Sally Wentworth - A Typical Male (4 page)

He gave an astounded whistle under his breath. His
journalist's mind immediately foresaw what could happen. If Tasha interviewed
all these women and got stories of sexual exploitation from them—from even a
quarter of them!—it would be a scandal that would rock the country. But surely
all these women would never reveal their secrets to a television reporter, even
if they had a secret to tell. But Tasha wasn't just any television reporter;
Brett remembered her talking to the nurses in the cafe, how they had responded
to her warmth and sympathy, telling her, a complete stranger, the details of
their working lives, and of their own lives, too, he recalled. He stood,
staring into his own mind, as he realised that she
was the ideal person for a job like this; the genuine warmth in her character,
that air of innocence in her eyes—who would hesitate to take her into their
confidence, to help her and tell her all she wanted to know? Especially
woman to woman. And many women might be more than happy to have a means
of revenge in the endless war of the sexes.

The sound of the shower stopped and he hastily put
down the folder in exactly the same place and went softly back to the kitchen,
remembering to shut the door of the work-room quietly behind him. The kettle
had boiled and he made himself a coffee, took it back into the sitting-room. He
had just finished drinking it when Tasha came back in. She had changed into a
neat, dark business suit with a skirt well below her knees but with a slit up
the side that revealed sheer black tights above her high-heeled shoes. Her hair
was drawn back into a plait and she had remade up her face with subtler shades
of lipstick and eyeshadow. So this was Tasha Briant, career-woman; she looked a completely different
girl from the one who had danced with such natural passion just a few hours
ago.

She looked a little surprised to find him still
there, but smiled and said, 'I'm ready to roll.'

He got to his feet. 'I'll lean on you while we go
down all those stairs.'

Tasha
laughed. 'Once up and down those is usually enough to
convince my dates that they never want to see me again.'

Brett realised she was giving
him an opening, a laughing way of saying that he agreed and that it had been
nice but it was over. But he thought of the folder he'd seen and knew that he
was not only going to see her again, he was going to get close—as close as a
lover.

CHAPTER TWO

When they reached the street
Brett paused and said, 'Where are you heading?'

'I've an appointment to see someone
near Bath.'

In his mind he rapidly ran
through the list of names he'd seen and figured out she was probably going to
see the secretary of the university head. 'By train?'

'No, by car.'

There were cars parked on both
sides of the road with 'Resident Parking' stickers on their windscreens and he
glanced at them, wondering which one was hers. 'What do you drive?'

'I've got a little Fiat coupe.'

'A sports
car? Aren't you afraid of having it stolen?'

Tasha laughed. 'No. I'll show you. This way.'

She led him to the end of the
terrace and down what must have once been a carriageway that led to the back of
the houses. A security gate barred the way but Tasha unlocked a door at the
side of it and Brett saw that there were rows of stables that had been
converted into garages. Tasha's garage was almost at the end of the row and the
Fiat was a bright buttercup- yellow. He laughed. 'And there was I, guessing
your car would just have to be red.'

'So as not to clash with my hair, you
mean?' She gave a groan and put her hand up to her head. 'It's the bane of my
life.'

'Don't be
ridiculous! Your hair is glorious.'

She smiled her appreciation of
the compliment but only said, 'Can I give you a lift?'

Brett could easily have walked to
the nearest tube station but he wasn't going to pass up a chance to be with her
for a little longer—or to ride in that car.

He was almost too tall for the
car, but he had only been sitting in it a few minutes, while he listened to the
acceleration and the engine, before he knew that he liked it. 'It's quite a
car,' he acknowledged. 'Are you sure you're awake enough to drive all the way
to Bath?'

Tasha's lips twisted in
amusement. 'Oh, sure, I'm fine.'

'I'm not doing anything special
today; I could come with you and give you a break, if you like?'

She laughed openly. 'Admit it;
you've fallen in love with the car!'

