LOVE IS FOR THE LUCKY Page 4

  Ros understood—he wasn’t going to let Thea suspect that he was the least bit bothered by her be¬haviour. She was more than willing to assist—she had a similar motive herself. Besides, she liked dancing—

  a good rhythm could make her forget her usual self-consciousness.

  She kept her back turned to Griff as she danced, letting Tom flirt with her outrageously. It didn’t take Thea long to notice what was going on—and she didn’t like it one little bit. What was sauce for the goose was definitely not sauce for the gander in her book. And she had enough sense to realise that, though Griff might indulge her with a brief affair, she was unlikely to get more than that from him—and she wasn’t about to let a good catch like Tom Osbourne slip through her fingers. Suddenly Ros found herself being ruth¬lessly manipulated into a change of partners.

  ‘Oh, Tom! How sweet of you to dance with poor Ros.’ Thea was smiling at her, but her eyes glinted maliciously. ‘But I’m sure you’re just dying for a chance to dance with Griff, aren’t you, darling? I really mustn’t monopolise him all evening.’

  She handed him over generously, and Ros found herself in his arms. She held herself stiffly, trying to keep some space between them, remembering all too vividly how it had felt to be so close to him the other morning. He had taken off his white bow-tie and unfastened the top button of his shirt, and inside his collar she could just glimpse a few dark hairs that curled at the base of his throat. Her mouth felt sud¬denly dry.

  ‘Come on, relax,’ he coaxed, his voice warm and persuasive. ‘I feel as if I’m dancing with a robot.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not much of a dancer.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ he drawled, a hint of sensual promise in his smile. ‘I was watching you just now with Paul’s brother. You’ve a natural rhythm—

  when you forget that you don’t like to be touched. Or is it just me who provokes that reaction?’

  ‘No… I… it’s different when you’re dancing,’ she temporised, her voice taut with agitation.

  ‘Then relax.’ That deep, velvet voice held a se¬ductive quality that was very hard to resist. The warm strength of his arms was melting the ice in her spine, and the faintly musky male smell of his body was drugging her mind. ‘That’s better,’ he murmured, his breath fanning her hair. ‘Why are you so nervous all the time? You’re like a teenager—no confidence in yourself.’

  ‘I can’t help that,’ she mumbled against the collar of his jacket.

  ‘But why?’ he persisted. ‘You’re a very attractive woman.’

  ‘Don’t!’ She almost flinched away from him. ‘I know I’m not beautiful, and 1 don’t care. But I hate that sort of stupid attempt at flattery.’

  A dark flash of annoyance lit his eyes. ‘I’m not flattering you,’ he retorted bluntly. ‘Of course you’re not beautiful—I didn’t say you were. You don’t need to be—the effect you have on men has got nothing at all to do with having a pretty face.’

  She felt her cheeks tinge with pink, and looked away from him quickly. ‘I…I don’t know what you mean,’ she protested thickly.

  ‘No?’ He laughed softly. ‘I don’t believe that. I don’t think I can be the only one to sense it—it’s like a fire inside you.’ His hand slid slowly down her back to mould intimately over the base of her spine, holding her far too close for modesty. Somehow he had woven a spell around her; the way they were moving to the

  slow, sensuous rhythm of the music… it was almost as if they were making love.

  She shook her head, trying to ease herself away • from him. ‘No,’ she protested in a strangled whisper. ‘I’m not like that… At least…’

  ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ he murmured, those < dark eyes weaving a mesmerising spell. ‘I don’t suppose you can help it.’

  She did know what he had meant—she had seen it often, that look in men’s eyes. It had made her wary, J afraid that they had detected that shameful flaw in ■ her character that would make her an easy conquest. { So she had rigidly avoided any kind of involvement, ] and most men had been easy enough to put off.

  But this was no ordinary man. This was Jordan Griffin. She couldn’t think straight when she was so . close to him—she had to get away. ‘Excuse me,’ she 1 managed to say, resolutely disentangling herself from his arms. ‘I… I just… I won’t be a minute.’ She hurried from the room, ran upstairs to the bathroom and bolted the door behind her.

