Daring Proposition

by Miranda Lee

  ‘And you’re wrong about my not fancying you,’ he went on suavely. ‘Looking as lovely as you do tonight, you’d be fancied by any man.’

  Samantha’s chin rose as she drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She found no real pleasure or credibility in his words. They sounded too slick, too pat to be true. Not to mention far too late. If anything, she felt disappointed that he thought he could fool her so easily.

  ‘That’s good,’ she said, smiling a bitter little smile. ‘Now all you have to do is make me fancy you.’

  The words tumbled out of her mouth without deliberate intent, but, having said them, Samantha could hardly take them back. Besides, she found some solace for her damaged pride in seeing his astonishment. Clearly such an idea had never entered his head. Guy Haywood, lover el supremo! God’s gift to the women of Sydney! Who would ever have imagined that there’d be a female between sixteen and sixty not prepared to drop to her knees before him! Samantha found surprising satisfaction in watching his momentary disconcertment. It spurred her on.

  ‘Oh, I forgot,’ she added with a sigh. ‘Silly me. I don’t really have to be turned on, do I? I suppose I can just lie there and endure.’ She managed to sound both relieved and slightly bored at the same time.

  Now he was really offended. His chin shot up and his eyes blazed. There was no doubting that the image of any lover of his being bored or ‘enduring’ beneath him went against Guy’s grain. ‘You find the prospect of going to bed with me that unappealing?’ he asked brusquely, and with an overriding air of disbelief.

  ‘Well...let’s just say I haven’t looked upon you sexually before,’ she lied, quite enjoying his discomfort now. The boot was well and truly on the other foot. ‘I’ve never believed in mixing business with pleasure. In fact, it’s a hard and fast rule with me. I mean, you’re my boss, not my boyfriend, and, despite your undoubted—er—physical...attractions, I am finding it hard to make the mental adjustment from employer to lover.’ She gave an elaborate sigh. ‘Not only that, Guy, but even if a girl isn’t in love with a man when she goes to bed with him she does like her sex mixed with a certain amount of chemistry and romance, otherwise it can be quite...unpalatable...’

  ‘Unpalatable!’ he squawked.

  ‘Hush, Guy, people are looking!’ She sighed again. ‘Of course, I can always just pretend if I have to. I do realise it’s harder for you than for me. You can’t pretend. Still...I’m sure you’ll manage... But don’t worry...’ her smile was magnificently bland as she lifted the wine glass once more ‘...I’m not expecting any miracles.’

  He gave her a look back that showed she had gone a smidgeon too far. More than a smidgeon. No one threw down a challenge like that to Guy Haywood and got away with it. He swept his glass to his lips and drank with barely contained annoyance, but when he lowered the glass to the table his eyes had cooled to an expression of superb confidence, and an enigmatic smile was hovering around his lips. ‘That’s good,’ he agreed in a low voice that sent a prickle running up and down her spine. ‘I’ve never believed in miracles myself. I’m more a God-help-those-who-help-themselves person. Shall we dance?’

  Samantha’s stomach flipped over. Her childish sparring match was over. Guy had picked up her gauntlet and she knew from experience that her boss was never a loser. He was going to use every ounce of his considerable skill and expertise as a lover to make sure there was not a hint of ‘enduring’ in their sexual encounters. He was setting out to capture not her heart—for he had no interest in hearts—but her body. Totally. Thoroughly. Completely.

  The thought brought instant excitement. For his winning was her winning, she realised with heart pounding and blood racing. It was what she wanted, what she had set out to achieve, however unconsciously. Of course, he didn’t know that he already had her heart anyway, or that her body could not be separated from it. But she imagined, naïvely perhaps, that what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Maybe it would have been wiser for her to worry about how such a fact might hurt her.

  But Samantha was beyond such thoughts at that moment. Her throat went dry as she watched him rise to his feet, watched his eyes narrow sexily, watched his mouth curve back in an inviting smile. ‘Come,’ he said, and held out his hand.

  For a second she hesitated, struck by a sudden suspicion that his invitation to dance masked a deeper more insidious invitation; one that would place herself not just in his arms, but in his control, her will surrendered to his, her life irrevocably in his hands.

