Love Play by Rosemary Rogers (24 page)

'Here - it's your turn now.' The small bottle was held out to her,
leaving her no more options.

Sara shook it with a professional air as she had seen him do. Inside her
slender-strapped high-heeled shoes, she was shaking too.

'Well, for heaven's sake! What are you all staring at?'

'She's a Southern
 
belle!'
Blue-eyes bent over in
 
a paroxysm of
almost hysterical mirth; taking their eyes off her for a moment. Proud of her
own resourcefulness, Sara pretended to twist the cap of the little vial around,
breathing solemnly with a finger against each nostril in turn.

'Oh, boy — that is strong stuff. Much stronger than I can usually
afford. Thanks, baby.'

'Are you sure you have had enough? You don't feel relaxed yet.' Why
couldn't Marco leave her alone? Sara turned her head, trying to escape his
deceptively gentle fingers.

'I'm just fine, thanks! You really don't have to hover over me to make
sure I'm having a good time. I am.'

'Someone neglected to teach you manners!'

Fortunately, Sara thought, she was saved by a feminine voice that was
followed by the vision of a decidedly feminine body — about five foot six and
amply curved in all the right places.

'Marco - man amour — where have you been hiding yourself? We were
supposed to meet last week in Marbella, surely you cannot have forgotten?'

Apparently he could be nonchalant enough when it suited him. Hatefully,
Sara watched the close embrace, the embarrassingly passionate kiss that seemed
to deny the existence of anyone else within their magic circle.

'Darling!' the woman sighed at last. 'Should I be jealous? Why weren't
you there? Everyone was asking about you.'

What a disgustingly public scene! And if this overdressed blonde was one
of his mistresses, then it was obvious that -title or not — the man simply had
no class!

Turning away from them, Sara put her hand on the redhead's wrist. His
name was Cyrus, she remembered, and he looked, safely, as if he had retreated
into a different world.

'Hi there again, you with the magic bottle. Shall we go and boogie for a
while until we need some more magic?'

Grinning rather vacuously he followed, her; easily persuaded by his own
ego as well as her feminine blandishments. His name was Cyrus Richards and he
specialised in owning things. Anything he damn well pleased to own. Oil wells,
real estate, a gold mine and women. Maybe he might want to own this one. It all
depended on whether she'd start to bore him or not.

Wild music with a pulsating drumbeat underlying the manufactured sounds
of a synthesiser became louder as they approached one of the polished dance
floors — this one outdoors by the pool. The floor seemed to pulsate in time to
the beat.

'All right! Let's get loose, baby. Show me some of that stuff!' His
sudden laugh didn't make sense to Sara until her dilating eyes, travelling over
his shoulder, happened to see the larger-than-lifesize screen that held a few
of Vince's less energetic guests enthralled.

No wonder she'd received all those whistles when she came on to the
floor! Delight Adams in the flesh; discoing in her sexy red Halston dress,
while there on the giant screen her pictured image flashed, unclothed and
unin¬hibited; performing a sexual, sensual ballet that left nothing to the
imagination. Dear God, how could she have? And she, her sister's surrogate,
what did they expect of her?

"Hell, babyl Let's get down!' The redhead had started to gyrate his
body, using his hips suggestively. 'Let's go!' Eyes half-closed.

What would happen if she started to run? Sara tore her eyes away from
the screen, feeling, as if a switch had been turned on inside her, her body
began to move in time to the music. If she didn't think about it too hard she
could dance with as much abandon as anyone else on the crowded floor. And no —
she was not going to run away, she was going to show them, and him - in the end
— that she wasn't the same girl on the screen, doing all those things.

Him . . . of course, shouldn't she have guessed he would plan some kind
of nasty surprise for her? Delight Adams -good-time girl on- and off-screen.
That's what he thought, and by bringing her here to this kind of party where
she'd be thrown together with members of the fast international set he had
sought to underline his contempt for her. A wave of pure fury shot through
Sara's body, making her hot first and then cold - icy cold with resolve. Why,
that smug, self-righteous, hypocritical bastard. If it was the last thing she
ever did, she was going to teach him a lesson - oh, yes, she'd find a way to
exact her own personal revenge and make him look foolish in the eyes of his
friends and acquaintances as well.