  She was trembling uncontrollably. What was going on—why was he picking on her like this? He had Thea and Chrissie absolutely falling over themselves to at¬tract his interest—couldn’t he be satisfied? Or did he have to prove that he could wind every woman around his little finger?

  She made herself look at her reflection in the mirror, trying hard to pull herself together. Come off it, Rosalind Hammond, she scolded herself severely. Jordan Griffin isn’t going to waste five minutes on you.

  That made her feel better, but she really couldn’t face going back downstairs. Annie would understand if she slipped quietly away. Quickly she splashed cold water over her flushed cheeks, then opened the bathroom door.

  He was standing at the top of the stairs, leaning against the wall, his arms folded across his wide chest, a taunting smile curving his hard mouth.

  ‘Running away?’

  She drew in a sharp breath. ‘No. Of course not— why should I?’

  ‘Why, indeed?’ He took a step towards her, and she backed away. ‘Just what are you afraid of, fair Rosalind?’ he mocked her in that soft, velvety voice.

  ‘Nothing. I just… I’m going home now. I’ve got a lot to do.’

  He shook his head. ‘Not a very good excuse,’ he derided. ‘You’re far too much of a lady to run out on your best friend’s dinner party.’

  She tilted her chin up haughtily. ‘How would you know?’ she countered, her voice betraying her tension.

  He laughed, low and huskily, coming closer. ‘Aren’t you a lady?’ he taunted. ‘Now, that could be very interesting.’

  She couldn’t retreat any further—he had backed her into a corner. ‘You… you don’t need me. You’ve no shortage of entertainment downstairs,’ she protested acidly.

  He shook his head. ‘At the risk of sounding con¬ceited, I find that sort of thing rather boring. I’m much more interested in you. What was all that about at the dinner-table? Who’s this Stuart?’

  She sought desperately for a way to dodge past him, ] but she was trapped on the narrow landing. He came slowly towards her, and put his hands against the wall on each side of her shoulders.

  ‘Well? Are you going to tell me?’

  She tried to twist away from him. ‘Stop it,’ she ■ pleaded in a broken whisper. ‘Please, leave me alone.’ <

  ‘Not until you tell me what it was all about.’ With one tantalising fingertip he traced a path along her hairline, pushing a wayward strand of curls back from her face. ‘I gather he was Thea’s First husband.’ She nodded dumbly. ‘And she stole him from you?’

  ‘Sort of,’ she mumbled.

  He laughed softly. ‘He strikes me as a pretty dumb klutz,’ he remarked. ‘Have you been carrying a torch for him ever since?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Her smile matched his for cynicism. ‘I’m really rather grateful to him—he taught me a lesson about men I’ve never forgotten.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Never do a thing unless you’re prepared to have it announced on the BBC News next day.’

  He smiled with unexpected sympathy. ‘Is that what he did? Poor Ros—that can’t have been very nice in a small town like this.’ She blinked at him, astonished by his understanding. ‘How old were you?’

  ‘S… seventeen.’

  ‘And did he have a lot to tell?’

  She lowered her eyes, her cheeks scarlet with hu¬miliation. He drew her unresisting into his arms, holding her head gently against his shoulder. ‘And you’ve been paying for that one mistake ever since?’ he murmured softly. ‘You little fool—you didn’t


  commit any crime. I guess the flames must have got too hot before you were old enough to know how to control them. That’s no reason to let it ruin the rest of your life.’

  He laced his Fingers into her hair, drawing her head back until she found herself gazing up into those compelling dark eyes. She felt as though her bones were dissolving away. As he bent towards her she could do nothing to defend herself. His mouth brushed lightly over hers, warm and enticing, and her lips parted. The sensuous tip of his tongue swirled languorously over the delicate membranes, finding every sensitive corner.

  He was sweeping away sill the defences she had so painfully learned to erect, and as his arms wrapped around her she could only surrender, letting him curve her against the hard length of his body in a way that stirred her responses to white heat.

  At last he lifted his head and smiled down into her eyes. ‘You see? What can be wrong in doing some¬thing that comes so naturally?’ he cajoled, honey-tongued.

  Weakly she tried to struggle free. ‘Please… let me go,’ she whispered.

