Whirlpool Page 13

  ‘And you, Damian Holt…’ wickedly, she touched both hands to his manhood, appraising the taut strength with which it rose from his loins to her‘ … you’ve grown, too.’

  His eyes were dark with passion. ‘It was worth waiting,’ he said softly, ‘to see you like this, so beautiful, so free. Worth every miserable, lonely moment.’

  He unfastened her cord trousers with sure fingers, I tugging them unhurriedly down over her hips. And then they were both unashamedly naked, embracing with gasping tenderness as their skin seemed to fuse. He rose over her, kissing her with an intensity that seemed to make her bones melt, robbing her of strength.

  This time it was her turn to knot her fingers in his hair as he brushed her breasts with his mouth, his breath warm against the aroused, delicate skin. She felt his tongue trace the shape of her nipples, felt the hunger of his teeth, almost painful, as he claimed the rosy flesh.

  Her need for him was like the thunder of the waterfall in her ears. She revelled in the pleasure of feeling him worship her body, as she had worshipped his, knowing that there would never be another man in her life. There never had been another man. Pie was everything to her, everything in the world …

  His name drifted through her mind like a poem as his kisses covered her stomach, the smooth curve of her abdomen, reaching the intolerably sensitive skin of her thighs.

  The emotion she’d felt so far had been only a teasing prelude to what she experienced now. She could not withstand Damian’s gentle insistence that she open herself to him. Her thighs relaxed, and his mouth had free rein to roam where it pleased, its sensual caress discovering all her secrets, discovering an intensity of sexual pleasure that Kirby had never known.

  There could be no inhibitions between them any more.

  As his tongue explored the melting centre of her need, tracing the electric pathways of pleasure that her body had never even known were there, she felt a sense of unity with him that transfigured everything else. The past, the future-none of the former or possible pa.ins mattered any more. Only this mattered—this searing present, this current between them that was dragging her relentlessly to the brink, dragging her to the dangerous precipice of fulfilment—

  As he had done a moment earlier, she was now compelled to arch away before it was too late, entreating him to have mercy.

  He rose to take her in his arms, looking down at the flushed oval of her face with infinite adoration.

  ‘I knew we would make love one day,’ he said, caressing the chestnut curls away from her face. ‘I’ve dreamed of it so many times, my love. In so many ways.

  And now my dream is alive, and in my arms—’ he bent to kiss her yielding mouth ‘—and so very, very beautiful.’

  She could only whisper his name as their bodies merged again, hands and lips mingling in the continuing arabesque of their passion. He was a lover with a passion she could only have imagined. With Keith, lovemaking had been kind, painless. But it had never approached the heights that Damian made her reach, teaching her to float in a new world, a new universe.

  He adored her with his whole body, treating her with overwhelming strength, and yet with a petal-soft delicacy, seeming to know the sensitive curves and hollows of her body better than she knew them herself.

  She had not known there were so many ways of being in love. She had not known there were so many ways to feel ecstasy. Finally she could bear it no longer, and dug her nails fiercely into his shoulders.

  ‘No more,’ she commanded with husky imperiousness. ‘Make love to me, Damian. Now.’

  ‘I’ve been waiting to hear you say that for a long time,’ he whispered, moving over her. He took her in his arms, his mouth covering hers. Without clumsiness, without haste, his body found the entrance to her own.

  And then he was entering her, and Kirby felt that fulfilment she had always known was there, and had never encountered before. A fulfilment so intense it was almost like pain, almost like losing her virginity all over again.

  She was liquid, drawing him in, so that he filled her utterly, sliding deep into his place within her body, until she felt him with every element of her womanhood, with her womb, with her soul.

  Kirby clung to him in abandon. At first his lovemaking was so gentle and slow that she moaned her frustration, until the power and intensity grew, a rhythmical, swelling movement that flooded her senses, so that pleasure was no longer just there, where their bodies joined, but everywhere, in every physical and spiritual inch of her.

  Nothing so intense could be prolonged for long. She did not want it to be prolonged, did not want artifice to come between them. Later, they would learn how to make this heaven last, make it fill whole nights and days.

  Right now, she craved union with him, consummation for what they had both wanted for so long. The movement of her body told him that without words, and he thrust into her with deliberate, irresistible skill, urging them both to the very edge, over the edge, into the thunder …

  She had an almost visionary memory of Sovereign Force, of the long, hurtling fall of all that vast weight of white water, dashing off the rocks, exploding into spray that danced with rainbows.

  And then she knew what the whirlpool was-the whirlpool that had haunted her half her life. It had her I in its arms, spinning her as if she were a leaf, drawing her into the chaotic centre of its power…

  But not with pain or fear. Instead, the power was a joy she’d never reached before, a bright force that she did not want to resist, even if she could have resisted.

  And beneath the swirling waters was not cold darkness, but dazzling light, heat, the energy of life itself, that was exploding from his body into hers.

  She did not know she was crying until Damian kissed the tears away from her wet lashes, whispering her name.

