by Liz Fielding
‘It isn’t. Just make sure you don’t wipe your eyes afterwards, okay? Or put your hands near your mouth. Or anything else…sensitive.’ And she blushed anyway, rousing an answering heat in his own weak flesh. He wanted her in a way that left him helpless, floundering.
‘Sensitive?’ His throat felt as if it were stuffed with glue.
‘You have the future of the house of Orsino to consider.’
‘Ah,’ he said.
But it wasn’t the risk of burning delicate flesh that had dealt with his simmering libido.
Grinning, she passed him the beans, then, pausing only to shift her bag out of the way, set about de-seeding the chillies.
‘Isn’t it about time you started thinking about that?’
He glanced up, but she was concentrating on what she was doing. ‘Thinking about what?’
‘The future of the house of Orsino. Isn’t it your duty to produce an heir and a spare?’ Realising that he had stopped chopping the beans, she looked up. ‘There were rumours, about eight years ago. Speculation about a girl you’d met at university. Juliet—?’
‘You have done your homework.’
‘I have the latest issue of Celebrity,’ she admitted. ‘She was described as the girl who broke your heart.’
‘Is that right?’
‘They said that you’ve never looked seriously at another woman.’ She became self-conscious, as if aware she’d stepped over some unseen line into forbidden territory. Concentrated on the chillies. ‘I’m sorry. I’m being intrusive. I told you that I have this mouth that gets me into trouble all the time.’
‘Not at all. My life is an open book, as you have just demonstrated. Everything I do is news. Any woman I look at more than once. I hope you’re prepared for that.’
‘Me?’ she squeaked, her eyes widening in alarm as she abandoned her task.
‘After Ascot your name will also be linked with mine in every article, in every newspaper or magazine, until the end of time. And with about as much accuracy.’
‘Oh. Oh, I see.’ She lifted her shoulders, embarrassed that she’d fallen for journalistic creativity. ‘Did she mind?’
‘She laughed it off at the time, but I imagine it irritates the hell out of her husband now she’s married.’
‘Why? Even if she had been the love of your life, she still chose him.’
‘Hey, I’m the pragmatic one, remember?’
‘It must be catching. I’m prepared for the reaction of the press. I’ll cope.’
‘If I had doubted it, I would not have involved you. I wonder, even for Katie, whether I should do this. If you have any real idea of the pressure….’
‘Is that what happened?’ she asked. ‘With Juliet?’
‘Juliet was a friend, nothing more. I stayed with her family in Norfolk after my grandmother died and I needed a quiet place to think. Be alone.’ He attacked the beans with his knife. ‘Not much chance of that once the press found out I was there. Believe me, Laura, if I loved any woman enough to ask her to share my life, I would love her enough to walk away. Spare her that.’ He looked up, met her gaze head-on. ‘Does that answer your question? About an heir?’
‘I’m so sorry, Xander.’
Obviously it did. She had not needed his meaning spelled out in words of one syllable. Had understood that in rejecting marriage he was also sacrificing the joy of fatherhood.
‘Don’t be. It’s not your fault.’
But her eyes had filled up and he reached out, covered her hand with his, held it for a moment.
She blinked. ‘It’s just the beastly onions,’ she said, brushing a tear from her cheek with the back of her wrist.
‘You’re right about champagne and strawberries,’ Laura said, light-headed and replete. ‘A winning combination.’
‘And you were right about the ice-cream. The curry was good, too.’ Xander glanced at the pile of dishes on the draining board. ‘I guess this is the point in the proceedings where you instruct me in the noble art of washing up.’
‘That was the plan,’ she admitted, ‘but I’ve decided to let you off and own up to the dishwasher.’
‘I have to admit that I stumbled across it when I was looking for a pan. But I wasn’t going to spoil your fun.’
‘Really? You’ve been very sporting. Of course I wouldn’t stop you if you insisted on stacking it. The dishwasher.’
‘I insist,’ he said gamely.
