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Harlequins SECRET BABIES BUNDLE
Hi everybody, today i have got harlequins SECRET BABIES BUNDLE which consists of the followin novels 1-BABY OF SHAME by, Julia James I will start putting the first novel if you like then i shall continue with the rest2-HER BABY SECRET by Kim Lawrence 3-THE ROYAL BABY BARGAIN by Robyn Donald BABY OF SHAME by, Julia James Summary Rhianna Davies and Greek tycoon Alexis Petrakis share one incredible night of passion that ends very messily. Five years later, when Alexis discovers from a social worker that Rhianna has been injured in a car accident and that they have a son together that needs his care, Alexis jumps to all the wrong conclusions. Angry beyond belief and protective of his son, Alexis takes control. As he whisks Rhianna and their son to his private Greek island, it isn't long before he begins to doubt his preconceptions about the beautiful mother of his child. Soon, both Alexis and Rhianna must confront the possibility that not only were they wrong about one another, but also that they belong together. Rhianna and Alexis are passionate, well-matched characters whose individual devotion to their son helps to define them as sympathetic characters that the reader will willingly invest in and root for. |
PROLOGUE
‘MR PETRAKIS.’ His UK PA’s voice was hesitant. ‘Please excuse me for interrupting you, but—’ Dark, displeased eyes flashed up at her from the man seated behind the imposing mahogany desk. Maureen Carter quailed. ‘I said no interruptions, Mrs Carter—for any reason whatsoever.’ The deep, accented voice was brusque. For a fraction of a section the forbidding gaze admonished her, then simply cut her out of existence, returning to the papers spread out on the leather-topped surface of the desk. In the doorway, Maureen Carter hesitated, then, visibly steeling herself, spoke again. ‘I understand, sir. But…but she said the call was urgent—’ Alexis Petrakis sat slowly back in his large chair and lifted his eyes to her. ‘Mrs Carter,’ he said, and his voice, with its slight Greek accent, was soft—so soft it raised the hairs on his PA’s neck. ‘You may inform Natalia Ferucia I have no interest in her affairs. With me or with anyone else.’ He rested his killing gaze on her, his mouth whipped to a tight, hard line, and then once again he returned to the papers on his desk. His PA swallowed and cleared her throat. ‘Mr Petrakis—’ she attempted a third time ‘—it isn’t Ms Ferucia on the line. It’s a Mrs Walters, from Sarmouth Social Services Department. She says it’s very important to speak to you,’ she added quickly, as Alexis Petrakis stilled and lifted his head again. His dark eyes levelled on her. ‘It’s in connection, she says, with Rhianna Davies.’ For one long second the gaze levelled on her went completely blank, as though the name she had just given him was as unknown to him as it was to her. And then a mask closed over his powerful, planed face. ‘Tell this Mrs Walters, whoever she is,’ he enunciated, cutting each word out of the air as if he were vivisecting it with a scalpel, ‘that I have no interest whatsoever in Rhianna Davies.’ He picked up his gold pen and returned to his papers. ‘But, Mr Petrakis,’ Maureen Carter said, with a final desperate urgency, ‘Mrs Walters says it’s about your son!’ And this time, finally, she got a reaction. Alexis Petrakis froze. |
CHAPTER ONE
RHIANNA was stepping out on to the zebra crossing. It was pouring with rain, the wind battering the rain hood on Nicky’s buggy. She’d checked both ways before starting to cross, but as she pushed forward, eyes stinging with rain, her head bowed into the wind, weak and exhausted but with desperate urgency, it came again, the way it always did. A screech of tyres, an engine roaring, and then a blow so violent it lifted her up and threw her sideways as the black and white painted tarmac slammed up to meet her. And then the sickening thud of her body impacting—and then the darkness. Total darkness. She jerked as her brain relived, yet again, the moment when the speeding car had run her down on a pedestrian crossing. The jerking caused pain, shooting through her, but following the pain came worse—much worse. A voice screaming—screaming inside her head. Distraught. Demented. Nicky! Nicky! Nicky! Over and over again. Drowning her with terror and fear and horror. Over and over again— A hand was on her shoulder. Her eyes flew open. One of the nurses was speaking. ‘Your little boy is safe—I’ve told you that. He’s safe. He wasn’t injured.’ Rhianna stared up into the face looking down at her, her eyes pools of anguish. ‘Nicky,’ she whispered again, her voice husky, fearful. ‘Nicky—where are you? Where are you?’ The nurse spoke again, her voice calm and reassuring. ‘He’s being looked after until you get better. Now, you just relax and get some sleep. That’s what you need now. Would you like something to help you sleep?’ Rhianna pressed her lips together and tried to shake her head. But any movement when she was awake was agony. Even breathing was an agony, her infected lungs raw and painful. ‘I can’t sleep—I mustn’t! I’ve got to find Nicky…they’ve got him. They won’t give him back. I know they won’t—I know it, I know it!’ Her voice was rising again, fear gulping in her throat, and she could hardly get the air out of her. ‘Of course you’ll get him back,’ the nurse said bracingly. ‘He’s only been taken into care while you’re here. As soon as you come out they’ll hand him over—’ But terror flared in Rhianna’s eyes. ‘No—she’s taken him. That social worker. She said I couldn’t look after him, that he’d be better off in care.’ Her hand clawed at the nurse’s fingers, eyes distending. ‘I’ve got to get him back. He’s my son!’ ‘I’ll get you a sedative,’ the nurse said, and went off. Dread and anguish filled Rhianna. Nicky was gone. Taken into care. Just like the social worker had said he would be. ‘You clearly can’t cope with looking after a child.’ Rhianna heard the condemning tone ringing in her memory. ‘Your son is at risk.’ Oh, God—why? Why? thought Rhianna. Why had the woman had to turn up just then? She’d felt so ill, and it had only been a few days after her father’s funeral. She’d taken a double dose of flu powder and it had knocked her out, so that when the social worker had arrived it had been Nicky—still in his pyjamas, patiently watching toddler TV in the living room, with a bowl of spilt cereal on the floor—who’d opened the door to the woman while his mother lay collapsed in bed, breathing sterterously and all but unconscious… The woman had taken against her, Rhianna knew, the first time she’d ever come to the rundown council flat to assess whether Rhianna’s plea for home help for her father was valid or not. The woman had told Rhianna bluntly that her father needed hospitalisation until the end came, that a dying man should not be anywhere near a small child, and that if Rhianna insisted on refusing to name her child’s father she had no business expecting the state to pay for his upbringing instead of his father. Nicky should be in nursery and she should go back to work, because that was government policy. At the end of her tether, Rhianna had lost her temper and yelled at the woman, not registering that she was still holding the vegetable knife she’d been chopping carrots with in the kitchen before the social worker had come in to harangue her. Seeing the knife blade, the woman’s eyes had flared, and she told told Rhianna she was dangerously violent and brandishing a weapon threateningly. After that everything had gone increasingly downhill. Her father’s life had drawn to its tormented close, and she’d eventually had to call an ambulance to take him to hospital, where a final stroke had brought the end at last. Her exhaustion, her illness, her desperate need to shelter Nicky from what was happening all around him, had laid her lower than she had ever been in the five bleak years since her world had collapsed around her. And when the social worker had arrived that fateful morning, to find Nicky unsupervised and Rhianna passed out, it had been the final straw. ‘I’m having a Care Order issued,’ the woman had told her grimly. ‘Before any harm comes to him either from your violent tendencies or your complete lack of responsibility.’ She’d dipped her finger in the trace of flu powder on the bedside table and sniffed it suspiciously, glaring down at the barely conscious Rhianna. ‘I’ll take this for analysis, so don’t even bother to try and hide whatever other drugs you’ve been using.’ She’d left the room, and Rhianna had somehow found the strength to get out of bed and stagger after her—only to crash into the doorframe as if she were, indeed, under the influence of drugs instead of being so ill with a chest infection she could hardly breathe. When the woman had gone, informing her she would be returning shortly with the necessary documentation to remove Nicky, Rhianna, out of her mind with terror, had dragged clothes on and set off for the doctor’s surgery, desperate to get some antibiotics as well as her doctor’s avowal that she was not a drug user and was not violent—anything she could use to fight off the Care Order. But before she’d been able to get to the surgery she’d been knocked down by a speeding car on a pedestrian crossing. When she’d surfaced back to consciousness it had been to find herself in a hospital ward, her body in agony, her limbs and torso strapped up, a drip in her arm and her lungs on fire. And Nicky gone. Nicky—her only reason for living, the only light in the black pall that crushed her, the only joy in her life. Nicky—she had to get him back! She would die without him. And he—oh, God—she could not bear to think of his distress, his confusion. Taken into care with no familiar face around him, no mother to keep him safe the way she had kept him safe all his little life. Despite all the strain and pressure, the hardship and the relentless, punishing difficulties of nursing her difficult, cantankerous father, despite coping with no money, coping with her father’s depression and his slow decline into both physical and mental incapacity, with no one to help, no one to turn to, and only the bare subsistence of the state to keep them going. Nicky! The silent, anguished cry came again and again as she drifted in an out of consciousness, reliving over and over the moment when the car had crashed into her and she’d thought it was Nicky who’d been killed… But he wasn’t dead! Dear God she’d been spared that. He was alive, but gone, and she was terrified that she would never get him back. Never. He’d be put up for adoption, spirited away, locked away…taken from her… The nurses had tried to help. ‘Is there no one who could look after him for you? Friends, neighbours, relatives?’ Rhianna’s hands had clawed on the bedclothes. ‘No one.’ She had no relatives—not since burying her father. No friends left. All gone. And neighbours—she’d never befriended anyone in the council flats, too caught up in her own overwhelming problems to have time, or any spare energy, to notice anyone else—too horrified, if she faced up to it, that her life had sunk to these sorry straits. One of the nurses had spoken again. Very carefully. ‘What about your little boy’s father?’ Rhianna’s eyes had hardened automatically, irrevocably. ‘He has no father.’ Tactfully, the nurse had said nothing more, but as she’d bustled off Rhianna’s own words seared in her mind. He has no father…. An image leapt in her mind like a burning brand. Burning through her skin, her flesh. Her memory… CHAPTER TWO RHIANNA had been desperate. Filled with a sick, agitated desperation that had made her do what she had done. But she had had no choice. Now, somewhere close to the hospital, she could hear the chilling wail of an ambulance siren. It echoed in her memory—the wailing siren of the ambulance, five long years ago, carrying her stricken father to hospital. A heart attack, and it had been her fault—her fault for telling him what she had just heard from Maunder Marine Limited. That they had themselves been acquired, and so their own corporate investment programme would have to go on hold until their new owners, Petrakis International, had given it their approval. That could take months, she’d been warned. Months during which Davies Yacht Design would have no idea whether or not the life-saving takeover by MML would ever go ahead. And without that assurance her father’s company would go under—succumb to its debts as its creditors foreclosed. It would be the end of the company—and the end for her father. He lived for his company—lived for designing yachts. A vocation. An obsession. Taking over his whole life, giving it the only meaning it had. And she, his daughter, would be no comfort to him. Unless she could save his company. She had left the intensive care ward, left her father wired up to monitors, the nursing staff looking grave, and gone back to her father’s office. And picked up the phone. There had to be a way to get the go-ahead for the takeover by MML. She had been the one to approach them in the first place, convincing the larger company that Davies Yacht Design was a profitable acquisition prospect. Forward order books were full, and the company’s technical reputation was outstanding, but the chronic under-capitalisation and growing debt-interest burden, combined with a major client cancelling his already completed order and another one changing his mind halfway through, had pushed Davies Yacht Design to the brink. Her father’s complete lack of interest in the mundane details of keeping a company financially healthy had meant the banks had lost confidence in him and they wanted an exit. If it wasn’t going to come from a white knight like MML, then they would foreclose. She had to get MML to go through with the acquisition! But it had looked as if it was not on their say-so any more. It was Petrakis International who would have to agree to it. And there was no reason why they should not, Rhianna had thought desperately. Investing in Davies Yacht Design would pay off handsomely—if she could just convince them as she had convinced MML. But she’d hit a stone wall. It was standard corporate policy, Petrakis International had informed her, to stall all its acquired companies’ major investments until they’d been checked out. She’d gone as high up the company as she could reach, and the answer had always been the same. So she’d aimed for the top, as a last desperate throw. Alexis Petrakis—head of Petrakis International. Fifteen minutes. That would be all she’d need. Fifteen minutes to run through the figures, to show what a shrewd investment it would be for MML to buy Davies Yacht Design. But his PA had shot down her hopes. Yes, Mr Petrakis was currently in London, but his diary was full, including the evenings, and he was flying back to Greece in three days’ time. Perhaps next month… But next month would be too late. There had been only one thin sliver of hope left to Rhianna. The PA had mentioned that on his last evening in the UK Alexis Petrakis would be attending a business dinner at one of the top West End hotels. It had been her last, last chance… She closed her eyes, lying in her hospital bed, feeling memory pour over her like a sheet of acid, burning into her skin. Feeling again the claws, like pincers in her stomach, as they had that fateful evening as she’d sat worried sick, at the table in the thronged banqueting hall. Because it had seemed Alexis Petrakis wasn’t going to show! It had all been in vain. She’d come up to London, forked out a fortune for a ticket to the dinner, splashed out on a new dress and a session at the hairdresser and beauty parlour—all money she could ill afford, given the parlous state of the finances at Davies Yacht Design—all for nothing. She’d even altered the seating plan posted in the cocktail reception area for the dinner, so that she would be sitting next to Alexis Petrakis. But though she’d managed to take her seat without anyone else challenging her—the seat next to her, with Alexis Petrakis’s nameplate—remained empty. Her heart had sunk, heavy as lead. If Alexis Petrakis were not there she might as well give up and take the next train home, to return to the hospital waiting room and wait for any sign that they would move her father out of intensive care. Worry had closed over her. A waiter had approached their table, deftly placing a starter course in front of each guest. As she’d murmured her desultory thanks another, taller figure, in a black jacket, not white, had suddenly also been standing there momentarily. Then he’d been taking his seat—right beside her. ‘Do please excuse me—I’ve been delayed,’ he apologised briefly to the table, his English fluent but accented. He nodded at several of the guests, acknowledging them by name, and then turned to his right. ‘Alexis Petrakis,’ he said, holding out his hand. But Rhianna wasn’t capable of responding. She was simply staring. This couldn’t be Alexis Petrakis. Alexis Petrakis—chairman of an international company—should be middle-aged and corpulent, like three-quarters of the male guests here tonight. But the man who’d just joined the table was…devastating. The word thudded in her brain. He couldn’t be much more than thirty, surely, with a whipcord leanness to him that was accentuated by the superb cut of his tuxedo—just as the dark tan of his face, his sable hair, were accentuated by the brilliant white of his dress shirt. She gazed helplessly. The planed contours of his face, the high, strong cheekbones, the straight nose, sharply defined jawline…And his mouth… Sculpted, mobile, sensual. She dragged her eyes upwards. Straight into his. Dark—obsidian-dark—but flecked very deep within with gold. And looking at her—looking at her with total, absolute focus. She felt weak, breathless. Something flickered in those gold-flecked eyes. ‘And you are…?’ The questioning voice was deep, with an accent that was making her toes curl in their narrow high-heeled shoes. There was faint speculation in the voice. She could hear it, and it quivered through her. ‘Rhianna Davies,’ she breathed helplessly, her eyes still speared by his. She couldn’t drag them away, just couldn’t. Numbly she placed her hand into his waiting one. It was warm, with slight calluses on the pads below the finger joints. He must work out, she thought, the words floating, dissociated through her. The pressure of his grip was firm, but as he slid his hand away there seemed to her to be the slightest, the very slightest, reluctance to do so. Her insides were simply churning like a concrete mixer. Then one of the other guests at the table addressed a remark to him. For one last, brief moment his eyes held hers, and then they moved. Rhianna’s heart seemed to be pounding in her chest, thumping against her ribcage. Her blood seemed to be pulsing more strongly—which was weird, because she felt as weak as a kitten. Alexis Petrakis. That’s Alexis Petrakis…. She wanted to stare and stare… Jerkily she forced herself to start eating. Fortunately the conversation at the table was between the other guests, and Alexis Petrakis was still addressing himself to the man who had spoken to him. Rhianna hadn’t the faintest idea what they were talking about. The results of some company she’d never heard of—she caught snatches of words like ‘interims’ and ‘EBITDA’. She ignored them. All she wanted to do—all she was capable of doing—was to go on gazing at Alexis Petrakis. She had never, never set eyes on anyone so breathtakingly gorgeous. She had seen her share of handsome men. Gone out with quite a few of them. She was lucky, she knew—very, very lucky—to have been blessed with a blonde beauty that had always drawn male eyes ever since she was an adolescent. But her mother had kept her close, frightened she might, as she herself had done, fall disastrously for the first wrong man that came by. So for the most part Rhianna had *******ed herself with casual dating, keeping her admirers at bay. And since her mother’s death in a car crash eighteen months ago she’d been in no frame of mind to look for romance. Then there had been all the trauma of seeking out her estranged father and discovering the disastrous situation at his company to keep her from thinking about men. So it was totally immaterial that Alexis Petrakis was the most stunning-looking male she’d ever set eyes on. Her only task was to persuade him to give the green light to MML’s takeover. But that wasn’t a subject she could broach in the middle of a formal business dinner. She’d always anticipated that she would have to use the dinner to give her an opportunity to request a private word with him after it was all over, and then go into her pitch. In which case—she reached for her champagne flute—there couldn’t be any harm in going on gazing at him, could there? While he talked to his business acquaintances… She took a mouthful of champagne. It tasted warm. It had been poured out too long ago. ‘Allow me—’ Alexis Petrakis had stopped his conversation. He was helping himself to the bottle of white wine left in its chiller by the wine waiter. As he took it out he glanced assessingly at the label, as if to check it was up to standard, and then filled Rhianna’s white wine glass. ‘Th-thank you,’ she managed. ‘My pleasure,’ said Alexis Petrakis. His long-lashed, gold-flecked eyes swept over her. And Rhianna felt her stomach plummet all over again. ‘Rhianna Davies,’ the deep, accented voice murmured, as if searching private files inside his head. His eyes were still on her, and suddenly she felt a wash of liquid warmth go through her. With every inch of her consciousness she became aware of herself. Her silver gown, with the softly draped bodice and shoestring straps, her long pale hair flowing down her bare back, the wings of her hair caught with a silver clip at her nape, the silver necklace around her throat and the matching earrings she was wearing. ‘You don’t know me,’ she got out, ‘Not yet,’ he murmured in reply, his eyes doing that weak-making wash over her again. For a moment time seemed to stop. She just sat there, with this extraordinarily magnetic man looking at her, and let herself be looked over. While she looked back. Deep, deep into his eyes. Something flowed inside her. Something so powerful and overwhelming that her breath was ripped from her. The rest of the meal was a blur. She must have made polite, general conversation, picked at her food, drunk her wine, but she couldn’t remember a thing. The only thing she was aware of was the man sitting next to her. He talked to her sometimes, as the conversation meandered, but whenever he did she found herself almost completely tongue-tied. The meal seemed to take for ever—and yet no time at all. But as the after-dinner speaker finally stepped down, signalling the end of the formal proceedings, and conversation struck up again across the banqueting hall, Rhianna felt the pincers go to work in her stomach again. And this time it was because she knew that Alexis was the man—the only man—who could save her father’s company. And it was up to her to get him to do it. Tonight. Their table was breaking up. People were getting to their feet, taking their leave, either to leave the dinner completely or to mingle with guests at other tables. She mustn’t let Alexis Petrakis leave! She had to keep him there. She had to do something. But how? She couldn’t just blurt out Please let MML buy my father’s company! Then, just as she felt sick apprehension pool in her stomach, he spoke. ‘May I offer you some port?’ Her head turned. Alexis Petrakis was reaching out to the port decanter. She watched him fill both their glasses. She picked up her glass and sipped. The warm, rich liquid was like velvet in her throat. Alexis Petrakis leant back in his chair. The gesture made the fine material of his dress shirt tauten across his chest, broadening his shoulders. He had beautiful hands, she found herself thinking. Nails white against the olive tan of his skin. Long fingers. She gave a hesitant smile. Her nerves were jittering. Any minute now he might glance at his watch, and murmur politely that he must go, or someone from another table might come up and start talking to him, cutting her out…She had to ask him now. And for her father’s sake she had to get this right. ‘Mr Petrakis—’ Her voice sounded high pitched. Where it had come from, she did not know. She forced herself to go on. She had to. ‘Mr Petrakis, I wonder—I wonder if I might have a word with you?’ Her eyes were wide—very wide. Something changed about him. She didn’t know what. But there was a sudden, instant edge of tension. ‘In—in private,’ she added. Her voice was breathy. For a moment his eyes were veiled, unreadable. Oh, God, she thought. He’s going to say no… Then, slowly, he set down his port glass. ‘Of course,’ he replied. His eyes seemed to flicker over her, brushing like a very fine breath. He got to his feet. ‘I’m sure,’ he said, looking down at her, ‘we can find somewhere sufficiently private.’ His voice was smooth, but it was like the smoothness of a sea where deep currents lurked beneath. Her breath tight in her throat, Rhianna stood up. He was tall, she realised. Towering over her five foot six. She paused to stoop and pick up her evening bag. Then, with her heart beating like a drum, she let him usher her from the banqueting hall. As he steered her towards the bank of lifts in the lobby outside Rhianna paused and turned, looking up at the tall, overpowering man behind her. Her stomach was churning again, and she fought to subdue her nerves. Yet at the same time relief was surging through her. She’d done it—she’d got him to agree to listen to her. She had a chance—a last, last chance—to save her father’s company. Her father—lying in hospital, wires all over him, fighting for life… ‘Mr Petrakis, thank you so much for agreeing to—’ ‘This way.’ He cut across her careful speech with a murmur and ushered her inside a lift. Presumably they were going to the foyer, or one of the hotel’s quieter bars. But when the lift doors opened again they were on the penthouse floor. And the room whose door he opened with a single swipe of his electronic key was a suite. For a second she hesitated. Then she crushed the feeling down. She needed to speak to Alexis Petrakis, and if he wanted to let her do so in his hotel suite then she was not about to object. As she stepped inside and gazed around the suite’s opulent reception room her eyes widened. What on earth must a suite like this cost for a night? Thousands of pounds? It must! The thought gave her courage—surely to a man worth as much as Alexis Petrakis buying up a small yacht design business would be peanuts. She opened her mouth to speak, fumbling with the clasp on her evening bag so she could take out the sheet of paper that gave an at-a-glance summary of the business case she was going to put forward to justify the takeover. But before she could open her bag she heard a soft ‘pop’ behind her. She turned. Alexis Petrakis was pouring champagne, filling up two flutes from the sideboard. He strolled towards her. There was something very controlled about the way he was walking towards her. It made her think, just for a second, of a wildlife film, with a leopard approaching the camera. It got closer, and closer—and then the shot cut out, as the cameraman retreated. But she had no line of retreat. She shook her head minutely. What was she thinking of? She didn’t need a line of retreat. She just needed fifteen minutes of Alexis Petrakis’s time. She certainly didn’t want champagne. But it seemed rude to reject it now that he’d opened a bottle specially—she tried not to think how much the hotel charged for champagne in the penthouse suite—so she took the proffered glass. ‘Please—you shouldn’t have—’ She sounded silly and immature. It was going to feel odd, she knew, putting forward a business case with a glass of champagne in her hand and wearing an evening dress, but she hadn’t any choice. Besides, either the figures would convince Alexis Petrakis or they wouldn’t. What she was wearing or drinking was irrelevant. He was lifting his own glass. ‘Stin iya sas!’ She looked blank. ‘It is the *****alent of your “Cheers”,’ he said. She gave a hesitant smile. ‘I—I don’t speak any Greek. I’ve never been to Greece.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘You have never been to Greece?’ ‘No.’ Her mother had not liked foreign travel. She’d liked to live in her little house in a small town in Oxfordshire, not going far. Nor had she liked the sea. She should never, Rhianna knew, have married a man whose obsession was designing ocean-going yachts. No wonder their marriage had broken up soon after she was born—even though her mother had always blamed her father for walking out on them. ‘You should. It is one of the most beautiful countries on earth.’ He strolled towards the sofa. ‘Won’t you sit down?’ Hesitantly she took a seat at one end, her narrow dress susurrating as she did so, depositing her handbag with its precious financial summary in it on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Alexis Petrakis set the champagne bottle on the coffee table and lowered his tall frame down on to the far end of the sofa. He rested the hand holding his champagne glass on the arm of the sofa; his other arm stretched out along the back of the cushions. Disconcertingly close to Rhianna. But then everything about Alexis Petrakis was disconcerting. Disturbing to her peace of mind, making strange sensations ripple through her, making her body hyperaware of itself—of him. Distracting to her concentration—which she needed to focus on how to put the business case for MML’s takeover as persuasively as possible. She didn’t need to continually be stopping herself from just wanting to gaze and gaze at him… Why couldn’t he be fat and fifty? She let her eyes flicker to him and promptly she wished she hadn’t. Oh, God, he was just so fantastic-looking—she felt her heart begin to thump in her chest again. She took a draught from her champagne glass, trying to steady herself. She took a deep breath. ‘Mr Petrakis—’ she began. Again, her voice had come out breathy. She hated it. She needed to sound cool and composed and businesslike. ‘Alexis…’ His voice was smooth. She didn’t know what to answer. She didn’t feel comfortable with addressing the head of a massive European business empire by his first name. And the low, accented pitch of his voice made a soft quiver go down her back… Stop it! Just start telling him what you came here to tell him! But he had started talking again. ‘You really should go to Greece. There are many private places tourists hardly visit—if ever. This time of year, early spring, is especially lovely. The countryside is vivid with wildflowers before the heat of summer arrives. You would find it very beautiful.’ His voice was bland, but his eyes—Rhianna felt her throat tighten—were watching her with an expression that was anything but. Nerves started to jitter inside her. She took another mouthful of champagne to steady them. The bubbles beaded in her mouth and she swallowed hastily. She could feel the alcohol giving her a jolt. Uneasily, she wondered how much she’d drunk that evening. She’d been careful, knowing how much was at stake, but even small amounts could add up. And have an impact. Make her feel ultra-sensitive to things—ultra-aware. Make her misinterpret things. Things like the way Alexis Petrakis was looking at her through dark, veiled eyes, relaxing back against the sofa cushions, casually lifting his champagne glass to his mouth…his mobile, sculpted mouth. His sensual mouth… For a moment she felt her gaze hang, unable to pull it away. He did have the most incredible, sensual mouth… With sheer effort of will she pulled her gaze away. Her mouth felt dry, despite the champagne she’d just drunk. She pressed her lips together, as if to moisten them. His eyes narrowed. She saw it happen. Hardly at all, but discernible. Hastily, she took yet another mouthful of champagne. It fizzed as she swallowed, and again she felt the alcohol kick through her. She took another breath, feeling her breasts lift as she did so. ‘Mr Petrakis—’ Again that low-pitched, accented voice interrupted her. ‘Alexis,’ he corrected. She pressed her lips again. ‘Alexis.’ She forced herself to say his name. It came out like a soft breath. ‘Rhianna,’ he replied. The way he said her name was much more evocative than any way she’d ever heard it pronounced before. He took a mouthful of his own champagne. ‘Rhianna,’ he mused. ‘It’s not an English name I know.’ ‘It’s—it’s Welsh,’ she said. ‘How do you spell it?’ ‘R-h-i-a-n-n-a,’ she spelt out. He frowned. ‘There seems to be a Greek “rho” in there.’ ‘I don’t know,’ said Rhianna, knowing she sounded stupid, but not knowing what else to say. She didn’t want to sit here discussing her name. Not when Alexis Petrakis was leaning back, champagne glass trailing from one hand, the other dangerously near her bare shoulder along the back of the sofa, one long leg crossed over his knee, looking supremely relaxed… Or was he? She studied him covertly a moment. He looked relaxed, but there was something about the way he was holding his body that made her think he was not. Not relaxed at all. As though a fine thread of tension were running through him. Keeping him on a leash. She felt her own body tense. Looking at him was a mistake. Every time she’d looked at him over dinner she’d felt that devastating weakness go through her, that tightness in her breath, that quickening of her heart-rate. And she mustn’t feel that. She just mustn’t. Suddenly she felt as if the walls of the room had moved in closer, crushing out some of the oxygen in the air. It was very quiet—the luxurious opulence had a deadening effect on sound, and the double-glazed windows let in no sound from the busy street far, far below. With a tight intake of breath she made a third attempt to broach the subject she had to open. ‘Mr—um—Alexis—’ She stumbled over his name, still finding it hard to address him by his given name and not the more formal and honorific surname. ‘Rhianna…’ he echoed again. And again that was that slight quirk of his mouth, as though he found amusement in what she had just said. He rested his eyes on her. Night dark, flecked with gold. If she looked long enough she could see the flecks quite clearly… ‘Um—I just wanted to—to…’ Her voice was breathy again, and she hated it, but she couldn’t make it sound crisp and businesslike. She was too wound up, too tense. ‘Yes?’ There was polite enquiry in his voice, and his expression was bland. But that thread of speculation was still there. As if he’s playing with me. A prickle went down her spine. She took another mouthful of champagne. It definitely helped, she thought. ‘Tilt your glass.’ She blinked. He’d reached forward to pick up the champagne bottle on the table. Docilely, she found herself tilting her glass. You don’t need any more champagne! Abruptly, she pulled her glass back. For the briefest second the golden effervescing liquid splashed on to her lap, before he straightened the bottle with a Greek expletive. The icy liquid soaked instantly through the fine material of her dress and made her cry out, and jolt, and then the frothing champagne was spilling out of her foaming glass, all down the bodice of her dress, just as icy. She gave another cry. ‘Oh, no!’ she cried, appalled, jumping to her feet, gazing horrified at the soaked material. Champagne stained, she was sure of it—and, worse than that, the wet material was clinging tightly to her braless breasts, outlining them completely. Added to that, the cold of the liquid had had a predictable effect on her nipples, which were suddenly standing out like pebbles. Mortified, she spread her free hand as concealingly as she could over her bodice, wanting the earth to swallow her. Abruptly, Alexis Petrakis—who was, she realised gratefully, taking the incident very calmly—removed the all-but-empty glass from her fingers. ‘Perhaps you would like to go and change?’ he suggested. Rhianna’s eyes flew to him. Was he being sarcastic or something? But she was in no position to care. And she realised he must just be trying to be as tactful as possible in a mortifyingly embarrassing situation. He set down the champagne bottle and both flutes, and got to his feet. ‘Let me show you where the bathroom is.’ ‘Thank you—I’m so—so sorry!’ she gasped, her voice sounding breathy again, her eyes wide with embarrassment. ‘Not at all,’ was all he said, in a smooth, accented voice, as he tugged the light cord to illuminate the interior. She dived inside and shut the door as quickly as she could. Her eyes flew to her reflection in the mirror over the huge basin, and she dropped her arms. She had to get the champagne out fast, or it would stain. The dress had cost a fortune—she’d known she had to look as if she were an habitué of posh London business dinners—and she was loath to ruin it the first time she wore it. Setting her teeth, she reached behind her and slid the zip hdown. It was soaked anyway—water wouldn’t make it any wetter. She stepped out of the dress and caught her reflection in the mirror over the basin. Her half-naked body looked…different. Her breasts, still peaked by the effect of the cold champagne, were fuller, rounder. Her waist, accentuated by her suspender belt and skimpy briefs, seemed slimmer. Her legs, in their sheer stockings, more slender. Her hair, cascading down her completely naked back, much longer. As for her face… Smoky eyes looked back at her, deep set, with long dark lashes, her mouth, lipstick stained into her slightly parted lips, seemed lusher somehow. She stared at herself She looked…erotic. The word stole into her mind, shocking her. She tried to push it away, but it was no use. She went on staring. Everything, she realised slowly, was very slightly blurred, very slightly softened around the edges. She felt a creaming in her veins. It made her feel…different. And very, very aware of her body—her half-naked, erotic body—revealed in the mirror. And as she stared at herself she started to feel a tremor, deep inside her, as if something were stirring, had just awoken. She pulled back. No, this was not on. Totally, totally not on. Hastily she returned her attention to her wet dress. As she did so her eyes caught sight of the bathroom’s courtesy hairdryer, tucked into its socket beside the basin. With relief, she seized it, spread out her dress over her free hand as much as possible, and turned the hairdryer on to it. The thin material dried blessedly quickly, and without a stain. As she slipped the dress back on again it felt warm to her skin. She did up the zip, she checked her reflection again. The heat from the hairdryer had brought a soft flush to her cheeks, a warmth to her exposed arms and shoulders. Her long hair had been lightly winnowed, lifted in silken strands. Again she felt that deep tremor stir within her, that creaming in her veins, that languor stealing through her. What’s happening to me? She felt strange…dissociated. As if she were moving through a dream. Slowly, she walked out of the bathroom. And stopped dead. Alexis Petrakis was in the bedroom. He had discarded his tuxedo jacket, his dress tie was unfastened, as was the top button of his shirt, and he was slipping the gold links from his cuffs. As she stepped out of the bathroom he looked up and across at her. His eyes flicked over her gown. An expression of slight, mocking surprise lit in his eyes. ‘Unnecessary. But…’ he started to stroll towards her ‘…it has its compensations.’ It was the leopard again. Heading towards her. But its leash had been slipped. She couldn’t move. Could only stand, totally frozen, her heart starting to hammer in great, pounding thuds that sent the blood rushing in her veins through all her body. It was his eyes. She could see it in his eyes. See the gold flecks deep within. See the intent in them. The very, very clear intent. Her lips parted, taking in breath. Instantly she could see his eyes narrow, that edge of tension tauten through him. She had to move—but she was frozen. Completely frozen. Waiting. Helpless. He stopped in front of her. She could feel his presence, invading hers. Catch the male musk coming from him, overlaid by the spiced notes of expensive aftershave. He was looking down at her, out of those obsidian night-dark eyes, and she couldn’t move—couldn’t move. Could only gaze, helpless, up at him. And drink him in. Drink in the sable hair, the lean planes of his face, the strong, straight cut of his nose, the faint masculine shadow along his jaw, roughening his smooth, tanned skin. Oh, God, she thought. He is just so, so beautiful… Her hand half lifted. She wanted to reach up, to cup her fingers along his jaw, feel the roughness of his skin, smooth her finger along the high arch of his cheekbones, reach with her mouth to his, feel the touch of it on hers. To slide her fingers into that silky sable hair and draw him to her, parting her lips… She tried to stop herself. But she couldn’t. Had no power over herself any more. She felt her body sway—sway towards him. She felt her hand lift, reach up… He caught it. A swift, sudden movement that stilled her. His fingers closed around her wrist, pulling her towards him with slow, inexorable strength. She gazed up at him, drowning. His pupils were like pinpricks, flared with gold. ‘Indulge me,’ he said softly. Her pupils dilated. She could not help it. Did not know it. Could only stand there, lips parted, wrist caught, her body swaying towards his. ‘Indulge me,’ he said again, more softly. And then, with his other hand, he slowly, very slowly, slid one long finger underneath the thin strap over her shoulder and gradually, little by little, drew it down over her arm until he had peeled bare her breast. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, his voice soft and low. He let go her wrist and lifted his hand to the other strap. Drawing it down her shoulder, slowly peeling down the bodice of her dress. She couldn’t move. Not a muscle. Could only stand while Alexis Petrakis bared her breasts. For his delectation. For one long, endless moment he just stood there, looking at her. ‘You really are,’ he said, in that same soft, low voice, ‘exquisite.’ Beneath his gaze she felt her breasts prickle, felt them engorge, her nipples harden, tighten. Felt the tremor deep within her quicken. She felt her body sway again. A small sound came from her throat. She did not know what it was. It was inchoate, unconscious. But reality had stopped. Stopped the moment she had stepped out of the bathroom and set eyes on Alexis Petrakis, stood still while he advanced on her. With one purpose, one purpose only, in his tread. He smiled now. His mouth curving. ‘Yes,’ he said, his lashes sweeping down over his dark, obsidian eyes. ‘I know.’ He reached a hand to lightly, oh-so-lightly, stroke her hair. She felt a soft, trembling shiver go through her at his touch. The unformed sound came from her throat again. Her breasts—swollen, taut—had begun to ache. A low, slow throbbing was resonating through her body. Her pupils distended, her body swaying forward yet again. She wanted…She wanted… His hand tightened in her hair, cupping her head. She gazed at him, eyes huge, quite, quite helpless. Something flared in his eyes—something that was instantly, ruthlessly leashed. She went to his bed without a word, without a murmur. Only soft, aching moans that he could stop with his mouth. But when his mouth left hers to shape her breasts, to close over her straining, aching nipples, they came again. They came as he trailed his lips along the taut contours of her belly, as his palms smoothed her loosening thighs. And when his teeth grazed at the tender lobes of her ears, bit softly, so softly, at her swollen lip, the low, aching moans deep in her throat came again. Reality fled. It was somewhere else. Another universe. A universe where pain and problems were, where worry and anxiety bit deep into the bones, where dread and fear pressed from all directions. But here—here there was only bliss. Bliss such as she had never known, had never known existed. How could the human body feel so much? How could the sense of touch be so exquisite? So all-consuming. And how could she want more of it? And more, and more, and more? Until her body was a single living flame, a flame that was burning, burning ever fiercer. His body pressed her down. She felt its strength, its power. Her hands revelled in the taut, sculpted muscles of his back, his shoulders. Her thighs strained against the sinewed cords of his. Against her belly she felt the long, hard shaft of his manhood. A hunger started to grow in her. She writhed against him. His tongue was laving the swollen, aching peak of her nipple, sending flames shooting through her breast, making her fingers claw over his shoulders. From her throat tore the soft, aching moans she could not suppress. She writhed against him again, the hunger mounting and mounting. He smiled against her breast, lifted his head. His dark eyes, flared with gold, looked down at her. She felt the quickening pressure of his probing manhood. Hunger bit through her again, fierce, unsated. She twisted instinctively against him, feeling the pressure surge. She wanted… She gazed up at him, helpless, wanting. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘I know.’ The moan came from her throat again. Her eyes dilated, distended. Pleading for what she wanted… His features tensed, as if he were suddenly exerting a huge, overpowering control. Then, with slow, deliberate descent, he entered her. Rhianna stirred. Her body felt heavy, languorous. She didn’t want to wake. She wanted to stay within the dream she was having, enfolded within the circle of strong arms, clasped tight against the warm, hard body of the man cradling her in his sleeping embrace. An embrace that had come only after an ecstasy so intense she had cried out, lips parting, throat arching, while her body writhed like a living, burning flame of bliss, on and on and on, until her whole being was one molten sheet of unbearable, exquisite sensation. Only then, as the burning brand that was her body cooled to nothing more than a softly pulsing warmth, had he rolled back against the pillows in a fluid, exhausted movement, pulling her against him, folding her against his body. He had murmured something to her—she knew not what. Soft, sibilant words that were a breath in her ear. His hand had splayed possessively across her abdomen, his mouth warm against her shoulder. She had felt weak with wonder, glowing with the last embers of the fire that had consumed her, warm and safe and sated. She had slept a deep, deep sleep in the circle of his arms, her dreams capturing this moment of perfect happiness. But now brightness was pressing on her lids, bringing her to reluctant wakefulness. She blinked open her eyes. He was leaning over her. His eyes were heavy with desire. Deep within, they stirred her, warming the blood in her veins. Slowly he bent down to softly kiss her, his lips warm and tender. ‘Good morning,’ he said, his voice low, husky. ‘I should ask you whether you slept well, but I happen to know…’ long lashes swept over dark eyes ‘…that you slept very little last night.’ His gaze washed over her as she lay back against the pillows, her hair tumbled, her lips beestung from the night’s long, long passion. ‘You are even lovelier than you were last night.’ The husk was thicker, and long lashes swept over his eyes again. ‘I only wish…’ His voice trailed off. She gazed up at him, breathless, as he stood up. He looked—breathtaking. He was freshly shaved, his hair very slightly damp from showering—and he was fully dressed in a business suit. She felt a coldness start around her heart, a pooling of dismay nascent in her stomach. He was looking at his watch, shooting back his cuff. He spoke again, but now his words were clipped, his voice terse. ‘Unfortunately I have a business meeting this morning which I cannot avoid. So, much as I regret, I will have to leave you now.’ She heard the words, but for one dissociated moment she did not understand what they meant. Then their meaning hit her with a sickening blow. Oh, God, he was going—walking out. She’d been taken for a one-night stand. That was all it had been. A convenient, handy, fast-food snack to stave off night starvation. He’d eyed her up, made his move on her, had sex with her, taken his fill, slept it off—and now he was going. She felt sick. Reeling. And then, out of nowhere, another shockwave hit. MML. Horror galvanised her. Oh, God. This wasn’t just any man she’d gone to bed with within hours of meeting him for the first time, who was now walking out on her in the customary brutal morning-after ritual. This was Alexis Petrakis—the one man in all the world who could stop her father’s company going under… And instead of getting him to approve the MML takeover, she’d fallen into bed with him—like a ripe, wanton peach. Sickness drenched through her. He was speaking again, drawing out a mobile phone from his inside jacket pocket. ‘However, I will be—’ ‘No! Please—wait—don’t go yet.’ He stopped speaking in mid-sentence. ‘Rhianna, I—’ ‘No! Wait—please wait. There’s something I must—something I wanted—’ She broke off. Oh, God—she had to do this. She would have given a million pounds not to, but she had to! She pulled herself upright, clutching the sheet to her. Her heart was pounding. But she had to do this. However horrible it was to do it now… ‘Before you go—there was—there was something I wanted to talk to you about!’ She took a hectic breath. ‘MML,’ she said. She stared at him wide-eyed, still clutching her sheet to her, her hair tumbled around her naked shoulders. Alexis Petrakis had gone still. ‘Go on.’ His voice was controlled. Very controlled. She swallowed. Forcing herself to speak. He’d told her to go on—she had to do so. ‘You’ve frozen all its corporate investments. One of them is my father’s company—Davies Yacht Design. I came to the dinner last night to meet you. To persuade you—’ ‘Yes?’ The voice cut across her. ‘To persuade me—?’ She stared at him. Something was happening to his face. The expression was draining out of it. Completely. Absolutely. ‘Yes.’ Her voice was breathy, her throat tight with nerves, her eyes distended. ‘To persuade you to—’ Her voice broke off. A chill was starting through her. She could feel her skin contracting, tightening. ‘To persuade you…’ Her voice had husked to a low, breathy whisper. It was all she could manage. Her throat was stretched tight with nerves, with desperation, as she gazed up at him, her eyes wide with urgency. ‘To go ahead with the takeover. It would be good for you—it really would. I promise. I can show you right now…’ Her voice trailed off, leaving unsaid the fact that she had a financial print-out in her handbag next door. There was something about his face that was frightening. Chilling her like ice. Her heart started to thud as she stared up at Alexis Petrakis’s expressionless face. Slowly he slid the mobile phone back inside his jacket. ‘There is something you should know. You have made a mistake,’ he said. And though his voice was soft, it was a softness that was deathly. ‘A very bad mistake. You see…’ He paused, and the eyes resting on her held, she realised, the same chill that was hollowing through her, were as expressionless as his face. ‘I do not do business in bed. Ever. So, although you were very good—very good indeed—’ his voice was a lacerating drawl, like a razor being drawn over her flesh ‘—you have used me for no purpose. Except, of course—’ and now his eyes washed over her suddenly, and the expression in them made her gorge rise ‘—to demonstrate your…expertise. Exceptional expertise, in fact.’ Long lashes swept down over his eyes, and when they swept back up again the obsidian gaze cut like a scalpel into her. ‘You’re very skilled, Rhianna, but you should have *******ed yourself with a cash payment. I’d have been happy to pay for you. In fact…’ He reached inside his jacket again, but this time he took out a slim leather tooled wallet. He flicked it open. A cluster of fifty-pound notes fluttered on the bed. ‘Keep the change,’ he said softly. Then he turned and walked to the door. ‘You have ten minutes to vacate this suite. Hotel security will escort you out.’ At the entrance to the reception room he paused. He did not turn. ‘As of now, MML no longer has any interest in Davies Yacht Design.’ His voice was hard. As hard as stone. He walked out. He didn’t look back. In the bed, Rhianna started to shake. |
those stores are buetiful so thank you
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[/thank u very much , when r u going to contnue it
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[CHAPTER THREE
‘HE’S in here.’ The woman opened a door off the narrow hallway. She had an infant balanced on her hip, tugging at her hair and whimpering, and an air of distraction about her that did not impress Alexis Petrakis. Alexis controlled his emotions. He’d been doing that ever since he’d taken the call that his PA had patched through to him. The call that threatened to change his life for ever. It was only by the most stringent exercise of self-control that he had got to this point now. The moment of truth. As he walked into the room, in front of the woman he felt his hands clench at his side. Let this not be true! Thee mou, let this not be true! Because it couldn’t, couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be true what that social worker had told him over the phone That she had opened an envelope in Rhianna Davies’s flat, as she was packing things for the child who had just been taken into emergency foster care, and read the handwritten note clipped to the boy’s birth certificate—citing himself as father of her son. Rhianna Davies was lying. Christos, there could be no other explanation! A woman like that—who had used him, had gone to bed with him to get his money—would not have hesitated a month, a week, to claim his paternity of a child she had conceived in that sordid encounter! So she could only be lying. Lying to cause trouble… Which meant that the child he was about to set eyes on could not possibly be his. Dear God, please no—not his! Alexis’s eyes swept around the room. The carpet was strewn with children’s toys. Two school-age children were sitting on a sofa, watching children’s TV. Alexis felt his guts clench, and then release. But even as he felt the cold start to drain out of his veins the woman began speaking in a deliberately low voice he could hardly hear above the blaring TV. ‘He’s not settled at all well. I’ve done my best, but he’s just not responding. Poor little mite,’ she finished, her distracted manner softening suddenly. She walked in past Alexis and went up to a large armchair half hidden in this small room by the open door. Alexis felt his head turn to follow her as if it were filled with lead. Crouching down, rebalancing the infant on her hip slightly to do so, she said in a gentler voice, ‘Hello, pet. How’s tricks?’ She ruffled the hair of the small child curled into the confines of the armchair, a battered teddy clutched tightly to him. The child did not respond to the woman, either to her voice or her touch. He just went on sitting there, curled like a foetus, immobile, unresponsive. Tension in every line of his little body, his face averted so only his profile showed. With a sigh she got to her feet. ‘You see?’ she said to Alexis. He did not hear her. Did not see her. Saw nothing but the child curled into the chair. His profile was familiar from a dozen family photo albums. Himself. Himself when young. He could not move. His lungs were frozen, his body rigid. But emotion was knifing through him, blow after blow. Killing him. How long he stood there he did not know. Time had stopped. Stopped five long years ago when his seed had melded with the woman who now, the social worker had told him, lay in a hospital bed. Just in time, she had told him, to make it so much easier to take the boy into care—away from such an irresponsible and unfit mother. My son. The words repeated inside his head over, and over again. My son. Out of nowhere, overwhelming him, emotion poured through him. The fiercest, most overpowering urge to wrap that small, hunched body to him, to enfold him and protect him—always. It shook through him, and he knew it for what it was. It was unasked for, but it had come all the same. And he would, he knew, be in its power all his days. Slowly, very, very slowly, he started to walk forward, towards the little boy. At his approach the child tensed even more, his head turning fearfully. Dark, distended eyes stared up at him anxiously, his mouth trembling. Alexis felt his heart clench—with fury and with pain. He forced a smile to his face. He must not, must not frighten the child. ‘Hello, Nicky,’ he said slowly, speaking to his son for the first time ever. Rhianna stirred sluggishly, sleep draining from her. Her eyes opened heavily. She stared, confused. She was no longer in a hospital ward. She was in a room on her own. The walls were a soft pink. A nurse was altering the slats of the Venetian blinds over the window. ‘Hello,’ she said brightly. ‘How are you feeling?’ ‘Where am I?’ Rhianna’s voice sounded faint and dazed. ‘You’re in the Sellman Wing of the hospital. It’s the private wing.’ ‘Private? But I can’t afford—’ The nurse smiled reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry—everything has been taken care of. Now, tell me how you’re feeling. You have a visitor, you know.’ Emotion leapt in Rhianna’s eyes, completely obliterating the question of how she had come to be in a private ward. ‘Nicky!’ Her voice was a hoarse croak, and she started to try and sit up. Immediately the nurse hurried forward to help prop her against the pillows, easing her skilfully back. ‘Nicky?’ she echoed. Rhianna’s eyes were strained and wide as she steadied her breathing after the effort of moving. ‘My little boy,’ she said, the pain in her voice audible. The nurse stood back and shook her head regretfully. ‘I’m afraid not. But if you’re ready I’ll send him in. He’s been most impatient for you to wake.’ She bustled out. Rhianna closed her eyes, desolation washing through her. Nicky—he was her only thought. She had to get to him, find him, get him back. She didn’t care if she could still hardly get out of bed, let alone walk, that her lungs still ached even through the painkillers, that her body still felt as if a steamroller had gone over it. She had to get home! Had to. Because how else could she get Nicky back? Anxiety laced through her, fretting in every cell of her aching body. The door started to open. Her eyes flew to it. Who was it this time? Who could possibly be so impatient to see her? The nurse had said ‘him’, so it couldn’t be that awful social worker coming to triumph over her. So who, then? As her eyes focussed on the man who walked in she felt for one sickening, hideous moment that she must still be asleep. Because she couldn’t, couldn’t be awake! Shock buckled through her. And horror. Deep, deep horror. As if through a hole ripped out of time a man walked into the room—from a past that came from her worst dreams, her sickest memories. Alexis Petrakis had just walked in. Alexis closed the door behind him and let his eyes rest on the woman lying in the bed. What the hell—? This wasn’t Rhianna Davies. It was nothing like her! Rhianna Davies had possessed a beauty so enticing that she had been able to make a fool of him as no other woman had ever done! Had made him feel—He couldn’t now admit how she’d made him feel. She had been a woman who could have lured him to his doom if he hadn’t found the strength of mind to throw her from him like a rotten fruit. But her rottenness had been hidden beneath a surface so exquisite that he had been putty in her hands… This woman looked like a death’s head. Gaunt, her eyes sunken into their sockets, cheeks hollow, the bones sharp like a knife, and lines etched around her mouth. Her hair was lank, much shorter than it had been, straggling limply around her haggard face. Involuntarily the image of the way he remembered her pushed into his mind—her body pulsing beneath him, her soft, lush curves, naked, wanton, sated. And before that, in that silver evening dress, her hair like a silken fall, her eyes like smoke—promising everything, everything he wanted from her… Something had punched through him the moment he set eyes on her at that dinner, five long years ago. Something he had never felt about a woman before. Never thought existed. He had wanted her instantly. Totally. More than any other woman he had ever wanted. And for the chance to slake that overpowering, insistent wanting he had broken every rule in his book—just to possess her that very night as she’d offered herself to him on a plate. And in the morning he’d discovered why she’d done so. It had been another punch to his guts. But quite, quite different. He stared down at her now, hatred in his eyes. This woman couldn’t be the same one. Thee mou, he’d known that she’d been taken into hospital after having been knocked down by a car, but that alone couldn’t account for the hideous transformation of so exquisite a beauty into this…this…hag.. His mouth tightened. He remembered what the social worker had told him. Drugs. Was that what had turned Rhianna Davies from a sexual temptress into this wasted, bone-thin hag? The cruel word stabbed at him. The woman looked so terrible it would be inhuman not to feel pity for her. Yet pity was the last thing she deserved. The very last thing… He felt the rage well up in his throat again, as it had ever since he’d looked down into the stricken face of his son. Any child, any, deserved a mother better than this! On top of everything that he already knew her to be—the kind of slut who traded her body for financial gain—yet she was worse still. Irresponsible, feckless, leaving a four-year-old on his own while she slept off her despicable addiction—an addiction that made her violent, brandishing a knife at the very woman appointed to protect her child… And that such a female was mother to his son! A son she had deliberately, calculatingly hidden from him, kept him ignorant of! Thee mou, no torment was good enough for such a woman! And yet rigid self-control sliced down over his seething emotions. He was going to have to treat her with kid gloves. His lawyers had been blunt, even though he had wanted to hurl them from his office. The fathers of illegitimate children in the United Kingdom had no automatic right of custody. To gain custody of his son would be a complicated, controversial business. And while it was conducted his son would remain in care, certainly until his mother was physically fit enough to look after him, and possibly—if the social worker’s case for wanting a Care Order were valid—indefinitely. His jaw tightened. No—that was one thing that would not continue! His son was coming out of that foster woman’s house—his unhappiness, his misery had been palpable. Whatever it took—he would get his son out of there! Even if it meant dealing sweetly with someone as contemptible as Rhianna Davies. Alexis’s eyes swept over the gaunt, haggard face staring horrified up at him. His stomach clenched. Rhianna Davies might be mercenary, an irresponsible drug-addict, but his son had cried for her… Piercing like a needle into his memory, he heard the pinched little voice whispering, almost inaudibly, at his oh-so-carefully phrased question this morning, ‘Mummy…I want Mummy.’ His nails dug into his palms. Dear God—a child crying for his mother… A mother who never came back… Memory gutted through him, drenching him with remembered pain, making him hear the heartbroken crying of a child for its mother. With a wrench he silenced the voice he could still hear inside his head, as if it were yesterday, not thirty long years ago. No. Enough memories. They were no use now. All that was needed now was his most honed negotiation skill. Rhianna Davies held the key to his son—he had to find a way to turn it. And his emotions—seething, swirling like a black inky pit inside him—were only going to get in the way of doing so. Ruthlessly, he schooled himself. Time for finesse now, not the indulgence of emotion. Regaining control, he let his eyes rest on her appalled expression. He brought to the forefront of his mind what he had concluded her long-term plan was to be. Obviously Rhianna Davies had kept his son from him quite deliberately, so she must have been biding her time, planning on producing him at a time of her choosing, when she would gain the greatest advantage from the disclosure. That she had not done so as soon as she’d known she was pregnant could only have been because she had not, at that stage, been sure of his paternity. A woman as free with her favours as he knew her to be could easily have had any number of contenders for the privilege of impregnating her. Perhaps she had not been sure enough of his contribution to risk challenging him with a DNA test. Better, she must have reasoned, for her to have waited until the boy had grown sufficiently for his Greek heritage to be visible in his features. Then she would be on much safer ground to claim him as her child’s father. Well, fate had taken a hand, and disclosure had come prematurely. From his point of view that could only be a good thing. She had lost the advantage of timing. Indeed—his eyes swept over her haggard features once more—she had lost a lot more advantages as well. Her beauty, for one. Grimly, he could only be glad of it. Rhianna Davies’s beauty had made him lose his self-control, had caused an indulgence he should never have allowed himself. But he was safe from her wiles now, all right. The gaunt death’s head staring up at him held no allure for him—or any male. Except—and the thought stabbed at him—a heartbroken little boy, with nothing left to cling on to but his battered teddy bear… He took a sharp, inward breath and opened negotiations. The most critical of his life. He was playing for his son—and he had to win. Rhianna stared. It was a vision, a nightmare—it had to be. It had to be! Alexis Petrakis was gone—gone for ever! Thrust into the oblivion of the past, nailed down in a box with the key buried so deep she would never open it again! For five long, gruelling years she had kept it buried—had had so much else to worry about, agonise about, exhaust herself with, that it had been all but obliterated from her mind. Self-preservation had helped her keep the past buried, unremembered. Because to remember Alexis Petrakis would have been to remember everything he had done to her—everything she had allowed him to do. Everything he had said to her on that hideous, hideous morning. She had crawled away from his hotel suite shaking with shame, with revulsion at herself—at him—wanting only to hide for ever. Instead she’d had to go back, face her father, tell him…tell him she had failed. Failed to save his company, the one thing in his life he loved above all else, far more than his discarded wife and daughter—because how could a mere family compare with his obsession to design yachts? If I had managed to save his company… The old, familiar taunting scraped at her. If she had been able to do the one thing that her father had craved, needed above all else… Oh, then he would have loved her! Surely then he would have loved her? But she had failed. That vile, hideous night had seen to that, had destroyed both her self-respect and her last hope of salvaging her father’s company and so saving him from dwindling down through his remaining years, stricken by stroke, bereft of the one thing that had given his life meaning, increasingly ill, increasingly cantankerous, increasingly difficult to look after. Blaming her for not being the son he had wanted her to be, who would have been useful to him—not a useless girl, unable even to save his company, and now, worst of all, saddled with a fatherless bastard baby… And all the time, like some grinding, relentless mill of God, their new poverty had crushed them exceeding fine, until they’d been reduced to living in a council flat on a sink estate that no one else wanted to live on and she had become carer to both her infant son and her invalid father, eking out their existence on state benefit. Until the bitter, painful end had come to her father’s life, draining the very last of her worn, exhausted energies… Tiredness sapped her. She lay there now, in her hospital bed, and despair swept over her. After all she had gone through in the last five years, now was the worst of all. Nicky—gone. There Alexis stood, once more dominating her vision, obliterating the rest of the world for her! Once more an overpoweringly tangible and oppressive presence. Taller, it seemed than she remembered, and darker-hued. His Mediterranean origins were obvious—not just in his colouring, but in his stance. And, most vivid of all, the arrogance, that dominance of the Mediterranean male. Exacerbated a thousand times by the knowledge of his wealth, his power. Power. That was what Alexis Petrakis radiated. Fear froze through her. Why was he here? How was he here? And worst of all—most terrifying of all—what did he want? Out of nowhere the answer iced through her. Nicky. Fear bit like a wolf at her heart. No! He couldn’t know about Nicky! He couldn’t! Sanity fought its way through her terror. Even if Alexis Petrakis had found out about Nicky, the last thing he’d do would be to care about him! Unless it were to ensure her silence about him. To tell her not to even think of wanting financial support. But she had never, ever thought to do that! Alexis Petrakis was the last man on earth she wanted her or Nicky to have anything to do with. So what was he doing here now? Dread filled her. For one long, last moment Alexis stood looking down at the haggard woman lying there. He’d had her moved to a private ward—not for her sake, but for his. Not only did he not want to talk to her in a public ward, but in a private ward he could ensure she had no access to a phone. She wouldn’t be phoning the tabloid press with some scandalous story of a Greek tycoon’s illegitimate son living in a council flat, with his drug addict mother! He wondered, coldly, how she was going to play it. She was, as he knew to his cost from five years ago, a superb actress. But he’d taken her by surprise; that was obvious from her stunned reaction. She looked terrified—and well she might. Rage spurted through him again, and he crushed it back. She stared at him, face stricken, features twisting. ‘Why are you here?’ Her voice was thin, strained. He could hear the tension in it. Inside him, the emotions he was holding back, leashed so tight it was taking him more effort than he’d thought possible to keep them in check, were nipping and snarling at him like a pack of caged wolves. ‘You don’t know?’ Her face tightened, with a wary expression in her eyes he did not miss. She was recovering her guard. ‘How should I?’ Her evasiveness enraged him. She dared lie there and try and play games with him while his son was abandoned to foster care? He subdued his rage again. Instead, he simply said a single word. ‘Nicky.’ The name fell into the silence. Into the yawning space between them. He watched her face as he said his son’s name. It froze. Completely. His veiled eyes went on looking down at her expressionlessly. Dismay was etched visibly through her every haggard feature. Anger bit at him again. So he’d been right—she hadn’t wanted him to know yet, had wanted to go on biding her time, keeping his son from him until she could get the best deal on him. The best price for him. Black fury convulsed through him. He thrust it aside. It would not help now. Instead, he watched her, like a fly trapped in treacle, as he forced his knowledge upon her. Beneath his rigidly schooled expression he could feel his anger, leashed on a hard, tight wire. Rhianna could only stare sickly, frozen, the air solidifying in her lungs. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Oh God, he knew about Nicky… He knew. She could feel panic start to rise in her breast like a clawing beast. How—how had he found out? She must have mouthed the word, because his brows suddenly drew together. For an instant, no more, there was a flash deep in his eyes. But when he spoke the tight mesh of control was still in place, draining all emotion from his voice. But the very lack of emotion filled Rhianna with dread. ‘How? Your social worker phoned me.’ He paused infinitesimally, his eyes boring down into Rhianna’s. Hers were still glazed with shock, her face frozen. He went on, biting out each word, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘She made very free with her views on men who fathered children and then declined to shoulder financial responsibility for them.’ His voice chilled. ‘She was particularly incensed that a man with my “extensive financial resources”, as she phrased it, should have so evaded his obligations.’ As he finished, there was ice in every word. ‘She gave me to understand that she was sure I would find it both socially and reputationally embarrassing if my…neglect…of my responsibilities were to reach the courts or the press.’ Oh, God, thought Rhianna, realisation hollowing her out. So that’s why he’s here. That social worker has ripped into him and threatened him with the tabloids! Her nails clenched into her palms, digging painfully. She was reeling, punch-drunk. Her mind had gone numb, completely numb. All she could feel was the horror ballooning inside her that Alexis Petrakis knew about Nicky’s existence. He was speaking again, and she tried to make sense of the words, desperately trying to pull her mind together, still reeling from shock and dismay. His clipped, staccato words cut through her flailing emotions. ‘I want him out of care. Immediately.’ The hard, expressionless eyes bored down on her, drilling into her. Yes, she thought—fighting to make sense of this nightmare that had just walked through the door and seized her by the throat until she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—that’s why he’s here. The tabloids would have a field-day—a multimillionaire refusing to pay maintenance for his son in state foster care! He would never risk that. And that was why he was here—to neutralise the danger to himself. ‘They won’t release him until I’m discharged from hospital.’ Her voice was thin. Flat. Not revealing her agony at being parted from Nicky, her gut-churning fear that he would never be returned to her. Every instinct told her to hide her emotions from this man, whose sole concern was protecting himself from scandal. Alexis’s mouth tightened. No sign of admitting that her drug addiction was keeping her son in care as much as her injuries. Let alone any sign of emotion at losing her own child! Yet again he banked down the anger roiling inside him. Time enough to throw at her head her total moral unfitness to take care of a child! Right now, all that was important was getting Nicky out of care. ‘That is no longer a problem. I have spoken to your physician and he has agreed to discharge you.’ For a second he thought he saw her eyes blaze with emotion. Then, instantly, they were blank again. ‘I—I don’t understand.’ His voice was terse as he spoke. ‘I have informed him that I will provide appropriate nursing care for you, which means that you no longer need to be hospitalised. I have also informed the council authorities that I will provide a qualified nanny to undertake childcare. This has satisfied them to the extent that they have agreed to rescind the temporary Care Order.’ Like a vast, welling wave Rhianna felt emotion pour through her. Oh, God, did this really, really mean she could get Nicky back? Hope soared within her. Though she would rather eat dirt than let Alexis Petrakis anywhere near her and Nicky, if he was the only way of getting Nicky back then she would do it. But she must not, must not let him see how much it meant to her. God, did she not know how ruthless he was? How vile? He was already clearly furious that his hand had been forced like this—a bastard son who threatened his reputation foisted on him. She looked up at the hard, shuttered face of the man who had once turned her insides to mush, who had been able to seduce her as effortlessly as taking candy from a baby. It had been the most incredible night of her life, but in the morning— Her mind sheered away. Nicky—her beloved son. He was all that was important now. And she must not show her desperation to get him back. She forced a cool, unnatural calmness into her voice. ‘So what happens next?’ Alexis’s pupils narrowed. A stab of cold rage bit at him. Christos, her cold-blooded reaction damned her! Like a snake deep in a pit, memory writhed within him, struggling to be let out, to be remembered…He thrust it back. Only one thing now was important—his son. When he spoke, his voice was as impassive as before. ‘You will be discharged tomorrow, into the care of the nurse I have hired. Together with the nanny, your car will call at the foster home en route to the airport—’ ‘What do you mean, airport?’ Rhianna’s interjection was sharp, high-pitched. Every aching muscle in her battered body tensed, alarm bells shrieking. Alexis Petrakis looked down at her without expression. ‘You will be flying to Greece—’ ‘Greece?’ Dark eyes flickered coldly. ‘You will stay in my villa, by the sea. It is on a private island that I own. It is very luxurious, fully staffed. You will be waited on hand and foot.’ With a slow, painful exhalation Rhianna understood. Her battered mind had fastened on to the single phrase that made sense to her. ‘Private island’ he had said. So that was what this was about—he was going to hide her and Nicky away on his private island, safe from prying eyes. For him, it made sense. But for her and Nicky? How could she possibly let herself and Nicky be taken to Greece by Alexis Petrakis? Locked away on a private island, surrounded by Petrakis staff! But it was the only way she could get Nicky out of care. And that was all, all that was important. It didn’t matter how she got him back! Didn’t matter that the man she hated more than anyone else in the world was doing it for his own selfish, self-protecting reasons. It only mattered that Alexis Petrakis was using his wealth and position to make state bureaucracy, the medical system, work in his favour. Besides—another thought came into her reeling, over-wrought mind—a villa by the sea. Alexis Petrakis had thrown that at her. A beach… The seaside… It would be like a holiday for Nicky. A holiday after the trauma of being taken from her. He’d never been on holiday… Her thoughts flew on. It would be warmer in Greece, too, and with a nurse for her and a nanny to help with Nicky she could get well faster there—much faster than in the bleak, damp flat she lived in. And once she was well she could get Nicky back properly again, without having to rely on Alexis Petrakis’s wealth. And then—her mouth tightened—then Alexis Petrakis could go to hell. CHAPTER FOUR ALEXIS threw himself into the back of his car, silent rage consuming him. He could feel it streaming through him like a dark flowing river. Rage that for four silent, invisible years his son had lived and breathed and he had known nothing, nothing of his existence! That drugged-out woman had kept him from him, hidden him away until the time was ripe for her to cash in on him…cash in on her own son! He felt his hands clench, and he had to force himself to unclench them. On the other side of town his son was sitting huddled in a chair, ‘failing to thrive’ as the social worker had acidly informed him. His hands clenched again and rage surged once more. It would be spent, he knew, only when he had his son in his possession. Safe. Carefully, the hospital porter pushed Rhianna’s wheelchair up the ramp into the waiting limo. Two women got into the car after her—one middle-aged in a nurse’s uniform, the other younger than her, with a cheerful face. They smiled at Rhianna, introducing themselves, but she hardly paid attention. Her heart was hammering in her breast, adrenaline running, bringing with it fear and desperate hope. Her mouth was dry, her throat tight as a drum. Her nails bit into her palms, lying on her lap swathed in a rug. Nicky, Nicky, Nicky… Like a litany, her son’s name went round and round in her head. The limo moved off. Smooth though the ride was, every stop and start in the traffic seemed to jar right through her. Her breathing was slow and laboured, her punished lungs still weak. Her bruised and battered body still fragile. But she didn’t care. She could have ached a thousand times worse and she would not have cared—so long as she was going to where Nicky was… How long the journey took she had no idea. Her hands were clasped tight into one another, twisting and clenching as she stared blindly out ahead through the windscreen. The weather was bleak, with a lowering sky. Spring seemed a million miles away. The limo glided to a halt along the kerb of a busy arterial road lined with pre-war semis. They stopped by one with a small ironwork gate and a concrete path leading to the front door. The nurse and nanny climbed out. Rhianna strained forward, trying to see out of the open car door towards the house. She did not see the sleek silver chauffeured saloon car draw up behind the limo, nor the tall, dark-suited figure climb out, and stand, his face drawn, looking up at the nondescript house. The front door opened and a woman came out. Alexis watched the scene silently. He recognised the foster carer, still with a toddler fastened to her hip. She was talking to a woman beside her—neither the nurse nor the nanny, both of whom were still in the porch of the house. The other woman nodded, her face tight, and then reached out her hand peremptorily before starting to walk forward along the path. Her gait was slower than an adult’s, and Alexis felt his stomach clench as he realised she was leading forward a small, diminutive figure whose hunched frame and bowed head made his throat tighten. Her other hand carried a suitcase. The nurse and nanny fell into step, the nurse starting to talk to the third woman, who talked back to her, her face still set in lines of disapproval. Instinctively, emotion impelling him, he started to move forwards, towards the diminutive, hunched figure. And then suddenly, there was a cry. A cry so high, so thin, Alexis’s head jerked round. ‘Nicky!’ It was a cry that was half a sob. At the sound of it the bowed, dragging figure looked up, eyes huge in his little face. And then, like an instant tornado, he tore down the concrete path, across the pavement, and threw himself into the car. ‘Mummy! Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!’ The piping voice was shrill, hysterical. Rhianna bent and scooped him onto her lap, clutching him to her, oblivious of the physical pain in her chest, lost in the joy that overwhelmed her. Tears poured down her face. ‘Oh, Nicky—Nicky!’ She crushed him against her, tears choking in her throat, ecstasy in her heart. ‘Oh, my darling, my darling! Mummy’s own best boy!’ Sobs were racking through her, and she thought she must die of happiness as she held the son she had never thought to see again safe in her arms. Outside on the pavement Alexis Petrakis stood, immobile, watching. His face was set like stone. The car was moving again. Rhianna was oblivious to it—oblivious to everything except the little hand clutching hers so tightly it wrung her heart. ‘Have you been a good boy, my darling?’ she asked Nicky, her hand cupping his cheek. He was as close as possible to the wheelchair, fastened safely into a child seat that had materialised from nowhere. He nodded, his eyes huge. ‘You weren’t there,’ he said. ‘Your mummy’s been ill, poppet,’ the nanny chipped in. She was sitting next to Nicky, while the nurse sat on a fold-down seat opposite. ‘But I’m getting better,’ Rhianna added hurriedly. ‘Are we going home now?’ Nicky asked. There was a painful eagerness in his little voice that stabbed at her. She started to speak, but the nurse got in first. ‘Your mother isn’t well enough to look after you all on your own yet, young man,’ she said in a firm voice. ‘So she’s going to have a little holiday—yes, with you. Don’t worry! Mr Petrakis has it all arranged.’ Nicky’s eyes widened. ‘A holiday? Mummy! Are we? Where?’ There was anxiety underlying the astonishment, she could hear. He’d been through so much. She couldn’t bear it if he was to be upset now when he discovered they were not just going home after all. It might just be a run-down council flat, but it was the only home he could remember. She swallowed and made herself smile. Please let him be OK with what was going to happen to them. She injected enthusiasm into her voice. ‘Far away! It’s an adventure! We’re going in an aeroplane.’ Nicky’s mouth opened in disbelief. ‘An airyplane?’ he echoed, in an awed voice. ‘Yes,’ she answered, filled with relief that he was not upset about not going back to his familiar home. ‘An airyplane.’ She squeezed Nicky’s tightly clutching hand and felt tears of joy seep into her eyes. She had got Nicky back. Her precious son. She would never let him go ever again. No matter the cost to herself. Seven hours later Rhianna felt as if she’d been hit by a speeding car all over again. Every bone in her body ached, it seemed, and her lungs were like a soggy swamp. Even with luxury travel—a private executive jet from the local city airport, a helicopter from Athens to Alexis Petrakis’s private island in the Aegean, a stretcher to convey her to a bedroom in his villa—she was still exhausted. It made her realise how impossible it would have been to look after Nicky at home on her own. Conducted by a large black-clothed woman, who spoke English with a strong Greek accent and who introduced herself as Maria, Karen, the nanny, took Nicky off to his bedroom, in between hers and his mother’s, while Nurse Thompson got her patient into bed. Rhianna’s last waking sight, some little while later, before she gave herself up to the cool, crisp sheets and the soft, soft pillows, was Nicky, padding into her room in his worn pyjamas, clutching his faithful teddy, and Karen lifting him carefully onto her bed so that he could kiss her goodnight. ‘Sleep tight, Mummy,’ he said, and wrapped his little arms around her neck to kiss her. ‘Don’t ever go away again.’ Bliss washed through her. ‘My darling—never,’ she murmured, and slid away to sleep the sleep of angels in paradise. Alexis gave her a week. It was longer by seven days than he’d wanted it to be. With every instinct he possessed he wanted to be with his son. To start making up—now—for the four years without him. But the relationship that he was going to start now—four years late—was going to have to last a lifetime. He had to get it right. Thee mou, he knew what happened when a father failed to get it right… It was also seven days longer than he’d wanted to leave it before he saw Rhianna Davies again. Not that his desire to set eyes on her again was driven by anything like the same instinct that was impelling him to his son. The opposite entirely. How strange, he thought, with a hardening of his eyes as he sat staring into the middle distance from behind his desk in his corporate HQ in Athens, that he could love his son so much—and hate the mother. Deliberately he made himself relax the tensed muscles in his back and shoulders. Rhianna Davies was no longer an issue. She existed now for one purpose only—to be there if his son wanted her. For his son’s sake alone he would tolerate her existence. It might gall him to know he had to finance her in a life of ease simply because she was the mother of his son, but by the same token it was the way he was going to be able to control her. She would remain there, for his son, or he would let her drop back into the gutter. He would make it very, very clear on what terms he would tolerate her existence in his son’s life. A frown flickered across his brow. One thing, however, he would not tolerate. The drugs had to go. However long it took to get her off them, go they must. A look of disgust fleeted in his eyes. God knew, he didn’t expect much from a woman of her stamp—amoral and venal—but surely the mirror alone should have told her what drugs were doing to her? They’d sucked the beauty from her as surely as they’d sucked her health! The image of her gaunt death’s head intruded in his mind, and then an image from the night she’d come to him, five years ago. The contrast was grotesque, repulsive. He thrust both images from him and reached for his phone. His schedule this week had been more punishing than anything he’d ever put himself through. In a single week he had cleared out of the way everything that needed to be dealt with at Petrakis International. Once he reached the villa he wanted nothing to make him leave again for at least a month. His pilot could bring him any documents he needed, and his study there was equipped with communications to the rest of his empire. Not that he wanted work to distract him. His entire focus was going to be on his son—the son who did not yet even know that he was his father. Acid anger seethed again in his guts like sour bile. Rhianna sat back in the padded reclining chair and gazed out over the scene ahead of her. A profound and heartfelt wash of happiness and gratitude swept through her. All around her the gentle warmth of the Mediterranean spring lapped like swansdown. A soft golden sun, radiant in the late-afternoon sky, was blessing down upon the white-flecked blue of the sea curved into the little bay. From the vine-shaded, stone-paved terrace on which her chair was positioned she could easily see over the balustrade on to the sandy beach, a mere eight feet below. Nicky, in T-shirt, shorts and sun hat, was down there, *******edly digging in the sand by the seashore, with Karen to look after him. With a child’s resilience, safe and secure again with his mother there, and all the happiness of a small child by the seaside, Nicky already seemed to be over the trauma of having being separated from his mother. As for herself, she was feeling so much better too. Now that her anxiety was gone, her body was free to get on with the task of healing itself—a task made so much easier in the balmy warmth of the Aegean in this luxurious villa, with the ministrations of Nurse Thompson and the complete absence of any housework and childcare. It was certainly a blissful way to live. For a moment she felt a stab of guilt go through her. Had she not kept Nicky’s existence from Alexis Petrakis her son might have grown up in surroundings like this. However grudgingly he’d have done it, the state authorities would have required him to take financial responsibility for his offspring, however unintended. Her expression hardened. No—not in exchange for all the financial support in the world would she ever have told Alexis Petrakis about Nicky! Some fathers were just not worth having. Hadn’t her own sorry childhood taught her that? With her mother constantly hoping that her errant husband would return, and herself yearning for a father who had no interest in her. No—better for Nicky to have no father than one who was worse than nothing, a father he might spend his life trying to get to love him in vain… The way she had. A growing noise cut off her thoughts. Down on the beach she saw Nicky and Karen crane their necks upwards. A moment later Rhianna realised what it was. A helicopter, getting closer, the racket from its rotors deafening her as it started to descend. Was it the doctor again? she wondered. He’d been out twice to see her—firstly on the day after she’d arrived, and then the day before yesterday. But he’d been pleased with her progress and wasn’t due again till next week. So who could this be? Arriving now, like this? She did not have long to wait to find out. Alexis’s mouth tightened as he strode out on to the terrace. Surprise was always a reliable element of attack. Had she really thought she would be allowed to settle down here, in the lap of luxury, and not be called to account? Then his eyes slid past her, out down on to the beach, and he stilled. His son was paddling in the sea, laughing and splashing, jumping up and down over the tiny waves with glee. Alexis heart constricted. It was a totally different child from the one he’d seen with the foster carer, withdrawn and traumatised. Again, that overpowering emotion poured through him—a fierce, consuming protectiveness. ‘What are you doing here?’ The thin, high-pitched voice cut through his emotion. He turned his head sharply, eyes turning cold. They locked on to the woman who had given birth to his son, then kept him from him for four long years. She had gone stark white, her pallor emphasising the hollowness of her cheeks, the deep circles around her sunken eyes. Shock was etched through every line. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded again, in the same constricted voice. He lowered himself into one of the rattan chairs. For a moment he said nothing, just studied her. As if she were some kind of cockroach. She was still looking shell-shocked. There were other emotions in her face, but he didn’t have time to waste identifying them. ‘We have matters to…discuss.’ She knew then just why he had come. There could be on only one reason. ‘You want me to sign papers, don’t you? Legally preventing me from ever going to the press about Nicky.’ Despite the shock thudding through her, she fought to keep her voice unshaky. Alexis’s dark, damning eyes hardened. So that was to have been her plan, was it? Threatening to expose his son in the gutter press for all the world to gawp at! With deliberate slowness, to give himself time to still the stab of fury that her words had catalysed, he sat back. ‘You will never,’ he informed her, ‘speak to the press about my son. With or without any legal binding. Why do you imagine I brought you here? For the sake of your health?’ The irony in his tone was scathing. ‘And when I take Nicky back to England?’ she retorted. He was bound to want some kind of legally enforceable silencing of her—but she didn’t care. She’d sign anything he wanted just to get rid of him as fast as possible. Preferably right now. ‘You will not be returning to England—and nor will my son.’ There was no emotion audible in his voice. Not a trace of it. It was like cold steel going into her. ‘From now on,’ he went on, in the same tone, ‘you will be living here. Later, when he is school age and fluent in Greek, other arrangements will be made.’ ‘School age? Fluent in Greek? What the hell are you talking about?’ Dark, dead eyes rested on her. ‘I am talking about the way my son will live now.’ Rhianna’s mouth flattened to a tight line. ‘Hand me the papers to sign, Mr Petrakis! It’s a lot simpler than the idiocy you’re proposing as an alternative!’ It seemed to her that the dark eyes went even more dead. ‘You don’t get a choice. My son stays in Greece. And while, as a child, he has any need of you, you stay too. This is non-negotiable.’ She stared—just stared. ‘You’re insane. Do you really imagine that I’m going to stay incarcerated here just for your sake?’ In the depths of his unblinking eyes there was a sudden dark flash. ‘What I “really imagine” is that from now on you will do exactly as I tell you! Understand this and understand it well! You have no negotiating power!’ She jerked forward in her seat. It hurt her ribs but she didn’t care. Disbelief and anger were boiling through her. ‘I wouldn’t negotiate with you if my life depended on it!’ ‘That is as well.’ The retort was flat. ‘You are beginning—finally—to understand your situation.’ Rhianna’s heart started to pound, heavy and thudding. Alexis Petrakis was speaking again. His voice was cold. Deadly. His eyes were as hard as obsidian. ‘Let me spell out your situation to you—so that even you can understand it. Whatever fond dreams you have been entertaining that I will set you up in luxury in England, ******* merely to see my son as a visitor, you may now set them aside. My son will be a permanent part of my life from now on. You will live here, under supervision, while I seek to rectify the damage you have done to my son by keeping him from me. I have lost four years—four years—of his life, and I should destroy you for that. But my hands are tied—while he is a child my son’s happiness is dependent on you, and for that reason alone I tolerate your presence in his life. Have absolutely no doubts about that.’ She felt nothing—nothing at all. Only drowning, disbelieving horror. She could not, could not have heard him say what he had just said! ‘And now—’ his voice bit, dark, killing fire scorching in his eyes ‘—I will start undoing four years of my son not knowing of my existence!’ She wanted to scream, to shout, but she could not. She was frozen—frozen with horror. He was walking down the stone steps to the beach, moving lithely in his lightweight suit. It should have looked incongruous, walking across a beach with a hand-tailored business suit on, but it only reinforced his power. Where she found the strength she did not know. But pressing down on the chair’s arms, she levered herself up, feeling the world wheel round her. She didn’t care. She staggered towards the steps, sick and faint. She could see Nicky, still splashing in the shallow water, happy and playful, while towards him walked a man who, if she could have, right now she would have obliterated on the spot. She clutched at the stone balustrade at the edge of the steps, forcing her legs to work though her heart was pounding in terror. She opened her mouth to scream, to yell a warning, a negation, an utter negation of what was happening, but instead there was a black mist rolling in, like a diesel train rushing up to her. Her legs collapsed and suddenly she was pitched head forward into total darkness. Alexis heard the thud of her body collapsing on the sand and wheeled round. Simultaneously he heard a gasp of shock from the nanny sitting on the towel, who had already started to get to her feet at his approach. Her eyes flew past him to Rhianna’s huddled form. ‘Look after Nicky!’ bit out Alexis, and strode back towards the villa. ‘Keep him away!’ She was out cold. With a sharp voice he called out for the nurse, then scooped the inert body up into his arms. She weighed hardly anything—but she was a dead weight for all that. He hurried up the steps with her and took her inside. The nurse was hurrying towards him, exclaiming, but he silenced her. ‘Which bedroom does she have?’ ‘In here,’ the woman replied, and opened the door to the master bedroom, which opened up onto its own section of the terrace around the corner from the beach terrace. Ungently, Alexis deposited his burden on the bed. ‘She tried to get down the steps and collapsed on the sand.’ He answered the nurse’s brisk enquiry tersely. At least the woman seemed competent enough not to make a fuss. She was checking pulse and heart, straightening her patient’s body. ‘Do you need to call a doctor?’ Alexis demanded. The nurse looked up briefly and shook her head. ‘She’ll come to in a moment,’ she predicted, and returned her attention to her patient. Alexis nodded, mouth tight. He left her to it and went outdoors again. On the beach he could see the nanny, crouching down beside Nicky, talking to him and clearly holding him back from rushing inside. Alexis felt another spurt of anger. Had Rhianna no sense at all? Frightening the boy like that? Or had she done it deliberately? His brow darkened. What was she trying now? Another affecting little scene like the one she’d put on for him when the boy had come out of care? Fawning all over him to prove how maternal she was suddenly? Just like his own mother— No. No memories. None. He would not allow it. He slammed his mind shut. Calming himself deliberately, he walked down to the beach and up to his son. Rhianna Davies was nothing to him. His son was everything. As he approached he felt his emotions start to churn again, but he suppressed them. To the child he was a stranger. He must not forget that. And right now the boy’s main concern was his mother, after seeing her collapse like that. Fear was naked on his little face. Alexis took a breath, forcing his voice to sound reassuring. ‘It is nothing to worry about,’ he said. He looked at the boy, dragging on his nanny’s hand. ‘Your mother will be better in a moment. Nurse Thompson is with her. She just felt dizzy.’ The nanny took up the cue. ‘Giddy—that’s all! Your mummy has to take it easy, remember? She’s been ill, but she’s getting better. Now, look—you’ve got a visitor! Mr Petrakis?’ She straightened up and looked at Alexis. She was very good, he registered. Professional. Whether she had guessed his relationship to her charge or not he neither knew nor cared. He gave her a brief, dismissing nod and she took her cue again, saying brightly, ‘Goodness me, look at the mess! Time for me to tidy everything up!’ She headed back to the mound of beach toys, and started gathering them into a pile. Alexis watched his son look uncertainly from his nanny to him. His nanny of one week was more familiar to him than his own father. I’m a stranger. A complete stranger to him. Thanks to his mother. Keeping him from me. Bitterness seared through him. And much more—a rush of fierce emotion. This would be the last time in his life when he would be a stranger to his own son. Starting now. Carefully, very carefully, he took the first step on that crucial journey. ‘Hello, Nicky. Have you been having fun playing on the beach?’ For a moment Nicky’s expression wavered. Then it brightened. ‘I’ve been in the sea!’ he announced. With his heart still tight in his chest, Alexis made himself smile. It seemed hard to make the muscles around his mouth do that. He wondered, offhand, when he’d last smiled. Not since Maureen Carter had put the call through from the social worker, that was for sure. ‘Have you? What did you do in the sea?’ The big eyes shone. ‘Splashing!’ ‘Show me.’ There was no hesitation. His son filled up his bucket and then ejected the *******s seawards. ‘See?’ He twisted his head round to Alexis. ‘Very good. Which do you think goes further? A bucket of water or a stone?’ He watched as his son put down the bucket and picked up a small pebble. ‘Stone!’ shouted Nicky, as it plonked into the water, further out to sea. He picked up another one and threw it. ‘I know a trick with stones,’ said Alexis. He walked forward, almost to the sea’s edge. A quick, crouching search in the sand revealed a couple of round, flat pebbles. He straightened, hoping he could still do what he’d promised. He looked out to sea, narrowing his eyes with concentration as he readied his aim and the angle of his throw. ‘It bounced!’ His son’s voice was amazed. He looked up at Alexis, astonishment and respect in his face. ‘Do it again!’ Alexis obliged. ‘Two bounces!’ shouted Nicky. He jumped up and down. The water splashed Alexis’s trouser leg. He couldn’t care less. ‘Make it three!’ ordered Nicky. ‘Next time,’ said Alexis. He knew when to quit. He was amazed himself that he could still do that with flat pebbles. Memory stabbed through him. He’d taught himself how to do it as a boy, with painstaking, dogged, untaught practice during the endless summers he’d spent by the sea in the huge Petrakis summer villa on the coast of Attica. There’d never been anyone to play with. His father had always stayed in Athens, working. As for his mother— He sliced down the steel door, shutting out the past. His son was picking up stones and trying to make them bounce, without success. ‘I can’t do it!’ His voice was frustrated. ‘It’s a trick. I told you. I’ll teach you, but when you’re older.’ ‘When I’m five?’ said Nicky. ‘Older. I learnt the trick when I was older than five.’ ‘How old?’ Alexis thought back. He didn’t want to, but he found himself doing it anyway. ‘Eight,’ he announced. Exactly eight, he remembered. It had been his birthday. His father had been in New York, on business. Alexis had been in the villa on his own, apart from the staff. He’d spent the day on the beach, doggedly practising with stones until he could make them bounce. ‘I will be eight in…’ His son carefully counted on his fingers, bringing Alexis back to the present, shutting the past back into its bleak grave. ‘One, two, three, four years.’ ‘Very good,’ said Alexis. ‘Kala. That means good in Greek.’ He paused. ‘We are in Greece. This is one of the Greek islands. There are hundreds of islands in Greece. If you can count in English,’ he went on, ‘you can count in Greek. Ena, thio, tria. That’s one, two, three. Can you say that?’ Hesitantly, the little boy repeated the numbers. Something pierced inside Alexis. My son. Speaking Greek to me. ‘Very good,’ he said, and smiled down at his son. It seemed easier, that second smile. |
CHAPTER FIVE
RHIANNA stirred, sluggishly. Her head felt heavy; her body was aching. She must have been given a sedative, and the after-effects had made her feel groggy. She wondered how long she’d been asleep, and reached for her watch. As she did so she realised she was wearing her nightdress. Nurse Thompson must have got her changed, though she did not remember it. The watch showed ten-thirty a.m., and she realised she had slept through till morning. Simultaneously she remembered just why Nurse Thompson must have sedated her. Panic leapt in her breast. ‘Nicky!’ Her voice was anguished. Had she called out loud? An instant later Nurse Thompson was entering her bedroom. ‘Now, now,’ she said calmly. ‘I will not have you upsetting yourself again—’ ‘Where’s Nicky?’ Rhianna demanded desperately. Fear filled her. Cold, terrifying fear. Nurse Thompson answered composedly. ‘He’s swimming in the pool with Mr Petrakis.’ Immediately Rhianna tried to throw off her bedclothes. Nurse Thompson pressed her back. ‘This won’t do,’ she said sternly. ‘Nicky is perfectly all right, and perfectly happy. You can see him in just a little while, when you’ve had breakfast. He isn’t going anywhere.’ But Rhianna only stared up at her with anguished eyes. ‘You don’t understand—’ Nurse Thompson plumped her pillows. ‘What I understand is this: if you want to get well, as fast as possible, you simply must not upset yourself like this! You could have fallen quite badly on those steps yesterday, you know. And what help would that have been? Now, eat your breakfast, and then I’ll help you get up.’ There was nothing Rhianna could do but give in. But even as she forced down her breakfast under the unyielding supervision of Nurse Thompson her head was going round and round. Desperately she tried to force her brain to think, to function. Alexis Petrakis could not take Nicky from her. The fathers of illegitimate children had no automatic rights in law. She could deny him access, keep Nicky safe from him, get a family court to keep Alexis Petrakis away… But even as her thoughts writhed like snakes a question kept stabbing through her that she could not, could not answer. Why? Why did Alexis Petrakis want Nicky? Surely the only reason he’d got him out of foster care and brought him here with her was to stop any scandal breaking? But why was he so angry that she had kept him from him? Emotion choked in her. Dear God, of course she had kept Nicky from him! A man like that, capable of doing what he had to her, saying what he had. If he could use women like that he could do the same to his son. Her son. It seemed an age before Nurse Thompson was finally *******ed by the amount she’d forced herself to eat, and helped her get dressed. Then it seemed an age to get her out on to the terrace. ‘I want to be near the pool,’ Rhianna said tersely. She could hear splashing, and Nicky’s childish cries answered by a deeper, accented voice, coming from the direction of the lower terrace, around the other side of the villa, where the pool was. Nurse Thompson helped her along with Stavros, Maria’s husband, carrying her chair around the corner. He positioned it so that it overlooked the lower pool terrace. As the pool came into view Rhianna felt her heart crush. Nicky was there, wearing armbands, batting his way across the width. Alexis Petrakis was standing in the water, just in front of him, holding his hands out towards him, calling out encouragement. As she watched, breath tight in her chest, Rhianna’s eyes fixed on her son. But another image was burning itself on her retina. That of the man backing slowly towards the edge of the pool, his hair like wet sable, his strong, leanly muscled torso a dark, tanned gold, diamond drops of water caught in the arrow of dark hair from his pectorals to his navel. Memory sliced like a knife through her brain. Her hands sliding over the hard, taut cusps of his shoulders beneath the loosened lawn of his shirt, her hips straining up to his, her breath short and frantic with need, sensation pouring through her body, heat exploding through her… No! She must not remember! All she must do was see Alexis Petrakis now, as the man who wanted to take her son… Emotion shuddered through her. He would never do so. Never. No one would ever take Nicky away from her again. No one would ever part her from him. Into her head the searing hiss of his words scalded. My son will be a permanent part of my life from now on. Again, disbelief knifed through her. Why, why did Alexis Petrakis want Nicky? Her eyes gazed down on the scene in the pool. ‘Kick!’ Rhianna could hear Alexis call out. ‘Kick hard!’ She watched Nicky respond by kicking even harder, propelling himself forward. ‘Kala! Good!’ He was nodding encouragingly to Nicky, beckoning him forwards all the time. He had eyes only for the boy. Total focus. Total attention. It didn’t make sense. It just didn’t make sense. And yet, as she went on watching, something hollowed out inside her. Nicky was swimming towards his father. His little face rapt with concentration, with effort. With a last flurry of arms he reached him, and Alexis finally allowed his hands to be taken. ‘Excellent!’ he announced. Nicky looked at him, beaming. Then he caught sight of Rhianna, watching him from the upper terrace. ‘Did you see, Mummy? Did you see? I’m swimming! I’m swimming!’ His little face was a picture of delight and pleasure and pride. Another pair of eyes rested on her. Dark, like his son’s. But the look he levelled at Rhianna was black with loathing. The morning seemed to last for ever. The swimming lesson changed into a water polo session, causing much glee for Nicky, followed by a jumping-in session which caused even more. Rhianna stared, hollow-eyed. Watching Alexis Petrakis with her son. When the swimming finally ended, with Karen coming out to the pool area and telling Nicky it was lunchtime, she felt that an aeon had passed. Reluctantly, Nicky climbed out of the pool and let Karen peel his armbands off and wrap a towel round him. Rhianna could see Alexis Petrakis saying something to the nanny, and her nodding, then something to Nicky, and him saying something eagerly back. Exchange finished, Alexis Petrakis pushed off from the side of the pool and started to plough powerfully down to the deep end in a strong, rhythmic freestyle. Nicky came racing up the steps to her. ‘Did you see, Mummy? Did you see?’ He clambered up on her lap, towel and all, wet hair dripping on her. She didn’t care. She just hugged him close. Her heart clenched. Oh, Nicky, my adored boy, I love you so much… ‘Come along—lunchtime.’ Karen was holding out her hand. ‘We’ve got to get you changed first.’ She smiled at Rhianna and led Nicky off. Below, in the pool, Alexis Petrakis was still lapping, length after length. Sunlight rippled over the sleek shape of his body. Rhianna’s stomach churned. Alexis lifted himself out of the pool, lithely hauling himself out by the strength of his arms alone and straightening up. He’d needed those lengths. Needed them to wash the bile from his stomach, to take the edge off his anger. She was still sitting there, on the upper terrace. The staff had had the good sense to clear out, and that was as well. Seizing a beach towel from a pool lounger, he started to dry himself vigorously. Then, throwing the damp towel over one shoulder, he headed up the steps. Did she stiffen as he came past her? He didn’t know. He refused to look at her. Then, as he strode past, her voice hissed at him like a venomous snake. ‘You’re not getting Nicky. You’re not getting him.’ Alexis stopped dead. Slowly he turned to look at her. Her hands were clenched around the arms of her chair. Her face was vehement. His was like cold marble. Slowly he spoke. ‘Let me make something very, very plain to you.’ His words were like stones. ‘Any fond idea that you might now be entertaining, that you can threaten me with a custody battle that will end in your victory and a hefty maintenance payout from me, you can lose straight away. No court in Europe would give a child back to a woman like you!’ Her face contorted. ‘No court in Europe would give a child to a man like you. They’d only have to hear how Nicky was conceived to have you thrown out of court!’ A vicious light lit his eyes. Anger lashed from him, as sharp and as violent as a knife striking. ‘Thee mou, you have the audacity to talk about how he was conceived?’ Fury bit in her throat. Fury, and a burning shame at how easily she had fallen into Alexis Petrakis’ bed. Crimson seared across her cheeks. ‘I’ve done only one thing—one—that I ever regretted, and that was being so incredibly, criminally stupid as to fall into bed with you that night!’ Venom spat in her voice. Her heart was racing, hammering, but she had to fight back. She had to! His mouth twisted. His eyes were killing, like a basilisk. ‘Yes, stupid indeed. Stupid to take me for the fool you thought me.’ ‘I was not—’ But her objection was cut short by what he said next, sweeping through her hissing interjection. ‘And stupid now if you think that I’d leave my son to the tender mercies of a drug addict.’ Her mouth opened, then closed again. She sat back, motionless. ‘What did you say?’ Her voice was hollow. His face was cold now, cold as the grave. ‘Are you going to deny it?’ His voice was vicious. ‘Don’t even try. The social worker who informed me I had a four-year-old son told me all about your habit. She found the evidence the morning she came to your flat and found you passed out, with spilt drugs on the bedside table and my son unattended, willing to open the door to anyone who called! And then to take a four-year-old child out with you, when you were still high, and nearly get him killed on the road!’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I could throttle you for that with my bare hands, you irresponsible—’ She could feel her teeth start to chatter. ‘It wasn’t drugs. It was flu powder!’ she interrupted. He ignored her protestation. ‘And you threatened her with violence.’ ‘It was a vegetable knife—I was peeling carrots! She was going on and on and on at me, badgering me to tell her who Nicky’s father was—as if I would ever have told her that.’ ‘No,’ he cut back at her, his voice scathing with anger, ‘you wanted to plan your disclosure, didn’t you? Time it for just when you could get the most money off me. And to hell with the kind of life you were subjecting my son to till you picked your moment to move in for the kill!’ Her face worked. ‘You’re mad. Completely insane. I was never going to let you come anywhere near Nicky for the rest of his life.’ Something flashed in his eyes, and she almost reeled from it. But the adrenaline was coursing through her body, making her fight, and fight, and fight. ‘So that was why you ensured my name and contact details were carefully attached to his birth certificate?’ His taunt was a scathing sneer. Rhianna closed her eyes, then opened them again. Her hands were clenching in her lap. ‘It was for emergencies! In case anything…anything ever happened to me.’ Cold sweat ran down her back. Something very nearly had happened to her—if she hadn’t jerked herself and the buggy away just in time as that speeding car bore down on her at the pedestrian crossing, even if Nicky had survived, she might not have. ‘I put your name down because I knew that at least you had money, that the state could get you to pay out for him, pay for decent foster care…ensure a future for him…’ Again something moved in his face. ‘Well, now my son has a future. And not with some feckless, drugged-out—’ Rhianna clambered to her feet, ignoring the pain shooting through her as she did so. ‘Don’t speak to me like that! How dare you call me that? I am not a drug addict!’ His brows snapped together. ‘Call it anything you want—recreational user—whatever obscene euphemism you want. But I tell you this, you’ll never touch drugs again for the rest of your life. My son will not have an addict for a mother!’ ‘I don’t do drugs!’ Her voice was a high-pitched shriek. ‘I have never done drugs!’ He looked at her coldly. ‘Control yourself. I won’t tolerate your hysterics. Nor will I be influenced by them.’ Hard, condemning eyes bored into her. ‘I know you for what you are, so don’t prate to me of virtues you do not possess. Now, sit down before you fall down. And don’t even think of trying to play the sympathy card. Your physical condition is entirely your own responsibility. My only concern is my son! If it weren’t for him—’ his eyes were a glittering mask of loathing ‘—you could drop dead right now and I wouldn’t lift a finger to save you. But a four-year-old child needs his mother—even one such as you. So for his sake I will tolerate you and your presence in his life, but on my terms, do you understand me? From now on you live at my discretion, at my direction, under the supervision of my staff. You don’t move, speak or act unless it is in the interest of my son.’ A harsh, disbelieving and derisive laugh broke from her. ‘Go to hell! No court in the land will let you do that!’ He smiled. It chilled her to the bone. ‘And how will you apply to the courts, I wonder? This is my island. The staff work for me, are answerable to me. Only to me.’ Emotion suddenly blazed in his eyes, as if it could no longer be contained. ‘My God, you dare to fight me? You keep my son from me for four years and you think I am going to be in a forgiving mood when I discover his existence? Four years of his life I’ve missed—all of his life he has never known what it is to have a father. Well, that ends now!’ She stood swaying, the world moving in and out around her. ‘Why?’ she whispered. ‘Why are you doing this? I don’t understand. What possible interest do you have in Nicky?’ If she had thought his face carved from stone before, now it was as if it were made of granite. ‘Thee mou,’ he said in a low voice, ‘if ever you condemned yourself out of your own mouth, you have now. Now you have betrayed exactly what you are. A woman so completely bereft of humanity that you can understand nothing of what it means to have a child.’ There was a bleakness in his voice that seemed to drain the light from the sun. He was overwhelmed by his own scarring memories for a moment. His eyes rested on her unseeingly, then they shifted back into focus. Hard, condemning focus. ‘Keep out of my sight. I don’t want to breathe the same air as you.’ He walked away. She felt faintness drumming around her, closing in on her. She clasped the stone balustrade, fighting for breath. Her heart was pounding in her chest. She could hardly breathe. The blood pressure surged in her skull. She felt sick and dizzy. But it was not the pain in her body that was crucifying her. ‘Nicky,’ she whispered. It took all Alexis’s self-control to get through lunch with his son. It had been a mistake to try and eat with him. His fury was still seething through his veins, whipping him into a cold, relentless rage. He could not put it aside. Her defiance against him enraged him. Her lies, her despicable attempts at self-exoneration, trying to whitewash her drugs habit. The kind of woman who would try and persuade you black was white, that filthy slush was driven snow! His memories slammed into him. His eyes grew bleak. His mother’s lovers. So many of them. He’d even seen one of them in bed with her. He could remember it clearly. Coming into his mother’s bedroom early one morning, escaping his nurse. Clambering up onto her bed. Seeing someone else there with her. Not his father. His mother waking, seeing him, shouting angrily for his nurse, yelling at her. His nurse rushing in, scooping him away. Him starting to cry, to hang on to the blankets, which pulled back, revealing the naked sleeping form of Demos, who cleaned the pool with a strange sucking tube that used to fascinate him… Like a guillotine he brought the blade down on the memory. Across the table, Nicky was drinking gluggingly from a blue plastic mug adorned with the image of a cartoon character. My son, thought Alexis, with that surge of fierce protectiveness going through him. My son. Even if his mother is as worthless as mine, he will have me. He will have me. This I swear. Nurse Thompson had come out after a while—presumably, thought Rhianna, when she’d realised Alexis Petrakis was now with Nicky and Karen—and helped her back to her room. Had she heard that hideous scene out there? Rhianna wondered dully. It would be amazing if she had not—if the whole household had not. But all Nurse Thompson said was, ‘Bed. And you are not to move. You’ll end up back in hospital if you carry on like this.’ Rhianna was docile, beyond protest. Beyond anything. But her brain was going round and round and round, like a rat in a trap. But how? Where? She felt so weak, so helpless, so ill. And so completely, absolutely alone. There was no one. No one. Tiredness dragged at her, reminding her how weak she still was. She went on lying in her bed, staring at the ceiling. While she was weak like this she was helpless. She had to get well again, strong again. When she was strong—then she could fight Alexis Petrakis. Fight him and win. For Nicky’s sake. Alexis was working in his study after dinner, catching up with the essentials of Petrakis International via e-mail, fax and phone. He had spent the afternoon with Nicky, once he’d surfaced from his after-lunch nap. They’d gone swimming again, built a sandcastle and played football. Then he’d sat in on Nicky’s supper, and read to him before bathtime. A knock on the door interrupted him. ‘Mr Petrakis?’ It was the nurse, standing in the doorway. She had a determined look on her face. Alexis sat back, control in his movement. ‘Yes?’ She advanced into the room with her stolid tread, closing the study door behind her. ‘I must speak to you,’ she announced. He nodded. ‘Very well.’ His face was impassive. She took a breath. There was a determined look on her face. ‘My responsibility, as you will appreciate, is to my patient,’ she began. ‘And for that reason I must request that she is not subjected to…’ The woman hesitated a moment, then continued, ‘To the kind of emotional…upheavals…that have happened these last two days. Such episodes are not helpful to her recovery. She had been making excellent progress, but she is in significant danger of relapsing. I have had to sedate her again, and that is not conducive to her convalescence.’ Alexis’s face was a mask. Choosing his words carefully, he answered. ‘I appreciate your concern, Nurse Thompson. However, the best way to ensure the…tranquillity…of your patient is to keep her away from me.’ Alexis felt the grip on his pen tighten as he spoke. Abruptly, he took the helm of this exchange. ‘While you are here, Nurse, I want to understand precisely what your patient’s medical condition is and how her treatment is being handled.’ His voice was expressionless. ‘You will understand, naturally, that an essential aspect of her treatment is to expedite her removal from drug dependency.’ The nurse raised her eyebrows. ‘The dosages are declining, certainly, but she can’t be taken off them too quickly or she could well relapse. Her body is still reliant on them.’ Alexis’s face darkened. So much for Rhianna Davies’s self-righteous denial that she was a drug-user. ‘She’s that severely addicted?’ he demanded grimly. The nurse’s eyebrows rose even higher. ‘Addicted? I don’t understand.’ There was something in the woman’s tone of voice that infuriated Alexis. ‘If you’d taken the trouble to read her medical records you might know what I’m talking about!’ he snapped at her icily. The nurse bridled. ‘There is absolutely nothing in her medical records to indicate she is a drug addict!’ ‘She was under the influence of drugs when she walked out in front of a car!’ Nurse Thompson took a deep breath. ‘Mr Petrakis, a detailed medical examination was made when Ms Davies was admitted to the Accident and Emergency department of Sarmouth General Hospital. The only substance in her blood was an over-the-counter flu remedy! Far too much of it, but nothing, absolutely nothing, illicit. Nor did any of her very many subsequent medical examinations during her hospitalisation reveal the slightest sign that she is or was a substance-abuser. And if you do not believe me consult with your own Dr Paniotis,’ she finished witheringly. ‘She must have been high on something to walk out blindly in front of that car!’ Nurse Thompson looked at him disbelievingly. ‘She was knocked down by a speeding car. There were witnesses to the accident and the driver was later arrested on a drink-driving charge. It is all documented, and I’m sure the Sarmouth police will confirm it to you if you insist!’ Alexis stared at the woman. ‘Are you telling me,’ he said slowly, ‘that she is not a drug addict?’ ‘I most certainly am! I’ve never heard such nonsense in my life!’ ‘Her social worker—’ A harrumphing sound came from Nurse Thompson’s throat. ‘Her social worker,’ Alexis continued tersely, ‘said she had evidence of drug usage and violence.’ Another dismissive snort came from the nurse. She eyed Alexis beadily. ‘I can assure you, Mr Petrakis, from all my considerable number of years in nursing, that my patient is neither violent nor a drug addict!’ Alexis ignored her indignation. ‘Then why does she look like a walking corpse?’ he demanded. Nurse Thompson’s chest swelled. ‘Probably because she very nearly became one,’ she riposted defensively. ‘When she was admitted to hospital after being knocked down by that hit-and-run driver she was discovered to be suffering from a severe, long-standing and untreated lung infection, exacerbated by chronic exhaustion. It required urgent and continued medication—medication that is still continuing, though in ever-decreasing dosages, as I indicated. Given the state she was in when she was run down, I wonder she was still on her feet at all—and, far from being able to threaten anyone with a knife, I would be surprised to hear that she had the strength even to lift such a weapon, let alone use it!’ For a long moment Alexis said nothing. Nurse Thompson went on standing in front of him, breathing heavily. His eyes went to her. She didn’t look like a fool. But if she was telling the truth…? He turned away, staring out of the window over the darkening sea. Thoughts he did not want to think were circling slowly in his head. He needed to think them through alone. ‘Thank you, Nurse Thompson. That will be all.’ His voice was remote as he dismissed her. Rhianna had been telling the truth. It was a disturbing realisation. ‘Mummy!’ ‘Hello, muffin. Did you have a good nap?’ Nicky climbed up into his mother’s lap and snuggled for a moment. Rhianna smoothed his hair, ignoring the pressure of his body on her still tender ribs. She had spent the morning, just like the previous afternoon and evening, in bed—at Nurse Thompson’s insistence. But after lunch she had been allowed to get up, and was now installed on the terrace. ‘Yes, but I want to play now. On the beach. You come too.’ ‘Oh, darling, perhaps tomorrow.’ A mutinous look crossed Nicky’s face. ‘No—now!’ ‘Nicky, your mother needs to rest. You know that. Resting will make her better sooner.’ The deep, accented voice was firm, but not admonishing. Rhianna’s eyes flew to where Alexis Petrakis stood in the doorway, watching them. There was a strange expression in his face. Different from any she’d seen before. He looked—guarded. Assessing. Instinctively her arms tightened around Nicky, as if protecting him from Alexis Petrakis. She hadn’t laid eyes on him since that hideous exchange yesterday morning. Now her pulse-rate had risen automatically, and she could feel herself tense. ‘She’s always resting. Like Grandpa. He was always tired and resting. And then he…he…’ Nicky’s little mouth quivered. Rhianna’s heart wrenched. She folded her arms more tightly around Nicky. ‘Oh, sweetheart, I’m not ill like Grandpa was ill. I’m getting better all the time—I promise. Look, I’ll come down after all—all right? You get down first.’ ‘One moment.’ Before she realised what he was doing Alexis had leant forward and lifted Nicky off her lap. Though she let go of Nicky as quickly as she could it wasn’t in time to stop Alexis’s bare arm brushing against her hand. Every muscle in her body froze. He set Nicky down. ‘Go and tell Karen we’re going down on the beach.’ He ruffled his son’s hair. He did not know where the gesture had come from, it just had. ‘With Mummy?’ Alexis nodded. Nicky ran off, cheerful again. Alexis turned back to Rhianna. ‘What’s this about Nicky’s grandfather being ill and, I assume, not getting better?’ The question came out of nowhere. ‘No, he didn’t.’ Her voice was tight. She didn’t want to think about her father, his difficult, long-drawn-out dying. And she certainly didn’t want to talk about it to Alexis Petrakis. ‘Nicky remembers him?’ ‘Yes.’ Her voice was terse. ‘When did he die?’ She didn’t answer. Her throat was tight. Far too tight. Like a thick elastic band constricting her. ‘Last month.’ ‘What?’ There was shock in Alexis’s voice. She could hear it. But she couldn’t do anything about it. He’d asked and she’d told him. God knows why he’d asked. ‘You lost your father a handful of weeks ago?’ There was still shock, and incredulity, and something more in his demand. Rhianna swallowed. The lump in her throat was worse. ‘He was very ill. It was expected.’ ‘How long had he been ill?’ What the hell was this? she thought. The Spanish Inquisition? ‘Years.’ ‘Years? What was he suffering from?’ A broken heart. It was true. Losing Davies Yacht Design had broken her father’s heart. Living people were nothing compared to his yachts. ‘He’d had heart problems for years. Heart attacks, strokes. That sort of stuff.’ She could feel Alexis’s eyes boring down at her. She wanted him to drop dead. Go away. Disappear. But he wouldn’t. He just kept on at her. ‘Increasingly common,’ he observed, as though to say something—anything. He seemed to pause a moment. ‘I did not know of your loss. Or that it was so recent.’ There was a certain stiffness in the way he spoke. ‘It was more of a release than anything. The end was…difficult.’ She stared down at her lap. ‘It always is.’ There was a terseness in the way he spoke that made her glance up suddenly. She saw a bleakness about him that made her start. Then Nicky was trotting back out on the terrace. ‘Come on, Mummy!’ He rushed off down to the beach. Before she realised what was happening Rhianna felt an arm scoop around her back and under her knees. She was lifted up effortlessly, as if she were swansdown. Shock transfixed her. Then, frantically, she started to try and free herself. ‘Put me down! Please!’ Alexis stared down at her, motionless suddenly. There was hysteria in her voice. ‘Let me go.’ Slowly, he lowered her to the ground. ‘What—?’ She shrank away from him, backing up against the balustrade. ‘Don’t touch me!’ she whispered. She made her own way down on to the beach, across the sand, resolutely refusing to take the arm Alexis silently proffered. It was slow progress, but she did it, and she sank gratefully down on to the sand, where Nicky had started to dig. Alexis hunkered down beside the small figure and set to. Like Nicky, he was in shorts and T-shirt. Rhianna watched them. Gradually her raised heart-rate was slowing, her breathing easing. The sand was warm and soft under her bare shins. She slid out of her sandals and let the fine sand drift between her toes. The warm sun beat down from the blue sky—not hot, but with gentle heat. Alexis Petrakis was digging as industriously as her son. Two sable heads were bent to their task, delving deep into the damp sand at the bottom of a large hole, chucking the sand aside. As she watched something strange seemed to be happening to her. The two sable heads were so alike. So was the air of concentration. Her gaze slipped to Alexis Petrakis. Nicky’s father. But I don’t want him to be. I don’t want him to be Nicky’s father! she thought desperately. But she could want all she liked and it would not make it less true. Alexis Petrakis was Nicky’s father. His genes were in Nicky—their shared colouring was testimony to that. And as she studied their industrious faces she felt her breath catch. It was more than the dark hair that made them look similar. There was something in the eyes, the shape of the mouth, the contours of the cheeks, that echoed each other. Words drifted back to her—Alexis Petrakis telling her that he had recognised Nicky instantly from his resemblance to himself when young. Her mouth thinned. Alexis Petrakis could never have been young. He could never have been as Nicky was now, a loving, affectionate, vulnerable child… Yet he looked different now from the way he usually looked. He looked younger, she thought suddenly, even though he was nearly five years older than when she’d first seen him. Maybe it was just because he was wearing casual beach clothes, not the sophisticated tuxedo he’d been wearing when— No. Don’t think about that. Don’t remember it. But memories stole back. Not the hideous, ghastly morning after, but to the evening before. He’d just been so incredibly attractive, she hadn’t been able to drag her eyes from him for a moment. And she still couldn’t. Her eyes flickered over his face. He was in three-quarter profile and she could see the cut of his cheekbones, the strong slash of his nose, the arc of his brows, the set of his mouth. She wanted to go on staring. Just staring. Something stirred deep within her. Something that had been dormant for a long, long time. For five long, bitter, grinding years. She didn’t want to feel it. Didn’t want it stirring. Waking. But it did all the same. Like a flickering heat somewhere deep, deep within her. She dragged her eyes away from him, back to Nicky. His son. Our son. Oh, God, Nicky was their son—they had created him between them. Created him on that night that had melted her like wax in his arms. The night had been magical, wonderful, incandescent. She had never known, never dreamt it was possible to feel the way she had. And yet for him it had never been intended as anything more than a one-night stand—a casual appetite for a woman easily sated. But if it hadn’t…? What if that night, five long years ago, had been something quite, quite different? Her eyes saw them both. Alexis and Nicky. Her heart clenched, stopping the blood. A mirage floated in her vision. Alexis, her husband, and Nicky, the son they had created together on the first, wonderful night of many, many nights together. They could have been a family together, warm and loving and happy… The mirage faded. Her heart started to beat again in dull, heavy slugs. Alexis Petrakis had used her, then thrown her from him the next morning with the harshest, most unjust condemnation. Refusing to let her explain, justify herself. He wasn’t fit to be her son’s father. And yet… She watched them digging, working as a team together, discussing the depth and size of the hole. Quite easy in each other’s company. The admission came unwillingly, but it came. She might loathe Alexis Petrakis, might wish with all her heart that he was not the father of her son, but for all that she could not deny—quite extraordinarily—he was good with Nicky. Nicky was responding to him, she could see. It was nothing overt, nothing emotional. But Nicky had…accepted him. She felt her heart twist suddenly. Nicky didn’t even know who this man was. Still didn’t know that the man digging a hole in the sand with him was his father. A new thought came to her. Maybe Alexis Petrakis wasn’t planning on telling him after all. Maybe he was still thinking about whether to acknowledge him as his son. Supposing he does and then changes his mind? Her stomach clenched. Far, far worse than not knowing who your father was would be knowing your father had rejected you. As if you weren’t good enough for him. As if you’d failed him. Emotion knifed through her. Emotion and memory. Nicky scrambled to his feet. ‘I want to put water in!’ he announced. He seized his bucket and raced to the sea’s edge. Before she could stop herself Rhianna heard herself blurting out, as Nicky ran out of earshot. ‘You’re not going to acknowledge him, are you? He’s not going to know you’re his father, is he?’ Alexis’s head swivelled to her. ‘Nicky will know I am his father. When I judge the time to be right I will tell him,’ he said grimly. ‘You can’t change your mind once he knows. You know that, don’t you? You can’t decide later that you don’t want to be his father any more.’ There was sharpness in her voice. And fear too. He looked at her, eyes narrowed. Assessing. The way he’d looked at her when he’d come out on the terrace. ‘I have no intention of doing so. Nicky is my son for ever.’ His voice became grim suddenly. ‘Every boy needs a father. Something you callously chose to ignore. His needs are paramount. Which is why you will stay with Nicky while he needs you—’ ‘He’ll always need me. I’m his mother!’ His jaw tightened. ‘While he needs you, he has you.’ His eyes flashed again, dark fire. ‘I would never part a child from its mother—even if she wanted to leave him!’ Rhianna stared at him incredulously. ‘No woman leaves her child!’ There was a sudden night-black tension in his face. ‘Some do. Some women have no maternal instinct. It is a quality absent from their beings.’ Rhianna bit her lip. ‘Then they don’t have children.’ ‘Don’t they?’ The dark of his eyes seemed to be burning with a blackness that was impenetrable. That reached down into the depths. Something shuddered deep inside her. Then, like the breaking of a tautening wire, Nicky was stumbling towards them with his bucket slopping water, and Alexis turned his attention away from her. Back to his son. Nicky was pouring the water into the hole. He watched it a moment, then announced. ‘It’s going away!’ ‘It won’t stay, Nicky,’ Alexis told him. ‘It’s draining into the sand.’ ‘But I want it to stay!’ Nicky exclaimed indignantly. ‘We can’t always have what he want,’ he replied. His eyes flickered towards the woman who sat, legs curled under her, on the sand. No, you couldn’t always have what you wanted. He didn’t want Rhianna Davies to be Nicky’s mother, but she was. He watched her a moment. Her face was shuttered and tense, not looking anywhere near him. She was still thin, but she was no longer the death’s head she’d been when he’d first laid eyes on her in hospital. A frown darkened his eyes. It hadn’t been drugs that had made her look so ill. When the nurse had so soundly refuted this, he’d contacted Dr Paniotis and he had confirmed this morning that there was no evidence of drug abuse by Rhianna Davies. What the social worker had found in her flat had simply been flu powder. And she had, indeed, been suffering from a serious untreated lung infection before she’d been knocked down on a pedestrian crossing by a drunk speeding driver. Which meant that it had not been her fault she’d ended up in hospital looking like a death’s head. Which meant— His mind veered off the path it was leading him down. No, he would not feel compunction. Nor pity for her. He could be glad, yes, for Nicky’s sake, that at least she wasn’t a drug addict, but that in no way exonerated her from the rest of her crimes. He glanced covertly at her again, seeing the lines around her mouth, her eyes. Chronic exhaustion, her medical records stated, on top of being ill and injured. He frowned again. Why had she made no mention of the fact that her father had died so recently? Or that he’d been ill for so long. He knew how much of a strain it could be when a parent was ill for years. With his father, it had taken two years from his first heart attack to his final fatal one, and the time had stretched endlessly. His father had refused to acknowledge his ‘weakness’, as he’d called it, and insisted on keeping all the reins of power of Petrakis International. Yet his obsessive determination to stay at the helm had inevitably shortened his life. Nor had he let his son take some of the pressure from him. His son? Alexis’s mouth twisted suddenly. His father’s final bitter words to him, as he had surfaced, so briefly, from his last massive attack, reverberated in his mind. Instinctively, his eyes went back to Nicky. My son, he thought. My son. Emotion, fierce and protective, surged through him. CHAPTER SIX ‘GOODNIGHT, my darling.’ Rhianna smoothed her sleeping son’s hair one last time, a huge, unending wave of love and protection pouring from her. Nothing would take him from her again. Not principalities nor powers. And not Alexis Petrakis. He says he won’t part you, though. He says while Nicky needs you he will have you… And you trust him? You actually trust a man like that? Who did what he did to you? Pain stabbed at her, twisting like a knife. How could he have been so callous to her? How could he have treated her like that? The answer came cold and clear, the way it always did. Hurting her more than anything else. Because you were just a one-night stand. Casual sex. No one important… She got to her feet. Well, now she was his son’s mother. And Alexis Petrakis was no one important to her. Except as a man who threatened her and her son. She straightened her shoulders and walked into her bedroom. Nurse Thompson was in there. ‘Nicky asleep? Good. Now, tonight, I understand, you are to eat in the dining room?’ Her voice was bland. Rhianna stared. She usually ate her evening meal with Nurse Thompson and Karen, in their sitting room, chatting amicably about anything that had nothing to do with why Rhianna was here on a privately owned Greek island with a child who looked like the man who owned it. After eating they watched English-language satellite channels. It was relaxing, easy and familiar. But maybe, she thought viciously as she headed haltingly for the dining room across the central hallway, Alexis Petrakis didn’t like the idea of her getting cosy with those whom he had hired—as he had so scathingly informed her—to supervise her contact with her son. Maybe now she was supposed to eat in isolation, on her own. Or maybe not. He was waiting for her, standing by the sideboard and pouring himself a whisky. Abruptly she turned to go. ‘What are you doing?’ The voice was sharp. ‘Going to my room.’ An exasperated sigh escaped Alexis’s lips. ‘Stavros is about to serve dinner.’ ‘I don’t want any.’ His voice darkened. ‘We have things to talk about.’ Rhianna whirled round as fast as her legs would bear. ‘No, we don’t. The only talking I’ll do with you now, after what you’ve said to me, is through a lawyer. Nicky is my son. I have custody of him. And you—as you have already admitted—have no rights in law over him. So don’t even think of using your wealth and power to take him from me!’ Her voice had risen. Adrenaline surged within her. It was the flight-or-fight hormone, but there was only one way she was going to use it. Her son was at stake—she had to fight for him. Had to. ‘Understand this, and understand it well: Nicky is my life. I will keep him safe till my dying day. I will not let you take him from me—part him from me—in any way separate him from me. I will not let you be the cause of a single tear, a single moment of grief or loss, a single moment of fear for him. Because if you are, I will see you burn in hell, Alexis Petrakis! As God is my witness, you will burn in hell!’ Ferocity contorted her face, her breathing heavy and laboured with the effort of her vehemence. But Alexis was just staring at her. As if someone completely new had just stepped out to berate him. A mother—fighting for her child—tooth and nail and claw—with all her might. It could just be an act. The cold, cynical voice spoke inside him. She heard what you said about some women not being maternal, so she’s standing there doing a number to show how devoted she is. His eyes rested on her, assessing, judgmental. The outburst had seemed ao genuine, so passionate. So absolute. What was it about this woman that confused his judgement, his instincts, so powerfully? But was it the truth? Was Rhianna Davies a devoted mother? Or had she been hiding Nicky? Biding her time before cashing in on him? But why—why wait so long, living in poverty, before producing his son? The words she had hurled at him—that she would never have told him he was Nicky’s father—circled in his brain. Why had she said that? And why was she living in such poverty? He’d assumed it was because of her drug addiction—yet she wasn’t an addict, never had been. So why live in a council flat on benefits? Her father had owned a company; she’d been wearing a designer dress the evening she’d targeted him for her scheme. None of it made sense. He wanted answers. That was why he was prepared to have dinner with her like this. She was opening the door, about to walk out on him. Rapidly he strode across the room, shutting the door with the flat of his hand. He laid a restraining hand on her arm. She flung him off jerkily. ‘Don’t touch me!’ she spat. His mouth tightened, but he let her go. She looked as if she was about to fall over; if she wanted to do so on her own she was welcome. ‘Sit down before you fall down. I have questions to ask you and I want answers.’ Balefully, she sank down on a chair. Yelling at him like that had exhausted her. He took his place opposite her, moodily taking a mouthful of whisky, then looking grimly at her. Now what? she thought bitterly. What vile accusation can he throw at me this time? But when he spoke it was the very last thing she had expected. He set down his whisky glass with a click. ‘It would seem,’ he said, and his voice was very dry, ‘that I have been misinformed about you. Your medical records show you are not, after all, a drug addict.’ Rhianna stared across at him. ‘That was very thorough of you,’ she said. Sarcasm was heavy in her voice, but relief flickered through. Alexis frowned. ‘Nor,’ he went on, ‘does it seem you behaved recklessly with my son’s life the day of your accident. Moreover, you had apparently been suffering a severe and dangerous chest infection for some time, to which doubtless the strain of your father’s death—something else I was not informed of—contributed.’ He made it sound as if the lack of information was her fault, Rhianna thought balefully. He reached forward to take another mouthful of whisky. Then, with a click, he set back the glass. ‘Tell me, why are you living in a council flat on state benefit?’ Her eyes flashed. ‘Is that a serious question?’ she retorted derisively. A flicker of annoyance showed in his face. ‘Just answer me.’ ‘Because I have no other means of support.’ She didn’t owe him the truth, she didn’t owe him a cent, but he could have the truth and choke on it for all she cared. ‘Why not? Are you estranged from your family?’ ‘There was only my father. He had no means of support either.’ Alexis sat back. ‘He owned a yacht design company. I remember that quite clearly. It was, after all, the reason you came on to me. So there must have been money around.’ It was his turn for sarcasm to be heavy in his voice. She had gone white. Every bone in her face was standing out as if she were a skeleton. ‘You bastard!’ It was a hiss as venomous as a snake’s. ‘What?’ His brows had snapped together. ‘My father lost his company and every other possession! He had nothing. We lived on my single parent income support in my single parent council accommodation—’ ‘Is this the truth?’ Rhianna erupted. ‘What the hell do you mean, is that the truth? Of course it’s the truth! He went bankrupt when MML pulled the plug on the takoever—at your orders! He had nothing left. Everything was secured against the company’s borrowings, and it all went! Even his house. He had to come and live with me. He had nowhere else to go!’ ‘Your father lived with you?’ ‘No, he lived in Buckingham Palace!’ He ignored her bitter rejoinder. ‘I didn’t know.’ She stopped. Emotions were flowing with memory, and both were agonising. To her relief, the door to the kitchen quarters opened and Stavros entered, bearing a tray with soup tureens and a basket of bread. By the time he’d finished serving them Rhianna’s composure had painfully returned. She started to eat. She was hungry, she realised. The delicate lemon-scented chicken soup was delicious, and slipped down her tight, taut throat. So did the fish, grilled with herbs and served with fragrant rice. They did not talk. Rhianna could only be grateful. Across from her, Alexis had a closed, shuttered look on his face. She went on eating. The last time you shared a meal in Alexis’s company he took you to bed afterwards… Of their own volition her eyes stole to him. She felt a slow, powerful tremor go through her. He was having just the same effect on her now as he had had five years ago. She tried to stop herself looking, but she couldn’t. The sable hair, the strong planes of his face, the straight nose, the sculpted mouth and, oh, those dark gold-flecked eyes with their long, long lashes… How could she have hoped to resist him? For five long years she had coruscated herself for her shaming, shameful weakness that night. To have fallen like a ripe peach into his arms, his bed, revelling in what he did to her, burning like a flame in his embrace. But now, sitting here, seeing him again, she knew exactly how it was she had been so very, very easy for him to seduce. Yet she still could never, never forgive herself for what she had done. What she had let him do. All for the sake of a cheap, meaningless one-night stand. Guilt and shame burned through her. Well, she thought with bitter satisfaction, she was safe from him now. She didn’t need a mirror to tell her what he saw when he looked at her. She could see it in his eyes. Revulsion. Alexis consumed his fish in silence. His mind was preoccupied. So Davies Yacht Design had been on the point of total collapse when Rhianna Davies had used him. She hadn’t given the impression they were that desperate for investment. But then his business brain clicked in. For her to have done so would have been to weaken her hand. No company wanting a life-saving bail-out would want a potential investor to realise just how critical the situation was. But if MML had been keen to buy Davies Yacht Design it must have had potential, as she’d claimed, for returning on the investment. Had it not been for his standard policy of freezing the investment plans of any company newly acquired by Petrakis International, MML would probably have gone through with the takeover. ‘After the buy-out fell through why didn’t your father line up another white knight—or was the mess worse than you’ve admitted?’ Rhianna’s head jerked up. ‘Because he had another heart attack the day after I—after you—’ She stopped, the words cutting off. ‘Another?’ Alexis’s voice was strangely expressionless. He set down his knife and fork. Rhianna swallowed. Why was he putting her through this? ‘He’d had a heart attack three days before—’ Again she stopped. ‘Your father had just had a heart attack when you approached me at that dinner?’ She gritted her teeth. ‘Yes. He was in Intensive Care. I had no choice but to try and talk to you like that at the dinner. The banks were going to foreclose the following week unless the takeover got the go-ahead at MML. Your PA let slip that you would be going to that dinner that night—I’d asked if I could have an evening appointment to see you, but she said your schedule was already finalised. So—’ she took a harsh breath ‘—I bought a ticket for the dinner, and altered the seating plan on the board at the cocktail reception beforehand so I could make sure I was on your table. It was my last chance. I had nothing to lose.’ She fell silent. She had been wrong. She had had a lot to lose—and she had lost it all. Slowly Alexis digested what she had just said. Her father in Intensive Care with a heart attack. The banks about to foreclose. She must have been desperate… Was that why she had done what she had? Offered him the one thing she had left? The traditional last coinage of every woman. Her body. Then his eyes hardened. However desperate she’d been she should not have tried to take him for a gullible fool she could manipulate with her sexual favours! ‘And the idea of simply asking me to consider the takeover on its own merit never occurred to you, did it?’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ Rhianna’s voice was hollow. ‘Had you not assumed that you could use your body to persuade me to look favourably on the takeover—’ Rage exploded through her. ‘How dare you make such an accusation? I never at any time thought such a thing, intended such a thing, or did such a thing! My God, you are a vile, disgusting man!’ A palm slammed down on the table-top. ‘I was there! I witnessed every feminine trick and wile you played on me!’ ‘I didn’t do anything!’ she protested. He laughed, coarsely and derisively, leaning back in his chair, his meal totally abandoned now. ‘You left not one trick unplayed!’ His voice was excoriating. ‘The wide eyes, the breathy voice, the low-cut gown, the long blonde hair, the skin-tight dress. All that eye contact and come-hither gazing you did over dinner. You asked to speak to me privately and came up to my suite without blinking! What the hell did you think you were going to do there? Present your business case? Quote me net present values and projected earnings? No, the only thing you were going to present me with was your body! Which you did—very lavishly—having first ensured you’d whetted my appetite for it to the maximum by spilling champagne over your breasts so that I could see them in their full glory. Then you came on to me like a—’ Her fist closed around her wine glass. She hurled the *******s at him. ‘You lying bastard! It was you! You came on to me! You—’ She never finished. He was on his feet, towering over her across the table. The wine had splashed across his shirt-front, plastering it to his chest. His expression was savage. So was his voice and his words. ‘Don’t try and rewrite the truth!’ he snarled at her. ‘We both know what the truth is. You used me. Calculatingly. Deliberately. For your own ends.’ She pushed her chair back, struggling to her feet. Her face was convulsed with fury. Five long years of fury. The crack of her hand across his cheek was like a pistol-shot. His head jerked back. His eyes were like twin satanic fires. Burning with hellfire. ‘You disgust me!’ she hissed. ‘You dare to try and put the blame on me? The only, only reason I came to your suite was to try and get you to listen to my business case. There was no other reason! How dare you accuse me of anything else?’ His eyes flickered with that dark satanic light. ‘How dare I? Tell me, if you are so right and I am so wrong, how come you tumbled right down into my bed the way you did?’ Her eyes spat at him. ‘Because I was stupid. Stupid and naive and…and…’ Her head sank. ‘Because I was stupid,’ she said again, her voice suddenly dull, and dead. She lifted her head again. It seemed as heavy as lead. Her whole body seemed as heavy as lead. What the hell was she doing, trying to justify herself to this man? She owed him nothing. Nothing at all. Her eyes rested on him. They were full of contempt and loathing. ‘It doesn’t matter whether you believe me or not. I only care about Nicky. He’s all I care about in the whole world.’ She stumbled away from the table, her legs jerky, her breathing like knives in her chest. She didn’t care. She had to get away—away. That was all. He watched her go. Adrenaline surging in his body. He wanted to follow her and shake her until he had shaken the truth out of her—until she’d admitted what she’d done. But she was hardly able to make it to the door. Like a broken puppet with the strings cut. When she had gone, leaving the door open, and he could hear her stumbling across the corridor that led to the bedrooms, he sat down heavily again. With a dark, vicious look on his face he reached for the wine bottle. CHAPTER SEVEN MOONLIGHT glimmered on the water. A chilly little wind played about his face. Wavelets lapped in the dark by his feet. Alexis stared out over the sea, hands gripping the edge of the balustrade on the terrace. The boats of fishermen were dotted about, their lights luring the fish. He was calm now. Back under control. But he had come very close to losing control completely. It had been her defiance—her refusal to admit the truth about that night five long years ago. Insisting on her innocence—insisting she had never set out to exploit her sexual allure the way he knew she had. Oh, she had been skilful, all right—had he not had his illusions ripped from him in the morning he would have gone on being fooled by her. Cold ran through him. He had come within a hair’s breadth of making an irreversible fool of himself over her. That morning, when he’d woken her with a kiss, her warm, soft sensuality had nearly persuaded him to abandon the business meeting in his diary and stay with her until his flight left at lunchtime. He gave a harsh, self-mocking laugh. Thee mou, he’d been going to take her back to Greece with him! One night with her had been no way enough! He’d wanted far, far more than that. How much more? He stared out to sea. That night had been something extraordinary, unique. She had been like no woman he had ever known. Ardent, enraptured, giving herself to him so totally, so absolutely, that it had taken his breath away. He had stood, he knew, on the shore of a sea, ready to plunge into its unknown depths and discover— Discover something that had never existed for him before. His palms clenched over the cold stone. Instead he had discovered, in the morning, that he was simply a fool. Manipulated by a woman for her own ends. Just as his father had been. Memory flickered in his mind. He put it from him, but it intruded again. He saw it fresh in his mind’s eye. Heard it. Heard that crack like a pistol-shot, as clearly now as if the intervening decades had never been, as the palm of his father’s hand slashed across his mother’s face. Heard the word that went with the pistol-shot. At five he hadn’t known what it was, but now he knew. ‘Bitch!’ All he’d known then was the fear. The terror. And the rage—the rage that had made him rush to his father, battering at his legs. ‘Don’t hit my mummy! Don’t hit her!’ His father had put him aside. His mother hadn’t even looked at him. Instead she’d simply lifted her chin, ignoring her reddening cheek, and opened her leather handbag with a click of her manicured scarlet nails. She’d dropped the piece of paper his father had given her inside. Then she’d given a little smile. Not to him. To his father. ‘Goodbye, Georgiou,’ she’d said. ‘Enjoy the boy. After all, you’ve paid enough for him. Even though he isn’t yours.’ She’d walked away, shutting the door behind her with a click. He’d watched her go. He hadn’t understood. He’d turned to his father. ‘When is Mummy coming back?’ His father hadn’t answered. Alexis had looked up at his face and it had been like stone. Suddenly his father had looked down at him. The expression in his face had terrified him. It had been filled with hate. ‘Never.’ His voice had been hard. Like iron. Then he’d walked away as well. Into another room. Another click of the door. His five-year-old self had stood still for quite some time. After a while, a servant had come and led him away. But his father had spoken the truth. He had never seen his mother again. It was strange, he thought now, three decades later, how pain could live like memory—quite blotted out, yet instantly there once more, like memory recalled. His hands clenched, every muscle in his body seizing as if in spasm. He kept staring out to sea. The pain was his—but it would never, ever be his son’s. Again that fierce protective surge went through him. He would protect his son from all that could hurt him. Like an echo, he heard in his head the vehement vow his son’s mother had given—Nicky is my life. I will keep him safe till my dying day. I will not let you be the cause of a single tear, a single moment of grief or loss, a single moment of fear for him! She’d sounded so vehement, so convincing. But had it all been calculated, fake? Can I trust her? Trust her to love Nicky the way she claims she does? That was the question that went round and round in his head. He went on staring out to sea, the cold lapping at him. And as he stared he knew, finally, that he had to know. Had to know whether Rhianna Davies loved his son. There was only one way to find out. Only one way to know the truth. Rhianna was having breakfast with Nicky out on the sunny terrace. She felt tired and drained after the ugliness of the scene the night before. Yet another scene. Yet another vicious exchange of venom and hatred. Yet Nicky, blessedly, was unscarred. She watched him diligently throwing breadcrumbs to the tiny sparrows that darted from the balustrade to the paved floor to pick them up. He was chattering happily about watching the helicopter land that morning with Karen. Rhianna listened with half an ear, nodding and responding as necessary. But there was a heaviness in her heart. He mustn’t be hurt. Whatever happens—however foul Alexis Petrakis is to me, however hard I have to fight back against him—Nicky mustn’t be hurt. There were footsteps approaching, and she looked away from Nicky. Alexis came out on the terrace. Nicky’s face lit up. ‘Can we play?’ he asked immediately, starting to slide off his chair. ‘I’ve finished my breakfast, Mummy.’ Alexis came up to him. He ignored Rhianna. He smiled down at his son. ‘What would you like to play first?’ ‘Swimming! Football! Sandcastles!’ responded Nicky at once, then added as a dutiful afterthought, ‘Please.’ Rhianna saw Alexis laugh, his face lightening. She felt something clench inside. It was that different person again, she thought. The one Nicky saw—but never her. Would you want to? Why should you? Alexis Petrakis is nothing to you—nothing except your enemy. Don’t crave smiles from him. Not that she would get them. Alexis Petrakis directed only one thing at her. Condemnation. He was speaking again—to his son. ‘We can do them all—but first you need to put your swimming trunks on and get Karen to put your sunblock on.’ Nicky was off like a shot. ‘Don’t forget to brush your teeth,’ Rhianna called out after him. ‘Bleah!’ cried Nicky, as he ran indoors to find his nanny. Rhianna brought her gaze back, to find that Alexis was looking down at her. Her expression stilled, became impassive. He was going to say something vile, she could tell. But then, when did he ever say anything to her that was not vile? ‘If you have finished your breakfast too, I should like to speak to you.’ She eyed him stonily, saying nothing. ‘In my office,’ said Alexis. Now what? she thought bitterly. What else is he going to throw at me? Threaten me with? She steeled herself. Her only option was to fight—every inch of the way. She got to her feet carefully. The pain in her lungs was easing day by day, but her muscles had tensed at the coming ordeal. He led the way back inside, across the hall to a room she had never been into. As she followed, at her slower, halting pace, she realised why. It was his space. A sleek PC dominated a large desk. Alexis Petrakis was already behind it. A maroon leather folder lay on the surface of the desk in front of him. A bad feeling started to pool inside her. ‘Sit down.’ His manner was different this morning, she thought. She didn’t know why, but it was. And there was something about it that made her feel very, very uneasy. Impassively she lowered herself to the chair in front of the desk. Was this deliberate intimidation? she wondered. Making her sit meekly while he lorded it behind his desk? Well, she would not be intimidated. Must not be. ‘I have a proposition to put to you.’ His voice was inexpressive. So was his face. His eyes were shuttered. He flicked open the folder. There was a document inside, and a piece of smaller paper on the top. It was a cheque, Rhianna could see. ‘I am prepared,’ said Alexis Petrakis, in a voice devoid of emotion, ‘to hand over to you the sum of twenty million pounds. In exchange you will sign all custody rights to my son to me—in perpetuity. Doing so will make you a very rich woman.’ He paused. ‘As part of this exchange you will be available to Nicky, on demand, for as long as he wants you. However, there will be certain restrictions on your freedom of action. You will not be permitted to contact the press, you will not be permitted to lead a life that will cause embarrassment or distress to my son, and all your contact with him will be under supervision—either by myself or my nominee. ‘The sum of twenty million pounds will be held for you, in a high-yield investment portfolio, the interest from which will be yours to spend as you will, and the capital sum, compounded over the years, will become yours outright on Nicky’s majority. By this arrangement you will gain a highly luxurious lifestyle, with the expectation of a very generous fortune in fourteen years’ time, yet Nicky will be assured of the continued presence of his mother in his life, while he wants that.’ He paused again, then went on, his voice still completely businesslike, as though he were unveiling normal terms and conditions. ‘This document, which I have had flown here this morning, details the financial disposition I have just outlined. Feel free to peruse it carefully.’ His voice drained of expression even more. ‘In addition, I am prepared to issue this cheque, cashable immediately, as a gesture of good faith on my part, for your co-operation in this agreement. It is in the sum of two million pounds and is yours outright. Right now.’ The obsidian eyes rested on her. Nothing showed in them whatsoever. For one beat of a heart, Rhianna paused. Then, in a composed voice, she spoke. ‘May I see?’ Silently, he pushed the folder across to her. His face was like carved stone. Still nothing showed in his eyes. Nothing at all. And yet something was there. She could see. Something. But she did not know what. Nor did she care. She lifted the cheque, drawn on his personal account at a historic London private bank. She glanced at it, then set it aside. Then she picked up the document underneath, leafing through it. Then she replaced it on the table. Put the cheque on top of it. She picked them both up again and, with jagged, violent movements, tore them into fragments, scattering them on the gleaming polished surface of the desk. She got to her feet. Slowly, succinctly, banking down every single sign of any emotion in her whatsoever, she spoke. ‘I will say this to you very clearly. So that even someone as vile as you can understand. My son is not for sale. Not—for—sale. And if you ever make such an attempt again, I will—’ She broke off. Emotion erupted within her. Unstoppable. Overpowering. Hatred poured from her like a dark, black tide. Forcibly she took a sharp, scything breath that cut her lungs like glass. ‘You are a monster,’ she breathed. ‘A sick, degenerate, disgusting monster. There are no depths that you would not stoop to. It makes me ill to breathe the same air as you.’ She fumbled her way to the door, reaching for the handle blindly. But as she did there seemed to be a great, crushing heaviness bowing her down. So great she could not bear it, could not breathe. Oh, God—that such a man should have fathered Nicky. Prepared to buy his own son from her. Thinking he was for sale. That she would sell her son to him. How can I bear it? she thought, the heaviness crushing her. How can I bear Nicky being near such a man? Being his son? There was something thick in her lungs, in her throat. Something that was choking her, filling up in her, trying to break out, spill over, escape. But she mustn’t let it escape. Not here, not now, not in front of such a man. Such a monster. Who had fathered her son and now wanted to buy him. Her hand closed around the handle, but she could not turn it. Could not move. Could only feel that choking, cracking feeling in her lungs, her throat. She leant against the door panel, weakness convulsing through her, making her shake and tremble. The first sob tore from her even as Alexis thrust back his chair, and hurried to her. |
