by Helen Brooks
'Pears.' She was acutely conscious of the bulk of him just behind her, but when she reached the smartly painted door of her flat she steeled herself to open it smoothly this time, and as it swung open Mog was there in front of her, with a mournful and very reproachful long-drawn-out miaow.
'So this is the man in your life?' Luke asked softly as he deposited the briefcase and portfolio on a nearby chair and bent down to stroke the cat, who had totally ignored Josie and now arched ingratiatingly against his legs. 'Yes, I can see why he would be; he's very handsome.'
'You like cats?' Josie asked in surprise. Somehow she hadn't put him down as an animal-lover.
'That doesn't fit your mental picture of me?' Luke asked silkily, the smoothness of his voice at odds with the narrowing of the piercing silver eyes. 'Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, Josie, but yes, I like cats—dogs too, as it happens.' He straightened, but Mog continued to wind round his legs as his chest rumbled with a loud purr. 'I have several cats at my home in the South of France, and also here in Greenwich, which are ably cased for by my resident housekeepers.'
'No dogs?' she asked carefully, ignoring the first part of the conversation.
'Not yet.' He continued to look at her, his hard face cool and remote and his voice soft. 'They'll wait until I settle down and enter the next stage of my life.'
'Which is?' she asked flatly.
'Family man and attentive husband,' he answered with a mocking smile. 'And I bet you can't imagine that either.'
'No, not really.' She turned away as she spoke, a shaft of pain stabbing at her throat. So he wanted to settle down soon and raise a family? Well, of course he would; she shouldn't have expected anything else. Even the most dyed-in-the-wool philanderer succumbed to the natural human desire to build a nest and raise fledglings eventually. The desire to procreate, to have sons and daughters, was strong in any man, but especially in one as virile and sensual as Luke; it was perfectly normal. Absolutely to be expected.
She walked through to the kitchen, her back rigid.
'Josie?' His voice caught at her, and there was a note in it she didn't understand but didn't date try to explore. 'What's wrong?'
'Wrong?'
She bent to the low cupboard that housed Mog's cat food and took a long, deep breath before reaching for a tin and turning to face him. He was standing in the kitchen doorway and she noticed suddenly that he looked tired, that there were dark shadows undo: his eyes which brought the prominent cheekbones forward and gave the grey eyes an even more silvery hue. And the feeling that it aroused in her was as unwelcome as it was unexpected. She didn't want to feel tenderly towards him; she didn't dare.
'Nothing's wrong,' she said carefully. 'What ever gave you that idea? It's just that Mog has ignored me since I walked through the door and that tells me His Highness is displeased that his dinner's late.'
'Right…' He grinned at her, and she didn't like what that did to her fragile equilibrium either. 'A demanding male, is he?'
'And how.' She was relieved the mood had lightened, but as she made the coffee she found she was still all fingers and thumbs, and her agitation wasn't helped by the fact that Luke was standing there leaning against the kitchen door with his hands in his pockets, watching her as she worked.
'Would you like something to eat?' she asked expressionlessly as the coffee-machine began to bubble and splutter. 'I usually shop at weekends, so there isn't much in, I'm afraid, but I could rustle up a few ham and salad sandwiches, or an omelette if you'd prefer?'
'A round of sandwiches would be welcome.' He gestured to his tie and jacket. 'Do you mind if I make myself comfortable? It's pretty warm in here and I've only averaged three or four hours' sleep a night over the last week. I don't want to fall asleep on you.'
'Feel free.' She forced a bright smile as her breath stuck in her throat. How had all this come about anyway? If anyone had told her this morning that Luke Hawkton would be disrobing in her flat that night she would have laughed in their face. Suddenly events were galloping away with her and it was too dangerous. He was too dangerous. 'Difficult week, was it?' she asked evenly.
'Damn awful.'
He had taken off his jacket and tie, and now, as he undid the first few buttons of his shirt, she really had problems with her breathing. He was too attractive for his own good, or certainly for her good, she thought ruefully as she turned determinedly away, taking a few deep, hidden breaths and busying herself with the food. Mog had disappeared through the catflap after his meal for an evening sojourn.
