bra. She always wore the most beautiful underwear. He thrilled to strip the delicate garments off her.
Finally she was naked, her white body as remarkably virginal as when he had first seen it when they were innocent teenagers. There had been no adolescent yearning, no clumsy gropings. It had been full on, wildly passionate sex—she surrendering herself completely, he taking her, penetrating her, as if he wanted his whole self to disappear inside her. Neither of them had been able to get enough of the other. Drunk on sex. Drunk on love. Alex had been his sun, moon and stars.
But almost seven years had passed. Years spent apart. Time they could no longer spend together. He wanted her more now than he had then—barely believable but utterly true. Not only that, he knew how to get more of her. Oh, yes, he did. Alex was his. His incurable addiction.
He fell to his knees beside the bed, still fully clothed, taking a coral pink nipple sweet as a fruit into his mouth, lightly between his teeth … “Alex, Alex, Alex …” he whispered, his voice fierce even to his own ears.
She shaped his golden head with her hands, sinking her fingers into his thick mane of hair. Her eyes were filled not only with an overwhelming desire, but with a deep, dark tenderness. She would have died for Kieran. He knew that. But he didn’t care.
He put one strong hand beneath her back, raising her to him.
“Why do I let you do this to me?” she gasped.
He pressed his open mouth all over her. “You know why,” he muttered, without a shred of sympathy. “Because neither of us can stop.”
The big car ate up the miles. Alana thought she might close her eyes briefly, but was stunned when she heard Guy’s voice murmur near her ear. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.”
She blinked and sat straight, looking around dazedly. “I can’t believe that! I fell asleep.”
“I’d say you needed it.” He didn’t mention she had been making little distressed whimpers that smote his heart.
“We’re home!”
“Right at your door, my lady!” Guy looked very soberly towards the darkened homestead. There appeared to be only one light on, towards the rear of the house. “I’ll come in with you.” He released his seat belt.
Voices said such a lot about a person, Alana thought. Who you were. What you were. Where you lived, even how you lived. Were you confident, self-assured, charming? Warm or cold, diffident, abrasive, a person to steer clear of. Her father was right. Guy Radcliffe was a prince.
They were walking towards the front steps when Buddy, stick-thin no matter how much he ate, emerged from the interior of the house and moved out onto the verandah. He lifted a hand to turn on the verandah light, splashing himself in a dull golden light.
“Miss Lana, I didn’t know you’d be comin’ home,” he called, then tiptoed over to the timber balustrade. “Good evening, Mr Radcliffe,” he added respectfully.
“Evening, Buddy.” Guy’s tone was warm and approving. He knew that approval gave the loyal youngster pleasure and confidence. “Everything okay here?”
They all knew it was nothing of the sort. Alana ran on ahead, up the steps, disappearing into the house.
Buddy’s liquid black eyes cut to Guy. “Mr Alan—he start drinkin’ a few hours back,” he confided in an unhappy voice. “I came to check on ‘im. He likes me around.”
“I know he does, Buddy.” Guy nodded, feeling the keenest sympathy for Alana. “You’re a good man to have around.”
“I do me best.” Buddy glowed at Guy’s praise. “I’m afraid Miss Lana is going to find her dad collapsed in his armchair. I wanted to shift him into bed, but he’s a big man.” He spread his arms an unbelievable distance, to demonstrate just how big. “Didn’t have a chance of lifting ‘im. It’s all so sad.”
It’s that! Guy thought to himself. What had happened to Alan Callaghan came under the category of “survivor’s guilt.” Callaghan blamed himself terribly for surviving when the wife he adored hadn’t.
“Mrs Annabel, she’s up there.” Buddy pointed towards the glittering river of diamonds that was the Milky Way. “She’s fine. She’s not alone. Mr Alan should find somethin’ good.”
Guy couldn’t help but agree. It would allow the man some release. “You can go along now, Buddy,” he said. “And thank you. I should be able to get Mr Callaghan into bed.”
“Need a hand?” Buddy, thin as a whippet, even in riding boots only five-five, was desperate to help in any way he could.
“Thanks, Buddy, but I’ll manage.” Guy made a movement to go inside, paused. “Have you eaten yet?”
“No, sir. Been here.” Buddy’s coal-black curls bobbed as he shook his head. “I had to attend to Mr Alan first.”
“Do this for me?” Guy said, as though asking a favour. “Drive out to the estate restaurant and get yourself a really nice meal? Whatever you want—three courses. You can take it away if you feel shy being on your own. I’ll ring ahead so they’ll know you’re coming.”
Buddy gave a funny little whoop. “Me?”
“Yes, Buddy,” Guy confirmed. “You must be starving by now.”
“I am a bit hungry,” Buddy admitted. Actually, he had a growling stomach. But the Radcliffe Estate restaurant! He’d only poked his head in a couple of times. Never been in there, of course. It was way too grand for the likes of him. Could he really order up a three course meal? Maybe oysters and a fillet steak? Some crazy wicked chocolate dessert? Mr Radcliffe said he could, and Mr Radcliffe owned the place. Cool!
Alana knelt beside her father’s armchair. Alan Callaghan sat in it, looking hellish, one large brown hand resting on the top of her shining head.
“Guy!’ Recognition leapt into the bleary red-rimmed eyes as Guy approached. “God, I’m sorry.” Her father’s normally attractive voice was nothing more than a slurred croak.
“Why don’t we get you to bed, Alan?” Guy said, calm as a stone Buddha on the outside, deeply perturbed on the inside. He stripped off his checked jacket.
“Sall right!” Alan Callaghan made a pathetic attempt to heave himself out of the armchair and fell back, looking worse than ever.
“Come on—we’ll help you, Dad.” Alana fiercely wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand.
“It’s okay, Alana. Just get out of the way,” Guy told her, in a kindly but authoritative tone.
She didn’t argue. Guy said he could do it. Simple. She did what she was told, running ahead to make sure her father’s bed was ready and the room was fit to be seen. She was agonisingly embarrassed, but at least she always did her best to make sure her father’s bolt hole—for that was what it was—was clean.
They came slowly down the hallway, Guy supporting her father by the shoulders as though Alan Callaghan were a drunken dancing partner. Both dark heads were bent towards their feet. Her father was muttering incoherently to himself. Guy wasn’t even breathing hard. It
