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‘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 for a very long time, but the longer she could put off thinking about it, the better.
‘Good morning, Jo.’
Her heart sank. A visit from the project manager was the last thing she needed this morning. She turned to the sleek, tanned figure and forced a smile to her lips.
‘Hello, Peter. We didn’t expect you back until tomorrow. Had a good holiday?’
‘Wonderful, my dear. The Greek islands in May are a perfect joy. You should have come with me.’ He didn’t exactly leer; he was never quite that obvious. But he hid his resentment at being landed with a woman on his site under a surface skim of flirtation that grated like a nail on a blackboard.
She shrugged and sighed. ‘Someone has to stay and do the work. And I’m sure the company of your wife was adequate compensation. Do you want me to walk around with you?’
‘No, it’s nearly lunchtime. I’ve just come to take you all down the pub for a drink. A thank-you for all your hard work while I’ve been away. I’ll give you a lift.’ He placed his hand on her elbow and steered her towards his car.
Jo bit down hard to prevent herself from screaming. Not that he ever did anything that could be grounds for complaint. Just the innuendo and the proprietorial hand to her back, whenever there was anyone to see, to give the impression that she belonged to him personally.
Jo made for a table by the fireplace, but he moved her on to a secluded corner. ‘It’ll get noisy there when the place fills up.’
She fumed while he fetched the drinks. It wasn’t as if he was interested in her, and for that at least she supposed she should be grateful. He was only interested in having the world believe that she was besotted by him.
‘Now, my dear. Tell me everything that’s happened while I’ve been away. Any problems?’
‘Nothing major.’ She smiled. ‘You should have had another week in Greece.’ The sentiment was heartfelt.
He leaned closer and placed his hand on hers. ‘I couldn’t stay away that long.’
She looked up with relief as she heard the door opening in the corner. It would be the men from the site. But it wasn’t them. Clay Thackeray stood framed in the doorway, very still, taking in the picture the two of them presented. For a moment their eyes clashed, then Clay took a step forward, his face taut with anger.
Quite deliberately Jo turned to Peter and smiled into his startled eyes. ‘I’m glad. I’ve missed you, darling.’ She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the mouth.
His reaction should have been comic. It was a moot point who jumped most visibly—Peter, leaping to his feet, or Jo, at the crash of the door rattling on its hinges.
It was late when she drove home. The truth of the matter was that she didn’t want to go back to her empty flat. At least while she was working she had something else to think about. Finally, however, the figures began to swim in front of her eyes and she was in danger of falling asleep over her desk. She parked the silver Mini in her allotted space and walked slowly up the stairs.
She was near the top when she became aware of an obstruction, and for a moment she stared uncomprehendingly at the long legs barring her way.
‘You’re very late. It’s nearly nine o’clock.’ Clay’s voice was accusing.
She glanced at her watch. Anywhere to hide her face, to hide from him the betraying leap of joy at seeing him again. ‘I’ve been working late.’
‘I saw you working, at lunchtime.’ His jaw muscles tightened. ‘Who was he?’
It was too late to regret her stupidity. She had behaved very badly indeed and had the unhappy suspicion that Peter would make her pay for that when he had got over the shock. But it wasn’t too late to retrieve a little self-respect.
‘What’s the matter, Clay? Did you change your mind?’
He stood up. ‘This is hardly the place to discuss it.’
‘This is the only place you’re going to discuss anything. Because I have.’ She turned away so that her eyes shouldn’t betray the lie.
‘Are you really so fickle?’ He descended to her level and grasped her face between his hands so that she was forced to look at him. ‘Who was he?’ For a moment she glared furiously up at him, defying him to make her speak. He leaned closer. ‘Who was he, Joanna?’ he repeated, the velvet drawl of his voice contradicting the gem-hard challenge in his eyes.
‘Peter Lloyd. He’s the project manager.’ The muscles in his jaw tightened and she closed her eyes. ‘He’s just come back from holiday.’
‘You appeared to be very pleased to see him.’
‘Did I? Maybe I was, Clay.’
‘Maybe.’ He suddenly released her and she rocked back on her feet. ‘He didn’t hang around for long, though. Or perhaps he came back tonight?’
‘You stayed to spy on me?’ Her eyes widened in surprise. Then a flash of anger sparked through them. ‘You should have stayed longer, then you’d know whether he came back.’
‘No!’ He stepped back. ‘No. I didn’t do that. I was too angry to trust myself at the wheel of a car. I sat in the car park for a while, that’s all, and I saw him leave, then a while later you all went back to the site.’
