Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [57]
Vennie pulled off her dress and slipped on the cream silk men’s pajamas that had been Lydia Lancaster’s Christmas present to her husband and which Vennie had “borrowed” because they were far sexier looking than all those lacy nighties. She creamed the makeup from her face and, shiny and clean, with her hair brushed, she sat, head in hands, and gazed at her reflection in the mirror. She was in love with Morgan, wasn’t she? At least, she would like to be in love with him. And she thought Morgan was in love with her—that is, she hoped he was; he certainly fancied her. Sighing, she turned away from her own puzzled eyes and climbed into bed. With the lamps off she lay in the dark, remembering the fun they’d had together on the slopes, the companionable ride up the mountain hand in hand in the chair lift, the candlelit dinner, the slow-dancing, the kisses in the elevator … she’d been lost in his kisses then, hadn’t she? Anyway, she said to herself as she drifted into sleep, there are different kinds of love; not everyone is overwhelmed by outrageous passion … True love can be more … more comfortable.
Morgan couldn’t sleep. The room was too hot, he decided, climbing out of bed and padding across to the window and peering out. Snow still swirled into the night. Morgan let the curtain fall with a sigh. There’d be no skiing tomorrow, they’d be snowed in. And who better to be snowed in with than Venetia? No one. He knew it. And he knew it was different this time. He’d been in love before—a couple of times, in fact—and both times he’d thought he couldn’t live without them, until after a while he’d suddenly found he could, and quite happily. But it wasn’t going to be like that this time. It wasn’t just that Venetia was lovely, nor that he wanted to make love to her—which he did, leaving her tonight hadn’t been easy—but she brought out another side in him, one he hadn’t been aware he possessed.
For the first time in his life he wanted to look after someone, to protect her, to care for her. She was such an odd character, so sturdily independent on the one hand, and so innocent and vulnerable on the other. Morgan felt a pang as he thought of her innocence. God, he was a brute, to try to make love to her like that when she was so tired. And she was such a kid really. He’d better watch himself with her, not rush things, let her take it slowly, the way a man should with a girl like Venetia. Making love with her would be a big commitment, one he’d be happy to make in time. Vennie was adorable—she was beautiful, a good companion, he’d had fun with her today. He’d like to take it slowly with her, enjoy it all. He’d call her from whichever country he was in, he’d write, send her flowers, presents, he’d woo his innocent Vennie until she was ready.
Morgan lay on the bed, his hands behind his head, making plans for Venetia.
The days were drifting by so quickly, the way they do on holiday, each one sliding into the next in a flurry of small activities: ice skating with Morgan on the hotel rink; holding hands on the sleigh rides, tucked away from the frosty nip in the air beneath a warm, furry rug, and drawn by horses whose bells jingled in the Christmas fantasy land of snowy mountains and pine forests; beating Morgan at curling, jumping up and down on the ice in triumph as he handed over the five-pound bet—and then buying him a present, the softest gray cashmere scarf, which she’d wrapped around his neck and delivered with a kiss; the joy of skiing again when the snow finally stopped and the pistes were pounded into shape; the candlelight dinners, the dancing, and Morgan’s loving, gentle attention. But why, wondered Venetia, dressing for dinner on their last night, why hadn’t he tried to make love to her again? What was wrong? He didn’t seem any the less loving. Quite the opposite; he was full of small attentions, and he seemed as happy as she; they were always laughing together about