Best of Virgins Bundle

by Cathy Williams

  Stretching out on the daybed, she tried emptying her mind, but it kept replaying that enigmatic conversation over the table. She’d said too much, revealed more of herself than was wise. It gave Marc an advantage, because all she knew of him was that he had a particularly continental way of running his sex-life.

  Well, no, now she knew that his parents’ marriage had been unhappy. Had he intended to tell her? He was so controlled a man that his oddly intimate disclosure had to be deliberate.

  When she found herself daydreaming of other intimate disclosures—sexy, basic, urgent fantasies that smoked through her brain in a drugging miasma—she leapt to her feet and paced across the room to peer through the shutters into the sunlight, frowning ferociously as she reined in her vivid imagination.

  Trying to be dispassionate and worldly, she decided that it was a pity she was still a virgin, at the mercy of her imagination when it came to men and sex! With even one lover tucked in her background she’d be more rational about Marc’s elemental effect on her.

  Feverish shivers chased each other down her spine. Looking like a lover from an erotic fantasy didn’t make him some super-stud who’d automatically whisk her to the stars if he ever took her to bed.

  First experience, she’d read, usually failed dismally to live up to expectations. Marc was dangerously attractive—and powerful and arrogantly confident—but he was only a man. He couldn’t work miracles, and if she’d made love previously she’d have outgrown these romantic, overblown illusions of the perfect lover.

  ‘Anyway, it’s not going to happen,’ she muttered, turning back to the daybed. An experienced man, Marc probably demanded all sorts of sexual expertise and techniques from his lovers.

  She willed herself to think of more sober things, like the fact that when she went back to Napier she might find herself a job…

  Thanks to Marc.

  Slowly, inevitably, as the island drowsed under the afternoon sun, sleep took over and her secret desires wound through her dreams.

  She was smiling when a sharp noise forced her from Marc’s arms, hurling her into the cold water splash of reality.

  Dazed and disorientated, she tried to hide a yawn as she stumbled off the daybed and across the room, conscious only of the imperative knock as she opened the door.

  Marc looked down into her bemused face, black brows drawn together, his beautiful mouth hardening.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked abruptly.

  Colour swarmed up through her skin, heating it into acute sensitivity. Not only was her body aching with a hot, forbidden hunger, but her clothes were crumpled, her hair tangled around her face—and it seemed utterly elderly to sleep in the afternoon.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she croaked, adding with a brave attempt at poise, ‘for someone who a moment ago was being chased by pirates.’

  One pirate, actually.

  And why had she said that? Marc’s raised brow made her feel insignificant and stupid, yet she couldn’t drag her eyes away from his face. Deep inside her something shattered into shards so fine she knew she’d never be able to put them together again. She suspected it was her precious independence. Every instinct shrilling an alarm, she took a step back from the door.

  ‘Then it’s just as well I woke you up,’ he said promptly, but something had changed. A raw undertone deepened his voice and darkness swallowed some of the brilliance of his eyes.

  ‘I—yes.’ Her lips were dry, but she didn’t dare lick them. ‘I’ll just wash my face.’

  The words fell into a charged silence, one made even more significant by Marc’s slight shrug. ‘Of course,’ he said non-committally. ‘I’ll be out on the terrace. I thought you might like to walk up the hill behind the house.’

  Desperate to shatter the disturbing intimacy, Paige nodded. She needed violent activity to burn off the adrenaline that alerted every cell in her body; climbing a mountain would be ideal, but a walk should help.

  ‘I won’t be a moment,’ she said, and stepped back, closing the door behind her.

  When he turned that lethal male charm onto her she had to guard every response in case she fell into the oldest trap in the world—the sex trap. Paige washed her face and took a couple of deep, grounding breaths before going out to join him.

  She stopped in the wide doorway onto the terrace, her heart picking up speed. Tall, darkly dominant against the light, he stood with his hands in his pockets and a broad shoulder leaning against one of the columns that held up the pergola. The dog Fancy sat beside him, following his gaze out to the gleaming sorcery of the ocean and the islands.