  He was still erect inside her, and he remained there as he kept kissing her, caressing her face, whispering endearments, as though he could not get enough of her, and no act of love could satisfy his desire for her.

  ‘Damian,’ she choked, ‘my darling…’

  ‘Was I too rough?’ he whispered. ‘I tried to hold back, but…’

  ‘You were—‘ Like a storm. Like a miracle. She couldn’t find the words, so she just closed her soaked lashes and held him tight.

  In this exquisite afterglow, it was an added bliss to feel him still within her body, still filling her soul with his heat. It prolonged the pleasure endlessly, kept the sweet ache alive.

  And as she felt him move again, she gasped, ‘Don’t you ever get enough?’

  ‘Not of you,’ he whispered. ‘Never enough of you, my love.’

  She arched on the peak of sensation. It was too soon to start again, too soon to plunge back into that engulfing whirlpool!

  But her voice rustled in her throat, saying otherwise.

  And, as the throbbing rhythm began again, it was no longer too soon. It was time, now, and again … and again …

  She was awakened by his kiss, centuries later.

  She surfaced from the warm depths of her sleep, clinging to him under the covers. ‘Damian?’

  ‘I’m sorry to wake you,’ he whispered. ‘But I have to go. And I couldn’t bear to leave without saying goodbye.’

  She was still dazed, and she opened her eyes in troubled confusion. Her tender nipples brushed cotton.

  They were in her bedroom, lying together in her bed. How had they got there?

  Then she remembered. Remembered him carrying her, naked and dreamy with love, in his arms. He had laid her on her own bed. And there he had taken her again, his passion inexhaustible, as drivingly urgent as that very first time, even though she’d lost count of the times they’d loved one another during this glorious night.

  ‘Don’t go,’ she pleaded, her mouth seeking his.

  ‘It’s six-thirty in the morning,’ he said, stroking her face. ‘Your staff will be arriving soon. And you can imagine how quickly gossip will spread if they find me here. I don’t want you to suffer that, Kirby. I
have to go.’

  ‘When will I see you?’ she begged.

  ‘At lunchtime. Meet me at L’Escargot at one-thirty.’

  ‘I’ll be there, my love.’

  ‘Go back to sleep now. You’ve earned it.’

  ‘Your clothes are still in the drier.’

  ‘Well, I hope your Mrs Carstairs doesn’t decide to arrive early,’ he smiled, ‘or she’s in for a shock.’

  He slipped out of bed, and Kirby looked up at his magnificent, naked body. She reached out and caressed him with the intimate possession that only a lover was allowed. ‘Damian,’ she whispered, ‘I’ve never experienced anything like that … not ever in my life.’

  ‘Nor me,’ he said. ‘Don’t remind me, Kirby. Or Braythorpe will never hear the end of it.’

  WHIRLPOOL 131

  ‘You’r amazing,’ she said, seeing what she had done to ,him. Don’t you ever get tired?’

  ‘I told you last night…’ he bent and kissed her lips lingeringly , … not of you.’

  Then he was gone.

  She lay curled up in the warm place he had left, her whole being concentrated on her love for him. She wanted to keep It there, preserve it inside her, and never let It go. But a night of unaccustomed passion had exhausted her, and she drifted swiftly back into the warm depths …

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  As SHE got out of the Jaguar in the restaurant car park, Kirby felt all the radiance of a woman in love. It was a feeling that could hardly be explained, a sensation of being more beautiful, more alive, more feminine than she had ever been before. A feeling that champagne, and not blood, was running in her veins, that life was no longer grey and empty, but an adventure of limitless beautiful possibilities.

  Even the weather had changed to echo her emotions.

  The rain of yesterday had cleared away in the night, and a brilliant cobalt sky arched overhead. It made a glorious backdrop to the rich autumn colours of the trees, whose red and gold leaves were barely stirring in the breeze. The sun was warm on her skin.

  She had chosen her clothes with care this morning, and she knew that the amethyst shade of her silk suit was one of her best colours. She had set it off with a cream scarf, and she felt instinctively that, if she could ever lay claim to beauty, she had it now.

  And there was another detail—one which she wondered rather uncomfortably whether Damian would notice: just before coming out, she had twisted the wedding-ring from the third finger of her left hand.

  It had given her heart an agonising wrench to do so.

  She’d closed her eyes, and seen Keith’s gentle smile.

  Remembered the day he had put it on, in the old church in Braythorpe’s main square. Five years of marriage, cut short by a tragic motorway accident. Five years of her life, coming to an end. She’d felt the tears spill unchecked from her eyes, and slide hotly down her cheeks.

  She’d said a silent goodbye to her late husband, paying tribute to his goodness, his kindness, his humanity.

  Then she’d taken a deep, shuddering breath, and had laid the braided gold band down on her dressing-table.

  Drying her tears, she had told herself that Keith was gone. That he would not have wanted her to remain alone. That she was not being unfaithful to his memory.

