A Secret Rebellion

by Anne Mather

  Alex deliberately refrained from glancing over his shoulder. He knew exactly how close the Ferrari was. ‘Shortage of space, I guess,’ he volunteered lightly, and she muttered something about power-steering as she manoeuvred out into the traffic.

  It was cold in the car, and the windows were misted with their breath, but she seemed to know where she was going. Alex wondered if she was going to ask him where they ought to park, but then decided she probably knew the city better than he did. He was all right in the well-lit streets and main thoroughfares, but when it came to negotiating its one-way system he was soon in trouble.

  The heater began working as they drove along the Embankment, and the windows started to clear. It meant he had more light to see the delicate curve of her profile, and the determined way she held her tongue between her teeth when she was concentrating. He still couldn’t get over the fact that he had actually invited her to have dinner with him. Nick was right. It wasn’t like him. Dear God, what kind of a woman was she, to leave the party with a man she had only just met?

  He was so busy thinking about his reasons, and hers, that he was paying little attention to their surroundings. He had assumed she knew a short cut to the West End. He knew, because he had done it, that it was possible to run up one of these streets into Whitehall, or Piccadilly. He had expected her to do that. But he suddenly realised they were crossing the river, and that was not the way to reach their destination.

  Alarm flickered along his veins, but it was only a momentary thing. He knew he was perfectly capable of overpowering her, any time he chose, and that if this was some crazy attempt at kidnapping she had chosen the wrong man. But what if she had accomplices? What if when she stopped there were a couple of hoodlums waiting for him? He ought to do something now, before he lost the initiative.

  But, before he could marshal any defence, Elizabeth braked, and turned the car into a narrow street of tall Victorian houses. ‘Nearly there,’ she said, turning and giving him a winsome smile, and he had the uneasy suspicion that she knew exactly what he was thinking.

  ‘Nearly where?’ he responded, his tone much less cordial than hers, and she tucked her lower lip between her teeth.

  ‘My apartment,’ she replied, braking again, as she swung the Peugeot over to the kerb. There was just room for her to squeeze the little saloon between a dust-smeared Renault and an ancient convertible. ‘I thought I’d cook you supper. Do you mind?’

  Alex stared at her. ‘You!’

  ‘Hmm, me,’ she agreed, putting the car into neutral, and turning off the engine. ‘Believe it or not, but I can cook. Nothing fancy, you understand, but good wholesome food.’

  Alex didn’t know whether to laugh or give her a piece of his mind. It was his own fault, of course. If he hadn’t been so ambivalent about revealing that he owned a Ferrari, he’d have been in control. As it was, she had taken events into her own hands, and he could either like it or do the other thing.

  He shook his head. He could always call a cab, he supposed. But that would definitely seem ungracious. And, after all, it didn’t really matter where they ate. If she was prepared to invite a stranger into her home, why should he grumble?

  ‘Are you serious?’ he asked, putting his hand on the door-handle, and she nodded.

  ‘Of course.’ She licked lips that suddenly looked a little uncertain. ‘You’re not a rapist or anything, are you?’

  Alex grimaced. ‘Would I tell you, if I were?’

  Elizabeth bit her lip. ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Well, I’m not,’ said Alex shortly, thrusting open his door. ‘Come on. It’s too cold to sit here discussing my sexual habits.’ He grinned. ‘We can do that much more comfortably inside, hmm?’

  Elizabeth got out, but she still looked uncertain. ‘I have neighbours,’ she informed him. ‘If I screamed—’

  ‘Oh, please.’ Alex spread his hands. ‘I’m not a rapist. Nor do I prey on lonely women. Now, can we go inside?’

  Her apartment was on the third floor, and Alex groaned as they reached the landing. ‘Someone ought to teach the English to install elevators in their apartment buildings!’ he exclaimed, leaning against the wall, as she searched for her keys. ‘This is the seventh flight of stairs I’ve climbed tonight!’

  She frowned. ‘You said—the English; aren’t you English?’

  Alex could have bitten out his tongue. ‘Half,’ he said, hoping she wouldn’t ask what the other half was. The door opened, and he followed her inside. ‘Hmm, this is—nice.’

