Sally Wentworth - A Typical Male (5 page)

'Yes!' The
word was bitten out on a stark note.

'But I'm not.'

Brett looked down at her, not
knowing how to take that. 'Why didn't you answer my calls?' he demanded.

She hesitated for a moment and
would have moved away, but he wouldn't let her, his grip on her shoulders
tightening. 'No, look at me. Tell me.'

Again she hesitated but then
said slowly, 'I've been seeing someone.' This time the agony that went through
him was one of terrible despair. Brett felt as if the world had suddenly come
to an end and he could see no future. 'I had to tell him that it was over
before I…'

'Before?' He hardly dared to breathe.

Tasha flushed a little. 'Before I was free to see
anyone else.'

It was as if someone had turned on a brilliant light after complete
darkness and the world was suddenly wonderful again. Lifting her off her feet,
he swung her round, laughing up at her.

'Hey!' She pretended to be indignant. 'Not so much of the macho
stuff.'

Brett set her down again but kissed her as he did so, then looked down
at her, very much afraid that he was grinning like an idiot.

'What makes you so sure you're the one I want to see?' she asked him dampeningly, but her eyes were laughing.

'What makes you so sure I'd want to see you after you ignored my
calls?' he countered.

With a small shrug of her left shoulder, Tasha said simply, 'You're
here.' She moved away from him. 'Would you like some wine? There's a bottle of
Chardonnay in the fridge.'

'That would
be fine.'

He followed her to the kitchen and leaned on the doorframe as he
watched her, trying to be nonchalant but feeling his blood still pumping with
gratified pleasure and excitement. She fancied him! Liked him
enough to ditch her current boyfriend. The fact that she'd done so
surprised him; most of the girls he knew wouldn't have bothered, would have
thought nothing of dating more than one man at a time. Unless
it had been a serious relationship, of course. He thought about that as
she reached up to a cupboard to get a couple of glasses and he saw the material
of her clothes taut against her body, her slim thighs and rounded breasts. He
wanted her all over again and at the
same time felt a surge of jealousy about the man she'd been seeing.

But his face betrayed none of
his feelings as Brett took the glass she held out to him. 'Should we drink a
toast?' he asked, wondering if words could mark this—for him—momentous moment.

'I'm no good at toasts.' Tasha
walked ahead of him back into the sitting-room and dropped onto the settee.
'You're the writer; you suggest one.'

'But I
only write fiction.'

Tasha liked that. He came to
sit beside her and she clinked her glass against his.

He took a sip of wine, then asked, 'What day is it?'

'Friday.'

He took
another drink. 'And the date?'

'The twenty-fourth,' Tasha
told him, her mouth curving in amusement.

Brett
drank again. 'The month?'

'May.'
She watched him put the glass to his lips for the fourth time and said, 'Did
you just propose a toast without me knowing about it?'

'You could
always drink to it yourself.'

'So I could.' For a moment she
toyed with the glass as if making up her mind, teasing him a little, but then
she raised it and said, 'To today—the twenty- fourth of May.' And she took a
long drink, the wine cold and luxurious against her throat.

'A very special day,' Brett
murmured and bent to kiss her again. He could taste the wine on her lips, felt
first its coldness but then through it the warmth of her mouth. She tasted so good,
so sweet. 'I began to get worried when you didn't answer my calls,' he admitted
ruefully.

'Good. It doesn't do a man any
harm to feel insecure.'

'I'm beginning to think you have
a sadistic streak in you.'

He said it playfully but Tasha
put her head on one side, considering the idea seriously. Her eyes shadowed.
'Maybe that's necessary sometimes. Especially for a woman.'

'In a love affair, do you mean?
When you want to call a halt?' Desperately curious, he was guessing, perhaps
probing, although he knew it was unwise to do so.

Her clear, beautiful eyes
regarded him steadily, reading his mind. 'Perhaps. And
are you cruel?'

'I hope not. I try not to be.'
He could have told her that he'd seen too much cruelty in his years as a
journalist, but he didn't want to spoil this enchanted moment.

