Revenge is Sweet: Getting Even. Sharon Kendrick
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can’t stay. Not now, Lola—not when. . .’
Lola noted the incredible tension which had etched deep lines of strain on his face and suddenly she thought she understood, or at least partly, though she did not yet know the reason for his astonishing about-face.
She knew that his proposed departure should bring her a degree of comfort, indicating as it did that he must in some small way respect her, and yet just the thought of him going absolutely appalled her.
Clumsily, with limbs which seemed suddenly weighted down with lead, Lola rose to her feet, painfully aware of the lurching disappointment in her chest.
‘Of course,’ she said stiffly, but she knew, with an unarguable certainty, that if he walked out of her life now, then he would never return.
He stood staring at her for one last, long moment and then he turned away, and the pain was as in-tense as if someone had punched her.
Lola’s hand jerked up automatically, as if it had been twitched by an invisible string, but the silent movement did nothing to halt him as he strode pur-posefully towards the door.
Could she really let him go?
She suddenly realised how stimulating she found his company—even when he made her so mad she could hit him; she felt so alive when she was with him—never more alive, in fact. And she realised how much she admired his strength, and his persistence.
She thought about the unique and powerful effect he had on her. She remembered the exquisite sensations he had inspired in her—what she had felt in Geraint’s arms must be the closest thing to heaven on earth—and he had only kissed her, for heaven’s sake! Imagine what it would be like if he really did make love to her! Lola shuddered.
What if she died tomorrow—would she regret having let him walk out of her life?
Damned right she would!
Not that you could live your life solely on the basis that it might not last beyond the day, because hopefully it would—and all actions had their repercussions.
But what of passion, and living life to the full? Was she sentencing herself to a life without either? Hadn’t that been one of the reasons why she had left Cornwall in the first place? To escape from the drab, monotonous existence which her mother had embraced if not eagerly, then resignedly?
What if she never fell in love? Never met the man with whom she hoped to settle down in quiet obscurity, to rear children and grow vegetables? Or should that be the other way round? she mused.
In that case she would never experience the joys of love. Lola sighed. And was it so very wrong to want to experience them? Even if it was only once? Wasn’t sex supposed to be a gift from God?
‘Geraint!’ she called out, without any conscious intention of doing so. ‘Geraint!’
He stopped, but seemed to take for ever to turn round again, and when he did his face was as cool and as expressionless as if it had been sculpted from marble. ‘Yes, Lola?’ he queried dispassionately. ‘What is it?’
Lola lost herself in that sweeping grey stare, knowing suddenly that all her moral agonising had been for nothing. Because she truly believed that sex, when defined by love, was not wrong at all. And she realised that somehow, on a primitive level at once too simple and too sophisticated for her understanding, that crazily, stupidly, ridiculously, she had fallen in love with Geraint Howell-Williams.
‘Don’t go, Geraint,’ she whispered helplessly into the fraught silence. ‘I don’t want you to go.’
She sensed some inner tussle as his face hardened, and then suddenly he was beside her again, his eyes narrowed and searching as they swept over her, as if he was expecting her to change her mind.
But Lola had no intention of changing her mind, and even if this was the craziest thing she had ever done she seemed powerless to stop herself.
‘Lola,’ he said quietly, and she shook her head despairingly even as her heart thrilled at the way he said her name.
‘And I don’t even know anything about you!’ she wailed, as if that mattered.
The stormy grey eyes were turned on her in a steady stare and a hint of amusement lit their depths.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Everything!’ she declared fervently.
‘What’s everything?’ he laughed.
‘Oh, you know! The things you like to do. . .’ She began to blush at the look on his face.
‘Shh,’ he instructed gently, lifting his hand to slowly pull out the tortoiseshell clasp which secured her hair, so that it tumbled in glossy profusion around the pale oval of her face.
‘I will tell you everything—anything,’ he stated unevenly. ‘Anything at all. But not now. Not when my eyes are dazzled by your beauty. . . my nostrils filled with your scent. . . my body aching to hold you in my arms once more, sweet, sweet Lola. . .’
It was a combination of the things he was saying and the passionate way he was saying them which made Lola want to throw caution to the wind.
She needed him now, more than she had ever needed anything in her life before. And explanations and life-stories could wait.
She swayed against him and he caught her instantly, clasping her close to his chest. ‘Oh, Geraint,’ she sighed brokenly into his neck, neither knowing nor caring whether this was a decision she would regret for the rest of her life. ‘Please make love to me!’
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