Beyond All Reason

by Cathy Williams

  She arrived back at the hotel at five-thirty, had a very leisurely bath, washed her hair, which she bundled up into a turban, and then dialled for delivery of smoked chicken with all the trimmings.

  When she heard the knock on the door half an hour later, she trailed across to the door, still inappropriately clad in her white towelling bath robe, with her hair now combed but damp around her face, and opened it, smiling.

  The last person she expected to see standing there was Ross. Her eyes opened and she automatically took a step backwards. He was dressed casually, in a pair of black trousers with a black jumper. With his dark colouring and hard features, there was something distinctly menacing about him. Was this what a highwayman looked like? She supposed so.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, clutching the lapels of her bathrobe as if they had a will of their own and were threatening to flap open at any moment.

  His eyes drifted over her, taking in the tightly clutched bath robe, and his lips curled with amusement.

  ‘Not what you’re obviously afraid of,’ he said, leaning against the door-frame. He wasn’t barging into the room, in fact he wasn’t making any effort to enter at all, but she still found his presence oppressive.

  ‘Do you think I’m about to rape you?’ he asked, his eyes gleaming. ‘Or do you normally answer the door with an expression of panic on your face?’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ Abigail said stiffly. ‘I’ve ordered some room service and I was expecting one of the hotel staff.’

  ‘Ah. So you would have been quite relaxed, dressed like that, in front of a complete stranger. What does that say about me, I wonder?’

  She knew very well what he was hinting at. That he made her nervous, and the logical step from that would be why.

  ‘I thought you said that you were going out this evening. To see a friend.’

  ‘Did I?’ He looked at her blandly, enjoying her discomfort as much as she was hating it. The man was a sadist.

  Behind him, a tall, thin teenager arrived with a trolley of food and Ross stepped aside to let him enter. As Abigail ushered him in, thanked him, gave him a tip, she was acutely and agonisingly aware of Ross still standing there, watching the proceedings with leisurely interest, making no move to go.

  ‘Well,’ she said, once the boy had exited, red-faced, ‘have a good evening. I shall see you at breakfast.’

  She made as if to close the door and he reached out lazily with one hand and forced it back.

  ‘You’re coming out to dinner with me,’ he decided coolly.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said equally coolly, ‘I’d kill for that, but as you can see…’ She spread her arm in an expansive gesture to include the neatly arranged food, now on the low coffee-table in the middle of the room. She gave him a rueful smile which he ignored, stepping into the room, his hands in his pockets, looking around him with absent-minded curiosity.

  ‘Leave it,’ he said. ‘And get dressed. The table is booked for seven-thirty. Seafood, I thought.’

  ‘I told you,’ she repeated crossly, ‘I’m not coming out to dinner with you. I’ve made alternative arrangements. Thank you all the same.’

  It was water off a duck’s back. He continued prowling around the room, before moving to stand in front of her.

  ‘I don’t feel inclined to indulge in a pointless debate about this,’ he informed her with enough boredom in his voice to make the blood rush angrily to her head. ‘We both know that you’re coming with me, so why waste time arguing the toss?’

  There were quite a few retorts that flew to mind at that high-handed, arrogant observation, but she found that when she opened her mouth nothing emerged but a strangled, fairly inarticulate sound.

  He smiled. ‘Good. Now off you go to change. Nothing too formal. Legal Seafoods is a casual sort of place.’

  It was futile protesting further. He would, she knew, remain where he was until she gave in, and being dressed in a bath robe with her hair hanging around her face in wet tendrils was not an advantageous point from which to conduct a winning argument.

  Two months ago, she thought, Ross Anderson would never have been able to rouse this level of emotive response in her at a dinner invitation. Two months ago, she would have accompanied him politely to dinner, they would have discussed work, exchanged pleasantries on the weather, the city, whatever. Two months ago she still had her head firmly screwed on.

