Dangerous Flirtation Read online

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ she said a little stiffly. Her branch had a good atmosphere. Its sales figures were the best in the city and she was resentful of even such gentle criticism. He seemed to catch her tone and walked around the desk and took her hand, making a determined effort to smile.

  ‘A word that high jinks of that kind aren’t appropriate,’ he suggested. ‘They just aren’t professional. I’ll do it for you, if you like.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ she said, firmly. She’d had to fight hard to get this chance as branch manager. She was still fairly new to the job and was constantly aware of Anthony’s close eye on her, watching for mistakes. Then she gave herself an internal shake.

  His hand was soft, well-cared for, as white as her own. She hadn’t really noticed before, but Jack’s hands had been hard and tanned and his wrists were sprinkled with dark hairs. She blotted the comparison from her mind and tried to concentrate on what Anthony was saying.

  ‘...seven o’clock.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  He frowned slightly. ‘I said I’ll pick you up at seven. I hope you’re looking forward to the concert?’

  ‘Oh, yes, very much,’ she said, quickly. It was true that she didn’t wear Anthony’s ring, but it had been understood for a long time that they were to marry when the time was right. It would be madness to throw away such a caring friendship for a moment’s passion in a stranger’s arms. The stir of some unknown, almost wanton response to the virility of a bold-eyed man.

  She had worked for Nightingale and Drake, Estate Agents and Auctioneers, on Saturdays and in the holidays since she was sixteen. Then her father had left and her mother, holding in the pain, had come close to a breakdown. So at eighteen she had shelved her plans for university and stayed on to become a trainee negotiator. By the time the crisis had passed she knew exactly what she wanted out of life. It certainly didn’t include the kind of marriage her mother had endured.

  There had always been rows. Rich Parry enjoyed noisy, passionate rows that couldn’t be ignored. They had been a feature of her life for as long as she could remember. About his music. About late nights at clubs, weekends away. Her mother had never understood his passion for jazz. Then one afternoon she had come home from school to be met by her mother, white-faced, tight-lipped. Her father had abandoned them both for his music, she said. His precious jazz had finally won.

  Anthony had been so kind, kept a friendly eye on her work and when they had spent an afternoon together at one of the large riverside houses, taking details, measuring up, they had discovered a mutual interest in music and he had invited her to a concert. Most of her friends had gone away to college and when they came home she found that a gulf had opened up between them. They had seemed so young and irresponsible. Silly almost. Anthony had at least known what she was talking about. So she had gone to the concert and other invitations had followed and the relationship had gradually grown to a point where he had begun to talk quite naturally about “when we are married”. She was sure that tonight he would want to set the date.

  She walked back to her desk and tried to concentrate on her work. It wasn’t easy. Piercing blue eyes seemed to dance enticingly before her, and a low voice asked over and over again: “You’re not really going to marry that pompous idiot?” until she wanted to scream. The end of the day couldn’t come soon enough.

  Just before five-thirty, Anthony appeared in front of her desk. ‘I think we’ll leave together tonight, Rosalind. As soon as you’re ready.’

  Knowing that he was only doing this to stifle any talk caused by her own rash response to Jack Drayton’s kiss, she objected.

  ‘It’s a little early, Anthony.’

  ‘Well, it is your birthday,’ he said, laughing a little awkwardly. ‘I’ve asked Susie to lock up.’ She stifled a feeling of irritation as she gathered her belongings and followed him to the side door. He was making too much of it and she preferred to do her own arranging, but there was no point in arguing.

  It was already dark, a bleak February evening that threatened rain on a freezing wind and as they paused in the doorway a snatch of music carried to them on its icy breath. It was a saxophone played with a searching sweetness that Rose instantly recognised and her heart sank.

  They walked slowly down the steps and there on the corner of the square Jack Drayton was sending the blues up to heaven. People paused even in the biting cold to listen for a moment.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Anthony muttered, hurrying her past. ‘I won’t have it. There must be a municipal law against busking here. If he’s there in the morning I’m calling the police.’ She stared at the tall figure, the street light shining down on a mane of thick dark hair, throwing his face into hard shadows that hid his expression.

