LOVE IS FOR THE LUCKY Page 13

  ‘The nub of it is, she doesn’t want to leave Arnby Bridge,’ he explained. ‘I can understand that—after all, it’s where all her friends are. But there’s no way I’m moving into that house of hers. That was the first mistake John made with her—it was her house from the start, he was never allowed to even put anything down without being made to feel he was intruding.’

  Ros nodded. Poor John—Thea’s second husband. He hadn’t been local—he was a successful business¬man from Leeds, and he had never felt at home out here on the moors. But Thea had refused to move.

  The marriage had been doomed from the start. Maybe it would be third time lucky for her—Ros found herself hoping that it would. There was a very nice side to Thea’s nature, when there weren’t any men around to be competed over. And she would certainly take care of Heather Cottage—she had a unique talent for home-making.

  ‘Well…* she conceded thoughtfully. ‘I’ll think about it. If I ever do decide to sell, you’ll be the first to know.’

  She was quiet for the rest of the day, pondering on her conversation with Tom. Maybe it would be better if she sold the cottage and moved away—better than waiting around, clutching at every moment she could be close to Griff, like a scavenger lapping up the crumbs from Stevie’s table.

  She should go away, make a fresh life for herself. She was on the way to becoming quite an established author, she was making a lot of money—there had even been talk of one of her books being made into a television serial. She ought to move to London, where the action was. She could have a good time.

  It was inevitable that Annie would notice her pensive mood. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked as they tucked the children up in bed. ‘Haven’t you enjoyed yourself today?’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course I have,’ Ros assured her quickly. ‘I’ve had a lovely time—it was really nice of you to have me. I love watching the children unwrapping their presents.’ She smiled wistfully at Lucy, snuggled down beneath her quilt, a brand new pink teddy-bear lying on her pillow next to the threadbare but still much-loved one she had had since she was born.

  ‘Then what is it?’

  Ros shrugged. ‘I just sometimes wonder…if it’s right. I mean, the way it’s all so commercialised. When you think of how much people spend—surely it would be better to do something more worthwhile with all that money?’

  Annie chuckled softly. ‘You sound like Griff.’

  Ros felt her cheeks flush faintly pink. ‘Perhaps he’s right.’

  ‘What, that we shouldn’t have turkey and Christmas pudding, or buy each other presents?’ Annie bent to kiss her small daughter’s rosy cheek. “Night ‘night, darling,’ she murmured.

  ‘I suppose it does seem… rather a Spartan attitude to take,’ she mused. She laughed wryly. ‘Anyway, I can’t see Juanita and Tino letting him ignore it completely.’

  ‘They’ve gone home to Mexico for Christmas, to see their family,’ Annie told her, unaware that her friend might have any special interest in the subject.

  ‘Will you read me a story, Auntie Ros?’ A small hand reached for hers, a pair of blue eyes beguiled her.

  ‘Of course. But then you’ve got to go to sleep— promise?’

  The little girl nodded, and wriggled aside so that she could sit down on the edge of the bed. ‘Please can I have Thomas the Tank Engine?’ she asked, re¬membering her manners.

  Annie smiled, and tiptoed from the room.

  It was late when Ros left Annie’s. ‘Are you sure you won’t stay the night, after all?’ Annie asked as she

  shrugged herself into her coat—not the old duffel coat now, but a smart new one she had bought on her last trip to York—a real spy’s trenchcoat, with a deep collar that she loved to turn up around her ears, pre¬tending to be Mata Hari.

  She laughed at Annie. ‘Where would I sleep?’ she enquired. ‘You’ve got your parents here, not to men¬tion Tom. I don’t think I’d sleep very well on top of the wardrobe. Besides, you’ll all be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow to go off to York.’

  ‘All right. Have you got everything?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you for all the presents, Annie. And thank you for having me today.’ Impulsively she bent and kissed her friend on the cheek.

  ‘Oh, don’t be daft. You’re always welcome here, you know that. Mind how you go, now—you haven’t had too much to drink to be able to drive, have you?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Ros insisted with a pretence of in¬dignation. ‘Goodnight, Annie. Have a lovely time in York—let Paul’s mum pamper you as much as she wants.’

