House of Storms (22 page)

As she grew to know him, Debra realised that Jack Salvador was more akin to the island than Rodare would ever be. His nature was that of a Celt while in Rodare lay impulses that were purely of Andalucia where for generations the fierce and possessive Moors had ruled, dark-skinned and autocratic and, as Rodare had said himself, jealous guardians of their women.

Disturbing thoughts to be having while she drank her tea and listened to the birds squabbling over the cake crumbs, but Debra couldn't shake free of them. The courtyard beyond the window was somehow Moorish in its arrangement of archways, with a fountain jetting into the sunlight and making a rainbow across the wide stone basins. Had the stonework of the court been white instead of grey then she could almost have fancied herself in Spain.

A train of thought that was abruptly halted as the door of the den opened to admit the one man in the world with whom she didn't want to be alone.

Lithe and tall, strikingly dark in beige linen trousers and a black silk shirt. The height and stance of him suggested castle doorways . . . great Moorish castles studded with iron. He smiled and she saw the menace in it; he seemed to sense that he wasn't welcome.

'Good, I catch you in the midst of your tea-break. I wouldn't want to interrupt your work because I know how much it means to you.'

Debra chose to ignore the tinge of sarcasm in his words. 'I'm about to start again,' she said, 'so if you were looking for Jack—'

'Jack?' he broke in. 'That was never the way Miss Tucker referred to him; that good lady was always very formal.'

Debra flushed slightly and her mood of relaxation was quite dispelled. 'I use your brother's first name at his request,' she said defensively. 'Were you looking for him,
señor
?'

'No, I came on purpose to see you.'

'Oh—what about?' Her pulses hammered as he crossed the room in a leisurely fashion and when he reached her, where she still sat in the windowseat, he handed her a small box stamped with the name of a Penarth jeweller.

'It's all right,' he mocked, 'I'm not giving you an engagement ring.'

She opened the box and felt a quick stab of joy at seeing her pearl pendant and chain which Rodare had promised to have repaired. She examined the little pear and the fitment and found they were as good as new and glossy from a careful polishing.

'I am grateful to you.' She met his eyes confusedly. 'You must tell me how much I owe you.'

Instantly his eyes had a deadly sheen. 'Very well, if you wish to pay me,
señorita
, then pay me with a kiss.'

'Please—' She bit her lip. 'Be serious—'

'Isn't a kiss a serious business?'

'I think so,
señor
, but I'm not so sure that you do. Let me pay for the repair.'

'I've told you the price.' His entire air was inexorable as he stood over her and she knew he would stand there the rest of the day if she didn't do as he asked. She raised her face and offered her lips, and then gave a startled cry as he pulled her upright and made her yield to him.

Why pretend that she hadn't longed for the heat of his skin against hers . . . why deny that it wasn't a pleasure to feel his lips devouring hers . . . why fight when she longed to surrender?

Yet fight him she did, wrenching aside her head so his lips slid against her neck. 'What a little vixen you are.' Yet he was almost smiling as he looked down into her eyes. 'What are you going to be like, I wonder, when a man really has you at his mercy?'

'I'll see that I don't get caught,' she retorted.

'Aren't you caught right now?' he mocked. 'You are still in my arms and I am quite strong. I think I have you cornered, vixen.'

'To my way of thinking,
señor
, you seem to be breaking a rule of your house.' It took every ounce of nerve for Debra to defy his eyes. 'Didn't you say that while I'm employed here I'm safe under your roof?'

'So you don't consider yourself safe in my arms?'

'I've never felt so unsafe.'

'Do you mean to flatter or offend me?'

'Take your pick,
señor
.'

'By the devil, you're a cool young woman.' He released her, holding wide his arms so she could make her retreat, which she safely did to the other side of the desk.

'I—I'm pleased to have back my pearl and chain,' she said. 'I value them very much— thank you.'

'They become you.' He took out his cheroot case and casually lit one. 'Wear the pendant tomorrow evening—Midsummer Eve is quite an event in this part of the country and after we've dined a fire is being lit on the headland in order to drive evil spirits away from the house. The event should appeal to you. I feel sure you believe in things supernatural.'

