LOVE IS FOR THE LUCKY Read online

  He smiled. ‘And so is jealousy.’

  ‘Jealousy?’ She fluttered her hands in a nervous gesture. ‘Oh, I’m not really jealous of Thea,’ she pro¬tested defensively.

  ‘I didn’t mean you were jealous of her—I meant that she’s jealous of you. Jealous as hell.’

  She shook her head quickly. ‘Oh, no, I don’t think so. Thea, jealous of me?’ She could only laugh at the idea.

  But Griff was nodding with certainty. ‘I wouldn’t mind betting that husband of hers was soon re¬gretting that he’d chucked you over for her—and you can be pretty damn sure she knew it.’

  Ros bit her lip, remembering all the times Stuart had tried to flirt with her after his marriage. She had hated him for it—and despised herself for giving him reason to believe she was that easy. But Griff’s suggestion was ridiculous—she shook her head, dis¬missing the suggestion firmly.

  ‘Oh, no. I’m sure you’re wrong. I mean—Thea’s lovely.’

  He laughed softly. ‘You know, for an intelligent woman, sometimes you can be remarkably dumb.’ He was giving her that look that could melt a woman’s bones. ‘Surely you know it takes more than just a pretty face to really turn a man on?’

  His voice was as soft and warm as velvet, and it was all she could do to resist his persuasive words. She flashed him a brittle smile. ‘Of course—a decent figure helps, too.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you something about ‘ beautiful women. When you get right down to it, ; they’re all pretty much the same. Within a couple of days, the impact of the way they look wears off, and then they’re just boring. But you’ve got something different.’

  ‘What’s that? A million freckles and a brain?’

  ‘A lethal combination!’

  She really couldn’t take any more of this—her hand was shaking so much, she had to put down her coffee-cup. ‘Well, thank you for the dinner,’ she managed with difficulty.

  ‘You don’t want to go yet.’ It was a statement, not ‘ a question. ‘You haven’t seen the rest of the house. , I want to know if it meets with your approval.’

  ‘Oh…’ She hesitated, knowing she should go, 1 wanting to stay. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ He smiled, and rose to his feet. ‘Come on, . then.’

  For a moment she regretted her agreement. Her legs didn’t feel strong enough to bear her weight. But when she stood up she found that, if she concentrated all her efforts on it, she could actually walk quite steadily, j

  The house was a warren of uneven corridors and odd flights of stairs. Ros could vividly recall games of hide-and-seek played here long ago with the children who used to call it home. Much of it still bore the scars of years of neglect, but careful work¬manship was restoring it to its former glory.

  They came by a roundabout route back to the main rooms on the ground floor. ‘This is going to be the sitting-room when it’s finished,’ Griff told her, j showing her into a room of magnificent proportions. .

  Heavy white canvas covered the floor, and two of the leaded windows had been removed and laid out for repair, while billowing plastic sheeting covered the gaps. Builders’ tools were piled to one side of a hideous fireplace of yellowing scagliola.

  ‘I don’t remember that,’ she remarked critically.

  ‘No—there was another one in front of it—equally ugly,’ he explained. ‘But I’m assured that the original stone one is still there behind it—I hope it’s going to be in as good condition as the one in the dining-room.’

  She didn’t want to risk standing still—that was to invite him to come too close—so she moved on to an archway from which the wide double doors must have been removed. ‘What’s in here?’ she asked.

  He followed her, switching on the light. It was another room of fine proportions, and the renovation work was somewhat more advanced than next door. The fireplace had already been stripped down to the original stonework, elaborately carved with heraldic designs above an elegant four-square arch. In the middle of the floor stood a large grand piano, covered with a dust-sheet.

  ‘How on earth did you get that in here?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘With difficulty.’

  She laughed, and moved on around the room. On each side of the fireplace the deep alcoves had been filled with bookshelves, and several crates of books stood waiting to have their contents added to those already in place. Casually she glanced along the shelves; she always liked to see what sort of books a person chose—she was sure it gave some insight into their character.

