Caroline’s mouth went dry. She took a quick, ragged intake of breath. She could feel the heat of that intensely virile body just inches from her own, and the heat was melting her.
Instinctively, her tongue peeped out to moisten the aridity of her lips, lips that suddenly felt too full and lush. And his brooding eyes followed the involuntary, betraying movement and he said soberly, ‘Ah, yes, I remember that nervous little gesture from moments before the first kiss we ever shared. And exactly how I helped—like this, remember, Caro?’ His dark head dipped as his mouth met hers, no other part of their bodies touching, his tongue laving the quivering fullness of her lower lip, leaving the sensitised skin slick and supple, finding the parting, making an easy entry to the helplessly willing sweetness within.
Her blood sang, the electric brush of his lips and tongue was just as she remembered, the pleasure almost too much to bear. As much as she wanted to close the tiny distance between them, to wrap her arms around him, press her aching breasts and thighs against the hard maleness of him, she resisted. The slow, seductive melding of their mouths was exquisite torment enough.
And it should not be happening, the last dying vestige of common sense reminded her, acidly recalling his off-hand rejection of the night before.
But the voice died, drowned in the clamour of her raging pulse beats. His love-making had always been a drug, something she couldn’t do without. Something her body had been silently crying for during these last barren, lonely years.
When he lifted his head after timeless, delirious moments his breathing was as ragged as her own, his fingers not quite steady as he reached to take the tortoiseshell clip from her hair, setting it free to fall in midnight-dark glossy abandon to her shoulders.
‘It used to be much longer,’ he murmured thickly. ‘It used to cloak your breasts with silk, inviting me to kiss the rosy buds that hid behind it. You knew how to tantalise me, Caro. Do you remember?’
Remember? How could she ever forget? Memories of how wonderful and perfect they’d been together had always been buried deep in her mind, not taken out and examined—she’d learned more control than that—but there all the same, indelibly imprinted, denying her any sexual interest in any other man.
Had it been the same for him? The concept was difficult to take in, especially as her brain seemed to have stopped working.
Slowly, with explicit intent, he began to undo the tiny buttons of her shirt, his eyes focused on what he was doing, the backs of his fingers grazing her burning skin, making her incapable of any coherent response when he said darkly, ‘Twelve years is a long time, Caro. Too damned long to be left in limbo.’
He slid the shirt from her shoulders and bent to briefly suckle her blatantly engorged nipples through the creamy lace of her bra and she whimpered softly with the tormenting pleasure of the short, insistent tugs of his mouth. She laid her hands against his chest, palms down, feeling the heat and vibrant strength of him, the heavy beats of his heart and knew she would soon be unable to stand without support because every last one of her bones had turned to water.
‘Years of wanting what most men want, a wife, a family,’ Ben asserted, his voice holding a trace of bitterness. His knuckles pressed against the softly feminine curve of her tummy as, having disposed of her belt and dealt with the zip he began to slide her trousers down over her hips. ‘Of wanting a good, long-term relationship and not being able to deliver, of being unable to commit to any other woman because no other woman came close to what I remembered of you.’
Naked now, apart from insubstantial briefs and bra, she was open to his darkly anguished eyes, vulnerable, captivated by him as she always had been, but pricked to suspicion by the strong note of torment in his voice.
Treachery! her internal warning system whispered and she said, almost incoherently, ‘You bought that painting—’
‘As a reminder that things are not always what they seem, or what you want them to be,’ he repeated. And then, as if he saw the beginnings of understanding, of resistance in her eyes, he laid a finger across her mouth, ‘Don’t speak. Just give yourself to the moment,’ and enfolded her in his arms, his mouth finding the tender hollow just below her ear, his lips moving with slow eroticism as he murmured, ‘You always liked this, and you still do, don’t you? Admit it, Caro.’
As if the tiny moan that escaped her was admission enough he lifted her in his arms, holding her close as he carried her into the adjoining bedroom.
