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Beneath her the short thin grass was crisp and carried the scent of sun-warmed rock, of living, breathing mountainside, and, in the distance, she could hear the chuckle of shallow water, the liquid note of a bird. And she wondered if she would have been so aware, so clearly aware of herself, of her surroundings, if Norman had been with her, not Luke. And knew, to her mortification, that she would not.
She barely touched the slice of quiche Luke handed her on a paper plate, and merely nibbled at the fresh tomato, its skin warm, its flesh cool and tangy. But she drained the beaker of strong hot coffee as if it might save her life.
Breaking the silence he had maintained since they had come to this secluded place, Luke remarked, 'So your mother's a celebrated actress? I knew Willa Kennedy had had several husbands, but I didn't know she had a daughter.'
Not many people did. Her mother's various marriages had been widely publicised, but her daughter had been kept well in the background. Annie didn't particularly want to talk about her mother, to think about the seventeen years spent trailing in her wake like some insignificant pebble attached to the glittering train of a shooting star. That was all in the past and, to Annie, looking back wasn't particularly productive.
She lifted one shoulder dismissively. 'Who told you?'
'Norman, of course. He also said he'd never met her.'
And that wasn't because Norman hadn't been eager to meet the world-famous actress, Annie thought drearily, but she had wanted to prepare Norman for the star's inevitable reaction to a future son-in-law. Trouble was, Norman didn't have a sense of humour. And one needed to see the funny side of Willa Kennedy in order to swallow her wiles. Because whenever a member of the male sex had shown an interest in Annie Willa had promptly snatched him away, drawn him into her own glitzy orbit, keeping him there for as long as it pleased her to do so.
It hadn't mattered; Annie had been able to handle it with a philosophical attitude rare in one of her tender years. Until Hernando Carreras had happened along in the summer when she was seventeen and then it had been different, very different…
'And apparently you only wrote and told your mother of your engagement a couple of weeks ago, and that at Norman's insistence.' The husky voice prodded her.
Bright as a button, hiding her annoyance at his probing into what was none of his business, Annie clipped out, 'So? Willa's a busy woman, and up until a couple of weeks ago she'd been totally absorbed in the new film she was making. Family demands only break her concentration.' And the news that her daughter was engaged would make her restless, restless enough to make one of her dramatic entrances, seeing the fact of a man in little Annie's life as a challenge that couldn't be resisted.
Luke was repacking the hamper, as she could hear from the rustle of foil, the clatter of beakers, the final snap as the clasp was closed. And now was the time to get to her feet, lob a smile vaguely in his direction and say that it was time they were moving because the Professor would be thinking they were lost.
But she didn't move. She was held immobile by his eyes. The way Luke made her so aware of herself, of him, was beginning to terrify her.
She regretted her lack of movement, of direction, as soon as she felt the light feathering of his fingertips on the soft nape of her neck, just beneath the glossy strands of her hair. One touch was all it needed to make her shockingly aware of his masculinity, aware as never before of her own femininity, of the inevitability of the sexual equation. One touch, that was all.
'Did Willa hurt you badly?'
An unsuspected tenderness in his voice devastated her, made her want to cry. But she had shed all the tears she was ever going to shed over Willa years ago. Besides, she didn't want this sort of closeness, not with him. He was too shallow, his needs, where she was concerned, too transitory. She said stonily, 'Of course not, Willa spoilt me rotten.' And that wasn't too far from the truth. If a good mood had coincided with her remembering she had a daughter, her mother had been known to shower her with wildly expensive and totally inappropriate gifts.
'Is that so?' His tone was soothing but faintly sceptical, and his fingers stroked, smooth warm fingers intent on discovering the delicate contours of her nape, her throat. Sliding, seductive fingers insidiously awakening something too long dormant, something she had tried to suppress.
She muttered, 'Don't,' croakily. She felt curiously weak, incapable of movement…
Luke ignored her uselessly half-hearted protest, moving his hard body closer so that, sitting more behind than beside her, he seemed to be cradling her, his big body both protective and demanding, and all male, very much so.
She shuddered, pulling a ragged breath through flaring nostrils as his persuasive fingers splayed at the base of her throat, sliding easily, too easily, beneath the loose collar of her tracksuit top.
'No!' she muttered hoarsely as his hand unerringly cupped one firm, rounded breast, and 'No!' again as her treacherous flesh hardened, pressing an unmistakable invitation against the bone-melting warmth of his palm.
But 'Yes, oh, yes,' Luke murmured throatily, dragging her round in his arms, and his vivid eyes held hers for one splinter of time, their message quite readable, quite terrifying, before his dark head came down and she closed her eyes, blotting out everything but the sensation, the devilish assault of his kiss.
It went deep, that kiss, making her mindless. She could feel the heavy thud of his heart against the wild pattering of her own as he made a luxury of his now lingering exploration of the sweet recesses of her mouth. And she felt his body shudder, transmitting messages that were painfully sweet, and was hardly aware of the way her hands twisted in the cool, crisp darkness of his hair, her fingertips finding the warmth of his skull.
The citadel of her body was shaking on its foundations… Only one man had made the earth move for her before, and she had vowed that she would be very sure of her man before she allowed it to happen again…
Wrenching away from him took all her moral courage. She scrambled to her feet, shaking, her body hurting with fiercely denied need, her eyes feverish, defiant.
'Just keep your vile hands off me!' she flung breathlessly, disgust with herself more painful than her disgust with him. He was an opportunist, a man on the make, while she was a woman who had vowed never to pander to sexuality, never to indulge in casual lovemaking. She had chosen the safer, the more sensible path, with her eyes wide open. Very wide open, seeing both sides of the picture and making her choice.
But lithely he was on his feet, too, right beside her, 'You don't mean that,' he bit out tersely, ice-cold lights glinting in the depths of his clever eyes. 'You know damned well exactly how it's been between us ever since we met.'
So she did, she acknowledged hollowly, the uncomfortable thought drilling away at her mind. She had recognised the instantaneous reaction, one to the other, the dark, primeval force of feeling that electrified the very air surrounding them, need calling to need in a cry as old and pagan as time.
She might hear that call, loud and clear, but she wasn't answering, not when it came from the type of man who would seduce his own cousin's fiancée without one single qualm! Seduce her, and then, as was his custom, move on to the next easy conquest. No way—she had too much respect for herself to allow that to happen!
Grimly, she brushed clinging particles of grass from her apple-green pants, her features set in lines as cold and precise as any created by a mason from a block of stone.