She nodded slowly, apparently
believing him, then, in one of her sudden changes of mood, finished her drink
and stood up. 'I hope you're going to take me out to dinner, because I'm
hungry.'

He would have liked to stay there
to eat, but said immediately, 'Of course.'

'Then I'll go and change. Make yourself at home.'

'Are you going to wear that red dress?' he asked.

Tasha paused in the doorway and
looked back at him. Again she gave that Mona Lisa smile as she shook her head. 'No.
I think I'll save that for—a special occasion.'

The words held a wealth of
promise, the last few spoken in a voice that was even huskier and more
seductive than usual. It sent a frisson of excited anticipation running through
his veins, and Brett thought that he'd never before met such a tantalising
woman. He wondered why on earth she wasn't already married, hadn't been snapped
up long ago, and the next moment really wondered what the reason was. But then,
for all he knew she could have been married, maybe even still was. Was the guy
she'd said she'd just ditched her husband? All sorts of ideas went chasing
through his mind. She just had to be too good to be true. With
that hair and that figure.

Almost angrily he pushed the
wild theories out of his mind. He was strongly tempted, while she was changing,
to go to her work-room again to have another look at that folder. But maybe he
didn't have to go as far as the work-room; Tasha had been carrying a briefcase
when she'd arrived home and had dropped it on the floor by the door. He picked
it up but it was locked, and it was the kind that needed a combination number
to open it. Returning it to its former place, Brett refilled his glass and went
to the window, looking out absently, his thoughts running free and all on Tasha
as he waited for her.

She was worth the wait. She wore
green. A very pale leaf-green dress that left her shoulders and arms bare,
fitted to the hips and then swung free. Her hair hung loose as he liked it and
she looked altogether delectable. 'You look…' He sought the right words.

'I hope I look half-starved and
you can't wait to feed me,' Tasha interrupted before he could find them.

He gave a wry smile, wondering
when, if ever, she would allow him to say how he felt about her. 'Do we walk or
ride? I'm not too familiar with the restaurants around here.'

'Do you like Thai food? There's a place not too far away.'

'Sounds fine.'

Tasha picked up her bag and a gossamer stole
from the hall and they walked to the restaurant. It wasn't the first they
passed and Brett couldn't help wondering if she was deliberately avoiding the
nearer ones because she was known there, had visited them with her
ex-boyfriend. Ex-lover? Ex-husband?
He had to find out.

But once they were settled in the restaurant Tasha showed no
inclination to talk of personal things. She asked him if he'd seen a programme
that had been on the television that week, a half-hour piece on artists who
painted pictures to illustrate magazine stories and book covers, and the models
they used.

Brett shook his head. 'No, I didn't see it. Why, were you involved?'

'Yes, it was my idea and I did all the research,' Tasha told him with
evident satisfaction.

'Did you
video the programme? I'd like to see it.'

'I have it at home. I'll put it on for you later, if you like.'

So she wanted him to go back with her. Brett had to look away to hide
the glint of satisfaction in his eyes. Such an invitation could only mean that
she was ready to go to bed with him, wanted it as much as he did. He reached
across the table to take her hand and she let him hold it for a minute, but
then drew it away as the waiter came up with a bottle of wine.

'What's the
name of your company?' Brett asked.

'Plenitude Productions. You probably haven't
heard of them, but over the last couple of years we've really started to make a
name for ourselves.' She listed some of the programmes
the company had made. 'Did you see any of those?'

'Yes, I did. Were you involved
with them all?'

'Most of
them.'

'I'm impressed. They were
memorable.'

Tasha smiled
with pleasure and he saw, with no little surprise, that he had found the way to
please her. Personal compliments, about her looks, her figure, her hair, she
disregarded them all, possibly even resented them, but praise her work and a
delightful flush came into her cheeks and her eyes smiled warmly at him. 'Tell
me about your work,' he invited. 'How did you get started? Were you a
journalist?'

