CHAPTER TWO
TRISS first met Cormack in the most romantic city in the world.
She met him in Paris. In springtime.
In fact, Cormack told her much later that he would never have written it as it had actually happened—it was so corny that audiences would never have believed it!
But it did happen. Like a dream come true.
Cormack had been commissioned to write a screenplay around a little-known book by F. Scott Fitzgerald which was set in France’s spectacular capital.
For two months he isolated himself from everyone he knew and rented a roomy but fairly basic apartment at the top of an old building which had views of the city to die for.
He mixed solely with the locals, and in eight weeks went from speaking a smattering of restaurant French to being passably fluent—with a very good line in colloquial insults!
For the next two months he infiltrated the expatriate American community in order to get to grips with the characters he was supposed to be writing about. He was fortunate that the American Ambassador just happened to think he was the greatest thing since sliced bread, and introduced Cormack to just about every influential American living in Paris!
At the end of it all, his research completed, Cormack was mentally and physically exhausted, and sought a few days of winding down before he went back to his home in Malibu to write his screenplay.
Sitting at a table outside a pavement café in the glory of springtime Paris, Cormack sipped at his demi-tasse of coffee and watched the world amble by, relieved to feel some of the tension ebb out of his body—rather like water being slowly let out of the bathtub!
Immune to the polished sophistication of the native Frenchwomen, he was momentarily arrested by the vision of a woman so tall and so fragile that for a second he blinked, as if he had conjured up a creature from another world.
She was dressed in simple black jeans and white T-shirt, with a matching black denim jacket slung casually over her shoulder. A huge-brimmed straw hat covered with masses of violets was crammed down over her head, and the vibrant colour of the flowers contrasted dramatically with the almost translucent paleness of her skin.
She sat down at the table next to his, but did not appear to notice him—and Cormack was excellent at spotting women who merely pretended not to notice him—and he was fascinated by her abstracted air and her fey, understated beauty.
She pulled a book out—in English, Cormack noted with pleasure—and opened it up, but he was aware that her eyes gazed sightlessly at the pages. When the waiter came to take her order, she struggled so delightfully to instruct him in French that Cormack was enchanted to play the role of translator—and within ten minutes he managed to charm his way through the barrier of suspicion she had erected enough to share her table with her and, eventually, to get her to agree to dine with him that evening.
When he arrived to collect her at the hotel, she looked absolutely stunning, with her hair caught back in a soft French plait and wearing beautifully understated black jersey. Every Frenchman’s eyes narrowed lustfully at the sight of her, while Cormack could not remember feeling quite so elated at being out with a woman.
They ate mussels and rare steak and drank robust red wine in a bistro on one of the tiny uphill streets which stood beneath the mighty shadows of the Notre Dame. He found her relative innocence entrancing and she, in turn, was captivated by his lazy manner, which did nothing to disguise his rather awesome intellect.
They were on their second cup of coffee, with neither of them showing any particular desire to leave, when he asked her, very casually, ‘How much longer are you going to be in Paris?’
At that moment Triss cursed her job, and the commitments which went with it. ‘I leave tomorrow,’ she told him reluctantly, her huge eyes gleaming gold as they reflected the candlelight.
‘Pity,’ was all he said.
‘Yes,’ she agreed, and left it at that. Maybe he had someone back in the States? A man like Cormack couldn’t possibly be single, for heaven’s sake!
‘Let’s go, shall we?’ he said suddenly, and Triss felt a fierce rush of regret that the evening had to end.
Outside the restaurant, the moon was a gilded crescent decorating a star-splintered sky, and Cormack turned to her and said, ‘It’s a warm night. Shall we forget about the taxi and walk back to your hotel?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled instantly, then wondered if he was expecting to sleep with her. No way, she thought ardently as she stole a glance at that dark, craggy profile. However tempting she might find the prospect.
They talked non-stop on the journey back-about politics and art and whether it was time to legislate against motor cars in major cities—this after a speeding vehicle narrowly missed careering into Cormack’s shins.
He knew that she was a model—just as she knew that he was a scriptwriter—but in the heady anonymity of the blossom-strewn Parisian streets, their other lives seemed curiously unconnected.
And unimportant.
Some sixth sense warned Cormack to behave with the utmost propriety—indeed, he did not even attempt to kiss her as he left her at her hotel, though he sensed that that was what she wanted him to do more than anything else.
And when he did kiss her, at the airport the following afternoon, the world spun on its axis. They both stared at each other in silent amazement afterwards, as if they could not quite believe what had happened, and when he asked her to visit him in Hollywood she shyly said ‘OK’ without really thinking about it.
When Triss arrived back home in England, the episode seemed more like a dream than reality, and she waited to see what he would do next. If anything.
He sent a book.
Not flowers, but a novel he thought she might find ‘interesting’. He was the first man ever to acknowledge her mind rather than her model-girl looks, and Triss was absurdly flattered.
She read the book, was provoked and stimulated by it, and wrote back to tell him so.
He sent another. And another. And then a letter, with an accompanying open-ended air ticket, explaining that he was tied up with a film but that he would love to see her.