  Samantha wanted Guy, wanted his body and his child. She did not want his becoming her master, either sexually or any other way. Yet the power of desire was very strong, tempting her, seducing her. Coupled with her love for him, it was overwhelming. Stop worrying, it whispered persuasively. Stop thinking. Place your hand in his and just enjoy!

  No, no, the voice of common sense groaned as her palm found his. Think of tomorrow, the future. Once he impregnates you with his child, there’ll be no escape, no resignation, no running away. You’ll be his, yet not his, forever. For pity’s sake, don’t do this. Don’t!

  Her hand gave one last tremor as his strong fingers closed around her. Her heart began to thud.

  Too late... Too late...

  She rose slowly to her feet, her eyes lifting to his. They held her so easily with their penetrating blue, their wicked intent, their steely confidence.

  His gaze flicked over her full-length, with Samantha so besotted by him at that moment that she no longer questioned the admiration his eyes projected. A minute ago she might have scorned it for the deliberate ploy it obviously was.

  Now, however, her foolish female heart embraced his admiration with an innocent delight. Now that she was standing up, she reasoned, he could really appreciate her transformed appearance, the subtle sexiness of her white chiffon blouse, with its full, flowing sleeves which gathered into narrow cuffs and its dainty crystal buttons at her wrists and down the front. There was no doubt in her mind that he was thinking her black pleated silk culottes suited her leggy figure and slim ankles to perfection and that he was simply mad about the scarlet silk scarf she’d tied around her waist as a final touch.

  ‘Shades of buccaneer days, Sam?’ he asked, amusement in his voice.

  With difficulty she managed a small smile in return, but no words.

  ‘It suits you,’ he pronounced, and drew her into his arms.

  Ridiculous of her to freeze at this point, to be besieged by a thousand fluttering fears. But she was. With a frown on his face Guy propelled her stiff, ungiving body on to the dance-floor, where he persevered for a few seconds before stopping with an impatient sigh. ‘This does require some co-operation, Sam,’ he rebuked under his breath.

  Without waiting for an answer his hands refound the small of her back, feeling like burning brands on her chilled skin as they pressed her close to him. ‘Put your arms up around my neck,’ he suggested tersely. ‘Pretend if you must, pretend I’m...that idiot man you’re in love with, the one who doesn’t want you.’

  She flashed him a startled look. How right he was. At this very second, her body moulded to his like a second skin, she knew that idiot man certainly didn’t want her. Not even one itty bitty little bit!

  ‘I’m not very good at faking it,’ she said tautly.

  ‘Try!’

  She shrugged resignedly and did as he asked, sliding her arms up around his neck, shocking herself when a shudder of sensation reverberated all through her as her fingertips brushed the warm flesh above his collar. Shaken, she stilled her fingers.

  ‘Relax,’ he growled. ‘Let yourself go.’

  She closed her eyes and made a conscious effort not to worry about her reaction to him, to let the tension flow from her body. Do what he said, she ordered herself. Pretend... Pretend he loves you, wants you. Your dancing together is a prelude to a night of mad passion, the fulfilment of all your dreams.

  It was so easy, once she had let go of reality, once her mind had glazed over and given her entry in
to that fantasy world where Guy did love her and want her, where she could do all the things she ached to do with him.

  Her actions came automatically, naturally. First one of her hands rested lightly on his collar, the fingers of her other hand splaying up into his hair, her fingertips gently massaging his scalp in sensual abandon. Her face nestled under his chin, warm lips sipping at his skin with soft, moist kisses. Her whole body sank into his, her hips swaying more invitingly against his. Her mouth finally encountered and nibbled at an earlobe.

  ‘Hell,’ he muttered. And jerked back.

  But not before she had felt the involuntary leap in his flesh.

  They stared at each other, Samantha’s hazel eyes still dilated with desire, Guy’s wide with surprise...and anger. ‘The man must be a bloody fool,’ he snarled. ‘So are you, Sam, to waste such passion on him.’

  ‘I... I...’

