Passionate Awakening

by Diana Hamilton

  'For the auction.' Luke Derringer sounded very slightly amused as he pushed himself away from the windowsill. 'What else?'

  What else indeed? Annie thought snidely, her huge brown eyes unwillingly drawn, watching Luke's easy, economical movements as he moved to where she and Norman stood. He wouldn't be here because of any family bond. One only had to look at that hard-boned face, those sardonic eyes, to know the man was a loner. Not for him the safety of the herd. He wouldn't have a sentimental bone in his lean, rangy body. No, he had somehow heard of Monk's Hall and he wouldn't have wasted his time coming down for the auction if he didn't intend walking away as the new owner.

  'Unless it was to meet your future wife.' It was said with a cutting edge to the slightly husky voice, and Annie's eyes batted wide open as he bent his head, his intention clear, then her lashes fluttered closed at the shock of painful awareness as he touched his lips to hers.

  That touch was light, the sensual movement of his teasing mouth sparking a chemistry that transformed her flesh to liquid fire, making her bones weak.

  He hadn't said, 'Pleased to meet you at last,' or 'Welcome to the family,' or anything else that would have superficially excused that kiss. He'd just closed his mouth over hers, tasting her, his skin, his flesh, speaking to hers.

  'You'll come to the wedding?' Norman asked tightly, as if the little scene hadn't amused him. And it hadn't amused Annie, either, not one bit. She felt shattered, almost besmirched, oddly out of control for the first time since she was seventeen years old. No way could she pass the incident off with her usual poise, say something like 'Happy to know you, cousin-to-be.'

  She wanted to rub her hands over her mouth, to wipe away the memory of his vile touch, but she couldn't do that because it might hurt Norman and that was something she never wanted to do. He was kind and good and very dear to her.

  'And when is the wedding?' Luke was asking her, his eyes hard and probing. Norman might not have existed.

  She said thickly, 'We haven't decided yet, but soon,' and wondered why she'd made that qualification, because they'd tentatively set the date for next spring..

  Turning quickly as the door opened, she hurried to help Joan with the laden tray, relieved by the distraction. But her hands shook as she poured tea while Joan passed sandwiches, and that was because Luke Derringer was there, disrupting the normal peace with vibrations that charged the air with ultra-potent electricity.

  Distractedly, she glanced at Joan who had now taken her customary place behind the big silver teapot. She looked calm, as placid as ever, and Norman was now his usual affable self, talking to Luke, catching up on the news of their far-flung relatives.

  So she was the only person to be affected by the highly charged atmosphere, the strangely electrifying presence of Luke Derringer. And when she heard Norman say, 'If you're staying around until the auction we can put you up here,' she could have screamed. She didn't know why she didn't want him near her, she only knew she didn't.

  Helping Joan to make up the bed in the guest-room, Annie tried to pull herself together. She didn't understand what was happening to her. One look from Luke Derringer's eyes was enough to take her breath away.

  Joan, plumping pillows, said, 'What a dish that man is! He's the sort you don't expect to see this side of a film screen. I bet he's lost count of the broken hearts he's left in his wake.'

  'If you say so,' Annie replied woodenly, her heart picking up speed. She had been trying to rationalise her reaction to Luke, to tell herself that it was solely due to his interest in Monk's Hall. But Joan's words had pointed her thoughts in another direction entirely, a direction that alarmed her.

  Luke Derringer was a dangerously attractive man, and this was the first time in seven years that she had recognised the dangerous sexual attraction in a man.

  For a moment she stood in shocked stillness, tall and slender, her radiant hair turned to a nimbus of gold in the rays of the late afternoon sun which slanted through the windows. The danger she had sensed in Luke was now explained, understood.

  Unconsciously, she squared her shoulders. She could cope with that, couldn't she? She hadn't spent her formative years with a mother who went through husbands and lovers like a child goes through ice-creams on a hot day for nothing!

  Her mother, a talented and beautiful actress, only came alive when a new man crossed her horizon. 'Falling in love,' she called it, but Annie had another, less romantic name for it and had learned to have a wary distrust for that particular kind of passion. It quickly burned itself out.

