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He tilted his head sharply.
‘I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t make this any more complicated than it already is by lying.’
Then, taking her elbow again, he steered her outside, neither of them speaking a word, and into the back of his waiting car. When he slid in beside her, filling up every last bit of space, Saskia was sure she was going to suffocate from the sheer pressure of the moment.
And all the heat she remembered from their time together—the heat which had been simmering again the other day at the hospital—flooded around her, almost drowning her in its intensity.
Lord, how was she to survive being in such proximity to him when a traitorous part of her wanted to revisit every inch of that hewn, addictive body which the tuxedo did nothing to temper?
‘May I ask where we are going?’ she asked primly, surprised at how even her voice sounded when she might have expected it to be shaking.
The unexpected truth was that it was almost a relief.
‘My place.’
His tone was grim but he didn’t even look at her. His gaze was trained out of the window, as if he couldn’t bear to.
It hurt. More than it had any right to.
‘Why?’
Her voice was sharper than she’d intended, but the idea of being back in his penthouse was daunting. Every room would surely trigger X-rated memories of their weekend together—and she already had enough of them in her own brain, without returning to the scene of the crime.
His head swivelled slowly to face her and abruptly she decided she preferred him staring out of the window after all.
‘To discuss how we proceed from here.’
His low, controlled voice didn’t fool Saskia for a second. And there was a carefully restrained fury in the cognac depths of his eyes—though whether that was because she was pregnant or because she had concealed it from him, she couldn’t quite be certain.
Either way, he sounded ominous. Especially when she already knew what kind of a force of will Malachi Gunn was.
There was something else in those depths, too—and it was infinitely more dangerous than his anger.
Desire.
Still.
She could feel it rolling over her body as sure as if it were his hands themselves.
A low ache began building right there. Right between her legs, deep and insistent, and only Malachi had ever made her feel it.
Good grief, she couldn’t trust herself around him for a moment.
The realisation was like a blow to the gut. If she went back to his apartment it would only amplify her haywire emotions that much more. Until they were completely out of control. Until she was.
Panic clutched at Saskia.
‘Stop the car,’ she muttered abruptly.
‘Sorry?’
‘I said, stop the car.’ She raised her voice, tapping on the glass between them and the driver. ‘I need some air.’
She was vaguely aware of Malachi dipping his head in confirmation before the car slowed. Stopped.
Saskia was out in an instant—but not fast enough to beat Malachi, who had materialised right by her side. He took their coats from his driver, who must have retrieved them from the cloakroom before they’d left the gala.
Why was she even surprised? Of course Malachi hadn’t left the event on a whim. The man never did anything on a whim. Except that long weekend with her, that was.
