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'It is a he, and Mog is not a 'poor animal',' she said tightly, unable to keep the note of indignation out of her voice. 'He has a wonderful life.'
'I've no doubt about that. If I lived with you I'd consider myself a very fortunate animal too,' he said solemnly, but she had caught the thread of amusement in his voice and found herself smiling in return even as she kept her voice cool and distant.
'I'm sure you would. Goodnight, then.'
'Goodnight, Josie. Sweet dreams,' he said softly, that husky note in his voice more pronounced.
Sweet dreams, indeed! She stood staring at the telephone for some minutes after she had replaced the receiver. How could he make two fairly innocuous words sound so suggestive? she asked herself weakly. Or was it her imagination playing tricks again?
'Home, Josie.' Her voice echoed round the empty office and she shook her head as she retraced her steps to the door. Talking to herself now? That was all she needed!
As the lift carried her swiftly downwards she glanced at her watch with a little frown. Half past nine. Mog would be starving by now. Her flat was on the second floor of a beautifully converted house in Chelsea, and the fact that the property boasted a long narrow waited garden and that the caretaker, who had his own basement flat, had two amiable tabby cats of his own had made having Mog no problem.
He came and went pretty much to his liking, both hear own front door and the back door having catflaps, and old Mr Jones was always happy to feed him if she was away. But Mog was a cat with very definite ideas of his own, and a late evening meal would be met with cold, green-eyed disapproval and a rigidly stiff tail.
She answered the security guard's cheerful goodnight without really thinking about it, her mind occupied with getting home as quickly as possible. The tube was the obvious solution but she didn't really like travelling on her own late in the evening; there had been one or two occasions recently when she had felt uneasy. She could get a bus but at this time of night they were notoriously unreliable…
No, she'd get a taxi if she could find one, she decided as the massive plate-glass doors of the office building slid open and she emerged, briefcase over one arm and both hands clutching the bulging portfolio, into the warm London night.
'You look as if you could do with a lift.'
She froze for just one moment as the deep, husky voice halted her in her tracks, before turning slowly and surveying the beautiful dark blue Mercedes parked regally on double yellow lines a foot or so away.
'How—?'
'I phoned from the car.' He anticipated her question before she could voice it. 'Do you often wander about London late at night on your own?' he added, with definite condemnation.
'I would hardly term hailing a taxi as wandering,' she said crisply as she remained standing where she was.
'Well, I damn well would—'
'And half past nine on a June evening can hardly be considered late,' she interrupted idly. 'I can't see-—'
'Why didn't you call a taxi from the office?' he asked with equal frostiness. 'Or is that too obvious a thing to do?'
'Now look here, Luke Hawkton, how I travel to and from work is absolutely nothing to do with you,' she said angrily as the last of her precarious control melted under her quick temper. 'I've managed perfectly well for the last ten years, so I don't think I need any lessons in safety now.'
'I do.' He glared at her as he left the car in one swift movement to stand before her, big and dark and undeniably menacing. 'And for crying out loud stop being so damn ridiculous and get in the car. You know as well as I do how the crime rate has gone haywire in the last few years, and a tiny little thing like you, struggling along with a bulging briefcase—a tantalisingly bulging briefcase, I might add, to someone living rough on the streets—is just asking for trouble.'
'It was only a couple of weeks ago that a woman was mugged, raped and left for dead in an alley just a block or so from here, and she was a darn sight bigger and heavier than you. And that incident happened at six o'clock on a Monday evening in the rush hour. So don't talk to me about safety, Josie.'
She stared into his dark countenance angrily, opened her mouth to argue the point further, and then her courage evaporated suddenly at the furious expression on his face. He was angry. He was really angry, she thought in surprise. The black eyebrows were frowning over eyes that had turned a stony cold grey and his mouth was a grim line in the tautness of his face.
Why was he so angry? Because she had defied him? Or because he cared that she might get hurt? she asked herself weakly. She suddenly felt it was more likely the latter than the former, and the thought turned her meekly in the direction of the car. She walked past him and seated herself in the passenger seat without saying a word. He stood for one more moment on the pavement before swinging round himself and sliding into the car, banging the door with unnecessary force.
He started the car without speaking, his profile cold and taut, and as she glanced round she noticed a suitcase slung on the back seat and a large black briefcase standing on the floor. 'Haven't you been home yet?' she asked in surprise.
'No.' The one word was abrupt and final.
'Oh…' She gazed out of the window as the powerful car drew away, her senses alive to the delicious smell and sheer presence that vibrated from the big male body next to her in the close confines of the Mercedes. 'Thank you for the lift,' she said lamely, after a few tense minutes had ticked by, 'It was very good of you to call by on the off chance.'
'It was on my way home,' he said expressionlessly, his eyes on the traffic.
'Where do you live?' She kept her voice light and even. He clearly hadn't forgiven her yet.
'Greenwich.' He glanced swiftly at her before returning his gaze to the road ahead. 'And don't look so nervous; I'm not going to eat you. I can actually be quite civilised when I try, you know.'
'I'm sure you can.' And he would be a wonderful lover…
