father’s death had made him realise his own vulnerability, how precarious life was. He needed to be close—very close—to someone, to convince himself that life could go on. For a long moment she looked deeply into the intense grey eyes that held hers, then stood up and slowly lifted the shirt, pulled it over her head and stood before him in all the beauty of her naked youth.
Jack groaned as he looked at her, a sound almost of agony, then reached out a trembling hand to touch her waist, her thighs. ‘Are you sure? Oh, God, are you sure?’
For answer she leant forward and placed her lips against his.
The trembling in his body was so strong that she could feel it even in this light touch. For a moment he just let her kiss him, but then Jack surged to his feet, his hand behind her head, his mouth taking hers now in urgent need. Still kissing her, making small, animal sounds against her mouth, he somehow dragged off his clothes until he, too, was naked. He touched her breasts and ran kisses down her throat as she arched her neck, wanting him now. Bending her back against his arm, he let his other hand run free over her, glorying in her living warmth, the velvet softness of her skin.
Jack’s need for her was dreadful, the deepest hunger he’d ever known, an ache so bad that he could scarcely bear the pain of it. He needed to shut out the pictures in his mind, to experience the joy, the certainty of sexual fulfilment—to convince himself that life was still sweet. He needed it so badly that nothing else mattered, not conscience, convention, not even common sense.
In the young, pliant body in his arms he knew he would find solace, would assuage the devils of guilt and grief that haunted his mind. His hot, unsteady hands pulled her close to him so that he could hold her against his length, feel the heat of her. He heard her gasp when he put his hands low on her hips and held her against his growing manhood. That excited him unbearably. He wound his hand in her long dark hair and took her mouth again, letting passion have free rein. She was excited now, he could feel it in the heat of her skin, hear it in her gasping breath. Her hands were on him, as eager as his own.
With a cry, Jack swung her onto the bed. Her hair spread like a fan across the whiteness of the pillow. He saw her face below him, her features sharpened by desire, but it was the heart of her he wanted—the one place where he could find the peace and fulfilment he craved. So he took her, took her in desperate, driven hunger. No tender act of love this, but a savage need for reassurance to overcome the primitive age-long fear of mortality. And as excitement came, engulfed him, Jack wanted to shout out that he was alive—alive!
He fell asleep almost at once and slept long and deeply, held in Clare’s arms in the narrow bed. Some hours later he half woke, still too exhausted to be fully aware of his surroundings, but realised he was in bed and that the room was dark. He felt the woman beside him and without opening his eyes reached for her. She kissed him, murmured his name, used her hands and body to arouse him, then pushed him back and came over him, taking her own pleasure, her long cry of excitement filling the room.
When Jack finally woke it was to a feeling of immeasurable peace. He was alone in the room and sunshine, of all things, shafted through the window. For a little while he lay there, knowing that he had made love and savouring the wonderful feeling. But slowly, and then with sickening clarity, remembrance came. His father was dead—and he had taken Clare, the young girl who had foisted herself on him but nevertheless had had a right to be safe from him. At first he was appalled, not because he’d done such a thing with his father newly dead—the old man, he knew, would have been quite amused by it—but because he might have taken Clare against her will. But then he remembered that she had been a very eager participant and that guilt eased a little. But not his conscience. He should never have done it. There were no circumstances that justified what he’d done.
But Jack wasn’t the type to brood on the past, on what couldn’t be undone. Swiftly he got up, went to the bathroom and dressed, then ran downstairs.
Clare was in the kitchen. She was keyed up with excitement. Last night had been out of this world for her, a revelation of what sex, fantastic sex, could be like. She felt so good, so content and happy. She had never known that sex could make you feel like this—walking on air, wanting to laugh for no reason at all, to sing and dance around the room. Even if the sun hadn’t been shining it would still have been the most wonderful day.
When Jack finally came in she ran to him, looking eagerly at his face, waiting for him to smile at her with the intimacy of shared knowledge. But he didn’t take her in his arms as she wanted. Instead he put her gently aside. “There are a lot of phone calls I ought to make.’
‘Oh. Of course.’ She stood back. He moved towards the door but she said impulsively, ‘Jack?’
Half turning, he gave a crooked kind of grin. ‘We’ll talk later. In about half an hour. OK?’
She nodded, satisfied, and he went out to the study.
He was gone for longer than he’d said; it was almost an hour before he came back. She supposed that he had been informing other members of his family of -his father’s death, and she wondered how long it would be before the funeral would take place. Jack, she was sure, would stay on here until then, so they could still be alone here together. Excitement rose at the thought.
But this hope was immediately shattered when Jack returned and said, ‘I’ve been in touch with other relatives; they’ll be coming here as soon as they can.’ He paused, then said heavily, ‘About last night. I suppose I ought to apologise, but I’m afraid I’m not sorry that it happened. I needed you—and I’m pretty certain you needed me almost as much.’ He didn’t wait for her to speak, but went on, ‘But the fact remains that I took advantage of you being here. For your sake I shouldn’t have done that.’ He shrugged. ‘But I did, and I’m grateful that you were so—accommodating.’ His grey eyes rested on her face. ‘And I’d like to show my gratitude by giving you this. It should keep you while you sort yourself out’ And he held out a folded piece of paper.
Clare didn’t take it She could see it was a cheque. Anger flared through her. Her chair fell over as she sprung to her feet. ‘What the hell do you think I am—a prostitute? I didn’t do it for money!’
Jack, too, stood up and came round the table. Catching hold of her arm, he said forcefully, ‘I know that. It isn’t a payment.’
Clare laughed bitterly. ‘What else would you call it?’
‘It’s just a token, a way of saying thanks. What other way do I have?’
There were a million ways, Clare thought. Like taking her in his arms and saying how wonderful it had been for him. He could have kissed her, smiled, said he wanted it to happen all over again. Now. Tomorrow. That she was important to him now. But all he’d said was that he’d needed her, she’d been there, available, and so he’d taken her. Used her, in other words, but was going to assuage his conscience by paying for it! Clare felt a great surge of humiliation, and what had been wonderful suddenly became tainted and dirty.
Her voice tight, Clare said, ‘I’m leaving here. Now!’
Her pride and dignity astounded him. Jack had expected her to take the money with relief, if not with pleasure—not act as if he’d somehow defiled her by offering it. She was destitute, for heaven’s sake, and he’d only wanted to help her, to show his gratitude in the most practical way possible. But maybe it was better this way. He didn’t want her clinging round him, creating a scene when he asked her to leave, so he said shortly, ‘I’ve already arranged for a taxi to collect you. The trains are running, so it will take you to the nearest mainline station.’
She stared at him, her face stony. ‘You just
