She wanted to stretch out her hand and take his. To feel his arms close round her, and his mouth warm and possessive on hers.
It's because I'm hurting over Jeremy and want comfort, she told herself wildly.
But comfort was not what Declan was offering. Passion, she thought confusedly. Danger and darkness. Glory and heartbreak. All the things she dared not risk.
She turned away. 'I think lunch and the Tate are enough to be going on with.' Her voice sounded small and husky. 'Shall we go?'
She stood watching the river, forging a composure to enclose her like armour while Declan bought her ice-cream.
When he returned, her smile was self-possessed, even teasing. 'I bet it's a long time since you did that.'
'Lost in the mists of time,' he agreed. 'Take the damned thing before it melts.'
'Don't you want one?'
'I'm trying to give it up.' He leaned against the parapet, watching her with amusement 'How old did you say you were today?'
'I didn't,' said Olivia, getting into trouble with the melting bits.
'Because you look about ten years old,' he went on. 'God, woman, you've even got some on your nose.'
'Oh, where?' She squinted, trying to see.
'Here,' he said, and bent to lick the tip of her nose, swiftly and sensuously.
For a moment the world stopped. She felt sweet, heady warmth sweep through her body. Her voice shook slightly. 'I—-thought you didn't want any.'
'That's the problem with addictions,' he said. 'They can break out at any minute.'
'You're addicted to ice-cream?'
His grin slanted at her. 'Who mentioned ice-cream? Now let's go and catch our boat'
Olivia followed, head whirling, feeling as if she stood on the brink of some dizzying abyss.
Oh, God, she thought I've got to be so careful.
In spite of her anxieties, it was a very relaxed afternoon. They had lunch in a small French restaurant, and Olivia ate all her chicken with wine and herbs, and the
cr
ê
me brul
é
e
that followed.
She spent two enthralled hours wandering from room to room in the Tate, filling her mind with colour and light.
When they emerged, Declan's prediction had been fulfilled and a heavy cold drizzle was blowing from the river.
'Ugh.' Olivia checked at the top of the steps. 'What do we do now?'
Declan took her hand. 'We run—come on.'
Almost before she knew what was happening, Olivia found herself being whisked through enormous glass doors and into the glossy foyer of a hotel.
'Dry yourself off in the cloakroom,' Declan directed. 'I'll see you in the lounge presently.'
She found him at a table beside a large fireplace where a log fire had been lit.
'This is incredible.' She sank into the feather cushions of an enormous armchair, stretching a damp foot to the flames, as a waiter arrived with tea, a covered dish containing buttered crumpets, and a mouthwatering selection of cream cakes.
'They couldn't run to a birthday cake, I'm afraid.'
'You amaze me,' she said faintly.
'Sometimes I surprise myself.' There was an odd, almost bitter note in the quiet voice, but when Olivia looked at him, puzzled, he smiled swiftly, and passed her the crumpets.
'Declan,' she said, a while later as she refilled their cups. 'Will you tell me something?'
He gave her a guarded look. 'If I can.'
'Who is the "beloved" that Sasha mentions so often? Do you know?'
'Yes,' he said. 'Indeed I know. He was my uncle—my mother's elder brother by some years. He and my aunt had only been married for a short time when she was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. They were unlucky, because she became very ill quite quickly, and so the marriage, as such, was over before it really began.
'He was wealthy, and he spent a small fortune on treatment for her, travelled the world looking for anything that would alleviate her condition, but ultimately it did no good, and she was confined to a wheelchair.
'It was around then that he met Sasha. He'd put some money into a West End play, and she was in the cast. By this time he was almost at the end of his tether. She saw this, and was kind to him. They became lovers, and remained so for the fifteen years that my aunt lingered. Without her, I think he'd have had a complete breakdown.'
'Did your aunt know about her?'
Declan shook his head. 'No, and she never suffered in any way because of their relationship either. My mother felt that Uncle Paul had more time for my aunt—more patience than ever before. He cared deeply, but she'd been an invalid for almost all the time they'd been together—and he was only human. With Sasha he could relax and be happy.' He gave a wry smile. 'As you must have discovered, she's got a heart as big as the world, and she was just what he needed.'