'But everything turned out all right?' she asked after a few moments, when she could trust her voice not to betray her.
'Of course.' There was a touch of arrogance in his voice now. 'I always get what I want in the end.'
'Always?' She nerved herself to turn and face him again as she placed two plates of sandwiches on a tray.
'Always.' He smiled at her, a faintly sensual quirk to his mouth, and she couldn't tell if he was serious or not.
'Lucky old you,' she said lightly as she pouted two cups of coffee and placed sugar and milk on the tray.
'Here, I'll carry it through.' He reached over and took the tray out of her hands, the hardness of his thighs as he brushed against her causing a shiver of feeling right down to her toes. 'Lethal' was the word Charlotte had used to describe him and she hadn't been wrong, she thought faintly. More was the pity.
'Nice room.' After he had placed the tray on the low coffee-table he straightened and glanced round the lounge. 'Very nice,' he drawled approvingly.
'I like it.' Her parents' estate had meant she had had no financial problems even before she had secured her highly paid post at Top Promotions, and, knowing that her flat would probably be home for the rest of her working life, she had spared no expense in furnishing it exactly as she liked.
The lounge was a mixture of browns and reds, the full-length dark scarlet curtains that draped the balcony windows rich and warm, complementing the lighter oatmeal carpet and walls, and the big soft suite, in shades of muted red and brown, toning with the whole perfectly. Any wood was a dark, rich mahogany that gleamed and shone, reflecting the bowls of fresh flowers she always like to have around and which filled the flat with the scents of summer.
'Do sit down. You must be starving,' she said, with a prim politeness that spoke volumes to the big, dark man watching her so closely, especially when, having handed him his coffee and sandwiches, she ignored the space next to him on the sofa in front of the coffee-table and perched herself on the very edge of a chair.
'You obviously take a great deal of pleasure in your home,' he said quietly, after demolishing a sandwich in a couple of bites, his gaze lingering on a painting on the far wall. 'That's a Goudge, isn't it?' he asked softly as he turned back to her.
'Yes, it is.' She tried to hide her surprise, which hadn't been very well received when he'd unexpectedly revealed that he liked cats. Tim Goudge had only just arrived on the London scene, and although he was an excellent artist and a very pleasant man he was not well known and had no influential patrons to smooth his way. 'You like his work?'
'My aunt does. She's followed his progress over the last few years in his native Ireland and was quite thrilled when he moved to London. I noticed one of his paintings in that art gallery you promoted, by the way. Was that your idea?' he asked intently.
'Yes.' There was something about the sight of him, relaxed and comfortable on her sofa, with his long legs stretched out in front of him and the muscled power of his chest accentuated by the thin shirt, that was bringing out goose-pimples all over her body.
'I thought so. Arnold White is not exactly a philanthropist at the best of times, and I couldn't see him giving a boost to a new artist unless someone had sold him the fine that it would be financially advantageous to do so. Is that what you did?' he asked suddenly. 'Promised him he would rake in the filthy lucre?'
'More or less.' She wasn't quite sure if he approved or disapproved of her actions, and her tone was sl
ightly defensive. 'Tim Goudge needed a break and Mr White won't lose by it in the long run. Besides which there were enough well-known artists on view that day to carry ten art galleries.'
'Oh, I'm not criticising your kindness, Josie. Far from it.' He eyed her lazily. 'But it doesn't quite fit in with the hard, formidable career woman image, does it, to go out on something of a limb when there's nothing in it for yourself? You know as well as I do that succeeding in one's native Ireland is quite different from making it in this jungle.'
'I—' How could she answer that? And why should she anyway? she thought militarily. She didn't have to explain her actions, good or bad, to him. 'Well, these you go.' She gave him a bright smile that didn't reach her eyes. 'One of life's little mysteries, Luke. Just when we think we've got it all taped we find out how wrong we can be. It happens all the time.'
