House of Storms (11 page)

'Is that Sharon Chandler?' Debra asked, feeling quite certain that the girl in the satin gold dress with the low neckline was the girl whom the Salvadors would welcome into their family with open arms.

'You bet your sweet life it is.' Stuart openly quizzed the girl in gold. 'She looks expensive, which was something poor Pauline couldn't achieve even on Jack's money. That was one of the reasons why the haughty Lenora didn't like her. The landed gentry judge girls not by their nice natures but by their pedigree. Breeding is paramount, then daddy's bank account is taken into consideration, and finally if her riding-seat comes up to standard she has the rosette pinned on her.'

As the Georgie Dane group moved into their version of
I Don't Want To Set The World On Fire
, Debra was swung breathlessly close to where Rodare was still in deep conversation with Sharon. She caught the deep sound of his voice and saw the girl watching him intently, and it was natural discipline that kept her in step with Stuart.

'You can take it from me,' he went on, 'Lenora didn't like it one little bit when her darling Jack got himself involved with a high-kicking filly from the chorus line. Anyway, it looks as if the
hidalgo
plans to remedy his half-brother's mistake. Just look at the way that girl is looking up at him!'

'He's so tall that she can hardly help it.' Debra spoke as casually as she was able to, for those two figures superimposed upon the flame-coloured curtains were in every way a foil for each other. The girl was like a golden bloom which the man had plucked for himself, and those beckoning dark eyes of his seemed to be holding her in thrall. If Debra hadn't been so fair-minded she would have taken an instant dislike to Sharon Chandler, but there was no denying the girl's good looks and the lissom charm of her figure in the dress that glistened like golden moonlight on water.

'They are well matched,' she murmured.

'Made for each other,' Stuart said drily. 'I see Lenora bearing down on them . . . Holy James, she's actually smiling!'

Debra took a quick look and saw Lenora kissing the girl on the cheek. Rodare stood looking on and Debra had her gaze upon him just a second too long . . . suddenly his eyes had hold of hers, then they raked over her in Stuart's arms and she could have sworn that mockery flicked the edge of his lip.

Debra felt herself tingle with resentment. Did he expect her to sit in one of the alcoves like Jane Eyre, eyes cast down and looking a picture of demure servility? Was that why he had wanted her at the party, so she could see him with Sharon Chandler?

She wanted to walk out of the room, but if she did depart he might assume that she was envious. Obviously she was meant to feel like the little typist whom his sister Zandra hadn't felt worthy of an invitation. Already she had caught the sharp attention of Zandra, who looked rather like a tigress in a dress of honey and brown stripes. The raven-dark hair was bunched at her nape in a diamond circlet and there were diamonds in her earlobes.

'I—I didn't want to come to this party.' Debra couldn't quite keep the tremor out of her voice. '
He
insisted.'

'El Rodare?' Stuart raised an eyebrow so high it almost reached into his hairline. 'You mean he got you on your own and insisted?'

'He came to my bedroom—' Debra broke off, realising at once that the words sounded invidious. 'What I mean—'

'I think I know what you mean.' Stuart stared down at her, seeing her as if through the eyes of the other man, the one who was master of the house. She didn't dazzle the male eye with blonde hair and the kind of blue eyes that clung to a man as if he were the god of light. Debra had a more subtle attraction . . . that of unalloyed innocence.

'Did he try to push his way in?' Stuart was scowling, and at the same time leading her off the floor in the direction of the buffet.

'No—nothing like that,' she protested. 'As if he would!'

'I bet it was on his mind!' Stuart reached for two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and handed one to Debra. 'Come on, you don't imagine he's any different from other men just because he gives you all that high-and-mighty talk about the honour of the Spaniard being bound up with hospitality. That's just his line and bound to get to an innocent like you, who has probably read all about the noble Knights of the Round Table and other romantic tales. They talked a lot about honour, but that didn't stop Lancelot and Tristan from seducing the fair ladies.'

'I don't intend to be seduced by anyone,' Debra said indignantly. 'Just because it's always on your mind!'

