‘You can be quite daunting when you try,’ he observed interestedly. ‘Does that come naturally, or do you practise for hours in front of the mirror to get that haughty look?’
His sheer height and breadth was sending delicious little flickers down her spine, but she would rather have died than admit to it. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said icily.
‘But you make me feel ridiculous. You make me want to say something outrageous, shocking, to get past that very secure mask you present to the world.’
Her eyes widened briefly. ‘There’s no mask.’
‘Oh, but there is, and it’s made of steel. I would very much like to have met you five years ago, before it was in place. To have seen the woman you used to be then.’
The full import of his words took a moment to register. ‘How did you find out?’ she said stonily. He knew about Dean.
‘Not from your sister or Greg, if that’s what you’re thinking. I couldn’t get a damn thing out of either of them.’
He kept his gaze fixed on her—almost, Blossom caught herself thinking feverishly, as though if he didn’t she would bolt for a hole in which to hide herself. Perhaps he wasn’t far off the mark at that.
‘Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately, in this age of terrorist attacks and other atrocities—the world is a very small place,’ Zak said softly. ‘Money and determination can buy almost anything. I have both. And I use them when necessary.’
‘Bully for you.’ Weak, but all she could manage in the circumstances. ‘So, now you know.’ She eyed him bravely even though she could feel herself shrinking away to nothing. ‘Nothing has changed. You knowing makes no difference to me.’
‘Perhaps not, but for me it confirms you were only saying what you’d like me to believe all along. It was just the reason for your duplicity I wasn’t sure about.’
Blossom reared up as though she had been stung. ‘I told you no lies. My career is all-important to me. I didn’t lie.’
‘You were, shall we say, economical with the truth.’
‘How dare you?’ She couldn’t remember when she had been so angry. ‘I had no obligation to tell you anything.’
‘True.’ He moved swiftly, taking her hands in his to prevent her turning away. ‘You didn’t.’
The muscled strength in his broad shoulders and chest, the uncompromising virility, was both exciting and menacing. ‘Let go of me,’ she said tightly. She didn’t struggle. It would have been useless. ‘Let go of me this instant.’
‘Only if you promise to talk to me.’
In spite of his words, he let go of her when she demanded it. Now the burning memory of his hands gripping hers remained with her for several seconds before she could erase the sensations he had caused and bring her mind under control sufficiently to reply. She breathed in and out deeply.
She stared at him with what she hoped was cool aplomb. ‘I don’t think we’ve got anything to say to each other.’
‘Wrong.’ His voice was soft, his face still. ‘We’ve plenty.’
He wasn’t going to go away now he was here. It was written all over him. ‘You really are the most infuriating man,’ she said, more weakly than she would have liked.
‘I know.’ It was as though she had given him a compliment.
‘Would you browbeat a man in the same way?’ she snapped, his self-satisfaction catching her on the raw.
‘Most definitely.’ The blue eyes were laughing now, although his mouth was straight. ‘Of course, I’ve never badgered a man to go out with me—or a woman, come to that,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘But I don’t hold with sexual discrimination on any level, as it happens. I’ve been accused of many things in my life, and a large percentage of them were probably true, but male chauvinism is not one of them. Now you, on the other hand, are obviously guilty of female chauvinism.’
‘What?’ She was taken aback and it showed.
‘You haven’t dated since your divorce. You have a circle of close friends, none of whom are male, and a reputation for freezing men out of the picture if they come on to you. You also have an ability to make a man feel like something that has just slithered out from under a stone. Whatever happened between you and your husband—and my sources informed me he was a less than admirable character’—the steady voice had hardened considerably on the last words—‘you now clearly judge all men as wanting. Am I right?’ Black eyebrows rose quizzically. ‘And don’t frown like that, you’ll get wrinkles.’
Blossom glared at him. ‘You know nothing about me.’ This wasn’t quite true, she reflected the second the words were out. Unfortunately he seemed to have learnt a great deal about her.