'Not to me, it doesn't.' He held her glance for one more moment, his eyes piercingly steady, before holding out his cup with an easy smile. 'I'd love one more cup before I go on my way…'
'Of course.' She almost flew out to the kitchen, her thoughts racing. Why should it matter to him what she was really like? He was attracted to her, that much was obvious, but surely the light affairs he indulged in didn't necessitate a baring of the soul? Just the opposite, she would have thought.
'So, dinner's out tomorrow?' She jumped visibly at his deep, husky voice sounded just behind her, and spilt most of the coffee over the worktop. 'How about Sunday?' he asked softly.
'No. No, I'm sorry—'
'Are you?' He had moved to stand just behind her as she busied herself mopping the spilt coffee, her hand shaking. 'You have the most wonderful hair,' he said huskily, his hand moving up under the mass of burnished red curls and stroking her neck in a warm, intimate movement that shocked her beyond measure. 'Like fire, flickering and glowing…'
'Why won't you have dinner with me, Josie?' he asked abruptly, and his hand tightened on her shoulder, moving her round to face him. 'Why are you so afraid of men?'
'I'm not!' she said, trembling, her heart pounding so hard it actually hurt. 'That's ridiculous.'
'I don't believe you.' His hand moved to tilt her chin upwards as he stared down into the green-flecked eyes he had been seeing in his dreams for the last week. 'And I don't believe I've been reduced to envying a cat either,' he said broodingly. 'And a ginger torn, at that.'
'He isn't ginger,' she protested faintly. 'He's brindle—'
He bent and took her parted lips in one swift movement, but instead of the fierceness she had expected the kiss was warm and intoxicatingly, wickedly intimate, blanketing her tremulous fears and causing her to shiver in anticipation as it deepened.
She knew she ought to be fighting this, pushing him away, but what her head was telling her was quite ineffective against the pulsing pleasure that had her in its grip as he tasted her slowly, almost leisurely, taking his time about the seduction with an arrogance that was all male.
After a few long, slumberous moments he moved her closer into him, fitting her tiny, slender shape against the swiftly rising desire of his body as he tangled his fingers in the richness of her hair, drawing her head back in order to achieve greater penetration of her mouth. His tongue was hard and thrusting, and she couldn't believe what it did to the sensitised contours of her mouth, but it wasn't enough. She wanted more, much more… As his hands moved in a thorough exploration of her soft shape, moulding her against his hardness while his lips trailed fire over her skin, she suddenly became aware of her state of undress and exactly how far things had gone.
'No!' She jerked back so suddenly that his fingers, tangled in her hair, wrenched her head painfully before he could let go. 'I don't want this.' She pulled her blouse together with shaking hands.
'Why?' He didn't try to reach for her again as she backed away from him to stand against the cupboard, her eyes wild. He merely folded his powerful arms as he gazed down at her, his eyes narrowed and his mouth taut. 'Why, Josie? What is it that you're so afraid of? Is it me? You think I'm too big? That I'd hurt you?'
'No!' Her embarrassment had turned her face crimson, the turmoil inside her making her feel faint. Why had she allowed him to make love to her like that? Why?
She knew what he wanted but she didn't have the mentality to be able to walk away from him once the affair finished; she just wasn't made like that. The cauterising pain of her early years had burnt any superficiality right out of her. When she gave her body she would give her heart too; she knew that. So why had she let things go this far? He would think she was a tease, the sort of woman who found it fun to excite a man, lead him on, only to draw back at the last moment.
'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have let you…' She shook her head desperately as she ran out of words. 'I'm sorry…'
'I wouldn't hurt you,' he said, with a softness that caught at her throat. 'You have to learn to trust people again, whatever's happened in your past—'
'Leave me alone!' He had to stop, had to cease being so understanding; it was killing her. What would he say if he knew the truth? she asked herself bitterly. That she was damaged, empty, nothing? That her body could do all sorts of things except the one thing it was made for? But then it wouldn't matter for what he wanted her for, would it? she thought painfully. Sex. A convenient affair. Dress it up how you like, that was what it boiled down to.
Perhaps that incident in the car in Germany had been a softening-up process, a way of convincing her that he wasn't a wham, bam, thank you, ma'am kind of man? That an affair with him would be a discreet, sophisticated kind of liaison? He had said he was past the stage of a sordid backseat amour that night..
