The Trouble With Playboys Read online

"No, a Methodist."

  "Hell, I don't want to talk.” He pulled her into his arms, and his mouth closed over hers. It was a gentle, restrained kiss at first, but as she shyly responded he moulded her closer, his lips hungry, demanding. He coaxed her mouth open and excitement fluttered in the pit of her stomach.

  When his hand cupped her breast Daphne realised she had let him go too far. “Stop it, Paul.” She shoved him away. “I'm not a call girl."

  "I didn't think you were."

  "Or a cheap pick-up."

  "Of course not. I only wanted a few kisses."

  "Take me home, please."

  He escorted her to the Rolls Royce. “I'll let Angie know we're leaving."

  "Comfortable, miss?” the chauffeur asked after helping her into the back seat.

  "Yes, thank you.” She wondered if he detected the huskiness in her voice. If he did, he gave no sign, and simply made his way to the driver's side of the car, where he silently waited.

  Even on such a warm night she felt icy cold. When Paul joined her he did not speak, and they drove along in a fraught, angry silence. On arrival at the boarding house, he saw her to the door, waiting without speaking until she stepped inside.

  "Goodbye, Daphne."

  The darkness swallowed him up, and she knew she would never see him again. It's for the best, she told herself fiercely. You're not into casual affairs, and that's all a wealthy, sophisticated man would ever want from an ordinary working girl.

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  Chapter 4

  Sunday dawned, a scorcher of a day. After breakfast, Daphne walked to church with Fay, another country girl who resided at the boarding house. It was a simple service of hymns and Bible readings that did a lot to ease her heartache. How could a man you had only just met become so important in your life, she wondered.

  Whilst shaking hands with the minister, she glanced up and her heart fluttered like a caged bird as she saw Paul lounging against the Buick, right outside the church gates. Maybe, just maybe he did feel something more than craven lust for her.

  Paul felt his heart lift on seeing Daphne. He had spent half the night tossing and turning, thinking about her and the shabby way he had treated her. Ian was right, they were not suited, and it would be the decent thing to stay away from her. Paul had made up his mind never to see her again, but come morning he could not stay away. It was impossible, like trying to breathe without air.

  "Hello, Paul,” Daphne greeted him warily.

  In a simple white, lemon and green dress, a white straw hat perched at a jaunty angle on her bright hair, she made the radiance of the sun fade into insignificance, Paul thought.

  "Hello, Daphne. I'm sorry about last night, I acted like a real bastard. Will you come out with me? I thought we could catch the ‘Weeroona’ to Queenscliff. I've brought along a picnic hamper."

  She hesitated for a moment. “I'd like that."

  "Do you need to get anything from home?"

  "No, but I walked up with a friend, Fay.” She beckoned the other girl over.

  "Don't worry about me, Daph.” Fay had obviously overheard. “I don't mind walking back on my own."

  "I can drop you off. It isn't far out of our way,” Paul said.

  "No, thanks, the walk will do me good. Have a nice time. Oh, will you be late getting back?"

  "I don't know.” Daphne glanced at Paul.

  "Most probably."

  "I'll tell Mrs Rogers, so she can leave the door unlatched.” With a cheery wave, Fay left them.

  Paul saw Daphne into the car. Still bent over, he stared straight into her face. “After last night, I made up my mind not to see you again."

  Her gaze held his. “I know,” she whispered, trying to control the tremor in her voice.

  He stroked her smooth, soft cheek and inhaled the fresh sweet perfume of her skin. “But I couldn't stay away."

  His eyes were dark and somnolent today, and she was frightened of the feelings he aroused in her—a rush of blood to her head, swirling butterflies in the pit of her stomach. Why did he have to be so handsome and wealthy? Why were their backgrounds so different? Why couldn't he just be an ordinary working man? She fought to suppress a moan of anguish because they had no future together. Even if Adolf Hitler didn't plunge Europe into another war, they only had now.

