Edge of Temptation Read online

  'Would you—er—would you like some coffee?' she asked, straightening, and after a moment he made an assenting gesture.

  'Thank you. Can I do anything?'

  Catherine licked her dry lips. 'You—you could feed some logs on to the fire,' she offered. 'When—when the flames are strong enough.'

  Rafe inclined his head, and she went towards him, halting uncertainly until he had moved out of the doorway to allow her to pass through.

  In the kitchen, her fingers were all thumbs. She stripped off her aunt's jacket, and while the percolator was bubbling, she cast an unsatisfactory glance at her reflection in the polished chrome. Strands of fine hair were curling on her forehead, and the long coil of honey-brown hair was an untidy curtain about her shoulders. She didn't have time now to secure it properly, but she gathered it all together and wound it round her hand before holding it at her nape and pressing in a couple of hairpins.

  When she returned to the living room, the fire was blazing warmly, fresh logs spitting sparks into the wide chimney. In the lamplight, the room had a disturbing intimacy, a feeling which was enhanced by Rafe stretched lazily on the couch before the fire, staring broodingly into the flames. He had shed his leather jacket, and the opened neck of his shirt revealed the strong brown column of his throat and the gold medallion that glittered there.

  He rose to his feet, however, as she entered the room with the tray, taking it from her willing fingers and setting it down on the hearth rug. Then he waited for her to sit down before reseating himself.

  'Oh, please—' Catherine gestured awkwardly, feeling more in control of the situation while she was on her feet. 'Do sit down. I—er—I'll pour the coffee.'

  'You can do that just as well from the couch,' he pointed out quietly, and as she sought for some excuse to escape his nearness, he regarded her between narrowed lids.

  Realising he had given her no real reason to avoid him, she felt obliged to do as he suggested. But it was with some misgivings that she came round the end of the couch and perched precariously on the end as she bent to the tray.

  Rafe came down beside her, his weight depressing the cushions. 'Will—will you take cream?' she ventured chokily, and he asked for sugar with no cream. He seemed to have deliberately seated himself near her, and when she sat back to drink her coffee, her elbow brushed his arm. Immediately she shifted slightly to avoid the contact, drinking her coffee far too hastily, and almost scalding her mouth in the process. Was it only her nerves that sensitised the silence between them? Why couldn't she think of something to say? Thomas! Yes, that was it. She would ask him about Thomas. He at least was a harmless subject.

  But even as her lips parted to say the words, she felt his fingers at her nape, removing the hairpins, allowing the heavy weight of her hair to fall silkily about her shoulders. Then, when her heart was drumming in her ears, his fingers moved from her neck to trace an invisible line across her shoulder and down the quivering length of her arm.

  'Why do you fasten your hair in a knot?' he demanded, in a low voice. 'I like it much better loose—like it is now.'

  Catherine put down her cup and drew a steadying breath. 'You—you have no right to—to touch my hair—'

  'I know that.'

  '—and—and aren't you worried that someone might see your car outside? I mean—I mean, it would be far more damning for someone to see it there at—at this time of night—'

  'I know it.' But he wasn't looking at her face. His attention was all concentrated on the hand he had captured and was presently stroking with his tongue.

  'Oh, God, Rafe—' Her cry was desperate, as she tried to drag her hand from his grasp. 'You mustn't…'

  'On the contrary…' He lifted his eyes, and her pulses raced at the raw emotion she saw there. 'I must—or go quietly out of my mind.' And his hand at her nape propelled her mouth to his.

  It was like drowning, she thought fatalistically, trying futilely to keep her head. In spite of her opposition, his lips were parting hers without effort, and the plundering urgency of his mouth had a suffocating sweetness. She felt herself sinking back against the cushions, his weight crushing her breasts, the wine-dark intoxication- of his kiss silencing her conscience. For so long she had kept even thoughts of him at a distance, but now all that was real was his touch and his nearness, and the male scent of him that acted like a stimulant on her already heated senses.

