Nicola Cornick Collection Read online

  She struggled to re-assert her commonsense. She took several deep breaths to compose herself. A few more hours of Jack’s company … then it would be over.

  Chapter Three

  Damn the woman. How could she look so cool and unemotional when only ten minutes before he had been kissing her senseless? How dared she look so cool when he was burning up with the need to possess her?

  Jack watched Sally as she walked slowly towards him. The waiter had installed him at the very best table in the dining room, up on a dais tucked away at the back of the room and surrounded by drooping green fronds of palm. Somewhere, out of sight, a string quartet was playing softly. It was a charming setting, relaxed but extremely stylish. The food smelled wonderful.

  But Jack had lost his appetite for food and he did not feel remotely relaxed. Every nerve ending in his body seemed tense and alert, wound up intolerably, waiting. He watched as Sally smiled and paused to answer the greetings of the other diners. She looked regal, untouchable and very, very seductive in the bright fuchsia-pink silk gown. He had noticed it when she had first walked into the card room. Of course he had. Every man in the room had looked at her. The gown fell long and straight to her ankles and flaunted every single one of her curves. Jack felt his mouth go dry and his breathing constrict as he remembered caressing those curves through the slippery silk. Damn it, there was only one end he wanted to this evening, and it involved him stripping that provocative silk from Sally Bowes’s body and taking her to bed. He had never felt so impatient to have a woman in all his life.

  Jack stood up as Sally approached the table and she gave him a very measured, very cool smile that acted like a complete aphrodisiac and sent his blood pressure soaring dangerously. He had only just got himself under control from the interlude in the corridor. His body was still in a state of semi-arousal.

  ‘I am sorry to have kept you waiting,’ Sally said, sounding as though she was not particularly sorry at all.

  ‘You were not very long,’ Jack said. ‘I do hope,’ he added, determined to shake her out of her apparent calm, ‘that you are quite recovered?’

  A shade of colour touched her cheek. She avoided his eyes and made a business of unfolding her napkin. ‘I am very well, thank you,’ she said.

  Good. Jack felt a flash of satisfaction to see that blush. She was not as cool as she pretended. He could feel the tension in her. It would take very little to stoke their mutual attraction back to the point it had been before—and beyond. He had every intention of doing precisely that later in the evening, but for now he was going to tread very carefully indeed to avoid frightening her away.

  ‘I have been admiring the club,’ he continued. ‘You own all this?’

  A small, distracting dimple appeared at the side of her mouth when she smiled. ‘I own part of it,’ she said, ‘and the investors own the rest.’

  Jack was surprised at her candour. ‘You’re mortgaged to the hilt?’

  She shrugged and a shade of reserve came into her eyes and he wondered if she was remembering his earlier threat to ruin her business. She would not want to show any financial vulnerability to him.

  ‘I own the building,’ she said. ‘That is the important thing.’

  Jack waved the waiter aside and filled her champagne glass himself. ‘And how did you come by it? It seems an unusual venue for a lady to own.’

  ‘My grandmother left it to me,’ Sally said. ‘It was a private house then, of course, but I had no money to maintain it, so I turned it into a business.’

  She had, Jack thought, a tough financial head on her shoulders to have made a success of it.

  ‘Do you think your grandmother would have approved?’ he asked.

  ‘I doubt it.’ Sally laughed. ‘She was a very conventional Victorian lady, Mr Kestrel, and she disapproved of everything about me, from my liberal upbringing to my political persuasions.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘I belong to the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies, Mr Kestrel. My sister Petronella is a militant suffragist.’

  ‘Of course.’ Jack remembered the name of Petronella Bowes from the newspapers. ‘She was one of the women who chained themselves to the railings in Downing Street earlier this year.’

  ‘Yes.’ Sally ran her fingers reflectively up the side of her champagne glass. ‘Nell supports the cause vigorously. After her husband died her support turned more active. I think that it filled a void for her and she is very passionate in her beliefs.’ She looked at him. ‘Do you dislike political opinions in a woman, Mr Kestrel? Many men do.’

  Jack smiled at her. ‘I believe I have sufficient self-confidence to deal with it, Miss Bowes.’

