Randal lifted his mouth slowly to look down at her. Pippa kept her own eyes shut, trembling violently. She dared not meet his stare. She knew what he would be seeing, how she must look to him—weak, flushed, her mouth still parted and swollen from his kisses, still drowning in the desire pulsing through her.
‘Now tell me you love him,’ he huskily challenged.
She forced her eyes open, their pupils distended with passion. ‘I’m going to marry him!’
‘You must be insane. You won’t be happy, either of you. He’ll soon realise you don’t love him and then he’s going to hate you. He’ll feel conned, trapped, and your lives together will be hell.’
‘You don’t know enough about us to make a prophesy like that!’
‘I know about bad marriages,’ he said flatly, and she winced.
‘Just because you had a bad marriage doesn’t mean Tom and I will. We’re very different people. Tom’s sweet and kind and caring, and I wouldn’t hurt him for worlds. I certainly won’t have affairs with other men. I’m not the type.’
‘I could have an affair with you,’ he said huskily, his mouth brushing the soft lobe of her ear, and she shuddered.
‘Don’t kid yourself! You may be vain enough to think you only have to snap your fingers to get any woman you want, but you wouldn’t get me!’
‘I just did,’ he whispered. ‘A minute ago you were in my arms and you weren’t struggling. I could have got your clothes off and had you, don’t deny it. It was me who called a halt, not you.’
‘That’s not true!’ But she knew it was, and that made her even angrier, with herself as well as him. She had briefly tried to push him away, but once his mouth touched hers she had collapsed, shaking and in near delirium, kissing him back with all the passion of her dreams.
She had never felt like that about Tom. She liked Tom, admired and respected Tom, but she didn’t burn with desire for him and if she was strictly honest she knew she never would. But she wasn’t telling Randal that; it was no business of his how she felt about the man she meant to marry. Who did he think he was?
He smiled at her, and her head swam. ‘You know it’s true, Pippa. After I stopped kissing you, you just lay there with your eyes shut—what were you doing? Waiting for me to kiss you again?’
‘I was too horrified to move!’
His eyes narrowed, hardened. ‘What?’
‘You’d scared me stiff! I was terrified of what you might do next.’
His mouth was tense with rage. ‘You little liar! You weren’t scared; you loved having me kiss you!’
‘I hated it!’ she flung back recklessly, too angry with him now to care what she said, beginning to get up, intending to make a dash for it, escape from the hotel suite.
Randal’s arms closed round her and dragged her back down on the couch. ‘We’ll see about that,’ he softly murmured, and began to kiss her again, his mouth sensually coaxing, sending waves of heat and dangerous pleasure through her.
Afraid of losing control, she gasped out, ‘You’re hurting me!’ and grabbed a fistful of his black hair, yanking it violently. ‘Stop it!’
His lips lifted and he grimaced down at her. ‘No, you’re hurting me! Let go of my hair before you pull half of it out!’
‘Serves you right!’ she muttered, her fingers releasing the thick strands she was gripping.
They stared at each other, faces very close, breathing thickly.
‘I want to leave,’ she said shakily, looking away because being so close to him made her physically weak. ‘Stop this, Randal. Let me go.’
He leaned down and gently, lightly, brushed his mouth over hers. ‘Very well. I’ll drive you home.’
‘There’s no need to! I can take a train.’ The very prospect of having him drive her made her nerves jump violently. She had to get away from him; she couldn’t take much more.
‘I’m driving you,’ he insisted. ‘I’m curious. I want to see where you’ve been living. I hope it’s better than that place you had when you worked for me. That wasn’t fit for human habitation. Do you still live in one room?’
‘No, I have a cottage,’ she said with pride. She loved her home. What would he think of it? She had to admit she would rather like him to see it.
His brows rose. ‘Do you rent it?’
Her chin lifted. ‘No, I’m buying it on a mortgage.’
‘Really? Your salary must be good.’