  'Catherine,' he groaned, his mouth moving from hers to the hollow beneath her ear, while his hand slid beneath the concealing sweater to the swollen fullness of her breast. 'Beautiful,' he murmured, pushing the offending woollen aside, his tongue finding the tautness of her nipple and caressing it eagerly. 'Beautiful…'

  'Rafe…' His name was less an appeal for his withdrawal than a protest of embarrassment that he should see her thus, but his eyes mocked her reluctant denial.

  'I'd like to see all of you,' he muttered huskily. 'Don't stop me…'

  It was a devastating, intimate experience, made the more so by her own increasing awareness of the length of his lean body beside hers. With his leg thrown across her, she could not avoid the knowledge of the hardening muscles of his thighs, and while there was a wild delight in knowing she could arouse him this way, she could not deny a certain apprehension as to his intentions. How did he regard her? Did he think she was a liberated woman of the world? A free-thinking emancipationist with the experience of other affairs behind her? Had he any idea how inexperienced she was? Did he realise, for example, that no other man had ever been this close to her, that no other man had even been permitted the intimacy of kissing her as he was doing?

  But when his mouth sought hers again, reason was stifled. Whether it was the isolation of this room like some suspended moment in time when everything and everybody ceased to exist but their two selves, she didn't know, but she felt her hands reaching for him, curling into the hair at his nape, holding him closer. This was more real, more exciting, more pervasive than any of the fantastic dreams she had had about him, and infinitely more disturbing. She had not known how he might make her feel, how wanton her emotions could be, or suspected the aching longing he was arousing in her loins, a yearning for fulfilment that that only he could assuage.

  Her hands slid from around his neck, parting the buttons of his shirt so that the hair-roughened skin of his chest rubbed abrasively against her breasts. It was an inflammatory experience, but when her hands moved lower, eager to explore further, Rafe made a tortured sound of protest, and dragged himself away from her to sit on the side of the couch.

  'God!' he muttered shakily, raking back his hair with unsteady hands. 'What do you think you're doing to me?'

  Catherine froze. Then she pulled her sweater into place with trembling fingers. 'I'm sorry,' she said, unable to disguise the tremor in her voice, 'I—I thought that was what you wanted.'

  'What I wanted?' He stared at her with tormented eyes.

  'Well, wasn't it?' Somehow she had to sustain her composure here, but it wasn't going to be easy when every nerve in her body was crying out for a satisfaction it had not attained. 'I—I thought you said—'

  'I know what I said,' he interrupted her harshly. 'But I'm not an animal! I'm a thinking, reasoning human being!'

  Catherine's tongue appeared momentarily. 'You—you don't want me, then?' The words stuck in her throat.

  'Want you?' He clenched his fists on his knees. 'God! Of course I want you—I can't hide that. But, unlike the men you're probably used to associating with, I find I can't— use you. You're not like the other women I've—' He broke off in disgust. 'I'm sorry, I'm doing this badly. I'm afraid I don't go in for this sort of thing.'

  'I see.' With controlled movements Catherine swung her feet to the floor, and got up from the couch. 'You think I do.'

  He looked up at her. 'I didn't say that.'

  'You didn't have to.' Her lips tightened. 'But, unlikely as it may seem to you, I've had very little experience with men.'

  Rafe made a dismissing gest
ure. 'You don't have to humour me, you know.' He shook his head impatiently. 'I may be old-fashioned in some ways, but I have heard of the pill.'

  Catherine's jaw trembled, as he got to his feet to face her. 'You—you prig!' she got out jerkily. 'You—you sit there—'

  'I'm standing now.'

  '—and—and tell me you've heard about the pill! As if I was some kind of—of female stud! That—that unlike the other men I've known—known, mark you, in the biblical sense, of course, you can't—can't use me!'

  'It was meant as a sign of the respect I have for you,' he protested quietly, but Catherine was not listening to him.

  'What's the matter?' she taunted. 'Aren't I good enough for you? Don't I have the right background? Is laying a shopgirl not to the taste of the next Lord Penwyth—'

  'Catherine, for God's sake—'

  'What makes you so sure I'd—I'd have let you—use me?' she demanded. 'I'm not an instrument, to be—to be used to satisfy any man's cravings, least of all yours!'