  ‘It’s awful,’ she assured him fervently, closing the door and securing the lock. ‘But—it’s rented. The furniture, too. It’s practically impossible to rent a decent apartment in London without its being furnished.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Alex pushed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and looked about him, as he followed her into a lamplit living-room. Happily, she seemed to have been diverted from asking about his nationality, and he was more than willing to keep her talking about the apartment if that would do the trick. ‘Do you live here alone?’

  She looked at him quickly and then away. ‘I—yes,’ she replied, shedding her raincoat on to a chintz-covered sofa, and stepping into the tiny kitchen, which opened off the living-room. She switched on a track of spotlights. ‘So—what would you like to eat? I’ve got steak, chicken, frozen pizza? Or I could scramble us some eggs.’

  Alex propped his hip against the fixture. ‘Frozen pizza sounds good to me,’ he declared, choosing the one that required the least preparation. He had noticed the microwave oven standing at one end of the Formica-topped counter, and he had prepared himself enough frozen meals to know it was a simple matter to defrost and cook the pizza. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Mmm. That sounds good to me, too,’ she agreed, bending to take the box from the freezer. ‘Er—it’s cheese and tomato. Is that all right?’

  ‘Whatever.’ Alex turned away from the sight of her neatly rounded buttocks, and the way her skirt rode halfway up her thighs as she bent over. It exposed the fact that she wasn’t wearing tights at all, but black stockings, and the unexpected glimpse of her inner thigh, soft, and smooth, and creamy white, was more disturbing than he wanted it to be. ‘So—’ he endeavoured to school his racing pulse ‘—what do you do for a living?’

  She put the pizza into the microwave before replying, and then came to the end of the counter, and propped her elbows on it. ‘What do you think I do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Alex turned, raking back his dark hair with a slightly impatient hand. He shrugged. ‘Something glamorous, I suppose. Modelling, perhaps.’

  She laughed. ‘As in artist’s?’

  ‘As in fashion,’ amended Alex shortly, not appreciating her humour. ‘I assumed you had a job where looks played a part.’

  ‘Is that a compliment?’

  Alex’s mouth compressed. ‘If you want it to be.’

  She hesitated. ‘All right. So I’m—involved in fashion. But not as a model. I—buy clothes.’

  ‘A fashion buyer?’

  ‘Mmm.’ She seemed content with that description. ‘Now can I offer you a drink?’

  Alex thought about saying no, because he was driving, and then thought better of it. He had only had one glass of that appalling punch at the party, and right now he could use something stronger. Preferably whisky, he thought grimly. At this moment, he was feeling at a decided disadvantage.

  ‘What have you got?’ he asked, and she turned away to take a bottle of Scotch out of one of the cupboards.

  ‘Only this, I’m afraid,’ she said, not realising how relieved Alex was feeling. It was much later when he conceived the thought that Chivas Regal was hardly the expected thing to find in a single woman’s apartment.

  He took it straight, with ice, and after she had settled him on the sofa she returned to the kitchen. She hardly touched her own drink, he noticed. But that was hardly surprising, considering she had practically drowned the Scotch with water.

  ‘Do you work in Lond
on?’

  Her question caught him unawares, and Alex took refuge in his drink before replying. ‘Partly,’ he admitted, at last, realising he didn’t have to lie about his whereabouts. London was pretty big, after all.

  ‘Partly?’ She left the salad she had been mixing, and came to the end of the counter again. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Oh…’ Alex floundered, realising that instead of concentrating on an answer he was looking at her breasts. She had unusually full breasts, and they had been thrown into prominence by the position of the spotlights. They were probably the reason she wasn’t a model, he reflected. Although she was slim, her breasts and hips were much too generously rounded. ‘I mean—I travel, too. Quite a lot,’ he appended, deciding the whisky was responsible for the thickness of his tongue. ‘You know what travelling salesmen are like—here today and there tomorrow.’

  Much to his dismay, she picked up the bottle of Scotch, and came to refill his glass. ‘Really,’ she said, bending over him, and he was intensely aware that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Not that she really needed one, he conceded, imagining how she would look without the confining fabric of her dress. Which begged the thought of whether she was wearing any underwear at all, and he cradled his glass between his hands in case he was tempted to find out.