  ‘Not yet,’ he answered, letting his hand rove inti¬mately over her body. ‘You’ve got a lot of wasted time to make up.’

  Her head tipped back into the crook of his arm as his long, clever fingers brushed up over the warm swell of her breast. A small sob escaped her lips, and her knees almost gave way beneath her, but he held her close as he caressed her with merciless skill, reducing her to a helpless, quivering wreck.

  If it had been any other man… But she couldn’t forget who he was. Why should Jordan Griffin want to make love to a ginger-haired scarecrow like her? He was just amusing himself—her reluctance was probably stimulating to a palate jaded by too many easy conquests. A sudden surge of anger rose inside her, and she pushed him away.

  ‘I said, let me go,’ she hissed furiously. ‘You really think you’re God’s gift to women, don’t you?’ In the instant that he stepped back, startled by her reaction, she took the opportunity to slip past him. ‘Save your irresistible charm for the likes of Chrissie and Thea,’ she spat. ‘What sort of fool do you think I am?’

  ‘I haven’t quite made up my mind yet,’ he retorted, infuriatingly cool.

  ‘Not fool enough to let myself get swept off my feet by the likes of you,’ she declared with dignity. ‘I told you, I learned my lesson a long time ago. Thank you for fulfilling one of my teenage fantasies—I wish I’d been young enough to appreciate it.’

  There was a sardonic edge in his laughter. ‘Maybe. But you’re not exactly an old maid yet—however hard you try to act the part. It isn’t so easy to douse those flames, is it?’

  With a flounce she turned her back on him and marched down the stairs. But, as she reached the bottom, Annie came out of the sitting-room. ‘Oh,

  there youWhat are you doing?’ she interrupted

  herself as Ros reached for her coat. ‘You’re not leaving, are you?’

  Ros cast her a bright smile. ‘Yes. Sorry, Annie,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I’m really right in the middle of something at the moment. You know what I’m like.

  Sorry to dash away so early. Thanks for the dinner— it was really nice.’

  Annie hesitated, looking from her to Griff and back again. ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked, frowning.

  ‘Of course.’ She shrugged herself into her coat. ‘Goodnight, Annie. G-goodnight, Griff.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ he responded, those dark eyes mocking her cowardice. ‘Perhaps we can continue our… discussion… another time?’

  Annie’s eyes widened as she picked up the powerful undercurrents of tension in the air. ‘Goodnight, Ros,’ she conceded, following her to the front door, but as they stepped out into the porch she demanded in an insistent whisper, ‘What’s been going on?’

  ‘Nothing, I told you. What do you mean?’ Ros answered, trying for an air of innocence.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ countered Annie shrewdly. ‘Were you having a row with him or something?’

  ‘Of course not. What could I possibly have to row with him about?’

  ‘I don’t know. But the way you ran out on him when you were dancing…’

  ‘I didn’t. I just… got a bit annoyed with him. He’s a bit too big for his boots—just because he’s Jordan Griffin, he thinks every woman he meets is going to swoon at his feet.’

  Annie laughed. ‘Oh, come off it! He isn’t a bit con¬ceited—at least, only when dumbos like Chrissie and Thea are making cow-eyes at him, and you can’t blame him for that.’

  Ros chuckled with laughter. ‘Oh, Annie! You’re besotted. And you a respectable married woman!’

  ‘I’m not besotted—I just think he’s nice. Fancy him coming to live here in Arnby Bridge! I never even knew he had a family connection. I wonder why he decided to leave California. All that lovely sun—not much of an exchange, is it?’ she added wryly, shiver¬ing at the cold night air.

  ‘Why don’t you ask him?’

  ‘I don’t like to pry.’

  ‘Well, that’s a first!’

  ‘Ros! Are you trying to make out that I’m nosy?’ Annie protested indignantly. ‘I mean… Well, I do like to know what’s going on, but that’s different. Griffs a stranger.’

  Ros smiled indulgently at her friend. ‘You’ll ask him, sooner or later,’ she teased. ‘Anyway, I’d better be off now—it’s freezing out here. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, Ros. And don’t go shutting yourself up for weeks on end with that book, as you did last time. If you do, I’ll come and dig you out.’