  Sally gave a spontaneous peal of laughter. ‘Yes, I suppose it is only men who feel threatened by intelligent women who object to such matters.’

  ‘And as such their good opinion is not really worth a great deal,’ Jack said. He leaned forward. ‘Tell me, Miss Bowes, what do you look for in a man?’

  He saw the bright light fade from her eyes. ‘Despite what happened just now,’ she said, ‘I would say that I do not look for a man at all, Mr Kestrel.’ Her voice was strained.

  Jack touched the back of her hand lightly. ‘Because of your politics? But surely not all suffragists are opposed to the opposite sex?’

  ‘No.’ She withdrew her hand from beneath his. Her gaze, as it met his, was direct and very candid. ‘It is not because of my political persuasions, Mr Kestrel. I was married once and I am afraid that it did not encourage me to view affairs of the heart in any positive light.’

  ‘If that is so,’ Jack said, ‘how do you explain what happened between us?’

  ‘Oh …’ She shifted a little, shrugged. ‘That was … what would one call it? Chemistry? Physical attraction?’

  ‘Lust?’ Jack said helpfully.

  ‘Lust. Yes, I suppose so.’ Once again she ran her fingers thoughtfully down the stem of the wineglass and this time it was Jack who shifted on his seat.

  ‘I heard,’ Sally added, ‘that you, too, have little inclination towards romance, Mr Kestrel.’ She gave him a slight smile.

  Jack raised his brows. ‘I see that someone has been talking about me,’ he said. He was not particularly surprised. Everyone in London seemed to be talking about him. He wondered what they might have said.

  Sally smiled. ‘Surely you are accustomed to that—a man like you?’

  ‘A man like me?’ He looked a challenge. ‘What sort of man is that, Miss Bowes?’

  She did not appear discomfited by his bluntness and took her time replying. ‘A man who is rich and powerful, and successful in business and with women, I suppose.’

  Jack laughed. ‘You account me that?’

  ‘Are you not?’

  The waiter brought asparagus for them at that moment, wrapped in damask napkins and served on a silver platter. It saved Jack the trouble of replying. He had no intention of raking over his past affairs with Sally Bowes. He was only interested in their mutual future. And he never spoke of his unhappy romantic past and his relationship with Merle. Not to anyone.

  He found that he wanted to ask Sally about her marriage, but he sensed it was too soon and she would rebuff him. She was consciously keeping him at arm’s length. He did not intend to stay there for the whole evening. He might not believe in romance, but he definitely believed in physical attraction and the attraction he had for Sally was going to be satisfied.

  He watched as she speared a stalk, dipped it in butter, and ate it with delicate relish.

  ‘I hope you do not mind that I ordered for both of us,’ she said, ‘as I know what is the very best from the kitchens.’

  Jack tilted his head thoughtfully. ‘So do you also consider me a man who allows a woman to take charge?’

  Their eyes met and locked. Sally licked butter thoughtfully from her fingers and Jack felt the lust spear through his entire body again. Perhaps, he thought ruefully, they should get back to talking about politics. Generally it was something of a passion kille
r, although with Sally Bowes it seemed that any topic of conversation could incite an almost ungovernable rush of desire in him. So far he had managed to keep it battened down, restrained, but it was the devil’s own job.

  ‘I doubt that you are a man to relinquish control in general,’ she said. ‘The way that you behaved earlier does not suggest a very … tractable nature.’

  A mocking smile twisted Jack’s mouth. ‘I believe you understand me very well, Miss Bowes.’

  ‘I believe I do,’ Sally said composedly.

  Her coolness, her frankness, her authority, sent Jack’s blood pressure rocketing further. The dining room seemed extremely hot.

  ‘And are you not going to ask what I think of you in return?’ he asked.

  Once again the dimple showed in Sally’s cheek as she smiled. ‘No, I do not think so, Mr Kestrel. You see, I am confident enough to have no need for your approval. Nor your censure.’ Her tone changed. ‘Indeed, as I said, I get plenty of that elsewhere.’

  Jack raised his brows. ‘Because of the politics?’