A hazy impression of a cool masculine atmosphere, the tiny-paned windows open to the warm spring air admitting the perfume of early-flowering honeysuckle, a carved oak bed. A huge bed.
Her unresisting body sank into the soft duvet as he laid her down and removed the last scraps of creamy lace. ‘As perfect as ever.’ His dark gaze caressed her nakedness. ‘The years have been kind to you, Caro.’
The slight catch in his voice touched her heart with pain. Instinctively, she held out her arms to him, needing to hold him close, to banish whatever it was that was hurting him. But he straightened up, his beautiful mouth forming the command, ‘Wait’, and began to unbutton his shirt, removing it, and then those elegantly tailored trousers, tossing the expensive garments aside as if they were old dusters.
His lean, whippy young adult’s body had matured spectacularly; His shoulders wide and strong, his chest deep and faintly dusted with dark hair. Yet there wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh beneath the olive-toned skin that gleamed with health and vitality.
Caroline swallowed awkwardly around the sudden lump in her throat. Fully aroused, he was magnificent and the air throbbed with expectancy, with the inevitability of what was happening between them and, as he lowered himself beside her, laying his hand on the heated mound of her aching desire she searched his face for the lover he had been, longing to find him again, to hear the words of white-hot passion he had bewitched and had captivated her with, longing with an intensity that shook her slight frame and set her veins on fire.
But as his gently questing fingers found the slick core of her and just before his mouth took hers in a drugging kiss, he murmured raggedly, ‘You want me, and I need this. I need, finally, to prove to myself that what you were to me is only in my mind. That you’re no different from any other woman.’
She must have fallen asleep. The earth-shattering, multi-climaxes of their love-making, coupled with the near sleepless night had exhausted her. Caroline struggled to come properly awake beneath the light warmth of the duvet. Twilight filled the room and she was alone.
Of course she was alone. Tears stung the back of her eyes and tightened her throat. Ben had calculatedly used her, had got her out of his system. It was as simple and as devastating as that.
When he’d told her exactly how and why he was using her she’d been too far gone in the sexual delirium that only he could make happen to do the right thing: to slap his sinfully beautiful, arrogant face and walk away.
Tears coursed unheeded down her pale cheeks. They were both damned: he for so cold-bloodedly using her, she for allowing it to happen.
But his blood hadn’t been cold, had it? Hot, white-hot passion had driven him and she—she had been incandescent.
Angrily, she swiped at her wet cheeks with the back of her hand and scrambled off the bed, snatching up her bra and briefs and scampering through to the sitting room to collect the rest of her discarded clothing. Throwing them on all anyhow, not because she was afraid Ben might walk in on her—he had got what he wanted and probably wouldn’t want to see her any more than she wanted to have to face him—but because she had to get out of this house, the house that had never, in all of her life, held any happiness for her.
It was too late now to make the necessary arrangements to get back to London. Besides, she felt emotionally wrung out, in no fit state.
Tomorrow she would feel better. Later tonight she would pack and first thing in the morning she would phone for a taxi to take her into Shrewsbury, get the inter-city back to London, get her life back on tra
ck again.
Ben wouldn’t complain to her boss, she decided cynically. She’d satisfied those needs he’d talked about and he’d be more than happy to see her go.
Outside the air was cooler than she’d expected but she wasn’t going back in to fetch a jacket, not when it meant risking running into Ben. Hell would freeze over before she could meet his eyes without cringing with shame.
Unthinking, her mind pre-programmed, Caroline skirted the property, crossed the walled kitchen gardens and let herself out onto the green lane beyond the wooden door in the far wall. The grass was soft beneath her feet and soon she was under the dim canopy of the trees that bordered the stream.
The sound of the water as it chattered over its stony bed soothed her a little. The rustle of ferns as she brushed through them and the cry of a distant owl eased some of the tension from her shoulders.