  Ros laughed. ‘OK, I’ll try not to. ‘Bye.’

  Annie waved goodbye as she drove away. Ros smiled sadly to herself. She did envy her friend—a loving husband, beautiful children… Sometimes her little cottage seemed such a lonely place. Impatiently she shook her head to dispel the melancholy mood that was threatening to descend on her. It was stupid to dwell on ‘might-have-beens’.

  She’d probably never been cut out for marriage, anyway—what man would tolerate a wife who could disappear into the sixteenth century for days at a time? And as for babies… if she was in the middle of a chapter, she’d probably forget to feed them, let alone

  change their nappies. No, it was better the way it was—with only an aloof black cat to worry about.

  Next morning the thaw set in, and with it came dis¬aster. It started as a steady drip-drip-drip that Ros heard as she was eating her breakfast. She rushed up¬stairs, to find the ceiling of her bedroom dripping water in several places.

  She almost fell down the stairs in her haste to get to the kitchen, trying to remember where to find the stopcock. She found it after throwing everything out of the cupboard under the sink, but she couldn’t turn it off. The dripping from the burst pipes was getting ominously louder and faster by the minute. She tugged and pulled on the tap in desperation, but it wouldn’t budge.

  In a panic she grabbed as many pans as she could carry, and ran back upstairs. Working as quickly as she could, she put a pan under each drip—only to find more leaks coming through in the next room. Almost sobbing with worry and frustration, she ran downstairs again and hunted for more pans.

  In the end she was using everything she could think of to catch the drips, from the washing-up bowl to a Victorian chamber-pot she had been using as a plant-holder. When she thought she’d dealt with all the leaks she ran down to the kitchen to have another go at the tap, but still nothing would move it. Quickly she hunted in the cupboard under the stairs, and found an old tub of grease to rub around the tap to try to free it, but still it obstinately defied all her efforts.

  Her hair was falling in her eyes, and she pushed it back impatiently, not even noticing that she was

  smearing grease on her face. Then it was time to rush back upstairs to check the pots, and she spent the next few minutes frantically emptying the pots into the bath and replacing them before they overflowed.

  ‘Damn, damn, damn!’ she muttered to herself over and over. She’d meant to look at the laggi
ng on the pipes during the summer, but she had forgotten all about it. She only had herself to blame for this dis¬aster—they must be leaking in twenty places now.

  With a sigh she pulled the ladder down from the loft-hatch, and climbed up to take a look. It was very dusty up there, and she walked into a cobweb that made her jump. The pipes were a mess, the lagging chewed by mice or birds or something. She struggled back down the ladder, and sat on the bottom step to indulge herself with a flood of tears.

  The sound of a knock startled her. Heedless of her scruffy appearance, she ran down the stairs and yanked open the front door. Griff stood on the doorstep. His eyebrows shot up in astonishment as he looked down at her, but she didn’t even stop to think.

  ‘Oh, thank goodness!’ she gasped, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him into the kitchen. ‘There,’ she said, pointing at the rusting pipe under the sink. ‘The stopcock—can you turn it off?’

  He looked bemused, but he didn’t argue. Quickly he got down on his knees to have a go at the tap. It took both hands, and considerable effort, but at last he did it. At once he turned on the tap at the sink to drain the system, and within a few seconds the dripping upstairs had ceased.

  ‘Phew!’ sighed Ros with heartfelt relief, plumping down on a stool. ‘Thank you. I thought the whole ceiling would collapse before anyone came.’

  ‘You should keep this tap greased,’ he told her, frowning. ‘It’s rusting up. Is there much damage?’

  ‘The ceilings in a couple of the bedrooms are pretty bad,’ she told him.

  ‘Let’s have a look.’ She led him upstairs to her bedroom, neither of them considering anything but the damage to the old cottage. He surveyed the ceilings with a grave expression. ‘It is bad,’ he agreed. ‘You won’t be able to use the lights for a couple of days— the whole place could go up in flames.’

  ‘How long do you think it will take to dry out?’ she asked.

  ‘It depends on the weather,’ he said, glancing out of the window. ‘Tuesday, maybe. Let’s have a look in the loft.’

  ‘It’s Filthy up there,’ she warned.