To Tame a Proud Heart

by Cathy Williams

  ‘Take a couple of days off,’ he said, stepping aside from the door so that she could leave.

  She replied immediately, ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘No,’ he murmured, ‘I thought not.’ Then he walked back into his office and shut the door behind him, and she cranked her mind away from him and onto the matter at hand—the move.

  It didn’t take long. By seven-thirty the following evening she had transferred everything she was taking with her from her father’s house to the flat.

  Now, for the first time, she sat down on the tiny two-seater sofa squashed beneath the bay window and looked around her. It would take some getting used to, that was for sure. If her father’s house had been a sprawling mansion, this in comparison was a doll’s house.

  It had one minuscule kitchen with a fridge that could hold a carton of eggs and not much else, one small bedroom with a bathroom adjacent to it, and a living room with a rather tired-looking sofa, two chairs, and a Persian rug which she had brought from her own bedroom and which looked arrogantly glamorous on the floor in front of the fireplace.

  The ceilings were high, though, because it was a Victorian house, and although the place had been chopped about to accommodate six little flats, nothing could detract from the graceful lines of the building. She sat back and smiled a slow smile of pleasure.

  This, she thought, was the first taste of real freedom she had ever had, and although an unfortunate combination of events had brought her here it still felt good.

  Money, her father had once told her years back, was a trap. She had never given the observation much thought, but now she could see how true the statement had been.

  If you let it, money would give you everything, but it would also form the bars of your gilded cage, and there you could remain for ever, unable to break free.

  There was a sharp knock on the door and she jumped up in some surprise to answer it. It couldn’t be Rupert. He had ruefully told her that he was going out on Saturday night, and she hadn’t as yet told any of her other friends that she had moved. Most of them would think her completely deranged, and she had lost touch with quite a few, anyway, since she had started work and no longer had time to fritter away the days.

  Oliver Kemp, however, was the last person she had expected to see. She pulled open the door, and as soon as she saw his tall dark shape in the hall she felt her heart begin to thud.

  He watched the fleeting expressions on her face and lounged indolently against the doorframe. ‘Are you going to invite me in?’ he asked. ‘Or would you rather we just stand here and look at one another?’

  Francesca dutifully stepped aside and he brushed past her, his powerful frame dwarfing the small dimensions of the room.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, shutting the door behind her. She felt scruffy in her jeans and faded blue and white checked shirt and at a disadvantage.

  ‘I thought I’d bring you a house-warming present,’ he said, prowling around the small sitting room and, en route, placing two bottles of cold champagne on the table in front of the sofa.

  ‘That was very thoughtful of you.’ She didn’t move and he finally turned around to face her.

  ‘Your voice rings with sincerity,’ he drawled. ‘Mind if I sit down?’

  He did anyway, tossing his coat and jacket onto one of the chairs and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.

  ‘When you told me that you were moving into your own place, I have to admit that this wasn’t quite what I had expected.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ She picked up the bottles of champagne, and eyed him warily through her lashes. ‘Did you think that I would have found myself somewhere larger and more luxurious?’

  ‘The thought had crossed my mind,’ he admitted.

  ‘I may have been born into luxury,’ she said, still not willing to forgive him even though she had simmered down a little. ‘It doesn’t mean I’m addicted to it.’

  ‘Touché’ He stood up and went across to the kitchen, and after a while he emerged holding two glasses of champagne.

  ‘You really don’t have to stay here…’ she began, unconsciously making sure that their fingers didn’t touch as she took the glass from him.

  ‘Do you want me to leave?’

  ‘N-no, of c-course not…’ Francesca stammered, feeling thoroughly out of her depth.

  ‘Have you got someone else calling round?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I wanted to make sure that you were all right,’ he said, his fingers lightly caressing the stem of the glass.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’ She sipped some of the champagne.

  ‘Because you’re like a nervous thoroughbred, overreacting to things, rearing up at imaginary obstacles.’

  ‘Thanks so much for the vote of confidence,’ she snapped, ready to argue if that was what he wanted, but he unexpectedly laughed.

  Francesca took another mouthful of champagne. She had never been a great lover of champagne. As far as she was concerned it was a hugely overrated drink, but she had to admit that its bubbles went to her head faster than lightning.

  He looked at her over the rim of his glass.

  ‘Why are you here, anyway?’ she asked in hurried confusion. ‘Where’s Imogen?’

  ‘Imogen,’ he said evenly, ‘is out. With your boyfriend, as a matter of fact.’

  Francesca’s mouth half opened in surprise. ‘Rupert?’ she asked stupidly.

  ‘Do you have more than one boyfriend?’

  ‘What is she doing with Rupert?’

  ‘They’ve gone to a nightclub.’

  ‘They’ve gone to a nightclub?’

  ‘You sound shocked. What sort of relationship do you have with this man if you don’t know what he does when you’re not around?’

  She was still too amazed to find a suitable retort to that. ‘So that’s why you’re here,’ she said, nodding her head slowly, and feeling deflated. ‘You don’t care about my mental welfare. You’ve come to have it out with me just because your fiancée has been seeing Rupert behind your back.’ Actually, after a couple of glasses of champagne on an empty stomach, she was beginning to lose interest in her mental welfare as well.

