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She shook her head. She didn’t want to feel like some humble secretary being led off towards her unwilling fate by her powerful boss. ‘No, we’ll walk up there together. I’m not helpless.’
No, indeed she was not, thought Jack. In fact, she confounded expectation. ‘Most women would revel in the fantasy of being swept off to bed by their lover on their first time together,’ he mused.
Something in his words sent warning bells ringing as they climbed the stairs with their fingers entwined. Most women? How many women would that be? she wondered—knowing that there was nothing she could do to protect herself against the possibility of heartbreak. Not now. Because never had her destiny seemed so clearly defined as in that moment.
But something of Ashley’s nerve deserted her as she stared at what lay ahead of her.
The closed oak door which led to Jack Marchant’s bedroom.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE doors swung soundlessly open and Ashley’s eyes widened as she stepped inside her boss’s bedroom. Sumptuous and very traditional—it was every bit as impressive as she had imagined it might be and dominated by a dark and vast four-poster bed. Her heart missed a beat. Was she crazy—wanting to be made love to by a brooding aristocrat of Jack’s calibre?
‘Don’t look so nervous,’ he said softly.
‘I… I didn’t realise I was.’
‘You look terrified.’
‘Do I?’
He noticed she didn’t deny it. Shutting the door behind them, he took both her hands in his, turned them over and studied them—as if he was reading both her palms. And then he lifted his eyes to hers. ‘And you’re cold,’ he observed.
Ashley nodded. ‘A little.’
He drew her closer, so that she was cocooned in the warmth of his arms, and he dipped his lips to her ear. ‘It may seem strange to undress you to make you warm again—but that’s what I am about to do.’
She should have felt terrified by his assurance—by the trace of sensual confidence in his voice. But the truth was that when he was holding her like that—Ashley felt safe. Not some kind of inexperienced virgin who had been brought to the bed of an experienced man, but a woman who had met and found her match and was about to be initiated into the deep mysteries of love-making. ‘Yes, please,’ she whispered.
Gently, he unbuttoned her cardigan—sliding each button free in an act which somehow seemed to take on an erotic significance of its own. He slid down the side zip of her skirt so that it fell with a whisper to her ankles and some instinct told her to step out from within its confining circle. Her T-shirt was quickly disposed of until she stood in nothing but her bra and pants and a pair of dark tights. She should have felt shy—because surely he wasn’t used to women who wore such plain and cheap underwear?
Yet Ashley felt no shyness, for wasn’t this the most natural act in the world between a man and a woman—and wasn’t she determined that he should see her for who she really was? Not a fantasy or a substitute or someone he could transform into something she wasn’t, but a real person. Her. Ashley. Ashley Jones.
She stared at him from unblinking eyes. ‘What should I do next?’
‘You come here, my sweet little minx,’ he said softly, entranced by her mixture of shyness and curiosity.
Stepping forward, she put her arms around his neck as she raised her lips to be kissed and momentarily she saw his face harden—as if something in that simple gesture had disturbed him. But the moment passed as soon as his lips brushed against hers and this time he did lift her up and carry her over to the vast bed, drawing back the feather-soft duvet before laying her down upon the mattress. She lay there, perfectly still—just staring up at him—scared to move or to do the wrong thing.
‘Ashley,’ he said sternly. ‘Cover yourself up.’
Uncertainty crossed her face. ‘Because you don’t like what you see?’
He gave a short laugh. ‘Are you kidding? Because I like it too much. But you’ll get cold and you will distract me—come to think of it, you are distracting me.’ His eyes glinted as he leaned over and pulled the duvet up to her chin—his eyes mock-stern. ‘And a man who undresses before a woman for the first time shouldn’t have trembling fingers.’
But as he peeled his dark sweater over his head Ashley thought he sounded bemused—as if his fingers weren’t usually given to trembling.
She watched him undress—mesmerised as he gradually revealed his magnificent body to her rapt gaze. A silk shirt fluttered forgotten to the floor to lie beside his discarded jeans and a pair of boxers tumbled on top—until at last he stood there in all his nake
d magnificence. Every sinew and nerve fibre was drawn in delicious detail beneath the burnished surface of his dark skin and she was acutely aware of the dormant power in his large frame.
‘You don’t look away,’ he observed softly as he came across the room towards her. ‘No shyness now, then, Ashley?’
Would it make her sound shameless if she admitted that there was none at all? That this seemed as natural to her as breathing—despite her inexperience? As if she was poised on the edge of a discovery—about to be initiated by the man whom she had grown to adore. In her mind, she tested out the word. Wasn’t ‘adore’ too mild a description of her feelings for Jack? Didn’t love fit the bill much better? She shook her head as her eyes drank in his unashamed arousal. ‘No.’
‘And no fear?’
She shook her head. ‘No—definitely no fear.’
