House of Storms Read online

  He stood there suddenly, the man who caused her a similar kind of desperation to that which his half-sister suffered at the hands of Stuart Coltan.

  'I didn't think it would be long,' he remarked, 'before you took to cover. Are you in hiding from that young predator?'

  'It was your sister, señor, who made me take to my heels.'

  'She also saw you dancing with Coltan, eh?'

  'I'm afraid so.'

  'Why be afraid, Miss Hartway?'

  'You know why, señor.' The Spanish way of addressing him came so naturally to her lips, and in view of the many exotic plants surrounding them, they might have been alone together in far away Andalucia. It was such a fantastic notion that she blamed it on the champagne.

  'You think my sister was impolite to you because she has taken a fancy to Coltan, eh?'

  'Yes.' Her wide-apart eyes were upon his Latin face, wreathed in the smoke of his cigar, and she wondered why he was in here instead of enjoying the captivating company of Sharon Chandler. She wondered why he wasn't dancing when he looked as if he would dance with all the expertise of his Spanish blood.

  'Have you also taken a fancy to that young man?' he asked.

  'Do you think I have, señor?’

  'We say in Spain that people who dance well together have an affinity with each other.'

  'How interesting.' Debra ran a fingertip around the rim of her champagne flute, but more as a distraction from his eyes than from an attempt at provocation.

  'Most things Spanish are interesting, señorita.' He said it without arrogance but with a decided touch of pride, a man who had long since decided that he was more attuned to his mother's people than his father's. He had the proud stance of the race, a male dominance accentuated by his dark evening wear ... an imposing man of honour who could, perhaps, be merciless as the matador.

  'Intriguing,' he murmured, 'that scattered through our blood are instincts we are helpless to control; feelings and urgings derived from the roots of our existence. No one is an island though we go through this life in total detachment . . . what does that realisation do to a mere girl such as yourself?'

  'Oh, why ask me, señor?' She gave him a cool look. 'I am merely the little typist who wasn't meant to be at this party.'

  'Zandra said that to you?'

  'Yes.'

  Then come,' he reached for her hand and drew her to her feet, 'come with me and we'll show Zandra that you have my seal of approval.'

  'No—' Debra pulled back, her fingers tensed and straining in his grip. 'I am only in this house to do a job of work and I would much sooner go to my room.'

  'The night is young,' he mocked, 'and at my welcome-home party I'm entitled to have my own way. Come, I want to dance!'

  The very words seemed to bring Debra's heart into her throat. 'I—I don't think we should—your stepmother won't like it if she sees you dancing with me—'

  'If I wanted to dance on my head in my own house I would do it.' Inexorably he was forcing Debra to go with him, into that room where the music played and where everyone would see them together. Holding her inescapably by the hand he extinguished his cigar, and she said desperately:

  'I shouldn't think you'd want to dance with someone you despise!'

  'Say again?' He rapped out the command, a dark and alarming figure above her slenderness in the pale, softly clinging fabric. Her nostrils tensed to the woody spiciness of L'Homme Est Rare, and her heart palpitated as his free hand closed upon her waist.

  'I—I saw the way you looked at me—when I was dancing with Stuart.' He had seared her skin with that look, and now when he touched her Debra felt it to the bone.

  'And how, exactly, did I look at you?' he demanded.

  'As if you thought me—cheap.' It hurt to say the word.

  'That, my young woman, is a confounded lie!'

  'It isn't!' she said hotly. 'You told me to come to your party, but I wasn't expected to behave like a guest—was I?'

  'You are talking rot.' With a strength that shocked her, he pulled her so hard against him that she felt the pressure of hardened saddle muscles, and the very next instant she was bent over his arm and his eyes were piercing hers, dark as midnight and holding all the mystery of his maleness, a man unknown to her until their meeting on his beach where he had seen her stretched upon the sands with not a stitch on her body.

  She felt again, as she had felt then, helpless to move, magnetised by his eyes and weakened by his look of power.

