Indiscretions (17 page)

“Beat me—fair and square.” He grinned. “Goddamn,
Vennie, I didn’t believe you when you said you were good—you’re terrific. I can see I’ll have my work cut out.”

“Of course you will,” said Vennie loftily, “and the loser buys mulled wine and a sandwich for the winner, right?”

Morgan sucked in his breath. “You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for.” He shouldered his skis and put an arm around her, heading for the crowded café terrace overlooking the valley. “You may regret it by the end of the week, Vennie Haven. It’s gonna cost you!”

The sun dazzled off the snow in a million glinting prisms as they sat, warmed by its rays and the hot wine, and nourished by the crunchy ham sandwiches, contentedly surveying the scene.

It was just about perfect, thought Morgan. He was in the mountains—which he had always loved—on a glorious day which God had provided, with a girl he was falling in love with. He stole a glance at Vennie’s profile as she sipped her wine, gazing out across the valley spread below her like a perfect picture postcard. He loved the soft curve of her cheek, the hint of a dimple at the right side that came and went as she talked, and gave her face a charming asymmetrical touch when she smiled. He loved her wide, open blue gaze, the long curving lashes tipped with gold, he loved the way she’d pulled back her hair into a heavy blond ponytail and the delicate line of her back which even in the bulky ski suit seemed fragile. And yet she wasn’t. Venetia was strong—not only physically, but in character. He knew how determined she was to make it on her own in her cooking ventures and he wished he could help; surely there must be some way to make it easier for her? For he had the feeling that Vennie wasn’t going to quit for anyone or anything until she had achieved her goal.

“Shall we try again?” asked Vennie, pulling on the soft pink-and-gray angora hat that matched her ski-suit. “I’m game to try the black, if you are.”

“You’re on.”

Clomping companionably back across the wooden terrace in their heavy boots, they picked up their skis from the line propped up on the snow outside the café, clipped them on, and glided off toward the lifts. Holding hands as they drifted slowly up the mountain in the chair lift was, thought Venetia contentedly, sheer heaven.

The snow that had threatened in the line of clouds on the horizon had begun to fall heavily as they descended the mountain for the fifth and final time that afternoon, and by the time they reached the Palace it was whirling into a blizzard.

“Just made it,” commented Morgan, sticking their skis and boots in the ski store, “and I’ll bet we have a whiteout tomorrow.”

Venetia groaned, stretching her already tightening muscles. “Ohh, I’m not sure I care.… I can only think of soaking in a hot bath and sleeping for a week.”

“I’ll allow you the long hot bath,” said Morgan, “but then it’s time for a drink at the bar, a candlelit dinner for two, and after that …” Morgan put his arm around her, pulling her close.

“After that?” she murmured, smiling teasingly at him from under her lashes.

“Oh, a little dancing, a little kissing …” Morgan’s mouth came down on hers firmly, holding her cold lips with his as she tightened her arms about his neck.

“Here we are, necking in the ski store like two high-school kids,” grinned Morgan, “and you’re freezing. I’ve never kissed anyone with such icy lips. Come on, we’ve got to get you into that hot bath. We’ll pick up where we left off later.”

It was such a good feeling, thought Vennie, hurrying along beside him, to be looked after. It was so
comfortable
being with Morgan.

Vennie was wearing a long soft shift of violet wool, high necked, wide shouldered, and long sleeved, belted in quilted violet satin. On another girl it might have looked vulgar and obvious, thought Morgan, elegant in his dinner jacket, but on Vennie’s tall, slender body it looked wonderful. They made a spectacularly handsome couple in a hotel filled with very handsome people, turning heads as they left the cozy warmth of the fireplace in the bar and made their way to the restaurant.

Revived by her bath and fortified by a champagne cocktail, Vennie felt a new woman. Exhilaration flowed through her veins, but a different sort from that which she’d experienced on the mountain. That was from the thrill and excitement of the sport and the glorious day. This feeling was from the sheer happiness of being young, feeling pretty, and being with Morgan.

The waiter seated them at the candlelit table and Morgan reached his hand across and took hers. “Did I tell you you look lovely by candlelight?” he inquired with a smile. “Maybe even better than on the ski slope—though I have to admit, it’s close!”

“And you too,” replied Vennie teasingly. “Candlelight turns your eyes the color of good port.”

