Wounds of Passion

It wasn’t easy to get the mask to sit perfectly; she struggled with the strings for several minutes, getting them tangled up in her short blonde hair as she tried to fit them into place. It was with relief that she heard footsteps on the stairs. Susan-Jane couldn’t have left yet.

‘Before you go, could you help me with this, Susan-Jane?’ she called out and the door-handle turned.

In the mirror she looked at the opening door with a smile, watching for Susan-Jane’s reaction to the mask, which Susan-Jane had coveted ever since Antonia bought the costume.

But it wasn’t her aunt standing in the door. It was Patrick. He was staring fixedly at her; she heard him inhale sharply and her nerves jangled; wild pulses started up all over her body.

‘Get out of my room!’ she burst out.

‘You invited me in!’ His voice was low, and his blue eyes had turned a strange, smoky blue as they explored her reflection in the mirror.

She had not yet put on her dress; she was only wearing a thin black silk and lace slip which lay on her pale golden skin like shadows, leaving far too much of her bare.

‘I thought you were Susan-Jane. You knew I did; I called her name! You had no business walking into my bedroom,’ Antonia angrily said. ‘Will you please get out—or do I have to start screaming for help?’

‘There’s nobody downstairs; I wouldn’t bother,’ he said, wandering towards her in a cool stroll that made her even more edgy. He was wearing a black evening suit with a tight-fitting waistcoat over a white silk shirt and black tie. The clothes made him look taller than ever, his lean body intensely watchable, as graceful as a wild cat, broad-shouldered, slim-waisted, those long, slim legs supple and elegant in movement, the evening sunlight falling like a caress on the strong angles of his face, illuminating the blue of his eyes, his tanned skin smooth, his hair bleached to a dark gold by the sun. Antonia felt waves of emotion sweeping through her: aching desire followed at once by shock, by terrified panic which made her want to run and not look back.

She looked desperately around for her robe, but she had left it on a chair and to get it would have to walk past him.

Calmly he asked, ‘Where are Alex and his wife? I thought the party began at eight, and it’s past that now.’

‘They should be back any minute—they went to get something,’ she admitted, then almost desperately said, ‘Will you get out of here?’

‘Have you any idea how sexy you look?’ Patrick huskily murmured. ‘There’s always been something other-worldly about you—that distance you try to keep between yourself and any man who might try to come too close. But tonight you’re glittering, a mythical creature from fairy-tale, half-bird, half-woman.’

She froze, tranced by a vibration in his voice, a low, throaty sound, like the purr of a leopard.

He slowly put out a hand, delicately brushed the soft, downy silver-white feathers. ‘What sort of feathers are they? A dove’s? Not quite the right shade, though, for a dove; not white, more silver.’

‘We were told they were from a silver pheasant,’ she whispered.

‘Beautiful,’ Patrick said, his fingertips running down over the feathers to the filigree silver edge of the mask where it fitted over her cheekbones.

She quivered as she felt his fingers touching her warm skin, slipping downwards to her mouth, following the curve of it caressingly, sending a shudder of arousal through her entire body.

She was hypnotised, watching him through her mask, unable to move an inch, while inside her the successive waves came and went, desire making her shudder, fear making her stomach turn over.

‘If you were a bird, I’d want to catch you and put you in a cage,’ Patrick murmured. ‘If you were a woman, I’d lock myself in here with you, and make love to you for days.’ His smile was mocking, but his eyes had that dark, smoky heat in them, and she began to breathe very rapidly, her glossy black pupils dilating.

She tried pretending it was a joke, forced a shaky little laugh. ‘You have a weird sense of humour; I don’t think that’s funny!’

‘I wasn’t being funny,’ he said, suddenly catching hold of her arms and swivelling her round to face the mirror again. Patrick stood behind her, his chin on her shoulder, his hands sliding round her waist and cupping her lace-covered breasts, their soft fullness nesting in his warm palms. ‘Are you a woman, or aren’t you? Isn’t it time you made up your mind?’

‘Don’t!’ she groaned, trying to wrench herself away, but at once his arm tightened on her waist, pulled her backwards; his hard male body forced against her, making her very aware that he was ar

oused; his thigh pushed alongside hers. The contact completed the electrical circuit flowing between them, the power of his body throbbing along her veins, shocking her, weakening her.

‘Stop fighting, Antonia,’ he muttered, his mouth pressed down into her throat, his teeth gently grazing her skin. ‘Just relax and feel it.’

As if she didn’t feel it! She moved restlessly, so conscious of his body pressing into her that she shuddered with a tangled mix of pain and pleasure, the ebb and flow of those conflicting emotions turning her body into a battleground.

‘I can’t bear it! Please...don’t, Patrick, I can’t,’ she muttered, closing her eyes.

‘Don’t shut your eyes!’ Patrick fiercely said. ‘Don’t try to ignore it; look into the mirror, Antonia! Come on, open your eyes, and take an honest look at what scares you so much you keep running away from it!’

She shook her head, keeping her lids down, her heart hurting inside her.

‘If you keep on shutting your eyes and pretending it isn’t happening you’ll never face up to it!’ His voice was harsh now; she felt the anger beating inside him and shivered.