Triss did not know which of them was more surprised when she turned up unannounced one day at his Malibu home, and he opened the front door to her wearing ink-splattered white jeans—and nothing else.
There was a long pause.
Well, Triss supposed that someone ought to fill the growing silence. ‘H-hello,’ she said nervously.
He knew much more about her by then. He had asked his agent to come up with anything he happened to have on-a Triss Alexander and had been unprepared for the shock of realising that the sultry siren with the flaming mane of hair she had always kept tame in Paris was the fey, pale beauty who had captivated his imagination.
‘Hi,’ he said, very slowly. ‘So why didn’t you tell me you were a world-famous supermodel, Beatrice?’
Triss had done her homework too. ‘And why didn’t you tell me that you were the enfant terrible of the film world?’
He rubbed at his darkened chin thoughtfully, and Triss found herself simultaneously wondering whether he had shaved that morning and whether or not he intended inviting her in.
‘Does it make a difference, then?’ he quizzed.
Triss shook her head—today her hair was pleated into an elegant chignon with not a single strand out of place. ‘Not to me. And you?’
‘No.’ He stared at her, then suddenly, and without warning, lifted his hand to the back of her head, where he located the pin which held the elaborate hairstyle together and slowly pulled it out, so that the thick, abundant tresses tumbled down the side of her face like a Titian waterfall. She heard him suck in an appreciative breath, saw the way his eyes darkened in approbation.
Her mouth trembled, colour washing over her skin as she realised how much she had missed him. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’ she asked, with a boldness which astonished her.
‘Only if you understand that if you set foot over this threshold you’re going to end up in my bed. Probably within the hour—that’s if I can hold out that long.’
If anyone else had said it she would have run a mile, but when Cormack said it...well, hadn’t he just put into words what she had been secretly thinking, secretly hoping for...?
But Triss wanted more than a one-night or one-afternoon stand with Cormack, and instinct told her that tumbling into his bed right now might not be the most sensible thing to do.
So she turned her enormous hazel eyes up at him and smiled, aware and glad for the first time in her life of the sexual power unleashed by that smile. ‘Well, in that case,’ she murmured smokily, ‘you’d better get dressed, hadn’t you? And when you’ve done that you can take me out for lunch. I’ll wait in the car.’ And she turned on her heel without another word.
Cormack was smitten.
He ached like a schoolboy during lunch at his favourite restaurant, where today the food tasted as uninspiring as school dinners. He wanted her so badly.
He had brought her here to try and impress her, but now he cursed himself for his stupidity, resenting the Hollywood big names who trooped over to their table to say hello, wanting above all else to be away from here, so that he could be alone with her again.
Except that he had probably blown it with his crass approach back at the house.
He couldn’t believe that a man of his age and with his experience could have come out with a line like that!
Finally they stood up to leave, bathed in golden sunlight, oblivious to the other diners who watched them so closely, completely unaware of the striking sight they made as a couple.
‘I’ll drop you off,’ he said heavily, trying to smile but failing dramatically. ‘Where are you staying?’
And Triss turned bemused eyes upon him, wanting him so much that she was past caring whether or not it was the right thing to say, because suddenly it was the only thing to say. ‘But I thought I was staying with you,’ she said. ‘Or at least—that was the impression I got earlier. Was I wrong?’
He smiled then, a heavenly smile, which gave Triss a hint of the pleasures to come. ‘Just come here,’ he murmured, and pulled her into his arms.
Triss came back to the present to find herself studying Cormack with apparent interest, her shorn head cocked to one side.
It must be the hairstyle which made her look even more delicate than usual, Cormack decided, emphasising as it did the small, neat features and making her eyes look so huge that you could imagine drowning in them.
‘You were miles away,’ he observed.
‘So were you,’ she said.
‘I was,’ he answered softly. ‘Literally and figuratively.’
‘Oh?’
‘Remembering how we met...’
‘In P-Paris?’ She stumbled stupidly over the words.
He gave an impatient kind of laugh and his blue eyes seared into her, as if something had made him very angry indeed. ‘Unless my memory is defective and we met somewhere else?’
Triss stood up. She hated it when he adopted that terse tone—it was making her feel at even more of a disadvantage than she already did. And just how was she going to tell him about Simon, for goodness’ sake?
She stared into the moon-like face of the grandfather clock as though she were looking at the gates of hell, but at least her face was hidden from him. And that gave her the courage to try and find out what had motivated him into coming to see her so readily.
‘Why did you agree to come here today, Cormack?’
‘I thought I’d already told you that, sweetheart,’ he returned softly. ‘I was intrigued.’
Triss sucked in her breath impatiently. ‘Then let me rephrase the question. What did you expect to happen when you got here? Another night of “spectacular sex”, as you so sweetly put it?’
‘You’re surely not complaining because I saw fit to praise your undeniable talents between the sheets?’ She could hear the mocking laughter in his reply. ‘Don’t twist my words—’
‘I’m not twisting anything,’ he retorted, his voice laden with an undertone of silky menace. ‘But I would be a liar if I denied that I still wanted you, Triss...’
She closed her eyes in despair as she recognised that despite everything which had happened between them she still wanted him too. So badly.