She wanted to laugh in a cool way and deny his assertion, but the thought of a huge bonfire flaming on the headland and throwing big sparks into the sky made her eyes glisten with fascination. She knew it to be a pagan custom and when the fire died down people leapt the embers in order to show the Devil a quick pair of heels.

'I should like to see the bonfire,' she admitted.

'And see it you shall.' He drew on his cheroot. 'The signal fire for all the other fires is lit on Carn Brea and the chain extends from Land's End to the Tamar. In some regions the bonfire is crowned with a broomstick for the belief is that the flames drive the witches and devils into hiding.'

A smile brushed Debra's mouth. 'Will it be wise,
señor
, for you to attend the ceremony?'

'So I'm a devil in your eyes, eh?' He spoke sardonically as if never for a moment had he thought himself a saint. 'Will it please you if I evaporate in a cloud of smoke on Midsummer Eve? Will you then feel free of me?'

She lowered her gaze to the pearl and chain glistening in her fingers. 'I'm not bound to you, am I? I thought we had settled the matter, that we are free of each other and there never was any foundation for your proposal. It was a piece of theatre, wasn't it? I think all the Salvadors are fond of drama, that's why Zandra sent her mother to my bedroom in order to create a scene.'

Debra raised her gaze once more to his face, gone a little brooding through the smoke of his cheroot. 'I survived that scene, but I wouldn't want to face another like it, so please—'

'Please?' he interjected.

'Y-you know what I'm trying to say,
señor
.'

'You don't want me near you, is that it?'

She nodded, for if she actually spoke the words they might choke her with their dishonesty. To look at Rodare was to see the dark fires smouldering in him, beckoning the palpitating moth to scorch body and soul in his flame. There might be ecstasy in his arms, but of the kind that burnt fiercely and then left ashes . . . ashes scattered to the wind from the high cliffs.

'Who do you want near you?'

She gave him a startled look. 'I don't want—'

'Don't lie to me or yourself.' He swept his eyes around the den as if visualising her alone in here with Jack, the two of them deep in discussion and very much a part of the world of books. 'My brother and Pauline were a misalliance from the start, two people from different worlds who didn't know what to talk about when the kissing stopped. But with you it's different, is it not? He's never lost for words when he's with you—you've crept under his skin, haven't you?'

'I—I don't know what you mean—'

'Don't pretend to be dumb.' As he gestured, ash spilled down on some of the typed sheets of Jack's book, and when she reached forward to shake off the ash Rodare gripped her by the wrist. 'I could shake you,' he breathed.

'Let go of me—' She tried with her free hand to unlock his fingers, but he had suddenly thrown away the key of his temper and he remorselessly held her where she was.

'Do you think I can't read you?' he jeered. 'You're transparent through and through. You see Jack as a tragic hero who needs a shoulder to rest on. He doesn't realise how tender, does he? Silky smooth to the touch, sloping beneath the hand and leading to even more pleasant places—ah, how I can touch you on a nerve,
pequeña
. Can my brother do to you what I do—I think not!'

'Your brother respects me,' she shot back at him. 'When I'm alone in this room with him I—I don't need to be all on edge, wondering if he's going to grab hold of me. Why don't you play your game of cat and mouse with Miss Chandler?'

'With her a game such as this wouldn't be quite so entertaining,' he said shamelessly. 'You react, Miss Hartway. Just a word or a look from me and you are ready to dash into your mousehole—I just can't resist pursuing you.'

'Oh, let me go!' She struggled valiantly and knew that when she was close to him she had two enemies, and one was herself. A traitorous part of her wanted his closeness . . . wanted the sensual awareness of his dark-gold skin over pliant flesh and firm bone . . . wanted the warmth and weakness that enveloped her when he touched her.

'What if I know what you are thinking,' he said softly. 'What if I can read those large imploring eyes of yours?'

'Y-you obviously think you can read every woman,' she retaliated, her heartbeat un-nervingly quickened by his insinuation.

'I don't wish to read the eyes of every woman, but yours are a book that titillates me.'

'Titillate?' she took him up. 'What do you mean?'

