Sally Wentworth - A Typical Male (6 page)

'How old are you? No—' she
held up a hand '—let me guess.' Her eyes studied his face. 'Over
thirty. About thirty-three?' He nodded. 'So
there are very few men of your age around who haven't had a few affairs in the
past.'

'I thought we were talking
committed relationships, not affairs.'

'You don't
think they're one and the same?'

'No. And I
think you know they're not.'

'To a
woman they would be,' Tasha said positively.

'Perhaps. To some. But not to a
man.'

'So you're saying that men
draw a line between sex and emotion.'

Brett grinned. 'Ah, so we're
down to the basic differences between men and women already, are we?'

'The
battle of the sexes,' Tasha said wryly.

'It doesn't have to be a
battle,' Brett pointed out, watching her and wondering what had happened in her
past to make her so sardonic.

Glancing
up, she caught him studying her and instantly became animated again. 'That was
a wonderful meal. Thank you. Let's go, shall we?'

She had shut him out, Brett realised; behind the bright smile, a
curtain had been drawn across the window into her character. And she'd also
ducked the question of whether she'd ever had a close relationship, he noticed
wryly. But maybe she'd open up more when they were in bed together, after
they'd made love.

Tasha chatted companionably enough as they strolled back to her flat.
She let Brett take her hand and link his fingers through hers and he wondered
if she could feel the electric anticipation that filled him. He was a little
disappointed not to see any similar feeling in her face. Was she hard? Did she
go to bed with so many men that it had become commonplace? He fervently hoped
it wasn't like that; he found he very much wanted their lovemaking to be
special. When they'd climbed the endless stairs to the flat, Tasha got him a
drink and then put on the video she'd told him about.

Kicking off her shoes, she curled up beside him on the sofa and he put
his arm round her. Brett tried to concentrate on the programme but found it
difficult; he was so consumed with need of her. But he knew the way to please
her was through her work so he gave his attention to the screen, wondering if
this, again, wasn't some kind of test Tasha was setting him. The documentary
was good, he saw that straight away. OK, the subject wasn't that important, but
she had researched it thoroughly and had made it not only informative but
amusing too. And she'd used actual film footage as much as words to describe
the world of magazine story illustrations.

It wasn't that long, and when it was finished he said immediately and
sincerely, 'Congratulations. It was a good programme.'

Tasha switched off the set. 'But what did you really think of it—as a
writer? And please don't be polite or kind.'

'I wasn't being either. I enjoyed it. You told the story well, without
waffling, and you pointed out all the things that an ordinary person wouldn't
know and would find interesting. Also, you let the audience see that it could
be quite a hard and uncertain life, but the anecdotes you included lightened it
when the going could have got heavy. A nicely rounded,
entertaining programme. I'm not surprised your boss offered you a
full-time job. If I were you I'd ask for a raise in salary.'

'Hey, you don't have to go overboard,' Tasha remonstrated, but there
was a flush of pleasure in her cheeks.

'I'm not. Anyway, you don't need me to tell you it was good; you must
already know.'

'People have been very kind,' she admitted. 'But as you're a writer I
value your opinion.'

Not for the first time Brett saw that his being a writer had made
quite an impression on her. He hoped it wasn't only that. He wanted her to
fancy him as a man, too. He wanted to glory in her need for him, in her
preference for him above all other men. He wanted to make it obvious to other
men that she was his, to see the jealousy in their faces as she looked at him
with that secret smile a woman had when she was with her lover.

Tasha got up to take the video out of the machine, kneeling on the
floor as she put it back in its box.

She stayed
there, in no hurry, it seemed, to rejoin him on the
sofa. After a moment Brett said, 'Have you any more programmes
due out?'

She nodded. 'Next month. But it's a programme for teenagers and will
be broadcast for schools.'

'And what are you working on now?' He asked the question lightly, but
not forgetting for a moment her current project.

She shook her head. 'I told you; it's top secret.' She hugged her
knees and added, 'But I have high hopes for it; if I pull it off it could
really make my name.'