  The trouble was, he had the distinct suspicion that she wouldn’t object if he did so. God, what kind of woman was she? She looked so innocent, but she was acting like a—a—

  The actual word he wanted to use escaped him. Besides, if he was completely honest with himself he would admit that apart from bringing him here she’d done nothing to incite his sexuality. Except inflame his senses, he thought impatiently. Good God, every move she made set his nerves on edge.

  ‘So what do you sell?’ she asked, and he breathed a little easier, as she moved back into the kitchen.

  But the question still needed answering, and, taking another mouthful of Scotch, he conceived the perfect answer. ‘Oil,’ he replied, feeling pleased with himself. ‘Um—olive oil.’ That was better. ‘We import it from Greece.’ He grinned suddenly, enjoying his own joke. ‘Barrels and barrels of it.’

  ‘Gosh.’

  She sounded really interested, and just for a moment he felt a heel. But, dammit, he didn’t know her from Adam—or Eve; he grimaced. And after this evening there was every chance that he’d never see her again.

  The apartment was getting warm now, and looking round he decided it wasn’t as ugly as he had at first thought. The lamps cast a mellow shadow over the worn patches in the carpet, and even the picture of the oriental lady over the fireplace had taken on a hazy luminescence.

  Taking off his jacket, he laid it over the back of the sofa, and lounged a little lower on the cushions. It was really rather pleasant, he thought, sitting here, talking to a beautiful woman, smelling the scent of the pizza sizzling in the oven. He relaxed, savouring the flavour of the whisky. He didn’t know why he had been apprehensive.

  And, almost inevitably, it seemed, his eyes were drawn back to Elizabeth. He liked watching her. He liked the way she moved. And he liked the way the light reflected off her hair. She looked both innocent and knowing, and he was growing less and less immune to her undoubted sensuality.

  He swallowed more of the Chivas, and lifted his foot to rest his ankle across his knee. Think of something else, he ordered himself, resisting the urge to look at her again, but the awareness of her nearness was causing his blood to thicken. It throbbed in his head, with an urgency that brought an actual physical ache, but the core of that ache was centred somewhere else entirely.

  ‘Have some more whisky,’ she murmured, and he realised she had left the kitchen and was standing beside the couch. Her hand was outstretched, on the point of pouring more of the potent spirit into his glass, and only his swift withdrawal prevented her from achieving her objective.

  ‘Are you trying to get me drunk?’ he demanded harshly, as his brain struggled to come to terms with what was happening. What did she want of him? Why had she brought him here?

  She smiled then, setting the whisky aside, and sitting down on the couch beside him. As she did so, she allowed her body to slide against him, and Alex felt the jolt of that contact firing every nerve he possessed.

  ‘Would you mind if I were?’ she asked, and it took Alex a moment to comprehend what she was talking about.

  ‘That depends why you’re doing it,’ he said, his eyes drawn to the moistness of her lower lip. ‘I can’t believe it’s because you want my body. A woman like you—you wouldn’t have to get a man drunk to—’ He broke off, his lips twisting. ‘But you know what I’m talking about, don’t you?’

  ‘Do I?’ Her tongue appeared again. ‘Tell me. I like it when you talk dirty.’

  Alex grimaced. ‘Lady, I’m not talking dirty, believe me.’

  ‘Thinking dirty, then,’ she amended, pressing one long finger against her lips. ‘Tell me what you’re thinking. I want to know. You do like me, don’t you?’

  Alex swallowed. ‘You’re crazy!’

  ‘Why?’ She removed her finger from her lips and drew it down his dark-skinned cheek. ‘Because I want to know what you really think about me?’ Her eyes were wide and innocent. ‘Do you want to kiss me?’

  Alex’s head felt as if it was about to explode. And not just his head, he admitted grimly. The zip of his jeans felt as if it was in danger of disintegrating, as the smouldering heat in his body spread down into the cradle of his sex.

  ‘That’s beside the point,’ he said stiffly, struggling to combat his rising passion. God, if she didn’t move away soon, he’d very likely lose the battle, and, aroused as he was, could he be relied on to do the right thing?