  This was certainly an impressive collection—the more so because it bore the unmistakable signs of being well-used. It ranged from beautifully illustrated books of modern art to technical manuals of elec¬tronics. D.H. Lawrence rubbed shoulders with Wilbur Smith.

  And then she came to a spine that jerked at her attention by its intimate familiarity. By the Touch¬stone of the Law. She drew it from its place, and turned it over. Her own image smiled up at her from the back cover—oh, what a long and painful session it had been to get one decent photograph!

  Griff came up close behind her. ‘You see, Rosalind Hammond—I recognised you before you recognised me. I’m one of your greatest fans.’ He took a pen from his inside pocket, and put it into her hand. ‘Will you autograph it for me?’

  She stared up at him blankly—she was sure he was mocking her, though she could see no sign of it in his dark eyes. A faintly sardonic smile curved his mouth, and he lifted her numb hand to the page. She dashed off her signature automatically, and he took the book back from her, and put it carefully on the shelf.

  ‘Thank you. I’ve got your others somewhere— they’re probably still in the crate.’

  She heard herself laughing almost hysterically as she gave him back his pen. ‘I didn’t think you’d be interested in history,’ she remarked.

  ‘Ah, that will teach you not to judge by appear¬ances,’ he chided her. ‘Why shouldn’t I be interested in history?*

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t fit the image somehow,’ she teased audaciously. ‘You know, the famous pop star!’

  ‘Pop star!’ he protested, laughing. ‘One day, Miss Hammond, that tongue of yours is going to get you into very serious trouble!’ He took her arm in a firm grip, and steered her over to the piano. ‘Pop star, huh?’

  He tossed aside the dust-cloth and, sitting down at the stool, ran his fingers lightly, lovingly, over the ivory keys. Then he began to play—a lively pol¬onaise, holding her eyes challengingly as the rippling notes filled the room, filled her heart, making her want to dance.

  Next he played a beautiful Brahms lullaby. The piano responded magically to his touch, as if it were a living thing, the melody swelling richly and fading to the softest whisper. She gazed in fascination at his hands as they caressed the music, a tingling fire running through her veins, and for one wild instant it was as though it was her body he was touching.

  The lullaby ended, and he began idly picking out chords, weaving them slowly, and then with in¬creasing certainty, into a melody she had never heard before. She watched him, feeling drawn to him in a way that was deeper and more mysterious than the physical longing that was becoming familiar in his presence.

  ‘What’s that you’re playing?’ she asked after a long moment.

  ‘Oh, just doodling.’ He played the refrain through again, this time in a minor key that gave it a haunting, elusive quality that caught at the heart-strings.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ she whispered when he had finished. ‘It’s like the wind on the moors.’

  He smiled at her. ‘It needs a lot of work yet.’

  ‘When did you learn to play the piano?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘At my mother’s knee. I used to climb up on the piano stool almost from the moment I could toddle, and bash away at the keys. They couldn’t keep me away from it. Eventually she decided she’d better teach me properly.’

  ‘She must be very proud of you now,* she mused.

  ‘She died when I was a kid,’ he said,
in a voice flattened of all emotion.

  ‘Oh… I… I’m sorry,’ she stammered, embarrassed.

  He was quiet for a moment, his eyes unfocused. Then suddenly he crashed his hands on the chords. ‘It’s a long time ago,’ he said almost flippantly, and began to play an up-tempo song that had been in the pop charts for weeks. It was as if a shutter had slammed down over that brief glimpse into the private world that he usually guarded so carefully.

  He swung into another song, and she tapped her fingers on the piano in time to the music. He played several more modern songs, and then launched into the songs of an earlier era, sing-along songs, and she joined in, laughing with him. They belted out ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’ and ‘On Ilkley Moor Baht’at’.

  Giggling, Ros plumped down on the piano stool beside him. ‘Move up,’ she demanded, wriggling into place, and with a theatrical flourish began playing her one and only piano piece, ‘Chopsticks’. He joined in enthusiastically, and they played a rousing duet, fi¬nally collapsing in helpless laughter.

  Almost before she knew what was happening, the laughter had turned to a kiss, and as he wrapped her up in his arms and drew her across his lap the kiss

  flamed rapidly out of control. She had no time even to think of resistance as he coaxed her lips apart and his plundering tongue invaded deep into the secret corners of her mouth.

