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There was a definite sardonic edge to the question, an almost brutal stiffness in the way he caught her arms and straightened her up, moving her away from him as if he suddenly felt that her touch would contaminate him. She could sense no reluctance to let her go, catch no sense of regret in that calmly indifferent voice. But just for a second she had been crushed up against him and even as the heat of her own response had flooded through her she had known that he had to be feeling something too. There was no denying the hard and heated evidence of his body crammed against hers; the evidence of a carnal hunger that not even a virgin with as little experience of men as she had could possibly mistake in any way. It could have—should have—frightened her but instead it sent a secret, stinging thrill running through her.
‘Karim...’
Protest, encouragement or question? She didn’t know, didn’t care. Her head was swimming, every cell in her body seemed to be on fire at just the thought that a man like this—this man—could want her in that way. She ached and needed in a way she’d never thought possible, heat and moisture waking deep inside. And she hoped...
But already he was bending, picking up the candle. He turned to pull the saucers towards him, dismissing her from his thoughts, before reaching again for the box of matches. It was business as usual, and he was cold and distant again. So withdrawn that she began to believe she had imagined any other reaction. Was she really so desperate, so like some schoolgirl in the middle of her first heavy crush, that she was allowing herself to dream that the most devastating man she had ever met would want her, of all people?
As the light from the candles flooded into the darkness it seemed as if it was followed by a shiver of reality that reproached her for fooling herself. In the same moment that the flame illuminated some sections of the room, it also darkened and deepened the shadows of others, making them bleak and impenetrable as Karim’s shuttered face. And with it came an awareness of the way that the atmosphere in the room had changed, physically as well as mentally.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘THE...THE ELECTRICITY going out means that the heating has gone off too,’ she managed, needing to say something to break the silence that had tightened round her. ‘This house is going to get really cold very fast.’
It was already starting to chill rapidly in a way for which even Karim’s glacial stare couldn’t take the blame. The eerie sound of the wind howling around outside, rattling the elderly windows in their ill-fitting frames, added to the uncomfortable atmosphere.
‘You have a fire.’ Karim nodded towards the open grate.
‘If it will light!’ Clemmie acknowledged, knowing from bitter experience how difficult that could be. ‘I’ve spent I don’t know how many hours fighting with the damn thing in the past.’
‘It will light.’
Karim’s statement was resolute, adamant. The fire would do as it was told. It would light; it had no choice.
And it did light, of course. With an ease that made a mockery of all the times she had battled with the old-fashioned grate, he soon had strong flames catching on the wood he’d laid as kindling, licking around the coal. The crackling sound it made, the sparks that flew up the chimney promised that warmth would soon follow.
Which, of course, it did. Karim was in charge and nothing dared defy him. And Clemmie had to admit that she was more than thankful to see the golden glow fill the grate, feel the heat reaching out to touch skin that was now chilled through as the darkness closed in around them, the candles providing only a minimum of light. They would need to ration them if the electricity stayed off much longer. The half dozen or so she had in the cupboard would barely last the night. She didn’t want to admit to herself that some of the ice that seemed to have filled her veins had come from the realisation of just what a fool she had been. Imagining that Karim of all people could actually find her attractive—could want her!
The way he had immediately turned his attention to the task in hand, clearly forgetting all about her and any connection she might have imagined they’d made, told her in no uncertain terms that that fantasy had been all hers. And a fantasy was what it was.
‘Do you have any food for this evening?’
Karim kept his eyes focused on the fire as he spoke. It had been bad enough in the dark with her. The half-light of the candles and the fire was too alluring where it played over the warm curves of Clementina’s body, put an extra spark into the depth of her eyes. Being blind accentuated all your other senses and, though he hadn’t actually been blind, being lost in the complete darkness had had the same effect.
He had felt the warmth of her skin, inhaled the subtle floral and spice scent of her perfume. A perfume that was threaded through with the intensely personal aroma of the feminine body that had come so close to his. He had felt the warmth of her skin through the denim of her jeans when his hands lingered, longing, tempted, around the curve of her hips, the indentation of her waist. And in the deep silence, all outside muffled by the heavy coating of snow that had fallen, he could hear the soft sound of her breathing, knew the moment when it caught in her throat and then broke again in a faint hiccup of response to his touch.
Fool! Bloody stupid fool!
He rammed the poker in amongst the hot coals, feeling that he knew exactly how they must feel. He had arrived at the cottage—was it less than forty-eight hours before?—thinking that all he had to do was to get the woman he had been sent to collect into his car, drive her to the airport, and deliver her to her prospective bridegroom. But from the moment he had seen Clementina Savanevski he had known he was in trouble.
How badly in trouble he hadn’t realised quite then.
Suddenly his life and the plan he had for it had been turned on its head. Clementina had been nothing like he had expected and he had never anticipated the force of his own response to her. She had already delayed their departure by her disappearing act—and now this!
‘That’s the bad news.’
Her voice came from behind him and he knew he should turn to face her. But for now he wanted to stay turned away, to focus his attention on the fire before him, to tell himself that the heat of the flames was what was burning him up inside. It had nothing to do with anything else.
Nothing.
‘What’s the bad news?’
No, dammit, the fire was settled and going fine. He was going to look like all sorts of a fool if he didn’t turn. So much so that she would suspect there was something up and he didn’t want her thinking any such thing. He had made it seem as if the practicalities—candles, light, warmth—were all that mattered to him. They were all that should matter to him. And he didn’t want to let any suspicion of anything else slide into her mind.
‘What’s the bad news?’ he demanded again as he swung round.
She was standing behind the old shabby settee, holding on to the back in a way that suddenly made him remember her injured ankle and curse himself for forgetting. Without that they might still have been on their way out of here, but she’d fallen and he’d had to bring her inside. Another delay to add to the ones that had ruined every last detail of the plans he’d had to fulfil his promise to his father and then get on with his own life while he could.
Cursing silently, he felt for the phone that he had pushed into the back pocket of his jeans and checked it again. The screen told him all he needed to know. There wasn’t a hint of reception. Not a single bar to show even the hope of any call getting through. They were well and truly trapped. As he acknowledged the thought the whirling wind of the storm outside built up in power and ferocity to emphasise the point.
‘The food.’
She’d noticed his abstraction and was frowning faintly.
‘There might be some bits and pieces in the fridge—but I won’t be able to do much with them. The cooker is electric...’
A wave of her hand indicated the elderly and inadequately fitted kitchen.
‘So that’s gone—so has the kettle. I can offer you a sandwich...’
‘I’ll make it.’
Karim was already moving towards the kitchen. Did he have to make it so obvious he was impatient and anxious to be away from her? Clemmie wondered. If he had checked his phone once, he’d checked it a hundred times and he had only given up on moving her car when the storm had driven him inside.
‘I’ll do it!’ she protested, pushing him aside as she hobbled into the other room. ‘Small and tatty as it is, this is my house! You can’t come in here and throw your weight around just because you’re Crown Prince of somewhere...’
‘I was thinking of your ankle.’ It was a mocking drawl, one that made her stiffen her back in defiance. ‘Can you manage to stand on it?’
‘I’m fine.’
She would do it or die in the attempt, Clemmie told herself, grabbing the remains of a loaf from the bread bin and slamming it down on to the worktop. She was already regretting moving much at all, with her ankle aching and protesting fiercely when she put her weight on it. She opened the fridge door awkwardly and peered in, balancing precariously on her sound leg.