It was extraordinary, she thought, watching him scrape dishes, load the machine. Yesterday he had seemed as distant as the stars. This evening she was totally at ease with him. Far from being the cold, arrogant prince that his photographs suggested, he was intelligent, stimulating, amusing.
They’d laughed over the same things, discovered a shared love of twentieth-century art, modern jazz, sailing, found themselves finishing each other’s half-spoken thoughts.
‘You’re not making a bad job of that,’ she said, feeling just a touch light-headed.
‘For a man?’
‘For a prince. I don’t imagine you’ve done it before.’
‘No, but it is simply a question of applying logic—’ which seemed screamingly funny for some reason ‘—and order to the task.’ She exploded into a fit of giggles. He closed the dishwasher door, looked at the settings, chose one that appeared appropriate and then switched it on. Which was even funnier. ‘I’m afraid the champagne has gone to your head,’ he said, turning to look at her.
‘No, honestly.’ It was the fact that he hadn’t put any detergent in the machine that was so funny. She made an effort to be serious. ‘It wasn’t the champagne. It was the strawberries.’
‘Of course, how silly of me,’ he said, humouring her. Before she could get cross, he said, ‘Shall I make some coffee?’
He picked up the kettle, but she got up, took it from him. ‘My turn. Go through to the sitting room, put your feet up.’
But instead he stayed where he was, leaning back against the kitchen table. Watching her.
‘Thank you for a lovely day, Laura. If this is ordinary life, I could get used to it.’
‘Don’t be too hasty. I’m sure the novelty will wear off very quickly.’
‘While I am certain that Ladies’ Day will come far too soon. What time shall I pick you up in the morning? About ten?’
At which point she stopped wanting to laugh. She didn’t want him to pick her up in the morning. She wanted him to stay….
‘Ten?’ No. Yes. ‘Great,’ she said unenthusiastically.
‘If that’s inconvenient, please say. I do not wish to take your hospitality for granted.’
‘Of course it’s not inconvenient,’ she declared. ‘Will you please just stop being so damned considerate for a minute and let me think?’ Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘I’m so sorry.’
He took hold of her wrist, pulled her hand away and kissed her. No ceremony. No long lingering look. None of that shall-we shan’t-we tango. Just a swift, hard kiss that lasted not nearly long enough considering the aftershock that exploded through her body like a blast wave.
‘Why did you do that?’ she demanded, probably because her brain was no longer functioning in any meaningful fashion.
‘To stop you from saying that wretched word. To stop you from leaping to apologise every time you say the first thing that comes into your head. Consider it a fixed penalty,’ he said, suddenly angry with her. Angry with himself. ‘Any objections?’
‘Er, no,’ she said. Not one she could think of.
His expression softened. ‘And because—if you insist upon the truth—I wanted to kiss you very badly.’
‘Then you failed,’ she said, delighting in the slightly puzzled frown that buckled the space between his brows. ‘You don’t kiss badly at all.’ Then, ‘Sorry…’ she began, but this time not entirely without thought. Testing his resolve. He laid a warning finger briefly against her lips. Too clever by half. ‘Very bad schoolgirl-type joke.’
‘Tell me what’s bothering you about tom
orrow, Laura.’
Oh, well. She mustn’t be greedy. She hauled her brain back into action and turned away, pushing the spout of the kettle beneath the tap to fill it. ‘It’s just that I don’t think it’s such a great idea, you coming here.’ Not with Trevor on the prowl. ‘That photographer could be hanging around.’
‘Why should he be doing that?’
‘They’ve seen Katie visit me. They don’t give up, you said, and you should know. You’re the one who’s put his life into cold storage.’
Maybe it was just as well that the kettle chose that moment to overflow, the water gushing up the spout and spurting everywhere. She leapt back as the cold water hit her square in the face, the chest, dropping the kettle in the sink. This didn’t help. The water sprayed up off the domed lid of the kettle and continued to shower her and the kitchen until Xander braved the deluge to turn it off.
