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Fun? Now why did Ashley get the distinct feeling that there wasn’t going to be much fun involved in this new position?
After Christine had gone, she put on a plain skirt and a neat blouse, brushed and twisted her long hair into a French plait and then went downstairs to the library. The door was closed and the deeply growled and peremptory command of ‘Come!’ in response to her hesitant tapping almost made her lose her nerve and turn away.
Pushing open the heavy door, she saw a dark figure standing by the fire with his back to her—a figure she recognised instantly and yet one that seemed even more intimidating than it had done earlier. Was that because the red flames threw his tall figure into a stark silhouette which seemed to dominate the room? Or because his physique was, quite simply, breathtaking?
Suddenly, she felt insubstantial in the presence of such a remarkable package of masculinity. As if he could dominate her as he dominated the room. It was another unwanted moment of awareness and Ashley found herself struggling to make his name pass her dry lips.
‘Mr… Marchant?’
He turned then and the flames illuminated his face—sending shifting shadows across features which were so still that they might have been fashioned from dark marble. He seemed to have a sense of total isolation about him—as if he had cut himself off from the rest of the world—and as Ashley stared at him she saw the brief flicker of something bleak in his eyes. Something like pain. And something like anger. And then it was gone. Instead, his look became coolly assessing as his gaze swept over her, though it was a moment before he spoke.
‘So, we meet again.’
‘Yes.’
That same odd smile she’d seen earlier once again curved his sensual lips. ‘My lady rescuer.’
Ashley shrugged her shoulders awkwardly. ‘I didn’t really do very much to rescue you.’
‘No. I suppose you didn’t.’ Jack studied her, remembering her wide eyes and trembling lips. The softness of her touch as she had shaken him. How potent gentleness could be, he thought suddenly. And how long since he had felt its subtle seduction? He flicked the thought away—even though his attention was momentarily distracted by the faint swell of her breasts beneath her sweater. ‘And no doubt you were too stricken by guilt to be of much use in any case,’ he challenged huskily.
‘Guilt?’ she echoed defensively, as unwittingly he touched a raw nerve. Because hadn’t her life been blighted by false accusations made by those on whom she depended? The foster mothers. The matrons in the care homes. Time after time she had discovered that the disadvantaged were an easy target. And now, as she looked into his hard black eyes, she wondered if here was someone else who would concoct crimes she was supposed to have committed. ‘I wasn’t aware that I’d done something wrong.’
‘Don’t you know that it’s inadvisable to startle horses? That they’re as temperamental as
women?’ he said. ‘But don’t stand over there by the door looking so nervous. You’d better come in and sit down—I won’t bite! And if we’re to spend the next few months incarcerated together, then I’d better know something about you—don’t you think? Sit down—no, not there. Sit over here by the lamp, where I can see you properly.’
She was acutely aware of his piercing gaze and authoritative manner, and Ashley’s legs felt curiously jellylike as she walked to the spot he’d indicated. Perching herself on the edge of the chair, she watched as he lowered himself into a similar one on the opposite side of the fireplace—though his own seat was more shadowed, she realised. Which meant that she couldn’t see him so well as he had insisted on seeing her.
He had changed from the faded jeans into dark trousers and an expensive-looking shirt of silk, which hinted at the hard body beneath. With the more formal clothes, he now looked every inch the modern-day aristocrat— his long legs stretched out in front of him as he surveyed her from between narrowed and watchful eyes.
‘You’re much younger than I thought,’ he observed, his eyes drifting over the smooth surface of her skin, and he felt a flicker of irritation. Why the hell had the agency sent him someone like this—someone with that tight bloom of youth on her skin, which women spent the rest of their lives hopelessly trying to recapture?
Ashley gave a little shrug. ‘The agency didn’t specify an age, Mr Marchant.’
‘No, please don’t call me that.’ He shook his head and gave a dismissive little wave of his hand. ‘I don’t like any kind of formality. Not now that I’ve left the army. You’d better call me Jack.’
Jack. It suited him. A strong and powerful name. The name of a man who wouldn’t suffer fools gladly. Jack. She tried it again silently in her head until his deep voice broke into her reverie.
‘And you’re Ashley?’ he questioned impatiently, wondering if she was going to adopt that dreamy expression every time he spoke to her.
‘That’s right. Ashley Jones.’
‘And how old are you, Ashley Jones?’
‘Eighteen.’
‘Eighteen?’ He made a small sound of annoyance underneath his breath. She was even younger than he’d thought. He studied her, acknowledging once again that there was something distracting about dewy-eyed youth—something which drifted temptation in front of a man, even if he had no intention of being tempted.
It made him think about sex—about soft limbs and trembling flesh. Even if that was the last thing in the world he wanted, or needed. He felt his body tense in unwilling reaction to his vaguely erotic thoughts. ‘I was hoping for someone a little more experienced,’ he said harshly.
She heard the sudden censure in his voice and all Ashley’s survival instincts came to the fore as she imagined being sacked from her job before she’d even started. She lifted her chin. ‘Oh, I think you’ll find I have plenty of experience for the kind of work you require, Mr Marchant.’ ‘
Jack.’
‘Jack,’ she corrected.
‘Someone more middle-aged, then,’ he amended. ‘Who won’t mind locking herself away in this dark corner of the country.’ He frowned. Had she idealised the job and the life she was going to find here? ‘There aren’t any nightclubs around here, you know. It’s pretty quiet—more than quiet, in fact. No bright lights or big pubs crowded with young men.’
