Whirlpool Read online

  ‘Don’t you get mists in London?’ she asked him sarcastically.

  ‘Not like this,’ he replied, closing the door on the swirling white nimbus. He shrugged off the sheepskin Jacket, revealing that he wore clothes similar to hers beneath―denims that hugged his lean hips and powerful thighs, and a chunky black sweater that was amply filled by his broad shoulders.

  He surveyed her. ‘My God. You look almost like Kirby Bryant again instead of Mrs Keith Waterford.’

  She folded her arms belligerently. ‘You mean I look a mess?’

  ‘I mean you look delicious,’ he smiled. ‘Tweed suits and silk blouses are all very well in their place, but…’

  He turned and glanced around the spacious hallway. ‘So this is the Lodge. Not bad. Must cost a fortune to heat.’

  She led him to the drawingroom, where the fire was crackling. ‘I expect you have a palatial residence of your own somewhere in Hampstead or St John’s Wood?’

  ‘I have a bachelor flat in the West End,’ he replied.

  He studied the handsome Victorian furnishings of the drawingroom. ‘Very elegant. Very dignified. But doesn’t all the elegance and dignity suffocate you sometimes?’

  ‘I cope,’ she said drily.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Perfectly. I’m not the naive little girl whose heart you broke six years ago.’

  ‘Did I break your heart?’ he asked in a soft voice that gave her goosebumps.

  ‘In any case,’ she said, not answering his question, ‘your fiancee Wendy doesn’t strike me as the sort of girl who’d fit into a bachelor flat in the West End. So you’d better start reconciling yourself to that palatial house in Hampstead … darling Damian.’

  She had tilted her oval face up at him challengingly.

  Unexpectedly, he reached out, and touched the lustrous chestnut curls that framed her face. His voice was husky.

  ‘I’d give a lot to hear you say that as though you meant it, Kirby.’

  His touch was so gentle. Suddenly, she was drowning in those slate-blue eyes. She felt her heart turn over inside her breast, her legs becoming weak. She shut her eyes for a moment, then turned away. ‘I’ve asked you not to flirt with me, Damian,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘It was never a game to me, not even six years ago. Far less now.’ She pressed her damp palms to her denims.

  ‘Now,’ she went on, trying to sound normal, ‘can I make you a cup of tea or coffee? Or would you prefer something stronger?’

  Damian smiled. ‘Would you have any whisky about the place?’

  She poured him a single malt, and herself a smaller version of the same drink. She hated strong spirits, but she was hoping the alcohol would lend strength to her weak legs.

  He toasted her silently, then gestured to the sofa in front of the fire. ‘Let’s sit down and talk, Kirby.’

  She cleared the pile of magazines to make a space for them. He took them from her, and glanced at the glossy covers. ‘You read a lot of these. The occupation of a lonely woman?’

  She flushed. ‘I like to keep up with the fashions.’

  ‘Who for?’

  ‘For myself,’ she retorted. ‘And for the men in my life. They do seem to notice what I wear.’

  ‘The men in your life?’ he echoed.

  ‘There’s no shortage,’ she said defiantly.

  ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘There never was. I used to notice that.’

  ‘My memories are rather the other way round,’ she replied pointedly. ‘It was you who enjoyed breaking hearts. But we’re not here to discuss ancient history.’

  Damian glanced at her in amusement. Her full, soft mouth was compressed into a determined line, and her normally gentle eyes were narrowed defensively. ‘All right. Down to business.’ They sat down in opposite corners of the sofa, facing each other within touching distance. He drank, then put the glass down. ‘Well, I’ve spoken to both Sir Malcolm Denison and Roderick Braithwaite, and you’re right. Both are making a determined bid for the chairmanship of Waterford Electronics. On paper, Sir Malcolm Denison is the more serious contender-he holds a lot of shares. Not as many as you, of course. Keith was careful to retain enough of the stock to make a take-over bid difficult, and that stock has passed to you. But Denison holds enough to make a lot of trouble if he chose to sell out to another company which was, shall we say, strong-minded about the direction Waterford Electronics should take.’

  Kirby nodded. ‘You said “on paper”.’

  ‘Yes. Braithwaite holds fewer shares. But he does have a very thorough knowledge of Waterford Electronics, and if he takes that to a rival company he could do you a lot of damage. Also, he’s apparently a good manager, and would be a loss to the firm.’

  She studied Damian as he outlined the position. He had always been a magnificently good-looking man, Now that he was in his mid-thirties, maturity was adding an even more potent dimension to his allure.

  And he had something else. Sex appeal. Not all handsome men had it-no more than all beautiful women.

  He had charisma, that almost electric aura that surrounded many very successful men. It seemed to crackle in the air, smoulder in those grey-blue eyes. It would have made him a wildly attractive man even if he’d been ordinary-looking. As it was, the combination was devastating. Damian was quite simply, she thought dreamily, the most attractive man she would ever know.

  ‘Are you listening?’ he challenged. ‘Don’t go to sleep on me, Kirby.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, sitting up straighter. ‘I was concentrating, really.’