‘You mean to say you don’t consider the male species less than trustworthy? View them all as wanting?’
You bet your sweet life I do. ‘Not at all.’ She wished her tone was more scathing. ‘I rather suspect your assumption might be due more to the fact I refused to see you again than what you think you might know about me. In my experience, men usually come up with some excuse when their egos are dented.’
‘Really?’ He smiled lazily, his equanimity unaffected by the slight. ‘I wouldn’t know, such an unpleasant occurrence has not befallen me, but it sounds somewhat…painful.’
Blossom gave up. ‘I’m not prepared to discuss this in the street. Would you like to come in for a coffee?’ she asked in a tone which made it clear the invitation was under duress.
‘I would like that very much, Blossom,’ he said with suspect meekness. ‘That is very sweet of you.’
She tossed her head, turning away and walking the step or two to the front door of the house where she inserted her key in the lock. Opening the door, she marched inside without waiting to see if he was following her. The communal staircase was in front of her, but her flat was on the ground floor. Once she had opened the door she stood aside, her voice stiff as she said, ‘Please come in.’ She watched him as he glanced around.
‘This is very pleasant. Restful.’ He nodded in approval.
‘Thank you.’ She didn’t add that that was the look she had aimed for with the thick oatmeal carpeting and curtains, and pale-lemon covers in the sitting room. The front door opened straight into the main room, and when she had redecorated
the flat she had wanted to create an impression of light and peace in the limited space available. The Victorian terrace had three floors with a flat on each, but the building was narrow, each flat having one main living room, one bedroom, a bathroom and small kitchen. She had painted the walls cream throughout, using overmantel mirrors in the sitting room and bedroom to maximise the space, and keeping the neutral scheme in the kitchen and diminutive bathroom. The somewhat bland theme was offset by the faded grandeur of a few French antiques she, along with Melissa, had inherited from their parents. Zak walked over to her favourite, a fine mirror above the old original fireplace the builder who had converted the house into flats had had the foresight to retain.
‘This is beautiful.’ He stroked a finger along the gold-painted, intricately carved frame. ‘It looks genuine.’
‘It is.’ She felt ridiculously pleased he liked it so much. ‘It belonged to my parents, along with the other pieces.’
‘And the garden?’ He looked out of the French windows into the small enclosed courtyard beyond, its brick walls painted white and festooned with hanging baskets and trailing plants, providing a festival of colour, in the middle of which her small table and two chairs sat. ‘Is it shared?’
‘No, it’s all mine. The other two flats have balconies. It’s tiny, but I love it. I eat out there all the time from spring to autumn.’ She stopped abruptly. She was giving too much away. She didn’t want him to know anything more about her; he knew far too much as it was. ‘I’ll make the coffee, or would you prefer a cold drink or a glass of wine?’ she asked with studied politeness.
He shrugged. ‘Whatever you were going to have.’
She found it hard to believe he was standing here in her home. For the fir
st time in five weeks she felt really alive again. The thought hit at the same time as a little voice in her head said quite clearly, ‘He’s dangerous. Don’t forget it.’
‘White wine? There’s a bottle chilled in the fridge,’ she said with what was admirable coolness in the circumstances.
‘Great. Can I open these?’ He gestured to the French doors. ‘It looks very inviting out there.’
‘Be my guest.’ She escaped to the tiny kitchen and opened the bottle of wine with trembling fingers. It wasn’t a particularly good one; no doubt he was used to the best of the best, but he’d have to like it or lump it.
He seemed to like it. When she returned to the sitting room, Zak was seated at the garden table, one leg crossed over the other and his head back as he soaked up the last of the day’s sunshine, and he took a long pull at the wine after she’d handed him his glass. She’d brought out a bowl of peanuts and another of olives which she placed on the table, sitting down herself before she said, ‘Zak, I don’t mean to be rude, but you must realise by now I’m a lost cause.’ She smiled as she spoke, her voice light. She’d determined in the kitchen that was going to be the stance she took—casual, amused, nonchalant.
