by Margaret Way
Momentarily maddened, he turned her onto her side. That too was dangerously erotic, increasing the sexual tension. Then he put a hand to her tender neck, his fingers on that pulsing vein. Her flesh was like lustrous satin, as warm and as flushed as a rose. He wasn’t her captor, though. That was the trouble, he thought with a tiny stab of hostility. She had captured him. Delilah bringing another Samson to his knees.
“Look at me. Kiss me,” she whispered. “Before I dissolve right away.”
Her little sigh was quite audible in the deeply shadowed room. He answered darkly. “What man can resist such witchcraft? Okay, Miranda, if this is what you want.”
With one wrench, he had the coverlet on the floor, and then he pulled her to him, never more excruciatingly aware that passion was heedless of anything but itself. Such was his appetite, his mouth crushed hers…covered its sweetness completely…his tongue making triumphant entry into the moist apple-fresh interior. The kiss was punishing at first, ruthless, explosive, raw in its conquest. As he’d intended it to be. A futile show of male superiority? Only very quickly the fierceness gentled into something miraculous…utterly voluptuous…undreamed of rapture!
She was working her magic, turning the key to a heart he had thought locked safely away.
He paused for a moment, holding her hips, his head bent above her. He could see that her jewelled eyes were tightly shut. Her limbs were wound around his like tendrils, curved and curled. She was beautiful to him. Beautiful beyond belief. He could no more have stopped kissing her, no more stopped his hands from moving to shape and caress her small perfect breasts, than he could have stopped his own breath.
She was right. This was living. This was life!
They were entering into it together. No matter the consequences.
The moments of astonishing sensuality spun on and on, until he could no longer tolerate a shred of clothing to separate skin from skin. He had to unwrap her from her robe—it had almost fallen off her—then her nightgown, flinging both garments away. He looked back for the switch on the lamp. She seemed to shake her head, but he took no notice.
“Don’t refuse me.” He turned back to her, fully exposed to his sight; she was beautifully, delicately nude, like some lovely painting, showing lustrous skin tones. In one sweeping movement he slid his hand in a widening circle around her taut but pliant stomach, stopping to within an inch of the sensitive delta between her legs. “I want to see you. I want to kiss every inch of you. I want you to know you’re exquisite to my eyes. And you wanted this, Miranda, remember.”
Wanted it? She was half mad with longing. Pelted with it. She made a soft, helpless sound that was like a wail. He cut it off with his mouth.
Every cell in Miranda’s body was a live wire of sensation. It was impossible not to respond to such mastery. She might never have been kissed or touched in her life before now.
He placed her exactly as he wanted her. Then he began to play her like a superbly crafted instrument. Perfect for a man’s hand, its pitch exact, and capable of displaying a glorious range of emotions. He had never had a woman respond to his lovemaking with such passion and urgency. He had never felt within himself so wild an elation. He found he was shaping words, saying words—what were they? She had him totally in her power. Did it matter? All he knew was this was ecstasy, as fabulous as it was strange to him.
She could be your downfall.
He was more than willing to risk it. He needed to throw off his own clothes. Naked, he returned to the bed, where she pulled him down to her, glittery tears standing in her eyes.
“No—oh, no, Miranda, don’t cry.” Her tears stayed him. He leaned over her, supported by his strong arms, overtaken by a powerful sense of protectiveness.
“I’m not crying,” she protested, reaching up to sink her fingers into his thick hair, all tousled waves and curls, tugging at it in her passion. “I’m on fire!”
Any glimmer of uncertainty vanished into thin air. Air that seemed scented by hundreds of glowing, unimaginably beautiful flowers. None of this had been premeditated, he thought, yet he had the absolute certainty both of them were in their rightful place. Slowly, voluptuously, on a surge of exultation, he covered her smooth-as-silk body with his own, still controlling his far more substantial weight with his arms while she clutched his naked back, her voice an emotional little sob.
“Love me!”