“Huh, back to food and drink again. Was that a hint that you’re starving?” Morgan kissed her fingers before he released them.

“Of course. You only let me have a sandwich for lunch,” said Vennie, running an expert eye down the lengthy list of appetizers. “Good heavens, what a choice.”

Morgan watched in amusement as she considered, one finger running down the list, murmuring comments as she read.

“Morgan? Would it be all right if I had
two
starters and no main dish? These are all so good … I simply must
have snails, but then I’d love some of that mountain ham.”

Morgan sighed in mock regret. “No fondue, then?”

“No fondue,” she said firmly.

“Thank God.” Morgan grinned in relief. “I would have endured it for you, but no one else. Vennie, you can have three starters if you wish, or four or five.”

“Two, thank you,” said Venetia.

“You really know exactly what you want, don’t you?” Their eyes met across the flickering candle.

“Sometimes,” demurred Vennie, “sometimes I do.”

They ate surprisingly little for two people who had been so hungry, but it all tasted, as Vennie said, “sublime,” and afterward they slow-danced, arms wrapped around each other, her head tucked against his chest where, thought Morgan, it belonged. At midnight, fatigue began to take over, and despite the fact that this was not the moment for it, Venetia yawned.

“Sorry,” she said guiltily, “it’s just that I’m so tired.”

Morgan laughed. “Well, at least it wasn’t boredom,” he said, taking her hand and escorting her through the hotel to the elevator.

“Have you ever been kissed in an elevator before?” he murmured, as the doors closed and they were alone.

“Never,” she whispered happily.

His kiss was different this time, less tender and more demanding. It lasted until the doors slid open again at their floor, revealing them to the amused gaze of a waiting couple.

Blushing, Venetia hurried down the corridor holding on to Morgan’s hand; she hadn’t expected to see anyone, she’d been so lost in Morgan’s kiss.

They paused outside her door and Morgan inserted her key into the lock and pushed open the door. He thought she looked tired; the healthy color of the afternoon had
drained from her face, leaving her pale and shadowed and very beautiful. He couldn’t bear to leave her.

“Vennie?” Her eyes met his. “May I come in for a good-night kiss? I mean, we don’t want to be caught out here in the corridor, do we? The elevator was scandalous enough.”

Venetia smiled. “I’d like that.”

His arms felt good around her, so good … she’d like to sleep in Morgan’s embrace, it would feel wonderful. Her lips parted under the force of his kiss and Venetia waited for it to happen—that miraculous surge of physical emotion, the fireworks that would explode within you, the passion that left you helpless and trembling. Wasn’t that what you were supposed to feel when you loved someone?

Morgan ran his hands down her slender back, pressing her even closer, drifting light, caressing little kisses over her closed eyelids. God, he wanted her … he stopped kissing her for a moment to gaze at her lovely face. She looked so beautiful—and so
tired!

“I’m a brute,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “You’re exhausted. You need to be tucked up in bed to sleep until you awake—like the princess in the fairy tale.”

That was it, of course, thought Venetia, as he left her with a final kiss, it was just that she was tired. Kicking off her shoes she sank thankfully onto the bed, thinking of Morgan. But you were supposed to feel
more
than this, weren’t you? It wasn’t as if Morgan were just any boyfriend, he was special in a lot of ways. When she was with him, she always felt so … so
looked after
. She couldn’t remember having felt like that since she had left home and Jenny for school in England. Yes, Morgan looked after her. Take now, for instance; she knew he had wanted to make love to her, but he had been so gentle and considerate. But shouldn’t passion ignore fatigue? she thought uneasily. Shouldn’t the touch of his lips have
inflamed her? Jenny had always succumbed to passion—if she hadn’t, then the three of them wouldn’t be here, after all—but from what Jenny had said it was
that
feeling that swept aside everything else. Passion, for Jenny, had been overwhelming. Then why hadn’t
she
been overwhelmed?