He didn’t reply to this, saying instead, ‘What do you do to relax, Blossom—in those rare times you’re not working?’
‘Relax?’ He’d taken her unawares, and she didn’t like the sarcasm.
‘You do relax occasionally?’ he asked silkily.
‘Of course I do. Often.’ She took a sip of her wine.
‘When?’ The blue eyes held hers. ‘Exactly?’
‘What?’ She was flustered and it showed.
He sighed, repeating with elaborate—and what Blossom felt was insulting—patience, ‘When do you relax?’
‘Every evening, weekends…’ She took a large gulp of wine. She needed some fortification. He seemed to fill her little garden, dominating the surroundings with unconscious, flagrant masculinity. ‘The same times as the majority of the rest of the nation, I suppose. I am quite normal, despite what you think.’
He ignored the jibe. ‘And what do you do to relax?’
She’d had enough of this interrogation. Putting down her glass, she leant back in her chair, ticking off on her fingers as she counted, ‘Rock climbing, parachuting, canoeing, hang-gliding, judo, potholing.’ She narrowed her eyes as though she was thinking. ‘Oh, and of course I mustn’t forget yoga, pottery, painting, crocheting—’
‘No, I’m sorry, but I don’t see you as a crocheter,’ said Zak, grinning. ‘Now, the parachuting and rock climbing…’
In spite of herself she found she couldn’t help smiling. ‘Well, what do you think I do?’ she said, half irritably. ‘I read, go to the cinema, to the theatre, the gym—’
‘By yourself?’ he interrupted, a dry, mordant note to his voice. ‘You go to the cinema or the theatre by yourself?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with being content with your own company,’ Blossom returned, warning herself not to rise to the bait. It paid to think before you spoke when dealing with Zak.
He raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘That sounded like something an old lady of ninety might have said.’
Stung, she couldn’t help saying, ‘I have friends, lots of friends. Of course I go out with them sometimes.’
‘That’s nice.’ He eyed her over the top of his glass.
She could have stamped her foot. Instead she took another sip of wine before she said, ‘I’m perfectly content with my life just as it is. And I like my own company, as it happens.’
‘You’ve already said that,’ he reminded her gently.
‘Well, I am.’ He had to be the most irritating man on earth.
‘Methinks the lady protests too hard.’ And then, before she could come back with the hot retort burning her tongue, he added, ‘Melissa’s worried about you. You do know that?’
For a moment she couldn’t believe he’d said what she thought he had said. Then she drew herself straight in her seat, her voice tinkling ice when she said, ‘I don’t believe for a moment my sister would discuss me with you. Melissa wouldn’t do that.’
‘You’re right, she didn’t. It was something Greg let slip.’
‘Greg? Huh.’ She glared at him. ‘Forgive me for saying so, but Greg might be a whiz at work, in fact I’m sure he is, but delving into the human psyche is so not his style. He forgets anything that isn’t remotely connected with electronics within five minutes. Melissa practically has to tie his shoelaces.’
‘Which only goes to prove your sister must be pretty concerned if it’s registered with him, don’t you think?’
The man had an answer for everything. Unfortunately, at this moment in time, she didn’t. Blossom stared at him, her brain whirring but without coming up with the put-down she needed—if such a thing existed where Zak Hamilton was concerned.
He leant across the table and touched the side of her face with a gentle finger. ‘I’m not trying to be clever,’ he murmured, his voice deep and resonant. ‘Far from it. But like Melissa I think you need to embrace the real world again. No one can exist in a bubble, Blossom. I tried it myself for a while, so I know what I’m talking about.’
No, don’t do this. Don’t do tender and warm. Acidic and confrontational she could handle, but not this other side of him that she had glimpsed once or twice. It was unnerving. Unnerving and dangerously sexy. To combat her weakness her voice was both sharp and brittle when she said, ‘Don’t tell me—you’re just the man to help me “embrace” the world again. Am I right?’