  Because he had his back to her Paige could allow her eyes to appreciate the way the superbly tailored fabric strained over his lean hips and moulded the strong muscles in his thighs.

  An odd, twisting sensation caught her by surprise, as did a swift pulse of heat in the pit of her stomach.

  Paige set her teeth and moved out to join him, pointing to a line of cloud bulging ominously over distant hills on the mainland. ‘Is that rain on the way?’

  His hands emerged from his pockets as he straightened up to cast a knowledgeable eye at the dark bar along the horizon. ‘The wind’s gone round to the south-west, so it’s more than likely.’ Frowning, he examined her with a swift, perceptive survey, then returned his attention to the distant hills. ‘It’s not travelling fast enough to worry us, and often clouds like that don’t make it this far out in the Bay. Will you be warm enough?’

  Too warm. In fact, she was heatedly, uncomfortably, unbearably aware of him.

  And also aware that probably no other guest in his house had worn clothes as undistinguished as hers. Not that Marc gave any indication he’d noticed, but he’d have to be obtuse not to realise that her T-shirt and cotton trousers couldn’t compare with the exquisite outfit of the woman who’d been with him that first day in Napier.

  And he was far from obtuse.

  ‘It’s not cold,’ she said, a shiver of alienation driving her to the edge of the terrace, where she pretended to scan the flamboyant combination of tropical and traditional garden forms.

  After he’d left the island she’d spend some days storing this place in her memories. The plantswoman she longed to be relished the way fan palms set off native New Zealand shrubs and trees, and was excited by the exotic touch of upright cannas and bird of paradise flowers in electric blue and orange against the sprawling, extravagantly sombre splendour of two ancient pohutukawa trees.

  She observed, ‘I suppose if you live on an island you need to understand the weather.’ And then flushed, remembering too late the circumstances of his father’s tragic death.

  ‘It’s not so vital as it used to be; we have the latest gadgets for forecasting, and the locals are pretty good at reading the signs.’ He gestured towards a path across the lawn. ‘This way.’

  As they set off, with the dog racing ahead, he added with an inflection that came too close to mockery, ‘It’s steep, so we should work off some of the tension of being inactive all day.’

  The tension twisting along her nerves, Paige thought grimly, didn’t come from inactivity.

  The path led through a gate into a stand of huge, gnarled old pohutukawa trees, then struck off up a bush-clad hill. Paige liked the fact that apart from rock steps in the steepest pinches the track hadn’t been formed, winding its way up beside a little stream that chattered musically over rocks. Nikau palms and the softer, feathery fronds of tree ferns crowded close in stately, graceful profusion, blending into the dark mass of bush.

  ‘It smells deliciously fresh,’ Paige said. Oh, wonderful—just be as banal as you can! Other women—the woman with him in Napier, for one—would have been able to entertain him with lively, witty conversation. ‘And green, and somehow ancient,’ she added defiantly, stepping from one rock to another across the creek as Fancy splashed gloriously through the water.

  ‘It’s never been cut over, so some of these trees are centuries old.’ Marc was right behind her.

  Sh
e concentrated fiercely on setting a cracking pace. Of course he kept up with her—and he wasn’t breathless with exertion within ten minutes! Paige was grateful that he didn’t try to speak, seemingly content to climb the slope in silence apart from an occasional command to the dog.

  Sunlight stabbed golden shafts through the thick, scented canopy. ‘Oh—look!’ Paige breathed, slowing her pace and pointing, entranced by an arrow of light glowing like a halo around a small violet toadstool.

  But the light vanished as though someone had yanked a shutter across, turning the green solitude into a murky gloom, still and threatening.

  She said, ‘Has that cloud—?’

  ‘Quiet!’

  Like him, she stopped, following his frowning gaze up into the sky, suddenly dark through the tangle of leaves. Above the short, soft sounds of her breathing she heard a bird cry out with shocking clarity in the tense silence. Fancy whined and pressed herself against Marc’s legs.

