‘Yes,’ he muttered.
She nearly nodded, maybe mumbled back, but at that point the goodness of it started to wash through her in an unstoppable wave. The sheer force of emotion had her gasping for air, screaming something, shuddering deeply as overwhelming pleasure racked her body. His arms were tight around her, holding her close as he buried deep two, three times more. His groan was so exquisite to her heightened hearing that tears burned at her eyes.
Her muscles quivered. A film of perspiration covered her. She had never experienced anything so beautiful. She kept her face turned into his warm neck, panting as she breathed in his scent, not wanting to move from this weighted bliss. Even when he lifted his head and she knew he was looking at her she kept her eyes closed.
Her body was still trembling, her emotions threatening to wobble out of control altogether. She wanted to cry. It was too much. And she wanted to have him hold her close. More than anything she wanted to suspend this moment for as long as she could. She didn’t want it to be over.
She was in trouble.
He lifted his weight from her chest, but his lower half still pressed onto hers. His fingers ran over her face lightly—her forehead, her cheek, her jaw—as if smoothing the frown that she’d determinedly tried to hide.
‘It’s okay, Imogen.’ He didn’t whisper. He knew she was only feigning sleep. He rolled onto his back and pulled her with him, so his chest cush ioned her head. His arm encircled her, holding her close, and his other hand came to tilt her chin, lifting her face a little so he could kiss her forehead. ‘It’s okay.’ He did whisper it that time. Then his fingers moved, stroking her hair, her upper arm. Light, warm touches that soothed her oversen si tivity, calmed the fear clanging inside her.
He’d stripped her raw, taking every ounce of control from her, so she was utterly exposed to him, utterly vulnerable. Yet it was his arms that pro tected her now as the last of the tremors shook her. So gentle and comforting that some of those tears did escape. But by then she was so tired she barely noticed, and with a final sigh of exhaustion she capitulated completely and lost all consciousness.
HER HEAD ACHED. Correction—her whole body ached. No wonder. He’d not let her sleep long, had ruthlessly extracted that total, raw response again and then again, until all that was left of her was a quivering mass of nerves. He’d been right. She’d lost her head—body and mind—she’d given him everything.
Only now there was now—almost the morning after. Uppermost was her feeling of vulnerability. She’d told him she wasn’t easy—what an absolute joke! She couldn’t have been easier—falling into his arms, begging him with impatient, desperate, total sur render.
How could she have suc cumbed so completely and so quickly? And he was her boss. Had she learned nothing from George?
Any remaining high evaporated as unwanted memories dredged themselves up—the humiliation of George’s betrayal, the loss of her job and the massive derailment of her career. She’d spent the last year working to reclaim it—how could she have been so stupid as to throw all that away for a few hours of physical fulfilment? Not only was Ryan her boss, he was also a guy who lived in a parallel world of untold wealth and an unreal lifestyle—one far more excessive than George’s had been. And she knew that combination spelt trouble—in capitals all the way.
She screwed her eyes shut and denied her searing attraction to Ryan—blaming hormones for the physical ache that grew all the more painful as she contemplated pulling away from him. If she walked away now—if she ran—she might be able to stop this mess from worsening. But he was so close around her—such a sensual being that even in sleep he sought full contact. His jaw brushed her ear, his fingers rested lightly on her arm, his skin heated hers. She absorbed how relaxed he was—how frighteningly carefree.
How normal must this be for him?
Part of her wanted to submerge herself deep in his embrace. But it could only be a fleeting comfort. Mostly she wanted to cry. She clamped down on the wayward emotions—bit her lips. Tears stung anyway.
Don’t get stupid, keep it simple—one night.
She couldn’t be with him again—there’d be no early-morning frolic and a careless wave goodbye. Already she cared too much. Already her heart was breaking.
This one night had to be over this instant.
Hopefully it could be forgotten—by him at least. He’d move on quickly anyway. A guy like him would have no shortage of women keen to keep him company.
Whereas she? She would never forget. In fact, she had the sick feeling that she was going to leave behind a whole lot more than her head’s impression on his pillow. Her heart was threatening to come right out of her chest and set up camp under his foot.
Slowly, carefully, she slid across the bed, inching her way out of his arms and onto the cold sheet. When free of him, she got right off the bed. They hadn’t closed the curtains—even up on this floor of the hotel the street lights below sent a pale glow into the room.
She already had her underwear and skirt back on when she sensed his movement. She turned. He was sitting up and watching her with an expression so cold she froze.
The frown in his face echoed in his voice. ‘Don’t you dare tell me you regret it.’
CHAPTER SIX
‘OKAY.’ BUT IMOGEN’S whole body ached with regret. Regret about both entering and leaving his bed. She forced her arms through the sleeves of her wretched green shirt.
‘What are you doing?’ Eyes narrow, question direct.
‘I have to go.’
‘Why?’
Because if she stayed any longer she’d never want to leave. Because she couldn’t do this anywhere near as well as she’d thought she could. Because she was sickly, hopelessly confused. But she couldn’t bear to admit that—not to someone so in control and confident.