  ‘And many other things.’ Sally waved a careless hand. ‘A single woman running a club like this? And a widow to boot?’ She looked at him. ‘You may not be aware, Mr Kestrel, that I was on the point of divorcing my husband when he died suddenly. The police were called in to make sure that I had not murdered him to save myself the cost and disgrace of the divorce courts. I do not think one can get any more scandalous than that.’

  ‘Only if you had murdered him,’ Jack agreed smoothly. He was not shocked at her disclosures—he had seen far too much of the world to be shocked by most things—but he was curious as to what sort of man her husband had been. What had Sally Bowes looked for in a man, before her dreams of romance and marriage had turned sour and ended in death and disgrace? It was no wonder, he thought, that she was more careful of giving herself than most women in the glittering, amoral world of high society.

  Sally gave a little snort of laughter. ‘I assure you I did not murder Jonathan. Not that the idea was not tempting at times. He died of influenza. It was a most virulent outbreak that year. I was sick, too, but I survived.’

  ‘What was he like?’ Jack asked.

  The amusement fled Sally’s face and her lashes came down to veil her eyes. ‘He was weak and dissolute and he gave me grounds enough for divorce with his flagrant cruelty and his infidelity,’ she said. For a second Jack saw a bleak chill of loneliness reflected in her eyes and then she shrugged and picked up her champagne glass again. ‘Forgive me. I was forgetting that you have been abroad and so know nothing of my scandalous affairs.’ She looked up at him. ‘It was something of a cause célèbre at the time, as all divorces are, I fear.’

  Jack could imagine that it might have been. Whether or not she was the injured party, divorce ruined a woman’s reputation and deprived her of her place in polite society. To have gone as far as the courts, even if her husband’s timely death had saved her the final disgrace of going through with the divorce action, would have been the end of Sally’s good reputation. It was no wonder that she had had to carve out a new role for herself here at the Blue Parrot and she had done it with great style.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘Sorry that you had to endure that.’

  She shrugged lightly. ‘Fortunately I had my inheritance. It could have been worse. But you will understand now why the club is so important to me.’

  There was a warning there, Jack thought. She had not forgotten his threat to take away from her everything she valued. She did not trust him. He doubted that she trusted anyone after everything she had experienced. She might have been as stunned as he by the physical attraction that had flared between them so violently, but it did not mean that she was entirely swept away. Once again the challenge she presented, the excitement of the chase, lit his blood.

  ‘What I told you about Connie was true,’ she said suddenly. Her eyes met his and his heart jolted at the impact of her look. ‘I knew nothing about her plan to blackmail your uncle.’

  Jack nodded. ‘I know.’ He had a cynical soul, but he thought his instincts were sound and they told him Miss Sally Bowes was honest.

  She nodded, and he saw a smile of relief touch her lips. ‘Thank you.’

  The waiter took their plates and replaced them with dressed pheasant and tiny, sweet vegetables. Another bottle of champagne was delivered. Jack deliberately turned the conversation to Biarritz and Monte Carlo, to society and culture and the new Liberal government. At Sally’s prompting he spoke a little about the aviation business he had set up after leaving the army. He was very conscious of Sally sitting so close to him, of her smile and her low, smoky voice and the brush of her fingers against his sleeve. The temptation to lean across and kiss her was becoming overwhelming, but he contained his impatience. Soon …

  The lights seemed dimmer now and the music had changed to the soft caress of the piano. The waiter brought cream gateau with curls of bitter chocolate and candied violets. The champagne bottle was empty.

  And Jack waited and calculated and planned more carefully than he had ever plotted a seduction before.

  ‘Would you care for coffee, Mr Kestrel?’ Sally finished the last of her dessert and put down her spoon. There was a smudge of cream on her cheek. ‘Brandy? Cigars?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ By now Jack was conscious of nothing other than Sally and did not want to indulge in drinks or cigars. He reached forward and gently rubbed the cream away from her cheek. Her skin felt incredibly soft. He wanted to cup her cheek in his hand, explore the smoothness of her skin. The strength of the urge shocked him. His desire for her was coiled intolerably tightly within him, barely under his control. Fleetingly he wondered what on earth had happened to him. This was not how the game was usually played.