‘I’m earning far more money now, and the insurance company helped me buy my cottage. It’s company policy to assist staff to buy their own property; they feel it makes us more contented, so they give us low-interest loans.’
‘And it ties you to the company?’ he cynically suggested. ‘So, what happens if you change jobs, move to another firm?’
‘The interest goes up to the average rate and you can’t blame them for that. After all, why should they continue to help you if you’ve left them? But you can continue with the mortgage, just like anyone else.’
‘Where will you live, after the wedding?’
‘At the cottage. Tom lives on an estate; his place isn’t as nice as mine.’
He stood up. ‘Well, let’s go. Sure you don’t want any of that fruit? You could take some with you.’
She shook her head. ‘No, thanks. I ate more than enough.’
They left the suite and took the lift down to an underground car park. She saw Randal’s car immediately: sleek and red with a long bonnet and streamlined curves. The last time she’d seen it there had been scratches and bumps all over the front, but there were none there now.
‘It looks as good as new. I hope it didn’t cost too much to have it repaired.’
‘It had some bumps hammered out, but it didn’t cost the earth.’ He opened the passenger door and helped her into it, walked round and slid in beside her, behind the wheel.
The journey took nearly an hour. Traffic was heavy at this time of day through the city; they kept getting trapped in crowded streets with lines of other vehicles. Randal didn’t say much. She tried not to look at him, but was deeply conscious of him beside her, those long slim legs stretched out, his elegant hands moving on the wheel. Pippa had to shrink down into her own seat to avoid any contact with him; the car was small and he was very close.
Eventually, though, they emerged in flat Essex countryside and through the open window beside her she felt cool, fresh air on her hot face, blowing her chestnut hair about. She stared out at the hedges of hawthorn, just coming into leaf, which in a month or so would be thick with white flowers, at the green fields and trees, the villages through which they passed, some with ancient timbered cottages or white-frame wooden churches in tidy churchyards where old yew trees stood, bearing testimony to the long-forgotten tradition of planting yew in churchyards so that bows could be made from it, at old pubs with swinging signs.
Everything looked so normal and familiar. Only she was altered; she did not know herself. Deep inside her panic surged. Her life was in confusion, like a landscape after an earthquake, the earth blown apart, wrecked, destroyed.
‘Which road do I take now?’ Randal asked and, pulling herself together, she gave him directions.
‘It isn’t far; we should be there in ten minutes.’
‘Do you like living in the country?’
‘I love it.’
He was driving slowly as they passed the junction where the accident had happened the other night. His sideways glance told her he remembered the place.
‘Where had you been?’ she asked. ‘That night?’
‘I had been having dinner with a business associate. I got lost; I don’t know this part of the country.’
They drove on and a few moments later were parking outside her cottage. He turned his head to stare at it.
‘Well, thank you for driving me home,’ she huskily said, opening the passenger door.
He got out and came round to help her, his hand firmly gripping her arm. ‘It’s a pretty place. Have you redecorated since you bou
ght it?’
‘Yes,’ she said. Afraid her neighbours might see him, be curious about him.
‘I’d love a guided tour.’
In agitation she shook her head. ‘I’d rather not ask you in! I expect Tom will call in on his way home from work; he’ll be anxious about why I came home early. I usually come home with him. He lives quite nearby.’
Randal locked his car with a remote control, still holding her arm, then guided her towards the cottage. ‘It’s only half past four. He won’t arrive yet, will he? He looked the type to keep long hours at work. You’ve got time to show me round.’
‘Why are you so maddening?’ she fumed. ‘Why do you always have to turn everything into a battle, and win?’
He laughed softly. ‘Why do you? What is your problem? Whatever I ask you to do, you argue!’
She unlocked her front door, choked with irritation. ‘I just want you to go away! You know that!’ Samson appeared from the flowerbeds and brushed past both of them, heading for the kitchen and, he hoped, food.
Randal smiled an amused taunt. ‘Oh, I know that, but I’m not going, Pippa. I intend to save you from yourself.’