  ‘Oh, I shall, I shall!’ promised Annie, coming to the door to wave her goodbye.

  It was a beautiful evening. Beyond the village, the moors lay dark beneath the vast expanse of the sky. The stars looked such a long, long way away. She let herself into the cold cottage, and put her pile of Christmas presents down on the table in the living-room.

  She had put up a few decorations, and a small tinsel tree, but nothing could disguise the emptiness of the house—such a bleak contrast to the lovely day she had spent in the warmth of Annie’s happy home. That

  was what Christmas was really all about—being with people you loved.

  If Griff had ever had the privilege to see the light of wonder in a little girl’s face as she woke on • Christmas morning to find the stocking she had pinned to the end of her bed filled with presents, or i watched the blue flames of burning brandy licking over a Christmas pudding, he could never be so cynical.

  But he had never had that chance. She felt a little stab of sadness for the angry, lonely little boy who had dreamed of being famous, and had found out when the whole world loved him that he was lonelier than ever. She walked over to the cabinet where she kept her record collection, and drew out her favourite , album. That classic aquiline profile, starkly lit against a black background…

  She slid the record from its sleeve, and put it on the turntable. The sound of a bluesy harmonica filled the room, and then Griff’s gravelly voice, so familiar. Her feet began to move to the driving rhythm as she sang along tunelessly to the words she knew so well— ‘Heart like a rock…” A song about a man trying to pretend he was invulnerable, to hide a heart that was aching with loneliness.

  On a sudden impulse, she reached into the box where she had put the left-over sheets of bright Christmas wrapping paper, and then ran upstairs to fetch the little fluffy walkie-talkie dog she had bought in York. She made it into a neat parcel, and then on a second impulse snatched up the small Christmas pudding Annie had pressed on her to eat on Boxing Day.

  Quickly she checked her reflection in the mirror. Her dress was new, too—soft wool jersey in her favourite shade of blue, very demure, with a high rolled collar and long sleeves. She had liked it from the moment she had seen it—it was her favourite colour, and the subtle cling flattered her whippet-thin figure. Taking a deep breath, she went back out to the car.

  Of course he was probably in bed—or busy in his studio, working on his film score. And of all the stupid things to take him for a present, that daft little toy— a man like Griff! She must be crazy. Half-way up the hill she almost stopped the car and turned round again, but then she decided to leave it in the hands of fate. If, when she got to the Priory, she couldn’t see any lights, she would turn round then and drive home again.

  There was a light in the last window to the left of the front door.

  Ros drew the car to a halt in front of the porch, and took a deep breath. That room was the one with the books and the piano in it, and it was a long way from the front door. He might not hear her knock. If he didn’t answer the door by the time she had counted to one hundred, she would get back in the car and go home.

  She had got to eighty-nine when the door opened.

  He clearly hadn’t paid any attention to the fact that it was Christmas Day. He was wearing an old pair of jeans, and a pale-blue V-necked sweater, the sleeves pushed back over his strong brown wrists. A few dark hairs showed at the base of his throat, and
the hardness of his thick shoulder-muscles seemed to be

  emphasised by the almost delicate softness of the lambswool. He stared at her in surprise. ‘Ros! What on earth are you doing here at this time of night?’

  She held out the present. ‘Merry Christmas,’ she uttered breathlessly.

  He took it from her with a bemused expression. I ‘What is it?’ he asked curiously. He held it up to his 1 ear and shook it.

  ‘Open it and see. It isn’t much,’ she added with a small shrug. ‘It’s stupid, really. I just… It was some- ; thing I liked, and I thought you might like it too.’

  His smile was warm enough for the cold, distant stars to feel the benefit. ‘Come in,’ he invited, holding the door wide for her.

  ‘I brought Christmas dinner, too,’ she added to cover her nervousness as she stepped inside. Why had . she come? She must be crazy.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘1… I forgot the brandy butter.’

  ‘Then we’d better see what we can find in the kitchen,’ he responded cordially.

