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Fortunately his reflexes were quicker than hers and he gripped her wrist, holding her immobile.
There was a fraught silence in which all she could hear was her pulse drumming in her ears. Then he said quietly, ‘That was out of line,’ releasing her arm so that Sybella could slowly lower it to her side.
‘It’s none of my business,’ he added. Which was when she realised he wasn’t talking about her trying to hit him. He was apologising for what he’d said.
The fight went out of Sybella, and with it flooded in the knowledge she’d almost hit another person.
Last year Fleur had pushed over a little boy in her social group and Sybella had sat down and had the talk with her. Physically hurting someone was wrong. Whatever the provocation, she must use her words, not her fists. And here she was, mother of the year, trying to slug a perfect stranger!
She’d had provocation all right, but that wasn’t an excuse.
She needed to apologise to him but Sybella found herself struggling because he’d implied something, and he hadn’t taken that back. Which was very different from saying it was none of his business.
‘Six years ago my husband kissed me and climbed into his van and drove it out to the Pentwistle Farm,’ she said in a low voice, ‘and on the road between the farm and the turn-off he was struck by another car coming over the rise.’
Nik was looking at her with an expression she hadn’t seen before in this man.
As if he were taking her seriously.
‘So no, Mr Voronov, my husband has no idea what I’m doing nowadays—but I do. I wish I hadn’t tried to hit you. I can’t take that back. But you don’t get to say things like that to me. I don’t deserve your contempt, or do you just have a problem with women in general? I suspect you do.’
Sybella had no idea where all those words had come from or her ability to say them or even if they were true. But nothing had just ‘happened’ here tonight. It had been building since he’d held her in his arms outside in the snow and all the sensuality latent in her body had woken up.
She resented it, and she resented him. But none of that was his fault.
‘I suspect I have a problem with you, Mrs Parminter,’ he said slowly. ‘But I am sorry for what I said.’
‘You should be.’ She held his gaze. She could see her words had affected him and she could also see some grudging respect in his eyes and that gave her the grace to say, ‘I’m sorry too.’
She forced the apology out, because as wrong as her actions were she couldn’t yet let go of them, or the feelings that had provoked them. None of this had made her feel better; she felt worse. She wrapped arms around her waist as best she could in her ridiculous parka.
He was looking at her as if she deserved some compassion. He was wrong. She deserved a good talking-to for all the mistakes she’d made in dealing with this house.
‘You’re cold,’ he said. ‘You need to take off your wet things.’
‘I don’t—’
‘You can dry them in front of the fire, or I can have them laundered.’
‘Please don’t bother.’ She passed a hand over her face. ‘I’m going to take them back to Climb and Ski tomorrow for a full refund.’
‘Are you all right?’
She blinked, taking her hand away from her face to find him watching her as if she might keel over. ‘I guess so.’
Which was when her eyes filled with tears. Oh, blast.
Tired, wet, in some serious trouble over her activities in this house, and yet troublingly aware of Nik Voronov as a man and her own deficiencies in that area, Sybella wanted nothing more than to wriggle out of her wet things and cast herself down in front of the fire and sleep for a hundred years.
But she didn’t get the fairy-tale option. She should be practising a better apology.
There was a rattle and clatter as Gordon, who ran the household, entered from a side door, wheeling the drinks trolley.
Saved by the man with the alcohol!
A long-time bachelor, Gordon was her ally in the house, having worked here for almost thirty years under the previous owner. He gave her a guarded look of surprise but didn’t say anything. He was too good at his job.
