The Gift (2 page)

Forbes Enterprises. More gits!

Plastering on a smile, she fabricated a few bits of semi-auto small talk with one or two fellow guests. Blah, blah, blah, not long to Christmas now, eh? Blah, blah, wasn’t this place splendid? Blah-diddy-blah, did you know it has a rather risqué reputation?

A waiter appeared at her elbow with a tray of hors d’oeuvres and, still on automatic, she took one.

Mm, not bad. Something tomato-flavoured, a bit like a large cheese straw. Before the lad could get away, she grabbed a second one, a miniature tartlet filled with what tasted like minced prawn in herb mayonnaise. Again, not bad at all. She hoped that Kat, her cook, was taking notice of all this stuff. It was always nice to try out a few new flavours and more imaginative goodies in the Teapot now and again, instead of concentrating on basic confectionery and then simple grills and fries at lunchtime. If they could grow their reputation for irresistibly moreish snacks, it might help them survive the onslaught of that bloody fun pub.

Her neck did the prickle thing again and, before she could stop herself, she looked round again, searching for Mr Hard-Case Stalker with the sexy goatee beard.

And there he was of course, but this time he didn’t bother to hide the fact he was looking at her. In fact, he nodded slightly, tipped his glass, and favoured her with an enigmatic half-smile.

Sandy flashed him a vague semi-smile of her own in
return, although she tried not to make it too encouraging. For some reason – she couldn’t work out why exactly – she wasn’t all that sure she wanted to talk to him. He looked like a brutally attractive serial killer, and there was something about him that scared her and made her nerves twang. He was probably perfectly nice when you actually got to know him, but looking at him now was like having him walk straight through her soul.

Not my type. Not at all. Too battered. Too macho. Probably far too complicated.

The wine in her glass was indifferent, but she sipped at it anyway. It wasn’t strong enough to act as an anaesthetic, but she had to do something to take her mind off ‘The Man’.

And her feet. Why in God’s name had she let Kat persuade her into wearing these stupid heels? They looked fabulous and did wonders for her legs. But they were seriously killing her and it demanded an Oscar-winning performance just trying not to show it. Sweat popped out at her hairline as she smiled brightly at one of the Teapot’s patrons, wishing someone would turn the central heating down. If she needed to make a quick getaway, she certainly couldn’t run for it tonight.

A psychic sideswipe made her almost spill her dreary wine.

Getaway?

A powerful fist seemed to clutch her innards.

What, after all this time? Why think of such ancient history all of a sudden?

A memory both sharp and fuzzy zipped through her mind, bringing with it cold fear and the warm fleeting image of a face. A smooth young male face, almost
angelically handsome. Long, thick, rather shaggy dark hair. A soft voice and soft lips on hers, her saviour whispering, ‘Kiss it better.’

But as soon as the impression appeared, it began to fade again, leaving her shaking her head and, back in the present, glancing around.

Shrugging off the last of her disorientation, she focused on her surroundings.

This was the first time she’d ever been to the Waverley Grange Hotel and, probably like most people here, she was curious about its rumoured reputation. The place was supposed to be a den of rampant sexual iniquity beneath its sleek veneer of luxury and old-world charm, and some of the prints on the wall of the Lawns Bar certainly seemed to confirm the provocative whisperings.

Sandy fanned herself with her fingers. God, it was hot in here. And that was even before you got near the saucy artwork.

In front of her was a stylised photograph of a naked couple tangled up in a complex mandala of limbs, sweat and sensuality. Sandy sincerely hoped the rather prim Mayor’s wife didn’t catch sight of it, because its blazing frankness made her own blood stir and pulse. The man’s hand was between the woman’s legs and, even though the resolution was indistinct, she could almost feel those ghostly fingers touching her. They seemed to move in the cleft of her pussy, stroking and paddling and playing. She almost whirled around again, imagining the man from the café just behind her. Or maybe someone else, someone impossible, from a dream.

The sensation made her giddy, and the claustrophobic crush of real bodies around her made her heart trip.
Excusing herself, she slid away between two other art connoisseurs who’d been attracted to the photograph. Someone wasn’t using quite a strong enough deodorant, and she wrinkled her nose as she moved on in search of fresher air.