She frowned. ‘I didn’t notice the Aston in the car park.’
He shook his head. ‘It needed some work. I borrowed a car from the garage. Look, Jo, this is silly. Can’t we go inside and talk?’
She hesitated for a moment then shrugged and unlocked the door. ‘Why not? I know I’ll be safe in your company.’ She threw her bag on the sofa and turned to face him. ‘Won’t I?’
CHAPTER THREE
‘MAYBE.’ He seemed to fill her sitting-room. ‘Have you eaten?’
‘I’m not hungry, Clay. I’m just tired. All I want is a shower and my bed. Just say whatever it is you feel you have to and go.’
‘You have to eat.’ He turned her in the direction of the bedroom and firmly steered her towards it. ‘Have your shower. I’ll get you some food.’
She dug her heels in. ‘I don’t want anything from you, Clay.’
‘Yes, you do.’ His hands were still on her shoulders and his grip intensified. ‘So you’d better go and shower now, before I lose all semblance of self-control and remind you exactly what you want from me.’
She fled. Locking the bathroom door firmly behind her, she stood against it, her whole body trembling with the longing for him to slake the shattering need that the slightest touch of hand awoke in her. A longing that wouldn’t go away.
‘Damn you, Clay Thackeray,’ she whispered to herself. She took deep, calming breaths and gradually began to regain control of herself. Slowly she undressed, and stood under a fierce shower trying to work out what Clay wanted from her. She had already offered him everything a girl could give a man and he had rejected it in very short order. Angrily she flicked the switch to cold.
Shivering, she quickly dressed in cream cord trousers and an oversized fleecy sweatshirt. The blue was faded and the Prince of Wales feathers of Surrey Cricket Club were barely visible, but it had been her father’s and it was a comfort in her misery.
As she opened the bedroom door she heard a key in the lock. Clay appeared carrying a plastic bag. ‘I borrowed your key. Hope you don’t mind.’
‘When you said you were getting food, I had assumed you were going to cook,’ she protested. ‘I could have made an omelette or something.’
‘You said you were tired,’ he said. ‘Have you got any chopsticks?’
‘I’m afraid not. I just use knives and forks.’ Her lips imitated a smile.
He shook his head and tutted. ‘How very conventional.’
‘I’ve recently discovered that stepping outside the bounds of convention isn’t that good for my ego,’ she replied, sharply.
He smiled. ‘I promise I’ll do my best to restore it.’ With a wry smile he dumped a pile of magazines on the floor. ‘New Civil Engineer. I might as well be at home.’
‘I’m sure I can find you a copy of Vogue if it will make you feel more comfortable,’ she offered, but he ignored this and began to lay out a series of aluminum dishes on the glass-topped coffee-table.
‘Plates?’ he suggested.
‘Has anyone ever told you that you have a very managing disposition, Clay Thackeray?’ she remarked, crossly.
‘Managing is what I do best, Joanna Grant, so you’d better get used to it.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Jo snapped, but fetched a couple of plates and some cutlery from the kitchen. Clay piled a plate with food and handed it to her. She stared at it in dismay. ‘I can’t eat all this!’
He helped himself to food. ‘Convince me that you’ve had a proper meal today and I’ll let you off with half,’ he offered.
‘I don’t suppose you’d take a doughnut into consideration?’ He paused in the act of spooning rice on to his plate just long enough to hand her a fork. She made no further protest. At least eating precluded conversation.
‘More?’ he offered, as he watched her finish.
Jo shook her head. ‘No. But thank you.’ She forced a smile. ‘I was hungrier than I thought.’ She began to clear the dishes into the kitchen. ‘Now, perhaps you’ll tell me why you’re here?’ It seemed easier to ask the question while she was occupied. ‘What exactly do you want from me?’
He had followed her, and his voice at her ear made her jump ‘Maybe,’ he said, very softly, ‘I did change my mind. Maybe I can’t get the thought of the other night out of my head.’ He reached out and caught her wrist. ‘Maybe I’ve been driven to distraction by the thought of you offering yourself to another man … I have the feeling that Peter Lloyd wouldn’t be so tactless as to refuse you. Or is that where you’ve been all weekend?’
Jo stared at his hand, at the strong fingers curled around her wrist, the same fingers that had elicited such a eager response from her. She ignored his question. ‘Is that how you see me?’ she asked. ‘Desperate? Realising how late I’ve left it and throwing myself at every man who comes my way in the hope that one of them will take pity on me?’ She shuddered, resisting to no purpose as he pulled her into his arms, wrapping them around her, holding her close.
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