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He took no notice, wandered around the room, looking at ornaments, books, taking them out of the white-painted shelves and flipping through them, went to the window, stared out at the back garden, then walked through into the kitchen. Crossly she followed and found him opening cupboards, inspecting the inside of the fridge. Samson excitedly cavorted around him.
‘Nice cat,’ Randal said, scratching behind Samson’s ear. ‘I like the way your kitchen is laid out; the colour scheme is very cheerful. It must be a pleasure to come in here on winter mornings.’
‘You aren’t planning to make me an offer for the place, are you?’ she tartly enquired, and he gave her a teasing grin.
‘I’m just curious about how you live. I’m trying to imagine you here. Are you always alone, or does the fiancé spend some nights here with you?’
Hot blood ran up her face. ‘I told you, I’m not discussing Tom or our relationship with you!’
His grey eyes probed her face. ‘You don’t sleep with him, do you?’ He sounded cool enough, yet something in the way he stood, body tense and alert, made her nervous. She wished she knew what he was thinking, what he was planning.
‘None of your business!’
He took a step towards her and suddenly she was terrified. Turning on her heel, she ran out, up the stairs, into her bedroom and bolted the door. Sinking down on her bed, she listened; would he come up here or leave?
There wasn’t a sound. No footsteps on the stairs, no movement in the passage outside the door.
He must still be downstairs. Or he could have gone, let himself out of the front door soundlessly.
She swivelled to pick up a hairbrush from her dressing table and brushed her gleaming chestnut hair; it was in disarray after the drive, with the wind blowing through the open window. Getting up, she looked in her wardrobe for something to change into when she had had her shower and chose a pale green tunic dress which ended at the knees. Simple but stylish, it was one of Tom’s favourites among her clothes.
She opened drawers, found clean lingerie, laid it all on her bedside cabinet, then went to the door and listened with her ear against the panel.
Still silence. She carefully opened the door and froze in shock, finding Randal leaning there; in a second he was halfway into the room and she fell back, breathless.
‘Go away!’
His gaze ran round the room, absorbing the delicate pastel colours of the walls, the pretty curtains which matched exactly the cover over her bed, the pink carpet and the white and gilt furniture.
‘Charming. Did you say you decorated it all yourself?’
‘Go away,’ she repeated, her heart in her mouth. ‘I don’t want you here.’ He was taller than she remembered, his head towering over her in this little room, the masculine force of his physical presence disturbing.
‘Why did you come upstairs, if you didn’t want me to follow you? You knew I would.’
She gave him an icy, resentful look. ‘I was hoping you would take the hint and leave my house.’
‘You aren’t a very convincing liar, Pippa,’ he mocked, coming nearer, his grey eyes wandering possessively over her. ‘Were you going to take your clothes off? Don’t let me stop you.’ Leaning over, he picked up a filmy white slip from the cabinet. ‘I can’t wait to see you wearing this.’
‘No,’ she whispered, shuddering at the way he was looking at her.
‘Yes,’ he silkily said, dropping the slip and reaching for her at the same moment.
She couldn’t breathe, her throat painful, making a sound somewhere between a sob and a groan. She wanted him and at the same time was afraid of him. Inside her desire and fear fought, but desire was winning and she knew it.
‘Don’t,’ she begged, her legs giving way under her, and he picked her up bodily and carried her to the bed.
Her eyes closed, she arched helplessly towards him as he kissed her with sensuous insistence, his hands exploring, caressing. She lost all consciousness of what he was doing, her own instincts driving her. She needed to touch him, open his shirt and discover the power of his naked flesh and muscle, clasp his nape and stroke his hair. She had dreamt of doing this, over and over again, and now she was doing it.
Above her she felt the ragged beating of his heart, his skin on hers.
Confusion flooded her mind—how could she feel his skin on hers? Opening her eyes, she looked down and realised he had undressed her somehow; she was naked, her slip, her bra and panties all gone. While she had been preoccupied with touching him he had been stripping her.
‘Pippa,’ he moaned, burying his head between her breasts, kissing the deep cleft.
He was naked, too, she realised in shock. He must have taken off his own clothes as well as hers—how had he done that without her knowing what was happening?
Or hadn’t she wanted to know?