  She would always remember him with love, and with respect. And, if she did nothing else in her life, she had long ago vowed that she would make sure Keith’s company continued as he would have wanted it to.

  And she was going to carry that intention through.

  But one phase of her life had ended now. And another was just beginning. She had no choice but to go on with her life.

  Now, as she walked to the restaurant, she felt joy flood her at the prospect of seeing Damian again. Her heart was trembling with excitement.

  Not that he had been away from her thoughts for a second of this beautiful day. If she needed no other reminder, the intimate throbbing of her loins spoke of the rampant desire he had shown last night, the hunger that could not apparently be slaked. It was a sweetly tender memory of what he had done to her. Of how well he had loved her … better than she had ever been loved before.

  She fought down the memories as she walked into the foyer of L’Escargot, to be welcomed by Maurice,the smiling maitre d’hotel. He kissed her hand as always, greeting her in French. She exchanged a few pleasantries in the same language as he led her into the restaurant.

  ‘Voila, ‘ Maurice smiled, ushering her forward. ‘Mon amis, Madame Waterford.’

  Damian rose from his chair, his handsome face wearing, most unusually for him, no expression at all.

  His eyes were dark and sombre. Kirby felt her own vulnerable smile fade in confusion as he extended a formal hand to greet her, instead of the tender kiss she had expected.

  And then—how could she have been so blind? A woman’s ridiculous emotion had put blinkers on her—she finally noticed Wendy Catchpole, seated at Damian’s side.

  The wide, rather cold green eyes met hers with a shock like iced water on warm skin.

  ‘Hello, Kirby,’ Damian said coolly. ‘Wendy came back early from London. I thought she might as well come along to our little … business lunch.’ His eyes were on hers all the time, and he was obviously picking his words with great care. ‘I hope you don’t mind?’

  ‘I don’t mind at all,’ Kirby heard her own voice say, almost naturally. ‘Hello, Wendy. Nice to see you back in Braythorpe.’ She felt the momentary cool pressure of the other woman’s fingers on her own. Then she sank down into her seat, just before her legs gave way.

  Wendy tossed her long blonde hair back. ‘Yes,’ she said with her slightly metallic laugh, ‘it seems I got back just in time. Darling Damian was nowhere to be found when I got to the hotel late last night. And he didn’t come home until breakfast-time this morning, with some story about a reunion with old classmates. Highly suspicious, wouldn’t you say, Kirby?’

  Kirby felt a sick pain flood her stomach, filling her with nausea. ‘Not necessarily,’ she forced herself to reply, not meeting Damian’s eyes. ‘Your fiance has lots of friends in this area. They probably sat drinking whisky until dawn.’

  ‘I do hope you’re right,’ the blonde said. She laughed again, and stroked Damian’s cheek with scarlet-nailed fingers. ‘Not that I’m going to make a fuss, darling, am I? We agreed that we weren’t going to be stupidly possessive about each other. Our marriage is going to be sophisticated and modern-like us.’ She kissed his cheek, her lipsticked mouth almost touching Damian’s. ‘We don’t let insignificant little details come between us. We keep our attention on the important things of life.’

  ‘How nice,’ Kirby said with an empty smile. She prayed that her face hadn’t gone as white as it felt. She still could not bear to look at Damian.

  This was unbearable.

  She’d left all this behind her six years ago.

  This bitter, bitter experience of sitting with Damian while another woman-a woman whose rights over him she would never have-stroked his cheek and flirted, and revelled in her possession. This wretched, silent misery compounded of jealousy, hopelessness, and that awful, crushing sense of inferiority.

  If her legs had retained any strength, she’d have got up right then and walked out without a backward glance.

  But she knew that if she stood up now she would probably crumple, and make an utter, irreclaimable fool of herself. Damn him. Damn him.

  ‘That’s a very pretty colour,’ Wendy commented with gracious condescension. ‘It really quite suits you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied in the same insincere tone as the compliment had been delivered. ‘I like your jacket.It looks like Chanel?’

  ‘It is Chanel,’ Wendy said, touching the gold buttons.

  ‘There’s something different about you, Kirby… have you changed your hairstyle?’

  ‘No,’ she replied.

  ‘There is a difference,’ Wendy insisted.

  Damian turned to the maitre d’hotel. ‘Vous avez
La carte, s’il vous plait, Maurice?’

  ‘Oui, Monsieur Holt,’ he beamed, snapping his fingers at one of the waiters to bring the menus over to their table. ‘There are fresh oysters today, and the lobster is excellent. Enjoy your meal.’

  ‘It’s really too funny,’ Wendy drawled as Maurice left.

  ‘A pretentious restaurant like this, in a sleepy little backwater like Braythorpe. Oysters and lobsters! Whatever next?’

  ‘Maurice used to work in the Savoy Grill,’ Damian said mildly, opening the menus, and passing one to Kirby.

  ‘So did the chef. You won’t find the food pretentious.’