He sighed. 'When my aunt died, they planned to marry. But Sasha felt awkward about moving into the marital home, so my uncle bought the house she's living in now for them both. But he had it put in her name, and he made financial provision for her too, so that she need never work again unless she wanted'
He shook his head. 'He was absolutely determined about it—as if he knew, somehow, that there would never be a wedding. Three weeks before it was due to take place he had a massive heart attack, and died immediately.'
'Oh, poor Sasha,' Olivia whispered. She was silent for a moment. 'So are you living in his house?'
Declan nodded. 'I was his nearest male relative, and I saw a lot of him and Sasha too, when I first came to London. He left it to me in his will.'
'Yes,' she said slowly. 'Yes, I see. It makes a lot of things much clearer.' She paused again. 'Were you fond of your aunt?'
Declan said carefully, 'She'd been a sick woman for a long time and it had made her understandably bitter. I— made allowances.'
'It's so sad,' Olivia said softly. 'Having their chance of a happy life snatched away.'
'Sasha doesn't pity herself. She has a host of friends, Humph, the occasional lodger—and her memories. She counts herself a rich woman.'
'And she has you.'
'I do what I can.'
She said carefully, 'I hope you didn't mind my asking?'
'No,' he said. 'I expect she'll tell you all about it herself, one of these days.'
'Yes.' Olivia replaced her cup in its saucer. She said, 'That was a terrific tea. In fact, the whole day's been wonderful.'
He looked at her steadily across the table. It doesn't have to end here. It's a big hotel, with all kinds of facilities. We could always explore a few of them.
The words seemed to hang, charged, in the air between them.
Olivia said hurriedly, 'I don't think I'd be much of a companion.' She pantomimed a yawn. 'All that walking and food has made me sleepy.'
'The hotel also has bedrooms. Very comfortable ones, I'm told.'
No use pretending she didn't understand him now. She knew, without being told, that he'd probably made enquiries already at the desk. That if she said the word he would take her up to one of those bedrooms and make love to her, and she would yield herself to him, body and soul.
And be lost for ever.
Because there was no future with Declan. If she slept with him, she probably wouldn't have a job either. And casual sex wasn't her scene, and never had been. She believed in love. She believed in commitment, and nothing less would do.
But while Declan might well become her whole life, she would just be another telephone number on his home computer files. And eventually, as his life moved on, she would be erased—as if she had never existed at all.
She uncurled herself from the chair and got up slowly and carefully.
She made herself look at him calmly, hiding the fact that she was shaking inside, that her mouth was dry, and her legs trembling under her.
She kept her voice even and dispassionate. 'Actually, I'd prefer to go home.'
'Just as you wish.' He spoke equally coolly, showing no sign of regret. No disposition to persuade her to change her mind. He got to his feet, too, signalling to the waiter to bring the bill. 'I'll get them to call a taxi.
Outside, it was raining heavily. Olivia scrambled into the cab and waited for Declan to join her. But the door closed on her alone, and she saw him hand the driver some money after giving her address.
She opened the window. 'Don't you want a lift?' 'It's probably wiser if I walk.' His tone was ironic. She flushed. 'But you'll be soaked.' 'On a lovely soft day like this?' he mocked. 'Never.' The cab drew away, and through the rear window Olivia watched him turn and walk away in the opposite direction. It was the right thing to do, she assured herself. Absolutely the right thing. But why did it have to hurt so much?
Huddled into the corner of the cab, looking out at the glistening streets and buildings, Olivia tried to make sense of what was happening to her. The buoyant happiness which had possessed her all day had vanished, leaving her raw and uncertain.
Jeremy's behaviour had left her shocked and disillusioned, but that wasn't sufficient cause to send her stumbling into another man's arms. And especially a man like Declan Malone, who could have any woman he wanted— and probably did, she thought, deliberately lacerating her feelings.