“For hours. Hours and hours on end.” He was confronted with a searing truth. He wasn’t just in love with Miranda. He wanted her with him for as long as he lived.
That in itself presented intractable problems.
But not tonight.
Tonight a miracle had been offered.
Miracles demanded they be grasped with both hands.
For the rest of their stay problems became irrelevant. Time out of mind. They both knew it. For those few precious days they lived their lives in a glorious conflict-free zone. Conflict would come later. There could be no avoiding it. There was always Leila. Leila had to be regarded as a most serious threat. She could potentially end the emotional journey they had embarked upon. But for now even the ghost was invited to come back if he so wished. He declined. No doubt he had a full book of hauntings.
Their golden days in Venice came as a revelation. Miranda knew she was living a fairy tale. Even her ambitions seemed fuzzy, such was her emotional awakening. There was only Corin. The shimmer and heat of summer. A backdrop of the most beautiful and mysterious city in the world with its grand canal and streets of water.
The flight back to London came much too quickly. Reality set in, as it inevitably did. Already she was steeling herself to face Corin’s impending departure for Australia. After which he had a follow-up trip to Beijing to meet up with his father. So separation from this man she had fallen passionately in love with would be her fate.
For long months? Or something far more permanent?
Zara had been home for several hours when they arrived. “Well, you two! Talk about secrets!” She greeted them with open arms, her great dark eyes alight with pleasure and more than a touch of mischief.
Corin had texted his sister, informing her he had taken Miranda to Venice for the long weekend, and given her an approximate time when they would be arriving home. Now Miranda thought an apology was in order. “Zara, I must tell you I never had the faintest idea Corin was coming to London,” she explained. “And I didn’t tell you about my birthday because—”
“You thought I’d want to arrange something and bow out of my trip?”
“Exactly.” Miranda smiled. “Anyway, now you know. I’ve come of age. I’ve had the most breathtaking time!”
“I can see that!” Zara turned to search her brother’s handsome face. He was tanned an even dark gold. She had never seen him look more stunning or so vibrantly alive. She had long since formed the opinion Corin had a very special interest in Ms Miranda Thornton, though she had intuited there had been no romantic involvement.
Until now.
Body language expressed so much: love, hate, joy, sorrow, pity, contempt. In this case it expressed the heart. The two of them had that magic aura—the extraordinarily attractive intensity that drew a circle around them and caught the beholder’s eye with pleasure, nostalgia or just plain envy. For her part Zara prayed that each had truly found a soul mate in the other. God knew she had forfeited her chance at lasting happiness years ago, back home in Australia. But that was another story. She never talked about it, even to Corin. It was buried under many layers.
Already she was very fond of Miranda. One couldn’t ask for a sweeter, more harmonious sister-in-law. Could it possibly happen? Miranda was almost eight years younger than Corin, but with an impressive maturity of her own. Corin had huge responsibilites, especially for so young a man. And they would only increase. Miranda had set her sights firmly on becoming a doctor. She knew Corin would support her all the way. Two clever, ambitious people.
But alas, there was their all-powerful, all-interfering father t
o contend with. At least he loved Corin. He did not love her. She had long accepted that. She had been forced to cope with all the pain and personal havoc her father had caused. Internalise it. Her father, even if he didn’t love her, had made it his business to rule her life. He had deliberately altered its course, going out of his way to destroy her chance at happiness with the young man she had loved with all her heart.
Garrick Rylance. A kinsman.
Why had her father done it? He had nothing against Garrick, had he? Garrick was a splendid young man by anyone’s reckoning. Yet her father had taken all necessary steps to sever their relationship. Didn’t he want her to be happy? He had stoutly maintained that wasn’t the reason for his ordering her home from Cooranga, the ancestral home of the Rylance cattle barons. Threats would have been more like it. He father was good at threatening people. Perhaps it was her strong resemblance to their dead mother that had closed her out of his affection. His twisted sense of guilt? Whatever it was, she had lived on the periphery. But she had always had her brother as her champion. Yet from time to time the love and pride their father felt for his brilliant son was heavily overlaid by a species of jealousy. A competitiveness. The old lion and the young lion, just waiting to take over the pride.
