Zoë had seen Justin angry before, but never like this. ‘You’d better go, Nigel,’ she said quietly. Justin’s hand around her wrist relaxed slightly at her surrender to his request…
‘It’s OK. Justin is my uncle’s partner; I’ll be all right,’ she assured him, and she was free. Involuntarily she rubbed her wrist as she stepped away from Justin’s towering presence, looking, if she did but know it, as if she was wringing her hands in agitation.
After a token objection Nigel left, and Zoë didn’t blame him. She had first met Justin Gifford as a sad and frightened fourteen-year-old who had just lost her actor parents in an air disaster in California. She had been swept from her boarding-school in Portland, Maine, to be deposited on her only relative, Uncle Bertie Brown, in England.
She remembered as if it were yesterday. Born and brought up in the States, with an American mother and an English father, she had arrived in what to her had been an alien country, to live in a huge old house, “Black Gables”, with an uncle she had never met before.
She had been curled up on the window-seat in the garden-room, quietly crying, when a deep voice had said softly, ‘Are you all right, little girl?’ She had looked up into the darkest brown eyes she had ever seen, set in the tanned, attractive face of Justin Gifford. Tall and built like a quarter-back, with the broken nose to prove it, he had swung her on to his lap and comforted her and she had been smitten with her first ever crush on a member of the opposite sex.
She glanced warily at him; he was positively bristling with rage and Justin in this mood was dangerous. The only other time she had seen him as mad had been the terrible night of her eighteenth birthday party. Justin had arrived at the party with a red-haired woman in tow-Janet Ord—and Zoë had been consumed by jealousy.
Ever since moving in with her uncle and first seeing Justin she had adored him, even though at twenty-eight he’d been twice her age. Justin had spent many a weekend at the house in Surrey and had always treated Zoë with the greatest kindness. They had talked, laughed and played tennis together.
Every year a valentine card had arrived at Black Gables for her with the simple message “Thinking of you, from your tall, dark, handsome friend”. The postmark had been from London and, as Justin was the only man she’d known in the city, she had hoarded the cards as tokens of his love. In her girlish heart she’d honestly believed that he loved her as she loved him.
Her birthday party had changed all that. Furious that he had brought a woman with him, Zoë had stayed up until four in the morning waiting for Justin to return from driving Janet home, and then had tried to seduce him.
A grim smile twisted her full lips at the memory. It hadn’t worked. Justin had taken one penetrating look at her, dressed in only a flimsy nightie, and had laughed out loud.
‘Run along to bed, little girl, before you get more than you bargained for,’ he had drawled with mocking amusement.
Instead she had thrown her arms around his neck and pressed her slender body against him, and demanded that he kiss her. She had known he wanted to…What followed was engraved in her mind forever.
‘Maybe I will at that,’ he had growled as his strong arms had closed around her. His dark head had swooped down, and he’d proceeded to ravage her mouth with hard, passionate kisses.
At first she’d exulted in his fierce passion but he’d made no concession to her youth or innocence and when his large, strong hands had swept all over her trembling body, and she’d felt the full force of his masculine aggression, she’d been suddenly terrified by the savagery she had unleashed and had cried for him to stop.
They had not been friends since. Zoë made a point of not being at Black Gables when she knew Justin was arriving for the weekend. It hadn’t been difficult—what with studying at art college and moving to her own apartment, she had rarely seen him over the past couple of years.
‘Fasten your blouse, for God’s sake!’ A deep, grating voice broke into her troubled reminiscences.
‘What…?’ She glanced down at herself, and felt a tell-tale tide of colour flood her pale face. ‘Oh!’ she gasped. Her blouse was open to the waist, revealing her firm, high breasts hardly covered by a wisp of white lace. Head bent, with trembling fingers she fastened her blouse. She might not have seen Justin for ages, but she was horrified to realise that he still had the power to make her blush like a lovesick schoolgirl.
Taking a deep breath, she bravely raised her head, her blue eyes clashing with furious brown ones. ‘Is it possible you have some explanation for bursting into my apartment in the middle of the night? Or perhaps you’ve been drinking?’ she prompted with all the hauteur she could muster.
In the blink of an eye a shutter seemed to fall over his hard face, masking all expression. ‘Sorry, Zoë, you’re right of course. You’re a grown woman; your private life is none of my business.’
‘Big of you to recognise that,’ she drawled sarcastically.
‘Cut the sarcasm and sit down. I have some bad news.’
‘News?’ And suddenly she was filled with a dreadful foreboding. She should have realised immediately that nothing short of a major catastrophe would have bought Justin to her apartment in the middle of the night.
She moved towards him; her small hand clasped his forearm. ‘What has happened?’ Her beautiful face paled; her eyes searched his rugged features. ‘Not…?’
‘There’s no easy way to say this. Bertie has had a massive heart attack and is in Intensive Care at the local hospital. I’ll take you to him.’
‘Will he be OK, Justin?’ Zoë asked the question for the hundredth time of the brooding figure sitting beside her on the banquette in the cold waiting-room of the hospital. He turned his dark head, compassion in his steady gaze. ‘Of course he will be, little one. Your uncle Bertie is a fighter.’ And, curving a long arm around her slender shoulders, he drew her into his side. ‘Snuggle up and try to rest, hmm?’ With his other hand he brushed the tumble of blonde hair from her brow. ‘I’ll look after you; after all, that’s what friends are for.’ He smiled softly, giving her shoulder a brief squeeze.
Comforted by his reassuring words and held against the warmth of his hard body, she forgot the humiliation, the embarrassment that had made her avoid him for the past two years. Instead she lifted her sapphire-blue eyes to his harshly handsome face and said, ‘Are we friends again?’ And they were.
Two weeks later, when Bertie was released from hospital a month before Christmas, Zoëe willingly gave up her apartment and returned with her uncle to Black Gables, quite happy to commute every day to her job as a graphic artist at Magnum Advertising in London if it meant spending her free time with her uncle.
Zoë positively danced into the breakfast-room. ‘Good morning, Uncle Bertie.’ She pressed a swift kiss on the parchment-like cheek of the old man sitting at the pine table. ‘You’re looking better today,’ she said, with a quick smile, though in reality she was worried about him. His once tall, raw-boned figure seemed to be shrinking by the day. His fine head of silver hair appeared lank and somehow lifeless. But she did not betray her worry as she asked, ‘Any post for me today?’
‘Yes, two, minx.’ He smiled fondly back at her. ‘And thank you.’ He waved a card, with a big red rabbit sitting in a heart on the front, in her face. ‘It was kind of you to think of me.’
Chuckling, she took the two envelopes he held out to her and, plonking down on the nearest chair, ripped them open. One was obviously from Bertie. ‘You’re not supposed to sign them, you know, Uncle,’ she admonished, and then went dreamy-eyed over the next valentine card: ‘Thinking of you, from your tall, dark, handsome friend.’
She just knew it was Justin and tonight she was going to tell him she had known all along. Finally she was confident enough in herself and her new-found adult relationship with him.
Over the past months he had been