That was an opening for a
flattering compliment if not something far deeper if ever he'd heard one, but
Brett didn't fall into the trap. Instead he grinned in return and said, 'You should feel very sorry for me; I only have a beaten up
four-wheel drive model. I have to park on the street and anything else would
get either stolen or vandalised.'

'Ah, I
feel so sorry for you,' she mocked.

'So you should.' His voice had
softened because he'd turned to look at her and seen that a wayward tendril of
hair had escaped and now caressed the line of her cheek. He would have liked to
reach out and touch it but knew better than to do so. 'So, do I come with you?'

'No.' She
shook her head but there was no real rejection in her tone. She pulled into the
kerb and Brett saw they were outside a tube station.
'I'm meeting someone for lunch.'

'So when will I see you again?' Behind them a red double-decker, unable to get by, honked
impatiently. One didn't argue with a London bus. Brett got out quickly
but ducked down to look in the door. 'When?' he demanded.

But Tasha only lifted a hand in
hurried farewell. 'If I don't get out of the way he'll ram me. Bye.'

He had no choice
but to let her go, and stood on the pavement, inwardly fuming, as he watched
her pull away.

It was almost a week before
Brett saw Tasha again. She had proved to be singularly elusive. Figuring that
she wouldn't be back from Bath until late, he hadn't tried to phone her until
the evening and then, to his annoyance, had found that her number was
ex-directory. His only contact with her was Guy, so the next day Brett had gone
to his flat, but the place was empty, the caretaker telling him that Guy had
already moved out and gone to stay with his parents for a few days until his
departure for Hong Kong. And Tasha hadn't told him the name of the company she
worked for, so that was no help. In the end he had managed to trace Guy's
parents' address and had rung him there.

'Tasha's phone
number?' Guy laughed. 'Wouldn't she give it to you? Maybe I shouldn't
let you have it, then.'

'Cut it, Guy. Just tell me the
number.'

'This could cost you; I shall
need somewhere to stay when I come over to London and—'

'You can stay,' Brett
interrupted. 'Stay as long as you like. Now give me the number.'

Again laughing with enjoyment,
Guy said, 'You have got it badly. All right, I'll get it for you.' He paused a
moment and his voice had changed to a warning as he added, 'But be careful,
Brett.'

'What do you mean?'

'Just that… Well, other men
have fallen for Tasha, fallen heavily, but I haven't yet known her let anyone
get really close.'

It was impossible not to wonder
if Guy was referring to himself, but Brett didn't ask. He wrote down the number
Guy gave him and immediately rang it. All he got was a message on the answering
machine. It was admittedly in Tasha's gorgeously husky voice but the tone was
businesslike. He became used to that tone over the next three days, because it
was always the recording that answered. And Tasha didn't return his calls. The
first two or three times he left messages giving her his number and asking her
to call him back, but after that he just replaced the receiver without speaking.

At first he thought that she was
probably out doing an interview or at work; he made excuses for her, but after
a couple of days he began to feel first angry, then anxious. Was this her way
of letting him know that she didn't want to see him again? But he had to see
her again. Brett cursed himself for behaving like a
lovesick schoolboy, but found that he couldn't concentrate on his work and kept
looking moodily at the phone, trying by sheer will-power to make it ring. He
could imagine himself stretching out his hand to lift the receiver, saying
hello and hearing her voice, so husky and intimate, telling him that she was
sorry, that she'd been away, had only just got back. But the phone didn't ring.

In the end, unable to stand it
any longer, he threw pride out of the window and went round to her flat. It
took him a while to find it because when they'd gone there before she hadn't
given the taxi-driver her exact address, had just told him to go to the British
Museum and had directed him from there. And when they'd driven away together
there had been a van obscuring the sign showing the name of the road. So he had
to drive around the streets until he eventually found it, but when he rang the
bell beside her name there was no answer and his spirits fell to zero again. He
decided to wait.

It was almost three hours later
and day had turned into evening before he saw the little yellow sports car turn
into the driveway between the houses, and another few minutes before Tasha
appeared and walked along the pavement. Not that most people would have known
it was her, because her top half was completely obscured behind the large
framed picture she was carrying. But Brett had no difficulty—he recognised her
legs.