  His dark eyebrows flew up and he laughed. ‘Have it out with you? Don’t be puerile. Imogen tried to drag me along to the damned place but I decided I could do without the dubious pleasure of loud music and the inevitable headache.’

  ‘But don’t you mind?’ Francesca asked, proffering her glass for some more champagne, and wondering how she had ever got so worked up over Oliver’s revelation to her a few days before.

  ‘Don’t I mind what?’

  ‘That your fiancée is out on the town with another man?’

  ‘I’m not a jealous man, and besides—I think I told you this before—I trust Imogen. She’s also a free being. I don’t believe in putting someone under lock and key and claiming possession of them.’

  ‘How very liberal-minded.’

  She had hardly had anything alcoholic to drink for weeks, and her three glasses of champagne had gone to her head with alarming speed.

  She tucked her feet back under her and heard herself saying, with the sudden insight of someone who has had one glass too many, ‘Did you think that I might need bolstering at the thought of Rupert on the town with another woman?’ She laughed, throwing her head back so that her hair spilled over the back of the chair in white-blonde disarray. ‘Hardly! Rupert and I aren’t lovers!’

  His eyes narrowed on her, but he didn’t comment. He said conversationally, ‘How did your father react to your moving out?’

  ‘He didn’t try to stop me,’ Francesca answered, circling the rim of her glass with one finger, then taking another sip from it.

  ‘Would he have succeeded if he’d tried?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then he’s a wise man.’

  ‘When I told you that I wanted to leave I meant it,’ Francesca murmured, with a logic that only made sense to herself.

  ‘Of course you di
dn’t mean it.’ She didn’t look up but she could feel those amazing eyes on her. ‘You like working for me, whether you want to admit it or not.’

  ‘And do you like me working for you?’ Francesca asked, topping up her glass with the remainder of the champagne from the bottle. ‘You don’t approve of me; you could have got rid of me for any number of reasons once you felt your debt had been paid in full.’

  ‘I may not approve of you,’ he said lazily, ‘but I would have to dislike you personally to want that.’

  Why didn’t that make her feel any better? she wondered. Because, a hazy little voice murmured, you don’t want to occupy that limbo between like and dislike, you want to be actively liked; in fact you want to be actively desired.

  She felt her skin burn at the illogicality of that.

  ‘Shall I open the other bottle of champagne?’ she asked, not pursuing the unwelcome thought. She didn’t wait for an answer. She went into the kitchen, opened the bottle, closing her eyes as she yanked the cork out and heard the distinctive pop, and then poured them both another glass.

  Her legs felt wobbly, and she knew that he was frowning slightly, but she didn’t care. The past week had been traumatic and she deserved to relax.

  She was also feeling a little piqued. For the past two months she had told herself that what mattered most to her was that he should accept her professionally, but right now, right here, a part of her craved something else.

  Instead of going back to the chair, she sat down on the sofa next to him. Was it her imagination, or did he take a swift, barely audible breath?

  She looked sideways at him but his expression was bland.

  ‘I don’t think,’ he murmured, ‘that it’s a very good idea for you to consume any more alcohol. What have you had to eat today?’

  ‘Let’s see…’ She frowned. Her knee, she realised, with a little quiver of forbidden excitement, was nearly touching his thigh. ‘I had some fruit for lunch and a bowl of soup earlier on.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘And that’s it,’ she agreed, smiling at him. The lighting in the room was dim, and she looked at his face with surreptitious pleasure—the strong, smooth lines, the angle of his jaw, the sweep of his black hair.

  She only realised that he was staring back at her when he said softly, ‘All done?’

  She didn’t answer. There was a stillness in the room that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She reached out for her glass and immediately his hand snapped out and circled her wrist.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ His voice was still soft but there was the hard edge of command in it.

  She said irritably, ‘Why did you bring me champagne if you didn’t want me to drink it? You should have brought two bottles of orange squash.’

  ‘I would have if I’d thought a bit harder about it,’ he said, his hand still on her wrist.

  Francesca shrugged and lowered her eyes, and he removed his hand.

  ‘I think it’s about time I left, don’t you?’

  ‘Why?’

  He looked at her intently. ‘I think you know the answer to that. Come on.’ He stood up and she raised her eyes to his, confused.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To the bedroom, my girl. I think you need to sleep this one off.’

  Before she could utter a word of protest he bent down and picked her up, carrying her to the bedroom as if she weighed nothing. Of course, he was right. She was behaving in a crazy way, she knew that. With a little sigh she rested her head against his chest, hearing the steady beating of his heart, and half closed her eyes.

  She couldn’t remember having ever felt so frighteningly aware of anyone in her life before. But then, she thought, it wasn’t as though her life had been cluttered with sexual exploits, was it? In fact, what she felt now stemmed from the dizzy Olympian heights of total inexperience.

  She might have appeared on the surface to have enjoyed an uproarious few months, but she had never involved herself in all those things that seemed to go hand in hand with an uproarious life.

