Kissed by Moonlight (12 page)

Petrina was ready for the barbecue and still David hadn't returned. When he did, she half wished she wasn't so obviously ready to go out. It wasn't just the flicker of annoyance on his face when he took in her appearance and made the correct interpretation, but the tiredness that showed around his eyes and mouth and seemed to have eaten up his normal vitality. Even the usual sardonic twinkle was absent from his eye. Thé twist of sadness in her stomach took her by surprise because she would never have thought that roguish gleam was something she'd yearn to see. Difficult as it was to believe, it was easier on her emotions to be plagued by him than to feel compassion for him.

“I heard about the beach barbecue,” she explained. “I thought it might be fun.”

She felt guilty now about whimpering on about being neglected. He worked too hard, against pressures she knew nothing about and a clock that remained steadfastly just a bit ahead. She had been an unwanted complication, and instead of being grateful that he was fitting her in she had been fiercely resentful, too engrossed in herself to spare a moment of wifely concern for him.

“Who told you about the barbecue?”

“Justine,” she said, puzzled by his angry tone.

“I'd guessed – Bob,” he said more amenably.

Had the idea of going to the barbecue become more attractive because Justine was behind it?

“If you're too tired ...?” she began tentatively. “I'll feel better when I've had a shower.”

“I don't mind. I'd just as soon have a quiet meal and an early night.”

“I've told you I'll be all right,” he said grittily. “Why do you have to be so perverse? If I'd said I was too tired, you'd have sulked.”

Her eyes blazed into anger. “I do not sulk. I might lash out in temper and even throw things, but I never sink into crabby silence, which is what I presume you mean by sulking. And it's insulting of you to suggest I do.”

The faintest of smiles was tempted to his mouth. “You're right, I'm wrong. I apologize. Now stop arguing. If you don't, then I'll stop you arguing and we'll have that early night. But I promise you it won't be restful.”

His eyes caught hers and she held her breath. She was incapable of releasing it until that predatory gleam, only lightly restrained, finished stalking her. She escaped the shackles of one hold only to be seized by another. As his eyes let her go his strong fingers bound her wrists and pulled her forward into his arms.

“Which will please you most,” he said roughly against her cheek, “the barbecue or bed?”

“The barbecue,” she said in a whisper.

Her release came too soon. “The barbecue it is. Pour me a drink, Pet, while I'm showering.”

She went over to the cart containing an assortment of bottles and glasses. She said, with a touch of mischief of her own, “What would you like? No, don't tell me, let me guess. Lemonade? Orangeade? Ginger Ale?”

“The last one sounds all right. Dry Ginger Ale. Oh, and a generous measure of whisky.”

She crossed her fingers and hoped this lighter mood would prevail. In combat with David she used herself up and she wanted to keep something in reserve, in case Justine had anything in store for her. It was bad enough fighting David; the prospect of fighting
for
him was not one she viewed with confidence. The new outfit had not provided the prop she thought it would despite, or perhaps
because
of, the prolonged inspection his eyes had given it.

When he appeared again, she found herself running her glance over his choice of attire with appreciation and a jolt of surprise. He, too, had opted for a change of image. In faded and obviously well-worn slacks that were an indiscriminate color between blue and grey and a dark red sweat shirt with a striped red-and-black scarf around his throat, he looked more like a beachcomber than a shrewd man of business. No, he looked less civilized than a beachcomber. A more barbaric character altogether. Yes, that was it, a pirate.

He approached her with a slow stride, even though his shower had done the revitalizing trick. His eyes strolled over her, the stubborn tilt of her chin, along her shoulder and down to the curve of her thigh, gently emphasized by the fit of her trousers. His finger trailed down accordingly, but instead of finishing the course it stayed in the shadowed hollow between her breasts.

“I don't care for my wife to show this much cleavage.”

At first she thought it was a joke, but then she saw he was deadly serious.

“I went to a lot of trouble to select this outfit. I'm not changing into something else.”