  ‘You had cream on your cheek,’ he said. His voice was a little hoarse.

  ‘Oh!’ For a second Sally looked adorably confused and vulnerable. She drew back, a wary look in her eyes, but he caught her hand and held it.

  ‘I would like you to show me the gardens,’ he said. ‘May we go outside?’

  The tension spun out between them like gossamer. Sally caught her lip between her teeth.

  ‘Mr Kestrel, that really would not be a good idea at all.’

  Jack thought it was the finest idea he had had in an age. To find a dark arbour, to hold her, to kiss her again …

  ‘I promise not to touch you unless you wish me to,’ he said, and knew he was lying.

  He could see the uncertainty reflected in her eyes and sensed that she was torn. She knew as well as he what would happen when they were alone in the dark, and although she was tempted she was wary as well. He took her hand, rubbing his thumb gently over the back of it, and felt her tremble a little.

  ‘I hear your gardens are modelled on the Moulin Rouge,’ he said, ‘and that you planned the design yourself. I should like to see them.’

  Sally laughed reluctantly and the tension between them eased a little. ‘We do not have the mock-elephant and the faux-Gothic castle, but they are very pretty.’

  ‘So show me …’

  He held his breath and after a moment she nodded. Her expression was veiled. ‘Very well,’ she said.

  They went out of the restaurant and down the red-carpeted corridor towards the big garden doors. Jack watched the sway of her body sheathed tightly within the pink column dress and felt his own body harden in response. He had never felt so powerful and possessive a desire for a woman in his entire life. The strength of his need drove him. If he could have her in his bed, just the once, it would surely cure this hunger that threatened his very self-control. They were both experienced sophisticates who could take their pleasures when and where they found them. She would know the rules as well as he—and be prepared to indulge their mutual passion. He forced his hands into his pockets and ruthlessly reined in the feelings that threatened to drive him to madness and prompted him to take her, here and now, against the wall.

  Out in the gard
en the path wound its way between rose bushes decorated with paper lanterns that swung gently in the summer breeze. Even though the night was warm, Sally shivered.

  ‘You’re cold,’ Jack said. He slipped off his jacket and put it about her shoulders.

  ‘No, I—’ Sally clutched the lapels of the jacket close. In the shadowed darkness her eyes were very wide and dark. ‘I think that we should go back inside.’ She sounded hesitant, as though the strength of his desire had communicated itself to her and was making her nervous. ‘This was a mistake. Besides, Connie may have returned, and—’

  ‘Damn Connie.’ The abrupt reminder angered Jack and he spoke more roughly than he had intended. He put a hand on Sally’s arm. ‘I don’t want to talk about her. In fact, I don’t want to talk at all. Sally?’

  In response she tilted her face enquiringly up to his, which was exactly what he wanted. Her breath feathered across his cheek in a gentle caress. He could smell her perfume, as light and fragrant as the summer flowers that surrounded them.

  He bent his head and kissed her. As an exercise in calculated seduction it was practically perfect, a textbook example of rakish behaviour of which, under other circumstances, Jack might have been justifiably proud. What was completely unexpected was his reaction. He had thought that this time he would be prepared, in control, but as soon as his lips touched hers, all logical thought processes vanished, drowned out in an excitement and a need so violent that it almost floored him.

  Sally caught her breath and for a moment she went rigid in his arms, then she relaxed and her lips parted beneath his. Jack caught her to him then in an embrace as possessive as it was demanding, wrapping his arms about her, absorbing the taste and touch of her, each kiss both intense and seductive. Her palms were pressed against his chest and she responded to him without resistance, without artifice. She tasted faintly of chocolate and sweet innocence and it was so intoxicating Jack almost lost the final shreds of his self-control and plundered her mouth without reservation. But he was an experienced man, not a boy; he held on to his restraint by a thread, forcing himself to take it slowly, exploring her with a thoroughness that was gentle, yet ruthlessly determined beneath. This time he knew he had to court her response, not demand it. This time he needed to get her to the point where neither of them wanted to stop.