  ‘Never mind,’ he growled impatiently. ‘At least I know now how to turn you on. And me with it. Let’s get out of here.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  FIVE minutes later Samantha was being bundled into a taxi outside the restaurant. Guy did own a car—the latest Nissan sports coupé—but around the city he preferred taxis. No parking problems. Less hassle all round.

  She shivered as she settled into a corner of the vinyl seat.

  ‘Cold?’ Guy asked as the taxi accelerated away.

  ‘A little,’ she admitted.

  ‘Here...’ He slid an arm around her shoulders and scooped her over against his body warmth.

  Samantha shivered again. Not from the cold this time.

  ‘I would have thought a sensible girl like you would have brought a coat,’ Guy reprimanded softly.

  ‘We all make mistakes,’ she said coolly, returning instinctively to the aloof, controlled façade that had been her protection all her life. Amazon Sam had never shown emotion or upset over her schoolfriends’ gibes, despite feeling crippled inside. The adult Samantha Peters had fallen madly in love with her boss, yet gone about her job efficiently, and no one had guessed her inner torment. Now, on her way to that same boss’s bedroom, she was so nervous that she had to lock her agitation within a steely armour or fall apart.

  On that dance-floor, when Guy had urged her to let down her guard, she had momentarily become the woman she really was beneath the composed exterior, passionate and emotional and devastatingly in love, a woman who yearned and felt with a frightening intensity. How on earth was she going to get through a night of real lovemaking without betraying her secret? One intimate touch from Guy and her façade was sure to crumble, with her heart exposed.

  Her only hope, she decided in desperation, was to rigidly cling to her cool, calm demeanour when Guy wasn’t making love to her, then use the excuse he had already given her when he was—that of pretending another man was in bed with her, that her passion was not for Guy, but her secret lover.

  It seemed a perverse twist of fate that Guy had been turned on by her actions during her brief loss of control, that he would never know he was the man she loved. The bitter irony of the situation was not lost on Samantha, but she had no alternative but to keep up the charade.

  ‘Won’t be long,’ Guy assured her when she gave another little shudder, ‘and we’ll be in the warmth of an air-conditioned bedroom.’

  The word ‘bedroom’ was all she heard. She closed her eyes and tried hard not to think of anything, to blank out all her thoughts. Her mind, though, had ideas of its own, most of which were filled with white lace lingerie and hard male flesh and fantasies fulfilled. A quiet heat began to creep through her body.

  The taxi jerked to a stop at the kerb outside the high security wall that surrounded Guy’s place, forcing Samantha to snap out of her dreaming. She slid an agitated glance over at Guy, who was paying the driver with his usual unhurried ease. No nerves for him now, she thought ruefully. The problem of their sexual compatability had been solved. She had solved it for him on the dance-floor.

  ‘Here. Take my hand,’ he offered, and drew her out of the taxi on to the chilly pavement.

  She extracted her hand as soon as possible but without making a fuss. Nevertheless her action drew a lifted eyebrow from Guy. He shrugged and determinedly put an arm around her shoulder instead, keeping her close to his side as he led her over to the security gate, keys already in his free hand.

  Guy’s home was no secret to Samantha in the main. She had been to it several times before and was no longer in awe of its opulence and ultra-modern décor. Without a word passing between them, Guy shepherded her through the security gate, up the pebble-covered driveway, through the huge double front doors, across the black slate foyer, up the gleaming chrome staircase and along the grey carpeted corridor to his bedroom door.

  At this point her familiarity with the layout ended. She had never been in his bedroom before.

  He flung the door open and waved her inside with a flourish and an enigmatic smile.

  She swallowed and forced her legs to propel her by now overwrought self forwards. The door shut softly behind her.

  With one sweeping glance Samantha realised that ‘bedroom’ was a highly inadequate word for the area of the house that constituted Guy’s private sleeping quarters. No presidential suite could have been larger, or more luxurious, no boudoir more completely set up for entertaining ‘guests’.

  In the immediate area there was an enormous sitting-room, complete with suitably dim side-lamps, a bar, a hi-fi system, a new flat-screened television and a video machine. Behind the strategically placed and very deeply cushioned sofas, open double doors led to an equally large room, this one housing an enormous bed on a slightly raised carpeted platform. Further on, one whole wall was plate glass, leading out on to a discreet and very private balcony with a view of black sky and stars above the harbour.

