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'You're suffering from a combination of jet lag and overwork,' he continued as though she hadn't spoken. 'Tomorrow you have the morning in bed, okay? And Conchita will bring you a dinner tray once you've bathed and slipped into bed tonight.'
'I'm not a child,' she protested quickly.
'Tell me about it.' He gave a theatrically leering smile, his eyes laughing at her, and in spite of herself she smiled back. He was impossible. Quite, quite impossible, and she loved him so much it scared her to death.
Her suite was like something out of a Hollywood movie, and made the first apartment that Hawk had chosen in France seem positively modest.
'Conchita will run you a long hot bath.' Hawk signalled to the maid as he spoke, who immediately disappeared into the huge blue marble bathroom which boasted a bath that would easily have accommodated a team of rugby players. 'And while you're soaking she'll unpack your things and turn the bed down. Ring when you're ready for your meal; there's a bell-push over the bed.'
'Right…thank you.' She was too exhausted to hide the fact that she was completely overawed, her stance very much like that of a tired and nervous child as she stood just inside the luxurious blue sitting room after her quick tour of the suite, unconsciously nipping at her lower lip, her eyes shadowed with fatigue and apprehension.
'Come here.' His voice was very quiet, and as he beckoned her to him in the middle of the room she moved slowly to his side. It will all fall into place in the morning, Joanne,' he said softly. Trust me in that if nothing else.' His arms were comforting as he pulled her against his broad chest, but the deliriously male smell of him, added to the muscled power of the big body, brought the quivery feeling snaking through her limbs, and after he had kissed her-lightly, as though she were a kid sister or maiden aunt, she thought testily-she stood quite still in the middle of the room as he left, not trusting her legs.
She cried in the bath once she was alone. How could she even begin to compete with the beautiful, sophisticated women he was used to? she asked herself miserably, lying back in the warm, scented water with her eyes shut as hot tears burnt a path down her cheeks. They would take this house in their stride, revel in it, live up to it, whereas she… She had never felt so like a fish out of water in her life-the outsider looking in. Even the worst times in the home couldn't compare to the misery that was swamping her right now.
It wasn't as though he had chosen for her to come here even. His grandfather had wanted to meet her and so she had been brought over like…like a package, a parcel, she thought desperately. That was all she represented to him-a commodity, a useful piece of equipment, a loyal employee- Oh, stop it! Enough! The words were caustic in her head as she realised, even in her anguish, she was going too far.
He liked her, he was physically attracted to her-that much she was sure about, whether she was versed in the arts of love or not. He would be only too pleased to have an affair with her; he'd made that plain too. Yes, there was no doubt he was genuine in his desire for her-the trouble was he didn't desire or like her enough for it to be love. And, loving him as she did, that made the whole situation a very definite checkmate. And neither of them won.
She stayed in the bath until the water was tepid, her aching muscles slowly relaxing as the silky warmth did its job, and after washing her hair she climbed out slowly, surprised at how leaden her legs felt It was all she could do to slip into her nightie and towel-dry her hair, and the thought of drying it with the hairdryer was beyond her, so she left it damp about her neck as she slid into bed and rang for Conchita to bring her meal. Not that she really wanted to eat…
Only it wasn't the little maid who came into the room after a polite knock.
'Hawk!' She shot down in the bed, embarrassingly aware of the transparency of the nightie, her lack of make-up, her scraggy hair… 'What are you doing?'
'Bringing your meal-what else?' He walked across to the bed with casual animal grace, looking even more devastating than usual in charcoal jeans and an ivory silk shirt that made his dark good looks more foreign. 'Sit up and eat it while it's hot,' he added easily.
'I… You… Put it on the bed.'
'Joanne, don't be tiresome.' He sounded irritated and she really couldn't blame him; he must think she was more like a naive schoolgirl than a grown woman, she thought miserably. She dared bet his other women would be only too pleased to display their wares in similar circumstances, but then no doubt they wouldn't be caught looking like drowned rats in off-the-peg nighties. She just hadn't expected him to bring the foo
d.
'There are two glasses; I thought we'd share a bottle of champagne while you eat to celebrate the beginning of the Christmas holiday,' he said coolly, watching her with narrowed blue eyes as she struggled up in the vast bed, the sheet wrapped round the top of her like a shroud. 'Are you cold?' he added mildly.
'No… Yes… I'm all right.' This was getting worse by the second.
'I'm not going to leap on you and have my wicked way.' It was said so conversationally it didn't register for a moment, but when it did she blushed scarlet. 'Relax, Joanne; you're making us both nervous.' There was a touch of steel in the coolness now.
It was all right for him, she thought testily. There he was, groomed to perfection as normal, calm, self-assured, perfectly in control, whereas she… The thought opened her mouth before she had time to consider her words. 'I…I look such a mess,' she said painfully. 'I didn't expect you to come.'
'Is that what's wrong?' he asked, the surprise in his voice telling her he hadn't considered such a possibility. 'Joanne, Joanne, Joanne…' He sat down on the bed, placing the tray at his feet before reaching forward and cupping her face in the palms of his hands. 'Don't you realise how beautiful you are, even freshly scrubbed and looking about sixteen?' he asked softly, the tenor of his voice making her shiver.
Freshly scrubbed and looking about sixteen! She gazed at him in frustration. She didn't want to look freshly scrubbed, she wanted to look alluring, voluptuous, sexy-like the other women he was used to. She wanted to dazzle him with her wit and sophistication, drive him mad with desire. She wanted-she wanted the impossible.
He bent down and picked up the tray, placing it on her knees before taking the cover from the plate to reveal a light meal of fluffy ham omelette and salad and baby new potatoes.
She stared at it miserably. She shouldn't have come. She shouldn't have come.
'Here.' He placed a wine glass in her hand before opening the bottle of champagne he had taken off the tray, its joyous explosion totally at odds with how she was feeling inside. 'Eat, drink and be merry,' he said mockingly, looking intently at her woebegone face. 'You're only stuck with me for a few days, Joanne; it isn't the end of the world.'
'I…I'm very pleased to be here.'
'You look it.' His voice was dark, grim even, as he poured her a glass of the sparkling effervescent liquid, before rising to his feet.
'Aren't you having one?' she asked quickly.
'Joanne, I know the image you have of me is of a womanising blackguard who hasn't got a sensitive bone in his body, but even I have my limits,' he said evenly, his face a study in controlled neutrality. 'We'll take this evening as a washout and try again tomorrow, okay?'