'I've told you, I don't want any involvement, Luke, with anyone, and I mean it. If you gave me the job thinking I would be in the market to sleep with you—'
'That's enough!' His face was as dark as thunder now, and as she realised what she had just said her hand went to her mouth. 'I'll do us both a favour and forget you said that,' he growled furiously, 'but after we've cleared the air. I don't have to buy my women, Josie, whether it be with jobs or anything else. Is that perfectly clear? Is it?' he snarled when she didn't answer.
'Yes,' she whispered through numb lips. 'I didn't mean—'
'I know exactly what you meant, Josie.' He eyed her angrily, his body taut. 'But don't forget the old saying that people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. You respond to me the minute I touch you, and we both know it.' He turned abruptly, walking into the lounge and picking up his jacket and tie from the chair.
'Luke, please let me explain—'
'Explain what? There's nothing to explain,' he said roughly. 'I'll see you on Monday morning.'
He left without looking back, his back straight and his head rigid, and as the front door closed Josie sank down onto the kitchen floor as her legs finally gave way.
How could she have spoken to him like that? She must be mad. He'd never forgive her… And she couldn't blame him. She gazed blankly ahead, her face as white as lint. The way things must be looking to him now she couldn't really blame him at all. Blowing hot and cold wasn't in it…
She groaned softly as she thought of their lovemaking of what she had invited. But there was no way she could get involved with a man like him, no way at all. However it worked out, it would be a recipe for disaster.
CHAPTER FIVE
The weekend was an exercise in purging herself of self-pity and regret. She told herself, over and over again, that she had much to be thankful for. Her career was at its highest point ever, she didn't have, and never had had, the financial worries that dogged so many people all their lives, she was young and healthy and strong in mind and body.
And there was even a positive side to the accident too… She would never have to endure plodding about like a hippopotamus with straddled legs and aching back as she had seen so many expectant mothers do. Morning sickness, dirty nappies, broken sleep and all the worries connected with infant inoculations, diseases, illnesses, bullying at
school… These would all pass her by.
She was her own person, answerable to no one. She could please herself—travel or stay at home, be up at the crack of dawn or stay in bed all day at weekends.«. The list was endless. It was the same list she had drawn up thirteen years ago, when she had hauled herself out of the abyss of bitter grief and pain, and it still worked well…mostly.
Monday morning brought a June heatwave that caused the dry London streets to shimmer with light under a cloudless blue sky, and produced a bevy of girls in bright summer dresses and bare legs.
Josie had dressed carefully for the meeting with Luke at nine, her heart pounding like a sledgehammer from the moment she had woken after a restless, troubled sleep and her mouth dry. She glanced at herself in the mirror for the tenth time in as many minutes just before leaving the flat at a few minutes past eight.
The white silk blouse she was wearing was pretty but businesslike, as was the pencil-slim charcoal-grey skirt that reached to just below her calves. She had secured her mass of hair in a high ponytail at the back of her head, as much to allow the air to get to her neck on such a hot day as anything else, and tied it with a white ribbon that hung demurely at either side of the red curls.
The reflection in the mirror bore no resemblance at all to the trembling, distraught figure of Friday night—except for a certain look in the eyes, and a large pair of tinted sunglasses fixed that. She'd do. She nodded to the figure in the glass determinedly. She'd more than do.
She was outside Luke's office at ten to nine, sitting in his secretary's sumptuous outer room, and the sheer force of his wealth and power hit her afresh. The building was huge, and all owned by Hawkton Enterprises, and here on the top floor, where the elite lived and breathed, it was all ankle-deep carpeting, hushed voices, model-girl secretaries and designer suits.
Luke's own secretary looked as though she had just stepped out of a top fashion magazine, every glossy blonde hair in place and her tall, slim figure elegant and perfectly clothed in a close-fitting dress that must have cost a small fortune. 'Mr Hawkton won't be long.' The beautiful face gave a smile in which ice seemed to tinkle. 'He has someone with him at the moment.'