  He placed her on the bed and switched on the side-light, and immediately the room was bathed in a warm glow. She lay back on the pillow and her eyes drifted across the dark wooden furniture, which looked so much nicer in this half-light than it did under the harsh light of day, when its cracks and grooves were so discernible.

  Then her eyes drifted to his face.

  ‘May I have a glass of water?’ she asked, sitting up. ‘The kitchen is…’ She waved vaguely and he shot her a crooked smile.

  ‘I don’t think I need a map and compass to find my way to the kitchen.’

  He left the room and returned before she had had much time to get her thoughts into order.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said, drinking the water, and after a little pause he sat next to her on the bed.

  ‘How did you find this place?’ he asked conversationally. He was such a formidably controlled person, she thought. What would it be like to see him out of control?

  ‘Luck, aided and abetted by anger. I was so angry with Dad for involving me in his schemes, and with you.’ Not that she felt angry now. She paused. ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Hampstead. Not all that far from here, as a matter of fact.’

  He began to stand up and she said quickly, not wanting him to go, ‘Don’t leave, not just yet.’ In the silence her voice was almost a whisper and he sat back down, but with the expression of someone doing something against his better judgement.

  Most men, she thought, would have jumped at the opportunity to be in a room with her. She had had enough blunt invitations before in her life to know that.

  ‘Scared?’ he asked. ‘Is it the first time you’ve ever been on your own?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered defiantly.

  ‘Well, it’s got to be done. Now, I think it’s time you closed your eyes and went to sleep. Will the door self-lock behind me when I leave or do I need a key? I wouldn’t like to leave you in here with the place wide open.’

  ‘Why not?’ She opened her eyes wide. ‘Do you think someone might creep in in the dead of night and have his wicked way with me?’

  ‘Or steal your television and video recorder, at any rate,’ he said drily, raising his eyebrows. ‘Better to be safe than sorry.’

  ‘You needn’t give me lectures. I’ve lived in London all my life! I know how to take care of myself.’

  ‘You may have lived in London,’ he said patiently, ‘but you’ve been wrapped up in cotton wool. What would you do if a man broke into this place because you were stupid enough to forget to lock your door, or because you decided to keep the window open because it was a hot night?’

  ‘What would anyone do?’

  ‘I might have guessed you would answer a question with a question.’ He laughed, and that irritated her.

  ‘Do you think I’d be at any more of a disadvantage than if a burglar broke into your girlfriend’s flat?’ she asked, her mouth downturned at the corners.

  ‘Imogen may look small and gullible, but she’s far more streetwise than you are.’

  ‘Because she comes from a different background?’

  ‘This conversation,’ he said, his voice cool, ‘isn’t getting us anywhere.’

  ‘The least you could do is answer my question.’ Her head was feeling considerably clearer now. In fact, her brain appeared to be working remarkably well.

  ‘All right, then,’ he said, with an edge of impatience. ‘Yes. Growing up without a silver spoon in your mouth does mean that you have to develop a certain hardness, and that’s a damn good protection. When there’s no one around to make sure that the back door’s shut you damn well realise soon enough that you’ve got to shut it yourself.’

  ‘You’re never going to forgive me for being the daughter of a rich man, are you?’

  ‘I didn’t realise that I had to forgive you for anything. You work hard and that’s the bottom line.’

  ‘I’m surprised you care whether you lock th
e outside door or not,’ she muttered, irritated with herself for being perverse.

  ‘I would care about leaving any woman alone in an open flat, especially in the state you’re in.’ He spoke evenly, making sure that she got the message.

  ‘They’re more likely to steer clear of me if they come in and find me collapsed on the bed,’ she said, biting back the silly temptation to goad him into some response other than complete, polite indifference.

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Her head was beginning to swim a little again.

  ‘Fishing, Francesca?’ he asked, amused. ‘Don’t tell me that I’m the first man to point out that you’re a very attractive girl.’ He patted her hand and glanced at his watch.

  ‘Not attractive to you, though,’ she said, and there was silence.

  ‘Do a few glasses of champagne usually have such an effect on that tongue of yours?’

  She shrugged. She felt as though she was on the edge of something, as though some long-awaited event was about to happen—although she couldn’t work out what this long-awaited thing was. She just knew that her pulses were racing and her skin felt hot and tingly.

  She raised her hand, and even though she felt muddled, like someone floating softly above the clouds, a part of her still knew that what she was about to do was insane.

  She began unbuttoning her shirt, her eyes locked with his. She had never realised that there were so many buttons on this shirt. It seemed to take for ever but eventually she reached the end, and she pulled aside the shirt, exposing her breasts, full and round, her nipples erect. Her breathing felt laborious.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he asked on a sharp breath, and she reached out and grasped his hand, guiding it towards her aching breast. A sort of primeval instinct seemed to have taken over, and as his hand made contact with her skin she groaned and wriggled slightly.

  He leaned forward, his eyes glittering in the semi-darkened room, and his breathing, like hers, was quick and uneven. It gave her a heady sense of power to see that some of that self-control had slipped.

  When his mouth met hers she felt her body arch up against his, and her lips parted to allow the forceful entry of his tongue. His fingers had curled into her hair and he pulled her head back while, with his other hand, he cupped her breast.