“I'm not asking you to. But if I were, you'd change. I'm warning you. Just because you're dressed like a tart, don't act like one.”

Her frustration and hurt wanted an outlet. She was afraid she would either strike him or burst into tears. The one would have been ineffective, the other humiliating, so she only turned away from him with a painful, sinking feeling.

The air conditioning of the hotel was something that was taken for granted, barely noticed even until it was left behind. Walking out into the oppressively warm evening, she perceived that the curious yellow light of the day had plunged into an even stranger honey glow.

“Will the rain hold off for the barbecue?” she asked.

“No,” David prophesied grimly. “Before the night's out we'll all be running for cover.”

What thoughts were going on behind that daunting frown? Trying to probe the puzzle of his funny mood, she asked, “Is it that stretch of road you were concerned about earlier?”

“No. I did what I set out to do. It should hold up as well as anywhere.”

She had supplied the opening. He obviously didn't want to tell her what was troubling him, so she let it drop.

A trail of people in antlike formation marked the route to the beach. The women stood out like a sprinkling of lotus petals in their pretty dresses or pants outfits, and she didn't feel at all outrageous in her choice.

The beach was already beginning to look quite crowded and the convivial atmosphere was infectious. Her nose tingled at the scent of wood smoke and roasted suckling pig; her blood danced to the music supplied by three
gitanos,
authentic Spanish gypsies in traditional costume.

A small welcome-to-the-party glass was put in her hand. She tipped it to her lips and drank fire. Her smarting eyes latched on to David's taunting grin.

“You could have warned me, you beast,” she said between gasps and splutters.

He took her hand and guided her to a vacant spot at one of the long tables that had been set up, temptingly arrayed with bowls containing crusty hunks of bread that smelled oven fresh, green salad, bottles of red and white wine, and pitchers of sangria afloat with fruit.

As the tables filled up, more bowls appeared, chunky with potatoes, and immense platters of chicken and suckling pig. Everything was refillable – as soon as the level of anything dropped, it was heaped up again, and the empty bottles of wine and pitchers of sangria were whisked away and replaced with new ones.

“Room for one more?”

Petrina's head jerked around to see Justine's sweetly smiling face fixed on David. She gulped. Her gaze flitted between David and Justine, assessing Justine's appearance, wanting to imprint on her mind David's reaction to his former lover in her presence. He edged nearer to her, but only to make room for Justine to sit next to him on his other side. His blank expression told her nothing she didn't already know – that he was adept at hiding his feelings.

Justine's black hair was worn piled high. She wore a heavy Aztec necklace that made her throat look even more fragile than usual, emphasizing her collarbone and drawing the eyes down to the seductive cling of her black dress of shimmering satin. Was this casual? It was so tight she might have been poured into it. The sheen of the material gave her thigh a gentle curve and showed up the slightest movement of stomach muscle. Only someone as snake-supple as Justine could have got away with such a highlighting effect; on her it was the most sensational thing Petrina had ever seen.

She was not unhappy to have her thoughts distracted by the ceremony of serving the punch. Huge vats were set alight and the potent liquid was ladled into glasses. She caught a glimpse of Ginny, who was seated a few tables away, a new superlook Ginny in a green dress, her blond hair free of the usual brown ribbon, falling in a silky flick to her shoulders.

When the dancing began, she saw that the majority of the women were kicking off their sandals and dancing barefoot. She followed suit.

Taking her into his arms, David looked down at her diminished height and said, “The falsehoods you women practice.”

“High heels are my only falsehood,” she asserted.

“Who should know that but I?” he said, crushing her more fiercely to his body.

The wine had affected her tongue. “That would be telling.”

“There's nothing to tell. I know.”

“Really?” His laugh grated on her nerves, goading her to add, “You know you were the first man to make love to me properly, I'll grant you that. But you can't know how many times I've been tempted before.”

“You knew your destiny at an early age. I spoiled you for other men.”