  With a deft hand he pulled the clips from her hair, raking his fingers through it so that it tumbled around her shoulders. Her head swam dizzily as she clung to him, returning the kiss with a hunger as urgent as his own. A hollow ache had awoken deep inside her, driving her on to her own destruction.

  His hand slid slowly over her body, and her head tipped back as she gasped desperately for air. His hot mouth traced a scalding path down into the sensitive hollows of her throat, and she trembled with antici¬pation as she felt his caressing touch rise with un¬mistakable intent towards the aching swell of her breast. Those long, sensitive fingers cupped the ripe curve, and she moved against him instinctively, helpless in the grip of a primeval desire that was beyond all rational control.

  He sensed her surrender, and she felt him loosen the wrap of her silk blouse and brush the fabric aside, and then he found the front clasp of her bra. She opened her eyes fleetingly as he unfastened it, dimly aware that she ought to be offering some objection, but she couldn’t find the words.

  She closed her eyes again, ashamed of her wan¬tonness as she lay in his arms, the pink-tipped swell of her breasts naked beneath his eyes and hands. His mouth closed over hers, demanding all she had to give as with expert skill he fondled her, teasing the tender buds of her nipples until the pleasure pierced her brain like incandescent wires.

  ‘I think we’d better go upstairs,’ he murmured close to her mouth.

  His words sank slowly into her brain, and abruptly she came to her senses, as if she had been doused with cold water. She struggled to sit up, turning her scarlet face away from him as she fumbled to straighten her clothes.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he demanded, his voice grating harshly.

  Acid tears burned the backs of her eyes. ‘I… I’m sorry,’ she stammered.

  ‘Sorry?’ he hissed, his fingers curling around her wrist. ‘You little bitch. What the hell kind of game do you think you’re playing?’

  ‘You’re hurting my arm,’ she protested in a small voice.

  He let her go so violently, she almost fell off the piano stool. He stood up and crossed the room, leaning his hands against the wall high above the empty fireplace. ‘You’d better go.’

  Ros tried to stand, though her legs felt like water. She longed to feel his touch again, yet dreaded the consequences. ‘Griff…’ she whispered tremulously.

  ‘I said go!’ he snarled, turning to face her. The savage anger in his eyes made her catch her breath in fear. ‘I’ve never forced a woman in my life, and I don’t intend to start now!’

  She fled from the room, and somehow found her way to the front door. The night air struck chill against her shoulders, and her footsteps were unsteady in Annie’s high-heeled sandals, slipping on the frost-sheeted ground, but she ran from the house as if the demons of hell were on her tail.

  She hadn’t even reached the end of the drive when she heard the sound of the Jaguar’s engine springing to life behind her. She was too out of breath to run any more so she walked, holding her head up, not even trying to fight back the tears that were running down her face.

  The car pulled up beside her, and the door opened. ‘Get in,’ he ordered curtly.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she responded, with as much dignity as she could muster.

  ‘Will you please get in?’ he repeated in a strained voice. ‘I promise not to touch you. I can’t apologise with you marching along out there.’

  His voice was rough, but there was an unmis¬takable note of sincerity in it. She hesitated for a moment, but she didn’t have any will left to resist him. She got into the car. He didn’t look at her; he kept his eyes on his hands as they gripped the wheel, the knuckles white.

  ‘OK, I’m sorry,’ he growled. He slid the car into gear and it moved slowly forwards, the gates swinging open to let them pass.

  ‘S… so am I,’ she responded in a small voice. ‘I know that wasn’t the sort of evening you’d intended. Annie and Paul should have been there.’

  He cut her short with a derisive laugh. ‘I only asked Annie and Paul because I didn’t think you’d come on your own,’ he told her. She stared at him in the darkness, and he slanted her a glance of sardonic amusement. ‘What a mess of hang-ups you are, Rosalind Hammond,’ he taunted softly. ‘Maybe it’s a good thing I’m going away tomorrow—I don’t think I can cope with you.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘And you don’t have to keep apologising.’ He drew the car to a halt outside Annie’s, and reached over to take her hand. ‘Look, I really am sorry about what happened just now,’ he said, his voice deep with sin¬cerity. ‘I don’t usually lose my temper when a woman says no.’