‘I’ve been complaining about the water pressure for months,’ she gasped, trying to get her breath back, tugging the freezing sodden shirt from her skin. ‘They appear to have finally done something about it.’ And only then did she turn to survey the damage.
Actually, the kitchen wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. Most of the water had got her. The remainder appeared to be dripping from Xander.
He’d already unbuttoned his shirt, was tugging it out of his jeans. And as he peeled it off she forgot all about her soaking. The wet linen clinging to her skin. Dripping hair.
‘Have you got a towel?’ he prompted, after a moment during which she could not tear her gaze from his golden-skinned shoulders, a chest which—if she had ever fantasised about such things—would comply with the most demanding specification.
‘What? Towel?’ She blinked, blanking out the image and managing to regain control of her wits. ‘Oh, good grief! What am I thinking?’
She raced through her bedroom into her tiny en suite bathroom before he could answer that, flinging open the cupboard and grabbing the first two towels that came to hand.
She got as far as the door before she tossed them aside and turned back for some new ones she’d been saving for best.
How much better could it get?
She turned to find him behind her. ‘Sorry I was so long.’ He forestalled her apology, taking the towels from her, draping one over her dripping hair, wrapping it up turban-style. ‘That was for you.’
‘I’m fine. I’ve hung my shirt outside. It’ll be dry in a few minutes. You’re the one soaked through.’
‘Am I?’ she asked stupidly. Of course she was. ‘Well, that doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘This is England. We’re used to getting wet, while you’re used to— What are you doing?’
Totally stupid question. What he was doing was plainly obvious, even to her. He was unbuttoning her shirt. Correction, he’d unbuttoned her shirt—memo to brain: must get shirts with more buttons. Give herself more time to get her brain into gear, her mouth into action.
‘Xander—’
She might as well have saved her breath. He ignored her warning with princely arrogance and her skin goosed as he peeled the cold wet cloth from her skin and tossed it into the tub.
Just as well it was a black vest top she was wearing beneath it. If it had been white he’d have been able to see straight through it.
Unfortunately, nothing could disguise the way her nipples were standing out like a pair of doorstops. She just hoped he hadn’t cottoned on to the fact that this had absolutely nothing to do with the cold. Or the wet.
He unravelled the turban and began to dry the ends of her hair. On the point of telling him that there was no need, that she was perfectly capable of drying her own hair, she managed to curb her overactive tongue.
He was doing a fine job.
He transferred his attention to her neck.
Absolutely great.
Then he brushed aside the straps of the top and turned his attention to her shoulders. And suddenly speech was not something she was willing to attempt. Besides, what would she say? Stop?
Okay, so she should say that. But his hand, warm beneath the towel, seemed to have turned on some central heating system inside her and, as he brushed the soft, fluffy towel across her throat, mopping up the drips trickling into her cleavage before working towards her other shoulder, the boiler was going full blast.
She didn’t want to do, or say, one thing that would switch it off.
Apparently satisfied that her shoulders were thoroughly dry, he pulled her against him and began to dry her back. Was her back wet? Surely not. Did she care? Not one jot. And her mouth, far from calling a halt, simply curved into a contented little smile as she lay her cheek against his chest.
His body was solid, safe, in contrast to the yielding languor of her feeble limbs. She could feel the ripple of muscles as he eased up the vest, stroking the towel up her back as he exposed her naked flesh. Feel the slow, powerful thud of his heartbeat.
Hers wasn’t slow. It was breaking the speed limit and heading for trouble. Too late now to wish she’d worn a bra.
Not that she actually did. Wish that.
He abandoned the towel in favour of his hands and she shivered with pleasure as they encompassed her waist and moved, slow, unimpeded, over her back beneath her damp vest.
‘Arms up,’ he said thickly.
Her limbs were boneless, her mind out to lunch as he eased the damp garment over her head, let it drop to the floor.
She should move, she thought.
None of her limbs responded and then one of those very capable hands was spread across her back, holding her exactly where she was. Moving now would be rude, she decided, and stopped worrying about it.