Immediately a
shadow came over her face. 'Definitely not. No, I was
working in an office, but I had a few ideas which I sent to various production
companies. Some of them were accepted so I built up a portfolio of my work.
Then I heard that Plenitude were starting up so I went
along to see them. I sort of talked my way in to see the boss,' Tasha admitted
with an impish grin. 'He liked some of my ideas, put a couple into production,
and then offered me a full- time job.'

Brett could
imagine her talking her way in; in fact he doubted any man's ability to
withstand her when she was really persuasive, when she definitely wanted
something. Or any woman's, if it came to that, he thought, remembering the
interviews she was currently doing. 'How long ago was that?'

'Nearly three years.'

'Have you thought about going
freelance?'

'I did think
about it before I joined Plenitude, but the money side of it would have been a
bit risky.'

She gave a small grimace. 'The
rent always has to be paid.'

'I suppose you could always have
shared the flat,' Brett suggested, subtly probing.

Her eyes met his in that candid
way she had and he guessed she was reading his mind. 'I don't like to share.'

'Never?'
There was more behind the question than a simple query.

'No, not in any circumstances.'

The words were spoken in a
definite tone that made him wonder why, but their food came and they talked about
Thailand, which Brett had visited once, until he remembered another firm answer
she'd given him and said, 'Why so definite about not being a journalist?' His
eyes were on her face although he kept his voice casual. 'Have you got
something against journalism?'

'Not journalism as such. Just journalists, and the way they go about getting their
information.'

Carefully, he said, 'You sound
as if you speak from experience.'

'Yes, I do. A so-called
journalist did the dirty on me once, pinched one of my ideas and sold it to a
paper as if it was his own. And as I'd already sold the idea to a television
company I wasn't very popular. I had to give them their money back and they
didn't employ me again. And—' She stopped abruptly and
didn't go on, although he waited.

'Nasty,' Brett said at length.
'But not all journalists are the same, of course.'

'Aren't they?' Tasha frowned, then said on a bitter note, 'I can't think of any I've ever
met that I'd trust. All they care about is the story, and they don't care how
they have to lie and cheat to get it.'

Thankfully the waiter came up to
ask if they were enjoying their meal, and Brett was able to hide the
consternation he felt and afterwards change to a safer subject.

He was a good conversationalist
and set out to amuse and entertain her, not monopolising
things, but inviting her to take part too. Tasha quite enjoyed just listening
to him, he had a strong but not obtrusive voice, a voice that went with his
character and body, she thought fancifully. Sometimes he would glance away,
often when he paused, but most of the time he kept his eyes on her as he spoke
instead of looking at a point past her ear as some men did. Somewhat to her own
surprise, Tasha had found that she'd missed him during the last few days, had
found herself wondering about him, what he was doing. And she'd felt a surge of
pleasure when he hadn't been put off by her ignoring his calls and had taken
the trouble to find her again.

They finished their meal and
lingered over coffee. Picking up her left hand, Brett traced the paler coloured
band of skin on her middle finger, the mark left by a ring that had been worn
for a long time. 'Did you give it back when you broke it off?' he asked.

Tasha smiled slightly, guessing
what he wanted to know but continuing to tease him a little. 'No, I lost it,
quite recently. It flew off my hand when I was taking a ride on a
roller-coaster.'

'Big kid,' he said with a grin.
Then added, 'And it wasn't on your engagement finger.'

'No, I don't believe in engagements. Do you?'

He shrugged. 'I haven't really
thought about it— or tried it. Maybe you're right; maybe they are a bit dated.'
He gave a sudden wry smile. 'Let's get all these questions we're wondering
about out of the way, shall we? I've never been married, or engaged. How about you?'

'No, nor have I.' Tasha smiled
a little. 'But the questions aren't really answered, are they? A denial of
total commitment doesn't mean that you haven't had a close relationship, even a
whole string of close relationships. That's pretty commonplace nowadays.'

Trying to keep disappointment
out of his voice, Brett said, 'And have you had a whole string of close
relationships?'

'I meant
you.'

'Did you, indeed? What makes
you think I fall into that category?'