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She sat up in bed, a chill creeping over her skin as she remembered the angry words of the previous evening which had culminated in that cold, almost anatomical sex in the bathroom. She shivered. At the time it had turned her on like mad to see the wild passion flaring in their eyes, as they’d watched their reflected images bucking their way to fulfilment with all the guilty pleasure of voyeurs. But now it all seemed curiously empty. Vividly, she recalled those big, dark hands cupping her breasts and the look of fierce intensity which had shadowed his face as he’d thrust into her. It was like watching a rerun of a porn show and felt like the emotional equivalent of a hangover and her cheeks began to burn with shame. How could she have let herself do that, when in the previous few moments he had been damning her with his snide accusations about flaunting her body? Accusations which hadn’t even been true.
Which left the question of how she was going to handle the situation this morning. Did she bring up the whole painful subject and risk one of those dreadful circular arguments which went nowhere? Or should she just be grown up about what had happened? Forget what had been said the night before and start the new day on a new and positive note.
She sat up in bed. ‘Morning!’ she said cheerfully.
He turned round then and Rosa could see the shuttering of his dark eyes.
‘I didn’t want to wake you,’ he said.
Suddenly, she felt self-conscious. He was dressed in that immaculate suit, while beneath the sheet she felt naked and vulnerable. She wondered if he, too, was remembering last night’s erotic scene in the bathroom, and some unknown instinct made her pull the sheet a little higher. ‘I didn’t realise you were going to work so early.’
He shrugged. ‘There are things I need to do.’
The smile she attempted was more difficult than she’d thought—especially when he was talking to her in that polite, cool tone, as if she was someone he’d just met at a party. No, maybe not at a party—because then he would be smiling back at her. He wouldn’t be looking at her with that flat expression in his eyes. ‘Surely as the boss, you can be excluded a crack-of-dawn start!’ she said, her voice just a little too bright.
‘It’s not a question of being excused, Rosa—more that I have plenty of ongoing projects which need my attention.’ Kulal buttoned his jacket, acknowledging how false her words sounded. And suddenly he realised that the honeymoon was over; it had ended last night when those dark feelings had taken him to a place he hadn’t wanted to go. When he’d looked at her and experienced a blinding jealousy at the way she’d flirted with the Frenchman throughout dinner. He remembered the painful pounding of his heart as he’d stared into an abyss which had seemed uncomfortably familiar—and it had taken all his energy to regain his usual clarity of mind.
He wondered if she was feeling more reasonable today. If she’d woken up and realised that Arnaud Bertrand had simply been using her as a means to try to get closer to him. He surveyed her curvaceous body which was outlined by the white sheet. ‘So what are you planning to do today?’
For a moment she hesitated, because she knew the most acceptable way to answer his question. She could fake a light excitement about visiting some art gallery or exhibition, or recount the synopsis of a film she was intending to see.
But Kulal’s behaviour last night had scared her. It had shown her the ruthlessness he was capable of. It had painted a dark picture of what he could be like if things didn’t go his way, and it had served as a timely warning that she needed to protect herself. She needed to guard against her own stupid emotions—the ones which had started tricking her into thinking that Kulal had started to care for her. Because he hadn’t. She didn’t have a special place in his heart just because the sexual chemistry between them was so hot.
It was important to remember something else too—something she hadn’t dared admit until now. That if she let herself start to care for him, then she would get hurt. Badly hurt. She’d go back to being a victim—the kind of woman who things happened to, instead of making them happen for herself. And he wasn’t exactly falling over himself this morning to tell her that he had spoken impulsively and out of turn, was he? He wasn’t apologising for all those insults he’d thrown at her last night.
She remembered the way she’d capitulated to her controlling family for all those years and she twisted a strand of hair around her finger. ‘I thought I’d give Arnaud a ring.’
‘Arnaud Bertrand?’
‘He’s the only Arnaud I know.’