  ‘Anthony, please, you can’t do that! Besides, I don’t believe he is busking.’ There was no hopeful cap on the ground in front of him. ‘He isn’t collecting money.’

  ‘Then why is he there? Shall we see just how much it will take to get rid of him?’

  Anthony took out his wallet and seeing him count out some notes and offer them to Jack, Rose groaned with humiliation. How could Anthony do this to her? She glared at Jack. How could he do this to her? As if aware of her eyes upon him he stopped playing and stared back. Their eyes locked momentarily and in that instant she knew why he had stayed.

  She didn’t wait for the outcome of the interchange between the two men, but fled across the road to the car park, finding a refuge in the smart red Mini, parked on the third level, that had come with her promotion to manager. She leaned her forehead against the steering wheel and took several deep breaths. Some birthday, she thought and she still had the Shostakovich to get through.

  Anthony had a reserved space on the ground floor and by the time she had driven down to the exit his sleek blue Daimler was gone. But Jack Drayton had not. He was standing in the exit lane, forcing her to a halt.

  Reluctantly she lowered her window. ‘Why are you still here?’ she demanded. ‘Didn’t Anthony pay you enough to move on?’ It was hateful, but she couldn’t help herself.

  ‘There isn’t enough money in the world for that, Rosie.’ He smiled, apparently relishing the memory. ‘I told him he’d better put it back in his piggy bank and save up until he can afford to buy you a ring.’

  She stifled a groan. Behind them someone hooted politely. Jack ignored the hint and leaned on the roof of the car, staring down at her. ‘Where’s he taking you for your birthday treat? A burger bar?’

  ‘A concert and then dinner at Michel’s,’ she said, a little smugly.

  He let out an ironic whistle. ‘Just as well I wouldn’t take his cash. Which concert? The Jay Livingstone Trio is playing at your jazz club, or perhaps that isn’t quite his cup of tea?’

  She stifled a groan. She had wanted to go. It wasn’t often these days that such a group could be tempted into Melchester, but Anthony loathed jazz and she hadn’t even dared suggest it. ‘It’s not my jazz club,’ she retorted, disappointment lending a sharpness to her voice. ‘If you must know, we’re going to the Guildhall, The Shostakovich Cello Concerto.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather come and listen to Jay?’ he asked.

  ‘You have tickets?’ she asked, surprised. They had not been cheap.

  ‘No need. Jay’s an old friend.’ He bent down beside her window, examining her face under the lamplight. ‘What do you say?’

  Her heartbeat began to accelerate again. ‘I...’ She tore her eyes away from his. ‘No. Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I wasn’t being ridiculous, Rosie. You’d much rather come with me. Admit it.’

  ‘I’ll admit nothing of the kind.’ She put the car into gear and glared at him. Laughing, he stood up.

  ‘Better run along, then. You mustn’t be late. I’ll see you later, cheer your soul with a little blues.’ He glanced at the instrument case in his hand.

  She stared, horrified. ‘You wouldn’t?’

  His
eyes gleamed wickedly in the subdued light. ‘I think you know that I would.’

  ‘Haven’t you caused enough trouble for one day?’ she demanded.

  His eyes teased her. ‘Rosie, my darling,’ he drawled. ‘I haven’t even begun.’ And with that he stepped back, leaving her free to drive away, but she couldn’t. Not before he told her why he was tormenting her.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ she demanded.

  ‘Use your imagination,’ he said, roughly.

  She gasped then. She wasn’t going to use her imagination. It was a dangerous thing, the imagination. It conjured up strong hands and warm kisses to torment her.

  ‘What do you want?’ she demanded again. He didn’t elaborate, refusing to make it easy for her, but it was there in the raw challenge in his eyes and she felt as if a trap were closing around her.