  She followed him, her mouth dry and her legs trem¬bling. He took her down a warren of corridors, until he pushed open a door and turned on a light, and she found herself in an enormous kitchen. It was in a kind . of half-cellar, and the stone-vaulted ceiling was supported by thick pillars, giving it a crypt-like appearance—but there was nothing old-fashioned about the gleaming stainless-steel equipment. There was a huge double-ovened cooker, a tall freezer, and along the walls above the work-surfaces were ranks of pans and utensils of every kind.

  ‘Welcome to Juanita’s kingdom,’ said Griff with a smile.

  ‘Oh! I… Will she mind me using it?’

  ‘What the eye doesn’t see…’ he teased. ‘So long as we’re very careful to wash up and put everything back in its proper place. Now, what do you need? Butter, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes. And sugar—icing sugar for preference. And an orange, if there is one. Oh, and brandy, of course.’

  ‘Right.’ He began looking in cupboards, like a mis¬chievous small boy. Ros couldn’t help giggling. ‘There,’ he announced when he had found every¬thing. ‘I’ll go and fetch the brandy.’

  Left alone in the kitchen, Ros refused to allow herself to have second thoughts about what she was doing. She took her coat off and calmly set about hunting for the utensils she needed. She popped the Christmas pudding into the microwave to warm up, and by the time Griff returned she had blended the butter and sugar, and was grating the rind of the orange into it.

  He sat down on a stool opposite her, and rested his chin on his elbows. ‘Mmm. Looks interesting,’ he re¬marked. He dipped a finger into the bowl, avoiding her hand as she tried to smack it away, and stole a lick. ‘Very nice,’ he approved.

  She had to concentrate hard to keep her hands steady as she measured out the brandy. By the time she had finished blending that in, the Christmas pudding was ready. Griff found a plate for it, and she turned it carefully out of its basin.

  Griff breathed in the aroma. ‘That smells delicious!’

  ‘Annie made it,’ she told him. ‘She starts on them at Easter, and she always makes too many.’

  ‘Well, it’s lucky for us that she does,’ he pointed out, picking up the plate. ‘We’ll eat this upstairs.’

  She picked up the brandy and a couple of plates and spoons, and followed him up through the warren ‘ of steps and corridors to the room at the far end of the house—the music-room. Tonight a baronial fire ■ blazed in the stone fireplace. She had been in this room - twice before, and both times he had kissed her.

  He slanted her a glance of quizzical enquiry, and she stepped forward nervously, holding out the brandy. ‘Here—you have to set light to the Christmas pudding now, so that you can make a wish,’ she explained.

  ‘Ah! And shouldn’t we have the lights off for that? he enquired.

  ‘Y… yes, I suppose so.’ Her legs wouldn’t support her any longer, and she sank down on the rug in front of the fire. He turned the lights off, so that only the flickering firelight illuminated the room, and fetching two brandy glasses came over to join her.

  ‘So,’ he murmured as he filled the glasses, and poured a generous slosh of the brandy over the pudding, ‘what do I wish for?’

  ‘Anything you like.’

  ‘Anything?’ His eyes were as black as sin in the soft glow of the fire. ‘Then I wish..

  ‘No, you mustn’t say it out loud,’ she protested quickly. ‘And you have to wait until the brandy’s burning.’

  ‘I see.’

  With an air of solemn ceremony, he struck a match and touched it to the pool of brandy that had settled on the top of the pudding. It caught at once, and the ephemeral blue flames danced like fairy-lights. Ros gazed at them, letting them hypnotise her. She had been trying to pretend to herself that she didn’t know why she had come—but she knew exactly what had brought her.

  He seemed to know what she was thinking. As the flames died, he handed her a brandy glass, and lifted his in a toast. ‘Merry Christmas,’ he murmured smokily.

  ‘Merry Christmas.’ The rich, mellow spirit slid smoothly down her throat, spreading a glow of warmth into her bloodstream. ‘You… you haven’t opened your present yet.’

  He smiled regretfully as he reached over and picked it up. ‘I haven’t bought you anything.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she answered softly. ‘I didn’t expect anything in return.’ The significance of her words seemed to hang like a spell between them, binding them both motionless for a long moment. Ros was the first to move, busily attending to serving up the Christmas pudding.