She swallowed, face disturbed. She didn’t like the sound of that. What was he plotting? There was a brightness, a mischief in his eyes, that made her feel threatened. Did he intend to stay here, confront Tom, perhaps tell Tom…? Tell him what, though? They had never been lovers. There was nothing to tell. A kiss or two, that was all. She had fled before any affair could start.
And of course that was an admission in itself, because if she had not been afraid of what might develop between them she would never have been driven to flight. Would Tom realise that?
He would if Randal drew him pictures, she grimly admitted, and no doubt that was precisely what Randal intended to do. Would Tom be shocked when he discovered she had been in love before they met?
She had never lied to him, yet she had never told him anything about Randal; she had never even mentioned his name.
He looked around at the black wood beams. ‘How old is the cottage?’
‘The deeds date form the eighteenth century, but there was a dwelling here before that, judging by old maps of the area.’ She looked at the green glass clock on the mantelpiece which she had bought in a local antiques shop. ‘Tom will be here before long. Would you mind going? I want to have a shower and change before Tom gets here.’
He took no notice, wandered around the room, looking at ornaments, books, taking them out of the white-painted shelves and flipping through them, went to the window, stared out at the back garden, then walked through into the kitchen. Crossly she followed and found him opening cupboards, inspecting the inside of the fridge. Samson excitedly cavorted around him.
‘Nice cat,’ Randal said, scratching behind Samson’s ear. ‘I like the way your kitchen is laid out; the colour scheme is very cheerful. It must be a pleasure to come in here on winter mornings.’
‘You aren’t planning to make me an offer for the place, are you?’ she tartly enquired, and he gave her a teasing grin.
‘I’m just curious about how you live. I’m trying to imagine you here. Are you always alone, or does the fiancé spend some nights here with you?’
Hot blood ran up her face. ‘I told you, I’m not discussing Tom or our relationship with you!’
His grey eyes probed her face. ‘You don’t sleep with him, do you?’ He sounded cool enough, yet something in the way he stood, body tense and alert, made her nervous. She wished she knew what he was thinking, what he was planning.
‘None of your business!’
He took a step towards her and suddenly she was terrified. Turning on her heel, she ran out, up the stairs, into her bedroom and bolted the door. Sinking down on her bed, she listened; would he come up here or leave?
There wasn’t a sound. No footsteps on the stairs, no movement in the passage outside the door.
He must still be downstairs. Or he could have gone, let himself out of the front door soundlessly.
She swivelled to pick up a hairbrush from her dressing table and brushed her gleaming chestnut hair; it was in disarray after the drive, with the wind blowing through the open window. Getting up, she looked in her wardrobe for something to change into when she had had her shower and chose a pale green tunic dress which ended at the knees. Simple but stylish, it was one of Tom’s favourites among her clothes.
She opened drawers, found clean lingerie, laid it all on her bedside cabinet, then went to the door and listened with her ear against the panel.
Still silence. She carefully opened the door and froze in shock, finding Randal leaning there; in a second he was halfway into the room and she fell back, breathless.
‘Go away!’
His gaze ran round the room, absorbing the delicate pastel colours of the walls, the pretty curtains which matched exactly the cover over her bed, the pink carpet and the white and gilt furniture.
‘Charming. Did you say you decorated it all yourself?’
‘Go away,’ she repeated, her heart in her mouth. ‘I don’t want you here.’ He was taller than she remembered, his head towering over her in this little room, the masculine force of his physical presence disturbing.
‘Why did you come upstairs, if you didn’t want me to follow you? You knew I would.’
She gave him an icy, resentful look. ‘I was hoping you would take the hint and leave my house.’
‘You aren’t a very convincing liar, Pippa,’ he mocked, coming nearer, his grey eyes wandering possessively over her. ‘Were you going to take your clothes off? Don’t let me stop you.’ Leaning over, he picked up a filmy white slip from the cabinet. ‘I can’t wait to see you wearing this.’