Next to a window, she found another art photograph on the wall. It showed a handsome man with long dark hair also standing beside a window, in dramatic shadows. He was gazing out into the middle distance with a pensive expression on his face and, like the couple in the previous shot, he was stark naked.

Not my type either. But you do look familiar.

Narrowing her eyes, Sandy leaned close, and then chuckled, recognising the rather sexy owner/manager of the hotel, to whom she’d been introduced a short while earlier.

‘So, is he your type?’

Sandy rocked – literally – on her silly heels. She knew exactly who was standing beside her, and the deep and strangely raw voice really seemed to fit him. She’d only heard it briefly in the Teapot because Kat had served him, but it was unmistakeable, never to be forgotten.

Schooling herself to stay calm, she turned slowly towards the hard man with the beard, who’d been watching her and who was now only a couple of feet away.

‘Not really.’ She dared to look up at him. His eyes were sharp and intelligent, dark grey and glinting with a strange disquieting light. Shaken, she returned her attention to the man in the photo – the rather glamorous Signor Guidetti. ‘But I do believe that’s our esteemed host, the hotel manager.’

‘Indeed it is.’

For several seconds, they stared at the image in silence, then, as one, they scanned the room, looking for the hotel’s suave, slightly flashy Italian proprietor.

‘So, why isn’t he your type?’

Put on the spot, Sandy frowned. What business was it of his? Yet still the ghost from her past resurfaced.

‘He’s too groomed. Too slick. Too perfect.’

Unlike you.

She suppressed a flinch. Up close, her tough-looking man was tougher than ever. Tall, he towered above her, his shoulders broad and his lean yet muscular limbs strong looking beneath a rather beautiful lightweight suit in midnight grey. His buzz-cut hair was dark and looked velvety against his fine nobly shaped skull. He had the look of a Roman emperor, civilised yet savage.

But it was his face most of all that made her swallow. She was both intrigued by it and also faintly frightened. His features were even, sculpted and masculine, and just as imperial as his cropped hair. But the network of fine white and pink scars that traced the planes of his high cheekbones, his mouth and jawline, framed by his crisp dark beard, spoke eloquently of pain and suffering.

‘Unlike me.’

The fierce damaged face softened in a smile as he echoed her thoughts, and Sandy almost gasped. Once again, a fleeting sense of memory almost rocked her.

‘There’s nothing wrong with looking as if you’ve lived a bit,’ she countered, regaining her wits. For all his scars, the tall man had charisma. And his strong body was affecting her, making hers quicken irrationally. Was he scarred all over? Were the clean hard lines of his limbs marked and battered? It suddenly seemed important to find out.

‘Well, that’s good to know.’ His low laugh was as rough as his speaking voice, but Sandy felt it reach out and touch her like a phantom hand. Hormonal reactions fired throughout her body and she experienced a tingling all over her skin, as if her awareness of him was creating a subtle field. She’d been warm before, but now she was burning up.

‘Care for another drink?’

Her companion nodded at her glass, which Sandy suddenly saw was empty. She couldn’t remember drinking the wine, but obviously she’d been nervously swigging away without realising it. Another drink would slip down well, and soothe her parched throat, even if it was a tepid and uninspiring vintage.

‘Yeah, great! I’d love one, thanks.’

She held out the empty and, as the tall mysterious man took it from her, their fingers briefly touched. Electricity seemed to arc between them, ramping up the tingling sensation. She suppressed a gasp as his dark eyes widened. He’d felt it too.

‘Be right back. Don’t go away.’

The urge to defy him, and run like the wind, welled up in her, and if her shoes hadn’t been so bloody ridiculous she might have succumbed to it. Something about his broad dark-clad back as he walked away from her was deeply unsettling. Threatening. Everything about him made her senses leap and prickle and, if she was going to cope with that, she needed some air first. If he was sufficiently interested, he’d follow her outside, wouldn’t he?

It was a while since she’d experienced spontaneous desire like this, and to feel it for a scarred and troubling stranger was just as unsettling as he was. But she couldn’t ignore it or shut it off, hey presto. It was there, palpable
nagging lust, low in her groin like a heavy and not entirely uncomfortable weight.

I should go. I should really get out of here.

Where was Kat? They’d shared a taxi here. She’d have to tell her friend she was leaving.