It occurred to her that Declan had never mentioned Jeremy's name once, or asked why she wasn't spending her birthday with him. Yet Jeremy lived under his roof, so he must have known exactly what his plans were.
Did he know that she'd been stood up, and had his own invitation been issued because he felt sorry for her? Or was there some darker motive?
Pain lanced through her at the very idea, but it had to be faced. Recognised as a probability.
After all, seducing her would be the perfect way of ensuring that the remnants of her relationship with Jeremy could never be rescued and restored.
And she'd nearly succumbed, beguiled by his charm and the heady sexual charisma that surrounded him. But they were his stock in trade, after all. They accounted for much of his success on television. He was undoubtedly a skilled political commentator, and a tough interviewer, but to his female audience he was also a fantasy figure. That dangerous combination: a sexy intellectual. An object of desire.
And off I went, she derided herself, all decked out in my new scarf and earrings, like a lamb to the slaughter.
She'd known, of course, that he held a dangerous attraction for her, but she'd believed that her feelings for Jeremy were the barrier that would protect her from herself. But now that relationship was faltering she realised just how flimsy that protection had always been.
Because he was too good a companion, as she'd discovered today. She could talk to him more easily than anyone she'd ever met She loved his humour, and the swift, caustic remarks which gave it an edge. She'd liked the good-natured way he'd responded to the autograph-hunters.
Working with him hadn't helped either, she brooded. The atmosphere in the office was high-powered—electric. She was interested and involved—determined to match the intellectual demands he made of her. Caught up in his effortless dynamism.
And that was where it should have stopped. Out of working hours, she should have stayed totally aloof. Fought the disloyal yearnings which tormented her. And which had so nearly brought her to ruin.
But not again. Never again, she told herself with steely determination.
The cabbie's bored, 'In your own time, darling,' alerted her to the fact that she was back at Lancey Terrace.
She wouldn't wait for Jeremy to find somewhere, she thought, as she let herself into the basement and switched on the light She would find herself another place to live— as far from Declan as possible. Some of the girls at Academy were in flat-shares, and vacancies were always cropping up. Maybe she could move into one of them. Live the life of a single girl, instead of depending on Jeremy for her happiness.
And maybe he'd want her more if she wasn't quite so readily available.
As for Declan, he knew she was alone and vulnerable for the rest of the weekend, so that had to change. She needed to absent herself completely in case he came prowling again, because, shamefully, she didn't know how immune she was to his particular brand of temptation.
I'll get an early train and go home for the day, she told herself with determination, reaching for her mobile phone to call her parents.
And if she never saw Declan again outside working hours then surely she'd be safe—wouldn't she?
Declan slammed the front door behind him, and tossed his keys on to the hall table. He stood for a moment, eyes closed, a hand raking almost savagely through his dark hair as he tried to come to terms with what he'd done.
When he'd arrived at Claudia's flat a couple of hours earlier, his suspicions that he was the trophy guest had been confirmed. The dinner had been superb—she was a gifted and imaginative cook—and the wines well-chosen. The conversation had been relaxed and enjoyable, and when the coffee and Armagnac had been drunk the rest of the party, well-primed, had made excuses and left them alone together.
The setting had been perfect. Claudia had left him, his glass refilled, on the enormous sofa in her lamplit drawing room while she said goodnight to her other guests. When she'd rejoined him, she'd released her hair from the loose knot she'd worn all evening, and brushed it loose on her shoulders. In addition, she'd discreetly freshened her scent, renewed her lipstick, and undone an extra button on her black velvet shirt, affording him a tantalising glimpse of the creamy curves of her breasts.
The message had been covert, but unmistakable. And also imperative, he conceded wryly. She'd meant him to make love to her, and that had been his intention too. His sole reason for being there, in fact.
But he didn't want her. That was the ghastly, incontrovertible truth which had assaulted him. She was a lovely girl, with a sparkling personality and a delectable body, yet he'd felt—neuter. Even if she'd stripped naked, and he'd been able to tell she was considering it, her fingers casually toying with the next button on her shirt, it would have made no difference.