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Knowing Jennie, she could imagine what they had been. She shifted uncomfortably. Changing the subject again, she said, ‘How many people are there going to be at the house this weekend?’
‘A good few, I think. Martin’s the sort of guy who always combines pleasure with business.’ He shrugged. ‘But he’s nice enough and fairly harmless. Expect buffet breakfasts and elaborate dinners and drinks around the fireplace, that sort of deal. Everyone trying to impress everyone else.’
His voice had held a mordant note and she glanced at him again. ‘If you disapprove, why did you accept his invitation?’
The amber eyes touched her face for one moment before his gaze returned to the road through the windscreen. ‘Because I wanted to spend a whole weekend with you and getting you away from London like this seemed like a heaven-sent opportunity.’
Taken aback, she continued to stare at him for a few moments before forcing herself to turn away. She didn’t know what to say and it was probably better to say nothing in view of the warm pleasure his words had evoked. Charm, she warned herself sternly. This was just Zac employing male charm, something Giles had mastered to perfection. It didn’t mean anything, not really. And as long as she kept that at the forefront of her mind, she’d be OK. She had to enjoy this weekend as a brief step out of time, that was the way to handle this. A little light-hearted flirting now and again, the odd kiss or two, nothing heavy or particularly meaningful. She had never felt so captivated by a man before and it was as frightening as it was thrilling, but he was only in the country for a short while and she’d made it clear she wasn’t in the running for an affair that involved sleeping with him.
Sleeping with him… The warmth became a heat that sent her blood racing. What would it be like to be made love to by Zac? To spend delicious hours in his arms and to wake up beside him in the morning, replete and sexually fulfilled? You only had to look into his eyes to know he would be a skillful and devastatingly seductive lover—the invisible aura of strong sexual magnetism he projected was all the more powerful for being completely natural. Some men had it and some men didn’t, and it was nothing to do with looks or wealth, just an inherent part of certain men’s personas.
Zac was concentrating on driving in the thick London traffic, conditions made treacherous with the weather, and consequently Rachel found herself deep in a particularly erotic fantasy before she came back to reality and slammed the lid on her wayward libido. Eternally grateful one’s thoughts were one’s own, she focused her mind on the road ahead, deciding two pairs of eyes were better than one in a snowstorm.
‘It’s settling fast, isn’t it?’ she said after a while. Zac was a very competent driver, but the snow had snarled up the traffic and they had crawled the six miles or so to the A3. At this rate, a journey Zac had told her would take a little over an hour would be a lot longer. They had passed two accidents as it was, along with the odd abandoned car by the side of the road. The snow was already inches thick and coming down with a ferocity that commanded respect.
‘Don’t worry.’ He smiled without looking at her. ‘We’ll be fine. This is a picnic compared to the blizzards we get at home. It really knows how to snow there.’
Granted, but the Canadian authorities were prepared for the onslaught of winter and acted accordingly. England, as always, hadn’t, Rachel thought nervously.
By the time they reached the junction signposted Guildford, Portsmouth, they had travelled twenty miles in an hour and a half, and the sat. nav. was telling them they still had over ten miles to travel before reaching their destination. Zac hadn’t spoken for the last fifteen minutes, his whole being focused on travelling in the wake of an impressive Range Rover that bulldozed its way through the snow with consummate ease. When the vehicle turned off into a side road shortly after the junction, Rachel glanced at Zac. The Aston Martin, beautiful as it was, wasn’t built to cope with snow-packed roads and deep drifts. They
were in trouble, whether he admitted it or not.
As though she had spoken, he said reassuringly, ‘It’s OK. We’re two-thirds of the way there.’
Right. Which meant they still had a whole third to go. All thoughts of she and Zac in bed had long since flown out of the window; for the last half an hour she’d been beset by visions of the Aston Martin trapped under a lorry or upended in a ditch or in a head-on collision. She’d decided the last option would be preferable—with the speed of the few brave vehicles still on the road, they’d be sure to survive.
The car had taken it upon itself to show off in one or two spectacular skids, but now it outdid itself as it glided in slow motion in a graceful arc like an Olympic ice skater. Fortunately there wasn’t another car in sight when they ended up half off the road facing the wrong way, tilted at a distinctly odd angle.
Zac swore. Once, but very thoroughly. Rachel was just glad they had actually stopped. She breathed out a long silent sigh of relief. They weren’t dead. That had to be a bonus.
‘Hell, I’m sorry,’ Zac said tersely.
It was the first time she had seen him anything less than completely self-assured, and it was almost worth being stuck in a blizzard to experience. Almost. Wishing lunch had been more than a quick sandwich, she tired to ignore her growling stomach. ‘It’s not your fault. I’m amazed you got this far.’ She glanced out of the window into the whirling whiteness. This particular stretch of road was devoid of the comforting lights of civilisation, unlike most they’d travelled on. She wondered when they’d last passed a house or building—she had been so concentrated on the road ahead she couldn’t remember.
Zac answered the thought. ‘There was a pub a mile or so back. Do you think you could walk that far in this?’
And the alternative option was? ‘Of course.’ Ignoring the fact she had foolishly decided to wear her new high-heeled suede boots, which had cost a fortune, she nodded firmly. Anything was better than freezing to death and the way the snow was continuing to fall, that was a real possibility. And then she remembered the walking boots she’d packed, along with her wax jacket she’d bought for Christmas in Scotland last year. ‘Is there any way you could get my case out of the boot so I could change into my walking boots?’ she asked hopefully.
He inclined his head. ‘Sure thing.’ He grinned at her. ‘You’re a game little soul, aren’t you? No bemoaning the fact I’ve got us into this mess.’
She tried to ignore how close he was, how the snow had caused his hair to fall over his forehead in a slight quiff, how the hard planes and angles of his face were thrown into stark prominence in the dim light and how very masculine he was. Smiling an easy smile she was proud of in the circumstances, she said brightly, ‘No good crying over spilt milk, and it could be a lot worse.’
She remembered those words once she was togged up in her walking boots and jacket and had managed to struggle out of the car, which was easier said than done, the angle it was stuck at. As Zac lifted her out and up to stand beside him, her face was assailed by fierce stinging snowflakes and the wind whipped at any exposed flesh. It was absolutely freezing.
Zac had her suitcase along with his, and once he had locked the car he tucked one case under his arm and held the other, leaving a free arm to wrap round her. She had protested she could manage by herself but once they began walking she was glad of his support, the wind so gusty it made staying upright somewhat perilous. Zac seemed unbothered by the elements, his big body moving forwards like a tank, with Rachel clinging to him, partly shielded by his bulk.
It seemed for ever until they rounded a corner and the lights of the pub pierced the night. As Rachel peered through the tumbling snowflakes she didn’t think she had seen anything so welcoming as those lights.
‘Nearly there.’ Zac hugged her tighter to him. ‘OK?’
She could do no more than nod.
‘You’re a star.’ He bent his head and kissed her. A long kiss. And suddenly she didn’t feel as cold.
The White Hart was an old eighteenth-century country inn, warm and snug with oak panelling and ancient beams, open fires and a sympathetic landlady. When Zac pushed open the gnarled front door and they all but fell into the copper and brass interior there was a startled silence for a moment, then the buzz of conversation they’d interrupted resumed and the landlady left her place behind the bar and came forward to greet them.
‘I take it you’re refugees from the storm?’ she said as the snow covering them began to melt on the stoneflagged floor. ‘What a night! They said snow but we weren’t warned it would be as bad as this. Did you have to abandon your car?’