  She bad-temperedly headed towards the bathroom, changed into a simple long-sleeved dress in a shade of dusky blue, applied some make-up, slipped on a pair of grey, high-heeled shoes and then reluctantly faced him across the bedroom.

  ‘There,’ he said, looking at her, ‘that wasn’t the end of the world, was it?’

  He knows that phony placatory tone gets under my skin, she thought, but she wasn’t going to let him see that, so she smiled, shrugged and fetched her thick grey cardigan from the wardrobe, as well as her coat.

  They travelled down to Reception in silence and Ross made sure that a taxi was ready and waiting for them directly outside the hotel before they braved the freezing cold.

  ‘Not a good idea to scour the streets in search of transport,’ he murmured, allowing her to slip into the back seat, then lowering his long body in beside her.

  ‘Must be awful having to wait around for public transport,’ Abigail agreed easily. She could sit here and comfortably discuss the weather till the cows came home, she thought.

  ‘A place like this caters for the cold, though,’ he explained. ‘A lot more happens under cover. You could survive the winter months living like a mole.’

  ‘I don’t think I like the thought of that,’ she said, staring through the window.

  ‘You could get used to it,’ Ross said drily, and she felt his eyes on her averted face. ‘One could get used to anything, even if one doesn’t necessarily like it.’

  Was he trying to tell her something? She glanced at him sharply, but in the semi-darkness of the taxi, his expression was bland, unreadable.

  ‘It’s the basic human instinct for survival,’ she said neutrally, not dwelling on unspoken innuendo, which was probably just a figment of her imagination anyway.

  They travelled the remainder of the distance in companionable silence, and over an excellent meal of Cajunstyle fish and home fries they discussed everything, from the business transaction which Ross had successfully completed to places in Boston which he had seen during past visits, but which she had had no time to discover.

  And of course, they drank. Superb white wine. After two glasses, she was feeling pleasantly relaxed. Those intense, glittering dark eyes no longer sent her into mild panic.

  It was ten-thirty by the time they made it back to the hotel, and as the lift doors opened to her floor she turned to him with a smile and thanked him for an enjoyable evening.

  He stepped out of the lift and she felt a tiny shiver of alarm as he followed her to the bedroom door, watching as she inserted her card into the lock and pushed open the door.

  ‘Invite me in for a nightcap, Abby,’ he said with a slow smile.

  ‘We have to be up early tomorrow,’ she answered in what sounded a very feeble protest to her ears.

  ‘So we have,’ he agreed, entering the room, and moving to sit on the small two-seater sofa by the window.

  She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, torn between common sense which told her that Ross Anderson, sitting there on the sofa, casually relaxed with his fingers linked behind his head, was a dangerous man, and a strange excitement that terrified her.

  She handed him his drink, a whisky and soda, and took a sip from hers, looking at him over the rim of her glass.

  ‘Talk to me,’ he commanded. ‘Don’t just stand there acting as though I’ve suddenly turned into the big bad wolf.’

  ‘What would you like to talk about?’

  ‘How about the latest movie you’ve been to?’ He swallowed his drink and cradled the empty glass in one hand. ‘Or the kind of music you like. N
o, dammit!’ He stood up and walked across to her, towering over her. ‘No, tell me why you became a secretary, not that you’re not a damn good one, instead of going to university. I listened to you over dinner, talking about the business deal I made over here. Everything sank in, didn’t it? You understood the lot, right down to the legal jargon which most people would have switched off from early in the proceedings. So with a brain like that, what are you doing working for me?’

  ‘I could always hand in my resignation,’ Abigail quipped, and he frowned darkly and impatiently at her.

  ‘You’re avoiding my question.’

  ‘All right,’ she muttered awkwardly, wishing that he would return to the sofa so that her breathing could get back to normal. ‘I left school at sixteen because it never occurred to me that I was bright enough to continue my studies.’ Her head snapped up and her mouth was set in a stubborn, defensive line, as though he had criticised her, even though he hadn’t uttered a word. ‘Well, it’s all right for you! You had parental support, you were always——’ her voice faltered, and she looked down at her hands, wrapped round the glass like a vice ‘—encouraged, no doubt. But with me, with me it was different. My mother never expected me to aspire beyond what she saw as the acceptable course for a girl like me, from a working-class background.’