  'Of course, you've got a husband lined up, so you could hardly admit to noticing that Luke has enough sex appeal to blow your socks off,' Joan commented tartly, and, watching the older woman sweep out of the room Annie wondered, not for the first time, if Joan's touchiness owed its existence to jealousy.

  Joan had worked for Norman for longer than Annie had, and when she had been accepted for the research assistant-cum-secretary job Norman had said, 'We're a team here, Joan and I, and I know you're going to fit in with us. Welcome to the family!'

  Sighing, Annie followed Joan out of the room. She was sorry if the other woman had been secretly in love with their boss for years, had harboured thoughts of becoming the second Mrs Welling. But there was nothing to be done about it, and she had more important things to think of right now. Now was as good a time as any to tackle Norman again about Monk's Hall.

  At least Luke was out of the way. After he'd accepted the offer of a room—with indecent haste, Annie had thought—he had informed them easily, 'I have to go back to town—people to see. I shouldn't be late.'

  And that, for Annie, had seemed to sum him up: laid-back and cool, doing his own thing—but charmingly. And no doubt the people he wanted to see were the agents handling the sale of Monk's Hall. For a moment she had been tempted to phone Chris Howard, but common sense had prevailed. Monk's Hall would go to the highest bidder.

  As was usual at this time of day Norman was relaxing with a pre-dinner sherry in the comfortable, traditionally furnished living-room, an erudite tome in his hands. She could pinpoint his exact activity at any given time of the day, she thought fondly. His predictability didn't bore her; it made her feel safe, and she was astute enough to recognise that this was a direct result of a childhood where she hadn't known from one week to another where she would be, or from one day to the next what her mother's mood would be—gay, tempestuous, or near suicidal—depending, as ever, on the state of her love life!

  Norman lay aside his book, his pleasant features lighting up as she walked quickly over the rose-patterned carpet and perched on the arm of the chintz-covered chair he was using.

  'Sherry, darling?' He made to rise, but she checked him with a slim, detaining hand on his arm.

  'Later, perhaps. I'd like to talk.' And I'd like to creep on your lap and be cuddled, like a child. The thought came from nowhere, surprising her.

  Their relationship wasn't physical, it was based on mutual respect and liking, on their logical desire for a secure and settled home life. Norman had a low sex drive, but that didn't really worry Annie. Surely the more stable feelings, such as respect and warm affection, were safer than the wild passion that produced the unthinking behaviour her mother had always indulged in?

  'It's about Monk's Hall, isn't it?' He had finished his sherry, and he put his glass down on a side-table as Annie smiled at him, her eyes wry.

  'Am I so easy to read?'

  'Not really.' He chuckled at her expression. 'But you've had this bee in your bonnet ever since the place came up for sale and your father, providentially, left you a great deal of money. I was just making an educated guess.'

  'I fell for the place at first sight,' she admitted, pulling a long face because he knew, and she knew, that that kind of impulse was out of character for her. 'What are your objections to the place?'

  'To the house itself, none. But I'm lazy, I suppose, I don't like change. Too set in my ways— too old for you?' Sudden concern darkened his e
yes.

  She said quickly. 'Rats! What's fifteen years? Anyway, I prefer older men.' She must do, or she would never have agreed to marry him. And if he was set in his ways then that was OK by her because she appreciated stability, order.

  'Thank you.' The hand he placed over hers was comforting. Getting to his feet, he squeezed her fingers briefly. 'Put in your bid for Monk's Hall, if it makes you happy. If you get it, I'll fork out for any work that needs doing, out of whatever I get for this place. Fair?'

  She was so taken aback by this sudden, total capitulation that she couldn't find words to tell him of her delight, her gratitude. She had expected an outright refusal to budge on the issue, a reasoned and logical argument explaining that selling up here and moving to Monk's Hall would be a retrograde step, a whole load of unnecessary hassle.

  So she simply stared at him with glowing brown velvet eyes. She had misjudged him. She had steeled herself to hear him say that her passion for the old house on the coast was an aberration, a hiccup in the otherwise orderly workings of her mind. And she would reluctantly have had to agree with him.

