Golden Fever. Carole MortimerЧитать онлайн книгу.
He gave her a disbelieving look, his mouth twisting derisively. ‘Never mind,’ he dismissed scathingly. ‘So, what did I do?’
‘I—Why, nothing.’ She went to stand up, totally unnerved by his closeness, but Rourke’s hand on her arm stopped her. ‘Let me go,’ she requested softly.
‘Why?’
‘Why …?’
‘Yes. You know you don’t want me to really,’ his eyes teased her. ‘You aren’t what I expected ‘‘little Clare’’ to look like. Not at all,’ he added mockingly.
She already knew that! ’What did you expect, Mr Somerville, white socks and a gymslip?’ she flashed, resenting the hold on her arm that wouldn’t be shaken.
His mouth quirked into a smile. ‘Now there’s a thought,’ he leered wickedly.
Clare tried to be annoyed, but her humour got the better of her as she burst out laughing. ‘The nuns would be shocked,’ she giggled.
Rourke’s eyes darkened appreciatively. ‘I’m sure they would.’ He stood up in one fluid movement. ‘Let’s dance,’ he said abruptly.
‘Oh, but I—Miss Marriott?’
He smiled. ‘So that’s what I did wrong. Livia is busy—seducing a director.’
Clare’s eyes widened. ‘Don’t you mind?’
‘Should I?’ He sounded bored.
‘Well, I—You came here together!’
‘So?’
‘So you—well, you——’
He shrugged. ‘Livia and I make no claims on each other. Does Gene have any claim on you?’ His eyes were narrowed.
‘Gene …?’ she repeated in bewilderment.
‘The beautiful young daughter of Carlene Walters and the son of Perry Lester have been seen together all over L.A., at the beach, at restaurants, at parties,’ he added pointedly. ‘Didn’t you know you’re the talk of the town?’
‘No,’ her face was scarlet with embarrassment. ‘Gene and I are just friends——’
Rourke gave a mocking laugh. ‘Now where have I heard that before?’ he taunted.
Clare blushed. ‘I don’t think you’re a very nice person, Mr Somerville.’
‘I hope not,’ he still smiled.
‘You’re impossible!’ She spluttered with laughter, finding this outrageous man more and more attractive by the minute.
‘I hope I’m that too,’ he nodded. ‘Now, shall we dance?’
‘Yes, please,’ she accepted shyly.
‘I thought you were never going to agree,’ he groaned, taking her to the dance area before pulling her unresistingly into his arms.
Not an inch separated them as they slowly danced to the music, Clare resting her head on Rourke’s shoulder, her arms about his neck as his hands rested possessively on her hips.
‘Now aren’t you glad you didn’t become a nun?’ he murmured in amusement, his lips warm against her earlobe.
Clare smiled. ‘There was never any chance of that.’ She respected the wishes of the Sisters to shut themselves away from the world, from the love of a flesh-and-blood man, but she knew it wasn’t for her. She enjoyed being kissed, being held, and she knew that one day she wanted a husband and children to take care of.
‘No,’ Rourke gave a throaty chuckle, one of his hands exploring the curve of her spine now. ‘No, I don’t suppose there was.’
For some reason she didn’t like the way he said that, and she stiffened in his arms before moving away from him. ‘I think I’d like to return to Gene now,’ she said stiltedly.
Blue eyes narrowed with displeasure, his lashes ridiculously long for a man. ‘And if I don’t want you to?’
Her brows rose with more calm than she was feeling. ‘Should it matter to me what you want?’
She was surprised at her own coolness, her pulse fluttering erratically just to look at him. But she had seen the way her mother handled men, and she knew that if she showed Rourke how nervous he really made her feel he would tease her unmercifully—worse, he would know how deeply she was attracted to him.
And she was attracted, very much so. She had known it the moment she saw him again; a nervous fluttering was beginning in the pit of her stomach, an excited flush coming to her cheeks. And she could quite cheerfully have scratched Livia Marriott’s eyes out for the way she kept touching him, pressing herself against him while he looked on in amusement.
It was that amusement that attracted too, the challenge his contemptuous attitude towards women gave every female who so much as looked at him. And he was contemptuous. He found women amusing, playthings, and to her shame Clare knew that she would like to act just as clinging as the other women in his life. But she wouldn’t. She might only be eighteen, lack the experience to control a man like this, but she was sensible enough to know that Rourke Somerville enjoyed the chase more than the capture. With a maturity beyond her years she knew that he was intrigued by her, that he found the contradictions of her sun-kissed appearance and her convent upbringing a challenge he had never faced before.
‘It matters to me what you want,’ he answered her now. ‘Do you want me?’
His direct approach was too much for her, and she blushed a deep red. ‘Certainly not!’ she replied in a shocked voice.
‘I want you.’
Clare swallowed hard. ‘You—you do?’
‘Mm,’ he nodded, his eyes warm on her lips. ‘When can I have you?’
‘You can’t!’ She moved completely away from him. ‘Excuse me, Mr Somerville, I have to get back to Gene.’
He shrugged philosophically, letting her go without a word of protest. Clare couldn’t decide whether she was piqued or relieved at his easy acceptance of her departure from his side. In the end she decided she was piqued. She hadn’t been so clever after all; Rourke regarded her with just as much amusement as he did every other woman he came into contact with.
She found Gene out by the pool, and her eyes widened as she saw there were several people in the water—all of them completely naked, male and female alike!
Gene put his arm protectively about her shoulders. ‘Time to leave, I think,’ he grinned.
‘I’m not a prude, you know,’ she snapped, still raw from Rourke’s casual treatment.
‘Hey, I know that,’ Gene chided. ‘But it’s getting late. And I make it a rule never to get involved in this sort of scene. It can only get worse,’ he grimaced. ‘Let’s leave.’
Clare was secretly relieved by his decision, although she remained outwardly calm, waiting in the spacious hallway while Gene went in search of her jacket.
‘Leaving already?’ remarked an all too familiar voice.
Her hands clenched at her sides, but she faced Rourke coolly enough, tall and beautiful, the cream colour of her dress giving her skin a golden glow, her hair like burnished gold as it hung straight to her shoulders, the fringe winged back over her tawny eyes.
They were strangely alone out here, as the rest of the party were in the spacious lounge and pool area. Rourke looked dark and disturbing—mainly disturbing, all amusement gone now as he continued to look at her, his eyes a deep, dark blue.
‘The fun’s just beginning,’ he added in a murmur, standing perhaps six feet away from her, his masculinity a tangible thing.
Clare’s