Dark Paradise (15 page)

Because she had wanted with every fibre of her being to be held in his arms, even for the duration of a dance. And the reason she had come here with him had been a twisted desire for revenge on him, because he had made her feel vulnerable again. She remembered the vindictive pleasure she had felt in planning his ultimate downfall. Only it hadn't worked out that way, because that bewildering, devastating attraction had still been there, seething just below the surface of her mind.

Sometimes, when she was alone like this, she let her mind drift, fantasising about what it could have been like between them, pretending that the bitterness, the misunderstandings had never existed, and that the only reason they were here was because they wanted to be together.

And that, she thought wryly, was the sheerest fantasy, because Matt's attitude since that first day had adhered strictly to the limits of their agreement.

She sighed abruptly and reached for her bag, dragging out her sketchbook. It was almost empty, and it should have been half full, especially if they were going to be leaving soon. She had intended to collect a whole range of memories and impressions, using drawings as other people might use cameras. Her own personal record of an unforgettable few days out of her life.

Not that she needed one. If she never drew another line, she knew that everything that had happened since they arrived on St Antoine was imprinted indelibly on her memory for ever more.

The prospect of returning to London with only memories, and the occasional glimpse of Matt on television to sustain her, seemed unutterably bleak. The life she had made for herself, which had always seemed so sufficient, so satisfactory, now seemed empty and sterile. It wasn't, of course, she assured herself robustly, and once she was back in the swing of things, this sundrenched madness which had possessed her would begin to fade.

Everything faded in time. She had thought she would never forget Drew, and the hurt and humiliation he had dealt her, and yet she had been able to remember every detail of their abortive relationship almost without a pang.

But then it hadn't been love she'd felt for Drew, she realised, but only infatuation, and she wondered with bewilderment why she hadn't been able to see that before.

She started out to sketch the scene in front of her— an odd-shaped rock backed by a clump of palm trees— but when she glanced down at the sheet in front of her she saw, with a kind of shock, Matt's face. It wasn't a portrait by any means, but unbeknownst to herself it had been taking shape under her hand, conveying all his restlessness, his vitality and thinly veiled impatience. She had made him frown slightly, she saw, and his mouth was a downward slash of pure arrogance.

If she had had to draw him, she wished it had been smiling, giving her the look of warm intimacy which told the world they were lovers. But that was all part of the fantasy. This was the real Matt Lincoln, dynamic and ruthless—and in total occupation of her heart and mind.

She thought, 'I love him,' and it was as if all the random thoughts, all the fantasies, all the doubts and uncertainties which had assailed her were a kaleidoscope which now, suddenly, fell into place and into focus, enabling her to see them properly for the first time.

The seeds had always been there, she thought numbly, but it was this hothouse proximity they had been in which had forced them to such rapid and startling growth.

Because in every way that mattered, Matt was still a stranger to her. She stared down at the harsh familiar lines of his face and knew a kind of despair.

She was so absorbed that she was totally unaware of his return until his shadow fell across her, and his voice, drawling slightly, said, 'Hardly a flattering likeness!'

Kate started, dropping the sketchpad, aware that her heart was thumping, her forehead beaded with sudden perspiration. She turned swiftly, facing him, and it was only when the questioning mockery on his dark face changed to a very different expression that she remembered too late that her bikini top was still lying on the towel beside her. She only had to reach for it and she would be safely covered again, but she was still held by her dream of delight, and the girl who lived in that dream gloried that Matt should look at her body and find it beautiful.

Her hands went up, not to cover herself, but to lift her tumbled hair back from her shoulders in a gesture of sheer invitation.

She saw Matt's blue eyes darken, and a tiny muscle tauten beside his hard mouth, and she met his gaze fully, no longer caring that the dream had become reality, and that she was incapable of disguising her feelings any longer.

He dropped to his knees beside her, and his hand reached out, touching her face, running cool fingertips down the curve of her cheek, and she turned her head, kissing the stroking hand, moving her tongue against his salt-damp palm.

For a long, tense moment he was still, hardly breathing, it seemed. Then he moved, and she was in his arms, and he was kissing her pliant mouth with fierce, demanding passion. Kate yielded almost deliriously, her arms going up to circle his strong shoulders, the blood singing crazily in her ears.

Matt lifted her, half turning her in his arms as he put her gently down on the towel, following her down almost before she could reach for him, his mouth searching hers completely, demanding its every secret, just as he would soon explore her willing body.

She had craved to feel his hands on her naked flesh for an eternity, and as his fingers worshipped her small, pointed breasts, a little moan of pleasure escaped her.

His lips traversed the offered arch of her throat and moved down to her sunwarmed shoulders, learning every curve, every angle and hollow. The dark head moved lower, and his tongue was a sweet torment in the cleft between her breasts before pursuing a slow sensuous path across her flat abdomen to her navel.