He had intended to wait until
she got to her flat but instead got out of his car and crossed the street to
meet her. She couldn't see him so he peered at her over the top of the frame.
'I heard the Mona Lisa had been stolen,' he remarked.

'Brett!' Tasha looked surprised
to see him, but not at all embarrassed, he noted. 'Oh, good.
I was just thinking that I could do with some muscle to carry this.'

She handed over the picture,
which he saw was a modern, cubist still-life. 'Haven't you got enough pictures
on your walls—or are you planning on opening a
gallery?'

'I saw it in a second-hand shop and
couldn't resist it.'

'Is it the real thing?'

'No, only a signed
print, unfortunately. Do you like it?'

Brett held it out in front of
him, his head tilted to one side in consideration, as they went down the steps
to the door of her building. 'Yes. Yes, I do. And are you going to give me the
great pleasure of carrying it up all those stairs to your place?'

Tasha laughed. 'Of course.' She gave him a mischievous look. 'But you will
be suitably rewarded.'

'I suppose that means you'll
give me the kiss of life if I pass out at the top,' he said wryly, which made
her laugh again.

But when they reached her flat
she immediately made him hold the picture in several different places until she
decided just where she wanted it hung. 'Are you any good at knocking in picture
hooks?' she asked hopefully.

He held out a hand. 'Where's the
hammer?' he asked resignedly.

When the picture was in place
they both stood back to admire it. Brett longed to ask her why she hadn't
returned his calls, and he also badly wanted to know
just how far she'd got with her research into the sexual exploitation
programme, but instead he said, 'Do you deliberately leave yourself open to
suggestive remarks?'

Tasha gave him an amused look, her
mouth twisting into the exact smile of the Mona Lisa he'd accused her of
stealing. 'You don't rise to the bait,' she admitted.

'What would happen if I did?'

'Nothing.'

'Just—nothing?'
She nodded, watching him, and he couldn't resist saying, 'Not a lot seems to be
happening now.'

Then she completely startled and
delighted him by saying, 'But you're here,' and coming to put her arms round
his neck and kissing him, her lips soft and sensuous under his. But after all too short a moment she stepped back, her eyes
teasing. 'And that was your reward.'

'Was it?' Reaching out, Brett
caught her hand and pulled her to him, his eyes holding hers. She was wearing
one of what he thought of as her 'business outfits', a grey suit with a
pearl-coloured blouse under it. Her hair was drawn back from her face and he
lifted a hand to free it, sending it cascading onto her shoulders. He gave a
small sigh of satisfaction as he let it run through his fingers, like molten
copper across his palm. Then his shoulders suddenly hunched as he bent to give
his own kiss.

There was need in his embrace, a
deep longing in the lips that so eagerly took hers. Brett knew he ought to hide
it, to control it, but he couldn't; he had thought so often of the first time
they'd kissed, so much wanted her in his arms again. She didn't resist or try
to fight him, and it was only a moment before she responded, her lips moving
under his, her arms going round his neck. He pulled her closer and gave a soft
groan as he felt her body against the length of his. An agony of desire ran
through him as his lips moved to her throat and he smelt the poignant, somehow
mysterious and yet feminine scent of her perfume. His loins ached with need of her, his breath grew hot and unsteady. He wanted to tell her
how much he wanted her, hungered for her, but he knew it was too soon, too
soon, and that he must somehow control this desperate yearning. Another tremor
ran through him as passion deepened, but then Brett lifted his head, his eyes
closed, fighting for self-control.

He was gripping her shoulders,
not knowing that his grip was so fierce it was hurting her. Tasha looked up,
her own breath unsteady, that startled look again in her eyes. Slowly she
reached up and stroked her fingers down his face. Brett gave a shuddering gasp
and opened his eyes to look down at her. Harshly he said, 'Do you like to play
games with men, to tease them?'

'Do you think
I'm teasing you?'