There was a moment of complete silence. His hand had left her face. Then, very slowly, without expression, he said, ‘I’m fully aware of how you see me, Blossom. You have me down as an egotist, right? A man full of his own importance who likes to boost his self-assurance by dating one woman after another. Shallow, without moral foundation.’
The world beyond the tiny garden was muted, the low drum of traffic in the streets surrounding them barely impinging on the still, warm air. She didn’t know how to answer him. It wasn’t in her nature to deliberately hurt another human being, but in all honesty she couldn’t deny the charge. She didn’t trust him an inch. Whatever he said.
‘So it is up to me to prove you wrong,’ he said quietly.
Her head had lowered, but now it jerked up as she met his cool gaze. This was not going at all as she’d wanted.
‘I’ve had women, I don’t deny it, but not as much as company gossip would declare. Hell, if I’d been as active as my reputation suggests I’d be a mere shell of my former self by now.’
His eyes looked into hers for a few endless moments, and there was no amusement in the sapphire depths. It took a huge effort for her to say evenly, ‘This is not funny, Zak.’
‘Dead right it isn’t.’
He stood up and for a second she thought he was going to leave. Instead he reached out and drew her into his arms, lowering his head and kissing her very thoroughly. She knew she ought to resist. It was crazy not to. So why didn’t she—because it was so good to feel like a woman again?
The casual shirt he was wearing was open at the neck and the massive shoulders and muscled chest was accentuated by the thin cotton. The warmth and lemony fragrance from his skin seemed to envelop her, and she had the mad desire to press into him, to slip her arms beneath his shirt and run her fingers over the
broad male chest, to bury herself in him.
Whoa there. Whether he sensed her panic or not Blossom wasn’t sure, but in the next moment he had put her from him, gazing down at her with inscrutable eyes.
‘Don’t tell me that didn’t hit the right buttons with you, because I know damn well it did,’ he said softly. ‘We only have to touch each other for bells to go off. Now I don’t know about you, but I like that. It’s what makes the world go round, after all.’
She shrugged. It was all she could manage.
‘I’m thirty-eight years old, Blossom, and I did with playing games a long time ago. I h
aven’t got the patience, for one thing. I like you. I want to see more of you. A lot more.’
She shivered in the warm air.
‘We have something going here whether you like it or not. You do accept that?’ he said, his piercing eyes never leaving her hot face for one moment. ‘Silly question. You can’t deny it.’
She hesitated, then said flatly, ‘I’m not your type.’
‘Really? What is my type? Enlighten me.’
She’d caught him on the raw. She recognized it by the way his mouth had thinned and hardened. She shrugged again. ‘Women who are happy to enjoy a casual affair with no strings attached for a while and then move on.’ Beautiful, expertly groomed, stunning women with the wow factor. Total it-girls.
He nodded noncommittally before saying, ‘And your type? What’s your type?’
‘I don’t have a type,’ she retorted swiftly, stung he would think so. ‘I don’t look at people like that.’
‘But I do?’ He smiled, but it didn’t reach the beautiful eyes. ‘Your female chauvinism is rearing its ugly little head again. But for your information, Blossom, the only expectation I have of a woman is that she’s real. There are too many of the other kind in the crazy world I inhabit. Give me someone who is straightforward, who will say what she really thinks whether she believes I’ll like it or not, who doesn’t give a damn about my bank balance or whether being seen on my arm notches up her street cred. You fit the bill on all counts, especially in saying what you think,’ he added drily.
Did she believe all that? Would any man ignore the original blonde bombshell and opt for the honest little girl-next-door?
‘Of course, with you there is the advantage of having a beautiful, sensual, intelligent woman as well as all the facets I’ve mentioned. Having the cake and eating it.’ His eyes held hers, very steady, very calm. ‘Even though you don’t cook.’
For a moment she could almost believe him. A warmth spread through her and she licked dry lips. If this was a chat-up line, he was very good at it. But then he would be. He’d be good at anything he did. It didn’t help much.
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