Sara suddenly became aware that her partner had emerged from his
glazed-eyed preoccupation with his own dancing and had asked net a question.

'I'm sorry, I didn't hear . . .'

'That's okay. I'll come closer.'

The tempo of the music had changed, becoming slower and less frenetic.
Cyrus put both his arms around her, pulling her, slightly off-balance, against
his body. 'Hmm! Much better. Been wanting to feel you up close all evening,
pretty baby.'

And this close was far too close! Sara thought indignantly as he ground
her hips up against him with one surprisingly strong hand at the small of her
back and the other holding her bottom. Mistaking the angry jerk of her hips for
a deliberately enticing wriggle, the red-headed man gave her a wink. 'I sure do
like what I feel! Tell me, like I was asking you earlier, do you really enjoy
getting laid that much?' The jerk of his head encompassed the screen, now
almost filled with a close-up of Delight's provocative, nude derriere, and Sara
herself; and before she could utter a word he went on in the same casual
manner, 'because if you do I'm willing - and equipped - to please you. Maybe we
could teach each other some new variations, what do you think?'

All that prevented Sara from telling him what she really thought was the
sight of the Duca di Cavalieri's sardonic face as he looked directly at her
from less than a foot away, giving her a sarcastic lift of one eyebrow over his
partner's blonde head. How long had he been there behind her -eavesdropping!
She'd like to give him an earful too!

Switching her eyes away from that dark, sarcastic face, Sara stopped
pushing against her partner's chest and slid her palms up teasingly to his
shoulders. She hoped Marco, with his blonde floozie clinging to him like a
second skin, would take note!

'Well?' Cyrus repeated impatiently. Sara could tell, from the
juxtaposition of their bodies, exactly how impatient he was getting.

'Well , . . I think we ought to go somewhere and talk about it over
something long and very cold. It's too hot and too crowded out here.'

'Sweetheart, good old Vince has a wet bar in every bedroom! Yeah, why
don't we go get that drink?'

She could get rid of Cyrus once they had gone back indoors, even if she
had to lock herself up in the loo. But let Marco see her walk off the floor
hand in hand with him, and let him think — as he surely would — the very worst!
Sara could positively feel those coal-dark eyes boring into her back. Somehow,
without having to turn her head, she knew he was watching her. Good!

With a deliberately sensuous gesture Sara shook the hair back from her
face before she smiled at Cyrus. She wanted Marco to see — she wanted him to
know that she would choose any other man, even a casual acquaintance, over him.
She hoped he'd eat his heart out. Because she knew he wanted her. Despised her
— and yet couldn't stop himself from desiring her. The conscious thought
flashed into her mind quite suddenly, but the secret, intuitive knowledge had
been stored in her subconscious all along, perhaps. And now she wasn't playing
a game against him for Delight, who had had enough time to be safe by now, but
for herself and the salvation of her pride.

Chapter 22

How Sara hated the rough, stuttering sound of the helicopter blades that
seemed to tear brashly and intrusively into the stillness of the night-blue
sky. It must be very near dawn. With a restless movement she snuggled back into
her seat; eyes deliberately avoiding looking towards her companion, although
she was almost too much aware of his dark presence there in the small cabin
that enclosed them both.

Like a wolf, he must have sensed her small stirring, for his grating
voice came out of the darkness to her, pitched low. 'We should begin our
descent in less than five minutes now. Is your belt still fastened?'

'Mm-hmm.' The sullen sound of assent would have to content him because
she didn't feel like talking to him, with her ears still burning from the shred
of conversation she had overhead earlier. Damn him, damn him, damn him! Sara
felt her nails digging into her palms and wished she could sink them into his
brown flesh instead. How she hated him! What a triumph it would be to humiliate
him for a change. To prove to him that he couldn't ruthlessly use and
manipulate everyone who crossed his path.