  Her mouth curved into a wry smile. ‘I don’t suppose it happens very often,’ she murmured shyly.

  ‘No, it doesn’t. And now I sound like a conceited bastard, don’t I?’

  She managed to meet his eyes, just for a second, and shook her head. ‘No—I know it’s true,’ she whispered.

  He smiled. ‘There, that’s better,’ he said. ‘Are we friends again?’

  ‘Of course. If that’s what you want.’

  ‘It isn’t all I want,’ he warned in that smokily se¬ductive voice. ‘But I guess I’ll have to settle for that— for now.’ Slowly, almost thoughtfully, he lifted her hand, and gently laid a single kiss in the palm, and folded her fingers over it as if to hold it there. ‘Adieu, fair Rosalind,’ he murmured softly.

  She swallowed hard. ‘Yes…er…goodnight,’ she mumbled, searching frantically for the door-handle. He leaned across her and opened it, and she scrambled out.

  ‘Don’t forget your coat.’ It was on the back seat, and he handed it to her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she mumbled. ‘And thank you for the dinner—it was very nice.’

  ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it.’ His dark eyes glinted with satanic amusement, then he pulled the door shut, and

  she stood watching as if turned to stone as he reversed the car around in the wide part of the road. In a moment the red tail-lights had vanished up the hill.

  The Osbourne household woke early. By seven o’clock the children were clamouring for breakfast, and the telephone was buzzing as Paul’s patients rang for his attention. Ros had barely slept—all night she had tossed on the pillow, reliving every moment of her short aquaintance with Griff. As the first glimmer of dawn had crept through the curtains, she had slipped out of bed and gone over to the window, to gaze bleakly up at the pale grey sky, imagining his plane winging him far, far away from her.

  She felt a little better after a warm shower, ready to face her friend’s curiosity. The whole family was gathered
in the kitchen, a bright, warm room at the back of the house. Little Peter was in his high-chair, his chubby little face covered in cereal as he gigglingly challenged his mother to get his teaspoon cleanly into his mouth. Annie paused from the game as Ros came into the room.

  ‘Well, good morning, sleepy-head,’ she greeted her cheerfully. ‘What time did you get home last night?’

  ‘Oh, not too late,’ she answered with a bright smile, sitting down at the table and pouring herself a bowl of cornflakes. ‘Hello, Lucy. What a nice T-shirt you’ve got on.’

  ‘It’s Thomas the Tank Engine,’ the little girl told her, displaying the colourful design with pride.

  ‘Well?’ persisted Annie eagerly.

  ‘We ate at his house,’ Ros told her in a casual tone. ‘He’s got this incredible Mexican couple working for

  him. They’ve just come over from California. Tino and Juanita—I didn’t meet Juanita, she was down in the kitchen, but Tino…’

  Annie clucked impatiently. ‘When are you going to see him again?’

  Ros shrugged her slim shoulders with studied in¬difference. ‘Oh, I dare say I’ll bump into him when he gets back from America.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be… Oh, Peter, stop spitting it out. It’s lovely—look, nice porridge. Come on, open wide for Mummy.’

  By the time Annie could turn her attention from her small son again, Ros was engaged in a serious conversation with little Lucy about the pleasures of starting nursery school. Then Mrs Butterworth, the daily ‘treasure’, arrived to add to the bustle, and Paul had to hurry out to an early-morning call before coming back to start his surgery. By that time, Ros had finished her breakfast.

  ‘Is that all you’re having?’ demanded Annie, re¬garding her empty cornflakes’ bowl.

  ‘Yes, thanks. That was plenty.’

  ‘Oh, come on! No wonder you’re so skinny! Sit down and Mrs Butterworth will knock you up bacon and eggs.’

  ‘Yes, you sit down,’ chimed in that good lady. ‘It won’t take me half a jiffy.’

  Ros laughed in protest. ‘No, honestly, I’ve had enough. I never eat much breakfast.’