Wild Melody (26 page)

perfectly capable of putting the skids under Hunt and his breed. That's one of

the things she's paid for.'

'I didn't think of that.'

'You didn't think!' he lashed her. 'Oh, you thought all right. I could even

have put the idea into your head. I said it would be the perfect revenge if you

told everyone I was Jon
Lisle. But I
didn't
bargain
for this—slime of lies and

innuendo. What possessed you to tell them all this? Surely not more

publicity for that beloved centre of yours? I don't think they'll thank you for

this sort anyway.'

'I've got the sack,' Catriona said tightly. 'That's one reason why I came here.

I thought if I explained to you how it happened, you might talk to Mrs

Henderson—convince her it isn't true.'

'The next time I speak to Mrs Henderson will be on the air tonight,' he said.

'What happened? Didn't the stalwart Andrew speak up for you, or did he

back hastily away when he found the goods were second-hand?'

She looked at him bewilderedly. 'That's a cruel thing to say!'

'Perhaps. Is that why you prefer well-meaning ineffectuals like Andrew?'

He flung up a hand to stop the protest already forming on her lips. 'Oh yes,

Catriona, he is ineffectual or he could have sorted out Alice Henderson a

long time ago. He has the majority of the other trustees on his side already.

All he needed was to push a little. He's a nice guy, but he needs someone

else to do his dirty work for him. Do you see that as your future role?'

'I've told you, I've got the sack,' she said, her mouth trembling in spite of

herself.

He laughed angrily. 'I suppose you'd forgotten that malice has a nasty way

of backfiring. God! I knew I'd made you angry at times—but this! What in

hell made you do it? You can't still be angry with me over the Jeremy

business, surely?'

'No.' Catriona shook her head dazedly. Jeremy seemed to be part of another

world, a different existence.

'Then didn't it occur to you that labelling yourself as my mistress would hurt

no one but yourself? I've never claimed to live like a saint, after all, but you

. . . even when I was holding you, I would have sworn you were innocent.'

He stopped abruptly and rose from his chair, his eyes narrowing as if a new

and not particularly palatable thought had come to him. For a moment he

stood in silence, staring at her until she felt naked under his bleak, abrasive

glance.

Then he laughed, softly and without amusement. The laugh chilled Catriona

more than his previous anger and she stepped back as he came towards her.

'So that was it,' he said, his voice too pleasant. 'I took no for an answer,

didn't I, Catriona, when all the time you really wanted to say yes. How

thoughtless of me not to have been more persuasive! Perhaps you aren't the

innocent you seemed, but you played the part too well, darling. I apologise

for being taken in.'

He was reaching for her and she braced her hands, trying to push him away

from her. 'No—Jason. Please! You're wrong. I . . .'

'I think we'll forget the word "no".' She was no match for his strength as he

pulled her against him. His mouth, sensually persuasive, teased the lobe of

her ear. 'Poor little. Catriona! All that wishful thinking, and I really had no

idea. I was convinced you were saving yourself for marriage arid the

well-meaning Andrew, but if it was really my bed you wanted all the time,

darling, you only had to drop me a hint in private. There was no need to take

a half-page ad in a newspaper.'

Catriona was shaking as if she stood in a high wind. His words seemed to

sear against her skin, now tinglingly alive under his caressing mouth.

'Jason, you—we mustn't. . .' Why not?' He lifted her in his arms and was

striding with her to the door. 'You invented the fiction. Why shouldn't I

make it fact?'

She kicked and struggled all the way to his room, but he took no more notice

than if she had been a troublesome child. He kicked the door closed behind

them and carried her to the bed, dropping her almost negligently into the

centre of that luxurious black and silver quilt. 'What a pity I'd already made

the bed. But you can always make it again afterwards. You did say that was

your particular—forte?'

She gave a little protesting cry, but it was smothered under the merciless

pressure of his mouth. She could fight no more. All she could do was lie

rigid in his embrace and show him that he was wrong. That she didn't want

him . . .

It was a silent battle and over almost as soon as it had begun. Catriona's head

was still whispering 'No' even as her body melted under his expert hands. It

was her own urgency, her own desire she could no longer deny. She was

returning his kisses, her trembling body acknowledging his mastery.

At last, he took his lips from hers and sat up. She watched him, her eyes

widening endlessly as he pulled off his tie and threw it to the floor beside the

bed, then began to unbutton his shirt, tugging it free from his close-fitting

grey denim pants.

'Touch me, Catriona.' His voice might be soft, but it was a command, not a

request.

Very tentatively she sat up, until she was half kneeling beside him, then

slipped her hands inside his open shirt. His skin was warm and smooth and

the rapid beat of his heart under her fingertips seemed to echo the thunder of

her own clamouring pulses. Suddenly shy, she paused, but his hands came

up instantly, capturing hers and holding them against his body.

He half groaned her name, propelling her back against the pillows, his lips

seeking hers with a demand that scared and exalted her at the same time.

Catriona lost all sense of time as she lay there in his arms. Right and wrong

had no meaning any more in a world where the only reality was the weight

of his body, vibrant in its masculinity, against hers. Every nerve ending,

every pulse in her body was asking a question for which Jason alone had the

answer.

Then, suddenly, she was alone. For a moment she lay there bewildered, then

she felt her cheeks grow hot as she realised he must have left her to finish

undressing. But at last the silence in the room unnerved her and she lifted

herself on to her elbow and looked for him. He was standing staring out of

the window, his back turned to her, but he must have heard her movement

because he turned.