  ‘Thunder,’ Marc said tersely, clearly angry with himself. ‘I should have seen it coming.’

  The distant mutter startled Paige, but not as much as the hand on her shoulder.

  Exerting considerable pressure, he turned her and propelled her down the track. ‘That squall is blowing in fast. We’re almost at the top of the highest hill around, and under trees—perfect targets for lightning. Fancy, come!’

  Another clap of thunder, nearer now, reinforced his warning. Fingers tightening on her shoulder, he gave her a little push, ordering curtly, ‘Faster!’

  Paige began to run, picking her way down the path as the thunder rumbled closer and closer and the light faded into a waiting, taut dimness. She could feel the turbulent, dangerous energy building within the clouds.

  Although she skidded a couple of times she kept her balance. Marc could have easily outrun her, but he stayed a step ahead, positioning himself so that if she fell she’d land on him.

  Always the protective male, she thought, trying to quench a warm glow in the most secret region of her heart. It meant nothing—a male hangover from prehistoric times when a man had to be ready to defend his woman against predators both animal and human.

  He had no need to worry about wild animals in New Zealand, and she wasn’t his woman, but she began to understand the seductive lure of masculine strength and power.

  A strange exhilaration blossomed beneath her heart, expanding to fill her with bubbles of delight. Instinct warned her she’d always remember this mad dash down the hill through the moist gloom; time wouldn’t overcome the steamy rich aroma of leaf-mould, or the sight of Fancy tearing down ahead, gold hair flying, ears lifting and falling.

  And Marc, moving silently and powerfully, all controlled, huntsman’s grace.

  He glanced over his shoulder. ‘OK?’

  Oh, more than OK—foolishly, crazily exultant! ‘Fine!’

  Trying to curb this wild intoxication of the spirit, she began to count the intervals between the lightning that pulsed in staccato flashes through the trees and its accompanying thunder.

  ‘We’re lucky—the full force of the squall is going to miss the island,’ Marc said into the waiting silence. ‘Keep going—we’re nearly there.’

  But a few hundred metres from the garden he grabbed her hand and hauled her ruthlessly into a stand of graceful small trees, their sinuous branches holding up huge leaves that formed an umbrella.

  ‘These will keep us reasonably dry,’ he said.

  She protested, ‘We could make the house—’

  ‘Not without soaking you—and this rain will be cold. It feels like hail.’

  Sure enough, the temperature had dropped noticeably. ‘I’m not made of sugar,’ Paige said, but her heart wasn’t in it.

  Eyes glinting in the premature dusk, he surveyed her upturned face. ‘Far from sugary,’ he said in a detached, impersonal tone. ‘Rain is one thing, but hail can kill.’

  Although they couldn’t see the rapidly approaching storm through the tree canopy, its presence was all around—borne on the wind that propelled its hissing advance towards them.

  That cold breath flowed over Paige, rapidly banishing the heat from her headlong race down the hill. She clenched her teeth together, but couldn’t stop a shiver. Marc pushed her behind him, sheltering her from the full onrush of the squall.

  He said, ‘Here it comes.’

  Rain pounced, spattering noisily on the huge, glossy leaves before settling into a solid, heavy drumming that blocked out any thunder and turned twilight into darkness. A sudden gust lashed the trees, spattering huge drops over them. Marc stood foursquare onto the thrust of the storm, Fancy pressed against his legs.

  Although cold, and a little damp around the edges, that suspicious euphoria still bubbled through Paige like the very best champagne. Groping for a steady place to anchor her emotions, she reminded herself of all the reasons she had to distrust this man.

  Yet he’d put himself between her and the full force of the storm, and because of him her blood sang a primitive, taboo song while her body seethed with eager life.

  She thought wildly that she’d remember this moment on her deathbed.

  And, because that terrified her, she tried to push past him, saying hoarsely, ‘I’m already wet—I might as well go on.’