Cormack had risen noiselessly to his feet and had moved behind her, so close that all Triss could hear was the hushed sound of his breathing.
‘You’re all tense, Beatrice,’ he observed quietly, but there was a husky note which deepened his voice into pure allure. ‘Aren’t you?’
She knew that tone—knew what it meant. Cormack wanted her; she could tell from the barely contained edge of hunger shivering in his voice. But then, he always had been the kind of man who could go from normality to desire within seconds...
‘No,’ she answered firmly, aware that she should move away from him. But she couldn’t. Couldn’t. ‘I’m not tense at all’
‘Oh, yes, you are, sweetheart—you’re stretched as tightly as the string of a violin.’ Now he sounded cajoling, using the kind of voice she imagined people must use when they were gentling horses.
’N-no.’ Then, with a hint of desperation in her voice, she said, ‘Stop it, Cormack. Please stop it right now.’ But although her words sounded tough enough she still could not bear to turn round, to be confronted by the hot blue dazzle of lust in his eyes. For if she faced that—then would she not just give in and fall eagerly into his arms?
Cormack did not answer her immediately, just ran his finger very deliberately down the entire length of her long neck, and the effect of his touch on her skin was electric. ‘Just like a swan, that neck,’ he mused quietly. ‘With its pure, clean lines. A thoroughbred.’ He stroked sensually at the soft skin. ‘That’s what you are, Triss. A thoroughbred.’
She shivered at that first contact and felt the memories flooding back—wonderful, unwanted memories that she had tried to erase from her mind for longer than she cared to remember.
Like the first time they had made love.
She remembered shyly telling him that he was the first man for her, thrilled beyond belief to see the look of dark pleasure on his face. In the back of her mind, however, she had been expecting some kind of pain or discomfort—the stuff they always warned you about in all the books she had ever read on the subject.
But Cormack had been so gentle in his passion, such a slow, sure tutor, that she had experienced nothing but the most perfect kind of fulfillment. She had wept in his arms afterwards, her head cradled on his chest. And he had stroked her dark red hair thoughtfully, but had been remarkably quiet for once.
And she remembered the time when he had given her a key to his Malibu beach home, recalling how she had burst out laughing at the tragi-comic expression on his face and how he had then started laughing too, telling her that he was mourning his lost freedom. And with that shared laughter nothing in the world had seemed to matter outside themselves.
Triss felt rooted to the spot now, in that cramped and overcrowded sitting room, with Cormack gently stroking the back of her neck, aware that every second which passed was weakening what little resolve she had left.
‘Come,’ he urged softly, and turned her round to face him. ‘Come here to me, Triss, sweetheart.’
And Triss felt her breath catch painfully at the back of her throat as she stared at him.
She had seen Cormack in many guises—in jeans and scruffy when he was working flatout on a script, in exquisitely cut chinos and shirts of softest lawn when he was taking her out to lunch, or reluctantly tuxedoed for an obligatory awards night. And yet she could never remember him looking more gorgeous or more desirable than he did right now.
But it was more than the striking vision he made, with his dark, tousled hair and the faintly sinister appeal of the black leather he wore. It was the realisation that Simon was going to grow up to be the spitting image of his father.
So tell him, she thought. Tell him! That’s why you brought him here today, isn’t it?
She stared into his blue eyes, appalled when she read the answering glint there.
“Don’t look so horrified,’ he murmured. ”There’s nothing wrong with wanting me to kiss you...’
‘I don’t—’ she started, but it was too late, because he had pulled her into his arms with an urgency she was not used to. Cormack had always taken great pleasure in his ability to control the pace of their lovemaking. He had always seen the delay of his own sexual gratification as something which gave him immense satisfaction. But this kiss was something else—she had never seen Cormack look so rapt and so absorbed and so hungry.
He brought his lips down hard and powerfully against hers, crushing her in his arms so that she could feel his heart beating against her breast—the rapid thundering seeming to symbolise life itself—and Triss found that she was shaking quite violently.
Cormack lifted his head and frowned. ‘Why, you’re trembling, Triss,’ he observed, his own voice sounding slightly unsteady.
‘I know. Silly, isn’t it?’ She rested her head against his shoulder and it felt as though all the troubled times which had passed between them had never occurred. And she was aware that once she told him about Simon she would not have the opportunity to do this again.
‘Why?’ he questioned softly. ‘Why are you trembling?’
Tricky, this one. If she told the truth would she not be revealing her vulnerability where he was concerned? And if she was vulnerable he would be able to hurt her even more than he already had done.
‘Triss?’ he prompted gently.
‘Because it’s been so long,’ she admitted reluctantly, closing her eyes quickly.
‘Since?’
‘Since I’ve...been intimate with anyone.’
‘How long?’ he questioned sharply.
‘Since—that night.’ The night when their son had been conceived.
There was a long, telling silence, and when he spoke his voice sounded unaccustomedly heavy. ‘Me too.’
It should have made her burst with joy, but it had the opposite effect—for it made what she had to do even harder.
He bent his mouth to hers once more, and even as she found her lips opening beneath the persistent coaxing of his she wondered when she might gather together enough courage to tell him about Simon.