  ‘And you listened to her?’

  ‘Of course!’ She shrugged her shoulders, and attempted a light smile which met with a hard, questioning stare that made her feel slightly giddy. ‘My mother longed for a son. I was a disappointment to her. Nothing I ever said or did ever seemed to be good enough. I guess by the age of sixteen the constant silent battle had worn me out. Don’t get me wrong,’ she said quietly, ‘I love my mother, and now I understand her better. She had a hard life bringing me up. It was a struggle. She may not have expressed it properly, but deep down all she wanted for me was a life of comparative safety, a stable job…’

  ‘A reliable husband.’

  ‘Yes! Is that so wrong?’

  Their eyes clashed and she heard the heavy thud of her heart, felt the dryness of her mouth.

  ‘Understandable, but still a waste of talent.’ He bent his head and brushed her lips with his mouth. He reached for her glass, which he placed on the sideboard, without his eyes leaving her face.

  She might have had two and a half glasses of wine, and she certainly felt unsteady, but she wasn’t so unsteady that she didn’t realise the sudden danger she was in. Ross Anderson was a powerful man who played games by his own private set of rules.

  His hand curled into her hair, pulling her head backwards, and she opened her mouth to protest. Nothing emerged. His mouth found hers and the sweetness of his tongue against hers scattered her unvoiced protest. She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around his head, groaning huskily as his lips trailed over her skin, over her neck, a leisurely, intimate caress that made her gasp.

  He lifted her off her feet in one easy movement, and placed her on the wide double bed, with his arms still around her. In the still room she could hear her rapid breathing echoing his, urgent, feverish sounds that seemed to be coming from another person altogether, not her, not careful Abigail Palmer.

  His hand moved along her back, slowly unzipping her dress, slowly unclasping her lacy bra, and an immense yearning invaded her body. She moaned and felt as though she was burning up as he eased one arm out of the dress, then the bra, exposing her breast with its hard, aching nipple.

  With an instinct born of desire she cradled the full swell of her breast, offering it to him, and he took the nipple into his mouth and sucked hard on it while his tongue flicked hungrily over the sensitised tip.

  He pressed her flat against the bed and continued to kiss her mouth while he completed the manoeuvre of slipping her dress down to her waist and removing her bra, then, with trembling fingers, she undid the small buttons of his shirt and circled his broad torso with her hands.

  This was madness, she thought, but something inside her, stronger than reason, wanted the madness to continue. He caressed both breasts with his hands, massaging them, licking the milky whiteness, teasingly taking his time before he began to nuzzle the large brown nipples. It was an eroticism which she had never experienced in her life before.

  She had always thought that lovemaking was something gentle, a soft, easy meeting of bodies. She had never imagined for a moment that it could be like this, like being set ablaze, with every pore and nerve on fire.

  It was only when she felt his hand along her thigh, cupping the moistness between her legs, that the enormity of what she was doing really sank in, and it sank in with dizzying speed. One minute she had been lost in a crazy world of sensation and the next she was staring at the horror of a situation which had gone completely out of hand. Her eyes flew open and she jerked back with a stifled gasp of dismay.

  He lifted his head, but she was already pulling back, desperate to put some distance between them. She wriggled against him, frantically yanking up her dress. It didn’t take him long to figure out what was going on. Anger darkened his face and that made her move even faster, leaping off the bed and watching him, ridiculously, as if any moment he would attack.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THEY stared at each other for a long time in the dimly lit room, then he stood up, looking at her with derision as she flinched back.

  He hadn’t got undressed. Only the front of his shirt was undone and she made very sure that she didn’t look at the sliver of brown chest exposed. She had just about given up on relying on her brain to have any input into what her body wanted to do.