After too long a moment of silence he threw back the covers. ‘Were you going to wake me before leaving?’ He shook his head at her continued nil response. ‘Unbelievable.’
He pulled on jeans with sharp jerks, not stopping for underwear, and then yanked on a long-sleeved tee. With stubble and tousled hair—hair she’d tousled—he was gorgeously, dangerously casual. Except there was nothing casual about the aggression emanating from him as he moved.
Her heart thudded and her belly heated.
More.
Desire wasn’t whispering to her, it was shouting.
More, more, more!
Goaded by her body’s flare to his magnetism, she raised her own voice. ‘What are you doing?’
He kept stuffing his feet into socks and shoes. ‘You don’t think I’m going to let you walk out in the middle of the night and go home alone, do you? I’m seeing you to your door.’
‘You don’t have to—’
‘You might be happy to treat me as a no-name one-night stand, but that’s not how I’m going to treat you.’
‘Ryan—’
‘That’s right. Ryan.’ He rose, towering over her. ‘That’s my name. You breathed it, you screamed it, not that long ago. So what’s changed?’
Alternating waves of heat and humiliation washed over her. She had screamed—and begged and pleaded and panted. Had been like a toy for him to handle however he pleased. And he’d pleased, all right—the most dynamic, delicious lover a woman could ever have the pleasure of knowing.
All too late she realised she couldn’t handle him. How could she possibly admit to the fear and the overwhelming feelings bur geoning inside? How on earth could she say, Hey, Ryan, you just made me fall for you—I don’t just want an affair, I want the whole package. She couldn’t ask that of a man who’d have no idea of what that meant to someone like her.
‘I made a mistake.’
‘That was manythings, but it wasn’t a mistake.’ He walked closer. ‘Your mistake was thinking that we could get away with doing this just the once.’
He was right. Being with him had simply made her want more—from a man she couldn’t possibly trust. He was George on steroids
—more powerful, more moneyed, and much, much riskier. ‘My mistake was in doing it at all.’
He shook his head. ‘You’ll be making a bigger mistake if you leave now.’
For the second time that night their stares clashed. Finality versus merciless magnetism.
‘You don’t want to enjoy what we have? You don’t want to make the most of this incredible chemistry?’
In her head she shrieked her denial, but the sound refused to emerge from her mouth. It would be both truth and lie. She didn’t want what she wanted more than her next breath. So she aimed for avoidance—scram bling for her shoes, trying to slip them on.
He was watching her all-thumbs clumsiness with an air of remote disbelief. ‘You don’t even want the rest of your one night?’
Chemistry. Sizzle. Va-va-voom attraction. That was what this was for him—a physical thrill.
Coward-like, she kept her gaze turned away as she forced an answer as firmly as she could. ‘No.’
How could she have fallen for him? They’d known each other such a short time. They’d flirted then. They’d had sex now. They didn’t then skip straight to for ever and ever. If she told him he’d laugh himself silly—then run a mile.
She was pathetic.
It took only a couple of minutes for a taxi to pull up in front of the hotel. Every interminable second shredded her insides.
‘You don’t have to—’ She broke off. He’d already climbed in after her. There was no point saying it.
Her aches were worse now. She was re gret ting everything she’d said and done since waking up. So much of her wished she’d just snuggled into his arms for the rest of the night and let it happen. But better a little pain now than a lot of disaster later—and there’d be disaster for sure.
The silence hung heavy for the ten-minute ride. When the driver pulled up outside her tenement block she got out immediately, knowing there was no point in fighting Ryan over the fare.
She was at her door when she heard the car leave and his foot steps follow hers. Turning, she confronted him. ‘Why did you send the cabbie away? Now you’ll have to walk back to the hotel. You wouldn’t let me walk home alone.’
‘I’m a big guy. I think I’ll be okay.’ Short. Definitely ticked off.
‘Ryan…’ She hadn’t meant for any of this to happen.
He stepped closer, his eyes big and blue and full of intent, and his hands lifted. She shrank back, bumping against the door, knowing her will would dissolve completely if he kissed her. She wanted to say no, but the nearer he got, the nearer she got to yes. But his hands bypassed her, pressed instead on the door behind her, on either side of her head. His face was shadowed as he looked down at her, as she fought to stand firm and not slither into that slimy pond of repetition.
You were supposed to learn from your mistakes, not make them again and again. She made herself remember that night with George—the accident and the aftermath. But Ryan leaned closer, and she could see nothing but him, and she had to press her lips together hard to stop herself saying anything—not least the wrong thing, like yes, yes, yes or please, please, please.
The longest of moments held them still as statues, both barely holding firm, until finally he pushed away. His eyes glittered with an emotion she couldn’t interpret as he turned towards the street. ‘Don’t even think about calling me Mr Taylor tomorrow.’
RYAN STRODE, CONFUSION and frustration pushing his feet fast and far. He’d gone to sleep happier than he could ever remember being, having had the most incredible experience of his life. Only then he’d woken to find that the reason for his hap pi ness was on the brink of slinking out of his room—as he suspected she would from his life if she could.
Why?
