Out of The Night

‘Yes—and you might bring another cup, Emily. I’d like Matt to join us. He’s had experience of this kind of thing.’

‘Not much,’ Matt said self-deprecatingly. ‘Some small articles, and a text-book. Nothing like this.’

Although he was speaking to her uncle, he was still looking at her. Why? Why deliberately try to make her feel uncomfortable? Unless, like her, he was physically incapable of looking away. Unless, like her… Her heart gave a tremendous jump, she felt both sick and excited at the same time. Stop it, she told herself sternly. Stop imagining things that don’t exist. You know what kind of man he really is. You know what he really wants from you.

It was like suddenly coming down to earth after floating with the clouds—a jolting, sickening sensation that caused real physical pain to grip her stomach. She found as she managed to drag her gaze away from him that she was actually shaking with nervous strain. When he didn’t move away from the door until she was almost abreast of it, her stomach lurched betrayingly.

‘I’ll come and help you with the tea,’ he offered courteously.

It was impossible for her to speak. She simply shook her head and almost ran past him into the kitchen, closing the door behind her and leaning on it for several seconds until she felt able to walk slowly and carefully over to the kettle.

She heard the sound of a second car arriving while she was making the tea, and then the sound of firm decisive footsteps crossing the hall. Matt had obviously heard the car as well and had gone to let the publisher in.

She would give the men a few minutes to introduce themselves and get settled, she decided, but only seconds had actually passed when the kitchen door opened and Matt came in.

‘He’s arrived,’ he told her.

‘Yes, I know.’ She gave him a tight, strained smile as she turned round. ‘I’ll bring the tea in in a second,’ she added dismissively—but he refused to be dismissed, staying where he was, watching her intently.

‘What a creature of disguises you are,’ he said softly at last. ‘The night we met, you were the epitome of the modern, free-thinking woman who makes her own rules for the way she lives her life. Then last night, so demure, all neutral, disguising colours; and now today yet another Emily. No need to ask whose benefit this one is for,’ he added acidly. ‘I’m sure he’ll be impressed by you, Emily. He looks the kind who likes his women ladylike but not too demure. The way you’ve got your hair soft and free like that should really turn him on…make him wonder what it would be like to slide his fingers through it and use its soft delicacy to hold you captive under his mouth. And I’m sure he’s going to enjoy the way that deceptively prim and proper sweater you’re wearing hints so cleverly at the femininity of the body it conceals. There’s something about the soft thrust of a woman’s breasts beneath a slightly oversized fine wool sweater that’s covertly erotic… But then, I don’t need to tell you that, do I?’ he added smoothly. ‘I’m sure your fiancé has already told you as much and far more.’

He was angry with her, Emily recognised as her stunned brain tried to make sense of the patently ridiculous accusations he was throwing at her.

‘What is it exactly that you want from my sex, Emily?’ he grated, immobilising her with apprehension as he took a step towards her and then another. Heavens—he was so large, so tall and masculinely threatening in a way that made her stomach go weak with a sensation which shamingly wasn’t entirely fear.

‘You’re engaged, and yet you gave yourself to me when—’ Matt broke off abruptly, fighting to control the emotions rioting inside him.

What on earth was the matter with him? Just because he had discovered that he was a woman’s first lover, that was no reason for him to develop this crazy, almost possessive attitude towards her. She was engaged to someone else, for heaven’s sake. But it had been to him she had turned for physical intimacy, for passion. To him!

His silence enabled Emily to break out of the trance he seemed to have put her in, and reach for the tea-tray. Inwardly she was still shaking with tension and reaction, but she wasn’t going to let him see how much his anger had affected her.

Head held high, she carried the tray towards the open door, ignoring Matt’s muttered, ‘I’ll carry that for you.’

Out in the hallway, unable to resist the impulse to glance at herself in the mirror, she saw that her colour was unusually high and, shockingly, that the yellow jumper did, as Matt had described, somehow give subtle emphasis to the gentle swell of her breasts in a way that might just perhaps be described as provocative.

Provocative. She had never done anything remotely needing that description in her life. She had not even bought the jumper, she wanted to tell him, never mind put it on for the reasons he had so humiliatingly described. It had never, ever occurred to her to wear anything to deliberately draw attention to her body; she had never thought it particularly worthy of drawing attention to. And yet Matt had noticed it—had noticed and cruelly and inaccurately accused her of deliberate wantonness.