  'Strange creature that you are, with eyes that change their hue and sometimes hold silver or shadow.' His breath was warm on her skin, smoky from his cigar, and his lips were almost touching hers. 'Why would I think you cheap, señorita?'

  'Y-you are proving it—right now.' Her lips shook and her body was more his possession than her own . . . she was the moth in the flame and tormented by this game he played with her.

  'Would my kiss be less welcome than a kiss from Coltan?' he murmured.

  Her heart gave a jump ... he knew . . . he had seen her with Stuart in the alcove and believed she had wanted to be there. 'Do you spy on everyone who comes into your precious house?' she asked breathlessly.

  'Spy?' he breathed. 'Now that is an accusation I won't tolerate, and you will pay for it!'

  His gaze and his arms held her locked to him, and then he lowered his head and his black hair fell upon his brow and she felt his mouth crush itself against hers. There in the dim green jungle of the conservatory a kind of savagery was let loose in him, as if he wanted to prove to himself that her innocence was a mask and that he could make her respond as her true self—a girl who used demureness to lure men to her.

  She felt the heat of his hands through her dress, felt the wild beating of her heart as the pressure of his mouth drew from her a response she tried so desperately not to feel. Even as her outward self tried to strain away from him, her inner self was all warm and clamouring as his lips travelled down her slim, soft neck into the contour of her collarbone where they slid a kind of fire along her skin.

  She could feel herself trembling against his closeness, nostrils and nerves quivering at the masculine scent and feel of him. She died and came alive again at his almost deliberate roughness when he raked his hand from her neck to her hip ... as if he contemplated ripping off her dress.

  Instead he pushed her from him, scanning her disorder with expressionless eyes, hooded and in shadow with his thoughts. There was no sign of triumph to make her feel more ashamed than she did feel, because he knew as well as she did that he had drawn her into his kiss and halfway into total surrender to him.

  Hating him . . . hating herself . . . she dragged the back of her hand across her mouth. 'Y-you decided down on the beach that I was cheap—now you've proved it to yourself, haven't you?'

  He raked his hair back into place. 'The trouble with women,' he said, 'is that they attack with words and don't stop to think that men retaliate with action. You called me a spy. Did you think I would accept that without retaliating?'

  A shiver ran over Debra, caused by the sense of chill that follows extreme excitement. 'Y-you chose to judge me. You saw me with Stuart and drew your own conclusions.'

  'Did I really?' His expression was sardonic. 'It would seem that you and I are set on misreading each other, Miss Hartway. I wonder why that is?'

  'You know why.' She spoke hardly above a whisper ... it was damnable that of all the men in the world she should be misjudged by this man. She knew he would never stop believing her to be slyly brazen behind a demure posture. She felt certain that every Spanish bone in his body was firmly resolved in her disfavour. She felt equally certain that he wouldn't have kissed Sharon Chandler in such a rapacious way ... he would handle her as if she were made of petals. A golden flower of a girl, bred in a hothouse and accustomed to every care and attention.

  A burning resentment took the chill out of Debra's bones and she turned to leave the conservatory.

  'Just one moment!'

  She paused but didn'
t look at him; her body hummed with expectancy as she stood in the dim lighting that made her dress seem more green than white.

  'You and I are going to dance, are we not?'

  'I—I don't want to—' She was poised for flight, the jade jewels glinting in her hair, aware of her tormented inner self but unaware of her elusiveness. She protested as he caught her by the wrist.

  'Why are you being—cruel to me?' She couldn't stop herself from asking, but she could no more look at him. To look into his eyes was to see herself in his arms again.

  'Don't exaggerate.' He drew her to the archway that led back into the ballroom. 'You have danced with Coltan and now you are going to dance with me, it's as simple as that.'

  'But why?' She raised her gaze only to the level of his chin and saw that it was set with determination. 'Do you want your mother to dismiss me from my job?'

  'She is my stepmother, and when I am in residence at Abbeywitch the orders come from me.'