She rubbed some warmth into her arms, the thin silk of her shirt offering little protection from the cool evening air, and stepped into a grassy clearing. The mist from the water made softly moving grey patterns against the dark background of the trees.
She saw him then and stopped breathing. Too late she realised where she’d come, instinctively making her way, as she had so often done in the past, to the secret place. The secluded, magical place where their love had been consummated, where dreams had been born and nourished. Dreams that had turned into a nightmare of betrayal and deceit.
How could she have been so thoughtless? And, more to the point, why was he here?
Ben had his back to her, standing on the bank of the stream, seemingly intent on the dark waters as they swirled around the partly submerged rocks. Caroline turned swiftly to retrace her steps but he must have heard her.
He called her name.
The sound of his voice sent shock waves through her. Her feet felt as if they were rooted to the ground. She could hear his approach and still couldn’t move.
‘Don’t go.’ He sounded weary, as if something had happened to drain away his life force. ‘I have to talk to you.’
Caroline didn’t want to hear what he had to say, whatever it was. He diminished her utterly, made her so ashamed of herself.
Clinging onto what little dignity that remained, she said dully, ‘I’m going back. It’s getting very dark and I’m cold.’
‘Then, I’ll walk with you,’ he said firmly, adding, ‘Wait!’ as she took a blind step back into the woodland. The touch of his hand as he laid it on her shoulder was sheer torture, the warmth and strength of it sending sparks through her that were part pleasure, part agonising pain.
He turned her round, his eyes searching her face and even in the fading light she could see the faint, almost reluctant, smile that curved his mouth. ‘Your shirt’s buttoned up all wrongly and your hair’s gone mad—you look exactly like the wild thing I used to know. Here—’ Releasing her briefly, he slipped out of the soft leather jacket he wore over a body-hugging dark T-shirt and draped it over her shoulders.
The masculine warmth of him, stored in the supple leather, almost defeated her, but not nearly as much as the sudden shocking and heart-stopping realisation that, whatever he had been in the past, whatever he was now, she still loved him.
Her stomach churned sickeningly. But he didn’t love her. He never had, despite his youthful protestations. The sex had been brilliant, that was all.
Today he’d admitted that his need to form a committed relationship with any other woman had been stifled by the memory of their tempestuous, perfect love-making.
She could understand that, sympathise. Memories could be dangerous, distorting things. So he’d made love to her, had used her to satisfy himself that she was just an ordinary woman, no different from any other.
She had set him free, free to do what he’d said he wanted—commit himself to one special woman, marry, raise children. Did that explain his gentler mood, the care he was taking on her behalf as he guided her through the growing darkness? Resignedly, she supposed it did.
Emerging from the trees she caught her foot on a root and would have fallen had the guiding arm around her waist not tightened, pulling her against his body.
She heard the rough tug of his breath, felt the heavy beats of his heart beneath the palms of her hands that had automatically splayed out, seeking support. Felt the immediate masculine stir of his body and pulled away. Easy to go with the flow, take what there was to take of him in the short time they had left together. But dangerous for her future peace of mind. What had happened this afternoon must not happen again.
Away from the trees the going was easier, the light from billions of stars making his guiding, protective arm redundant. She mourned the loss though she knew she shouldn’t and the silence he kept—in spite of his saying that he needed to talk to her—was like an intolerable ache.
She would be leaving early in the morning she reminded herself so perhaps this was their final goodbye. Recriminations for the heartless way he’d used her—both in the past and since their paths had crossed again—would achieve nothing.
No one was all bad and, as they reached the house, she knew she had to tell him how much she admired what was good in him.
Caroline waited while he closed the door behind them and flicked on the lights, the aching sadness inside her robbing her voice of all vitality as she said, ‘Linda told me what you’re doing with this house—helping children from deprived backgrounds. I think it’s wonderful—’
‘You do?’ His eyes, the set of his mouth was dismissive. Plainly he wasn’t interested in compliments, not if they came from her. ‘Ironic, isn’t it? I saved your revered family home from falling into complete disrepair, only to plan to fill it with young tearaways from run-down estates. Your father would turn in his grave if he knew that his precious daughter would have to face such a situation.’ One brow rose mockingly. ‘The villagers used to call you Princess Caroline, did you know that? Shut away in your ivory tower, too good to mix with the likes of them.’