With an effort, Sara forced her mind back to the party they had just
left, retracing everything that had happened since she had left the dance floor
with Cyrus. Cyrus someone-or-other — what did his last name matter, when she'd
probably never have to see him again? It hadn't been too difficult to get rid
of Cyrus, fortunately. The age-old 'Oh, I'd better find the loo, my head's
starting to spin,' still worked. When she emerged, looking and feeling fresh a
half-hour later, Cyrus had disappeared - probably into one of the wet bars with
his next dancing partner!

After that, Sara had circulated — but with more caution;discovering in
time that the partying had extended to the grounds as well as every room in the
rambling two-storey villa. She smiled a lot and flirted a lot but kept moving
to another group, another room, when things began getting heavy. Upstairs there
had been a huge projection room that was actually a miniature theatre with
plush-covered seats arranged in tiers, each seat a recliner - for added
convenience, she supposed cynically! A young man called Barry who told her he
was a singer took her in there. 'Vince gets all of the newest skin flicks,' he
told her. He had seemed almost relieved that she didn't recognise who he was,
and she had been equally relieved to learn that Delight Adams didn't ring a
bell with him either, although he did tell her casually that it was a pretty
name.

Well - since she had to pass the time and keep Marco thinking that she
had spent it all in bed, why not? Watching a dirty movie might prove educational,
and one glance had told her that this movie, at least, was not one that starred
her sister.

Sara had sat through at least the first half-hour of Signers, proud of
herself for not fidgeting too much. At first she had been fascinated - were
there really that many ways to do the same thing? And then as the acts became
repetitious — the 'dialogue' mostly moans and groans - she discovered that she
was bored. Barry continued to watch the screen, but with a rather detached air.
There were other, softer moans and groans from some of the other plush
recliners. Sara had begun to calculate in her mind just how far away she was
from the exit when Barry, who had appeared to ignore her presence up to then,
took her hand and put it on himself. Good God! Sara thought disbelievingly, he
could probably tie in a competition with what's-his-face on the screen! And
then, without any preamble, he'd asked off-handedly: 'Want to give me some
head?'

She had taken her hand away firmly. 'Not really. And I've got to be
going.' Well, she hoped she wouldn't see Barry again either! Or any of the
other people at the party,especially not those three men who had been shooting
pool with Marco when she'd passed by.

Sara found herself going rigid all over again with a mixture of hate and
rage. Remembering unwillingly the words that had halted her there outside,
coming over the click of a ball before it shot into a pocket.

'Delight Adams - didn't I read somewhere that she was supposed to be
Carlo's girl?'

The only light in the room was placed directly over the green baize
surface of the pool table where all their attention was concentrated - four
swarthy-skinned men in tailored suits who looked as if they had been cut from
the same mould. Rich, arrogant Italian tycoons, making idle conversation. And
then his voice, rough-textured, and yet as cutting as a lash as he made her
position clear to his friends.

'You must have been mistaken, my friend. Not Carlo's girl — my whore.
I'm keeping her . . . for the moment.'

She hadn't wanted to hear what else they said — not after he'd said . .
. that. His whore — with all the ugly, old-fashioned connotations of the word
and the way he'd used it sitting like a cold stone in her stomach. So that was
what he wanted them all to think. That's what he thought she was. He'd taken
her to that party to show her off as his latest plaything, his ... whore. Her
certainty that they all looked at her, especially the men, and thought that
about her made her feel sick inside until she had willed herself to feel nothing
but anger instead. Let them all think whatever they wanted to about her - for
the moment!

'Well - did you have fun?' he had asked her on their short ride from
Vince's house to his private helipad.

'Oh, absolutely! I met some of the most gorgeous men. Didn't you think
Cyrus was cute? But of course Barry was even better — oops! Freudian slip!' She
had giggled, enjoying the look on his face before he shuttered it, his lips
curling in an unpleasant grin. And if he thought to make her quail with the way
his eyes raked over her, she was going to show him how mistaken he was!

'I suppose one could say, to look at you, that you have probably been
quite busy,' he drawled, his eyes taking in her carefully mussed-up hair and
rather smudged make-up (ten minutes in the loo had managed that).