  'Catherine, listen to me—'

  'No. Why should I?' She turned her back on him, striving desperately to retain what little self-respect she had left. 'You come in here without invitation, you drink my coffee, you share my fire—'

  '—and try not to abuse your hospitality!' he muttered savagely. 'God, Catherine, do you think I wanted to let you go?'

  Almost against his will, he moved behind her, his hands closing on her hips, drawing her back against the swollen muscle between his legs.

  'Does this feel as if I want to let you go?' he demanded, his breathing harsh and laboured. 'My God, do you know what holding you like this does to me?' His lips brushed her hair. 'We're alone here, and God knows, I don't want to leave you. I want to hold you—and love you—and sleep with you—'

  'No!' Catherine knew she dared not let him go on. Whatever happened now, she could never be sure she had not instigated this, and in any case, with the return of sanity, she knew he was right. He would have no respect for her if she gave in to the emotions that were tearing her to pieces. Wanting wasn't enough. There had to be more than that. And he had no more to give.

  'Catherine…'

  His hoarse whisper was seducing, weakening her resistance, inciting the desire to surrender, but somehow she managed to pull herself away from him. 'Don't touch me!' she choked, steeling herself for his protest, but it never came. It was as if that phrase held some special message for him, and with a stifled imprecation he left her, snatching up his jacket as he crossed the room, striding out of the house without another word.

  With his going, a terrible emptiness possessed her. While he was there, in the room with her, even when they were arguing together, she had felt fully alive, for the first time in her life. But now she was alone, and she had never known such a sense of deprivation.

  Sinking down on to her knees on the hearth before the fire, Catherine wrapped her arms protectively around herself, as if that small gesture might ward off the sense of despair she was experiencing. She should never have let him come here, never have allowed him into the house. The desperation she was feeling right now made a mockery of her earlier anxieties about her car. It seemed such a small problem, compared to her feelings for Rafe, feelings which had crystallised in those minutes when he had held her in his arms. Until then she had been able to fool herself that she was imagining the way she felt, there had been nothing on which to base the belief that she loved him. That was no longer true. Lying in his arms, she had been unable to deny the depth of her emotions, and knowing he belonged to another woman was the cruellest kind of torture. Her mind was tormented by images of him and Lucy together. Could he turn from her to his wife without hesitation? Would he—use Lucy, as a palliative, an assuagement, without fear of the complications any other relationship might bring? He had wanted her—she acknowledged that. But that could mean anything, particularly with a man who undoubtedly was no amateur when it came to making love…

  She slept badly, waking fitfully throughout the night, listening to the rain drumming on the windows, and the wind soughing through the trees in the gardens of Pembroke Square. The morning was not much brighter. The local radio station had news of roads being blocked by fallen branches, and the Llanbara had flooded some cottages in the valley.

  Listening to the newscaster's words, Catherine couldn't deny a certain anxiety as to whether Rafe had made it home safely. What if the road had flooded? What if he had been stranded? Surely he would not have spent the night in the car, without any heating to ward off the cold.

  Washing her breakfast dishes, and feeding her toast to the birds, she forced herself to think sensibly. Rafe Glyndower was not her concern. He never had been. And just because, in a weak moment, he had succumbed to a purely physical attraction, did not mean she had any right to worry about him. She must put what happened yesterday completely out of her mind. It might even be better if she returned Juniper to the stables at Penwyth. That way, she would have less reason to spend time at the farm, or run the risk of encountering Rafe again.

  She had to leave for work earlier than usual, because she had to walk. It was fortunate the wind had dropped a little, or her umbrella would have been of little use to her, and Mary Grant gazed at her in surprise as she approached along the High Street.

  'Where's your car?' she asked, as inquisitive as usual, and Catherine had to admit that Owen had ditched it the night before. 'So how did you get home?' Mary pressed her, eager to know all the facts of the case, and with some misgivings Catherine said that Owen had run her home in the Land Rover.