She couldn’t bear to think how their father would react if he thought for one moment that Leila had romantic daydreams about his son. He would probably kill her. Their father was a man of very strong passions. Worse, he had been rich and powerful for so long he acted like a man who was a law unto himself. Despite his children’s aversion to his second wife, their father was still deeply in love or lust or both with her. She had dazzled and hypnotised him. Leila—the omnipresent figure who excelled at manipulation.
To Zara’s acutely sensitive eye Leila had shown every sign of being secretly infatuated with Corin. God help her if their father ever stumbled on to it. But Leila was smart. And she would do everything in her power to undermine any young woman who sought to play a key role in Corin’s life. She had done it in the past. As highly intelligent as Miranda was, she would be a mere innocent in competition with a feline mastermind. If the relationship continued at this level Miranda would have to be told the risks. Leila Rylance was a dangerous woman. Miranda would never have had contact with such a woman in her entire life.
Or so Zara thought.
Corin took them out to dinner. A quiet but exclusive restaurant where they were well-known and their privacy was protected. There was always some member of staff on hand to report that paparazzi were out at the front, looking for some celebrity or other. In that way, if they had to, they could leave by the back door.
Zara spoke of her trip over dinner, telling them a little of her group’s dealings and her meeting with a certain high-ranking businessman of renowned wealth: Konrad Hartmann.
“Hartmann? Heard of him, of course.” Corin was frowning hard, as though what he had heard wasn’t good.
Zara confided, rather diffidently for such a beautiful woman, that Hartmann had taken quite a shine to her. Twice divorced, in his mid-forties, he was a man who enjoyed enormous prestige, but her boss, Sir Marcus, who had a legendary “nose” about these things, was concerned about where all the mountains of money were coming from. So far Hartmann—and he was under close observation—was clean.
“He wants to see me when he comes to London,” Zara told them with a faint flush.
“And will you see him?” Corin asked crisply.
Zara took another sip of her wine. “Probably not.” A hesitation, then, “He’s a very attractive man.”
“Better listen to Sir Marcus,” Corin clipped off.
Miranda took note of Corin’s formidable expression. She knew he was very protective of his sister. “You’re a beautiful woman, Zara,” Corin said. “You can have anyone you want. One time I thought— Anyway that’s another story.” He broke off as though on dangerous ground. “Look, this guy might appear up front, but with all that unexplained wealth he’s uncharted territory. I’ll have him checked out more thoroughly.”
“You won’t find anything.” Zara shook her head. “No one can up to date. And they’re looking. It’s just one of Sir Marcus’s hunches.”
“Sir Marcus Boyle is renowned for his hunches,” Corin said.
“But you felt an attraction?” Miranda intervened. She knew by now Zara could indeed take her pick of any number of highly eligible men on the social scene. Yet she had taken no more than a passing interest in any of them. Her heart didn’t appear to be in it. Miranda was certain Zara had her secrets as well.
The flush still stained Zara’s magnolia cheeks. “I did, I suppose. I’m used to powerful men. At the same time it was a bit threatening.”
“I think I know what you mean,” said Miranda.
Corin’s brilliant dark eyes swept over her. She looked radiant, her colouring—the silver gilt hair and turquoise eyes—a wonderful foil for Zara’s sable hair and huge dark eyes. To think he had such an intimate tactile knowledge of her body! It was something he regarded as a revelation. “So who has threatened you?” He gave her his fullest attention.
“What if I said you?”
“Me? Threaten you?” He fell back in disbelief.
“Well, you are a member of an important family.” She hastened to explain. “You’re Corin Rylance, your father’s heir. It’s easy for the rich not to touch base with ordinary folk like me. Financial worries hound a lot of people to death. You’ve always been rich. You’ve probably never even caught a bus.”