  'Would you like that drink now?' He was replenishing his own glass from the drinks tray and she shook her head, still speechless as she moved quickly across the room, her thick dark lashes spiked with tears of sheer happiness. He was an absolute poppet and she would make Monk's Hall a beautiful home for the two of them, a happy, secure place for their children to grow up in.

  Emotionally, she flung her arms around him.

  'Thank you, darling. The last thing I wanted to do was fight with you over where we should live. Thank you for understanding!'

  'That's quite—quite all right,' he replied heavily, gently putting her aside. His bluntly good-looking features were red with embarrassment as he returned his attention to the sherry bottle. 'About that drink—'

  'No, thanks,' Annie answered snippily. She felt hurt, like a dog who'd been kicked out into the cold. Norman hated emotional scenes, or anything remotely approaching them. Her calmness, the logical way she ordered her life, had been the first thing that had attracted him to her. He'd told her as much. But surely she could be allowed to express truly felt emotion once in a while?

  'I'll go and see if I can help Joan with dinner,' she excused herself bleakly. For the first time ever a niggle of doubt about their relationship entered her mind.

  But Joan, chopping mint for sauce, said, 'Everything's under control here, but if you'd fetch the washing in I'd be grateful,' and Annie escaped thankfully, glad to have a few moments on her own.

  Unpegging bath towels, she decided wryly that Monk's Hall must have touched a vulnerable spot inside her, a spot so well hidden that she hadn't fully realised she had it. She had never felt passionately about anyone or anything until she'd set eyes on that house. She didn't count the painful episode with Hernando Carreras seven years ago. That was something she had learned from and put firmly to the back of her mind, yet never quite forgotten because the lesson she'd learned at seventeen had been salutary. But she wasn't ashamed of emotion and she didn't see why a natural display of affection should have embarrassed Norman. She didn't think it augured well for the future.

  'You have a delectable nose, and I swear there's a blackbird about!'

  She would have known that deep, husky voice anywhere and she went rigid, clutching the towels to her chest, not turning. She stood very still, but she was quivering inside. He had a terrible effect on her. But she did manage.

  'I'm taking down the clothes, not hanging them out.' Her voice was creditably cool and steady. He had moved into her line of vision now, and the startlingly blue eyes seemed even more vivid out here, the thick hair darker, with a sheen like a raven's wing. And his mouth was teasing, softer than she remembered it, and she closed her eyes because looking at him completed a chemical reaction that sparked off an explosion deep inside her.

  'And of course you won't be the maid much longer,' he remarked, his voice as dry as dust. 'You'll be queening it in the parlour. Do you like bread and honey—or do your tastes run more to caviar?'

  'Are you trying to say something?' she rasped, gathering up the last of the towels. The allusion wasn't lost on her and she could cheerfully have hit him.

  'Maybe.' A strongly defined dark eyebrow tilted upwards and the sensually wide mouth curled, revealing white, even teeth. 'Or maybe I'm wondering why a woman like you should be marrying a man like Cousin Norman. Security, is it?'

  She dragged in a sharp shallow breath, her heart pattering wildly under her breastbone. He had moved in front of her, blocking the path, and to get past him she would have had to step on to Norman's neat rows of french beans. Her arms tightened around the bundle of towels. They smelt of fresh air and sunshine and, faintly, of fabric conditioner, and yet did nothing to mask the raw scent of masculine sexuality which this man seemed to exude from every pore.

  'I find that remark thoroughly objectionable.' Her chin came up and her narrowed eyes glittered darkly, although she did manage to keep her voice coolly dismissive, masking her anger.

  Infuriatingly, he chuckled. 'Cut the haughty act, Annie.' And he moved closer, crowding her, making her stomach churn, and a strong, tanned hand moved, lean fingers cupping her chin, setting her skin on fire, making her flesh pulse with unbearable sensation.

  She jerked her head back savagely, sending silky Titian strands flying about her head, bright colour to balance the hectic scarlet that stained her cheekbones, darkening her eyes to jet. But, effortlessly, his fingers tightened, calmly stilling her frantic movements, holding her head rigid.

  Stingingly, she was aware of the imprint of his fingers, of the slow, hypnotic movement of his thumb, moving with erotic lightness against her cheekbone, feathering her skin with searing sensation. Blindly, she closed her eyes, fighting to control the force of the feelings he was so heedlessly creating within her. She was shamingly aware of the way her lips were quivering, as if in invitation, and was unable to do anything about it.