She’s probably getting it on somewhere with Greg.

A sudden, sharp image of herself getting it on only heightened the spiralling sexual mayhem. She swayed as images rushed in again, but not the usual fairly soft-focus ones of her mysterious rescuing prince from years ago, or the occasional movie star or actor. No, this time the scarred and bearded stranger who’d just left her was centre stage. And he was touching her in a way that no imagined or remembered lover ever had. Doing things her cook had described getting up to with her sexually adventurous boyfriend, who worked here at the Waverley part-time.

Swiftly, she moved away from the photo of Signor Guidetti and walked purposefully in the direction of the exit to the hotel’s reception area. Her feet screamed blue murder but she ignored the gathering pain.

‘Leaving so soon?’ enquired a voice in her ear as she attempted to sidestep a chattering knot of guests that barred her way.

Her mystery man of scars was holding out a glass to her. The wine in it was effervescing, and an exquisite pale gold. She had a feeling it wasn’t from the general vat of industrial Chardonnay that everyone else was slurping. It looked as if the stranger had brought her a glass of Champagne.

‘Thanks.’ She took it from him, careful to avoid touching his fingers this time. She didn’t want to spill a fine vintage all over him. ‘And no, I wasn’t leaving. I just thought I’d slide outside and get some air.’

It’s December, Sandy. He’ll think you’re nuts!

Grey eyes like brushed steel narrowed infinitesimally, as if he didn’t believe her story, and their controlling expression compelled her to turn back towards the centre of the room.

‘And you were confident I’d follow and find you then?’ He clinked his glass to hers, and then took a sip of his wine. ‘Mm … that’s better. Drink up!’

Sandy sipped, and then sighed spontaneously. Oh, what a pleasure! The Champagne was superb, dry and crisp yet almost buttery, the very essence of French glamour in a glass.

‘Thanks,’ she said again, with much more fervour, ‘this is delicious. Thank you very much.’

‘You can thank me properly by telling me your name.’

The steely eyes challenged her. Sandy felt her stomach flip. If names were exchanged, the game was on in earnest. She couldn’t just walk away, because it wasn’t just a casual but disquieting moment any more.

‘I’m Alexandra Jackson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’ She shuffled the strap of her bag on her shoulder, swapped hands with her glass, and then held out her right one to him. He swapped his glass to his other hand far more smoothly than she’d managed to, then offered a large tanned right hand that seemed to dwarf her slender paler one. There were even crooked white scars across the backs of his knuckles.

‘I’m Jay Bentley. And the pleasure is all mine.’ There was a wealth of meaning in the low gravelly words, and Sandy stifled a gasp as, between her legs, her sex fluttered.

‘Er … is that a capital “J” or like the bird?’ she burbled, saying the first thing that came into her head to cover her confusion.

‘Jay’ laughed, his sharp eyes narrowing. ‘Either. Or both. I’ve never thought about it. You choose.’

Surely you know your own name?

‘Like the bird then.’

‘“Jay” it is then, Alexandra.’ Reaching forward, he finally took her hand.

His skin was warm and smooth and dry, and Sandy was instantly aware that her own palm was sticky with nervous perspiration. She tried to snatch it back, but Jay held on, staring directly into her eyes as if engaging her in a contest.

‘It’s “Sandy” … my friends call me “Sandy”.’

‘So I’m your friend then, am I, Sandy?’ He tilted his closely cropped head on one side, still holding her hand, still pouring a stream of electricity into her body that found its way unerringly to her groin. ‘I had a feeling that you didn’t really like me all that much.’

Blood burned in Sandy’s face. He was right in a way. She’d found him intimidating, worrying. She still did. And much more so now.

‘I … Well, I don’t really know you yet.’ She almost threw the glorious Champagne down her throat, insulting its magnificent quality.

‘And yet you want me as a friend?’

Again that raw sexy laugh that seemed to play across tender sensitive areas. The man was starting to goad her, provoke her. Did she like him? She still wasn’t sure. Especially as there was the possibility he was stalking her.

But you want him, Sandy, don’t you? Boy, how you want him.

‘You know what I mean. Don’t be perverse!’

His grin looked almost boyish all of a sudden, and lights danced in those North Sea-grey eyes.