  'You are ordering me to dance with you?'

  'I am now.' He swung her among the dancers and once again there was no escape from his arms; she had to submit to his dictate and her only defence was to look as polite and indifferent as if she were dancing with a stranger.

  But no more did he feel like a stranger. Her body reacted to his touch and her senses were attuned to him so she became quickly aware that they were moving in perfect harmony through the movements of the dance. She knew also that they were being watched; that they couldn't be anonymous out there on the floor. In a state between torment and enjoyment she followed where he led, past a group of people with Lenora at the centre, and then past Zandra and the silver-haired Van Allen.

  It struck Debra all of a sudden that other couples were leaving the floor so that soon she and Rodare were dancing alone. She could feel him controlling her every step, making her body obey him even if her mind was in rebellion.

  All at once the dance band slid into a rumba, and Debra felt herself carried along by the sheer verve of the Latin American music. She sensed right away that the rhythm was deep in Rodare's Latin bones and so she abandoned herself to him ... to the sheer delight of a partner so strong and pliant.

  For panting seconds at the finale of the rumba it was as if they were welded together, and then people began to applaud and this brought her down to earth. She broke free of his hold on her and ran headlong from the ballroom, pursued by the sound of clapping and laughter.

  Maybe some of the party guests thought it had been arranged, but as Debra fled to her room all she could think of was that Rodare had ruined her job at Abbeywitch.

  She wouldn't be allowed to stay now he had managed to make her look like a little upstart ... a replica of Pauline in the eyes of his stepmother and sister. The look on their faces had been ominous, and as excitement drained out of Debra she felt the sting of tears and wished she had kept to her resolve not to attend the party. With biting candour Zandra had said she wasn't wanted, and now she had really landed herself in hot water.

  As she withdrew the Japanese pin from her hair and felt it uncoil to her shoulders, she had a mental image of herself dancing with Rodare in front of all those people. The very thought of it took her breath away, but now she was left with the regretful feeling that he should have danced the rumba with Sharon Chandler. That would have seemed natural to his family and friends, but in dancing with a member of the hired help he had caused eyebrow raising and speculation.

  Was that his nature? Debra decided that it was . . . that he pleased himself and right now wouldn't be sharing her troubled feelings. He was his own master and didn't have to consider himself in relation to an employer.

  Debra put a hand to her throat and it was then she discovered that her pearl pendant was no longer on its chain about her neck . . . the silky little pear was gone and though she quickly undressed and searched her clothes was nowhere to be found.

  One half of her wanted to rush downstairs in order to search for the pendant, but the other half was reluctant. She would have to wait until the morning. It could have come undone while she was in the conservatory . . . Rodare had not been gentle with her during the course of that kiss.

  She gave a shiver and put on her wrap. Why couldn't he play his games with Miss Chandler and leave her alone!

  CHAPTER SIX

  IT was after midnight when Debra heard the launches departing with the guests who were returning either to the mainland or to the Van Allen yacht. Various close friends of the family were staying over the weekend and it was at least another hour before the house fell quiet and the vagrant laughter and chatter ceased.

  In a way Debra wasn't sorry that tonight was probably her last night at Abbeywitch. She thought the house and the island were lovely, but it was better that she didn't see Rodare Salvador every day. Inevitably she would find herself having to fight his attraction, and the power he could exert.

  He stirred her physically and she didn't want to be another Pauline; a plaything for another of the Salvador men to enjoy as a novelty.

  Debra was drifting off to sleep when the house telephone tinkled beside her bed. It was there because she occupied the room in which Miss Tucker had slept, and sometimes at night Jack Salvador had required his secretary to take notes.

  Wondering if Nanny Rose was calling her, Debra lifted the mouthpiece and spoke her name.

  'Did I wake you from your dreams?'

  A frown puckered Debra's brow. 'What do you want, Stuart?'

  'I have something of yours, honey, and I wondered if you'd like me to bring it to you?'

  'My pendant?' she exclaimed.