  'You are a beautiful woman,' he imparted, a wry note in his husky voice. 'But you lack that vibrancy, the glow that marks a woman in love.' His fingers tightened fractionally, making her eyes fly open, his own holding her unwilling gaze with aqua-marine intensity. 'You're not in love with Norman and yet you've agreed to marry him. Don't blame me if I draw my own conclusions.'

  She almost spat at him then, but his next words, softly spoken but impregnated with deadly meaning, shocked her into total immobility.

  'You're far more sexually aware of me than you are of him. And don't deny it,' he warned silkily, 'or I might be tempted to prove it.'

  Then he smiled, very slow, very sure of himself. 'There's a pretty potent brand of chemistry between us—immediate and undeniable. And you know it. I saw the recognition in your eyes the first time we met, outside Monk's Hall. You panicked then and you're panicking now.'

  CHAPTER TWO

  Annie buckled the belt of her jeans and pulled on a lightweight wool sweater. She had never felt so tense. Although she had carefully avoided Luke for the past few days, he was still getting to her. The mere knowledge that he was under the same roof, breathing the same air, was enough to make her skin prickle, her stomach churn with awareness of him. Pushing her fingers through the silky fire of her hair she took several deep, relaxing breaths.

  On the whole she was pleased with her performance. Never by word or look had she allowed her dislike and distrust of Luke to show through. During mealtimes, when she had had no option but to endure his hateful company, she had devoted her entire attention to Norman. Fortunately, Norman always worked in the mornings and she worked with him, and in the afternoons he liked to potter in the garden. He took quiet satisfaction from his neat lawns, his productive vegetable patch.

  Normally Annie would spend her afternoons helping Joan around the house, shopping, catching up on her typing. But since Luke's arrival she had clung very close to Norman, feeling safe with him, although why she should feel under very real threat in Luke's comp
any she didn't altogether know. She would be glad when he was gone.

  The knowledge that he was a firm rival for the ownership of Monk's Hall was bad enough, but the way he had told her that in his warped opinion she was marrying Norman for financial security had been rudeness of the most objectionable kind.

  She refused even to consider his effrontery in stating that they had some kind of sexual chemistry going for them. The wretched man didn't know what he was talking about! Instant sexual attraction didn't exist for her. Surely it didn't? It couldn't! She was far too level-headed.

  Norman was waiting for her in the kitchen and his eyes lit up. 'Ready for work?' He pushed his stockinged feet into gardening boots and Annie's features softened in a fond smile. Dressed in heavy brown cords and a chunky zipped cardigan Joan had knitted for him years ago, he looked like a cuddly teddy-bear.

  Joan, taking pots from the dishwasher, remarked tartly, 'If you're getting the beetroot up, bring a few roots to the kitchen. I'll make that pickle you're so fond of.'

  'Will do!' Norman rubbed his hands together. He and Joan shared the same squirrel-like instinct, never happier than when they were storing or preserving the products of summer against the bleak, unproductive months ahead.

  Outside, Norman took deep gulps of the sparklingly fresh autumn air. 'I'm glad you're taking an interest in the garden, Annie. It was the one thing I didn't think we had in common.' She smiled faintly, not liking to tell him that she would have clung on to his company, whatever he had been doing, because she needed him as a buffer against his cousin.

  Instead she told him, 'I'm looking forward to next week.'

  He answered slowly, 'So am I, in a way. It's a new departure, though.'

  'I know.' She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. Norman's books were heavily factual, every detail researched, checked and cross-checked. When she had half-jokingly suggested that he indulge in a little light relief—do a book based on historical legend as apart from historical fact—she hadn't really expected him to agree. But perhaps her enthusiasm had fired his. She sometimes felt, though, that she had pushed him into the project. Now she said, 'Two days in Wales with Professor Rhys should be stimulating.' But what she really meant was that by then the auction would be over and she would be able to relax, secure in the knowledge that she and Norman were the new owners of Monk's Hall and that Luke Derringer had left Seabourne, with luck never to return.