  Griff tore the paper off, and held up the fluffy toy in his hand. ‘Well, well!’ he drawled, his California accent suddenly stronger than ever. ‘You’re a cute little feller! Just the sort of pup I like—no puddles on my carpets!’

  ‘He barks,’ Ros explained. ‘You just have to clap your hands.’

  He put it down on the rug, and clapped his hands. The little dog sat up, and uttered his squeaking bark.

  Griff burst out laughing, clapping his hands to stop the performance, and then clapping them again to start. ‘Oh, that’s great!’ he enthused. ‘I never saw anything like that.’

  ‘1 got him in York,’ she told him. ‘I’m glad you like him.’

  ‘No one ever gave me a present like that.’

  She swallowed another gulp of brandy, almost choking as the fiery spirit hit the back of her throat. ‘Try the pudding,’ she suggested in an unsteady voice.

  They ate in silence for a while, Ros keeping her eyes lowered, aware of him watching her. It had been in¬evitable that it would come to this, sooner or later. 1 Afterwards… but she’d think about that tomorrow. I

  ‘Where have you been today?’ he asked. ‘To Annie’s?’

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded.

  ‘That’s a nice dress. Very demure. Blue suits you.’ I

  She managed a smile. ‘Thank you.’

  He raised one eyebrow in amused enquiry. ‘What, no protests? No reminder about your freckles?’

  She felt herself blush. ‘They’ve faded a bit now,’ she murmured.

  ‘What a pity. I rather liked them.’

  She smiled shyly, remembering the way he had started to count them once. As if he was recalling the same moment, he put down his plate and reached across for her hand. She let him draw her towards him. ‘You know, you really ought to be going,’ he warned her, his voice suddenly huskier. ‘If you stay much longer…’

  Her heart was beating so feist, she felt dizzy. For an eternity there was no sound in the room but the

  crackling snap of the fire. And then, with a low groan, he drew her into his arms.

  ‘I want you, Ros,’ he breathed tensely. ‘I can’t be¬lieve the way you turn me on.’

  His kisses burned across her trembling eyelids, and then found her mouth, parting her hps. Suddenly there was an urgency in him that demanded a response. She wrapped her arms around his neck, clingi
ng to him as he laid her down on the hearthrug, surrendering beneath the plundering invasion of his kiss.

  With deft fingers he began to unfasten the tiny buttons at the nape of her neck, and then she felt him draw down the long zip at the back of her dress. She yielded pliantly as he carefully stripped it off, her lashes lowered as he let his gaze drift slowly down over the length of her body, lingering possessively over the slender curves now hidden only by the filmy black lace of her underwear.

  ‘Very nice,’ he murmured huskily. She risked a glance up at him, and her heart almost stopped beating when she saw the dark fires blazing in his eyes.

  His head bent over hers again, claiming her mouth in a kiss that melted her bones. His fingertips began to circle slowly, tantalisingly, over the smooth plain of her stomach, until he found the front clasp of her bra, nestling in the soft valley between her breasts. She caught her breath in trembling anticipation as he unfastened the hook, and brushed the delicate fabric aside.

  A quiver ran through her as he began that lazy stroking again, tracing a spiral path over the aching swell of her small breasts. He was torturing her with pleasure, circling closer and closer to the tender pink

  peaks until she was reduced to a state of helpless abandon.

  And then his mouth began to follow the same path, trailing scalding kisses over the delicate shell of her ear and down the vulnerable column of her throat. Her breath was hot on her lips as she moaned softly, her spine curling with sheer ecstasy as at last his hps found one taut pink nipple, swirling it languorously with his tongue and drawing it deep into his mouth to suckle it hungrily, pulsing white heat through her veins.

  She ran her hands up under the soft wool of his sweater, thrilling at the power of the hard muscles in his back. The sheer overwhelming masculinity of his body was stirring an elemental excitement inside her, far beyond the reach of reason. She moved beneath him in wanton invitation as he slid his hands down the length of her spine, and in one smooth movement eased off her lace briefs, leaving her naked.