  The knowledge that she had sprung it herself offered precious little comfort. She only knew that if she stayed another moment she would lose everything she wanted. Peace, contentment, security. Precious things. All Jack Drayton could offer was momentary passion, a transitory, crazy sort of excitement that would destroy her peace of mind and when it was over, leave nothing but the misery and humiliation her mother had suffered when her father had walked out on them both.

  She was going to marry Anthony and she didn’t know what she was doing even talking to this man.

  The person behind had clearly had enough and an impatient horn galvanised her into action. She eased off the handbrake and stepped on the accelerator. The car shot forward and abruptly stalled. She grabbed at the ignition key, but the car wouldn’t start and the irritation from behind had suddenly become a chorus of people eager to get home. ‘Idiot!’ she said, furious with herself. Why on earth had she even spoken to the man? She was going to be late and Anthony hated to be kept waiting. There were tears pricking at her eyelids when the door opened beside her.

  He took one look at her face and swore volubly, then put an ice cold hand on hers, stopping the desperate churning of the engine. ‘Move over, Rosie. You’re in no fit state to drive,’ he said, very gently.

  ‘And whose fault is that?’ she demanded, angrily.

  ‘That’s open to debate. You didn’t have to stop.’ He threw the saxophone onto the back seat and waited and conscious of the queue of cars behind her, she moved over. He pushed the driving seat back as far as it would go and climbed behind the wheel. The car, infuriatingly, started at the first touch. Everything would start at his touch, she thought, hopelessly. Even her. Especially her.

  ‘Why did you stop, Rosie?’ he asked, as he wove the little car through the evening rush hour with almost reckless panache and the traffic seemed to melt before him.

  ‘I should have run you over?’ she asked, angrily.

  ‘Is that the only reason?’ They were paused at the lights and he turned to her. His brilliant eyes locked with hers and the bone-jolting shock of an electric current seemed to shoot through her. It was a moment of pure terror in which the orderly fabric of her life came under threat. She tore her gaze from his and stared ahead blindly, not seeing the cars, or the lights, or the shops.

  ‘Anthony said he would call the police to have you moved on if you were outside the office tomorrow,’ she said, her voice sounding odd even in her own ears. ‘Not that you will be,’ she added a little fiercely. ‘You’ll have caught your death of cold by then.’

  ‘And that would worry you? I’m flattered. But it’s pneumonia you get from standing out in the cold and rain. Where shall I park?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’d better come back down to earth before your precious Anthony sets eyes on you, Rosie. According to your instructions, this is where you live. Where do you normally park?’

  She stared blindly at the old house long ago converted into small flats, barely recognising that she was home. ‘There,’ she said, miserably, indicating a spot in front of the number four neatly painted on the wall. He pulled up and for a moment they both sat in silence while she stared at the hard profile of this man who had come from nowhere and seemed determined to overturn her life.

  ‘Why did you kiss me like that, Jack?’ she asked. ‘Was it included in the price?’

  He didn’t look at her. His eyes were fixed on some point in the distance, his hands gripping the steering wheel. ‘You can’t pay for a kiss like that, Rosalind Parry. That kind of flashpoint only happens between two people once in a lifetime.’

  ‘What kind?’ As he turned to face her, she knew she shouldn’t have asked.

  ‘It’s a kind of recognition. But you know what happened, Rosie,’ he said. ‘You kissed me back. Remember?’ She didn’t want to remember. It was important that she didn’t remember. His face was like stone in the colour-draining street light. ‘Don’t kid yourself that what happened today is something you can ignore. The memory of it will torment you. You’ll never be happy married to Anthony Harlowe.’

  A small croak of anguish escaped her lips. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she hurled at him defiantly. ‘I love Anthony.’

  A small fierce sound escaped his lips. ‘Him? Or his money?’ His mouth was a hard line.

  She stared at him in disbelief. ‘It’s got nothing to do with his money.’

  ‘No? Keep saying it, Rosie. You might get to believe it.’ He didn’t wait for her furious response, but climbed out of the car, opened the door for her, locked up and handed her the keys. She didn’t move and he said, a little sharply, ‘Better hurry. I don’t think you should risk upsetting Harlowe twice in one day, do you? He didn’t appear to have much in the way of a sense of humour.’