  ‘Is it?’ she persisted, leaning towards him, so that those glorious breasts were pressed against his arm. ‘I think that means you do. So why don’t you?’

  Alex caught his breath. ‘I think I heard the microwave switch off,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t you think you ought to take a look at the pizza?’

  ‘I’d rather look at you,’ she responded, sliding her soft hand along his cheek. ‘Mmm, that’s rough. I bet you need to shave at least twice a day.’

  ‘Elizabeth—’

  ‘Liz.’

  ‘Liz, then—’ Her other hand was on his thigh now, cupped over the muscles that stretched above his knee. ‘Let’s not rush things, shall we?’

  Her eyes darkened. ‘You don’t like me?’

  He stifled an oath. ‘Of course I like you—’

  ‘Well, then…’ She looked at him with those deep indigo eyes. ‘So long as we understand one another.’ One finger performed a circular movement against his leg. ‘I think we should have another drink.’

  ‘No.’ Alex managed to get the word out with an effort. He had drunk far too much whisky as it was. Looking down at her hand, for instance, he knew he should remove it. The trouble was his brain couldn’t formulate the message.

  ‘I saw you looking at me, you know,’ she murmured, and for a moment his mind was a blank. ‘At the party,’ she added, offering him illumination. ‘I saw you the minute I arrived. You’re quite—noticeable. Big—and dark—and sexy.’

  Alex tried for a laugh. ‘Who? Me? With this ugly mug? I think you’ve got the wrong guy.’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ She gazed at him intently. ‘You’re not ugly and you know it. I bet you’ve known a lot of women, haven’t you?’

  Alex drew an uneven breath. ‘Not as many as you think.’

  She frowned. ‘Are you married?’

  Not any more. ‘No.’

  ‘That’s good.’ She seemed to breathe a little more easily, and he wondered why it mattered to her. If she was what he thought she was, whether he was married or not shouldn’t be an issue. ‘Can I kiss you?’

  Alex felt like a youth on his first date. For God’s sake, he was too old for this, he thought, so what was he doing here? Whatever she wanted, he would be very unwise to linger. He wasn’t the kind of man who carried pro
tection around as a matter of course.

  Her perfume assaulted his senses as her tongue brushed his parted lips. It was a potent mix of some expensive fragrance, combined with the warm, womanly smell of her body. It was a long time since he had been aroused by the mere scent of a woman, but he felt his senses swimming as she rubbed herself against him.

  ‘Nice,’ she breathed, against his mouth, and Alex knew his actions were slipping out of control. Her hand against his thigh was a constant torment, and, thrusting the whisky glass on the floor, he grasped her shoulders.

  Afterwards he couldn’t remember what he had intended to do. He thought perhaps he had tried to push her away, but all he had succeeded in doing was dragging her closer. With his senses running riot, he ground his lips against hers, delivering hard, hungry kisses to her moist, willing mouth.

  And her mouth was so amazingly desirable. Hot, and urgent, and deliciously receptive, her lips parting easily to accommodate his possession. He had never kissed anyone who responded so completely, and he thought he might burn in the fire of her touch.

  He heard the tremulous little moan she gave as his tongue plunged into her mouth, but it was hardly a protest. With one hand clinging to the back of his neck, and the other trapped between his legs, she was totally aware of what she was doing. It was Alex who had the distinct impression he was being manipulated, but the thunder of his blood made him deaf to any warning.

  His hands moved over her back, confirming his belief that she wasn’t wearing a bra. They also found the tab of the zip that ran from the high neck at the back of the dress to her hips. With an effort, he controlled the urge to tear the dress off her, and allowed his fingers to gently part the teeth.

  She shivered when his hands invaded the opened back of the dress and, just for a moment, he sensed a certain unwillingness to continue. But, dammit, it was too late for her to be having second thoughts now, he decided grimly. She had asked for this, and she couldn’t blame him for taking her at her word.

  Her spine was straight and slender, the skin smooth and soft as silk. When he allowed his fingers to follow its line, she arched automatically against him. And when his exploration found the lacy edge of her panties she sucked in her breath with a gulp.