  "Don't be afraid. I wouldn't hurt anyone as beautiful as you.” His lips were only inches away from hers, his breath warmly fanning her face. “Sweet Daphne.” The flat of his thumb traced the outline of her jaw, but their lips did not quite touch. For a moment her world stood still.

  "I understand we catch the ‘Weeroona’ at Station Pier,” he finally said.

  "I've always wanted to take this trip, but I never got the chance.” She pushed aside the hopelessness of their having a permanent relationship, deciding to just enjoy whatever time she did have with him. “It's a paddle steamer, did you know, Paul?"

  "No, Ian didn't go into much detail, just said it would be a splendid outing."

  "He's Jean's boyfriend, right?"

  "Yes, we were at Eton together."

  "Jean says he's a brilliant architect."

  "Top class."

  "Do you think ... What I mean is, she's very fond of him."

  "I doubt if he'll marry her, if that's what you mean."

  He weaved in and out of the traffic with an arrogant confidence. Daphne thought Ian was selfish. Jean loved him, often staying overnight at his house, yet he wasn't prepared to do the decent thing by offering marriage.

  "Do you have to work tomorrow?” Paul asked.

  "Yes."

  "Couldn't you take the day off? We could go somewhere else, Mordialloc, perhaps."

  "I'd like to, but I'm a working girl, remember."

  "Just one day?"

  "Nursing is important to me. Oh, look at the seagull—he's lost a leg.” She pointed to the bird that hopped about on his one remaining foot as he fought with several others over a crust of bread. “Hope he wins.” When she looked beyond the bird and saw the boat, her excitement was tempered with trepidation. Don't be so foolish, she scolded herself, a large paddle steamer like this wouldn't sink.

  Paul laughed. “Seems to be doing all right for himself.” He parked the car at the ferry terminal and asked. “Do you want to go on the inside deck?” He wouldn't think of the social chasm that divided them. England, with all its high society requirements and restrictions, was thousands of miles across the sea. As was Hitler and his Nazis. He wondered why he suddenly thought of the little German Chancellor. Perhaps it was that article he'd read in the paper over breakfast about Jewish refugees streaming into England with harrowing tales of persecution and people disappearing into concentration camps.

  Daphne took off her hat as they walked up the gangplank, and the wind whipped strands of hair across her face. “No, let's stay out here, I love the breeze."

  They found a spot along one side of the ferry, and Paul deposited the picnic hamper under the seat. The laughing, chattering crowd jostled each other good-naturedly for the best viewing positions. The women wore colourful frocks, the men casual trousers and open-necked shirts. Daphne felt as excited as the rest of them in the carnival atmosphere. Just for one day she would be selfish and not think of the patients being admitted to the hospital suffering illness as a result of malnutrition, or the black clouds building up over Europe.

  The water, greenish blue in the distance, sent up little white spurts as the waves nudged the sides of the boat, but then it foamed as the big wheel started turning. Daphne leaned over the rail and Paul wrapped his arms around her waist, and they stood like this for a time without speaking.

  "I hope I'm a good sailor."

  He laughed. “Haven't you been on a boat before?"

  "Only a rowboat, nothing as big as this, and not on the open sea, either. Will it get rough?"

  "I don't know, but if you start turning green, I'll shove you overboard,” he threatened.

  Daphne, excited as a child, tugged at his hand often as she pointed things out, and he thought her the sweetest, most unspoiled girl he had ever met. Devoid of makeup and with the chestnut waves blown into disorder by the breeze, Daphne didn't look more than about sixteen.

  "How old are you?” He bit back the usual, casual endearment springing so readily to his lips.

  "Eighteen."

  Only six years difference in their ages, but dear God, in experience they were decades apart.

  The blue sky dazzled in the sunlight, the almost-white sand shimmered in the heat as they left the boat. Paul felt so hot he cursed himself for not bringing along some bathing trunks. What would Daphne look like in a bathing suit? His groin clenched just thinking about it.

  Around a point they found a secluded spot for their picnic. Selfish in this newly found attraction, he wasn't prepared to share her with anyone else. The heat did not appear to worry Daphne as she enthusiastically demolished the hard-boiled eggs, cold chicken, ham, and fresh rolls prepared by Ian's housekeeper.

