‘Come on…it’s a little late for that now,’ he told her sardonically. ‘You wanted me, Jenna, and——’
‘Only because you made me want you,’ she spat at him. ‘And I hate you for it, James…do you hear? I hate you.’
She moved as close to the edge of the bed as she could, waiting only until she heard the deeply even rise and fall of his breathing to slip out of it and into the bathroom where she scoured her skin until it glowed, hating the ripe fullness of her breasts and the soft satiny sheen on her skin because it betrayed the fact that James had spoken the truth. She had wanted him. But only because of her dream, she told herself fiercely. She had confused James with her dream lover and that was why.
James. Her mouth curled in disgust. He hadn’t even realised that she was a virgin. Was? Had been, she reminded herself bitterly. She almost wished now that he had physically forced her and that her body bore the bruises to prove it; at least that way she would have something with which to quiet her conscience. As it was…Suddenly, she was so tired that she could have fallen asleep where she was in the bath. Getting out she dried herself lethargically and, wrapped in a clean towel, made her way back to bed. It was too much of an effort to hunt round for a nightdress now. All she wanted to do was to sleep—for ever if that could possibly be arranged.
As she fell asleep the last memory she had was of James telling her he wanted her. He had hidden that want very skilfully from her before their marriage.
* * *
Towards dawn she started to dream, shatteringly erotic dreams in which the man in the portrait and James became inexplicably one person. She tried to escape, to deny the potent immediacy of the desire conjured from her flesh and felt as though she were trapped, sinking into quicksands that refused to let her free.
She woke briefly, immediately conscious of James’s arm beneath her breasts. He was lying on his side facing her, still deeply asleep, but even in sleep he refused to let her go, she thought bitterly. God, how she hated herself now! Her flesh crawled with self-disgust. How could she have wanted him? And with such a mindless intensity that even now it appalled her to contemplate its power.
Gradually she drifted back to sleep, waking again much later, immediately conscious of being alone in the bed. Somehow, she knew that James was not even in the suite and she let her mind toy wearily with that knowledge, wondering how she had come by it, how he managed to weave himself so intimately into her senses that already they were acutely aware of his absence.
She felt lethargic and drained. Her head ached appallingly and she was thirsty. Memories came surging back and she remembered the champagne and wine she had drunk. That knowledge was reassuring. It helped to banish at least some of her inner self-loathing. She was not totally responsible for her abandoned response to James’s love-making. It made her writhe in tortured humiliation to think of how she had responded to him, how she…She pressed her fingertips to her aching temples and then reached for the phone. She knew quite well that she had no aspirins with her, but perhaps room service might be able to send some up.
The liquid sound of English spoken with a Caribbean accent soothed her tightly stretched nerves. She ordered coffee and Perrier water and asked if it would be possible for her to have some headache tablets.
The girl apologised profusely that they were not allowed to supply any form of medication however mild, adding that there was a chemist’s concession within the shopping complex on the ground floor. Jenna expelled her breath on a faintly weary sigh. She felt too exhausted to get dressed and go downstairs.
Rather hesitantly the girl paused and then continued, ‘Many people suffer from tension brought on by jet lag, if I might make a suggestion, the beauty shop provides an aromatherapy massage which is very relaxing and soothing.’
It sounded bliss, but as Jenna tiredly pointed out, she did not have the energy to make it down to the ground floor beauty salon.
Oh, but there was no need for that, the girl assured her. If she rang down to the beauty salon they would send a girl up to her room.
It was a tempting thought. Jenna had had an aromatherapy massage once before at The Sanctuary, an exclusive London health club, and it had been a most relaxing and pleasant experience. Before she could change her mind she dialled the beauty shop number and was answered by another liquid-voiced Caribbean girl.
Rather hesitantly she explained about her headache, adding that room service had suggested a massage might be beneficial to her. The girl on the other end of the line was instantly enthusiastic, offering to send their aromatherapy specialist up immediately.
As luck would have it, the girl arrived at the same time as the waiter with Jenna’s coffee and Perrier.
As Jenna let her in and motioned to the waiter to put the tray down the girl smiled at her, shaking her head ruefully over the hot drink but approving the water. She was a pale-coffee-coloured, beautifully featured girl with a pronounced American accent, her trim pale green robe embroidered with the name of the hotel. She was carrying a wicker basket packed tight with bottles.
‘Belle told me that you have a headache.’ She indicated her basket and said with a smile, ‘I have brought several oils with me which have a beneficial effect on tension.’
The
y went through into the bedroom where Jenna pulled back the exquisite silk cover not wanting it to be marked by the oil.
‘A towel would be a good idea, I think,’ the masseuse commented. ‘Shall I get one?’
Jenna thanked her and sat on her bed while she walked into the bathroom.
‘This is a lovely suite. The only private one in the hotel.’
‘Yes, my husband owned the land on which the complex was built,’ Jenna told her. It gave her a funny feeling to describe James as her husband and to know that this was now the truth in all contexts. Where was he? Did she really care? She had expected to wake up this morning ready to do battle with him and tell him how much she resented what he had done to her, but what she actually felt was a growing reluctance to see him at all.
How could she present him with an angry, contemptuous resentment of what he had done, when she was unpleasantly aware of how easily he could retaliate, simply by reminding her that in the end she had gone more than willingly to him? She didn’t credit him with the sensitivity to understand how she must be feeling this morning though. He could not have left her alone for her sake. Her mouth tightened. Where had he gone? Had the desire he claimed to feel for her been extinguished already? Had the discovery that she was a virgin—and she was sure he must have realised now he had had time to think about it, because there had been no mistaking that deliberate pause once his body had penetrated hers—perhaps shocked him?
Jenna bit her lip. Dear God, how could she have overlooked that! He must know that Lucy was not her child. The pain in her head increased as she automatically tensed her body, and it took the brief touch of the masseuse’s hand on her arm to disperse her unhappy thoughts.
‘Please call me Layla,’ the girl invited when she had spread a large bathsheet on the bed. ‘If you will please lie down…
‘I think I will use a rose essence mixed with lavender,’ she told Jenna. ‘This is very soothing, very relaxing, very, very good for tension.’