'Jason?' Her voice shook a little as she stretched out her hand, willing him to

come back to her.

He walked to the bed and stood looking down at her, ignoring her

outstretched hand.

'You'd better get dressed,' he said curtly.

She glanced down at herself, crimsoning as she realised for the first time the

disarray his seeking hands had created, then her eyes sought his, dismayed,

as she took in what he had said.

'Jason—what's wrong?' All her longing for him echoed in the pitiful little

query.

He gave a mirthless laugh. 'Just about everything, I'd say. Or wouldn't you

agree?'

She bent her head. 'Was it me?' she asked in a low voice. 'Did I do something

wrong? I didn't know . . .'

'No!' His violence startled her. 'Dear God, if you only knew . . .' He shook

his head. 'It's not anything you did, Catriona. It's what you are.'

She was dragging her clothing together, fumbling with the fastenings with

hands that shook. 'And what am I?' she appealed to him on the verge of tears.

His eyes held hers. 'You're what I thought originally.' be said quietly. 'I

know now—it isn't a pretence, all innocence. It's real because you're still a

virgin.'

'And that makes a difference?' She tried hard to smile, but it was a failure.

'It does to me,' he said sombrely. 'For one thing, it imposes limitations which

I don't feel inclined to accept right now. But there are other—less selfish

reasons why I should get you out of here before any real harm is done.'

'Is all this supposed to stop me wanting you?' she asked in a low voice.

'I made you want me.' His voice was equally quiet. 'I brought you here

because I was angry, and that's why I'm telling you to go. A girl should be

taken in love, not anger— especially the first time.'

She wanted to tell him that she had love enough to cover his anger and her

jealousy of Moira, and every other emotion that could conceivably keep

them from each other, but the tears were salt on her lips and the words would

not come.

Jason's eyes looked broodingly down on her. 'You'll thank me one clay.

Passion doesn't heal wounds, you know. It simply opens deeper ones. One

day you'll meet a man you can—care for in all the ways there are, and you'll

be able to give yourself to him without regrets.' He walked to the door. 'I'll

get you a taxi.'

By the time it was at the door, Catriona had regained some measure of

self-control. It took all the remnants of her pride to walk past him in the hall

as he held the door open for her.

Quietly and without a backward glance she went down the steps, got into the

cab and gave the driver her address.

As the taxi pulled away, it passed another car which was just entering the

square. Catriona looked back for one last, hungry glimpse of him and saw

that the car had stopped in front of the flat. The occupant got out and ran up

the steps to the open door where Jason was waiting. She was wearing black

with a wide, floating cape and her red-gold hair gleamed in the late sunlight.

Sick at heart, Catriona watched Moira Dane go into Jason's arms before the

door shut, closing them in together.

It had been raining for most of the day, a soft persistent drizzle which

seemed to penetrate even the most waterproof of clothing. Catriona sat by

the fire in Mrs McGregor's kitchen re-reading Sally's letter.

Ten days had passed since her precipitate flight from London back to

Torvaig and the refuge it seemed to offer. But she had deceived herself, she

thought, staring across the homely room to the streaming window. There

was no solace for her here. In fact the torment of her feelings for Jason

seemed somehow intensified by the very remoteness of the village and the

lack of diversion.

She had had no very clear idea of what she was going to do in Torvaig when

she had left that morning, bringing the bare essentials with her in the old

rucksack. Her clothes and other possessions she had accumulated, even her

guitar, were still at the flat, and she had written to Sally, enclosing some

money and asking her to have them sent on. She had thought vaguely that

she might stay at Muir House, that perhaps Mrs Mackintosh might

accommodate her for a while in return for some help with the housework,

but she was soon disabused of that notion. Business was not brisk enough

for that, Mrs Mackintosh had told her, her thin mouth set in lines of

discontent. She had bought Muir House as a going concern, but she felt she

had been sadly deceived. If things didn't pick up soon, they were going to

put the place back on the market and away back to Glasgow.

Catriona had almost been ashamed to present herself at Mrs McGregor's

door, but the warmth of her welcome had overwhelmed her. She had been

drawn inside, presented with a large cup of steaming tea, clucked and

exclaimed over, and then driven upstairs inexorably to the tiny spare room

with its narrow bed. With amazing tact, Mrs McGregor had ignored the

dark shadows under her unexpected guest's wistful eyes, and her patently

ringless hands. She simply behaved as if the time in London had been a

temporary aberration from which Catriona was now, mercifully, recovered.

She sent her out for long walks over the hills and along the shore, filled her

plate with wholesome food, and waved a dismissive hand at Catriona's

insistence that she must leave and find herself a job in Glasgow, maybe, or

Inverness.

'Och, there's no hurry. No hurry at all,' was all she would say.

But she would have to find something to do soon, Catriona thought. Sally's

letter had made her feel restless, an all-too- potent reminder of the world she

had left behind.

Sally had been incredibly kind that night, she thought. When she realised

that Catriona was determined to catch the first train back to Scotland the

next day, she had not attempted to argue with her any more or ask any

disturbing questions. And both she and Julie had restrained their curiosity

nobly over the article in the
Globe.

She could not bring herself to watch the television programme about the

centre. She had pleaded the necessity of an early night with the long journey

ahead of her and gone to bed, only to lie awake, her ears straining to catch

any sound from the sitting room where Julie and Sally were watching it. She

had pretended to be asleep when they eventually came quietly into the