'That's slander,' he said, but without rancour. 'Mmmm, this is splendid champagne— nothing but the best for the Salvadors. What they've splashed out on Krug and caviar tonight would keep me in lunches for quite a few weeks. Let's go to the buffet and help ourselves to some of that delicious food.'

What was laid out on the long white-clothed table made Debra feel hungry, and following Stuart's example she took a plate and a fork and helped herself to whatever took her fancy. From the moment Rodare Salvador had looked at her in that mocking way, Debra had decided to look as if she was having the time of her life. She would gobble down this plate of food even if it made her feel bilious; she would laugh at Stuart's nonsense, and dance whenever he asked her to.

They were standing side by side, sampling the caviar, when Zandra made her way towards them with a tigerish glitter in her eyes. 'I expected you to come and say good-evening,' she snapped at Stuart, and the glare she gave Debra was enough to curl the smoked salmon. 'Perhaps you had something better to do, is that it?'

'You know I like to dance,' he drawled, 'and you seemed busy with Van Allen. This is great caviar, you should try some.'

'Are you enjoying it?' Zandra snapped at Debra.

'Yes, thank you,' Debra said politely.

'One assumes that you've never had it before?' Zandra was in such a temper that she didn't even pretend to be polite. She looked Debra up and down and it seemed to fuel her anger that Debra looked cool and charming in her white dress set off by her chestnut hair, jade-pinned.

'No, I've never had caviar before,' Debra agreed. 'It reminds me a little of the cod's roe I always took home for my supper on Friday evenings.'

Debra heard a spluttering sound as Stuart nearly choked on a swallow of champagne.

'Is that meant to be funny?' Zandra demanded.

Debra looked wide-eyed and shook her head. 'Fried cod's roe is delicious, especially with chips and a cup of tea.'

'You impertinent little typist!' Zandra was fuming. 'You weren't meant to be at this party, for we don't usually invite the staff!'

'Zandra!' Stuart was abruptly unamused. 'I don't know what's got into you, but if you want to pick on someone then choose me. I'm used to dealing with the tantrums of actresses—they're inclined to be touchy if the spotlight isn't on them the whole time.'

There was a flash of diamonds and Stuart caught and gripped Zandra's wrist a moment before she struck him. She glared at him, he stared at her, and Debra quickly walked away, heading into what she thought was an alcove and found to be an archway into a conservatory that led off from the immense ballroom.

The dance music followed her into the green sanctuary, with its domed glass ceiling, masses of indoor plants, and pale lilies spinning on the pond where gold fish swam lazily beneath the heart-shaped leaves.

Debra drew a shaken breath. Oh lord, what a scene! Zandra was hopelessly in love with Stuart and he quite obviously didn't feel the same way about her. He had a certain charm, but he used people and he had casually hinted that he had ingratiated himself with Zandra because he was ambitious and she had social and theatrical connections. They were the main attraction where he was concerned, and despite the way the actress had spoken to her, Debra couldn't help feeling a kind of sympathy.

Hadn't she herself felt a stab of unwanted jealousy when she had glanced across the dance floor and seen the girl in gold holding the attention of Rodare Salvador.

It was a hateful feeling and Debra sank down into a fan-backed cane chair and drank from the champagne flute which she still held in her hand. She wanted her nerves to get back to normal. She wanted to be again the cool, composed girl she had been while working in London. She wanted to dislike that haughty Spaniard for the way he had looked at her while she danced with Stuart. Anyone would think he had caught her in Stuart's arms for a more intimate purpose!

She sank back in the cane chair and it creaked a little, and, as if in answer, she caught a movement at the other side of the foliage; there came a click, then a drift of aromatic smoke, followed by a definite footfall.

He stood there suddenly, the man who caused her a similar kind of desperation to that which his half-sister suffered at the hands of Stuart Coltan.

'I didn't think it would be long,' he remarked, 'before you took to cover. Are you in hiding from that young predator?'

'It was your sister,
señor
, who made me take to my heels.'

'She also saw you dancing with Coltan, eh?'

'I'm afraid so.'

'Why be afraid, Miss Hartway?'