  'Oh, poor you!' Mary grimaced. 'I've seen that smelly old thing about the town. Does he ever clean it?' 'Does it matter?'

  Catherine was short with her, but she couldn't help it. The last thing she needed was Mary's inconsequent chatter, and the girl went off to make some coffee with a barely-concealed air of injustice.

  The telephone rang almost before Catherine had had time-to gather herself. It jangled noisily in her small office, aggravating the slight ache that was making itself felt behind her temples, and she reached wearily for the receiver. 'Yes? Catherine Tempest speaking.' 'Miss Tempest?' The voice was unfamiliar to her. 'This is Blake's Service Station here. We've got your car here for repair.'

  Catherine gulped. 'You have?' She hadn't thought anyone would have known about it yet.

  'Yes.' The man went on: 'Mr Glyndower contacted us first thing this morning, so naturally we got on to it right away.'

  Naturally! Catherine's mouth was dry. 'Well—thank you.' She hesitated. 'Do you—er—can you tell me what's wrong with it?'

  'Yes, miss. I've examined the vehicle, and I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. The exhaust system has been damaged beyond repair, and unfortunately the angle of the ditch caused it to fracture the brake pipe, too.'

  'Oh, damn!' Catherine rested her elbow on the desk, supporting her head with one hand. 'So what does that mean?'

  'It means a new exhaust system, and a new brake pipe, Miss Tempest.'

  Catherine sighed. 'And—can you do it?'

  'Oh, yes, we can do it. The exhaust system presents no problems whatsoever. If it was only that we could have it done for you by tomorrow at the latest, maybe even this afternoon. But the brake pipe might take longer. We'll have to send for one of those, you see, and that could take two or three days.'

  'Oh, well…' Catherine really had no choice in the matter—'Please—go ahead. Do what you have to.'

  'Very good, miss. I'll let you know how long it will take later in the day.'

  'Thank you.'

  Catherine replaced the receiver with a heavy heart, although at least the call had dispelled her anxieties about Rafe. He must have returned home safely, and with his usual attention to detail he had not forgotten his promise to contact the garage. It was chilling really, realising that after all that had happened he could still behave with detachment.

  Mary came back with her coffee, raising her eyebrows at the telephone. 'That wasn't David Maxwel
l, was it?' she probed. 'I've told him not to ring me at work, but you know what boys are like.'

  'No, it wasn't David Maxwell,' agreed Catherine resignedly. 'It was the garage in Penwyth, letting me know the damage that's been done to the Renault.'

  'Oh?' Mary looked intrigued. 'I didn't realise you'd called out the garage last night.'

  Catherine opened her mouth to explain, and then closed it again. 'A new exhaust system, and a new brake pipe,' she volunteered after tasting her coffee. 'Hmm, this is just what I needed.'

  She did play with the idea of calling Rafe and thanking him for his assistance, but it was quickly squashed. For one thing, his wife probably knew nothing about the previous evening's events, and for another, she had no intention of allowing him to speculate that perhaps she had regretted the way the evening had ended. That information was strictly classified, and no one must ever know exactly how much Rafe had hurt her.

  She had only a sandwich at lunchtime, poring over some invoices in her office while Mary went to meet her latest boy-friend. She could hear if anyone came into the shop, and as lunchtime was not normally a busy period, she was surprised when she heard the sound of someone moving about among the racks of dresses.

  Putting her sandwich down, she came out of the office, and then frowned when the shop appeared to be empty. She could have sworn she had heard someone, and she went to check that the till had not been tampered with, turning down the audio-equipment at the same time.

  A rustle of material brought her round with a start, then her lips parted in amazement as she gazed at the boy confronting her. 'Thomas!' she exclaimed, her nerves tightening at the awareness that he might not be alone. 'Thomas, what are you doing here?'

  'You said I might come,' he reminded her, his smile so like Rafe's that weakness overwhelmed her. 'You don't mind, do you?'