Or it could do untold damage, Brett thought wryly. He held out his
hand. 'Come and sit with me,' he invited.

Tasha hesitated a moment but then came to sit beside him. Her
hesitation disturbed him, but the next moment it was forgotten as he put his
arms round her and drew her to him.

He kissed her lingeringly, savouring every
second, wanting this night to last. Tasha responded and once again he became
lost in the wonder of the embrace, in the intoxication of her closeness. But
when his breathing quickened and he lifted his hand to slip the strap of her
dress from her shoulder, she moved away from him.

'Tasha?' He said her name on a questioning note, his voice thick with
desire.

She didn't speak for a moment but got up and went to the window, stood
looking out and then turned to face him. 'Do you want me, Brett?'

'You know I
do.'

'You've made—quite an impression on me, too. From
the very first.'

'Good. I'm glad.' He got to his
feet and would have gone to her, taken her in his arms again, but she held up a
hand to stop him. 'What is it?'

'I'm not promiscuous, Brett.
There's no way I'd ever go to bed with someone I've known for less than a
week.'

She said it so firmly that he
felt as if she'd hit him between the eyes. 'You said I'd made an impression on
you,' he pointed out.

'You have. I don't think I've
ever felt quite like this before—in fact I know I haven't.'

Despite the acute
disappointment, he felt immensely pleased and flattered. 'And
so?'

'And so I want to get to know
you before we— have sex. Anyone can go to bed
together, Brett, but I want you for a friend as well as a lover.'

He moved closer and put his
hands on her waist, stood looking down at her in the light of the lamps. 'But
you do want me?'

Tasha gave a slow smile, said in
that gorgeous way she had, 'Absolutely. But I want you—us—to be very, very
special.' She put her arms round his neck and said huskily, 'You do understand,
don't you?'

'It's going to be very hard.'
And he meant it; already his hands ached with the need to hold her body close
against his own and let her see how much he hungered for her.

She brushed her lips lightly
against his mouth. 'I'll make it up to you—when it's the right time.'

The promise excited him
fiercely; his imagination ran riot with pictures of her naked in his arms. She
would be wild in bed, he was somehow sure of that, like an exotic flower
opening for him—and for him alone. He was suddenly glad that she was going to
make him wait, that she didn't go in for one-night stands or have casual
relationships. And the fact that she wanted him blew his mind. She was so
sensational herself and yet she found him special, wanted to know him as a
person not just as someone to go to bed with. On a sudden high of emotion he
took her in his arms and lifted her off her feet. 'Kiss me,' he commanded.

Laughingly Tasha did so, saying,
'Tarzan has nothing on you.'

He set her on her feet and said,
'OK, we'll wait. But just how long do you think it will take you to get to know
me?'

She pretended to consider, head
on one side. 'Well, now, you're such a deep character. I should think— at least
three months.'

"Three months! I'll die of frustration
before then,' he protested in horror.

Tasha laughed delightedly, but
then grew serious again as she said, 'A relationship needs time to grow. And
ours is going to be very wonderful. I really feel that.'

Her eyes were so earnest, so
beautiful, that Brett felt as if he were drowning in their depths. She made him
feel so good, so extraordinarily chosen, that he would have done anything for
her at that moment. It even felt completely right that she had refused to go to
bed with him. And when he eventually left and walked down the street he still
felt elated, as if he was on the verge of the most wonderful experience he had
ever known. And it was only later, as he lay alone in his bed, that he realised
with a rueful chuckle that he had
never before been so skilfully put down in all his
life.

CHAPTER THREE

For Brett
the next few weeks became an entirely new experience in his life. He couldn't
remember the last time he had had to take real trouble in pursuing a woman.
When he'd fancied someone there might have been a couple of weeks of
skirmishing for form's sake, but the conquests had never been difficult or
prolonged. There was something about him, perhaps his air of experience and
knowledge of their sex, that made a woman know instinctively that he would make
a great lover. It was an impression he more than lived up to and he tried to
make sure that when an affair inevitably ended they parted as friends.

