her softly. She leaned her head back slightly and smiled up at him, her self-possession a paper-thin veneer masking the ridiculous racketing of her heart, and as his lips touched hers she closed her eyes.
She thought she knew what it was like to be kissed by Clay Thackeray. Perhaps it was the champagne, or perhaps it was just that she had been anticipating this moment all day. For a few moments his wide, teasing mouth touched hers in a gentle exploration of the possibilities. Then he paused and she opened her eyes, parting her lips in an involuntary sigh as old as time, any lingering doubts having long since evaporated in the heat beating through her veins. He kissed her again, fleetingly, his eyes locked on to hers, then swung her into her arms and carried her to the sofa, sitting with her across his lap, her arms around his neck. For a moment his gaze focused on her mouth. Gently he outlined her lips with the tip of his finger. She moved urgently against him and whispered his name.
‘Patience, my love. I want to enjoy you. Every bit of you.’
He peeled away her sweater, but his fingers were almost unbearably slow as they undid the buttons of her blouse and pushed the heavy cream silk aside. He kissed the soft mound of her breast where it swelled above her bra, then, edging the lace away, his mouth sought the hard peak of her nipple and she cried out as he drew it between his teeth and caressed it delicately with his tongue. Her breathing was ragged and there was a throbbing, desperate ache between her thighs which was strange and wonderful and which she was woman enough to know that only he could ease.
Her fingers dug into his shoulders. ‘Clay …’ Her voice was pleading.
He raised his head and frowned slightly. ‘Have all your lovers been so hurried?’
‘No …’ But he wanted no answer; his mouth began a thorough and systematic plunder of hers, preventing her attempts to explain, then driving them out of her head altogether.
After a while he raised his head. ‘I think it’s time we went to bed.’
She raised lids heavy with desire and with her fingertips traced the strong line of his jaw and the small V-shaped scar on his chin. She drew her brows together in concentration. ‘Clay …’ He caught her fingers, kissing each one in turn as she struggled to sit up. ‘You should know … that is, I think I’d better tell you that I haven’t ever—’
‘Haven’t what?’ His mouth continued to caress her fingers and for a moment there was only silence in the flickering firelight. Then he realised that she had ceased to respond and he raised his head. ‘What is it?’
‘It was nothing important, Clay.’ She tried to keep her voice light, conversational, but to her own ears failed dismally.
‘You picked a hell of a moment to play games, sweetheart.’ There was a slight edge to his voice. ‘If you’ve got cold feet you only have to say.’
‘No.’ She threw him a desperate look. ‘I just wanted you to know. That’s all. I wanted you to know that I’m …’ She cleared her throat. ‘I haven’t …’ Why was the word so difficult to say? It was nothing to be ashamed of, after all. It just seemed silly. But surely by now he must understand what she was trying to tell him. Why on earth was he being so slow?
He was staring at her, a slight frown creasing the space between his brows. ‘Joanna Grant,’ he said at last, ‘are you trying to tell me that you’ve never done this before?’ She nodded, her face hot with embarrassment. ‘That you’re twenty-four years old and still a virgin?’
‘There’s no need to repeat yourself,’ Joanna said, fiercely proud. ‘I’m well aware how ridiculous I must seem.’
‘I …’ He seemed for a moment quite unable to speak, then he lifted her on to the sofa and stood up. ‘Hardly ridiculous. But unexpected. To say the very least.’
She stood up, then, horribly, embarrassingly conscious of her state of undress, turned her back on him to straighten her clothes. She couldn’t understand why it took so long, hardly aware how her fingers were trembling on the buttons. Finally, though, it was done. Pale and empty, she forced herself to face him.
‘Could I ring for a taxi?’ she asked, with as much dignity as she could muster. ‘I think I should go home now.’
‘I’m sorry, Joanna.’ His regret sounded genuine enough, as well it might, she thought. He looked almost angry. ‘I just hadn’t anticipated this situation. Most of the women I’ve known are rather more—’
‘You don’t have to draw a picture, Clay.’
She should have known. He was used to sophisticated women who knew exactly how to please a man. Why had she ever thought he might be interested in her? Except that he had been, until she had been stupid enough to own up to her virgin state. It wasn’t as if she wanted it. There had just been so many other things, important things she had to do.
She fled to the cloakroom. Like the other rooms she had seen, it had been gutted, and there was the smell of fresh plaster. The fittings were starkly new, but the tiles were still in their boxes, stacked against the wall, and the floor was bare board. He’d only just moved in. ‘Camping’ was the word he’d used. The quality of the fittings gave the word a slightly surrealistic edge. Not that it mattered.
She regarded herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips red and swollen. She sighed and opened her bag to repair the damage as best she could.
Her sister had once suggested, quite kindly, that virginity beyond the age of twenty was an embarrassment she should try to resolve as quickly as possible. Apparently she had been right, but just now she didn’t feel much like telling her so.
Clay was waiting when she emerged. He crossed the hall quickly to take her hand but she avoided his touch. ‘Is there a telephone?’
‘You don’t have to go, Joanna. Can we talk?’
‘Talk?’ What on earth was there to talk about? she wondered. She hadn’t come to talk. Her chin high, she turned away from him before she weakened. ‘I’d prefer it if you would call a taxi.’
‘Damn your taxi!’ He reached for her.
‘Now, Clay!’ she demanded. If she let him touch her she would lose her hard-won self-control and simply weep.
For a moment the tension held him in suspension, neck muscles knotted into cords, hands clenched. Then, as if he had made a decision, he nodded slightly and relaxed.
‘Perhaps you’re right. Now is not the time. I’ll take you home.’
‘There’s no need to put yourself to the trouble.’
‘There’s every need, Joanna. Don’t argue.’
She made no further objection, sensing that it would be pointless, but she shook away his steadying hand at her elbow as she stumbled on the uneven path in the gathering darkness.
He insisted on seeing her to the door. She unlocked it and with a supreme effort managed a smile as she turned to face him.
‘Goodbye, Clay.’ She offered him her hand, sure now that she was safe. His expression grave, he took it, holding it for a moment as if he would say something. But he didn’t speak. Instead he raised her fingers to his lips.
Before she could recover from her surprise he had turned and disappeared down the stairs. She ran to the front window in time to see the car door slam. It remained at the kerb for so long that she began to think he might get out again, but then, very quietly, the car pulled away and disappeared down the street.
No longer needing to keep a rigid control upon her feelings, she let out a long, shuddering sob.
Monday was a bad day at work, but Jo welcomed the problems. It used all her energies, blocked the need to think. She had spent the weekend with her sister, avoiding thinking, for once welcoming the disapproval of the long hours she worked, the unsuitable job. Thinking wouldn’t do. She had made an utter fool of herself over Clay Thackeray and she would have to live with the memory of her humiliation