  Samantha glimpsed a huge en suite bathroom through another open door, and didn’t need to inspect it to know it would have every possible mod-con, including a spa bath. She had difficulty hiding what she thought of such an obvious place, masking her distaste behind a bland face that she suspected was still a fraction disapproving.

  Yet really she had no right to feel surprised by or critical of such a layout, she told herself frankly. It was no less than was to be expected from the prince of affairs. Naturally, he would want somewhere beautiful and functional in which to conduct his...liaisons.

  Again she gave a small grimacing shudder, though quickly bringing herself to task when she saw Guy frowning over at her from where he was standing behind the bar.

  Truly, Samantha, came the stern voice of common sense and fairness. You’re becoming a fraction holier than thou, aren’t you? You’ve always known what he was, and he didn’t force you to come here. He’s even given you plenty of opportunity to back out.

  Yet you are here. And one of the reasons you are is because of this very room, in a way. Guy’s sexual appetite—his obvious capacity to enjoy women—was part of his appeal, wasn’t it? Why object to what was, after all, an integral part of his personality? Stop being a hypocrite and say something before he thinks there’s something wrong with you and changes his mind.

  ‘I didn’t realise you liked blue so much,’ she remarked in what sounded like a perfectly normal voice. Nearly everything in the suite of rooms was blue, from the palest shade in the carpet to a rich royal on his bed. ‘The rest of the house is fairly neutral.’

  He glanced up from where he was busy opening a bottle of champagne. ‘If you recall, the house came already decorated,’ he replied casually. ‘I did make some changes, but I liked these rooms the way they were. I find blue a very restful colour.’

  ‘I doubt much resting is done in here,’ she muttered, giving way to one last surge of irritation.

  ‘What was that?’ He frowned.

  ‘I said I think blue’s restful too.’ She put her handbag down and wandered over to stand behind a sofa but could not stay still, moving on to the open doorway leading to the bedroom. She stood there
awkwardly and began to fidget with her fingers.

  He darted her a brief, surveying glance, then shook his head, his mouth curving into a sardonic smile as his eyes dropped again to the bottle. What on earth was he thinking? she worried with a surge of insecurity. That she was plain beneath all the war-paint? Too tall? Too big? Gauche, even? Not a patch on Debra?

  Perhaps. Probably. God, but this was worse than she’d imagined. If only there hadn’t been any delay after what had happened between them at the restaurant. If only he’d got straight on with it. She didn’t want a drink. She wanted him to take her in his arms, kiss her, lie to her, make her forget that she would never be his choice of lover, that his taking her to bed was only a means to an end.

  At last the champagne was poured, and he carried two fluted glasses towards her, his eyes amused. ‘You look as if you could do with this. You’re prowling around like a cat on a hot tin roof.’

  ‘What do you expect?’ she burst out suddenly, irritated by his insensitivity. ‘This is hardly what I do every Friday night, you know.’

  He stopped in his tracks, his eyes hardening.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she groaned. ‘I’m being silly, I suppose, but I do wish you’d get on with it, Guy. I can’t stand the waiting. It’s driving me mad.’

  His laughter was very, very dry as he came forward and pressed a glass into her hand. ‘I’d like to think you were madly impatient for my body, but something tells me your feelings are rather more...theatrical.’

  ‘Theatrical?’ She blinked her confusion up at him. What on earth did he mean? That she was acting?

  ‘As in an operating theatre,’ he elaborated as they both sipped the champagne. ‘You reek of the I-can’t-wait-to-get-it-over-with attitude. Hardly flattering, dear Sam.’ His tone had a frustrated edge to it. ‘What happened to that girl I was dancing with, eh? That warm, sensual creature who kissed my neck and played with my hair and sent me into a spin. Do you think she could be revived?’

  He didn’t wait for her to answer. He took the glass back from her tremulous hand and placed it with his on a side-table, then, without saying another word, tipped her chin up with the fingertips of one hand. For a second he hesitated, and she closed her eyes, her heart in her mouth.