This barely veiled antagonism was enough to break her heart, especially as she recognised the truth that she’d so carefully hidden from herself for such a long time. She could never love another man as she loved this one: warts and all.
Misery, coupled with anger at the hand fate had dealt her, made her voice thick and throaty as she countered, ‘Of course I knew! It was unfair and it hurt! And as far as my father was concerned I would never be coming back here. He finally disowned me and threw me out when I refused to fall in with his plans and get engaged to Jeremy.’
She saw his quick frown, heard the sharp intake of his breath as he asked, ‘Is that true? Your father said the engagement was planned for your eighteenth birthday—only a few weeks away, that the marriage would take place early the following spring.’
‘Really!’
She couldn’t entirely blame her father. He had only been saying what he’d believed to be the truth, that he could, as usual, coerce her into doing exactly what he told her to do. But she could blame Dexter for taking her father’s statement at face value and deciding that she’d been using him, having a sneaky affair on the side, enjoying—what had he called it?—rough trade!
‘And when did that conversation take place?’ she queried bitterly, ‘When he offered you money to make yourself scarce?’
‘Yes.’
The simple, unrepentant affirmative rocked her. Stupidly, she’d been hoping that he’d categorically deny ever having taken that pay-off, that his betrayal hadn’t been as thorough and as cruel as she’d believed, that her father had lied.
Her shoulders slumping, she removed his jacket and dropped it on the floor. She felt so tired and empty now it was an effort to stand upright. Bed. Sleep. That was what she needed. Tomorrow the traumatic happenings of this day would be behind her and she could go on.
She took a faltering step towards the staircase and heard him say gently, ‘What happened this afternoon was a shock for me, too, Caro. I guess I’m only just coming out of it. No, don’t go—�
� She took another jerky step towards the escape route of the stairs. ‘Hear me out, please. I want you to forget we have a history. I want you to marry me.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
CAROLINE turned quickly. Too quickly. Her head swam dizzily. She would have fallen if Ben hadn’t slipped an arm around her and held her, pulling her against the broad, hard wall of his chest.
His blunt, out-of-the-blue proposal was the very last thing she’d expected. Her acceptance, should she be crazy enough to give it, would throw up implications she didn’t think she’d be able to handle.
Marrying Ben Dexter had once been her most precious dream but now, after all that had happened and the passage of so many years, it was totally out of the question. Her shoulders shook with the onset of hysteria and her sudden, unstoppable and totally humiliating tears soaked the front of his T-shirt.
‘Don’t cry,’ he said soothingly. ‘Please don’t. I shouldn’t have landed that on you so suddenly.’ Strong hands on her slender shoulders held her slightly away, his fingers brushing away the wetness from her cheeks, his dark eyes sweeping over her troubled features. ‘I don’t expect an answer right now, Caro. You’ll need time to think about it. I’ve been mulling it over ever since you fell asleep in my arms, so I’ve had a head start.’
He dropped a light kiss on her quivering mouth, his eyes smiling now, bringing all his forceful charisma into play as he slipped an arm back around her waist and insisted wryly, ‘We’ll both feel less disorientated if we eat. I’ll throw something on the stove while you choose the wine.’
Resisting the strong desire to disintegrate into further hysterics Caroline dragged air through her pinched nostrils and blurted, ‘I can’t marry you, you know I can’t—it was a crazy thing to ask!’
She felt utterly confused and deeply upset and his lazy ‘Why?’ did nothing to help. Breathing unevenly, she pulled away from him. Ever since she’d returned to Langley Hayes she’d lost her grip on reality. Somehow or other she had to regain it.
The Billionaire Affair Page 7