  ‘You looked as though you were dreaming of the hills of heaven,’ he commented. He ran his lean fingers through his thick, dark hair, raking it back from his temples. The crow’s-feet that were starting to deepen at the corners of his eyes creased into a wry smile. ‘Up till now,’ he went on, ‘I get the impression that Roderick Braithwaite and Sir Malcolm Denison have more or less cancelled each other out. Am I right?’

  She nodded. ‘There’s always been antagonism between the two men. It’s more a matter of character than opinion, because both of them―in my woman’s-eye view, at least―have got the same ruthless attitude towards Waterford Electronics. You know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘They’ve both got very definite ideas about the future of the company.’

  ‘Since Keith died, they’ve been clashing horns almost constantly. It disrupts the board meetings terribly, and I’m worn out with it.’ She gave Damian a sad shrug.

  ‘I’m the one who takes the final brunt of the collision. In the ten months since Keith’s death I’ve learned one lesson very thoroughly.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Being chairman of Waterford Electronics means taking uncomplaining responsibility for everything nasty that happens, whether it’s my ,fault or not. And now I have an ominous feeling that something nasty is about to happen.’

  ‘Your ominous feeling is right,’ Damian assented.

  ‘Roderick Braithwaite and Sir Malcolm Denison may be about to join forces.’

  ‘Oh, no! How did you find that out?’

  ‘I’ve had a lot of experience in uncovering company plots,’ he pointed out drily. ‘It was inevitable. If they start working together, instead of clashing horns, as you put it, they feel they may be able to successfully challenge your authority. They think they can get enough of the rest of the board to go their way, and do what they want with the company.’ He surveyed Kirby’s dismayed expression. ‘All this will likely come out in next Friday’s board meeting.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ she sighed, resting her head in her hand.

  ‘That’s the bad news.’

  She looked up quickly. ‘Is there good news?’

  ‘There might be,’ he nodded.

  ‘You’ve found a way of stopping them?’

  ‘Oh, yes. But you may not like it.’

  ‘Try me,’ she invited quietly.

  He grinned, showing his beautiful white teeth. ‘Not so fast. I’m starving. Got anyt
hing to eat in this chateau?’

  ‘There’s some cottage pie,’ she said doubtfully. ‘But I suppose that’s too unsophisticated for your tastes…’

  ‘Cottage pie sounds perfect.’

  ‘If you wait here, I’ll bring a tray.’

  ‘Nonsense. We can eat in the kitchen. I’ll come and help.’

  She led him to the kitchen. It was a typically spacious Victorian kitchen, the original copper pots and pans still gleaming on the walls, though all the appliances were, naturally, modern.

  Damian looked around quizzically. ‘I thought places like this only existed in TV costume dramas.’

  ‘So did I, until I got married.’ She took the cottage pie out of the fridge, and removed the cling-film.

  He inspected it. ‘All your own work?’

  ‘Actually, Mrs Carstairs made it for me.’

  ‘Mrs Carstairs?’

  ‘The housekeeper.’

  He nodded. ‘Of course. No doubt there are a bevy of chambermaids and footmen, too.’

  ‘There are two girls who help Mrs Carstairs,’ she replied.

  ‘All just to wait on little old you?’

  ‘A big house like this takes a lot of running, she said stiffly. ‘Of course, there was more point to the staff when Keith was alive. We entertained a lot. I could manage without them now. But why should I do them out of a job just because I’ve suffered?’

  ‘A fine sentiment.’

  ‘I’m a sentimental person,’ she said shortly, catching the mockery in his words. She put the cottage pie in the microwave oven, and laid two places at the pine kitchen table where she was accustomed to eat these days.

  Damian watched her, his smile more in those slate-blue eyes than on the chiselled mouth. ‘And you needn’t worry about the meal,’ she told him. ‘Mrs Carstairs is an excellent cook.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve never had to soil a dainty finger since the day you married Keith?’

  ‘Mum taught me to cook, as you very well know.’ She couldn’t help a counter-gibe. ‘And your dear Wendy? Can she boil an egg?’

  ‘Not on your life,’ he grinned. ‘Wendy can’t even use a can-opener.’

  ‘Poor you.’ She turned away to hide her pleasure at hearing there was something the perfect Wendy couldn’t do. ‘Should I open a bottle of wine?’

  ‘Naturally. Shall I go down to the cellar and fetch madam a bottle of the Mouton Rothschild ‘32?’

  She smiled despite herself. ‘That won’t be necessary. I have some good Spanish Rioja right here.’ She handed him the corkscrew. ‘You can do the honours.’

  Ten minutes later, they were sitting down to the hot food opposite each other. ‘You’re right,’ Damian said appreciatively. ‘Your Mrs Carstairs is a good cook.’

  ‘Cooking isn’t really a part of her duties. She just does it out of kindness now and then.’

  He filled her glass. ‘Would it be classed as flirting,’ he asked, ‘if I said how much I’ve missed you in these past six years, Kirby?’

  ‘Perhaps not flirting,’ she replied, ‘but certainly a lie. You haven’t given me a thought since you left Braythorpe.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ Damian said gently. ‘I don’t think a day has gone by when I haven’t thought of you.’

