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'I'm not trying to tempt anybody,' she objected heatedly, warm colour staining her cheeks at his description of a teasing femme fatale. 'I wear my hair this way for me, that's all, and I like it long,' she added militantly, her eyes flashing green sparks.
'Oh, so do I, and probably the rest of the male population would say the same,' he murmured drily.
'That's not my problem.' She glared at him—hurt beyond measure at the suggestion she was trying to entice unfortunate men to their doom, like the sirens of Greek mythology. 'Anyway, should you really be here now with me?' she asked tightly. 'Surely the current lady, whoever she is, might object?'
'Why should she?' In direct contrast to her crumbling control, his manner was one of cool self-possession and calm, his voice serene, aloof even. 'We mean nothing to each other now; you know it and I know it. This is just an… interlude, a catching up on old times, if you like,' he said smoothly.
She didn't like. She didn't like at all. And the fact that she was hurt, angry—whatever the name was for the sensation of raging pain in the pit of her stomach—at his apparent ability to turn his emotions on and off like a tap was doubly worrying. She wanted him to want her as he had earlier that afternoon, to desire her body if nothing else, and now apparently even that weakness was under control.
But she shouldn't want him to want her. The thought darkened her eyes to black emerald, causing the light gold flecks to stand out in sharp contrast. She should be glad he was over her, that he'd made a life without her, with… with someone else. She should. She found she wasn't cut out to be a martyr as jealousy cut deep.
He stared at her intently for a second, his face imperturbable and his thoughts hidden from her, before turning and starting the engine, his movements controlled and collected.
'We'd better get you back to the hotel,' he said quietly. 'It wouldn't do for the reputable Keith to imagine you were actually enjoying being in my company, would it? He might get the wrong idea' He glanced at her, his eyes mocking now.
'I thought that was the point of this game you're playing,' Marianne said tightly, fighting back the tears that were gathering like hot acid at the back of her eyes, and willing her voice not to falter.
'Is that what you think this is? A game?' he asked flatly, harshness twisting his lips and turning the hard planes of his face to chiselled stone. 'This is no game, Annie. I grew out of games a long, long time ago. No, whatever this is—and you'll find out soon enough—it's deadly serious. In my line of work… ' He paused for a moment, his eyes hard on her white face before he continued, 'In my line of work retribution isn't always forthcoming, more's the pity, but where it's in my power to redress the balance I do so. I find it… satisfying, I have to admit'
'And that's how you see this?' she asked faintly. 'Us?'
'There is no "us", you made that perfectly clear two years ago,' he said coolly, his gaze piercingly intent 'Didn't you?'
'Yes, but—'
'There can be no "buts", Annie, not in a situation like this. A broken appointment, a momentary hiccup in communication, that could qualify as a "but". But the severance of two hearts? I think not.' His eyes were burning into her mind, their glittering depths searching and concentrated. 'You walked away from me and you left a piece of paper to explain why. And it didn't'
'What do you want from me?' she whispered tremblingly. His capitulation earlier that day had been too easy; she might have known.
His hard, sensuous mouth took hers and she was too surprised at first to resist, but the kiss only lasted a few seconds, its bruising fierceness hungry and wild. And then the control was there again, governing his moving away from her shaking body and fully into his own seat as he allowed the growling engine to have its head and spring the car forward.
'All in good time,' he said coolly. 'All in good time.'
'If you think I'm going to put up with this then you're very much mistaken. I'm not some mindless bimbo you can order about.'
She had wanted to sound outraged, strong and firm, but even to her own ears her voice was weak and trembling.
'With what?' he asked evenly, sparing her one sardonic glance before concentrating on the road again. 'An afternoon out? A relaxed picnic with an old… acquaintance? A few hours' sightseeing? What is so terrible about that, Annie? You're going to be delivered back to the hotel in time for dinner and before your evening's work, aren't you? Exactly as I promised.'
If he thought she was going to have dinner with him, he could think again. She glared at the cool profile, her cheeks fiery and her heart sore. And she would tell him so, in no uncertain terms, when they got back to the hotel. He was an arrogant brute…
As it happened there was no need. After parking the car, Hudson took her arm as they walked across to the hotel, and, just as she had perfected the bitingly composed refusal she had been practising all the way back, she saw a group of people who looked vaguely familiar waiting in Reception.
'Hudson… ' As a low, throaty voice spoke his name at the same time as the redhead—who had been obscured by a tall, portly man—moved into view, Marianne realised where she had seen them before. 'We've been waiting for you for ages, sweetie; the show starts at seven, remember?' the redhead drawled huskily as she took his arm.
'I haven't forgotten.' Hudson nodded at them all before turning to glance down at Marianne, his eyes remote. 'Goodbye, Annie. Enjoy your evening,' he said coolly.
Marianne was conscious of making some reply, although she couldn't have told anyone exactly what, before she carried on past the group and over to the lift, almost falling into the interior of the carpeted box and having to force herself to turn round and face Reception as she pressed the button for her floor. They had gone—Reception was empty.
That would teach her! The thought was hot and caustic, and continued to hammer its way home all through dinner—of which she barely ate a bite—and the evening s
hoot which followed, so that by the time she arrived back at the hotel that night her head was thudding with a sick headache and her neck was as stiff as a board. She took two aspirins, showered and went to bed.
She slept badly and awoke tired and dull-eyed, joining the others at breakfast in something of a dream, and then snapping fully awake as she glanced across the dining room and saw Hudson sitting in solitary contentment, enjoying what looked like a huge breakfast She hated him. She did; she loathed him! He had no right to look so at ease and cool and satisfied when she was falling apart inside. How dared he eat such a huge breakfast?
As though her thoughts had communicated themselves across the room, he raised his head as she watched him, meeting her eyes with a distant coldness and nodding dismissively before continuing with his meal. As a snub it was a prize-winner.
That incident set the tone for the next three days until the job was finished, and reduced Marianne to a quivering, nervous wreck. If she happened to see Hudson about the hotel at any time, he was courteous and polite and terribly remote, exchanging the barest of niceties before going his own way.