‘No,’ she whispered, shuddering at the way he was looking at her.
‘Yes,’ he silkily said, dropping the slip and reaching for her at the same moment.
She couldn’t breathe, her throat painful, making a sound somewhere between a sob and a groan. She wanted him and at the same time was afraid of him. Inside her desire and fear fought, but desire was winning and she knew it.
‘Don’t,’ she begged, her legs giving way under her, and he picked her up bodily and carried her to the bed.
Her eyes closed, she arched helplessly towards him as he kissed her with sensuous insistence, his hands exploring, caressing. She lost all consciousness of what he was doing, her own instincts driving her. She needed to touch him, open his shirt and discover the power of his naked flesh and muscle, clasp his nape and stroke his hair. She had dreamt of doing this, over and over again, and now she was doing it.
Above her she felt the ragged beating of his heart, his skin on hers.
Confusion flooded her mind—how could she feel his skin on hers? Opening her eyes, she looked down and realised he had undressed her somehow; she was naked, her slip, her bra and panties all gone. While she had been preoccupied with touching him he had been stripping her.
‘Pippa,’ he moaned, burying his head between her breasts, kissing the deep cleft.
He was naked, too, she realised in shock. He must have taken off his own clothes as well as hers—how had he done that without her knowing what was happening?
Or hadn’t she wanted to know?
His mouth closed over her breast, drawing a nipple inside the warm wetness, sucking softly.
Pleasure overwhelmed her; her arms went round him, holding him closer; she stroked his long, naked back and felt his knees nudging her thighs apart, his body sliding between them.
‘I want you badly,’ Randal groaned, and at that instant she heard a muffled sound from the door.
Stiffening, she raised herself to look past Randal. He turned his head, too.
Tom stood in the open doorway, face rigid, grey, staring.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE silence seemed endless. Pippa wished she would fall through the floor; she couldn’t meet Tom’s eyes. She was icy cold, shivering and sick in spite of the warmth of Randal’s body lying on top
of her, hiding much of her nakedness.
What could she say to him?
Even worse, what was Tom going to say to her?
In fact, he said nothing, simply turned on his heel and walked out without a word, although his body language was very vocal: the stiffness of his back, the way his head was carried, the way his arms were held, his hands clenched at his sides.
Randal whistled softly. ‘Oh, dear. I suppose he has a key? And let himself in? If he’d had the good manners to ring the bell first we’d have had time to get our clothes on again before he walked in here. He didn’t even call out, just came upstairs without warning, so he only has himself to blame for what he saw.’
Rage and resentment filled her. ‘Don’t you dare try to shift the blame to him! I’ve no doubt Tom was trying to be thoughtful. He’d been told I was ill—he didn’t want to force me to get out of bed and come downstairs to let him in!’
She roughly pushed him off and scrambled out of bed, pulled on her clothes with hands that trembled while Randal watched her lazily, lying on his side, the afternoon sun gleaming on his smooth, naked shoulders, his lids half lowered.
She tried to ignore him but even now her stupid body went on reacting to his, her mouth dry, her pulses hammering. Why was it that she never felt like this about Tom? Tom was physically attractive, he was a wonderful companion, she liked him—but she couldn’t pretend he made her as aware as Randal could just by being there in the same room.
‘At least you won’t have to work out how to tell him!’ he drawled.
It didn’t help that he was right. She snapped back, ‘There’s nothing to tell!’
‘Oh, come on, Pippa! It’s time to stop lying—to him or yourself. He’ll expect some sort of explanation! After all, as far as he knows you and I have never met. You hadn’t told him about me, had you? He didn’t react to my name when I gave it to him that night so I knew you hadn’t told him about me. Yet when he walked in here five minutes ago he caught us making love! How are you going to talk your way out of that?’
She had no idea. ‘I hate you!’ she whispered before hurrying out of the room and running downstairs.
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