“That's an arrogant remark. Do you think yourself so superior that I can't find other men attractive?”

“You'd better not.”

“But you find other women attractive.”

“That's different.”

“How is it? You don't own me and you can't dictate how I feel. I'm an independent person. I'm my own woman.”

“You are my wife. You can only be as independent as I allow you to be.”

“That is the most biased male viewpoint I've ever heard.”

It wasn't even as though it was worth arguing about. She didn't want to be independent of him and she knew she could never become emotionally involved with anyone else. She loved him and he didn't have to force his mastery over her. But set against this was the driving force of her deeply hurt pride. She could not forget that he had told her she looked like a tart. If that weren't bad enough, he'd carried the insult a step further by warning her not to act like one. She wouldn't even know how, although doubtless she could get a few pointers by watching Justine.

She had to hit back and she did so by using his method, adapting his words to fit. “Just because you've adopted the clothes of a pirate it doesn't mean you have to get into the skin of the character.”

“Touché,” he said, and the quality of his slow-to-form smile made her almost hate him. The unreal honey dusk, etched his features into a malevolent mask. He was like a stranger to her.

“I don't want to dance anymore,” she said. It was a weary admission because it meant rejoining Justine. She wished Ginny and Bob were sitting at their table. Their cross quips would have gone a long way toward easing the atmosphere. It occurred to her that although she had spotted Ginny, she hadn't yet seen Bob. “Where's Bob? Have you seen him anywhere?”

David's answering tone of voice and the expression on his face baffled her. “No,” he said in bitterness. “He's sure to turn up. Your efforts won't have been in vain.”

Efforts? What he meant was beyond her.

As they walked away from the circle of dancers, his fingers crushed into her waist with savage deliberation, as if he didn't know his own strength or his power to hurt. It was the kind of cruelty that leaves the bloom on the skin, but bruises the heart.

He asked Justine for the next dance. It would have been ungallant of him not to, but Petrina watched the dark-haired beauty go into his arms with a hollow feeling deep in her stomach. Partners changed with the tempo of the music. But Justine's head was still in line with the flutter of David's red-and-black scarf. The total blackness of Justine's dress was relieved by her scarlet fingernails, predatory claws clinging to the darker red of David's shirt.

At the end of the dance, although she looked everywhere, there was no sign of David. Inevitably, she couldn't spot Justine anywhere either.

A hand touched her elbow. Her face leaped around.

“Sorry to disappoint you. It's only me.” The tone of voice matched her expression.

“Hello; Bob. I was wondering where you'd got to.”

“I came late. Your table seemed to have a full complement of people, so rather than crush in I found a place elsewhere. I wish somebody's face would light up for me as yours did just now.”

“How do you know my face wasn't lighting up for you?”

“Because people, meaning females of course, don't think of me in that way. They might say, ‘Good old Bob,' but their knees never buckle.”

“Anybody else but you, Bob, and I'd think they were fishing.”

She put her head on one side and perhaps looked at him for the first time. Not as a valuable part of her husband's team, but as a man. He had a powerful body, slightly overweight, but he had the height to carry it. He was younger than David. She gauged his age to be twenty-eight or nine. His hair was fair to sandy and he had an open, genial face. She didn't know why he was , running himself down because she thought he was quite attractive. When you get to know the character behind a face, personality and looks become indivisible, but she didn't think her opinion was guided too much by her liking for the man, although it must be influenced by it to some extent.

She would never forget Bob's kindness to her when she was in torment, wondering where David had spent their wedding night. Bob hadn't known how to tell her. He'd been red-faced with embarrassment and it must have stretched his loyalty to David, but he'd overcome his scruples and his awkwardness to let her know that her husband had used the spare bed in his room. For as long as she lived, she would love Bob for that.

She touched his hand, conveying her liking for him, not pausing to consider the folly of such an action. “You're selling yourself short, Bob. I think you're a very attractive, wonderful man.”