He paced the streets, re playing the night, trying to work out what it was that had made her take fright so completely. He couldn’t come up with anything—hell, he’d never felt anything so right in his life. Their bodies were meant to move together. Hadn’t she’d felt that too? They weren’t on different planets, were they?
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to have been fun and thrilling and the beginning of a fantasticfling. But instead of feeling tension-free, and thus able to concentrate properly for the first time in about two weeks, Ryan found himself feeling more tormented and distracted than ever. How annoying was that?
The next day she clearly had plans to avoid him as much as possible. Indeed she succeeded right through almost to the end of her lunch break. But just as Mommy was kissing Santa Claus for the sixth time that day, Ryan finally got to the front of the queue and dumped his present on the wrapping desk between them, determined to reclaim his ground.
‘What’s that?’
Wow, where had her customer service smile gone?
‘A cactus. What else?’
He wasn’t exactly Mr Friendly, either.
‘I didn’t know we sold cacti.’
‘We don’t. I bought it at another store.’
She lifted the pot, disdain written all over her.
‘You think I’m abusing my position by getting you to wrap it for me?’ he asked.
‘Aren’t you?’
He inhaled. Was that what she thought he was doing with her—taking advantage? Injustice seethed—she’d come to him. And he’d make her come to him again. He told himself to calm down and follow the only plan he’d thought of—to go a little slower, however much against the grain that was for him.
‘The thing about this little cactus is that it’s very rare. And even though it has big, sharp prickles, it’s worth taking care of.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yes. Because when it flowers, it’s the most beautiful thing.’
Her hands were working a little slower now, but she still wouldn’t look at him.
‘You want to know something else about this cactus?’
‘Not particularly.’
He didn’t believe her. Her fingers were trembling. ‘It has medicinal properties.’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘That’s right. It makes people feel good. In fact, this particular cactus knows how to make me feel really good.’
There was a short silence. Then, ‘You can’t take plants on a plane.’
‘It’s for a friend right here in Edinburgh.’
‘Well, I hope he likes it.’
‘I’m sure she will.’
Deliberately, slowly, he brushed his fingers across hers as he took the ribbon-wrapped plant. She flinched. She flushed. She wouldn’t look him in the eye.
Only just did he quell the urge to vault the table and haul her close. He needed to touch her—to find out what she was feeling. How could she have gone from begging him to take her, to freezing with something that looked a lot like fright? It didn’t make sense. He kept his eyes locked on hers, willing, waiting…
Finally, she did it—looked at him properly. Her eyes were big and green, and she was pleading with him again—but for something he didn’t want to see. ‘Don’t, Ryan.’
ONE MORE DAY DOWN. Only ninety-odd to go to get through the three months or so Ryan had remaining here full-time. It wasn’t that impossible a task, was it?
Hell, yes. It was incredibly hard—especially when every moment she wasn’t in lockdown mode her mind replayed scenes from that night—the way he’d held her, the way he’d felt. And her body felt them. The memories made her ache to move.
Bing Crosby had been asleep too long, because he was having yet another dream about a white Christmas. Imogen wished she could sleep without dreams—but every night Ryan came to her there.
She looked up at the next customer. It was him again.
Quickly she looked at the present. ‘A child’s fishing net?’
‘Actually, it’s a butterfly net. For my niece. She’s eight.’
She felt him watching her closely, knew she looked paler than usual. ‘Catching but ter flies is cruel. What are you going to get her to do? Stick pins in them then kill them?’
‘C
atch one, look at it, let it go. Maybe it’ll decide it likes it in her garden and it’ll stay.’
‘The net will damage its wings. You might as well just kill it.’
He sighed. ‘Okay. Let’s make it a fishing net.’
‘Fishing is cruel.’
‘Not with a net, it’s not,’ he said sharply. ‘There are no hooks in the mouth and you can let them go.’
‘I suppose. And even if you do damage it,’ she said bitterly, ‘there are plenty more in the sea—right?’
‘I’m only interested in one fish,’ he said, bitter right back. ‘But this fish is probably so fickle it’ll soon forget it was ever caught.’
Stung, she looked right at him. Forget? How could she forget that night?
If anything, he looked angrier. ‘Do you always criticise your customers’ pur chases?’
‘Only those who make unsubtle digs while I wrap.’
‘Well, you’re doing a hopeless job of wrapping it. Anyone could guess what it is.’
‘Hide it behind some other presents.’
‘That’s a cop-out. I expected more from you.’
‘You know I can’t give it.’
‘More like won’t.’
‘All right, then—won’t.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Would you please excuse me? I have to—’ She didn’t bother even thinking of a reason, just left the desk and hurried across the shop floor to the staff stair well, wanting to get back behind her desk—or cry in the ladies’ room—or something.
‘Imogen.’
He was right behind her.
‘Imogen, stop.’
She did. She’d known this would happen—that it would affect her work. But worse than that, she couldn’t look at him for fear he’d see the longing that just had to be written all over her in indelible ink.
‘Talk to me. Now.’ He climbed to the step below hers. ‘You come to me, you say you want me, and so we—’ He stopped, and then growled at her, ‘I refuse to believe that what happened the other night was so awful you can’t even look at me now.’
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