Not that he'd had a whole string of relationships, as Tasha had
suggested; when he'd been younger and fully active as a journalist he had been
away a lot, covering the Gulf War, Ireland, wherever there was unrest and the
opportunity for a good story. Few chances then to meet the kind of woman he
wanted to go to bed with. And with time he'd become even more fastidious,
unwilling to have an affair with a woman just because she fancied him; he
needed to feel a similar desire. There had been several women he'd been
attracted to, of course, and those he'd gone after and—if they were willing—had
taken to bed. But no woman had ever fascinated his imagination, had instantly
excited his senses, as Tasha had.

He saw her as often as he could but not as often as he
would have liked. Sometimes when they'd arranged a date he would get a call to
say that she couldn't make it; she'd been held up at an interview. That, too,
was a new experience for him—to be stood up and have to accept it with good
grace. But, strangely, that somehow added to the excitement of it. Those highs
and lows, expecting to see her and full of anticipation, only to be dashed down
and have to spend a lonely evening without her. Often then he wondered who
she'd been interviewing and was only saved from intense jealousy by knowing
that it had more than likely been a woman.

But Tasha, of course, had no idea that he knew
anything about her project, so he'd allowed himself to show some jealousy. One
day, after she'd stood him up the previous evening, he'd said, 'Couldn't you have arranged to see this person you were
interviewing again some other time?'

'But the interview was going really well,' Tasha said
enthusiastically. 'It would have been crazy to stop and try to pick it up
again.'

'But we had arranged to go to the theatre,' Brett
pointed out, carefully keeping his voice even.

Tasha was immediately contrite. 'I know.' She reached
across to touch his hand, her eyes huge. 'And I did apologise
when I rang. Weren't you able to sell the tickets back? Did they cost the
earth?'

He waved that aspect of it away impatiently. 'That
doesn't matter. What does matter is that you found your work more interesting
than a date with me.'

A slight frown came between her eyes. 'My work is very
important to me, Brett.'

He knew it
was foolish but he couldn't help saying, 'More important than me?'

She
immediately laughed at him. 'What a loaded question! Don't push your luck,
mate,' she said, putting on a broad Cockney accent.

Brett
grinned, perhaps relieved that she'd lightened the atmosphere. 'And one I can
see that you're not going to answer.'

They were
perched on high stools in the bar of a restaurant, waiting to be seated. In
front of everyone there she reached over and put her hand on his upper leg,
then leaned forward and kissed him lingeringly on the mouth. It was the first
time she'd ever touched him like that of her own volition in public, or in
private if it came to that. Brett gasped against her mouth, a great tremor of
suddenly awakened sensuality running through him. Tasha drew her head back a
little, her blue eyes laughing at him, dancing with mischief. She went to draw
her hand away, but to punish her a little—and because
he loved it where it was—he put his own hand over hers and wouldn't let her go.

'Hey!' She
raised her eyebrows but was still laughing.

'Kiss me again,' Brett commanded.

'Will I get my hand back?'

'You may never get it back.'

That made her
laugh openly and he was rewarded with another kiss, but lightly this time.

Letting her
go, Brett glanced round; most of the people in the bar were watching them, the
men in open envy. That gave him a great lift, made him feel a million dollars,
but he knew, ruefully, that Tasha had evaded him yet again.

He was starting to have difficulty with his own evasions. Tasha didn't
pry but she'd shown that she was interested in him, wanted to know him, so how
did he account for the years when he'd been a journalist? He wanted to tell her
the truth but knew that to do so would be fatal. Not only would she no longer
trust him, but she would definitely never tell him about the sexual
exploitation theme she was pursuing. So he was trapped and had to come up with
a career in an export business that had taken him abroad a lot. Brett didn't
like lying, because he could so easily be caught out as much as anything else.
They only had to run into someone he knew for the whole thing to blow up in his
face. But he felt that he had to take the risk and hope that she would soon
care enough about him to confide in him, then he could
tell her the truth. Somehow he knew that wouldn't happen until they became
lovers, until she gave herself to him.