With the other, he touched her hair. Stroked it.
Clearly checking that it was dry.
‘You have the most beautiful hair,’ he said, grazing his lips over it. ‘It smells like…fresh air.’ He slid his long fingers through it, left them there, cupping her head in his hand, while his mouth lingered momentarily at her temple before he tilted it back, forcing her to look up at him, confront a desire that was already plainly evident.
Too late to move, even if she’d wanted to. She was finding it difficult enough simply to breathe.
‘I’ve been doing my best to avoid temptation, Laura.’
‘Have you?’ Her words were cobweb-soft, squeezed from a throat that seemed to have no substance.
He had the most beautiful mouth, she thought. Why hadn’t she noticed that when she’d been studying all those photographs of him in Celebrity? On the internet?
His lower lip was full, sensuous. A wicked enticement to any girl.
‘Why?’ she asked, feeling utterly, wonderfully, wicked.
Why had she ever thought his eyes cold? They were dark as night—right now they were almost black—but anything but cold. They were glittering with fire and hot enough to scorch her skin.
‘There is—’ he murmured, the authoritarian ring to his voice blurred out of existence ‘—a very good reason. But right now I can’t remember what it is.’
And then he lowered his lips to hers.
Laura’s mouth was hot silk. Honey-sweet. Her pale skin luminous in the dusky half-light of a perfect summer’s evening. There were moments that would stay in the heart for ever and as she lifted her arms, wound them around his neck and surrendered to him, Xander knew that this was one of them.
‘Laura?’
As he made a final desperate bid to stop this before he did something he knew would cause them both untold pain, she took his lower lip into her mouth, tasted it, sliding her tongue inside his mouth with a soft, sweet moan, stopping the words, silencing his conscience, obliterating everything but this precious moment.
‘I’m giving you a week, Xander,’ she murmured as she leaned back to look up at him, her eyes hot sapphires. ‘A chance to be an ordinary man, just for a little while. Take it. Love me.’
It would take a man of stone to reject her. A heart of ice not to melt in the warmth of such sweet seduction.
He had tried, God alone knew, to be both ice and stone, but he was flesh and blood, an ordinary man who was powerless to resist this tender, loving gift of the heart.
She unclasped her hands, slid them over his chest, not looking at him now, but concentrating on unthreading his belt buckle. Slipping the button at his waist.
He captured her hands, stopped her. ‘I desired you from the first moment I set eyes on you, Laura,’ he said fiercely, wanting her to remember that always. To know that he wasn’t simply using her. And then he lifted her hands to his lips and kissed first the knuckles, then the palms, the fingers.
Only then did he sweep her up into his arms, carry her to the huge old-fashioned bed with its hand-pieced quilt that dominated her bedroom as if it had been simply waiting for this night.
Afterwards he held her as she slept, cradling her against his body, watching the quiet rise and fall of her breast until the soft light of dawn crept in across the garden, touching the tangled silvery mass of her hair, warming her skin.
So much for his much-vaunted self-control. A sense of duty that bound him to a destiny that had destroyed the lives of his own parents and which he’d sworn he would never inflict on any child of his.
In the years since he’d made his decision never to marry there had been no shortage of suitably aristocratic women, beautiful women, trailed past him by his grandfather in an attempt to persuade him to change his mind. No shortage of glamorous women with their hearts set on a title who had made it their personal business to guide him to the altar.
He had not always resisted temptation; he had never pretended he was a saint. But he’d never been less than honest. And not one of them had shaken his conviction that in rejecting marriage he was doing the right thing.
He had believed it was because he was strong. In control of this one aspect of his life. But now he was face to face with the truth. That he’d never before met a woman for whom his sacrifice would have had any real meaning.
Until twenty-four hours ago when Laura Varndell had erupted into his life. Finally, as he looked into a life stretching forty, fifty years into the future, he understood the enormity of his decision.
She shifted, turned, her lips parting a little in what might have been a smile. Happy in her sleep.