  He turned and grabbed her wrist, giving it a swift shake as he yanked her back. Harshly he snapped, ‘Don’t be an idiot. It could still hail. It will be over in a few minutes, so—’

  The words fell into a silence that wasn’t real, a silence conjured by pitiless awareness. I won’t look up, she thought defiantly. I will not look up…

  But she did, straight into the blue heart of fire, into eyes both penetrating and molten at the same time.

  He said something she’d never learned in high school French and let her wrist go. Some unregenerate part of her realised that it took him a huge effort to release her, and gloated.

  She didn’t step back; she couldn’t. As the thunder muttered and grumbled above them she said one word.

  ‘That’s the first time you’ve ever said my name.’ His voice was harsh and deep and textured with hunger. ‘Paige.’

  Only one syllable, yet it was a caress, a note of raw need, a sensual promise.

  But he waited, his eyes keen and measuring as they raked her face.

  What was he doing? Demanding that she take the first step to surrender?

  A stray raindrop plopped onto her lips, startling her into licking it off. He made a soft, feral sound that sent chills scudding the length of her spine, and the next moment she was being strained against his big, aroused body and he was kissing her, his mouth cool and controlled against hers—for a mini-second.

  Until his steely discipline shattered into splinters and they kissed like long-separated lovers, as though they had kissed a thousand times before—as though after this there would be no other kiss, no other touch.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE day her boss had tried to force her mouth open beneath his, Paige had efficiently backed away before scorching his ears with a contemptuous verbal assault.

  Yet now, when Marc did the same thing, she opened to him gladly, linking her hands behind his back and dizzily surrendering to the desperate urgency that surged through her like fire in dry fern. More thunder hammered in her ears, her heart’s insistent counterpoint to the tumult around them.

  This, she realised as his mouth took hers again in fierce possession, was what she’d recognised in herself the first time she’d seen Marc—a wild hunger that knew no boundaries and suffered no restraints.

  His arms tightened, bringing her against his hardening body. Every instinct of self-preservation shrieked at her to wrench free and race through the dying storm to the safety of the house.

  But older, more basic instincts challenged her to stay, to find out what made Marc Corbett the only man with the power to smash down the conditioning of a lifetime.

  And while she hovered between the promise of safety and the dazzling, embargoed beauty
of danger, he kissed her just under the line of her jawbone, and one long-fingered hand traced the soft curves of her breast. Shockwaves of sensation exploded through her.

  Trembling, she whispered his name again.

  Marc ran his thumb over the demanding centre of her breast. Her breath lodged in her throat as fire scorched along secret pathways from his touch. Although lightning flashed against her closed eyelids and thunder roared around them, nature couldn’t produce as powerful a storm as the one that conquered her.

  And then Marc lifted his head and with narrowed, blazing eyes watched her realise what she was doing.

  Surrendering.

  The heat in his gaze changed to coldly crystalline brilliance when shocked horror robbed her face of colour and twisted her mouth into a grimace of self-contempt. Marc had expected his wife to accept the presence of his mistress in their lives. And Paige had kissed him as though he was her one true lover, a man to die for.

  ‘Let me go,’ she croaked through numb lips.

  Immediately he stepped back and gave her room. ‘What do we do about this?’ he asked uncompromisingly.

  Shame flooded her face in a wash of colour that drained away to leave her skin painfully stretched. Cold and alone and empty, her glittering anticipation crumbling into ashes, she shook her head and said, ‘Nothing.’ But no sound came out.

  However, he understood. She’d expected some protest—something!—anything but the hard, humourless smile that curled the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Then we’d better go into the house and forget that it ever happened,’ he said courteously. ‘The rain’s stopped and the storm is over.’

  As Paige stepped out of the shelter of the trees the sun burst out in radiance.

  From behind her came Marc’s voice, sardonic and infuriatingly self-assured. ‘But there will be other squalls, and I doubt if either of us will forget.’

  ‘There won’t be,’ Paige told him stiffly, adding with a swift resentment she instantly regretted, ‘As for forgetting—you’ll do that easily. Women are expendable, after all.’

  A heartbeat of silence pulsed around them before he drawled, ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’