  He began doing up the buttons of his shirt, then he slipped the black jumper over his head and stuck his hands in his pockets. They were still looking at each other like two warring animals. He was the first to break the silence.

  ‘I can’t stand women who play games,’ he said derisively.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You know damn well what I’m talking about.’ There was hostile aggression underneath the cold voice. ‘Does it give you a kick to lead a man up the garden path and then, once he gets to the top, inform him that the front door is locked and bolted? Was that the score between you and your boyfriend? I thought that you had seen him for what he was, but maybe I was wrong.’ He took a step towards her and her nervous system went into overdrive. ‘Maybe,’ he said silkily, unsmiling, ‘he saw you for what you really were. Is that closer to the mark? Did he get fed up with kisses on the cheek and promises of better things to come?’

  ‘I said I was sorry…’

  He took another step towards her and she tried to edge a little further away without actually running. Cool and controlled was good, running like a frightened rabbit was not.

  Very easily, Abigail realised with rising panic, this could degenerate into something more than simply unpleasant. Ross Anderson was a tough man who went for the kill and he was accustomed to having his way with women much more sophisticated than she was. There was no point in flinging counter-accusations at him, or even in holding her hands up in horror at what had happened. And there certainly was no point in apologising further. He looked as though if she uttered another sorry he would throttle her.

  She would have to be composed and she would have to try and defuse the situation. Later, alone, would be the time for angry debate with herself.

  ‘Look,’ she said quietly, ignoring the curl of his lips, ‘I’m very sorry things got out of hand.’

  ‘So you keep informing me.’

  ‘Do you have to loom?’ she snapped. ‘You’re making me very nervous!’ Stay calm, she told herself, and took a few deep breaths. ‘There’s no point in discussing this. I’m sorry…’

  ‘If you say that once more,’ Ross warned her, enunciating every syllable very carefully, ‘I will personally see to it that you have something to be sorry about.’

  ‘Am I supposed to be quaking with fear at that?’ she flung at him angrily, throwing composure to the four winds. ‘Because if that’
s what you’re aiming at, then you’re way off course. A woman has every right to say no!’

  He moved swiftly. One minute he was standing at a reasonable distance away, close but not too close for comfort, and the next minute he was towering over her, his black brows drawn together in rage and she discovered that breathing was not a function to be taken for granted. She was having a great deal of difficulty with it. She was also beginning to regret her spark of retaliation.

  He circled her, as if looking at something distasteful. ‘I feel sorry for that boyfriend of yours. He’d have needed a sledgehammer to break through to you.’

  That stung, and she didn’t say anything. In a protective gesture, she folded her arms around her breasts and lowered her head.

  ‘That’s nasty,’ she mumbled finally, and he raked his fingers frustratedly through his hair.

  ‘Oh, what do you expect?’ he muttered harshly. ‘Every time I come near you, you freeze.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be coming near me at all!’ Abigail flung at him. ‘You have a girlfriend! Have you forgotten? You never used to…It was never like this…We worked well together!’

  She knew what she wanted to say and she knew that she was being inarticulate, but he understood because some of that tightly controlled rage began to dissipate.

  ‘Fiona and I are not married. I have no hold over her and she has none over me. If I were interested in that sort of possessive relationship, I would be married.’

  That was not the impression Fiona had given her, Abigail thought, but this was neither the time nor the place to have a debate on the subject. In fact, there was no time or place when the subject could be conceivably discussed because it was none of her business and he was telling her as much with his tone of voice.

  ‘As for things being different between us——’ his mouth twisted ‘—they just are. Don’t ask me why, but they are.’

  The air trembled between them. She was so aware of him that she was finding it difficult to think.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she said in a low voice, ‘but whatever impression I gave, I do not want to jump into bed with you, or anyone else for that matter, because the chemistry is right at the time. That’s not for me.’