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His effrontery in asking that question, as if he had every right to know, took her breath away, set her heart pattering against her ribcage. Conveniently forgetting that here, in this very room, only an hour or so ago, she had realised that she could never marry Norman, she replied nastily, 'I don't. Not that it's any business of yours, of course!'
'I'd say it was very much my business,' he gave back, disconcerting her.
And was it her imagination, or had those deceptively lazy eyes become dangerously narrowed? Annie couldn't be sure, but just to be on the safe side she told him more pacifyingly, 'I'm afraid your logic escapes me. Now, if that was all you wanted to say, I'll go to bed.' She made to rise, her instincts—always highly tuned where he was con—warning her that she was on dangerous ground.
'That was just for openers,' he informed her briskly, his eyes impaling her so that without being aware of how it had happened she was sitting down again.
But she was very aware of the way her mouth had suddenly gone dry and of the way he was now looking at her, as if daring her to move a muscle.
Her pulses skittered erratically but from somewhere she dredged up enough control to regard him with a mixture of weary patience as he began to tell her, 'If you marry Norman you'll be making the greatest mistake of your life. Can you truthfully say you love him, that you could share the intimacies of marriage with him, sleep in his bed, and not wonder what it would have been like with me?'
The studied look of weary patience fled. Of all the conceited, self-opinionated, vile—! She had had her temper under control until now, and she recognised how very close she was to losing it completely. But a supreme effort had her primming her mouth as she countered him acidly.
'If I make mistakes then that's my problem, not yours. But I can tell you I'd never make the mistake of giving you a second's thought—in any capacity whatsoever.'
'Wouldn't you?' His voice was velvet-smooth, and she watched with terrified fascination as he left his chair and moved towards her, silently, like a cat. Her heart almost stopped beating and she knew that if he intended to prove his point she would be powerless to lift a finger to stop him.
'I wonder.' The richness of his voice was a caress, enough in itself to overpower her senses, and a frisson of bitter-sweet sensation coursed through her as he reached out and lifted her to her feet.
'Does Norman's touch make your flesh grow weak?' he asked silkily. 'Can his mouth blind you to reason? Can his hands make you remember there's a passionate woman behind that prim exterior?'
He wasn't touching her, just holding her an arm's length away, but his voice was touching, his eyes were touching, exploring every inch as if he could see clear through the thick barrier of her robe.
Her body felt on fire. She had never felt such primitive desire for a man before. With his eyes, his voice, he was capable of bringing forth a feeling of abandoned wantonness that hadn't surfaced for years.
And she had never felt quite like this before, certainly not with Norman, dear, dull Norman. Not even with Hernando, whom she had wanted with all the hedonistic desire of a seventeen-year-old.
But beneath her fear of him, of what he could do to her, was emerging an unquenchable excitement. And that was terrifying because it meant that she had no control over her own body, not where this one man was concerned. But she did have the use of her brain, she reminded herself muzzily. She had to attack him verbally, it was the only defence she had. She drew in her breath roughly, forcing out her words.
'You make me ill!' Fighting now, she wrenched her arms from his grasp, her eyes furious, rejection of him, of the way he made her feel, boiling in her blood. 'You're everything I despise in a man. You're a conceited, arrogant creature! Not content with trying to seduce your own cousin's fiancée behind his back,' she choked, tears of rage making her eyes glitter, 'you've bought the loveliest house in the area for the sole purpose of adding it to your chain of pocket-lining hotels. I hope you're proud of yourself!'
'Good,' he said softly, astonishing her. She had expected him to retaliate, to show anger at being thwarted. But, infuriatingly, he looked pleased with himself, satisfied even. She was the one out of control, hurting, the one who couldn't think straight through the amalgam of outrage, confusion and downright hatred that boiled in her brain.
Tears were streaming uncontrollably now, almost blinding her. But she had too much pride to wipe them away. Stumbling, she made for the door, unwilling to spend a moment longer in the same room as her tormentor, but he was there before her, barring her way, and compassion gentled his voice as he said huskily, 'Poor Annie, poor baby.'
And that was all it took to have her sobbing, gulping back the shaming tears, totally vulnerable because no one, ever, had spoken to her in that tone. It was as if her pain was his, as if he really cared. For one of the few times in her life she didn't feel emotionally alone.
She didn't know how she came to be in his arms, but she was. And it felt good, as if she had come home after a long, cold journey. He was rocking her gent
ly and she could feel the warmth of him, feel his steady heartbeat against the rapid pattering of her own, feel the softness of his shirt beneath her splayed and suddenly heavy fingers, smell the clean male scent of him.
His breath was warm against the softness of her cheek as he said, 'I had to get you angry enough to give yourself away. I had to try to get at the truth, sweetheart.'
Little by little he was easing her back into the comforting ambience of the fire-glow, and she hadn't the strength or the will left to resist him, to stamp her own authority on this dreamlike interlude. She didn't know whether she had any authority left to stamp around, she thought hazily. Her flesh was quivering, melting, where it met his lean, rangy body. Their clothing seemed no barrier at all where sensation was concerned.
'What truth?' Her mind had difficulty in forming the question which that enigmatic statement of his seemed to demand. All that really concerned her now was the sheer physical bliss of being held, held so very tenderly, by the man she had called her enemy.
There was no enmity now, simply a warmth, a softness, a certainty. All her life she had wanted to feel she belonged—to a person, to a place. She had learned to live on the surface of life, coping with those unfulfilled longings, realising that no one had the right to expect to have everything they wanted. And now, strangely, she felt she had come home, that home was in this man's arms.
His hands were gentle on her body as he sank down on a chair and pulled her with him. Cradled within the warm curve of his body, held by the caring strength of his arms, she made no protest when he stroked his fingers through the bright softness of her hair, fitting her head into the crook of his shoulder, his lips soft and undemanding against the quivering curve of her own. And she knew she hadn't the wit, the energy, or the desire to protest against anything he might do.
'You think you hate me because I threaten your dull, safe relationship with Norman,' he told her throatily. 'But most of all, I suspect, because I beat you down over Monk's Hall.'
His mouth moved against hers, a gentle, teasing ghost of a kiss, a kiss fragmented into a thousand tiny, tantalising movements of skin against skin, almost taking, almost tasting, an erotic glimpse of what could come. She couldn't focus her mind on his words, only on his mouth as it touched hers, withdrew and touched again… and again.
'You feel no passion for Norman because you don't love him and because for some reason known only to yourself you distrust sexual passion.'
Gently, taking her by surprise, the tip of his tongue trailed sweet moistness between her lips, dipping just slightly into the soft corner of her mouth, and her hands clutched his body convulsively as sheet lightning sensation rocked her.
