings, and the unexpected glimpse of her inner thigh, soft, and smooth, and creamy white, was more disturbing than he wanted it to be. ‘So—–’ he endeavoured to school his racing pulse ‘—what do you do for a living?’

She put the pizza into the microwave before replying, and then came to the end of the counter, and propped her elbows on it. ‘What do you think I do?’

‘I don’t know.’ Alex turned, raking back his dark hair with a slightly impatient hand. He shrugged. ‘Something glamorous, I suppose. Modelling, perhaps.’

She laughed. ‘As in artist’s?’

‘As in fashion,’ amended Alex shortly, not appreciating her humour. ‘I assumed you had a job where looks played a part.’

‘Is that a compliment?’

Alex’s mouth compressed. ‘If you want it to be.’

She hesitated. ‘All right. So I’m—involved in fashion. But not as a model. I—buy clothes.’

‘A fashion buyer?’

‘Mmm.’ She seemed content with that description. ‘Now can I offer you a drink?’

Alex thought about saying no, because he was driving, and then thought better of it. He had only had one glass of that appalling punch at the party, and right now he could use something stronger. Preferably whisky, he thought grimly. At this moment, he was feeling at a decided disadvantage.

‘What have you got?’ he asked, and she turned away to take a bottle of Scotch out of one of the cupboards.

‘Only this, I’m afraid,’ she said, not realising how relieved Alex was feeling. It was much later when he conceived the thought that Chivas Regal was hardly the expected thing to find in a single woman’s apartment.

He took it straight, with ice, and after she had settled him on the sofa she returned to the kitchen. She hardly touched her own drink, he noticed. But that was hardly surprising, considering she had practically drowned the Scotch with water.

‘Do you work in London?’

Her question caught him unawares, and Alex took refuge in his drink before replying. ‘Partly,’ he admitted, at last, realising he didn’t have to lie about his whereabouts. London was pretty big, after all.

‘Partly?’ She left the salad she had been mixing, and came to the end of the counter again. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Oh …’ Alex floundered, realising that instead of concentrating on an answer he was looking at her breasts. She had unusually full breasts, and they had been thrown into prominence by the position of the spotlights. They were probably the reason she wasn’t a model, he reflected. Although she was slim, her breasts and hips were much too generously rounded. ‘I mean—I travel, too. Quite a lot,’ he appended, deciding the whisky was responsible for the thickness of his tongue. ‘You know what travelling salesmen are like—here today and there tomorrow.’

Much to his dismay, she picked up the bottle of Scotch, and came to refill his glass. ‘Really,’ she said, bending over him, and he was intensely aware that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Not that she really needed one, he conceded, imagining how she would look without the confining fabric of her dress. Which begged the thought of whether she was wearing any underwear at all, and he cradled his glass between his hands in case he was tempted to find out.

The trouble was, he had the distinct suspicion that she wouldn’t object if he did so. God, what kind of woman was she? She looked so innocent, but she was acting like a—a—–

The actual word he wanted to use escaped him. Besides, if he was completely honest with himself he would admit that apart from bringing him here she’d done nothing to incite his sexuality. Except inflame his senses, he thought impatiently. Good God, every move she made set his nerves on edge.

‘So what do you sell?’ she asked, and he breathed a little easier, as she moved back into the kitchen.

But the question still needed answering, and, taking another mouthful of Scotch, he conceived the perfect answer. ‘Oil,’ he replied, feeling pleased with himself. ‘Um—olive oil.’ That was better. ‘We import it from Greece.’ He grinned suddenly, enjoying his own joke. ‘Barrels and barrels of it.’

‘Gosh.’

She sounded really interested, and just for a moment he felt a heel. But, dammit, he didn’t know her from Adam—or Eve; he grimaced. And after this evening there was every chance that he’d never see her again.

The apartment was getting warm now, and looking round he decided it wasn’t as ugly as he had at first thought. The lamps cast a mellow shadow over the worn patches in the carpet, and even the picture of the oriental lady over the fireplace had taken on a hazy luminescence.

Taking off his jacket, he laid it over the back of the sofa, and lounged a little lower on the cushions. It was really rather pleasant, he thought, sitting here, talking to a beautiful woman, smelling the scent of the pizza sizzling in the oven. He relaxed, savouring the flavour of the whisky. He didn’t know why he had been apprehensive.

And, almost inevitably, it seemed, his eyes were drawn back to Elizabeth. He liked watching her. He liked the way she moved. And he liked the way the light reflected off her hair. She looked both innocent and knowing, and he was growing less and less immune to her undoubted sensuality.