'You know well enough.' His eyes ran over her, knowing her beneath the neat dress in a delicate shade of green. 'To all outward appearance you are the demure and dutiful editor of my brother's book, but there are depths to you, little madam, which I'm aware of, and it's my awareness which you resent and which you fight. You prefer to hide your secret self.'

'Don't you as well?' She flung a defiant look at him. 'I don't think you'd want anyone delving into your personality to see what you've got hidden away. You think because you walk tall and look over their heads you have people at a disadvantage, but I may not be fooled by your haughtiness.'

'The thought makes me tremble,' he mocked, but his eyes glittered as they swept her face. 'I guard my secrets well,
señorita
, and you are a little too young and guileless to be good at divining the male of the species, least of all a Spaniard. How many Spaniards have you known?'

'Only you,' she admitted.

'In fact,' he drawled, 'how many men have you known?'

'Very few,
señor
.'

'And I believe you,
señorita
.’

'You didn't when we first met.'

'You believe I took you for a seductress?' Tiny specks of flame seemed to burn and dance in his dark eyes.

'I—I don't think you were too sure of me.' His amusement made her flush; he made her feel a naive plaything in his hands and she longed to show him that she wasn't a puppet he could pull in and out of his arms on emotional strings. 'I think we know each other a little better, don't you,
señor
? First impressions are never reliable, are they?'

'So you don't intend to rely on your first impression of me?' His eyes quizzed her face, alert and just a little dangerous. 'You thought I might be an actor, didn't you?'

'Yes.' How vividly she remembered that first moment when she had looked into his eyes, and then, as now, they had captivated her against her will.

'And now you know me a little better, I wonder what you think?'

'I think you're self-willed.'

'True enough.'

'As ruthless with yourself as you are with others.'

'Ah, there you make an interesting observation.'

'A valid one,
señor
.' Debra ran her gaze over his face, seeing the power of his features and the passion brooding in his eyes. He was of his mother's people and hot blood ran in his veins, and Debra felt sure that if desire had carried him beyond restraint with his brother's wife, then somewhere deep inside he burnt with guilt. He stared down at her and then, as if glimpsing in her look a question in fear of an answer, he let go of her and turned away so he was looking out of the window.

Debra rubbed her wrist where his fingers had gripped, then seating herself at the typewriter she put on her spectacles and fed a sheet of manuscript paper into the machine. She felt him stir and from her nape downwards she was conscious of him behind her chair, brimming with the power to disquiet her as no one else ever had. His very silence sent a thrill of emotion through her flesh to the bone ... it was a silence heavy with the thoughts of a man who didn't share his troubles very easily, and if the source of that trouble was Pauline, then Debra didn't want to know.

Her nerves jarred when the door of the den opened to admit Jack, who broke off in midspeech as he noticed Rodare by the window. 'I hope you aren't disturbing Debra,' he said brusquely.

'As if I would disturb this jewel of efficiency.' Rodare spoke with irony. 'Knowing this to be the inner sanctum where the two of you confer on the great book, I merely strolled in to get a whiff of the magical air. I haven't disturbed you, have I, Miss Hartway?'

'Not in the least.' She managed to sound composed but didn't know how she achieved it. 'When I'm absorbed in my work I'm unaware of minor interruptions.'

Jack gave a laugh and shot an approving look at her. 'That puts you in your place, brother.'

'Ah, yes, Miss Hartway is the embodiment of the cool career girl, always neat as a pin and just as sharp when she feels like it. You are so lucky to have her working for you, and isn't this den the perfect place for the high priest of fiction and his acolyte.'

Jack's amusement abruptly faded. 'When you use that tone of voice, Rodare, I get a whiff of mischief. Is there something on your mind that you want to air?'

'Should there be,
hermano
?' He used the Spanish term for brother.

'Several things.' Jack stood frowning in a ray of sunlight which picked out and set glimmering the silver in his hair. When together, Debra noticed, the two men were as different as a rapier and a lance, each in his own way a man to be reckoned with and not always in tune. Right now they were eyeing each other like opponents, as if Jack still harboured a very personal grudge against Rodare, who knew of it and had to be on the defensive.