  'The very same,' he drawled. 'I'm holding it in my fingers at this very moment, a perfect pear-shaped pearl on a golden chain.'

  'Where did you find it?' She felt a glow of relief that the pendant was safe; it was a link with the father she couldn't remember and the last thing she wanted to lose.

  'Down beside the goldfish pond in the conservatory,' Stuart informed her, and a note of curiosity had entered his voice. 'What were you doing in there, I wonder, and how did this little trinket came loose from your neck?'

  Debra flushed as she remembered. 'I went in there for a breather—I'm so glad it's found.'

  'Did someone special give it to you, Debra? Was the donor of this pretty object a very special friend?'

  She could easily have told him that her father had been the donor, but she needed to put an obstacle in his way. 'Yes—I was worried when I found it was missing.'

  'Then you need worry no more, honey, I'm on my way to your boudoir with your gage d'amour.'

  'No—' She felt a lurch of panic. 'It can wait till the morning—' She broke off, for the telephone had clicked and was purring in her ear. Hastily she cradled it and slid out of bed, fastening her wrap around her with a very secure knot. She hastened to the dressing-table and tidied her hair ... it would have to be Stuart Coltan who found her pendant and though she wanted it back in her keeping, she didn't want that young man getting the idea that he deserved a reward for finding it!

  When he knocked upon her door she opened it a mere couple of inches and peered out at him. He was clad in a Paisley robe with a cravat arranged at the throat and his dark hair was smoothly combed. One of his hands was deep in his pocket, as if he held there the pearl and chain.

  'I—it's kind of you to bring my pendant.' She tried to sound composed but felt a nervous urge to laugh at his imitation of a roue who expected to be invited into her boudoir. 'May I have it, Stuart?'

  'You may have anything you wish.' As he spoke he was eyeing what he could see of her through the few inches of open door, her chestnut hair mingling with the pale mauve fabric of her wrap. Then slowly he withdrew his hand from his pocket and the pearl on its chain hung teasingly from his fingers. 'A very pretty object indeed.'

  Somehow he managed to make the words insinuating and Debra no longer felt like laughing. She slid her hand through the gap between them. 'I'm glad you found my pendant, Stuart, now may I have it?'
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  'Exactly the shape of a tiny pear, isn't it?' He swung the pearl in a tantalising way. 'I can't help feeling curious about the guy who gave it to you . . . someone special, eh? Someone who knows you well?'

  'Intimately.' The word sprang to her lips like a weapon of defence, anything sharp enough to keep Stuart Coltan at a distance. As she expected to leave Abbeywitch in the morning, she didn't want to return to Columbine with her character in total ruin.

  'So that's the way of it.' He released the pendant as he spoke, just short of her outstretched hand so the pearl and chain dropped to the floor. With a catch of her breath Debra let go of the door and she was bending down to retrieve the pendant when Stuart quite deliberately placed his slippered heel on the pearl and bore down on it with all his weight.

  'Don't do that,' she cried out. 'How dare you—oh, take your foot off! Take it off!' She pummelled at him but he only laughed, and Debra couldn't bear it that her precious gift from her father should be treated in such a way.

  She stood up and with her eyes blazing slapped Stuart across the face with all her might. 'You nasty little boy,' she said furiously. 'I suppose you're getting back at me?'

  'Back at you for what?' He rubbed a hand against his cheek and still he kept grinding her pendant with his heel.

  'You know!' Debra could feel herself trembling with temper that verged on tears. 'You know all right!'

  'I'm sure I don't know what you're getting at, but I'll tell you this—you aren't quite the demure little mouse you make out to be.'

  'No,' she agreed, 'but you're every bit as caddish as I thought you.'

  'Caddish?' he jeered. 'Is that the kind of outdated word Jack Salvador uses in his precious books? Is he as outdated in his tastes as his big brother?'

  'And what do you mean by that remark?' Debra had to clench her hands in order to keep herself in control; she could hardly bear it that her precious pendant was trapped beneath his careless foot.