He lifted his head and looked at her, his face fevered and intent, then he bent to her again, his mouth adoring the aroused thrust of her nipples, the movements of his lips and tongue creating a delicious agony against her heated skin. Her hands locked round his neck, holding him to her, stroking the damp dark hair growing down to his nape.

No fantasy had prepared her for this, the depth of her own emotions, the strength of her own sensuality. She had not dreamed she could feel so strongly, that she could ache for this man with every fibre of her being. Because of Drew, because of his cruelty and in-sensitivity, all the passion in her had remained dormant, but she was awake now, alive for the first time, her senses demanding and responding, her flesh eager.

Matt's mouth burned on hers again, caressing its parted contours with sensuous delight, and his hands gentled her body, moulding every line and curve, sliding down to where the fragile strings fastened the lower half of her bikini on her slender hips. He loosened them slowly, brushing the flimsy triangles of material away, as if they were thistledown.

The sun was glowing against her closed eyelids, and the whisper of the sea seemed very far away. Her body convulsed in a shiver of pure sensual yearning as he began to touch her delicately, erotically, and very gently, as if he knew that these intimate caresses were a whole new dimension for her.

Her hands clung to his shoulders, because she was drowning and he was her rock. Her mouth tasted the salt on his skin in a small frenzy of desire. She could deny him nothing, and her slim body arched towards his in silent offering.

He drew a long, deep breath, and she felt the sudden tautness in his shoulder muscles as, unbelievably, he lifted himself away from her. Her eyes flew open, searching his face, seeing the guarded expression there, and trying to fathom it.

She said, 'Matt?' on a little breathless question.

His breathing was ragged, and the blue eyes were heavy with desire as he looked at her, but she had lost him, she realised with a pain that was almost too much to bear. He was back in control again.

He said, 'Kate—I'm sorry. I never intended this—you know that. God help me, I…' He paused, brushing a hand across his face, as he searched for words—words to cushion the blow, she thought with agony.

Her voice shaking, she said, 'You don't have to say any more. I—I understand.'

The humiliation of it made her feel cold and sick. She had thought Drew had made her suffer, but it was nothing to the way she felt now. She couldn't look at Matt as she retrieved the discarded scraps of her bikini and put them on, her fingers clumsy as she fumbled with the strings. Not that he was watching her. He had turned away abruptly and was staring out to sea, his back turned to her.

When she had been in his arms, she had felt no sense of shame about her nakedness, but now she couldn't be sufficiently covered, and she snatched up her shirt, sliding her arms into the sleeves with guilty haste. She stood up, grabbing at her novel, her sketchpad, and stuffing them into her shoulder bag. Matt rose to his feet, too. His face was bleak, his mouth taut and compressed as he looked at her.

He said quietly, 'Don't run away from me, Kate. I want to talk to you—I have to explain…'

'No explanation needed.' Her voice was a tone higher, and sounded brittle. 'It—it just stopped being a good idea—for both of us. This is your trip, and you made the rules.' She swung the bag on to her shoulder. 'I'm going for a walk.'

He took her gently by the shoulders. 'Don't go—not like this.'

'Please don't touch me!' She wrenched away from him, despising herself for that traitorous clench of the flesh that the merest brush of his hands induced.

For a moment they stood glaring at each other, then Matt turned away, muttering something violent under his breath. He bent and picked up an inoffensive stone, and sent it flying towards the sea with one powerful twist of his body.

Kate began to walk along the beach, shoulders hunched, stumbling a little, not looking back. She was terrified he might come after her, because she might cling to him, beg him to take her, beg him for his lovemaking even though there was no love to sweeten it.

She began to walk faster and faster until she was almost running—away from him, out of the dream, and back into the nightmare.

She was panting and breathless by the time she reached the rocky outcrop which blocked the way into the next cove, but she had no intention of turning tamely back.

Matt wasn't following, or he would have caught her by now, but she wanted to put distance between them, to find somewhere private and far away where she could lick her wounds in peace.

The rocks were high and not an easy scramble, and the water which foamed around their base was deep, because the beach shelved sharply, making wading difficult. Kate anchored her bag slantwise across her body and decided to climb.

She thought she heard Matt shout something in the distance, but she pretended not to hear, concentrating on finding hand and toe holds. She scraped her shin and the knuckles on one hand, and she welcomed the physical pain because it distracted her momentarily from the ache inside her.

She hauled herself on to the top of the rock and found another problem awaiting her. The sea had forced a channel through the promontory, and there was a gap of several feet to be traversed before she could reach the other cove. She looked down into the water and grimaced, remembering Winston's warnings about sea-urchins and their poisonous spines. Surely there must be some other way across.