  "Ah, beautiful,” she sighed. “Makes me feel drowsy."

  When they had eaten their fill, she packed everything neatly back in the hamper, and then hand in hand they sought relief from the heat under the shelter of some trees.

  Paul lay down first, and she hesitated for a moment before doing likewise, so that they were both stretched out flat on their backs. Resting her head on his arm, she lay quietly. Daphne closed her eyes to better savour his scent and the male heat emanating from his body.

  Suddenly he rolled onto his side, moving his arm to connect with the one that was cradling her head, and she trembled.

  "It's all right.” His warm breath fanned her face. He gave a sudden strangled groan, and covered her lips with his own, lifting them only enough to say, “Open your mouth for me, Sunshine."

  She obeyed the husky, somewhat muffled instruction, and almost immediately felt the thrust of his tongue as it probed the innermost depths of her mouth. His leg came over to cover hers, and she was pressed along the full length of his body, with her breasts crushed against the hard wall of his chest. She had gone out with a few young men from home but had never been confronted with a man's passion in such intimate circumstances before.

  Paul started to harden with arousal, and she must have felt it yet was so innocent, especially for a nurse, that he wondered whether she understood what was happening to him and how easily things could escalate out of control. With a growl of deprivation he rolled away while he still had the strength to do so.

  "I'm sorry, Daphne, I took advantage of you."

  Her eyes, almost green and very wide, were now shadowed. “I should have stopped you,” she whispered.

  She turned her head away, but not before he noticed that the lips he had just tasted were trembling with emotion.

  "I saw a kiosk near the pier.” He got to his feet, then reached down to help her up. “Would you like to go back there for some tea?” He was annoyed with himself for treating her with such little respect.

  "Yes, please.” A smooth, dainty hand slipping trustingly into his made him feel an absolute cad.

  They both ordered Devonshire tea. The scones were light and fluffy, the cream and jam spread lavishly. “Delicious. Not quite as good as Mum makes, though."

  He laughed at her enthusiasm.

  "Dad says she's the best cook in Australia."

  Paul wondered what his own father would make of this woman/child, and, for that matter, what she would make of him. A working-class Australian. No, Sir Phillip would not be impressed.

  They left the kiosk as soon as they finished their tea. Once they were outside, Paul put his arms around her and they stood facing each other. “Where would you like me to take you this evening?"

  "I can't be late.” Paul's breath stirred in her hair. He lowered his head, and their faces were so close they bumped noses. “I have to work in the morning."

  "Couldn't you miss it, just for once?"

  "No, I have to earn a living."

  "If it's the money, I'll make up whatever you lose in your pay."

  Daphne's heart turned to stone. He wanted to pay her for going out with him.

  "I couldn't let you do that."

  Her voice sounded normal, yet when he gazed into her eyes, he felt like cutting his tongue out. She looked shattered, as if she were crying, but there were no tears.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it to sound so crass. I'll pick you up after work, and we could dine out somewhere."

  She didn't answer, just turned her head away and stared out to sea, and Paul cursed the differences in their background and outlook.

  * * * *

  The Queen Victoria Hospital was staffed and run by women. The patients were all female, and Daphne had often wondered what it would be like to attend the needs of a male. Had she been more familiar with the traits and temperament of worldly men, she knew she could have behaved in a more sophisticated manner with Paul, instead of taking every word he uttered to heart.

  Did the fact that he was a rich young Englishman make her wary and suspicious of him? I'm afraid, she realized, with an insight that pared her heart wide open, leaving it vulnerable and exposed. She had fallen in love with him, ridiculous and futile though it was.

  She would be nothing more than a frivolous diversion for him, something different from his usual pursuits. A curiosity, a little colonial nurse he could tell his flash friends about when he returned home. He could boast about how ‘easy’ she was, how she fell into his hand like a ripe plum. That should raise a few laughs over their champagne and caviar.

  Thinking about how far she had let his lovemaking progress before calling a halt made her cringe.