  She knew she would never be ready on time but, even so, still found it impossible to tear herself away. ‘What will you do? How will you get home?’ she asked.

  He smiled slowly. ‘Still worrying about me?’

  ‘I don’t want to,’ she said, a little desperately. ‘But I can’t seem to help it. I feel...responsible.’

  He briefly touched her cold cheek. ‘You are responsible. It will make me feel good to know that you are worrying about me walking all the way back to town.’ He put out a hand and looked up at the sky. ‘I think it’s about to rain in earnest.’

  A heavy raindrop splashed onto her face and she stared upwards into the black night and raged against the elements. ‘No!’

  Jack Drayton laughed with a flash of white teeth in the lamplight and turned up the collar of his denim jacket. ‘That’s right, Rosie. Worry about me getting soaked to the skin. Think about the rain running down my face, dripping down the back of my neck. Cold February rain. And when you’re warm in your expensive French restaurant with Anthony Harlowe and afterwards, when he’s holding you close and kissing you, remember this: we’ll both know that it will be me who’s on your mind.’ He turned before she could answer, striding away from her on long legs, back towards the town centre.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘JACK!’ Rose called desperately after him, then impulsively followed him. ‘Jack, please!’

  He stopped and turned. ‘Please what, Rosie?’ he asked, softly.

  ‘There’s no need to get wet. Take my car.’ She took another step towards him, holding out the keys to him and he glanced at them briefly before raising his eyes once more to meet hers but made no move to meet her half way. He simply bared his teeth in a smile.

  ‘That’s a rash offer, Rosie,’ he warned. Confusion brought a dark flush to her cheeks. Rash? That was putting it mildly. What on earth was she thinking of? She was behaving like an idiot. It was almost as if she wanted to make certain she would see him again. Her hand snapped shut over the keys. Nothing could be further from the truth and she was about to make that quite clear, but he swiftly covered the ground between them and before she could speak had captured her face between his hands. ‘You can’t get me off your conscience that easily, Rosie. It’s you I want, not your car. You know that.’ He brushed her lips with his. Less a kiss than a promise… ‘Enjoy yourself tonig
ht… if you can. Perhaps I’ll see you later.’

  Before she could protest, tell this infuriating man that she never wanted to set eyes on him, ever again, he had released her and was striding purposefully away.

  Rose felt an almost overwhelming urge to stamp on the pavement, but she had long ago learned to keep her temper under tight control so she contented herself with glaring after the dark figure responsible for the sudden desire to let rip. He was rapidly disappearing into the gloomy night and she raised her voice to call after him. ‘I won’t worry about you, Jack Drayton,’ she called defiantly. ‘Not for one minute. I hope you do get pneumonia.’ As the rain began to splash against her face hot tears stung at her eyelids. ‘I will enjoy myself tonight.’ The sound of his laughter filtered back through the darkness. ‘I will,’ she repeated with determination. ‘You just see.’

  Then she fled to the second floor flat she shared with a friend from her school days. She was late home from work which was just as well. Sarah was too perceptive by half and Rose was relieved that she would have privacy in which to re-order her overwrought emotions.

  Not that she had much time to spare for such self-indulgence. She glanced at the clock and with a tiny shriek of anguish dived for the bathroom. A quick shower, a little make-up. She sprayed herself with the scent Sarah had bought for her birthday and immediately wished she hadn’t. The fragrance was heavy, seductive, not at all her type of thing. But it was too late to do anything about it. She brushed out her dark copper hair. Free of constraining pins it bounced back into an irresistible curl that framed her face. Another quick glance at the clock confirmed that she didn’t have time to put it up properly and experience had taught her that it would fight its way free of any half-hearted attempt at the job. As if to confirm this fact the doorbell rang. Seven o’clock precisely. Anthony was never late. He was never early, either. She caught herself. What on earth had made her think that? As if somehow predictability was a fault. It was this very predictability that made Anthony so precious.