The teapot and hot-water jug chinked noisily as her hands trembled. Somehow or other Matt had reached the study door ahead of her, and, when he opened it for her, either by accident or design he held it open in such a way that her body had to brush dangerously close to his as she passed through the opening. Immediately her flesh broke out in a rash of goosebumps, a frisson of sensation making her shiver visibly, so that both Matt, and the man standing next to her uncle apparently deep in conversation with him, both focused on her.

The quick, assessing male interest that sparkled momentarily in the publisher’s eyes startled her so much that Emily simply stared back at him. What on earth had happened to her? What had changed her from being a woman she could have sworn that no man glanced at with any degree of sexual interest, into someone who merited those discreet but very definitely interested male appraisals that both Matt and the publisher had given her?

It couldn’t have anything to do with the fact that she and Matt had made love, could it? Automatically she gnawed anxiously on her bottom lip, telling herself that she was being an idiot; that, to put it bluntly, the fact that she was no longer a virgin was hardly something discernible to the naked eye. No, the difference must spring from her—be caused by something within her…her hands shook as she put down the tray. She didn’t like the idea that her body might be indiscreetly and flagrantly inviting men to find it sexually interesting without the knowledge of her mind.

As she put down the tray, Matt came forward to help her, but the publisher beat him to it, smiling warmly at her as he introduced himself.

‘Your uncle has been telling me how hard you’ve been working on his book, and that you’ll be able to tell me far more about its progress than he can himself. What I liked particularly about it was the human aspect of its characters. When it first arrived, I was expecting the traditional kind of learned work-form we expect to receive from a man of your uncle’s erudition. To find something so refreshing and readable came as a complete surprise. We’re very keen to publish.’

Emily was blushing. She couldn’t help it. She wondered if Peter Cavendish had guessed that she was responsible for the humanising of her uncle’s work. She listened guiltily as her uncle and Peter talked, discussing various aspects of the book, with Matt putting in one or two pertinent comments now and again.

Emily busied herself pouring and handing round cups of tea and the small delicate sandwiches her great-uncle liked.

‘I understand that you have a degree yourself,’ Peter Cavendish commented to her. ‘Are you in between career moves at the moment, or…?’

Here it was again, that assumption that she couldn’t possibly find satisfaction in the work she was doing, the life she was living—that she must want to be out among the other frantic go-getters, pursuing commercial success.

‘I’m not particularly career-orientated,’ she said quietly and with dignity. She had no intention of pretending to be something she wasn’t, not even with this very charming man w

ho was looking at her in a way that made her wonder if her mother had actually known the effect the yellow jumper was likely to have before she had bought it.

‘Maybe not, but you’ve certainly made an excellent job of interpreting your uncle’s work. You’ve obviously got a gift for this kind of thing, and if you’re ever looking for fresh work please get in touch with me and let me know. You’d be a godsend to some of our writers.’

He went on to make several other flattering comments about the standard of her work, leaving Emily feeling surprised and pleased, and when, after his discussions with her uncle had come to an end, he accompanied her back to her own office to talk to her in more detail about the extent of her own contribution to the manuscript, Emily discovered that she had been right in guessing that he had realised that she was responsible for humanising the work.

‘I’ll be frank with you, if I may,’ Peter Cavendish told her, quietly closing the door so that they couldn’t be overheard. ‘Your uncle is obviously a very learned man, but learned men do not always have the knack of making their pet subjects interesting and therefore readable. This book of your uncle’s is different. You’re responsible for that, although I suspect your uncle doesn’t actually realise it. Does he ever read what you’ve typed?’ he asked her humorously.

Emily flushed. ‘Yes, of course he does,’ she said defensively.

‘Mm… Well, we’d like him to complete the manuscript as quickly as he can. I realise that he does have other commitments, that he is only semi-retired, but do you think that, say, six months would be long enough to complete a first draft?’

Mentally calculating how much work was yet to be done, Emily was concentrating so hard on checking through how much work she actually had in hand and how much still had to be done that she bumped into a large pile of reference books perched on the edge of her desk. As they fell off, Peter Cavendish darted forward, quickly grabbing hold of her and pulling her out of the way of the heavy tomes.