  You're a fool, Daphne Clarke, she scolded herself. You want to be a nurse, don't you? You've slaved for months, studied for years. Surely you're not going to jeopardise your chances by falling in love with a rich, spoilt young man who thinks working-class girls are fair game for a casual dalliance.

  She felt tired and drained by knock-off time. Had the Tutor Sister been overcritical today? It was hard to concentrate on splints and bandages while suffering from a broken heart, but how could you explain that to a fifty-year-old spinster.

  Mrs Gleeson had died that morning. Such a nice old lady, too, and no visitors in the whole ten weeks she'd spent at the hospital. How pitiful to be so alone, with no one to mourn your passing.

  "What's wrong with you, Daph?” A smiling Jean caught up with her. “Not letting Paul break your heart, are you?"

  "No."

  She held her head proudly and summoned a smile. She couldn't tell Jean how bereft she felt at losing Paul.

  Her friend would never understand how she could let a man come to mean so much to her after knowing him for such a short time.

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  Chapter 5

  One Monday, two weeks after the disastrous Weeroona trip, Daphne trailed forlornly out of the hospital. Another evening at home, eating a solitary meal, was not appealing. She had thrown herself into work, taken on extra shifts, anything to stop pining for Paul. Tomorrow she started afternoon shift, and then it would be Christmas, with a ten-day holiday. She could hardly wait. Like a wounded animal, she wanted to make for the safety of home and family.

  "Hello, Daphne.” She jumped when Paul spoke. “You were going to walk straight past me."

  "Sorry."

  "How have you been?” What a stupid question. She looked as miserable as he felt, and—for possibly the first time ever—he was lost for words.

  "I ... I'm all right."

  "It's been a terrible couple of weeks. I've missed you like hell."

  "Have you, Paul?” Disbelief widened her honest hazel eyes, and he felt a stabbing pain in his heart because she obviously thought he had gone back to his old womanising ways. Well, who could blame her? If only she knew that he had volunteered to help at a soup kitchen run by the Salvation Army. It hadn't been a resounding success. He had looked what he was, a wealthy man in expensive clothes ladling out largesse to the homeless to salve his conscience.

  He would never forget what he'd read in the eyes of some of the people he served—the hopelessness, the fear and desperation, worse still, their humiliation. “I don't want charity from the likes of you,” one man had snarled at him. “I want a job."

  Sheer determination not to cut and run at the first obstacle had kept him handing out soup and bread, but he wasn't like Daphne. He didn't have the common touch, the compassionate aura that surrounded her, the way she could make people feel good about themselves with a smile, the mere touch of her hand.

  "I tried to get you out of my mind, but you kept coming back no matter what I did, the soup kitchen and all the rest.” After his failure at serving meals, he had given the Salvation Army a large donation and told them to send any likely candidates around to Smithers, who ran Sir Phillip's office in Melbourne. He might be able to find them a job in one of their factories. It wasn't much—pitiful, really—but he didn't know what else to do. He had never experienced poverty, never really seen it firsthand.

  "Will you have dinner with me tonight?” They stood in the side street, close to where the Buick was parked.

  She hesitated. He thought she might refuse him, but her softly spoken words caused his heart to constrict.

  "I did everything I could to forget you. I worked double shifts, did extra study, but it didn't help,” she confessed with a wistful smile.

  "Oh, Sunshine, I'm so sorry for the way I acted.” He pulled her into his arms and, regardless of any passerby who might witness it, kissed her. “Where would you like me to take you?"

  "Somewhere quiet, please."

  When she slipped her hand into his, he squeezed her fingers gently and sent up a silent prayer of thanks.

  "I'll have to ring Mrs. Rogers to let her know I'll be late. She worries, otherwise."

  He could understand that. A girl like Daphne would bring out the protective instincts in people.

  He saw her into the car, and it was good to hear her chattering away next to him. How he had missed it. The old man would disapprove of Daphne for anything more than a casual fling, but to hell with Sir Phillip and his plans and aspirations.