  Her appetite had suddenly gone, and she could hardly touch the food. She forced herself to sound flippant.

  ‘One thought a day in six years? That means you’ve had two thousand one hundred and ninety thoughts of me.’

  ‘You always had a quick brain for maths,’ he smiled.

  ‘But you’ve left out the leap year. Two thousand one hundred and ninety-one. And you?’

  ‘And me―what?’

  His eyes held hers. ‘How often have you thought of me?’

  ‘I’m afraid my mental powers aren’t up to that calculation. You’d need a super-computer.’

  And immediately she bitterly regretted giving him that mortifying insight into her heart. The whisky and the wine must have loosened her tongue disastrously for her to have spoken so foolishly!

  Damian was studying her intently. ‘Did you love Keith?’ he asked.

  ‘What sort of question is that?’ she said angrily. ‘Of course I did!’

  ‘I think it’s a fair question―when you’ve just admitted that you never stopped thinking of me.’

  ‘I didn’t say my thoughts were kind ones,’ she retorted, her flush deepening. ‘For all you know I might have cursed you every time!’

  ‘You might,’ he conceded. ‘But 1don’t think you did, somehow.’

  ‘Your vanity was always colossal,’ she said nastily. ‘Let’s get back to business, Damian. What’s this masterplan you have to save Waterford Electronics for me?’

  ‘I haven’t worked out all the details yet,’ he replied easily, refilling her glass. ‘I’d prefer to wait until I have before explaining it to you.’

  ‘And how long will that be?’

  ‘Have patience. Not your strong point, I know.’

  ‘I have great patience!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Have you? You rushed into marriage with a singular lack of it, I thought.’

  ‘Indeed!’ she snapped back. ‘Would you rather I’d spent the past six years crying in that summer-house? I had a life to lead, Damian. And, as I’ve just told you, I loved Keith very much. He was a wonderful husband and, a bare year after his death, 1really don’t think you have the right to―the right to―'

  She choked on the lump that rose up in her throat, no matter how hard she fought it down. Furiously determined not to break down in front of Damian, she pushed her chair back and left the table. She walked quickly into the hall, and stood there with clenched fists, taking shaky breaths to try to control her anger and grief.

  Damn him! And damn her own vulnerability! When was she ever going to learn any sense as far as Damian Holt was concerned?

  She felt his presence behind her, but did not turn.

  His hands took her shoulders gently, then ran down her arms in a slow caress. ‘I’m sorry,’ she heard his deep voice murmur. ‘I was a pig. I’ll never say that again.’

  ‘You were right,’ she replied in a tight voice. ‘You haven’t changed at all, Damian.’

  ‘No.’ Her heart lurched as she felt his arms slide around her. ‘Nothing has changed,’ he whispered. He drew her close against his warm body. His mouth was buried in the soft tangle of her chestnut hair. ‘Nothing,’ he repeated.

  Kirby found she was shaking. She wanted to break free of this wonderful, terrible embrace; but all she could do was lean against him, weak as water.

  Damian’s hands caressed her tenderly. ‘Nobody said this was going to be easy,’ he murmured. ‘I warned you it might be difficult.’

  ‘You didn’t say it might be impossible,’ she whispered.

  He turned her around to face him. Her oval face looked up at him defencelessly, her eyes dark with emotion. ‘Nothing’s impossible, Kirby,’ he said. He studied her from under hooded lids. ‘You’re so very beautiful,’ he told her, his fingertips trailing down the smooth skin of her cheek. ‘Your skin glows like ivory. Cool, pale, smooth.’

  And then he cupped her face in his hands, and brushed her lips with his.

  His kiss was little more than a touch. The warmth of his mouth was against hers for a moment, no more. But she felt the reaction sweep across her skin in a wave of goose-flesh, and her eyes closed helplessly. He whispered her name, and kissed her again, his arms drawing her close to him.

  This time the kiss was not just a delicate brushing of velvety lips. This time his kiss contained passion. Like the kisses he’d given her six years ago, in the darkness of the garden, when the miracle had seemed to be happening.

  Kirby’s lips parted under the gentle onslaught. She felt him take the softness of her lower lip between his white teeth, biting almost cruelly, until she whimpered. Immediately, his tongue sought forgiveness, tracing the shape of her mouth, meeting the sensitive tip of her own tongue.

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sp; It was as though she had no control over her own body. Her slender arms crept around his neck of their own accord, pulling his head to her, inviting him to kiss her harder, more fiercely …

  Damian’s hand had slid under the soft angora wool, and his palm was caressing her ribs. The aroused condition of her skin made his touch almost a torment as it drifted slowly towards the curve of her breasts …

  Kirby was a petite woman, and she seldom wore a bra unless it was strictly necessary. Already the naked skin of her breasts was tightening unbearably at his approaching caress. She could not bite back her moan of reaction as his hand cupped the gentle swell of her breast, stroking the satin-smooth skin tantalisingly as his tongue plundered the deep inner secrets of her mouth.