Vennie pulled off her dress and slipped on the cream silk men’s pajamas that had been Lydia Lancaster’s Christmas present to her husband and which Vennie had “borrowed” because they were far sexier looking than all those lacy nighties. She creamed the makeup from her face and, shiny and clean, with her hair brushed, she sat, head in hands, and gazed at her reflection in the mirror. She was in love with Morgan, wasn’t she? At least, she would
like
to be in love with him. And she thought Morgan was in love with her—that is, she
hoped
he was; he certainly fancied her. Sighing, she turned away from her own puzzled eyes and climbed into bed. With the lamps off she lay in the dark, remembering the fun they’d had together on the slopes, the companionable ride up the mountain hand in hand in the chair lift, the candlelit dinner, the slow-dancing, the kisses in the elevator … she’d been lost in his kisses then, hadn’t she? Anyway, she said to herself as she drifted into sleep, there are different kinds of love; not everyone is overwhelmed by outrageous passion … True love can be more … more
comfortable
.

Morgan couldn’t sleep. The room was too hot, he decided, climbing out of bed and padding across to the window and peering out. Snow still swirled into the night. Morgan let the curtain fall with a sigh. There’d be no skiing tomorrow, they’d be snowed in. And who better to be snowed in with than Venetia? No one. He knew it. And he knew it was different this time. He’d been in love before—a couple of times, in fact—and both times he’d thought he couldn’t live without them, until after a while
he’d suddenly found he could,
and
quite happily. But it wasn’t going to be like that this time. It wasn’t just that Venetia was lovely, nor that he wanted to make love to her—which he did, leaving her tonight hadn’t been easy—but she brought out another side in him, one he hadn’t been aware he possessed.

For the first time in his life he wanted to look after someone, to protect her, to care for her. She was such an odd character, so sturdily independent on the one hand, and so innocent and vulnerable on the other. Morgan felt a pang as he thought of her innocence. God, he was a brute, to try to make love to her like that when she was so tired. And she was such a kid really. He’d better watch himself with her, not rush things, let her take it slowly, the way a man should with a girl like Venetia. Making love with her would be a big commitment, one he’d be happy to make in time. Vennie was adorable—she was beautiful, a good companion, he’d had fun with her today. He’d like to take it slowly with her, enjoy it all. He’d call her from whichever country he was in, he’d write, send her flowers, presents, he’d woo his innocent Vennie until she was ready.

Morgan lay on the bed, his hands behind his head, making plans for Venetia.

The days were drifting by so quickly, the way they do on holiday, each one sliding into the next in a flurry of small activities: ice skating with Morgan on the hotel rink; holding hands on the sleigh rides, tucked away from the frosty nip in the air beneath a warm, furry rug, and drawn by horses whose bells jingled in the Christmas fantasy land of snowy mountains and pine forests; beating Morgan at curling, jumping up and down on the ice in triumph as he handed over the five-pound bet—and then buying him a present, the softest gray cashmere scarf, which she’d wrapped around his neck and delivered
with a kiss; the joy of skiing again when the snow finally stopped and the pistes were pounded into shape; the candlelight dinners, the dancing, and Morgan’s loving, gentle attention. But why, wondered Venetia, dressing for dinner on their last night, why hadn’t he tried to make love to her again? What was wrong? He didn’t seem any the less loving. Quite the opposite; he was full of small attentions, and he seemed as happy as she; they were always laughing together about something. Then why, damn it? Wasn’t she
attractive
enough?

Venetia scowled at her reflection. She had decided to wear the violet shift again—after all, that had seemed to do the trick the first night. Bending forward she shook her thick blond hair free, tossing it back and running her fingers through it until it looked like a rough mane. She’d really layered on the eyeshadow tonight, changing her usual wide-eyed look into a deeper, sultry gaze; she’d emphasized her cheekbones with a darker blusher, and now she colored her mouth a deep violet-pink, glossing her lower lip the way Paris had said you should for a sexy look. Then just a final spray of Penhaligon’s Bluebell scent. There. If that didn’t do it, she didn’t know what would. She had to admit that she looked terrific—she only hoped Morgan would appreciate it!

Venetia, you’re ridiculous, she told herself with a laugh; one minute you’re not sure whether you want him to make love to you, then you’re not sure if you’re feeling the way you should when he begins to make love to you, and next you wonder why he isn’t making love to you! She couldn’t wait to ask her best friend Kate Lancaster what
she
thought. Picking up her bag she glanced around the room. Clothes were scattered across its length, and grabbing them up quickly she flung them into the bottom of the wardrobe, smoothing down the bedspread and removing her pajamas from the chair—just in case, she
thought, eyeing the room with satisfaction, just in case he decides to come back with me tonight.