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Damn his sex appeal! she thought as the tension began whipping itself up between them. Damn him for thrusting his sexuality at her! And damn herself for responding to it.
‘I—I forgot to fetch my bag,’ she said, forcibly dragging her eyes away from him to send them on a slightly hazy search of the luxurious lounge. ‘Did you see where I put it when I came in?’ She was too busy refusing to let her eyes be drawn back to him to see the sudden narrowing of his eyes. ‘I’m sure I dropped it down here,’ she murmured, walking over to the sofa to frown down at the place she’d expected the bag to be.
‘What do you need it for?’ he asked.
‘My comb.’ Her hand jerked nervously up to her where her hair, newly released from its severe style, hung in thick silk tendrils down her back. ‘I’d let it down before I realised I hadn’t got my comb.’
‘Here.’ She glanced at him, expecting to find her bag dangling from his outstretched fingers, but frowned when all he held was his own tortoiseshell comb.
‘No, thank you,’ she primly refused, and returned to searching for her bag. ‘I have my own somewhere if I could lay my hands on my…’
It hit her then, why he was standing there looking so studiedly casual, and she turned back to glare at him. ‘You’ve got it!’ she accused, her hands going to rest on her hips in an unconsciously shrewish pose.
He took his time enjoying the highly provocative stance, an aggravating smile playing about his lips as he slid his gaze along the figure-hugging purple dress which did little to hide the sensual curves in her body or the too expressive heave of her full breasts. ‘Have you any idea what you look like standing there like that?’ he drawled.
‘A mess, most likely,’ she dismissed the husky tease in his voice. ‘My bag, Guy,’ she clipped. ‘You’ve moved it and I want it.’ A slender hand came out in demand.
Guy glanced at it then back at her face, then, still smiling lazily, he gave a slow shake of his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry cara, but until you are legally tied to me once again, you will need nothing that is in that bag.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she asked in genuine bewilderment.
‘Exactly what it said,’ he drawled. ‘For the next few days you will be making not a single move without me at your side. Anything you may require will be provided by me, including a comb for your lovely hair.’
‘But Guy,’ she protested in disbelief, ‘that’s—’
‘Not up for discussion,’ he inserted, straightening from the desk to begin walking towards her, his tortoiseshell comb held out once again. ‘I do not trust you, Marnie, to keep your part of our bargain,’ he informed her bluntly. ‘And, since my part has already been attended to while you were out of the room, I feel the need of some assurance that you will not cheat me. Here, take the comb.’ He thrust it at her, and Marnie took it simply because he gave her no choice.
‘But this is ridiculous!’ she choked. ‘Guy, I have no intention of cheating you! Stop being so childish and hand over my bag,’ she demanded. ‘There are other things I need from it beside a damned comb!’
‘A lipstick, perhaps? I prefer your mouth exactly as it is, soft and pulsing with its own natural colour.’ Arrogantly he reached up to rub the pad of his thumb against her bottom lip, and instantly the blood began to pump into the sensitive flesh, filling it out and bringing a blaze of fury to her eyes as she angrily slapped him away. ‘Or maybe you want your neat stack of credit cards,’ he continued unperturbed. ‘Or the wallet of paper money which would easily get you a ride out of here.’
‘But I have no intention of going anywhere!’ she cried in exasperation.
‘And I have no intention of giving you the chance,’ he agreed. ‘So drop the outrage,’ he ordered coolly. ‘You know me well enough to know that I always learn by my mistakes. Disappearing is something you do too well for my peace of mind. So I have taken the necessary precautions to make sure you cannot.’
Wilting on a wave of defeat, she sank down on to the cushioned arm of the sofa and sighed, his last remarks cooling her temper more than anything else could have done. Four years ago he had trusted her to stay put in Berkshire where he had left her, stupidly believing the move from London to his country home was a sensible way of giving her time to get over her understandable aversion to him. She stayed put only long enough to watch him drive away, then, while his father had believed her safely ensconced in her room, she had left, taking nothing with her but the clothes she stood up in and her bag containing enough money to get her as far away from Guy’s influence as she could get.
She had ended up in a tiny village in the Fens, where she had succeeded in hiding herself away for six long, wretched months before she’d felt fit to face the world—and Guy again.
No, she conceded heavily, Guy was not a man to make the same mistake twice. There was no way he would give her the opportunity to repeat that particular trick.
A knock at the outer suite door broke the sudden heavy silence throbbing in the air between them. Guy hesitated, looking as if he was going to say something, then sighed and turned away, walking with a smooth animal grace out of the room.
He came back wheeling a dinner-trolley in front of him, his expression hooded as he glanced across to where Marnie still sat, staring blankly at some indefinable spot on the carpet.
‘Come and eat,’ he said gruffly.
Marnie gave a small shake of her head in an effort to re-focus her thoughts, then came to her feet. ‘I want to tidy my hair first,’ she said, and left the room before Guy could glimpse the pain her short flight into the past had put into her eyes.
Five minutes later, her hair and her composure restored to something closer to their usual smoothness, she turned her attention for the first time on the room she was standing in, and forced herself to consider what Guy’s intentions regarding their sleeping arrangements would be. The room was furnished in classical tones: Wedgwood blue and neutral beige, the big double bed the one piece of furniture which dominated the room.
Signs—unnervingly familiar signs—of Guy’s habitation of the room were scattered about. His black silk robe, thrown negligently over a chair. A white shirt he must have discarded for a clean one before coming to meet her at the airport tossed upon the bed. And a stack of small change, thrown negligently on to the bedside table and forgotten about as had always been his way. He held a real contempt of the sound of small change jingling in his pocket and tended to discard it the first chance he could get, so she would save it all up in a big coffee-jar, then carefully count it out and bag it before taking it to her favourite charity, more respectful of money, having never been used to having it, than he would ever be. It had amused him, to watch her hoarding his cast-off money like that, and she had glared defiantly at him. ‘You can stand there and laugh,’ she’d snapped once. ‘But do you realise that you’ve managed to discard one hundred and ninety-five pounds in small change this month? It’s a good job the Salvation Army aren’t so picky,’ she’d grumbled. ‘They’re not too proud to have it jingle in their pockets!’
‘So, they should be grateful that I dislike it jingling in mine so much,’ dismissed a man who refused to be anything but amused at her contempt.
Marnie smiled to herself, going over to sift with an idle finger through the small heap. Five pound coins at a glance, she gauged ruefully. Shame she wasn’t around any longer to bag it for the Salvation Army.
But she was around, she remembered on a small shiver. Back in Guy’s orbit and destined to stay this time. Her stomach knotted, catching at her breath as she turned to scan the elegant room.