'You know why,
señor
.' The Spanish way of addressing him came so naturally to her lips, and in view of the many exotic plants surrounding them, they might have been alone together in far away Andalucia. It was such a fantastic notion that she blamed it on the champagne.

'You think my sister was impolite to you because she has taken a fancy to Coltan, eh?'

'Yes.' Her wide-apart eyes were upon his Latin face, wreathed in the smoke of his cigar, and she wondered why he was in here instead of enjoying the captivating company of Sharon Chandler. She wondered why he wasn't dancing when he looked as if he would dance with all the expertise of his Spanish blood.

'Have you also taken a fancy to that young man?' he asked.

'Do you think I have,
señor
?’

'We say in Spain that people who dance well together have an affinity with each other.'

'How interesting.' Debra ran a fingertip around the rim of her champagne flute, but more as a distraction from his eyes than from an attempt at provocation.

'Most things Spanish are interesting,
señorita
.' He said it without arrogance but with a decided touch of pride, a man who had long since decided that he was more attuned to his mother's people than his father's. He had the proud stance of the race, a male dominance accentuated by his dark evening wear ... an imposing man of honour who could, perhaps, be merciless as the matador.

'Intriguing,' he murmured, 'that scattered through our blood are instincts we are helpless to control; feelings and urgings derived from the roots of our existence. No one is an island though we go through this life in total detachment . . . what does that realisation do to a mere girl such as yourself?'

'Oh, why ask me,
señor
?' She gave him a cool look. 'I am merely the little typist who wasn't meant to be at this party.'

'Zandra said that to you?'

'Yes.'

Then come,' he reached for her hand and drew her to her feet, 'come with me and we'll show Zandra that you have my seal of approval.'

'No—' Debra pulled back, her fingers tensed and straining in his grip. 'I am only in this house to do a job of work and I would much sooner go to my room.'

'The night is young,' he mocked, 'and at my welcome-home party I'm entitled to have my own way. Come, I want to dance!'

The very words seemed to bring Debra's heart into her throat. 'I—I don't think we should—your stepmother won't like it if she sees you dancing with me—'

'If I wanted to dance on my head in my own house I would do it.' Inexorably he was forcing Debra to go with him, into that room where the music played and where everyone would see them together. Holding her inescapably by the hand he extinguished his cigar, and she said desperately:

'I shouldn't think you'd want to dance with someone you despise!'

'Say again?' He rapped out the command, a dark and alarming figure above her slenderness in the pale, softly clinging fabric. Her nostrils tensed to the woody spiciness of L'Homme Est Rare, and her heart palpitated as his free hand closed upon her waist.

'I—I saw the way you looked at me—when I was dancing with Stuart.' He had seared her skin with that look, and now when he touched her Debra felt it to the bone.

'And how, exactly, did I look at you?' he demanded.

'As if you thought me—cheap.' It hurt to say the word.

'That, my young woman, is a confounded lie!'

'It isn't!' she said hotly. 'You told me to come to your party, but I wasn't expected to behave like a guest—was I?'

'You are talking rot.' With a strength that shocked her, he pulled her so hard against him that she felt the pressure of hardened saddle muscles, and the very next instant she was bent over his arm and his eyes were piercing hers, dark as midnight and holding all the mystery of his maleness, a man unknown to her until their meeting on his beach where he had seen her stretched upon the sands with not a stitch on her body.

She felt again, as she had felt then, helpless to move, magnetised by his eyes and weakened by his look of power.

'Strange creature that you are, with eyes that change their hue and sometimes hold silver or shadow.' His breath was warm on her skin, smoky from his cigar, and his lips were almost touching hers. 'Why would I think you cheap,
señorita
?'

'Y-you are proving it—right now.' Her lips shook and her body was more his possession than her own . . . she was the moth in the flame and tormented by this game he played with her.

'Would my kiss be less welcome than a kiss from Coltan?' he murmured.

Her heart gave a jump ... he knew . . . he had seen her with Stuart in the alcove and believed she had wanted to be there. 'Do you spy on everyone who comes into your precious house?' she asked breathlessly.