“I beg your pardon! If I didn’t know you better, Miranda, I’d think that was a cheap shot.”
“Not at all. A plain statement of fact. Throw in a train.”
Corin gave a wry laugh, but Zara looked at Miranda with understanding. “I was the one who went to and from school in the Rolls.”
Corin drew Miranda’s gaze with the power of his own. “I have caught a bus, Miranda. I can’t say a train. The school bus used to take our teams off to cricket, football, swimming carnivals and the like.”
“Just tongue in cheek.” Miranda smiled. “So don’t look so affronted.” She had good reason to know by now the rich really were different. They had their problems. Big problems too. But worry about blowing the budget wasn’t one of them.
“I think Miranda means some old-style snobs might perceive a gap in the social pecking order.” Zara tried to help Miranda out. She knew for a fact their father had the daughter of one of his biggest and most influential business partners in mind for Corin. Their father always got what he wanted. Split up one of his children from the love of her life. Marry off the other.
“What rot!” Corin said mildly. “You’d fit in anywhere, Miranda. You fit better than anyone I know. Outside my beautiful sister, of course.” He reached out to grasp both young women’s hands.
“Let’s drink to that!” Zara suggested with her lovely smile.
Zara had left only the lights on in the entrance hall when they had left for the restaurant. When they returned by cab, a little over two hours later, the whole house was ablaze.
An apprehensive frisson shuddered the length of Miranda’s spine. From the moment they’d got into the cab she had a sense life was about to change. Some difference in the air. A disturbance.
Danger lurking.
Maybe she really did have a sixth sense? She couldn’t feel the way she did for nothing. A fissure in her happiness was about to open up. Could happiness ever last? She knew she had broken out of the social confines of her life. That itself presented big problems.
“Could it be your father?” she asked Zara, trying to hide her agitation. Where Dalton Rylance was, so too would be her mother.
“I don’t know!” Zara made no attempt to hide her own unease. Both stood watching as Corin, leaving the young women behind, swiftly mounted the few steps to the front door to check things out. “I doubt it.” Nevertheless her voice wavered. “It’s as I told you, Miri. I don’t get on well with Leila, though she’s convinced my father t
hat is entirely my fault. Despite all she’s supposedly done to reach out to me I continue to regard her as the enemy. To be honest, I have to admit our relationship was doomed from the start. Father showed no understanding. He blames me. Better me than him. I was never in the right, no matter what I did. If they’re here, I don’t know why. Leila likes to stay at Claridges when she’s in town. I would have thought if they were calling in, however briefly, they would have left a message. That’s what has happened in the past.”
“Then who else could it be? An intruder wouldn’t turn on every light in the house.”
“No.” Zara took hold of Miranda’s hand, as if divining they were in need of mutual support. Indeed, they were acting like a couple of robots, Miranda thought.
What sort of woman is my mother that Zara, a beautiful and accomplished woman, fears her? And Corin loathes her?
Did she have some of her mother in her? God forbid. Was she about to find out? No wonder she felt deeply troubled. How would Zara react when she found out she was Leila’s daughter? Not only that, she had deliberately kept that knowledge from her? Okay, she had done as Corin wanted. Would that make a difference to Zara? Or would she feel betrayed by both of them? Zara appeared to have trodden a difficult path in life. Her resemblance to her dead mother was only part of it. There was more. She was sure of it. And that more involved her mother. Mistress before stepmother? Deeply disturbing.
“Corin’s inside.” Zara was gasping in air. Her fingers tightened on Miranda’s. “We’d better go in. And to think we were all so happy!”
“It must be them.” Miranda firmed up her backbone. She was becoming as protective of Zara as Corin.
Think hard thoughts, Miranda. You’re not prepared, but if it’s Leila she won’t know it’s you. Leila abandoned you without a trace of memory. The willed amnesia syndrome. No need to slip away to the basement. Zara needs you.