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHE wouldn’t let him help her. Wouldn’t let him guide her back to the chair. Wouldn’t let him hold her. She shrank away from him, clutching the door, in physical and emotional collapse. ‘Don’t touch me!’ Her voice was a yell, a screech, convulsed with a high, racking sobbing. She shook his hands from her forcibly, trying to yank the door open. But her eyes were blind, her hands shaking, her limbs trembling. Unable to get the door open, she spun round, reeling, backing against the closed door like an animal at bay. Because that was what she was. A wretched, hunted antelope that the leopard in front of her wanted to devour, tear apart, destroy completely. The sobs were choking in her throat as she held her hands up to ward him off. ‘Keep away from me! Keep away from me!’ She couldn’t take any more—she just could not. She was hitting out at him, not impacting, but sweeping her arms in front of her to keep him away. He stood stock still. Emotion was knifing through him, and he could not tell what it was. He had no time to think about it. She was going out of control, he could see, and collapsing visibly in front of her eyes. He turned on his heel and snatched up the house phone on his desk, barking something in Greek down the line. Then he turned round again. ‘Nurse Thompson is coming. She will look after you. If you stand aside from the door she can come in. I—I will not touch you.’ Her breathing, through the harsh, choking sobs, was gasping. He could see her chest rising and falling jerkily. A knock sounded sharply on the door from the outside. ‘That is Nurse Thompson. If you just step to one side she can come in.’ She did what he told her, rolling her body so that she was half collapsed against the wall beside the door. Nurse Thompson pushed it open carefully and, to his relief, took over immediately. With brisk, controlled movements she guided the sobbing, choking figure outside, paying no attention to the man standing there, rigidly immobile, witnessing the scene. When she had gone, he shut the door behind her. He walked back heavily to his chair behind the desk and sank down on it. On the surface of the desk the torn document and cheque curled, despised and rejected. He sat still, looking at the sorry remains. Then slowly, methodically, he gathered up the shards and swept them into a wastepaper basket. They would not be needed again. ‘Where’s Nicky?’ Rhianna’s voice was faint, but fearful, urgent. Nurse Thompson answered calmly. ‘Karen is reading to him. He’s quite *******. Just rest now.’ Rest. It was the only thing she could do. It was as if a steamroller had just gone over her. But then that was what Alexis Petrakis was. A savage-toothed, crushing steamroller that would crush her and tear her if she let him. Fear convulsed through her. More than fear. Revulsion. Revulsion at a man who could stoop so low as to think a child was for sale… Her mind writhed in powerless torment. She had to get away from here! She had to! The door of the bedroom opened. Rhianna’s eyes shot towards it, and Nurse Thompson’s bulky figure also turned in that direction. Alexis Petrakis stood there. He looked taller, darker, yet there was something about him that was different. Rhianna didn’t know what. Didn’t care what. ‘Nurse, I would like a few minutes alone with your patient, if you please.’ It might have been phrased as a request, but Nurse Thompson heard it as an order. For a moment she held her employer’s eyes. ‘Ms Davies is not to be further distressed,’ she informed one of the richest men in Greece. Gravely, Alexis Petrakis inclined his head. ‘I shall not do so,’ he replied. Then his gaze slipped past the nurse, on to the woman lying on the bed. Again, through the tension that had instantly stiffened her body as he had entered the room, Rhianna felt something different about him. But fear and tension overlaid everything, blotting out any recognition of what that difference was. Briefly, Nurse Thompson nodded, and stalked out of the room. As the door shut behind her Alexis Petrakis stepped forward. Automatically, Rhianna sought to back against the pillows propping her up. Now what was he going to do? Dear God, how much more of this could she stand? He was standing at the foot of the bed, looking down at her. She felt a shiver go through her. For what seemed like a long, timeless moment he said nothing, just stood there, tall, dark, his face shuttered, unreadable. Then, abruptly, he spoke. ‘It would appear,’ he said, and there was a tightness in his voice that made it sound strange, forbidding, ‘that I have been wrong about you.’ She said nothing, only felt her fingers clench into the coverlet laid over her. Something moved in his eyes. Again she could not tell what. The tension lacing through her did not allow for any analysis. ‘Not in everything,’ he went on—and in those few words she heard unmistakably that note of harsh condemnation she had become so familiar with in his accusing exchanges with her. ‘But in one essential area.’ He paused a moment, and Rhianna became aware that his fingers were clenched tightly at his sides. His voice changed. Became strained, not harsh. ‘You do, after all, seem to care for Nicky.’ Rhianna’s eyes widened. She could not help it. Stupefied, she stared at the man standing at the end of the bed. ‘I thought it a show—a parade of false emotionality—put on deliberately to up your value, present yourself in a good light to me. Bid up your price.’ His voice was drained of emotion, and Rhianna felt the breath stop in her lungs. ‘But you turned down twenty-two million pounds for him. That—’ suddenly his breath rasped sharply, slamming down his emotions ‘—is very convincing.’ He paused, taking in another sharp breath. ‘So convincing that I am now prepared to…re-evaluate…my estimation of you.’ Again the harshness entered his voice. ‘Although I can never forgive you for keeping my son from me, nor for the manner of his conception, I do now accept that you do, indeed, care for him more than the wealth his paternity promises you. Accordingly, I now wish to make a…’ he paused, then continued. ‘A rapprochement…with you. For Nicky’s sake, he cannot have parents at war with one another. It is too distressing for him—too destructive.’ There was an edge in his voice like the blade of a knife over vulnerable flesh. ‘We must make an accommodation with each other for his sake. Present a front to him that, whilst not idyllic, nevertheless will not blight his childhood.’ Dark, expressionless eyes bored down on her. ‘Only one person is important here—and that is Nicky. Whatever our feelings about each other, they must not poison him. I will not allow it.’ He took a final, sharp intake of breath. ‘So, on this basis, I am prepared to move forward. ‘For now,’ he continued, his voice changing minutely, ‘your focus must be to recover your health. Mine will be to continue to get to know my son. This will also—’ his mouth tightened ‘—give us the opportunity to…accommodate…each other.’ His eyes flickered over her assessingly, taking in her blank, hostile expression. ‘I would appreciate it,’ he said, the edge coming back to his voice, ‘if there is a concomitant effort made on your part. All that is required is common civility—’ ‘Civility?’ Her voice was thin. She was finally finding her words now, after the sheer stupefaction she had felt at hearing what he was saying to her. ‘You expect civility from me—after what you’ve said to me, what you’ve done to me? Threatening me, verbally abusing me, haranguing me—’ His expression stiffened. ‘I accept now that much of what I feared to be true about you is not so—’ ‘Well, everything I feared to be true about you is so!’ she shot back, venom in her voice as she struggled to sit up properly. ‘You are every bit as foul as I thought. Throwing your filthy accusations at me, time and again.’ Alexis’s eyes flashed with instant anger. Then, visibly, he controlled it. ‘I have just said that I accept that I was mistaken—’ ‘And I’ve just said that I wasn’t! You tried to buy my son. What the hell kind of man does that?’ His expression tensed. His eyes became opaque. He couldn’t tell her that he’d experienced it himself, had been put through that torment. ‘I had to be sure. Sure that it wasn’t just my money you were after. I had to make you choose between Nicky and money—’ Her eyes widened in horror. ‘You deliberately offered me that stinking money to see if I would sell my son to you? It was just some kind of disgusting test?’ Emotion choked in her. ‘I had to be sure, Rhianna—’ His breath rasped again in his throat. ‘And now that I am, we can, as I have come to make clear to you, move forward. Nicky needs us both. Both. And, however much neither of us wants to accept that, we must.’ He shifted his weight on his feet. ‘We must. ‘I will leave you now, to think over what I have said. And please prepare yourself for one other thing. It is time I told Nicky that I am his father. I propose to do so this afternoon.’ The dark eyes rested on her. ‘It would be best if you were present. He may become confused, even distressed. But postponement will, I believe, only lead to greater confusion. His life has changed hugely in these past weeks, and it would be best if this final change—discovering he has a father after all—is absorbed into the overall changes to his life.’ He gave a final, long glance at her as she lay there, incapable of speech, reaction, and then without another word he was gone. ‘Mummy, please may you cut a peach for me?’ Nicky selected the biggest one in the large blue pottery bowl on the table and handed it across to Rhianna with an expectant expression on his face. She took it, and began to pare it with a knife. A fly buzzed idly in the lunchtime heat and she flicked it away. At the head of the table set on the wide terrace overlooking the beach Alexis Petrakis sat, relaxed back in his chair, half a glass of chilled Chablis in his hand. Lunch had been a strange affair. Outwardly it had looked completely normal, with Nicky chattering away to both her and Alexis. All conversation had been centred on Nicky; hardly any direct exchanges between herself and Alexis had taken place. And when there had been one, always initiated by Alexis, never herself, he had been doggedly, scrupulously civil to her. It had been totally unnerving. Totally unreal. A sense of complete weirdness enveloped Rhianna. It was as if all feeling, all thought, had been suspended. As if she had gone beyond emotion, beyond the will required for either function. When Alexis had withdrawn from her bedroom, bombshell deposited, she had simply gone on staring at the space he had occupied, her mind groping flounderingly over what he had just said and done. Emotions like waves had come over her, each wave quite opposite from each other. One wave carried a surge of stunned, disbelief; the next surged with a kind of blind, inchoate fury that he should have dared to declare in so lordly a fashion that he now deigned to believe that she put her son at a higher value than his filthy money. But even after that wave had boiled through her, a third and final wave had taken its place. A sense of extreme and total exhaustion of the spirit. She just couldn’t take any more. And that was still with her as she sat opposite Alexis, cutting Nicky’s peach for him, trying not to look anywhere near the tall, dark figure at the other end of the table, his saturnine face shaded by the overhang of the terrace roof. ‘There you go, darling,’ she said, pushing the prepared fruit towards Nicky. He started to eat it with gusto, mumbling a ‘thank you’ as he did so, then, turning towards the end of the table, he said, ‘Can we do more swimming after lunch? Please,’ he added, then frowned, puzzled. ‘Please, Mr—Mr Pe—Mr Petra—’ He stopped, not knowing how to continue. Alexis set down his wine. ‘You don’t have to call me Mr Petrakis, Nicky,’ he said. And suddenly, quite suddenly, every nerve in Rhianna’s body quivered. Desperately she tensed forward. But it was too late. Alexis was speaking again. His voice was careful, almost inexpressive, as if he were testing out each word for the weight it could bear. ‘Nicky, tell me something. Did your mummy ever tell you about your daddy?’ The breath froze in Rhianna’s throat. Oh, God, he’s going to tell him now—right now. And I haven’t had any time to prepare myself. Prepare Nicky… ‘Nicky…’ Her voice was faint. Her son didn’t hear her. Nicky was polishing off his peach. He looked across at the man who’d asked him the question. ‘Mummy says I haven’t got one. Not all children have daddies, she says.’ ‘Would you like one?’ There was reserve in Alexis’s voice. It sounded quite neutral. In agony, Rhianna tried to catch his eye, to stop him. But she knew it was hopeless. He’d said he would tell Nicky and now it was happening. Nicky frowned. ‘Only if he’s nice. Sometimes where we lived the daddies were not nice. They yelled and said rude words. Mummy used to go inside quickly and shut the door when they did that.’ Rhianna could see Alexis’s face darken at Nicky’s innocent depiction of the kind of environment he’d been brought up in. ‘But if there was a nice daddy for you, who didn’t yell, would you like that?’ ‘Would he be sick, like Grandpa?’ There was a note of fear in Nicky’s voice, and Rhianna could see Alexis’s mouth tighten, then deliberately relax again. ‘No. He would be quite well. He could play football with you. And go swimming. Throw stones that bounce.’ Nicky’s eyes widened. ‘Like you can!’ Rhianna could see the set of Alexis’s jaw tense. ‘Yes, like I can. In fact…’ The pause was minute, and for a second Rhianna caught the unbearable tension in his voice, his face. ‘Maybe I would make a good daddy.’ He sat still. Very, very still. ‘Would I do, Nicky, for a daddy? If you wanted that?’ And suddenly, quite suddenly, out of nowhere, Rhianna felt tears prick in her eyes. She didn’t want them there. Tried to stop them welling. But she couldn’t stop them. Before her eyes, Nicky blurred. ‘Just for on holidays? Like now?’ There was caution in his voice. ‘For as long as you’d want, Nicky. But we could start with now, couldn’t we?’ For a long moment Nicky just stared. Then suddenly he had jumped to his feet. He came rushing round to Rhianna. ‘Mummy! Can we? Can we have a daddy?’ His little hands clutched her arms; his face was alight. With eagerness, with questioning. With hope. Rhianna swallowed. Her eyes squeezed. ‘If that’s what you want, muffin, of course you can. Of course you…you can…’ Her voice choked. She didn’t want to cry. Didn’t want to cry because Alexis Petrakis was offering to be their son’s father. ‘Oh, Mummy!’ Nicky’s eyes were huge. ‘We’ve got a daddy now! I’ve got a daddy!’ He turned to the man who had made him so wonderful an offer. ‘Can we start now? Please?’ Alexis nodded. ‘Yes, we can start now.’ For a moment Rhianna saw through her blurred vision his mouth press tightly, his throat constrict. Somehow it just made her vision blur even more. CHAPTER NINE ‘DADDY—come and see!’ ‘Daddy—look—look at me!’ ‘Daddy—watch! Daddy, watch!’ The refrains were constant, endless. Rhianna heard them all afternoon—Nicky’s piping, excited voice, calling for his father. She lay on her day bed on the terrace, cool in the shade, propped up on pillows, completely inert. But, despite her physical inertia, mentally and emotionally she was a complete wreck. Tears kept filling her eyes, however much she tried to stop them, blink and brush them away. Just watching Nicky down on the beach, splashing in the sea, building a sandcastle, kicking a football around, the whole time his face a picture of ecstasy. Once, during his play, he had suddenly stopped and rushed up to her, clambering up and hugging her so tightly that she could not breathe. ‘Mummy! We’ve got a daddy! We’ve got a daddy!’ Before rushing away again. Back to his Daddy. Alexis Petrakis. The man she had more cause to loathe in all the world than anyone else alive. And yet… How could she hate him now? How could she hate him now Nicky knew he was his father. Because if she did it would show. Nicky would find out. He’d feel her hatred, and it would be a poison for him… Her thoughts were going round and round and round in her head as she sat and watched her son and his father playing, their figures blurring in and out of her vision. But could she stop hating Alexis Petrakis? She’d hated him for five long draining, exhausting, gruelling years, when keeping going had been the only thing she could do—trying to keep her father alive, trying to give her baby the best she could, despite all the weight dragging her down, down, down… Until she had finally collapsed. And now her life had changed—changed completely. Because of Alexis Petrakis. What am I going to do? she thought. Her emotions felt as battered as if they had been shipwrecked, tossed in a tempestuous sea. But on what shore would they be cast up? Tiredness seeped through her. She was too tired to think, too tired to feel. It was all too difficult, too confusing. She would just go on lying here, in the warm sun, getting used to the fact that her son now knew he had a father—a father who wanted to be a permanent part of his life. For whose sake he was even prepared to be civil to his son’s mother. Her eyes rested on the pair of them, kicking a football back and forth towards makeshift goals marked by battered sand towers. Nicky was laughing and calling out, and Alexis— There was a hollowing feeling inside her stomach. Out of nowhere it came, making her breath catch. Alexis Petrakis—in casual chinos and polo shirt, his sable hair breeze-ruffled, his saturnine face animated with laughter. The hollowing came again, making her feel suddenly weak and breathless. She shut her eyes. Quite deliberately. Alexis Petrakis existed only as Nicky’s father. Nothing else. Nothing else. She had to remember that. She had to. ‘Today,’ announced Alexis, ‘we are going on a boat. To a secret beach on the island.’ Nicky’s eyes shone like stars as he lifted his head from his breakfast. ‘A boat?’ he echoed excitedly. Alexis glanced at Rhianna. She had gone stark white, fear in her face. ‘It is quite safe, and we will all wear lifejackets.’ ‘Mummy! Please!’ Every maternal instinct urged her to refuse. Boats went on the sea—the sea could drown children. But Nicky was looking so thrilled. She took an uncertain breath. ‘Well—I—I—’ ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ Nicky bounced up and down in his seat. ‘I am surprised you are so nervous about the sea,’ Alexis commented. ‘Considering your father designed yachts. Did you never go sailing with him as a child yourself?’ ‘I didn’t see much of my father when I was growing up,’ she answered shortly. ‘My mother divorced him for desertion when I was not much older than Nicky. She lived in Oxfordshire, which is pretty far from the sea.’ She didn’t want to talk about her childhood. And certainly not to Alexis Petrakis. But then she didn’t want to talk to him at all. About anything. Even though he kept on talking to her. He’d done it the previous day, with Nicky present, talking to her in a casual, conversational way—as if he had never thrown such vicious accusations at her, had never made her the target of his fury, his rage. At least Nicky had been there as well, thankfully oblivious to the stiffness and undercurrents between the two people who had so unintentionally but so irrevocably brought him into existence. He had accepted his father’s arrival in his life with a childish mix of unquestioning acceptance and thrilled excitement, as if Father Christmas had arrived. She was less accepting. And in place of excitement was tension. Fraught, pulling tension, webbing her round. She could not cope with Alexis being, as he had said he would be, ‘civil’ to her. Talking to her as if she were a normal human being, not excrement beneath his feet. She could see it was an effort for him, though. That he was quite deliberately involving her in his conversation with Nicky, drawing her in. But I don’t want to be drawn in. I don’t want to have anything to do with him. Even as the words formed in her head she knew she could not indulge them. Loath as she was to acknowledge it, she knew that he was right. For Nicky’s sake she must try and put aside her hostility—as he was doing. But it was difficult to do so. Difficult to let go of something that had been there for five long years, like a caged beast—a beast that had been let terrifyingly loose when Alexis had turned up at her hospital bedside, and here, in his villa, when he had thrown his vileness at her. Yet here she was, responding to his questions as if those vicious exchanges had never taken place. A faint frown creased Alexis’s brow. ‘Your mother didn’t like you spending time with your father?’ Was there something in his voice that had an edge to it? ‘The other way round,’ she replied defensively, not liking to hear her mother criticised. ‘My father didn’t have much time for me. Or for her. Or for anything, really, except his boats. So, no, I didn’t sail as a child. I did a basic course on a reservoir, when I was a student, because I thought it would be something that would please my father, but—’ She fell silent. Why on earth was she telling this to Alexis Petrakis? Her pathetic attempts to get her father to take an interest in her. ‘But?’ His voice prompted her. She gave a dismissive shrug of her shoulder. ‘He didn’t reply to my letter telling him I’d got my Level One dinghy certificate. So I never went any further with getting qualified.’ ‘What did you study as a student?’ Her eyes flickered to him. Why did he want to know? ‘Accountancy. Very boring. But I knew it would make me employable. Mum never had much money—Dad was always late with his maintenance payments—so—’ ‘You are an accountant?’ There was surprise in his voice. She stared at him. ‘Yes. After my mother died I sought out my father and went to work for him, to help keep his company going. I realised how bad the situation was financially, and knew the only way to save it was to find an investor or a buyer, or a part-owner. That’s why I approached MML. I told you that.’ ‘You never told me you were an accountant.’ There was accusation in his voice. Her face hardened. ‘What difference does it make what my professional qualifications were or are?’ she retorted. ‘Do you really need to ask?’ he replied. He was looking at her strangely. With that same assessing look she caught on his face sometimes. It disturbed her. She got to her feet and held her hand out for Nicky. ‘Time for teeth-brushing.’ He slid down from the table and went reluctantly with her. The boat trip proved a huge thrill for Nicky. Wedged between his father’s splayed legs, he gleefully steered the wheel, his hands shadowed by Alexis’s. Seated in the stern, Rhianna hung on grimly, her body battered as the boat slapped over the waves. But Nicky’s joy and excitement made it worthwhile. So did their destination. It was indeed, a secret beach. Out at sea it was scarcely visible between two miniature headlands. But nestled between the cliffs was a tiny jewel-like beach, with dazzling white sand and exquisite shallow turquoise water. ‘We’re going to snorkel!’ Nicky told her excitedly. ‘Daddy and me!’ Alexis dropped anchor and jumped lithely overboard into knee deep water. He scooped Nicky up and deposited him on the beach a few yards away. Then he returned to the boat. He held out his arms to her. ‘I can manage,’ Rhianna said immediately. But as she got uncertainly to her feet the boat swung on its mooring. Instinctively she grasped the nearest solid object. It was Alexis. She clung, swaying, terrified. Then in a fluid movement he had scooped her up, as lightly as he had Nicky. For one fleeting moment she felt the protective strength of his arms. Then she went completely rigid. She’d frozen. As if she’d been turned into a block of wood. Grimly, Alexis waded through the shallow water towards the tiny beach, the starkly rigid body immobile in his arms. Thee mou, she hadn’t been like this the night he had swept her up and carried her to his bed! Then she had been like warm honey in his arms, soft and pliant, yielding to him like sweetest velvet… No—no point thinking of that. Remembering that. It was the last thing he wanted to recall to his mind. And Rhianna Davies was the last woman on the planet he wanted to have the slightest sexual feeling about whatsoever. But for all that there was no reason for her freaking out whenever he touched her. As if he were poison. Anathema to her. He set her down on the sand and she jerked away from him immediately. He busied himself carrying what they needed to shore and setting up a camp in the shade of the cliff. Nicky bounced around excitedly. ‘Come on, Daddy!’ He started rummaging through the grip containing snorkelling equipment. ‘Steady,’ said Alexis. ‘Right—flippers first.’ Rhianna watched them from her position on a soft rug laid out on the sand. Her heart-rate was slowing again now. She’d discarded her lifejacket, but Alexis and Nicky still kept theirs on. Her eyes kept going to Alexis. Somehow the extra bulk over his chest simply made his shoulders seem broader in their short-sleeved T-shirt, his hips in their swimming shorts narrower, his bare, sinewed legs longer. She felt that long-ago tremor start within her again. Felt, for just a second, the echo of his protective clasp around her as he carried her ashore. She shut her eyes. A strange, vast and completely illogical sense of loss went through her. As though something very precious had gone from her life. But that was stupid. She had never had Alexis Petrakis. He had only had her—enjoyed her, and discarded her. He’d never intended anything more than a one-night stand. It had never meant more to him than that. She must never forget that. ‘Is he too heavy?’ Alexis nodded at Nicky, who—exhausted from the excitement of the boat trip and the exertions of snorkelling, then made soporific by Maria’s lavish picnic lunch—was asleep on Rhianna’s lap. She shook her head. Alexis was lounging at the far end of the rug with panther-like grace, his T-shirt moulding his physique, long bare legs extended, lithe and muscular, his feet bare. She dragged her gaze away. ‘He’s never heavy.’ She smiled, looking down at her sleeping son, love-light in her gaze. Her hand smoothed over the silky hair. Something flickered in Alexis’s eyes. Her smile did something to her. It lightened her face. Softened it. He found himself studying her as she gazed down at Nicky. Not that it was haggard any more. That hollowed-out gauntness she’d had was completely gone. Now she simply looked fine-boned, not thin. Nor did her skin look like sickly sour cheese any more. The warmth of the Mediterranean sun had brought a honeyed tone to her face. The bright Aegean sky had made her eyes bluer, too, not washed-out. In fact— He halted his mental catalogue. Rhianna Davies’s physical appearance was completely irrelevant. She was his son’s mother. Nothing more. And an accountant? His brows drew together in a frown. Had she really been her father’s accountant that night she’d said she’d wanted to talk to him privately? I could check. There are records of those who have professional qualifications. Because if she truly were, then maybe, just maybe, her claim of innocence of the accusation he’d charged her with was wrong. And if that was wrong— Again he halted himself. No. Even if she hadn’t deliberately offered herself to him on a plate, to soften him up to plead her case over her father’s company, it did not exonerate her! She was still guilty of keeping Nicky from him—deliberately and knowingly keeping a son from his father. Cruel, vindictive, vengeful. His mouth thinned. Why did that sound so familiar…? ‘Tell me what he was like as a baby. Do you have any photos?’ Rhianna’s eyes lifted again. There was a curious expression on Alexis’s face. Reserved, almost shuttered. Yet there was something else there too. It was hunger, she realised. Something pricked inside her, and she realised what it was. Guilt. Guilt that he had never seen his child as a baby. That those lost years would never come back for him. A hollowness opened inside her, filled with stabbing pain. Loss. ‘Some,’ she answered, feeling awkward. It was hard enough speaking to him when Nicky was present. Now, with him asleep in her lap, and it was only her and Alexis, and it was even harder. ‘I—I would like to see them some time.’ Had he sounded hesitant? Alexis Petrakis? Rich, powerful, domineering, demanding Alexis Petrakis? A man who simply clicked his fingers and things happened the way he wanted them? A man who felt he could throw the most foul insults in her face and they were justified? A man who had no memories of his baby son… ‘They’re…they’re in my flat. I haven’t got many, though. He…he was a very good baby.’ She paused. ‘That sounds terrible. It usually means placid—no trouble. He wasn’t any trouble. I was—’ she caught her breath ‘—very grateful. My father…’ She swallowed. ‘Well, he wasn’t well—I made allowances. I had to.’ She shrugged. ‘Did he resent Nicky?’ She looked away, out over the azure water that was a million miles away from the cramped, poky flat on the run-down housing estate where she and Nicky and her father had lived. ‘Yes,’ she answered briefly, and she did not hear the edge of bitterness in her voice as she spoke. ‘My father resented anything and anyone that came between him and his work.’ ‘Do you miss him?’ Her lips pressed together. ‘No. It’s an awful thing to say, but I don’t. He didn’t care about my mother, or about me, or about his grandchild. So why should anyone care about him? I—I did my best for him. It was all I could do. But it was never enough. I could never get back for him the one thing he loved—his company. And so after a while—eventually—I stopped caring that he didn’t care. I had Nicky and that was enough. More than enough.’ Her voice lowered. ‘He was everything—everything to me. And he still is. And he always will be.’ Her jaw tightened, defiance in her eyes. ‘Nicky’s happiness is the only, only reason I am here now. You’ve made Nicky happy—’ Her voice broke off. There was a long, constrained moment, then abruptly Alexis spoke. ‘Why did you cry when I told him I was his father?’ She pressed her lips together again. ‘I was happy for him. You’ve—you’ve—’ She took a deep breath, lifted her chin, then said what she knew she had to say. ‘You’ve done well by him. I—I was surprised. You really do seem to…to want him, to care for him.’ Alexis spoke slowly, his eyes not quite meeting hers. ‘Why did you think I would not? Did you think—’ his eyes suddenly went back to hers ‘—that I would be like your father?’ There was a heaviness, sudden, crushing, in the air. She swallowed, her throat felt dry. ‘I—I—’ She closed her eyes. ‘Yes.’ Alexis looked at her. For a long, long moment he said nothing. Then quietly, very quietly, he spoke. ‘I will love Nicky with all my heart, with all my soul, with all my being, until the day I die. When I first set eyes on him and knew him for my son I knew that I would never, never reject him. As—as my own father had rejected me.’ She stared at him, her face stilling. His eyes were holding hers steadily, unflinchingly. ‘You see, like you,’ he said, in that same quiet, steady voice, ‘I spent my childhood, my adolescence, wanting my father to love me. But he never did.’ He took a breath, his voice changing. ‘He never did.’ She heard the tightening in his voice, and without conscious thought, only impelled by an instinct it was impossible to suppress, she suddenly reached forward and touched—oh, so lightly; oh, so briefly—his hand, splayed on the rug, taking his lounging weight. She drew back immediately, but it was done. Between them, for the briefest moment, there flowed something that brought them together. Two people whose childhoods had been blighted by the cruelty of adults. And suddenly—quite, quite suddenly—Rhianna knew with a certainty that filled her being that Nicky was safe—safe with the man who had fathered him, who would never, never betray a child’s love. She felt the tears prick in her eyes. ‘We can do this. We can do this, Rhianna.’ Alexis’s voice was low, steady and compelling. ‘We can be good parents for Nicky—the kind of parents every child needs. Loving parents. We both love him, and for his sake we can do this.’ He didn’t say what ‘this’ was, but he did not have to. Rhianna knew. ‘This’ was what he had asked her to do—put aside their hatred and mistrust of each other just enough for Nicky’s sake. Emotions sifted through her like sediments shifting, finding new levels. Cautiously, very cautiously, she answered him, feeling her chest tighten. ‘I—I will try,’ she said. He nodded. His eyes still held hers. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. It was late afternoon before they returned to the villa. Nicky had awoken, *******ed and eager for more snorkelling, more swimming and a lot of exploring of the rocks and beach with his father. Rhianna had watched them. Something had changed, she knew. Something about the way she thought of Alexis. Knowing that his childhood had been blighted, as hers had been, had done more than explain to her why he was so determined to be a good father to Nicky—it had made him somehow more human. Not just a rich, powerful man, using his wealth to bully or buy others, but vulnerable. Human. Not the way she had had cause to think of him for five long years. But now? Her mood was strange as they arrived back. Nicky went rushing off to find Karen and extol the wonders of his day to her over nursery tea, Alexis went off to shower and then go into his office, and Rhianna surrendered to Nurse Thompson’s ministrations. She took her medicines and did her physio exercises docilely, but her mood was abstracted. So abstracted that as she sat at her dressing table after her bath, and Nurse Thompson set to drying her newly washed hair, she was taken aback, when the hairdryer was finally silenced, by the reflection that looked back at her from the mirror. ‘Good heavens!’ she exclaimed faintly. Nurse Thompson had blowdried her hair as skilfully as if she’d been a professional hairdresser. Not that she’d been to a hairdresser for five years, Rhianna thought. It was a luxury she hadn’t been able to afford, and, given her utterly absent social life, not something she’d needed. Not that she needed it now, either. But Nurse Thompson was standing behind her, looking so pleased with her efforts that Rhianna hadn’t the heart to say anything other than, ‘It looks wonderful!’ And it did. Her hair, just skimming her shoulders, flicked inwards, lifting her brow, setting off her face in a way that reminded her, with a strange, yearning pang, of how she had once looked many long years ago. Nurse Thompson smiled, satisfied. ‘Make-up next.’ On cue, Karen walked in with a make-up bag. ‘What’s going on?’ Rhianna asked, bemused. ‘Nurse Thompson says patients get better faster when they know they look nice. Psycho-whatsit, but it works,’ said Karen cheerfully. ‘Quite right,’ said Nurse Thompson. ‘Now, just sit still. Consider it part of your convalescence.’ Rhianna gave in. She let Karen make up her face, lend her a brightly patterned red and yellow summer dress, put a string of beads around her neck and squeeze her feet into a pair of her sandals. At the end of it all, Karen stood back. ‘Wow!’ she announced. ‘You look fantastic!’ Behind her, Nurse Thompson nodded approvingly. ‘Yes, indeed,’ she agreed. ‘No one would ever think you’d been ill!’ Rhianna stared. No, she thought slowly. She did not look ill any more. What she looked was— Like I used to look. She stared wonderingly. For five years her appearance had been something of total irrelevance to her. It still is. The words thudded in her head. They were joined by more, thudding just as heavily. You don’t have anyone to look good for. No one. And especially not Alexis Petrakis. He’s Nicky’s father—that’s all he is to you. All. Remember that. She took the self-admonishment unflinchingly. After all, it was only the truth. But her changed appearance did not pass unnoticed by Nicky. As she went in to kiss him goodnight his eyes widened. ‘Mummy! You look beautiful!’ She gave a smile. ‘Thank you, my darling.’ He held out his arms to her. ‘Need a kiss,’ he said. Rhianna obliged, wrapping him up tight in her arms. ‘I can only blow a kiss,’ she said, holding him back a little. ‘Or I’ll get lipstick on you.’ Nicky kissed her instead, smacking kisses on each cheek. ‘Mummy,’ he said in a satisfied voice, and lay back again. He snuggled into the pillow. ‘Mummy, Nicky, Daddy,’ he announced. ‘And Teddy.’ He hugged the battered bear close to him. ‘Daddy has said goodnight already,’ he informed her. ‘He said we could go on the boat again tomorrow. He said I could drive again. He said…’ His voice started to fade. Rhianna sat beside him, holding his hand as he drifted off to sleep. Then she reached and clicked off the bedside light, leaving the nightlight glowing in the dimness. For a long moment she just went on sitting there, her hand touching his, feeling endless love for her son just pouring and pouring out of her, like a bottomless blessing. Then, at length, she leant forward to bestow a last, light air-kiss on Nicky’s brow, stood up, and turned to go. And stopped dead. Alexis was standing in the open doorway to the hallway. The light behind him made him look darker, but there was something about his stillness that made her freeze. Then he stood to one side, holding the door back for her. Feeling incredibly, ridiculously self-conscious, she walked towards him, squeezing past him to gain the hall. How long had he been there? Since before she’d turned the bedside light out? As she reached the hall she paused, and half turned. What she wanted to do was go off and find Nurse Thompson and Karen and share whatever meal they were having. It was what—blessedly—she’d done the evening before. She’d had tea with Nicky and his father, but then Alexis had disappeared off into his office—presumably to pay attention to his business empire via his PC and telephone. Rhianna had helped Karen put Nicky to bed, and afterwards had eaten with her and Nurse Thompson. Neither, she’d noticed, had made the slightest reference to the fact that their employer was now openly acknowledging that Nicky was his son. Well, Rhianna had thought, they were good, discreet staff who mutely accepted whatever happened in the rich households they worked in. The household staff behaved with similar discretion, and now, as Stavros emerged from the kitchen regions and came to hold open the door at the dining room side of the hall, he simply murmured, ‘Kyria…’ in his usual polite tone. Inside the dining room Rhianna could see that the table had been laid for only two. Instant recollection of the last meal she’d eaten in here rushed back at her—the ugly scene that had sent her running from the room. But she had to put that behind her. Strive with all her effort for the rapprochement that Alexis wanted. Not for her sake, but for their son’s. And for Nicky’s sake she would have to comply. She took the chair Stavros was holding out for her. Alexis took his place opposite her. As she settled herself, her eyes flicked across the table. He was staring at her, transfixed. It was the past come to life. Alexis’s eyes worked over Rhianna as she sat there, a few feet away. Shock ricocheted through him. Yes, she was five years older, in her late twenties, not her early twenties, and her hair was shorter, her face thinner. But still quite, quite stunning. And wearing at last, he registered, something that did not look as if it had been thrown away on a rubbish tip. The dress was only a chainstore garment, but it was a universe away from the faded T-shirts and worn, baggy cotton trousers that she’d worn till now. The dress even showed that she still possessed breasts… His eyes flickered over the two delineated mounds. The neckline might be modest, but the material of the bodice curved lovingly. Enticingly. A long, slow pulse began to beat in his veins. Rhianna had to steel herself to keep still. She wanted to leap to her feet and run. Bolt. His intense look was excruciating. She didn’t know where to look, what to do. Damn Nurse Thompson and Karen! What on earth have they done? But she knew exactly what they’d done. They’d turned her back into a woman. She hadn’t been that for a long, long time. Not for five years. Not since Alexis Petrakis had peeled the clothes from her body and laid her down upon his bed… Memory leapt in her, like a flame from a dead fire that someone had just thrown petrol on. She couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t douse it. Her eyes met the dark obsidian eyes across the table. Met and leapt. Memory drenched her. Memory of those eyes looking down at her, drowning her in their depths, their desire… It was alive again—that overpowering, devastating, shameful desire. The way it had leapt between them that evening five long, long years ago. She tried to force it back, thrust it away, hammer it back down deep, deep, where it could not escape. But it came all the same, and she could not stop it—was helpless, formless, shapeless. She was liquid, rich, slow-pouring honey that creamed like velvet through her veins. I don’t want to feel this. I don’t want to! I don’t want to want him! Words seared in her mind—poisonous, powerful. But you do want him. You want him as much now as you wanted him then… The terrible damning truth hollowed through her. You will never be able to resist him… Never. Despair flooded through her. Despair and a churning dismay. She had to fight what she was feeling—she had to! She must not succumb to something that had damaged her so badly, so irretrievably. Summoning all her strength, she banished by sheer force of will the debilitating weakness that flooded through her. Her chin lifted, her chest rising and falling as she fought to regain her composure, fought to be the person she knew she must be. Nicky’s mother. Nothing more. Just as she was nothing more to Alexis Petrakis. Gratefully she seized the glass of white wine Stavros had poured for her. She took a sip, feeling its reviving strength. Tonight she needed it. She wanted to run, fly. But even to do that would be to acknowledge what was happening, to give credence to the reason why Alexis Petrakis was sitting opposite her, his eyes fixed on her. She wouldn’t—she wouldn’t do it. So she had to say something—anything that sounded normal. She said the first thing that came into her head. ‘Thank you for taking Nicky for the boat trip. He absolutely adored it.’ For a second Alexis made no response. Then, with a visible effort, he replied. ‘But it was too rough for you. Tomorrow I’ll take you out sailing. See how much you remember from your dinghy course.’ ‘Almost nothing,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Well, we shall see. And with a light wind it will be much gentler for you,’ Alexis returned. Stavros arrived with the first course—an assiette of seafood. It was a welcome diversion. By the time she had helped herself to what she wanted, and Alexis had done similarly, her composure was recovering. So, it seemed, was Alexis’s. Yet even as the pair of them determinedly made civil conversation across the dinner table—first about sailing in general, and then, with Alexis taking the lead, about the particular maritime conditions of the Aegean: the prevailing northerly meltemi of the summer, the sudden squalls, the complicated shifting local currents of this tideless sea—she felt, beneath her skin, that he was only half concentrating on what he was saying. There was a subtle but discernible air of abstraction about him. It disturbed her, but she did not know why. She had no spare energy to wonder about it. She needed all she had simply to keep going, having what on the outside seemed a normal conversation with Alexis Petrakis. Doggedly, she laboured away—asking questions, responding when appropriate—as if he were simply a social acquaintance. They didn’t even talk about Nicky Yet if Nicky did not exist they would not be sitting here, opposite each other, trying to talk politely to each other. And it was for his sake that she had to make an effort, she knew. Force herself to be ‘normal’ with him—as if he really were just a social acquaintance. The more she did it, the easier it would get, she told herself. And at least, she registered gratefully, he had stopped staring at her. It was just the shock. That’s all. Seeing me look so different. That’s why he stared. And she must be glad that it was so—very glad. Very glad indeed. Relieved. Grateful, in fact. She took a breath and asked another question about sailing. When the meal finally reached the coffee stage she was even more grateful. The strain had begun to tell. Emotions were running in her, beneath the surface. She did not know what they were, but they were swelling, growing. She’d kept the promise that she had given Alexis that afternoon, that she would try to make this rapprochement work. But though she knew now that Nicky was safe with Alexis, that he was bound to his son by the strongest of emotional ties, there was one thing she must remember—one question she could not answer. This civility from him was not for her sake, but for Nicky’s. And though she could trust him with Nicky, after all the foulness that had passed between them, could she ever be safe with Alexis? Could she trust him to trust her? She did not have long to wait to find out. They took coffee on the terrace. It was a lovely evening—the mildest yet, she thought. From the bushes came the constant, invisible soft chirruping of the cicadas. A soft zephyr winnowed the water, which shushed on the sand in a gentle murmur. Stavros had placed a candle on the table, along with the coffee tray, and beyond its little pool of light the darkness draped itself across the terrace in a velvet fall, softened only by the dim moonlight playing on the silvery sand and the night-lit sea. ‘Are you cold?’ Alexis asked her. She shook her head. ‘No. Thank you. I’m fine. This is lovely.’ She relapsed into silence, letting her eyes become dark-adjusted. Across the table Alexis’s dark bulk took shape, his long-sleeved, open-necked white shirt reflecting the pale moonlight, though his face was in shadow. She took a slow sip of coffee, inhaling the distinctive fragrance. From the corner of her eye, as she looked out over the night-dark sand and sea, she could see Alexis lean back, stretching out his long legs under the table and cupping his glass of ouzo in his hands, his tiny cup of Greek coffee as yet untouched. Like her, he seemed ******* to sit in silence. She went on looking at how the moonlight caught the white caps of the tiny waves as they crested in miniature surf on the beach. No sound came from the rest of the villa. The staff quarters were on the side away from the beach, she knew, and Nicky was fast asleep. It was a peaceful scene. Yet beneath the tranquil surface deep currents ran. Her thoughts ran on down twisting paths, uncertain ways. The future stretched before her like the night over the sea. An impenetrable veil. What was going to happen? Not now, here on this peaceful island, but when she was well again. What was going to happen to her and Nicky? Alexis had threatened so much—yet now he wanted a kind of peace between them. So did he trust her now? Trust her to be a fit mother for his son? She felt the currents shift and stir within her. Uncertainty hemmed her in. She let her eyes go back to him. Her expression was troubled. Guarded. His was—unreadable. But as she studied his face he said quietly, ‘What is it?’ ‘What’s going to happen?’ she asked. Her voice was troubled. ‘You said you wanted rapprochement—enough peace between us for Nicky not to be damaged by the lack of it. But what happens next?’ She searched his face, as if trying to see behind the veil of his eyes. For one long moment he looked at her. She could not read his expression. Perhaps, she realised, it was because there was no expression to read. And yet somewhere deep she could sense tension running through him. Then he spoke. ‘What happens next?’ he echoed, his deep voice low. ‘I think there is only one answer to that.’ He let his eyes rest on her. ‘We get married,’ he said. CHAPTER TEN FOR a moment Rhianna just went on staring. It was as if her brain were moving in slow motion, unable to catch up with what she had just heard. Had she heard it? Had she really just heard Alexis Petrakis say that? Her mouth opened. ‘Get married?’ she echoed dumbly. He inclined his head. ‘It is,’ he said, ‘the obvious thing to do. Nicky needs two parents. Normal parents. Stability. A family. So we get married.’ She stared at him. ‘You’re mad,’ she said. Something moved in his eyes, but it was not anger. ‘Think about it,’ he said, and took a mouthful of ouzo. ‘Think about it? I don’t need to think about it!’ Her voice had risen in pitch. She could feel adrenaline starting to pump round her body. ‘This is some kind of joke, right? Some kind of tasteless, ludicrous joke that…that…’ Words failed her. ‘I repeat—it’s the obvious thing to do.’ He seemed supremely untroubled by her vehement reaction. But deep in his eyes his expression was hidden. ‘We both want Nicky and Nicky needs both of us—full-time parents, who live in the same place, who make a family for him, a home. Wherever we are in the world he is with both of us, and we both have him.’ Rhianna placed her hands flat on the table. ‘Stop it,’ she said. ‘Stop it! This is just stupid and tasteless and absurd and…and…Good God, I’ve never heard anything so insane in my life!’ That flicker, deep in his eyes, came again. ‘Would you care to tell me why?’ There was an edge in his voice now, she heard. Not much, for him, but it was there. She just stared at him still. ‘Why? You ask why? After everything you’ve called me? Everything you’ve done to me? You’ve tried to take Nicky from me. Again and again. First you tried to bully me into it, threatening me and reviling me, and then you tried to buy him from me with your filthy money!’ ‘I told you—I had to check what kind of woman you were.’ His tone was dismissive. ‘Whether you were after my money and were using my son to get it. When you turned down twenty million pounds for him then I knew—knew that Nicky was safe with you. Rhianna—’ His voice had changed abruptly. ‘This is not necessary. I have accepted that you are not the kind of woman I thought you were when I discovered Nicky’s existence. We have moved on from there. You do not have to prove to me that you are not a gold-digger.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘Just someone who thought she could sweeten you up for a company takeover by going to bed with you?’ Venom bit in her words. She saw his face tense for a moment, then, deliberately, he said, ‘We have moved on from there as well.’ Rhianna leant forward in her chair. ‘Have we? Have we really?’ ‘Yes. Confirmation from the UK of both your qualifications as an accountant and your position as your father’s company accountant five years ago were waiting for me when we came back from our boat trip today.’ ‘You went and checked that out?’ she asked slowly. ‘Yes. And understanding, as I now do, the pressure you were under—your father being dangerously ill, your difficult relationship with him, the urgent need to get the go-ahead on the takeover—I can appreciate how you thought it necessary to approach me in the way you did at that dinner. Striking up a—rapport—with me, coming back up to my room so promptly. Even though—’ his voice changed minutely ‘—such an approach was open to misinterpretation by me.’ ‘Misinterpretation.’ Her voice was hollow. She could feel hysteria beading in her. Misinterpretation. That was all it was, was it? He was speaking again, cutting through the emotion welling up in her inexorably. ‘So, yes, we can now—both of us—move on. Think about the future. Nicky’s future. We both accept that that is the only important thing. For him to be happy. That is why it would be best for him if we married. To give him security, stability, a home, a family—that is what he needs.’ Emotions churned in her. Swirled like a dark tide. His face was impassive, unreadable, but there was something—something about it she could almost read in his opaque night-dark eyes. And then suddenly she knew what it was. Out of nowhere, like a sharp gust of wind biting through her, she knew what this was all about. ‘My, God,’ she breathed. ‘I know what you’re doing. You gave yourself away when you said you had to check what sort of woman I was. This is another one of your tests—isn’t it? Isn’t it? You’re dangling the prospect of marriage to you in front of my nose. And if I snap it up then you’ll know you were right all along—that I really am a gold-digger! That I just love the idea of being a millionaire’s wife! Absolutely adore it! Swanning around in designer clothes and diamonds for the rest of my life! A real, live gold-digger who’s not fit to look after her son!’ The breath hissed in her throat. ‘Well, you can just go to hell!’ She started to push her chair back, stumbling to her feet. ‘Rhianna—that is not why I said we should get married!’ ‘It’s exactly why you said it! It’s another of your bloody tests. Well, I’m not having it—do you hear me?’ She lifted up her arm and brought it in a jerking, slashing, slanting movement downwards. ‘No more,’ she said. ‘No. More.’ Something rolled through her like a huge, unstoppable wave. It should have been anger. But it was not. It was hurt. She shut her eyes. Why should she be feeling hurt? Hadn’t she faced up to the question of whether Alexis trusted her with Nicky? Hadn’t she been filled with doubt? With caution? So why, now that she had her answer—had it clear and loud—did it hurt? She had made the worst mistake of all. She had lowered her guard. Believed him. Trusted him. Trusted him when he’d talked of rapprochement, trusted him when he’d talked of making peace between them for their son’s sake. Trusted him when he’d told her why she could be sure that he would always love his son as his father had never loved him. That he was fit to be Nicky’s father. But he hadn’t trusted her. He hadn’t trusted her to be fit to be Nicky’s mother. She turned away, opening her eyes, stumbling along the terrace. Her eyes were blurring, stinging, and she hated herself for it. ‘Rhianna—’ She heard his chair scrape, and rapid footsteps. Her arm was taken. ‘Let me go! I don’t want you touching me. I don’t want your hands on me!’ She spoke with dull vehemence. ‘Never again. Never, ever again.’ She shook him loose, still not looking at him, making her way slowly around the corner of the terrace to where it passed by the front of her bedroom. He didn’t come after her. The French windows were unlocked, and she went inside. Shutting out Alexis Petrakis. Hell and damnation. Alexis’s mouth tightened. How in God’s name had he mishandled that so badly? Sending her bolting into hiding from him again. Grimly he strode back to the table and threw himself in his chair, reaching for the ouzo bottle and pouring himself a generous second measure. The strong liquorice-scented liquor burned down his throat as he swallowed it. How had he made such a crass mistake? Blurting out an offer of marriage like that. The moment the words had come out of his mouth he’d known he’d made a major error. But then he’d hardly been thinking straight all through the meal. When have I ever thought straight around Rhianna Davies? He hadn’t the first night he’d met her, when her beauty had totally knocked him him out, and he hadn’t tonight. He’d got through the meal somehow, but it had been hard. All he’d wanted to do was sit and look at her. Drink her in. Thee mou, but she was so beautiful! He stared out into the darkness. The moon had scudded behind clouds. The night was thick, impenetrable. All he could hear was the soft sound of the waves and the cicadas. And the slow beat of his pulse. I want her again. I wanted her from the first moment I laid eyes on her. And I want her again. He felt his body stir. He reached for his ouzo, taking a slow mouthful. The fiery spirit burned in his throat. Just as his body was starting to burn. Burn for the woman he desired. But who did not desire him. Who flinched away from him. Who yelled at him never to touch her again. His eyes narrowed as he set back his glass. Well, he would not be deterred by her revulsion to his touch. He had made Rhianna Davies quicken with desire for him before. Made her melt for him in his arms. He would do so again. But it would be a delicate operation. A very delicate operation. He would have to proceed very, very carefully. He could afford to make no more errors such as he’d made tonight. But he would succeed. Too much was at stake for him not to. |
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘YOU see? I told you Dr Paniotis would be pleased with your progress.’ Nurse Thompson’s voice was a mix of reassurance and satisfaction. Rhianna smiled faintly. Overhead she could hear the thud-thud-thud of the helicopter carrying the doctor back to the mainland. She knew she should be as pleased as Nurse Thompson expected her to be. Her strength was coming back, she felt better, fitter, her drug dosages were declining all the time. But depression filled her. It had done so all night, all morning—a dull, pressing heaviness that not even Nicky’s cheerfulness could assuage. She knew what had caused it. Alexis. Alexis Petrakis. Still distrusting of her, still thinking the worst of her. Still wanting to prove that she was as bad as he so obviously wanted her to be… Still unfit to be his son’s mother. She tried to summon anger, the anger that had fuelled her resistance to him all this time, but it would not come. Instead, she found she simply wanted to cry. ‘Now, a nice cup of tea for you, and then we can get you dressed.’ Nurse Thompson’s brisk cheer grated this morning. Rhianna nodded dully. She had not got up yet, had waited for the doctor to complete his examination. Karen had whisked Nicky off, and Alexis was apparently immersed in his office, had been since early morning. She had not set eyes on him. Murmuring a listless thank you, she took the cup of tea that Nurse Thompson was handing to her. As she sipped, she heard footsteps and muffled voices outside her door. There was some scuffling and giggling, and then a very loud, rapid knocking. Nurse Thompson walked across to the bedroom door and opened it. A huge bouquet of flowers advanced into the room. ‘Goodness me!’ exclaimed the nurse. ‘Walking flowers? Whatever next!’ Gleeful childish laughter sounded from behind the bouquet. ‘It’s me! It’s me!’ Nicky cried out, and lowered the flowers sufficiently to show his face. ‘Mummy, Mummy—these are for you! Daddy said!’ He marched up to the bed and deposited a mass of flowers, swathed in cellophane and ribbons, on Rhianna’s lap. Her eyes went from the flowers to her son’s grinning face, and then to the tall shape standing in the doorway. ‘Do you like them, Mummy? Do you? They came in the helicopter! All the way from the city! Daddy said!’ ‘They’re beautiful,’ she told him. Her emotions were a confused tangle, knotting themselves around her. ‘Thank you.’ She reached to kiss him. ‘They’re from me and Daddy,’ Nicky informed her. ‘The card is from me.’ Alexis’s voice from the doorway was low-pitched, yet it seemed to do something strange to Rhianna’s insides. Her eyes slipped to the card tucked into the binding ribbon. She picked it up and opened it. Please forgive me. Alexis. She stared, disbelievingly. Then her gaze flew to him. He started to walk towards her. His eyes were holding hers, and in them, she saw—even more disbelievingly—was an expression that she had never thought to see in his eyes. Contrition. He came and stood by the end of the bed. She stared at him, then her gaze was diverted. Stavros was entering with an armful of flat boxes. Nurse Thompson hurried to help him deposit them on a hastily drawn up chair. ‘Mummy! Mummy! There are more presents! Lots more! Can I help you open them? Please, please?’ Nicky was bouncing with excitement. Her emotions were still churning like a concrete mixer, but she could not refuse her son. She nodded, and immediately he fell upon the topmost box, yanking off the lid. As he did so, his little face fell. ‘It’s just clothes,’ he said disgustedly. ‘Your mother will like them,’ said Alexis. His eyes moved to Rhianna. ‘At least, I hope you will.’ Again there was that speaking look in his eyes, and again Rhianna just gazed at him. Nicky was pulling out carefully folded garments interlined with tissue paper. They had clearly come from an expensive shop. ‘I’ll just pop these into water,’ announced Nurse Thompson, and relieved Rhianna of the bouquet, disappearing with Stavros out into the hall. Rhianna was left with Nicky and his father, and a lot of clothes-boxes. And a lot of clothes. Beautiful clothes. Beach clothes in vibrant colours—casually styled but, she could see immediately, beautifully and expensively made. The kind of beach clothes the women in Alexis’s world wore. A universe away from the charity shop cast-offs that her wardrobe consisted of. She stared, bemused, as Nicky riffled through the boxes, dumping clothes haphazardly on the bed. Alexis watched, with half an amused eye on Nicky and with half a quite different eye on Rhianna. ‘Do you like them?’ he asked. ‘Karen told me your size, and I had a stylist select them and flew them in. But if they are not to your taste they can be changed for others.’ ‘I can’t accept them.’ Her voice was blunt. He frowned. ‘Why do you say that?’ ‘Why do you think?’ she retorted tightly. A little hand was tugging at her hand. ‘Mummy, don’t you like them?’ Nicky’s voice sounded anxious. Alexis interceded smoothly. ‘Your mother thinks I should not give her clothes. I think that’s silly, don’t you? I think daddies should give mummies clothes and presents and things. Don’t you?’ Leave Nicky out of this! Rhianna wanted to shout. But it was too late. Nicky was nodding vigorously. ‘I like this one best,’ he said, and picked up a royal blue top with a beautiful appliqué design on it. ‘I like blue,’ he said wistfully. ‘Do you? Hmm…I wonder…’ Suddenly Alexis was stooping down, lifting up another two boxes. These were not tastefully decorated with stylish logos. They were boldly patterned with animal shapes. ‘Have a look in here,’ said Alexis. Nicky ripped off the lid. ‘These are for me!’ he announced breathlessly, and he held up a shorts and T-shirt outfit in his size, the shorts bright blue and the top blue and white striped, with a sailing boat on it. Then he dived into the box to discover the rest folded beneath. ‘We’ve both got new clothes!’ he said, eyes shining, to Rhianna. ‘Holiday clothes,’ said Alexis. ‘For while you are here on holiday.’ Oh, cunning, thought Rhianna bitterly. Nicky was already pulling off his faded charity-shop T-shirt and yanking the expensive new one over his head. Alexis helped him, and then helped him change into the matching shorts. ‘Very smart,’ he said approvingly. Nicky’s eyes shone. ‘These are the best clothes I’ve ever had!’ he announced. ‘Do I look smart, Mummy? Daddy says I do.’ ‘Very smart,’ she agreed, fighting to hide her emotions from him. ‘Why not go and show Karen?’ She could be cunning too, she thought sourly. He hared off, and when he was gone Rhianna turned on Alexis. ‘What is this?’ she demanded. ‘Another test?’ Her voice was scathing, vicious. ‘Well, you can take these clothes and—’ Alexis’s hand flew up. ‘No!’ Then, in a milder tone, he said, ‘I bought them for you because—because I thought you would like them.’ ‘I don’t want clothes from you! I don’t want anything from you!’ Her voice had risen in pitch, colour flaring along her cheeks. Something shifted in his face. Fleetingly. Swiftly masked. Then, without invitation, he sat himself down on the bed. Instantly she shifted her legs sideways. It was a huge double bed, but she could feel the weight of his mass depressing the mattress. She could not understand why, but it felt, acutely, a very intimate gesture. Alexis Petrakis. Sitting on her bed. She felt her breath catch, her stomach jitter. ‘Please—do not flinch away from me.’ There was a tightness in his voice. He took a swift breath. ‘Rhianna, listen to me—for just a few moments, that is all. I should never have said what I did last night. But believe this of me: I was not, you have my word, seeking to test you again. I was thinking of Nicky, that was all. Nothing more. But there is no rush to make decisions of any kind. Nicky is only just getting used to the changes in his life. Let him do so at his own pace. And you do so at yours.’ He got to his feet. ‘I will call Nurse Thompson for you. Please take the clothes, Rhianna. They are a gesture—nothing more. Besides—’ his mouth twisted ‘—I think Nicky will be upset if you do not wear them. It will make him feel awkward about wearing the ones he has got. And he needed new clothes, Rhianna—even you must admit that!’ He picked up a sundress, half hidden under a pair of culottes. It was a creamy blonde colour, with tiny shoestring straps. ‘This matches your hair,’ he said softly. He looked down at her. Rhianna felt her heart begin to quicken. The way he was looking at her…almost smiling, not quite, but holding her eyes, just holding them… Then he released her. He replaced the sundress. When he spoke again his voice was very different. ‘Are you happy if I take Nicky swimming now? The helicopter also delivered some pool toys for him, which I am sure he will enjoy.’ She swallowed. ‘You don’t have to ask me,’ she said. She felt a swirling inside her, a confusion of emotion. ‘He adores going swimming with you.’ ‘It is a pleasure for me too,’ he answered. There was an emotion in his voice she would have been deaf not to hear. ‘And I thank God that with him, at least, I do not seem to have made mistakes. But with you…’ His eyes were dark and depthless, and she felt a strange disturbing pull inside her. ‘With you I have made too many mistakes. I don’t want to make a single one more.’ There was an intensity about the way he was looking at her. ‘Believe me.’ He took his leave and she went on sitting there, confusion lacing and unlacing through her. She tried to make sense of what had just happened. Alexis Petrakis being nice to her? Apologising to her? Asking her to believe him… She lay back, bemused. Confused. Can I trust him? This time can I really trust him? The question tormented her. Because she could find no answer. And yet it seemed, over the next days, that he was answering her question all the time. He was being so nice to her—so incredibly nice. It was as if he were a different person. The person he was with Nicky. Smiling, open, spontaneous. At first it made her feel awkward, gauche, tense. She found she kept looking out for the mask to slip, for the real Alexis Petrakis to break out again. But it never did. It was as if the foul, ugly words he had thrown at her had never been voiced. As if he had never accused her of any of the crimes he had laid at her feet. And slowly, day by day, she found the words growing dimmer, fading away. Because how could she keep in her head the litany of his harsh and unjust accusations when he was behaving to her as if she were a different person from the one he had condemned as an unfit mother? When day after day he did nothing but treat her with kid gloves, drawing her in, making her part of the relationship he was building, stronger and more secure with every passing hour, with Nicky? And so little by little she found that she was doing something she had never thought possible. She was coming to trust him. To feel—safe—with him. It was easiest still, she acknowledged, to do so in Nicky’s company. Whether they were eating together, or out on the water in the dinghy or the motor boat, or in the pool, or on the beach, or seated at the table on the terrace playing board games and cards—Nicky ecstatic when he won, disgusted when he lost—or reading to him in bed when he was drifting off to sleep, another busy, happy day behind him. Easiest to find herself catching Alexis’s eye in amusement at some remark that brought a smile to grown-up lips, or at the intense pleasure Nicky took in his games and play, or, most moving to Rhianna of all, when he would spontaneously show affection to Alexis, the father who had only just come into his life but who seemed surely to have been there for ever. Yet even when Nicky wasn’t there she still felt increasingly at ease with Alexis—this new, different Alexis. Sometimes disbelief caught her, making her wonder whether this was really true—that all the hostility had stopped, all the distrust had dissolved away. Sometimes she thought she ought to think about it—think how extraordinary it was that Alexis had moved so far from where he had started with her, throwing a catalogue of crimes at her head with his vicious words. But how could she think of that, remember that, when Alexis was smiling at her, laughing with her, relaxed and easy under the warm Aegean sun? Being so nice to her. But even as she succumbed to this new, different Alexis, she knew that there was one thing she must not succumb to. Alexis himself. She must, must remember that he was being nice to her not for her sake but for Nicky’s. And for Nicky it was working. His happiness and confidence grew daily, and Rhianna rejoiced in it. Rejoiced that he so clearly adored his newfound father. Rejoiced that Alexis had so clearly taken Nicky to his heart. Rejoiced that he had accepted that she, too, loved Nicky so devotedly. So why, why, was she filled with this strange, painful yearning? As if all she had were not enough? I have so much! I have Nicky, and he has Alexis, and Alexis is a good father, who trusts me now. I have no reason, no reason at all, to feel like this. But she could tell herself that all she liked; it did no good. The truth still stared her in the face. With every smile Alexis bestowed on her, with every laughing moment shared, with every little skip her heart gave, with every covert glance she gave to him—drinking in the way his long, bare legs braced against the hull as he tacked the dinghy, the way his long fingers curved around the stem of his wine glass, the way his polo shirt moulded to his muscled shoulders, the way the water dazzled like diamonds on his sea-wet glistening torso, the way the wind winnowed his hair as he sat at the wheel of the motor boat, guiding Nicky’s steering—with every moment, every minute she spent with him she knew, with a deep, helpless sense of powerlessness, that something was happening to her that she should fight with all her being, all her strength. But she could not. She was as helpless now as she had been the very first night she had set eyes on Alexis Petrakis. And there was nothing, nothing she could do about it. Alexis batted the beach ball back towards where Nicky was perched on his inflatable dolphin. From the corner of his eye he could see Rhianna stretched out on a poolside lounger, sunning herself. He wanted to look at her properly, but two things prevented him. One was the fact that his son was paddling towards the ball with fell intent and at any moment would bat it back to him. The other was that gazing at Rhianna when she was wearing a new white and gold bikini that cupped her breasts and exposed her slim, lovely body, was not a good idea right now. Indeed, letting his gaze linger on her at any time was not a good idea. Not now that her beauty was being revealed to him again day after day, as the last shadows of her illness left her, as her injured body healed beneath the warm, restoring sun, as her body regained the beauty hidden by ill-health and exhaustion. Every time he looked at her he wanted her more. But he had to bide his time, exert his patience. Impose an iron self-control on his desire. But self-control, Alexis was finding, was a very, very hard discipline. Even though it was essential. After all—his face tightened—it had been his complete lack of self-control the evening he’d met her that had brought him to this pass. He had seen her, wanted her, taken her—an indulgence he should never have allowed himself. He would not do so again. No more mistakes, he had promised. He could not afford any more. Because the stakes he was playing for were far, far too high. This was his last chance, and he must play it very, very carefully. Step by step, day by day, he was getting closer. Winning her over. Getting her to trust him. Because only when she did, only when he had finally, finally won her trust, could he achieve his goal. Not just Rhianna back in his bed. Something much, much more important. The sun was hot on Rhianna’s back. She ought to move into the shade, she knew, for the noonday sun even this early in the year in these Mediterranean latitudes could be punishing. But it was so lovely just to lie here on the soft lounger, eyes closed, feeling warm and languorous, the sun on her bare skin, almost drifting off to sleep. She would move in a moment… ‘You’re going to burn.’ The deep voice was admonishing. She stirred slightly, realising she must indeed have drifted off. But she felt so drowsy, so somnolent, she could not wake properly. She would wake in a moment… A squeeze of cooling gel pooled on her back, between her shoulderblades. She made a little sound in her throat as the cold gel impacted with her heated skin. ‘Hold still,’ the same deep voice told her. And then the gel was being spread across her back, smoothed across her shoulderblades, her shoulders, drawn down the length of her spine, splayed around her flanks, across the swell of her hips. Hands, strong but supple, stroked the cooling gel with long, rhythmic sweeps into every inch of her skin. It felt—exquisite. She made a little sound in her throat again, and for an instant so brief she thought it had not happened the smoothing hands halted. Then they continued—lighter now, but still quite, quite exquisite. She lay there, letting him massage the gel into her skin. She ought to stop him, she knew, but she could not. Could only lie there, her body purring, as his hands moved over her back. When he stopped, she felt bereft. ‘There. I think that was in time.’ There was the slightest tension in his voice. ‘But no more sun now.’ She turned her head sideways to thank him, but her lips only parted soundlessly. He was hunkered down beside the low, horizontal lounger, his bared body damp, shoulders glistening, hair slicked back from the water. He was so close. So close. Her heart started to beat with a slow, heavy pulse. Warmth creamed through her, dissolving into her. She wanted to reach out to him. Touch his mouth, trace along the bones of his cheek, his jaw. The pulse of her heartbeat deepened, deafening her to all the rest of the world, which did not exist…did not exist… Only her, lying here, in a pool of sun, gazing at his face, his mouth, his eyes… And his dark, gold-flecked eyes which she could drown in…drown in… ‘Alexis…’ It was a whisper. A plea. His eyes darkened suddenly. It was his pupils dilating, she could see. She lifted her head from her arms, reaching towards him. Her mouth aching for his. Time had stopped—stopped completely. The world was not there. It was only him, there so close to her…so close… And she wanted him so much… So much… He started to lower his head to her, lashes sweeping down over those darkening, desiring eyes. She closed her own eyes, waiting with aching yearning for the moment when his mouth would touch hers. But it never came. Instead she heard him stand up, his shadow over her. She felt cold. As if the sun had just gone out. ‘Time for lunch,’ he said. His tone was abrupt. ‘Here.’ He dropped her filmy sarong over her. ‘I’m going to shower off.’ She heard him walk away. Slowly she sank her face back down. Desolation filled her. Alexis made it a cold shower. A very cold shower. Christos, but he had come so close! Within a hair’s breadth. He should never have let himself put gel on her back. But he hadn’t been able to resist. She’d looked so tempting there, spread out beneath the sun. Nicky had been borne indoors by Karen to get changed for lunch, and he had seen that Rhianna was falling asleep in the midday sun. And he hadn’t wanted her burning… He wanted nothing getting in the way of his purpose now. He sluiced the chilling water over his shoulders. Only one more day to go now. He could last that long. He would have to. But it was good, he realised as he turned off the shower and snaked a towel around his hips, taking another to dry his hair with. Good that it had happened—that incident by the pool. It proved to him that she was ready—very, very ready. Oh, he had no worry that he could not do what he intended with her—that night five years ago had proved that. But having her make that soft, sensuous moan in her throat, gaze at him like that just now, mouth parted, waiting for him to kiss her, had been too close a call. If he had lost his self-control and kissed her— Could I have stopped? He didn’t need to answer. By the time Rhianna joined the lunch table she was composed again. She had forced herself to be. She had received a message. Loud and clear. She was Nicky’s mother. Nothing more. She had to accept it. Just as she’d had to accept that five years ago she had been a one-night stand. It didn’t matter was what happening to her now. It didn’t matter that with every day that passed her emotions were getting more and more tangled. It didn’t matter that when Alexis smiled at her her heart lifted. Because there was one reason and one reason only why he was being nice to her like this. For Nicky’s sake. He had spelt it out to her, made it clear right from the start. Even when he’d been throwing his vileness at her it had been for Nicky’s sake. For Nicky’s sake he had been prepared to tolerate her in his son’s life though he’d thought her a drug-addict and a gold-digger. And for Nicky’s sake he had been prepared to be civil to her, make his wretched rapprochement with her, even though he’d thought she had used her body to persuade him to approve the takeover of her father’s company. And even though he now accepted that he had ‘misinterpreted’ her behaviour that night—even though he had told her he had no more tests for her to pass—even though he was now being so extraordinarily nice to her—nothing else had changed. It was all still for Nicky’s sake. And how can I complain? How can I complain that Nicky is the most important person in his father’s life when he is the most important one in mine? The only one. The only one I care about. But even as she thought it she knew it for a lie. CHAPTER TWELVE ‘I HOPE you will not object, but I have told Nurse Thompson and Karen to take some time off. They’ve been on duty continuously, and Karen is missing her boyfriend in England and Nurse Thompson tells me she would like to see something of Athens while she is here.’ Alexis set down his coffee cup and looked across at Rhianna. She had changed into the creamy sundress that he had told her matched her hair. Its colour flattered her, as he had known it would, setting off the honeyed tan of her skin exposed by the tiny shoestring straps. She was slightly tense, he could see. But then, so was he. That incident by the pool was not easily banished from his mind. But it was essential that he put it from him—and that she do likewise. The clock was ticking. Getting the nurse and nanny off the island meant that tomorrow evening he could make his move. He needed Rhianna completely off her guard. No time to mount any resistance to him. No time to do anything but provide him with the proof he needed. Rhianna nodded, giving an uncertain, flickering smile. Lunch had been awkward, even with Nicky present as well as Nurse Thompson and Karen. And now that Karen had whisked a protesting Nicky off for his nap, and Nurse Thompson had disappeared into her quarters, she felt yet more awkward. She knew she mustn’t. Knew that the awkwardness was entirely of her own making. Alexis was behaving with her as he had been doing for days now. There was nothing different about it. And she must take her cue from that. Forget about that moment by the pool. Put it out of her mind. Not think about it again. She must not ask for more—she had so much. She must appreciate what she had. Appreciate Alexis being nice to her… It was, after all, so much more than she had ever thought possible. It must be enough. Even if it wasn’t. But what was the point of crying for the moon? None. Resolutely she answered him, trying to make her voice sound relaxed. ‘Um—yes, of course. You’re right—they haven’t had any time off at all yet. When—when will they be going?’ ‘I thought tomorrow. They can go back to Athens with the helicopter—in time for Karen to get a morning flight to London and Nurse Thompson to start her sightseeing. My office is sorting tickets and hotel accommodation, respectively—which I will provide. I think they both deserve that, don’t you?’ ‘Yes, indeed,’ Rhianna replied warmly. ‘They’ve been wonderful—both of them.’ She looked across at him. ‘It’s very generous of you,’ she said. It was difficult to meet his eyes, but she did it all the same. ‘Will you be able to cope without them?’ he asked. He gave her a questioning look. ‘I don’t want their absence to set you back.’ She felt the colour run slightly into her cheeks. ‘You know, I really don’t need nursing any more. I know what pills to take, and I do my physio exercises every morning. And I feel bad at having Karen here still, too. Now that I’m better I can take on looking after Nicky again.’ ‘So you want me to sack them both?’ Alexis enquired, his eyebrows rising quizzically. ‘No!’ Rhianna riposted. ‘It’s just that I don’t want you spending money you don’t have to.’ Something flickered in his eyes. Then it was gone. She wondered if she’d imagined it. Then he was speaking again. ‘Well, let us see how we manage without them while they are away,’ he said temperately. For a second that expression was in his eyes again. Then it was gone. The villa seemed very empty without Nurse Thompson and Karen. Even though Maria and Stavros were still there, they were busy with their duties as usual, and it was almost, Rhianna thought, as if there were only she, Nicky and Alexis on the island. It felt strange. It made her, she knew, even more aware than ever of Alexis—being all on her own with him with Nicky. Or was it just because the scene by the pool kept haunting her, playing itself over in her mind, making her feel so aware of him? She wished she didn’t. Wished she could just accept him for what he was—the father of her child. A child who needed both parents to love him, cherish him, to make his world safe and happy. And we’re doing that, she thought. Nicky is happy—safe and secure. She still could not see the future, but surely now that Alexis no longer had reason to think so ill of her they could, in time, work something out? Surely that was possible now? But what it could be she did not know. She and Alexis were separated by so, so much—nationality, wealth, background. Into her head stole a memory. The evening when she had voiced questions about Nicky’s future. We get married he had said… It had been a test, nothing more. A last demonstration of his mistrust of her. She knew that. He had said so himself. But supposing it hadn’t been. Supposing he really, really had meant it. That they get married… No. Stupid. Impossible. Insane. Marriage was more than making a home for a child. Much more. The scene by the pool played again. Alexis pulling back. Walking away. Rejecting her. She felt heat flush through her, then cold. No. Whatever they worked out about Nicky’s future, it would not include marriage. Alexis sat out on the terrace nursing a cold beer. Inside, Rhianna was settling Nicky to sleep. He felt his tension rise. This was it. Tonight he would get the proof he needed. The proof he had to have. There was a footfall behind him. He got to his feet. She was there. His breath caught. Christos, but she looked stunning— She was wearing another of the outfits he had had delivered for her. It was a deep jewel-like turquoise colour, a loose, long-sleeved top in a chiffon material threaded with silver, a flowing, floating scarf wound about her neck, and matching long, loose trousers. Her unfettered hair framed her delicate jawline. She wore no make-up and did not need a scrap of it, Alexis thought. Her rare natural beauty needed no adornment. His desire was instant. Overwhelming. But he would have to staunch it. Hold it in check. For just a little longer. She took her place. She seemed—tense, he registered. Was finding it difficult to meet his eyes. But then she’d been like that all day. Well, that was all to the good now. He wanted her aware of him. Vulnerable to him. It was exactly the way he wanted her. He sat down again, and right on cue Stavros arrived, bringing the champagne. ‘Kyria, kyrios—’ He flourished the tray and deposited it on the table. Rhianna’s eyes widened. ‘Champagne? Why?’ ‘To celebrate,’ returned Alexis. ‘Celebrate what?’ But he did not answer. Only let a smile play briefly on his lips before turning his attention to Stavros and exchanging something with him in Greek. The man nodded and replied, then set about opening the champagne. The cork flew off over the beach with a loud pop, and then Stavros was filling up the glasses. When he had done, he said something again in Greek and took his leave. Alexis picked up his glass. He paused expectantly. Still feeling bemused, Rhianna lifted her glass to her lips. The cold liquid effervesced on her tongue. Her eyes met Alexis’s across the table. Their obsidian depths were flecked with gold—pure gold… And suddenly, out of nowhere, memory speared through her. Alexis looking at her, those magnetic night-dark eyes holding hers as she drank his champagne. Five long years ago on the night that had changed her life for ever. And now she was drinking his champagne again. An ache overcame her, a low, agonising ache that made her fingers clench around the long stem of her champagne flute. Abruptly, she raised it to her lips. The pale, cold, effervescent liquid beaded in her throat as it slid down. It should have dulled the ache. But it did not. It seemed only to make it pierce her more. Of their own volition her eyes went to the man sitting opposite her. She could not help it. He was so devastatingly compelling. She wanted to gaze and gaze, stare and stare. The crisp sable hair, the strong nose, the carved planes of his face, and the eyes—oh, the eyes! Veiled, unreadable, obsidian flecked with gold. For one long, aching moment she let herself gaze into them. Something flickered. Deep, deep within. And then with another flourish Stavros was coming out again, this time bearing a tray filled with tiny bowls. Mezes, Rhianna recognised. Traditional Greek delicacies—olives, stuffed vine leaves, tiny deep-fried cheese pastries… By the time he had set them all out she had recovered. And as she sipped her champagne and nibbled at the myriad of dishes she made herself talk. The kind of things they had talked about in these last days—ordinary, everyday things: Nicky, Greece, world affairs, films, music, books, food. Easy, unexceptional conversation. The kind she had got used to now with Alexis. He had always taken the lead, and she had been too bemused by the new, different Alexis he had become towards her to do anything other than follow where he led. Yet tonight, she fancied, it was her taking the lead, not him. She who prompted his answers with another question, and another… Mezes consumed, Stavros went on to serve their main course: tenderly baked lamb that melted in her mouth, washed down with rich red wine. Somehow she got through the meal. Somehow she managed to sound normal. And all the while the ache inside her grew and grew. Stavros emerged one last time, placing tiny cups of iced sorbet in front of them and setting down a tray of coffee—the customary combination of filter for her and Greek for Alexis. Then he set out cognac for Alexis. Rhianna declined a liqueur, as she always did. She had drunk both champagne and wine. They should have numbed her, she thought. Yet they seemed only to have made her yet more vividly aware of Alexis. She knew she shouldn’t be. Knew it was stupid, pointless, insane to let herself react to him like this. But she could not stop. She drank him in. The way his long, supple fingers held his cup, lifted his glass, gestured to make a point as he spoke. The way the strong column of his throat was framed by the collar of his open-necked shirt. The way the planes of his jaw, his cheekbones, seemed to incise the night. The way his dark hair shadowed his head. The way his mouth tugged slightly at one corner. The way his long black lashes swept down over those deep, glinting eyes. It was as if she were more vividly aware of him than she had ever been. Except for that one fatal night, so long ago… The ache pierced at her, stabbing with pain. She drank her coffee, dutifully taking sip after sip. Conversation ebbed, died away. She had no heart to try and start a new topic. Across the table, she watched Alexis slowly swirl the brandy in his glass. Then, as if aware of her watching him, he set it down. ‘Come down to the sea’s edge,’ he said. ‘The stars are particularly clear tonight.’ He got to his feet, crossing to turn off the light on the terrace. Rhianna blinked, letting her eyes adjust. Slowly she got to her feet, following him to the top of the flight of steps that led down to the beach. ‘Can you manage?’ he asked. She nodded, then murmured, ‘Yes, thank you.’ She walked down the steps beside him. His sleeve brushed against hers. The ache came again, more piercing. At the foot of the steps she slipped off her shoes. It was easier to walk in bare feet. The sand was cool beneath her soles, and beyond the shelter of the terrace she felt the whisper of a breeze on her, but it was not cold. Even so, she redraped her scarf around her and looked upwards as she walked down to the sea at Alexis’s side. The stars were, indeed, exceptionally clear tonight. The moon had not risen yet, and the sky was a fretwork of gold and black. As they drew further from the villa the stars’ brightness increased. At the sea’s edge Alexis halted. He stood, head lifted, gazing upwards. For a moment there was silence as they both gazed at heaven’s floor. ‘I’m not very good with stars,’ Rhianna murmured. Alexis lifted an arm. ‘The Plough,’ he said, pointing to the northern sky above the villa’s roof. ‘The two pointer stars, showing where the North Star is. Can you see?’ ‘I think so,’ she answered. ‘And Cassiopeia—can you see the constellation shaped like the letter W?’ ‘I’m not sure. Who was she? She sounds Greek.’ She was making conversation. She knew she was. But she had to. She was standing here, on a night-dark beach, beneath a sky full of stars. With Alexis. And all she must do was talk about constellations, Greek myths, heroes and heroines. Because that was all he wanted to do. To show her the stars. Nothing more. The ache came again. Deeper than ever. In the very core of her being. ‘The mother of Andromeda,’ answered Alexis. ‘The princess whom Perseus rescued from the sea monster.’ ‘I thought he slew the Gorgon—Medusa?’ ‘That too.’ ‘I can’t see it. The W shape.’ ‘There.’ He moved behind her, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders for a moment as he positioned her. Electricity ran through her. Then it was gone. She tried to focus on where he was pointing, but the stars just seemed a confused mess. She lowered her head from staring heavenward, feeling her neck unstiffen. Alexis was not looking at the stars. He was looking at her. And suddenly, out of nowhere, the electricity was back—prickling through her nerves, her flesh. She couldn’t move. Was held like a statue, like a nymph caught by a god. He reached out a hand to her. Curved it around the nape of her neck, beneath the fall of her hair. Her breath stopped. Her lips parted. He drew her to him, lowering his mouth to hers. His kiss was slow, and soft, and she could taste the cognac on his lips. Slowly, very slowly, she felt her body melt. His free hand slid around her waist, drawing her closer to him. He went on kissing her. Over her head the stars wheeled in a slow, dizzying arc. She felt her body sway, weak and boneless. He pressed her closer to him. She clung to him, her arms going around the strong column of his body, feeling its hard, muscled strength beneath her palms. The kiss went on and on, endless and sweet and melting. His mouth was like velvet against hers, and she felt her lips part to his. Wonder drenched through her. Wonder and disbelief. Alexis was kissing her. Softly, sweetly, languorously. Moulding her body to his, taking her softness to him, holding her against the warmth of his broad chest, his narrow hips. It seemed an eternity of time, and yet when he released her mouth, but not her body, folding her still against him, the stars had not moved at all. She felt his fingers still cupping her nape, stroking in her hair as he gazed down at her. She gazed back, lips parted, eyes distended, weak and bemused. ‘Alexis…’ She breathed his name. It was a question, a confusion, a wonder. Softly he brushed her lips with his. ‘Shh—no words, no words…’ He murmured something in Greek to her, soft and mellifluous. Her eyes were melting into his. She felt herself fall into their depths in a slow, arcing curve, and drown…drown deep within. He kissed her again and she was lost. Giving herself to the sweetness, the wonder of it. Alexis…kissing her. He would not let her speak, hushing her mouth with his. Not even when he had swept her up into his arms and taken her back inside, laid her down on her bed in the deep, concealing darkness of her room. ‘No words,’ he said, and his mouth found hers again. It was wonder and bliss. Soft, slow sensuousness. He eased the tiny straps of her sundress, his mouth gliding over the swell of her breasts, making her lips part with the sweetness of sensation, felt the tips of her breasts bud like ripening flowers under his lips, his slow, circling tongue. Time ceased. Ceased to exist. Nothing existed. Only the touch of his mouth on her. Only the soft, slow caresses of his lips. His gliding, stroking hands as they eased clothes from her, from him. Only the sweet drowning of her body, the honeyed, sensuous bliss as his body moved on hers. She felt the strength of his bared shoulders, the leanness of his smooth, muscled flanks, the long, powerful sculpture of his spine, his back, spanned by her hands, caressed so wonderingly by her fingertips in the velvet darkness of the night that cradled them. She felt her body arch and move to his, her face lift to his, her mouth yearn to his. She heard him murmuring to her in soft sibilance, the words unknown but the voice a caress, a kiss. She felt his strong hands smooth her thighs, felt him moving them with his, and all the while the murmuring voice, the velvet mouth. Her arms wound around him, holding him to her. She was cleaving to him, his body to hers, her body to his, becoming one, easing together, fusing with slow, infinite sweetness, a honeyed melting into one flesh, taking him into her, into her very core, her very being. And then, as he moved within her, she felt the sweetness ripen, swell within her, grow and intensify, distilling into something so wondrous, so miraculous, that her lips parted with a faint, high sound, her eyes closing upon themselves. Her hips were straining against his, her thighs taut against the fusion of their bodies, her hands splayed around his back as she gave herself to her body’s consummation. And to his. She felt his body tauten, every muscle fast against her tighten and hold for one long, endless moment. And then release—release with a slow, inexorable power, filling her, completing her, so that the same blood flowed through their veins, the same heart beat in their breasts. On and on while she clung to him, neck arched, her body still fused to his, fusing his to hers. On and on until she felt her body slacken, and his. The fusion ebbed, and the honeyed sweetness, and she lay quiescent, spent, within the cage of his arms, blindly gazing up at him in the darkness. Beyond everything but wonder. She felt him shift, felt his arm reach and click on the light, then dim its glare to a soft glow. But his eyes, as they gazed down at her, were dark, dark pinpricks. ‘Proof,’ he said softly. ‘Absolute, incontrovertible proof. You’ve played right into my hands at last.’ Triumph blazed in his face. And suddenly Rhianna knew exactly what had happened. A cold, icy hand clutched at her heart, squeezing it tight. Oh, yes, she knew exactly what had just happened. She had just had sex with Alexis Petrakis. And fallen right into the trap he had set for her. The test he had set for her. The test she had just totally, spectacularly failed. The cold iced through her, freezing her blood, her flesh. Her mind seemed to have parted from her body. It had cut free, and now she heard it speak to her. Each word a blow. Mortal. Lethal. Deadly. It had been another test. All of it. Everything. Just another test. The flowers, the clothes, the smiles. All the ‘niceness’ to her, day after day. Just bait, that was all. Bait to set a trap—a trap he’d sprung tonight. A test. The last one left to him. She had left him, she knew, no other option. So what else had he had to fight her with? He had gone for her one helpless weakness. Himself. And she knew exactly why. He had just said so. He’d needed proof. And she knew exactly what for. The pain of it crippled her. Lacerated her like talons in her flesh. She stared up at him. ‘My God,’ she breathed. ‘You bastard!’ She pushed him with her hands—violently, roughly. But he had jackknifed up, his face contorting as he pulled out from her in a short, sharp movement. ‘What?’ She rolled sideways instantly, away from him, taking the sheet with her to cover her nakedness. Her treacherous, betraying nakedness. He tried to draw her back. ‘Don’t touch me!’ His face changed. ‘Don’t touch you? After what just happened? Thee mou, but I have all the proof I need. Don’t try and deny it.’ Her eyes spat at him. Her throat was being garrotted. ‘I don’t care. You’re not getting him. You’re not taking him from me! You can go to your tame judge and tell him about your bloody proof, but I don’t care. I’ll fight you. I’ll fight you—you’ll never take Nicky from me. Never, never!’ She could hear the hysteria in her voice but didn’t care. Didn’t care about anything except Nicky—her son, her son—and this vile, hideous man who was still, still trying to take him from her. Still trying to test her, trap her, so that he had the proof he needed. Proof she was an unfit mother— ‘Are you insane?’ His words cut right across her. Stunned, disbelieving. For a moment he just stared at her, shock etched in his every feature. ‘Thee mou, is that what this is about?’ Her face contorted. ‘Don’t give me that—you know it is. You planned it. I know you did. You couldn’t get any other dirt to stick on me so you resorted to this!’ His eyes flashed black fire. ‘To what? In God’s name, Rhianna—’ ‘To this. Sex. Sex! It’s all the dirt you had left to pin on me. You set this whole thing up because it’s all you had left! You couldn’t nail me any other way! I wasn’t a drug addict, I tore up your filthy cheque, and I shot down your attempt to get me to say I wanted to marry you. That left you with one thing and one thing only! To try and prove I was unfit to be a mother because I was a woman who’d roll into bed with any man at the drop of her knickers. You threw that at me the first time you hurled your foul accusations at me, telling me you were going to keep Nicky, and now you’ve gone and proved it. I fell—wham, bam—into bed with you tonight exactly the same way I did five years ago, and you’re boasting to me that you’ve got the proof you wanted! And now…’ She took a choking, shuddering breath. ‘Now you’ll use it to try and take Nicky from me. But I won’t let you—I won’t—’ He seized her shoulders. Hands like steel gripped her. ‘Enough! I will not hear this. I will not even listen. But you—you will listen. Rhianna—listen. Listen to me. This was not a trap—a test. Yes, I wanted proof—but of something quite, quite different.’ Her face contorted. ‘I trusted you, Alexis, I trusted you. You’d convinced me—you know that? Convinced me you really were genuinely trying to be nice. But all that niceness, all those smiles that you poured over my head like syrup these past days, you didn’t mean any of it, did you? Did you? It was all just hogwash! Worse than hogwash. You were stringing me along, setting me up—setting me up for this! Weren’t you? Weren’t you? You had the whole thing planned, didn’t you?’ She saw the truth of her accusation in his face, and she felt sick—sick to her core. ‘No—it wasn’t like that. Believe me, Rhianna. That’s all I ask of you—believe me. You must believe me!’ His eyes flashed. ‘You have my word—it is not as you think.’ She reared back, clutching the sheet to her. Her face whitened. ‘Oh, God, you have a nerve. You want me to believe you? Well that’s more than you ever did me.’ Emotions were churning away inside her, a tangled, tumbled mess. But one—one was surfacing. Powerful and bitter. ‘When did you ever believe me?’ she demanded. ‘Never!’ He had thrown so much at her—one vile accusation after another—and when had he ever believed her when she had denied them? ‘You condemned me from the moment you knew I had borne your son—and you never believed a word of anything I said in my own defence. Not once. You assumed I was after your money the whole time, one despicable way after another. Though I told you I didn’t want a penny of it. That all I wanted was Nicky. But you went right on anyway, didn’t you? Testing me for greed time after time. You dangled marriage in front of me to see whether I’d snap it up like a grasping little gold-digger. You—’ ‘No!’ He seized her hands fiercely. She tried to yank them away, but his strength was too great for her. ‘You thought it was that—but it wasn’t. I swear to God it wasn’t! It was because—’ ‘And that obscene offer of twenty million pounds in exchange for Nicky—you admitted it—you admitted that you were testing me out.’ He let go her hands. Dropped them into her lap. ‘That I cannot deny.’ He drew breath, sharp and hollow. ‘I had to find out—find out if my son had a mother who would sell him for hard cash.’ She looked at him. Her eyes were very clear when she spoke. Her words were very clear. ‘You thought me a drug addict—but addicts can love their children. You thought me no better than a whore—but whores can love their children. You thought me vindictive enough to keep your son from you—but mothers who do that can love their children. My God, murderers can love their children!’ Her voice rose. ‘But what cause had you to think I was lower than any, any of those? That I would sell my child for cash? What mother would do that?’ For one long, endless moment there was silence. Then, into the silence, he said, ‘My mother.’ |
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE air in the room froze. She could feel it happening. It was as if something evil had entered. Then she heard his voice again. There was no emotion in it. None. None in his eyes. His face. ‘My mother sold me. She sold me to my father when I was five years old. It was for ten million pounds. A large amount in those days. That was the price of her divorce settlement from him. Had he refused, she would have fought his attempt to get custody of me through every court in Europe. She’d have won, too. Every judge she’d have come up against would have found in her favour. You see, she was a doting mother. Absolutely devoted. I was her darling, adored baby. She lavished hugs and kisses on me. I was the apple of her eye. At least when anyone was looking. Anyone who needed to be impressed, that is. ‘In front of the staff she did not need to be so devoted. Nor in front of her lovers. The trouble was it was not just those whom she needed to impress who were fooled by her devotion. I was fooled as well. So when she sold me to my father I did not understand why he would not let me see her again. He told me then that I would never see her again and I didn’t. It made me hate him. So he told me what she had done. Then I hated her, instead, and loved my father. But he didn’t want my love. And he never gave me his. Because the day she took his cheque for ten million pounds my mother also informed him that I wasn’t his son, but the child of one of her legion of lovers. He only kept me to save his face, so that he would not be laughed at for having not just a wife who’d walked out on him but one who’d cuckolded him and sold him the resulting bastard for a fortune. He told me so on his deathbed. They were his last words to me.’ He fell silent. The air was too thick to breathe. And yet she could see—see with crystal clarity. See everything. Everything that she had not seen before. Understand what she had not understood before. That everything Alexis had done had not been to protect Nicky from her—but from his own mother. The demon who still haunted him. She looked at him. He had drawn away from her. Lain back down again, his eyes staring up at the ceiling. Seeing nothing. Remembering everything. Every last drop of pain. Related with such dispassion. A dispassion that reached inside her and crushed her heart with horror. Her hands were pressed to her mouth. Her throat was so tight she could have snapped it like frozen wire. And her breath was hollow in her lungs. ‘Oh, God,’ she said. ‘Oh, God.’ Then slowly, very slowly, she lowered her hands from her mouth and reached for his hand, lying inert by his side. She held it very tight, pressed between her hands. A great wave of compassion and pity and understanding went through her. And more than that—forgiveness. Because to understand all was to forgive all. Understanding just what demons drove him, why he had subjected her to all that he had, allowed her to wash it all away. ‘I understand now.’ She spoke quietly. ‘I understand why you did what you did to me. I understand why you thought the worst of me, why you dared not believe me innocent of what you accused me of, why you had to go on and on trying to show me up, catch me out—test me.’ She paused. ‘But you don’t have to test me any more, Alexis. Truly, truly you don’t. I am not your mother any more than you are my father—or your own. Their cruelty, their callousness, their unspeakable selfishness is not in us. Nicky will never suffer as you suffered. You see—’ Her throat caught. ‘He has us to love him, keep him safe.’ She took a breath and said what she knew she must say to end, finally, this unbearable war between them. ‘I want to share custody with you. Nicky is your son and mine. Now that I know what drove you to distrust me so much, so that you had to do everything you could to protect him from the woman you feared I was, I can trust you. Trust you not to try and take him from me.’ She looked down at him. Tears were pooling in her eyes. His eyes, seeing now, were resting on her. There was an expression in them that she had never seen before, but it made the tears pool more. ‘Why?’ he said softly, his voice as strange as his eyes. ‘Why would I want to take my son from the woman who above all else I would choose to be his mother? Yes, I was haunted by what had happened to me—and it made me fearful that you would prove the same as my mother, as cruel and heartless. But you are as different from her as night from day. Your love for Nicky shines like a star in heaven. And you have endured so much for him—at my hands. I cannot bear to think of it. Do you not know how much I regret having done what I did to you?’ His eyes searched her face. ‘And this last most of all.’ The expression in his eyes changed again. ‘I never, never meant to hurt you tonight as I have hurt you. I beg you to believe me. Yes, it was a test, but—No—do not flinch away from me! Please listen to me, Rhianna.’ He raised himself to his elbow, closing his other hand around hers, not letting her draw away. ‘I said I wanted proof, but it was nothing to do with what you thought it was. I wanted to prove something quite, quite different. I wanted to prove that what had happened between us five years ago was still there.’ Cold pooled in her. ‘You mean sex.’ She jerked her hand away, reared backwards. It was as if he had just struck her. ‘I don’t see why. I fail to understand why you felt you had to see whether you could still have me, Alexis. It certainly wasn’t much of a challenge for you the first time around! From bathroom to bed in minutes. But then, of course—’ her voice was unsparing ‘—when you’re only intending a one-night stand you don’t want to hang about. The sooner you’re in bed, the sooner you can get out in the morning. Just like you did five years ago!’ He was staring at her. ‘A one-night stand? That is what you think I intended?’ She pressed her lips together. ‘It’s what I know you intended. I was there, remember? Even before I’d opened my mouth in the morning, to try and talk about the takeover, you were saying goodbye and thanks for all the sex. The classic exit line after a one-night stand.’ He was looking at her. Just looking at her. There was something very strange about his face. Then he gave a harsh exhalation of breath and sat up. His bare torso glistened like gold in the soft lamplight, but she paid no attention. Something hard was lashing around her heart. Why was he taunting her like this? It seemed so cruel. Hadn’t they just finally made their peace over Nicky? What was the point of rehashing the night he’d been conceived? It was the future they needed to sort out, not the past. Then Alexis was speaking, his voice vehement. ‘A one-night stand? A quick, casual fling with a convenient passing female? You’ve thought that all these years? Dear God, Rhianna, don’t you know what was happening the night we met? Yes, I behaved recklessly, sweeping you off to bed like that—but I could not resist you. I had never in all my life seen a woman I wanted so much, who had such an effect on me. I did not know what it was—I only knew that I could not, could not resist you! And you seemed as eager, as ardent as I was—coming with me to my suite. I felt that you must feel the same as I did. And, even though I know now that your reasons for coming with me so eagerly were quite different, once I had you in my arms you gave yourself to me completely, absolutely. You cannot deny it—you cannot! That was real and true—as true for you as it was for me. And I knew, absolutely, completely, that something quite, quite amazing was happening. And it was not, Thee mou, a one-night stand! Not for me and not for you either!’ He took another ragged breath. ‘Can you really think that was all I wanted? You say I was taking my leave of you, but all I was doing was telling you when I woke you with a kiss that I had to go to a meeting I could not get out of because it was important to other people. Even though to me it was the most pernicious and accursed thing in the world because it was going to keep me from you for two agonisingly long hours. After which time—’ his eyes burned into hers ‘—I was coming back for you.’ He looked at her, lips pressing together. ‘I was going to ask you to come back to Greece with me. What had happened that night was so magical, so extraordinary, so precious that I could not bear to be parted from you! I wanted to take you away with me, make you mine. Discover what this magical, extraordinary thing was that had turned me upside down and inside out in a single night! Discover, with all the hope my heart could hold, whether the night we had shared had been as magical, extraordinary and precious to you as well.’ His eyes shuttered, that impenetrable veil she knew so well closing over them. Then they cleared, looked at her again. Pain was in them. ‘And that, that is what I sought to prove tonight. That we had not lost what we had that night—before I drove you away with my cruel words, with my arrogant distrust, my wounded anger, thinking you had made a fool of me, thinking you were someone you never were, thinking that all you had given me was hatred of you for being someone I would have given everything for you not to have been. To prove that it had survived—somewhere, somehow—through all these years, while you raised my son, alone and unprotected, in the grinding poverty my unjust accusations had condemned you to. That it had survived even while I let my tormented childhood make me a brute to you.’ He took a breath, ragged and uneven. ‘I was looking for a miracle. Trying to win you back to me after everything I’d done to you. I threw you away, Rhianna—but I’ve been trying to win you back. Day by day by day. I knew I’d made you flinch away from me, made you repulsed by my touch, and I knew how much cause I’d given you to hate me. But I truly, truly thought you had accepted that I no longer thought such ill of you—had realised how very, very wrong I had been about you. I thought I was showing you that, day after day. But what I did not dare show you was how, with every day, I wanted you more and more.’ He looked at her. ‘I have made so many, many mistakes with you, Rhianna. I could not afford to make one more. Not a single one. I’d already realised I’d made a crass mistake in proposing to you like that. But I acted on impulse—overwhelming impulse—as I realised, all over again, just how incredibly beautiful you are. It was a stupid, insensitive thing to do, and it made me realise that I had to tread on eggshells with you. I couldn’t risk you rejecting me, flinching away from me if I showed the slightest sign of finding you desirable. And yesterday, Thee mou, I did not dare kiss you because I was terrified I would not be able to stop. But knowing that you were finally responding to me gave me such hope, such determination, that I knew I had to risk all tonight. I had to take you completely, utterly by surprise—sweep you away, overwhelm you, give you no chance to resist, no chance to flinch away, no chance to feel repulsed by me. I had to storm your defences and prove, prove to you that what we had between us we have still. And more—so much, much more.’ His eyes held hers, lambent, flecked deep with gold. ‘And I did prove it. You cannot deny it. You gave yourself to me tonight as sweetly, as beautifully, as ardently and as passionately as you did that very first night. Proof, Rhianna. Proof that what was started that night five years ago is still there. Will always be there. All our lives.’ He paused. Then softly, very softly, he spoke to her. ‘It’s love, Rhianna. Do you not know it? Can you not feel it? It started five years ago, on our first, miraculous night together, but I blighted its flowering. Let it grow now, bringing us together after so long, so much.’ He was reaching out to her. She should pull away. She should not let him touch her. She should not let him cup her shoulders with his strong, warm hands. She should not let him draw her to him. Should not let him fold her against her body, wrap his arms around her, rest her head against his heart. But she did. And she should not let the hard lashing around her heart loosen to the softest, silken thread. Nor let the tears that had pooled in pity for him now pool in an emotion quite, quite different. But she did. She should not let the memory of that night so long ago come to her again. Nor let the shame she had felt at her own weakness in succumbing to her irresistible desire for him turn to wonder and gratitude—the wonder and gratitude that was pouring through her now. And more—more than wonder and gratitude. An emotion far, far more powerful, more miraculous than those poured through her, overwhelming her with its intensity. An emotion she could not any longer deny. An emotion that she could only let swell through her, fill her completely, absolutely. She could feel his heart beating, his arms around her, holding her so close, so close. Feel the tears damp on her cheeks. He felt them too. His hands cupped around her head and lifted it away, and he gazed down at her as the tears poured silently down her face. ‘Ah, Rhianna, don’t—don’t cry—please, please don’t cry!’ But she could not stop. The tears burned from her eyes, her throat convulsing, and she pressed her face against his shoulder as he wrapped his arms so tightly around her. ‘Rhianna—’ She could not hear him. The sobs were racking through her as her hands clutched at his bare, muscled shoulders. He was holding her against him, close and warm and protectively. He smoothed her hair, her back, and then, when after a long, long time the tears finally died away, he went on holding her, looser now, but still within the circle of his arms. ‘I love you,’ he said to her, his voice quiet. ‘All my life. The mother of my son, the treasure of my heart.’ She kissed him. Softly and silently. Then, softly and silently, she began to make love to the man she loved. The gold Aegean dawn was breaking through the slats of the wooden shutters in her room. Their room, she thought with wonder. Always now their room. Wherever in the world they were. For all their lives together. Wonder filled her, and happiness, and peace and joy, and above all love. Love that wound them both together, bound them both, each to the other. She smoothed the curve of his head, tracing the taut line of his cheek. She was cradling him against her, his head pillowed on her breasts. She felt her love for him pour through her. So long and bitter a journey they had made. A journey she had not even known she was on. A line of poetry came to her out of some unknown, unremembered recess. Surprised by joy… She felt wonder distil through her again. I didn’t know. I didn’t know that I was falling in love with him. There was too much hatred, too much anger, too much distrust, too much fear. But it was happening all along, secretly, in my heart, and I didn’t know. But her heart had known. Known better than she had. Beneath her fingers his dark hair was like silk. In her arms his strong, powerful body lay like a child’s, asleep. He gave me his child and now he has given himself to me. And I will keep him safe in love for ever. He did not stir. Not after so long a night of love. A night that had washed away, for ever, all that had come between them. A night that had brought them together again for ever. Someone was shaking her shoulder. ‘Mummy! Wake up! Daddy is in the way. He’s in your bed and there isn’t any room for me.’ The piping voice was rich with indignation. Rhianna stirred sluggishly as Alexis reached for their son. ‘There’s always room for you, Nicky.’ He made more space in the middle of the bed. His son eyed him disapprovingly. ‘You haven’t got any jim-jams on.’ His father frowned. ‘Jim-jams?’ ‘Pyjamas,’ mumbled Rhianna drowsily. She fumbled under her pillow for her nightdress and sleepily pulled it on. ‘What about Daddy?’ Nicky persisted. ‘And why is he here?’ ‘Why are you here?’ countered his father. He glanced at his wristwatch and groaned at the early hour. ‘Need a cuddle,’ said Nicky. He clambered up into the bed and with great wriggling and squirming snuggled down between them. Alexis reached his arm across them both—his son and the woman he loved. His son gave one more wriggle and then went still. ‘Mummy, Nicky, Daddy,’ he said, and went back to sleep. Rhianna felt for Alexis’s hand. ‘Happy families,’ she said. He squeezed her fingers. ‘Happy families,’ he murmured. Then they both went back to sleep. To dream of each other and of their son, and the long, long years of happiness that were to come. EPILOGUE RHIANNA stood out on the balcony, gazing out over the lake. Overhead, a high Floridian moon sailed serenely. At her side stood Alexis. Inside their room, fast asleep, was their son, dreaming of the joys of the day… ‘I wanted to take you to the South Pacific,’ Alexis said ruefully. ‘Or at least the Caribbean.’ His eyes flickered around the lake, where the lights from other resort hotels glowed in the night. Rhianna turned to him, a smile on her face, love-light in her eyes. ‘I can’t think,’ she said softly, ‘of a better place to spend our honeymoon than in Orlando’s theme parks.’ She got a wry smile in return. ‘Well, I guess that’s a clear majority vote,’ her new husband said wryly. ‘I’ve never seen Nicky so ecstatic. Or so speechless.’ He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. ‘Dear God,’ he said into her hair, ‘how can we be so happy?’ She felt tears prick in her eyes. They came freely all the time—tears of joy, of wonder, of gratitude. ‘I love you so much,’ she said. ‘So much, Alexis. So much that I can’t believe it—not after all we went through.’ He smoothed her hair with gentle fingers. ‘But we came through,’ he said. ‘We came through. Nicky brought us back together.’ A cold shiver went down her spine. ‘I hated that social worker for what she did, and yet it’s thanks to her that we are here now.’ She gave a heavy breath. ‘I know with my brain that she was only doing what she had to do to protect a child she thought was in danger, but—’ He cradled her head, and gazed down into his eyes. ‘No more looking back, my darling—no more looking back. The past is gone. For both of us. Only the future remains.’ For one long, endless moment he went on gazing down at her, lovingly, cherishingly. Then, softly, very softly, he lowered his mouth to hers. ‘Tell me, my dear, beloved wife, do you think you are still jet-lagged?’ he asked, as he lifted his mouth away. Rhianna reached up and raised her mouth to his. ‘Hardly at all,’ she told him, and brushed her lips to his. ‘I’m so very glad to hear that,’ said Alexis, and kissed her again. ‘And do you think,’ he went on a moment later, winding his arms more closely around her, ‘that Nicky is very, very fast asleep?’ Moonlight gleamed in her eyes. ‘Oh, very fast asleep,’ she assured him. ‘Good,’ said Alexis. ‘In which case…’ He scooped her up in one supple, fluid movement. She gave half a smothered cry. Then he was sliding open the glass door to the room and taking her inside. Outside, the Floridian moon shone on. Inside, two people, whose journey to this point had been long and painful, found in each other’s arms the bliss, the peace, that only love could bring. |
The End
I hope you enjoy reading it |
I'll read it soon my dear
Thanks btw, Do you know anything about Monie? plz tell me so love ya |
Its good to hear from you darla
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thank u very much we yeslamo alayadea
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thanxxxxxxxxxxxxxx sis 4 the wonderful novel
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Thaaaaaaaaaaaaaanx Nargis |
thank you its great
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well done dear narjs. i am wating for your other novels
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Now we will continue with the second novel
Her baby secret by Kim lawrence summary When Rowena runs into her old college friend Dr. Quinn Tyler at a charity ball, the attraction is instant. Handsome, sexy and eligible, he can have any woman he wants--and now he wants Rowena! Determined to prove her independence, Rowena insists she's a career woman with no time for marriage or babies. But one passionate night together changes everything. Now she has to tell Quinn the truth--that she's falling for him, and that she's expecting his baby…. |
CHAPTER ONE
QUINN, his lean body clad in supple motor-cycle leathers, strode into the swish foyer of the world-famous magazine Chic. The glass swing doors closed behind him and, green eyes narrowed, he paused for a moment to get his bearings. Nothing in his attitude hinted at the fact that he knew that had the person he sought known he was there he would undoubtedly have found himself chucked out on his ear! By nature Quinn was a confident individual—in his experience assurance was far more likely to open doors than an apologetic manner—but he considered this situation called for an extra degree of audacity. The meek might well be going to inherit the earth but Quinn couldn’t wait that long—he was a man with a mission! At any time Quinn had the sort of face that made people look, and then look again, their eyes admiringly drawn to the pleasing arrangement of strong bones and intriguing manly hollows that made his irregular features stand out from the crowd. At that moment his expression—a fairly accurate reflection of his one overriding emotion, determination—drew more second glances than usual. His steely purpose extended beyond the tight-jawed, edgy expression on his saturnine features, his entire lean, loose-limbed body was tense with resolve; even his soft-footed tread had something uncompromising about it. In fact Quinn oozed danger, and human nature—or at least female nature—being what it was, this was the fatal ingredient that had every woman in the place instantly riveted. In the normal run of things Quinn wasn’t much bothered about the impression he made on people, except when, as part of his professional role, he needed to put them at their ease. His present enterprise was purely personal, and he had other, more urgent, things on his mind than racing pulses! He was going to see Rowena, and if that involved an unseemly contretemps with a security guard, chaining himself to an immovable object or just generally making a spectacle of himself, so be it! Dignity had its place—hell, he was great at dignity, he oozed the stuff morning till night—but now wasn’t the occasion to display restraint. He’d been displaying it for the past couple of months and where had it got him…? Fobbed off, ignored and generally given the run around, that was where! His chiselled jaw tightened another notch as he contemplated the abysmal way Rowena Parrish, his long-time friend and recent lover, had been treating him since that memorable night in New York. No, the time had arrived for a little bit of positive action. Quinn wasn’t a man accustomed to dealing with rejection or failure, and he was damned if he was going to accept it now without some sort of explanation. It would have to be an extremely good one too if it was going to satisfy him! ‘I’m here to see Ms—’ he began firmly as he approached the nearest of the receptionists arranged around a big half-moon-shaped desk. ‘Oh, and she’ll definitely be glad to see you.’ There was a fervent nod of agreement that slid like a Mexican wave down the line of pretty faces. It wasn’t that the other applicants hadn’t been good-looking. Like this one they’d all been sheathed in sexy black leather, and unlike this clean-shaven specimen they’d had the air of dissipated ruggedness that went with a sprinkling of designer stubble. Despite this advantage none had even come close to matching the indefinable something extra that this guy had by the bucketful! The receptionist and her companions had all been watching his approach, mouths slightly ajar. His every physical attribute—these included legs that were longer than long, narrow hips, a washboard-flat belly and wide, powerful shoulders—had been digested, drooled over and stored for future dreamy reference. Quinn, ready to do battle, was a little taken aback by this response. He cleared his throat and frowned suspiciously—was this some new devious ploy of Rowena’s to get him out of her hair? ‘Right, then, I’ll just go to…?’ ‘If you’ll give me your name I’ll let them know you’re on your way up.’ ‘Quinn Tyler.’ There was no instant start of recognition—good, Rowena hadn’t left any instructions to have him thrown out if he showed up as she had done at her apartment building. After a lot of judicious eyelash fluttering the young woman consulted the screen in front of her. ‘We haven’t actually got you down…it must be some sort of mistake.’ There were fervent nods of agreement. ‘No problem, I’ll just add your name here,’ she told him cheerfully. It was slowly dawning on Quinn that there was some sort of mistaken identity thing going on here, but as this seemed to be working in his favour he didn’t see much point setting the record straight. If it got him closer to the inner sanctum and Rowena he was quite happy to play along, though that might be easier if he knew what role he was meant to be playing. He dismissed any lingering qualms with a philosophical shrug—it couldn’t be worse than a punch-up with Security, could it…? Elbow leaning on the desk, he shamelessly utilised his most winning smile. ‘That’s very good of you…’ he consulted the name badge pinned to her ample bosom ‘…Stephanie.’ A couple of minutes later, his fixed smile faded abruptly as he stepped into the glass-fronted lift and it began its smooth ascent. He looked at the piece of paper the nubile Stephanie had thrust into his hand, and his brows rose cynically at the sight of a scribbled phone number before he crushed it carelessly between his strong fingers. The directions he’d received from Stephanie took him to a long, narrow room that contained a row of chairs and little else furniture-wise. Quinn blinked; he was looking at a leather fetishist’s dream. Males, mostly a few years younger than himself—mid to late twenties, he estimated—filled the available chairs. They were all clad in a similar fashion to himself—black leather from head to toe. As he was surveying the surreal biker reunion scene in front of him, a door just to his left opened and he turned to see a short female figure dressed in a garish combination of lime green and cerise emerge, carrying a clipboard. ‘Who’s first?’ The black leather rose en masse in response to her slightly bored query. Apparently oblivious to the sudden rise in testosterone levels and anxiety, she ignored all the figures trying desperately hard to be rampantly male and turned instead to the one conveniently closest—ironically he was the only person present not trying to catch her attention. ‘You! You’ll do…’ Her eyes travelled up the six-foot-five frame, getting wider and wider the more she saw. She paused, blinking in bemused fashion when she eventually encountered the greenest pair of eyes she’d ever seen. Long, curly ebony lashes any woman would have traded her soul for and equally dark, well-defined brows were suitable accessories for these truly spectacular orbs. Sophie had seen it all but even she couldn’t repress a tiny sigh of feminine appreciation. He might not be trying, but this guy was succeeding fairly dramatically on the rampant male front! Her eyes eagerly slid over the strong, hawkish nose that bisected the hunk’s lean features and dropped to the wide firm line of a sensationally sexy mouth. A slow grin spread across her features. ‘You’ll do very well indeed,’ she told him with a throaty chuckle. Quinn, aware of a battery of resentful eyes on his back, found himself being bundled by the tiny figure through the door and into the connecting room. In contrast to his colourful escort the elegant female behind the desk was clad totally in black. She looked at Quinn for a full thirty seconds before smiling—he had the distinct impression her facial muscles didn’t get a whole lot of practice with this procedure. She rose to her feet. ‘Anna Semple.’ Instead of extending her hand as Quinn had expected, she walked around him, head on one side in a bird-like attitude—he found himself thinking ‘vulture’ at this point. ‘And who might you be?’ Anna asked, somewhat taken aback to discover that, instead of looking eager to please, this candidate was glancing at his wrist-watch. ‘Quinn Tyler.’ He couldn’t decide whether he was amused or irritated by the treatment. ‘I haven’t got a Quinn Tyler down here,’ her colourful companion revealed, consulting her list. ‘No matter.’ His interrogator frowned as though his name was tugging at her memory. ‘These don’t look like props.’ She ran a hand lightly over the sleeve of his well-worn leather jacket and gave another vulpine smile. ‘They’re not.’ ‘And have you done much of this sort of work, Quinn Tyler…?’ Time to ditch the subterfuge and move on to his main objective. ‘Actually I think there’s been some sort of…’ He edged surreptitiously towards the door. ‘Who sent you?’ ‘Nobody sent me.’ ‘Initiative! I like that, don’t I, Sophie? But you have an agent?’ If he didn’t this opened all sorts of interesting possibilities—such as an exclusive contract. Now wouldn’t that be nice? Very nice, she decided, trying and failing to discover any flaws in the hunk. Forget the leather spread—this guy could front their ‘new season—new man’ feature that was to run for three consecutive issues, she thought excitedly. Quinn was a patient man, but even he had his limitations. He’d seen farmers giving prospective purchases at a livestock market a more subtle survey than this female was giving him! Any minute now he was convinced she’d ask him to show her his teeth! He was almost right… ‘Take off your shirt and jacket, will you?’ Anna requested, casually retaking her seat. Quinn’s eyes widened as it dawned on him she was deadly serious. And I thought my job called for personal sacrifices! he thought. ‘Is that all?’ The younger woman looked startled by his response, but the irony sailed right over the older female’s head. ‘Yes, that’ll be sufficient.’ Anna flicked her female companion an amused look as the big man remained immobile. ‘Not shy, are you?’ she taunted indulgently. ‘Not shy, no,’ Quinn replied honestly. Just a bit particular about who I take my clothes off for. The thought of removing his clothes focused his mind forcefully on his original objective—Rowena. Now, if she’d asked him his response would have been quite different. With reluctance he dragged his mind clear of the various stimulating scenarios it had immediately conjured up along this theme. He was just about to break the news that, whatever they had in mind, he wasn’t available when the door behind him opened a crack, and the sound of voices drifted in—one at least he identified instantly. ‘Have I got the go-ahead on the “Having It All” feature, Rowena?’ Sylvia Morrow urgently hailed her editor who, oblivious to the admiring male eyes lining the wall, was taking a short cut through to her top floor office. She’d worked hard for that office. Rowena was a tall, beautiful young woman with typical English-rose colouring, classical features, natural ash-blonde hair and a shapely but slender body. She was not unaware of the impact her looks made on people, but she felt on balance that these attributes had been more of a hindrance than a help in her single-minded efforts to gain the right to call that office on the top floor her own. The job of editor that went with the luxury office was still new enough to seem unreal. It was the goal she’d been working towards ever since she’d left university with a first-class honours degree, no experience, no money and boundless ambition. Now she was there—she had it all! Funny, she’d expected success to feel quite different. The route to the top hadn’t been easy—people had said she was too young and some still were saying it—but she was proving them wrong. The vague feeling of anticlimax was, she supposed, to be expected. Perhaps if her personal life wasn’t such a mess she could have enjoyed her moment of glory, but ironically she’d never felt more confused or unhappy in her life. And whose fault was that? Quinn Tyler’s. She conveniently ignored the inescapable fact that she herself was at least fifty per cent to blame for her present predicament. ‘Are you all right, Rowena?’ Sylvia’s concerned glance slipped from the haunted expression on her boss’s pale face to the slim hand pressed against her enviably flat belly. They had both been at the glitzy party of yet another new perfume launch the previous evening, the food and drink had flowed freely and Sylvia, who was congenitally incapable of refusing freebies, had woken feeling a trifle delicate that morning. It seemed unlikely Rowena had overindulged too—self-control was Rowena’s middle name. Rowena smiled stiffly and, trying not to draw attention to her action, removed her hand from her stomach. If she wasn’t careful, she thought worriedly, people were going to start putting two and two together. ‘I’m fine.’ She was in control now and didn’t show even by so much as a flicker of an eyelash the conflict that was raging in her head. For someone who’d mouthed off as often as she had about how impossible it was for a woman to give her all to a job when she had a baby, this was some position to find herself in. Actually, it was some position for anyone to find themselves in! Not that she had a baby yet…She sighed, aware that she could fool others but not herself. No matter how hard she attempted to think of the new life inside her as a cluster of cells, she couldn’t. It was a person—in the primitive stages maybe, but still a little individual. ‘The “Having it All” feature…?’ Sylvia prompted. Rowena pushed aside her personal problems—for the first time in her professional career the process wasn’t easy. ‘You know my opinion on that one, Sylvia.’ Rowena didn’t believe you could ‘have it all’. Sylvia nodded. She did know; it was no secret that their dynamic new editor considered women who thought they could combine a high-powered career with marriage and a family were fooling themselves. Something, Rowena was on the record as stating, had to suffer, and she for one was not prepared to accept compromise in any area of her life. As for nannies, why have a kid if you immediately farmed it out to someone else? You had to hand it to Rowena, she wasn’t too bothered about being politically correct. Privately Sylvia thought Rowena’s horror of maternity and marriage might have something to do with the fact that her boss did everything so perfectly. She doubted if Rowena had ever muddled through or made do with second-best in her life—a life which appeared to be planned down to the last second. At least she wasn’t daft or unrealistic enough to imagine a woman could carry on being so totally in control like that when she had a young family. ‘Well, I have several high-flyers who don’t share your opinion and a feature that’s just begging to be written. It can’t fail,’ Sophie predicted in full sales-pitch mode. ‘A behind-the-scenes peek into the homes and offices of the rich and famous with pictures of their dogs, kids and whatever…you know, the usual humanising influences…’ The notion of voluntarily exposing your own children to the media made Rowena grimace. Her gut response was extra strong no doubt because the whole motherhood issue had suddenly taken on a very personal aspect. ‘It could work,’ Sylvia insisted, sensing with dismay her boss’s negative response. ‘You’re probably right, Sylvia.’ With an effort Rowena focused her thoughts on the matter in hand. ‘Who have you got lined up?’ She was too professionally astute to allow her personal prejudices to get in the way of good copy. ‘Maggie Allen.’ Rowena’s delicately arched eyebrows rose. ‘A topical choice.’ Maggie Allen, the controversial new appointment to head an international pharmaceutical firm, was the sort of woman who genuinely did seem to have it all: a loving, supportive husband, two well-adjusted children and her career. How often, Rowena wondered cynically, did Maggie get to spend time with those children? And how long before the understanding husband started looking for a woman who could spend more than the odd hour or two with him? ‘It gets better,’ Sylvia enthused confidently over her shoulder. ‘Hold on a tick, I just need to give Anna this layout.’ Rowena followed the resourceful writer through the door. ‘Anna, could you—? Oh, my god!’ Rowena heard Sylvia exclaim as she came to an abrupt halt. Anna Semple saw her colleague’s reaction and looked complacent. ‘I rather think you can send the others home, Sophie. We’ve got our man.’ She gave the tall figure who held centre stage a look of proprietorial approval. It didn’t take long to see what—or rather who—had robbed Sylvia of speech. Rowena got an impressive glimpse of broad, firmly muscled shoulders and a strong, supple back before she averted her eyes—beef cake wasn’t really her cup of tea. Besides, a quick glance had already revealed a spooky and unsettling similarity of build and colouring between Anna’s hunky model and Quinn, and Rowena had problems enough without any more reminders. They’d got the poor guy to show off his pecs. Rowena experienced a pang of sympathy, which was probably misplaced. For all she knew, the man was perfectly at ease with using his great body to promote his career, or maybe he was an exhibitionist who revelled in being drooled over? She nodded briskly to the other women. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Three-thirty in my office…Sylvia…?’ At that precise moment the tall figure turned his head. It didn’t occur to her for even one second to believe the proof of her eyes. She was just so obsessed she was hallucinating—it was the only possible explanation. Palefaced, she stared transfixed at the hormonal hallucination before her. The half-naked man, his green eyes narrowed slightly, smiled languidly, displaying a set of even, pearly white teeth. The gasp that emerged from her lips was faint, but audible enough to attract curious glances from the other women present. This was worse than hallucination—this was real! Only one man in the world could combine that much sneery contempt and sexual challenge in a smile! If her legs had actually responded to her urgent mental commands she’d have obeyed her first cowardly instinct and fled the room. As it was she had to think of something to say that wouldn’t excite unwanted speculation from the women she had to work with. Women whose respect she needed. Why here, why now, why me…? Especially why me! She took a deep breath. It was no good moaning about it, it was happening and she’d have to deal with it. Of course she’d known she’d have to see Quinn some time—she still hadn’t worked out when precisely that some time might be, but she’d known she’d be psyched up for the experience. She’d have worked out in advance what all his arguments might be when she broke it to him, and she’d have a suitable reply for each one. But most importantly she’d have her own messy feelings sorted out by that point! Her voice, hoarse and accusing, broke the strained silence that had fallen. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Way to go, Rowena! She could almost smell the rampant curiosity in the quiet room. ‘This is Quinn Tyler, Rowena, our model for the—’ Anna began. Model! Rowena threw the older woman a look of withering disbelief. ‘He is not a model!’ she exclaimed, scurrying forward to gather up Quinn’s discarded shirt and jacket from the floor where he had obviously dropped them. How could he stand there with all those women ogling him? He was nothing but a damned exhibitionist! ‘What is he, then?’ ‘Yes, Rowena, what am I?’ Quinn drawled. Colour flooded Rowena’s face as she met the malicious wide-eyed innocence in his mocking emerald stare. ‘Don’t tempt me!’ she choked, wishing she could wipe that smug grin off his face. ‘Actually, Anna,’ she explained, trying a bit belatedly to re-establish some dignity, ‘Quinn is a doctor.’ ‘He doesn’t look like any doctor I’ve ever seen,’ the older woman responded sceptically. Hands on her bony hips, she allowed her eyes to wander up and down Quinn’s lean frame. Rowena couldn’t argue that point. ‘He scrubs up almost respectable,’ she snarled, experiencing an abrupt dignity meltdown the instant she looked at him again. ‘Why, thank you, Rowena,’ Quinn murmured provokingly. ‘It wasn’t meant to be a compliment. Let’s face it, put Jack the Ripper in Armani and he’d most likely look respectable,’ she announced dismissively—actually Quinn in Armani or anything else was almost impossible to dismiss or ignore! With a forced smile she turned to the other women. ‘We went to university together.’ ‘Oh, an old boyfriend.’ ‘I object to the old,’ Quinn complained with a hurt-little-boy look that had the other women grinning. Nostrils flared, lips pinched tight, Rowena rounded angrily on a startled Sophie. ‘Not an old boyfriend!’ she announced emphatically. She looked to Quinn for support—not surprisingly, none was forthcoming. ‘We were part of a group,’ she began to explain laboriously. ‘A group of like-minded—’ Quinn’s deep velvet drawl cut her off. ‘A group of earnest, élitist snobs who liked to congratulate each other at frequent intervals on how brilliant, how cultured, how much better than everyone else we were. Many’s the time we’d sit there contemplating our glittering futures.’ ‘Quinn!’ Rowena exclaimed, shocked. Quinn met her outraged glare, an amused glint of humour in his eyes—eyes which she knew could unexpectedly change from deep emerald to subtle aquamarine. ‘You trying to tell me I’m wrong?’ Rowena’s face softened. Her lips were halfway to forming a rueful smile before she realised she couldn’t afford to relax around Quinn. ‘No, you’re not wrong,’ she admitted with a sigh. ‘We were unbearably pleased with ourselves.’ Quinn switched his attention to the three other women. ‘In our defence I have to add that we were all very young, and most of us aren’t quite so arrogant nowadays!’ ‘If that’s a dig at me…’ Rowena bristled, growing angrily pink. A disturbing lopsided smile tugged at one corner of Quinn’s mouth as he contemplated her stormy face. ‘It wasn’t.’ Rowena wasn’t willing to be convinced. ‘Talk about a classic case of the pot calling the kettle black,’ she muttered truculently. Her colleagues, who had never heard their leader sound truculent, exchanged glances—and as for pouting…! ‘And I don’t know how you managed to weasel your way up here, but I’ve a good mind to call Security and have you thrown out!’ He had the audacity, not to mention ill judgement, to grin. ‘You think I’m joking, Quinn—just try me.’ ‘No, I don’t think you’re joking—that would require a sense of humour, not to mention an ability to laugh at yourself.’ All those weeks of deprivation she’d put him through—he could have strangled her! His darkened eyes travelled from the smooth curve of her neck to the soft outline of her wide, generous lips—or maybe kissing her would be more appropriate…? The muscles in his throat worked hard as he visualised sliding his tongue between her lush lips—she’d make that hoarse little whimper low in her throat, the one that drove him a little crazy. Rowena’s even white teeth came together with a jaw-aching crack. ‘Shall we leave my inadequacies out of this for the moment?’ Her eyes slid of their own volition to the expanse of silky dark skin and her sensitive stomach muscles tightened. ‘For heaven’s sake, Quinn, cover yourself up!’ she pleaded hoarsely. She wasn’t sure which was the worse, coping with her own weak, lustful reaction to the distracting sight of Quinn’s powerful torso or coping with the knowledge that the other women present were leching over his smooth olive flesh and sculpted muscles too. She didn’t pause to consider the consequences of her impulsive actions—around Quinn that happened to her a lot—the urgent need to shield him from their lascivious eyes was just too strong to resist. Actually the three other women were no longer looking at Quinn at all; they were too fascinated by the sight of their cool, composed editor desperately pressing a crumpled white cotton shirt protectively against the dark, hair-roughened chest of the tall, gorgeous man. ‘I suppose you think this is funny?’ she hissed. The physical contact had been a big mistake! For starters, being this close she couldn’t avoid breathing in the warm, male, distinctly Quinn scent of his body—it had a dizzy, addictive quality. ‘I don’t know how you got here, or why you’re here…’ she huffed, tears of angry frustration springing into her blue eyes as Quinn stood there totally impassive while she attempted to cover him up. She was struggling with all manner of insane urges, most of which involved plastering herself against him. ‘I take that back; you obviously came here to humiliate me!’ she accused wildly. As if I need any help! Quinn responded with a quirk of one dark brow and a cynical twist of his sensual lips. ‘You know exactly why I’m here, Rowena.’ Threat, promise and warning, his deep voice held all three. She stood by helplessly, her insides quivering as he took the shirt from her shaky hands and in a fluid motion pulled it over his head. He slid it into place, tucking it into the narrow waistband of his trousers. What was he trying to do to her? Those leather trousers left nothing whatever to the imagination; they showed off every inch of his long, powerful thighs. Rowena tried to avert her eyes, but the glint of dull silver caught her eye and held it. It was the same silver engraved buckle he’d been wearing that night, the night that she had unclipped it with trembling fingers. He’d taken her hand and pressed it against…don’t go there, Rowena! she warned herself frantically. Too late! Erotic images complete with taste and touch and smell rose up in her head. His smoothly textured olive-toned skin covered in a fine layer of sweat…the raw rasp in his voice that had reduced her to a compliant, quivering heap of neediness…the unbelievable combination of triumph and tenderness on his face as he’d responded to her pleas and thrust powerfully up into her body, filling and stretching every part of her… Hand pressed flat against her heaving bosom, she fought for breath, and a semblance of composure. The stabbing sexual desire that hit her was so tangible it was like walking into a solid wall of heat. She could feel the cold trickle of sweat as it slid damply down her back. Quinn’s slanted eyebrows quirked as he smoothed down the white fabric over his flat, leanly muscled midriff. ‘Happy now?’ The action had mussed up his thick dark hair and without thinking Rowena reached up to smooth down his tousled locks. Her antagonism faded for a moment as her fingertips sank into his hair and brushed against his scalp. She realised the implied intimacy of her thoughtless action at the same moment Quinn’s head jerked back, the violent rejection making her lift her hurt eyes to his. For a split second their glances collided before Quinn’s heavy lids came downwards, veiling his expression. Rowena had seen enough in that moment’s scorching contact to turn her insides hotly molten. Their long-standing relationship had always been the sort where such innocent gestures were not misread. Well, news flash! Things had changed—big time! But when had they started to change…? |
CHAPTER TWO
AS SHE’D gone over the events in her head that had led to their becoming lovers Rowena had tried time after time to work it out, but she hadn’t been able to pinpoint the exact moment that friendship had become something else. It had begun before her short stint at the New York office, which the powers that be had deemed essential for someone about to take over the running of the London end of the operation. Rowena had needed an escort for a big charity bash and Quinn, who had just accepted a senior post at a major teaching hospital in the city, had stepped in at the last minute. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t noticed, but after knowing him for so long Rowena took his spectacular looks for granted. The admiring glances he’d received that night, not to mention the envious comments she’d received from friends and acquaintances, had brought home to her just what a gorgeous creature he was. It had been a good night—no, better than good—Quinn had a way of making his companion feel very special. He was also a great dancer, and an even better conversation-alist—he had a dry wit and a clever tongue that had had her laughing half the night. She’d laughed so much that several acquaintances had commented on the fact, which had made Rowena wonder—for about two seconds—if she didn’t take things a little too seriously as a rule. ‘You were a big hit,’ she told him when he dropped her off at her flat in the early hours. Head against the backrest, she yawned and fished around for the shoes she’d slipped off her aching feet when she’d got into Quinn’s Jaguar. Quinn inclined his dark head. ‘We aim to please.’ ‘So now I know how you manage to captivate all those women.’ Quinn worked hard, but he played hard too. He had a taste for fast cars, motorbikes and beautiful women, but no staying power with the latter as far as Rowena could tell—not that she held this against him. Perhaps like her he was married to his career, or maybe he hadn’t met the right girl yet…The fleeting thought made her feel vaguely dissatisfied. ‘If I didn’t know you so well,’ she teased him, adjusting the strap on her kitten-heeled sling-back, ‘I might even make a pass at you myself.’ For what felt like a long time he looked at her, his expression enigmatic. ‘Is that all that’s stopping you?’ Rowena’s smile didn’t make it past the starting-post—there was no shadow of humour in his face, just a taut, dangerous expression that made the nerve endings deep inside her stomach tortuously flutter with excitement. She couldn’t remember what she’d said to fill the awkward lingering silence that had followed, but she knew his contribution had been nil. He’d just sat there and let her babble like an idiot. One thing she did recall, very well indeed as it happened, was how it had felt when his arm had brushed against her breasts as he’d stretched over to open the car door for her. She had been mortified, not to mention confused, when her nipples had responded instantaneously to the brief contact. She had prayed he hadn’t noticed them thrusting brazenly through the thin fabric of her bodice as she’d slid with a hastily mumbled thank-you from the car. There had been no legitimate reason to refuse the series of invites that had followed—after all they were friends, and there was nothing wrong, she had told herself, with having a meal with a friend, or going to the theatre. As for walking by the river in the rain, what could be a more innocuous way to spend an evening? Quinn’s behaviour had given her no cause for complaint; there had been no repeat of that electric moment in the car. No, he had acted like the perfect gentleman despite the fact that she, for some perverse reason, had gone out of her way to recreate the moment—maybe it had been just to convince herself it had actually happened…? Letting her hand linger longer than strictly necessary on his arm or knee, a lot more eye contact than was normal between them, making sure he’d been able to see her very excellent legs when she’d sat opposite him. Nothing too heavy or obvious; at least that was what she’d thought until one night, sitting in her flat after having been out for dinner, Quinn had bluntly demanded an explanation. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she blustered. ‘I’m not playing at anything.’ He dragged an unsteady hand through his thick hair. ‘Well, whatever that nothing is you’re doing, it’s driving me crazy.’ His green eyes came to rest on her face. ‘You’re driving me crazy.’ ‘I am?’ she exclaimed, unable to hide her pleasure. ‘You’d never have known,’ she added with a condemnatory frown. After a startled moment Quinn began to laugh. It was such a warm, uninhibited sound she couldn’t bring herself to be cross with him. ‘Well, if you must know, I’m quite attracted to you,’ she divulged bluntly. ‘The idea takes some getting used to…’ With a hint of bravado she raised her eyes and saw it was Quinn’s turn to look pleased—and relief rushed through her. It would have been too embarrassing if she’d been reading the wrong messages. ‘I think,’ he replied huskily, ‘that it might be worth the effort.’ Mesmerised by the stark hunger in his darkly lashed eyes, she felt her knees start to tremble. Her heart was battering against her ribcage like a sledgehammer. He would be an excellent kisser—with a mouth like that how could he not be? she reasoned, allowing her gaze to rest dreamily on that stern, sensual outline. The idea of putting her theory to the test had her literally trembling with anticipation. ‘You don’t think it’s too silly an idea, then,’ she gasped, feeling a bit light-headed with relief—well, maybe relief wasn’t solely responsible for that strange but marvellous floaty feeling. Quinn took the wilful curve of her jaw in his hand, his fingers stroking the smooth skin of her throat. The touch was so gentle and his strength was so formidable that Rowena found the contrast deeply exciting. ‘Not silly at all,’ he replied. His deep, husky voice sent tiny shivers up and down her spine. ‘I knew you’d understand—you being not exactly big on the whole commitment thing.’ Rowena was so relieved that she hardly registered the wary expression that flickered into his eyes. ‘I mean, neither of us have the time to lavish on a proper relationship, do we?’ she told him happily. ‘With that whole pet name, flowers, and plans for the future stuff. Most of all the plans for the future,’ she added with a heartfelt shudder. ‘But we all have…needs.’ It was probably ignoring hers that was responsible for her present distracted condition. ‘I think I should be honest with you.’ ‘By all means be honest,’ Quinn responded drily. Rowena nodded, glad they were in accord. Quinn had let go of her chin and she wished he hadn’t. She wondered if it would be quite acceptable for her to take the initiative and touch him…? God, but she wanted to, she thought, her eyes running covetously over his lean frame. ‘Of course I’ve tried sex, but, I’ve got to admit, it wasn’t an unqualified success. To be quite honest,’ she added, the words coming in a rush, ‘I’m terrible at it, but I’m willing to learn.’ She heard the stark sound of his inhalation and wished she’d not been quite so frank, but it was true: sexually she was what was popularly termed frigid. The first time might have been put down to inexperience, but the second time had been a full five years later, and though her lover—an attractive, experienced man she’d liked a lot—had been perfectly polite, she’d been able to tell he’d been in no hurry to repeat the experience, and actually neither had she. Since then she’d been able to channel her energies into her work—until Quinn. ‘Let me get this straight—you want me for sex and nothing else.’ His low, very quiet tone sent a quiver of apprehension up her spine. Anxiously she searched his face but it was impossible to read anything from his enigmatic expression. ‘Well, I wouldn’t put it like that exactly.’ ‘Well, I would!’ he yelled suddenly. ‘I’d put it exactly like that. I’ve heard you called callous, Rowena. I’ve heard you called a cold, calculating bitch.’ Rowena flinched. It was a tired old sexist line that she’d heard many times before and it never failed to make her mad as hell—it hadn’t hurt as it did hearing Quinn say it, though. It was nonsense, of course—a man who shared the qualities that made her good at what she did would have been universally admired for his skill, but not her. No, she was female so that automatically made her as hard as nails. ‘And I’ve always stuck up for you, but I’m beginning to see how much you’ve changed since the old days!’ he blazed. ‘Sex isn’t something you schedule like a finance meeting.’ Rowena listened to his diatribe in stunned silence. ‘I didn’t mean…I had no intention of insulting you, I just wanted to be upfront, Quinn.’ ‘I’m slow,’ he reflected with a bitter smile, ‘but not that slow. I don’t need a diagram to tell me what you want.’ At some level he was aware that he was overreacting—after all, he’d been propositioned before. Quinn’s scornful sneer reawakened her temper. ‘I have to tell you, Quinn, I find all this righteous outrage at being treated like a sex object just a tad hypocritical coming from you of all people. I mean, a man with a track record like yours hardly screams commitment, does he? Or don’t you like it when someone turns the table on you? The way you’re going on anyone would think you wanted a serious relationship or something…’ She saw his face and her eyes widened. ‘Good god!’ she gasped, horrified. ‘You didn’t, did you…?’ She laughed in what was pure nervous disbelief, but he could hardly be expected to know that. ‘I’ve been accused of being shallow in my time…’ His voice had dropped to a soft, menacing whisper, but Rowena was in no mood to be intimidated. ‘I can’t imagine why,’ she muttered belligerently. The glacial flicker of his long-lashed eyes silenced her. ‘But it would seem I’m an amateur compared to you.’ ‘The way I hear it you get by,’ she retorted childishly. ‘Then maybe you hear it wrong,’ he cut back in a chilly voice. ‘I may not be able to match your clinical objectivity, but I’m not totally unrealistic. I accept that some relationships are never going to go anywhere, but they’re fun anyway. I’ve been there and done that, but not as often as you seem to think.’ Rowena hardly noticed this dry postscript; she was too busy dwelling on the lurid images drifting around in her head of Quinn having fun. She actually felt quite unwell—she’d had doubts about that lobster. ‘Part of the excitement of entering a relationship is not knowing where it’s going.’ Diverted by this peculiar viewpoint, Rowena forgot momentarily about the sick churning in her stomach. Personally Rowena always liked to know exactly where she was going. ‘The exploration,’ Quinn expanded forcibly. ‘The wondering whether it might lead somewhere, whether she might be the one.’ Rowena’s jaw dropped—it was something of a revelation to learn that Quinn believed there was such a thing as the one. Let alone discover he was actively looking for her. Boy, had she got Quinn wrong—the man was a romantic! ‘With you there would be no wondering, we’d both know exactly where we were going—nowhere!’ he continued. Rowena’s chin came up. She didn’t much care for that combination of pity and contempt on his face. It was pretty obvious there was no point suggesting they went nowhere together. ‘Let’s call it crossed wires,’ she suggested with an easy-come, easy-go shrug. Rowena had her pride and she didn’t want him to guess how disappointed, mortified and frustrated she was by his rejection. His own shrug was just as untroubled and dismissive. Dragging her thoughts kicking and screaming back to the present, Rowena slid a wary, half-defiant look in the direction of her staff. Their expressions were respectful enough now but Rowena wasn’t fool enough to imagine that this situation would last for two seconds once she was out of the door. She hadn’t gained her hard-nosed, cool-headed reputation by accident and now in two seconds flat she’d blown her cover wide open. ‘Happy? Hardly,’ she snapped venomously, fixing Quinn with a look of loathing. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse us, Quinn was just leaving.’ Clinging to the tattered shreds of her dignity and trying to show she was still in charge, Rowena shoved Quinn’s jacket at him and nodded imperiously in the direction of the door. ‘So soon,’ Quinn bemoaned sarcastically, throwing his jacket casually over his shoulder. ‘We hadn’t even started talking money yet.’ He waved casually to the three watching women as Rowena, seething with exasperation, grabbed him by the arm. ‘That would be right!’ Rowena flared contemptuously—God, why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut? ‘You always did have your eye on the big bucks, Quinn. Why else go in for plastic surgery?’ ‘Perhaps I thought I could make a difference,’ he suggested mildly. Rowena sniffed, unwilling to admit even to herself that her accusation of avarice had been out of line, not to mention totally inaccurate. Quinn was considered a world expert in facial reconstructive surgery and, though he did make big money from the high-profile clients who sought him out, Rowena knew he didn’t restrict his expertise to those who could pay for it. The vast bulk of his workload was, and always had been, within the NHS, even though he could have made much more by working exclusively in the private sector. Not that money mattered to Quinn, coming as he did from a wealthy, privileged background. ‘Three-thirty in my office, Sylvia!’ Rowena called, putting a bold face on her unorthodox departure. The three women exchanged glances as the door closed. ‘I knew I recognised his name…’ Anna cried. ‘He did Lexie Lamont’s new nose, so they say, and I saw him on that telly programme last month—the one about that teenager who got hit in the face by a jet ski.’ Sylvia nodded. ‘I saw it; the girl got all choked up every time she talked about him.’ ‘Small wonder!’ Anna exclaimed. ‘Did you see the before picture? She mashed just about every bone in her face to pulp—all he had to go on when he rebuilt it were pictures.’ ‘There’s no mistake, then, he’s really a doctor. I suppose it’s lucky we didn’t send the others home,’ her assistant reflected. A naughty grin appeared on Sylvia’s pretty face. ‘Is it just me or do you get the impression boss lady isn’t too keen on sharing…?’ The explosive sound of laughter was clearly audible to Rowena as she stalked, head held high, from the crowded ante-room crowded with leather-clad clones. ‘I hope you’re satisfied now!’ she gritted to Quinn. ‘Don’t fret, Rowena, I’m sure your ice-cold bitch image can survive worse than this.’ ‘I hate you!’ If that were true, how it would simplify matters. ‘I can live with that,’ he lied, increasing his pace to keep up with her. ‘It’s being ignored I’m not so comfortable with,’ he concluded grimly. ‘I’ve heard of men who turn to stalking when they get given the push, but I never thought you’d be one of them, Quinn. If only I’d known then what I know now…’ As if it would have made any difference, a self-derisive voice-over in her head insisted on supplementing. ‘I haven’t been given the push.’ Rowena came to an abrupt halt in front of her PA’s desk. Hands planted on her hips, she swung around, causing her silver-blonde hair to bell around her face before settling down into the loosely tendrilled nape-length style she’d recently adopted. ‘Consider yourself pushed, Quinn.’ Quinn smiled. ‘Like hell I will!’ Ignoring her loudly voiced protests, he placed his hand against her chest and thrust her through the open door of her office. ‘Hold all Ms Parrish’s calls,’ he instructed the startled-looking young woman behind the desk. ‘Call Security, Bernice!’ Rebecca yelled shrilly just before Quinn kicked the door closed. ‘I suppose you think this ridiculous caveman act is impressive!’ she jeered, retreating to the other side of her large desk—the symbol of her authority. Unfortunately it didn’t afford her that warm, in-charge feeling it normally did. ‘If you think spending just one night with me entitles you to behave like this you’re sadly mistaken, not to mention living in the wrong century. As for taking off your clothes—I’m not even going to ask!’ she choked, her nose wrinkling in disgust at the thought of Quinn parading half naked in front of the other women. ‘If I hadn’t come in when I did, heaven knows how far you’d have gone!’ ‘And you don’t like that idea?’ Quinn didn’t sound as though her disgust displeased him. It made her feel sick to the stomach. ‘I hate to spoil your pathetic male fantasies of women fighting over you, but I simply don’t like the idea of you wasting my staff’s time. We have deadlines to meet, you know. How would you like it if I smuggled myself into your hospital and tried to pass myself off as a nurse?’ ‘Give me a minute here, I’m just picturing you…Does the uniform have one of those cute frilly caps?’ Rowena didn’t have time to respond to this outrageous piece of sexism before his languid air of mockery vanished, revealing the sort of penetrative expression that made her nostalgic for his irritating mockery of seconds before. ‘What the hell have you been doing to yourself, Rowena?’ He sat down on the edge of her desk and stretched his long legs out in front of him. ‘I had my hair cut.’ ‘That’s not what I mean. You’ve lost weight.’ ‘Thank you.’ Her hips had always been the envy of her more amply endowed friends, but losing almost a stone in weight during the past few weeks meant that the short skirt she was wearing today no longer clung to her hips, but hung loosely. ‘You look terrible.’ In case I hadn’t got the point, she thought caustically. ‘You don’t lose that sort of weight so quickly unless you’re ill or under a lot of pressure,’ he announced authoritatively. Her glance slid evasively from his. Did morning sickness count as being ill? ‘Well, thanks for the medical assessment, Doctor, but I’m neither. It’s just too many late nights, and no time to eat.’ ‘In fact life’s just one long party.’ He didn’t bother hiding his scepticism. ‘Absolutely,’ she maintained defiantly. ‘Which no doubt accounts for you ignoring my e-mails and phone calls—although that isn’t a problem now, is it? Not since you had all your numbers changed and went ex-directory.’ Rowena watched with an irritated frown as he began to mess up the row of pencils laid out symmetrically on her desk. Looking at his long, clever fingers brought a sudden rush of memories, his fingers dark against her pale breasts. His fingers sliding between… Rowena caught her full lower lip between her teeth. She resented the fact he was making her behave guiltily. ‘That was pure coincidence,’ she announced with stilted defiance. He lifted his head, and from beneath the sweep of inky dark lashes looked enquiringly across at her. ‘And is it coincidence that had me made persona non grata at your apartment building?’ Rowena had a firm policy of ignoring things she couldn’t deny and she did so now with a careless toss of her fair head. ‘I’ve only just got back, Quinn. New York was hectic.’ She wished straight off she hadn’t mentioned New York. She thought of New York and, unlike normal people who had spent any time there, she didn’t associate with the vibrant, alive, noisy, scary, exciting place it was. No, Rowena immediately associated it with Quinn, incredible sex and the frightening consequences of the latter… ‘What about the weekend you came home?’ ‘You knew about that?’ Startled, she glanced up to see an expression she couldn’t quite place on his face. ‘Wasn’t I meant to?’ ‘It was no secret.’ Recovering a little composure, Rowena managed to continue in a persuasively reasonable tone. ‘I’ve just started a new job. I’ve hardly had time to make contact with every casual acquaintance I have.’ She gulped, but the sound was drowned out by the sibilant hiss of his indrawn breath. Oh, God, that had come out all wrong and then some…! ‘Casual acquaintance,’ he said very softly and deadly silkily. Then, even softer, ‘Casual acquaintance. Tell me, Rowena, how do you say hello to people you know quite well?’ She closed her eyes as an image appeared in her mind’s eye of herself walking down the crowded New York street three months ago, surrounded by a seething mass of humanity. Maybe it had been the mild culture shock of moving to another city where she knew nobody, or maybe it had been the stress of proving herself, but she had never felt so alone in her life. Then she’d seen him. She hadn’t even needed to get a proper look at that unmistakable profile—his innately elegant, long-legged stride would have been sufficient proof. Two men in the world couldn’t move that way. Without thinking she had barged through the people separating them, breaking every rule of pedestrian etiquette and probably bruising a few shins to get to him. Waving her bag above her head, she’d shrieked his name like a demented banshee until she’d been hoarse. She’d almost been at his shoulder when he’d finally turned around and Rowena, her face flushed, breathing hard, had come to an abrupt halt. Shock of recognition in his eyes had morphed into hot desire. An answering desire had shimmered hot and liquid through her. ‘You’re here,’ she said stupidly. ‘I can’t believe it.’ And then he kissed her. ‘Convinced now?’ he asked, when he lifted his head. Rowena stared dizzily up into his face unable to focus properly—unable to do anything much except stare at him. The native New Yorkers, a tolerant bunch and not easily surprised, had parted around the embracing couple. ‘I always knew you’d be a good kisser, you’ve got such a beautiful mouth.’ Her hands, pressed flat against the hard surface of his chest, felt his responsive rumble of laughter. He continued to display his proficiency at kissing in the taxi, then in the lift going up to his hotel room. The kissing didn’t stop once the door had closed behind them but other things started, things she couldn’t even think about without blushing. Hurtling back into the present, Rowena was still faced with Quinn’s anger at being called a casual acquaintance. ‘You caught me at a weak moment,’ she defended herself. ‘There was no catching involved—the way I recall it you did the running.’ He reached across and touched her chin with his forefinger. ‘And you wonder why I’ve been avoiding you,’ she said, jerking her chin away from his grip. ‘I thought that was all in my mind.’ Quinn spun around on the smooth surface of the desk until his legs were the wrong side of it—her side. ‘I knew it would be like this,’ she muttered, grabbing two handfuls of silvery fair hair and shaking her head from side to side. ‘I thought you understood New York was a mistake, not the start of something.’ Nothing that she had any intention of telling him about just now, anyhow. ‘The only mistake I made was allowing you to persuade me to leave.’ Rowena’s heart dropped as far as her narrow, expensively shod feet. His inflexible tone and grim expression suggested that he was about to compensate for that mistake. She closed her eyes, incredibly frustrated by his unyielding, downright mule-headed attitude. ‘Talking to you is like…like talking to that wall!’ Which, if things went on like this, she’d be doing in next to no time. She could see it now—crazy fashion editor carted away by the men in white coats. How her enemies would love that…another fast-track hot shot hits the dust! ‘You want me,’ he insisted. At least this was one subject he didn’t have any doubts about—he couldn’t be in the same room as her without knowing that Rowena craved his touch just as much as he did hers. This knowledge only increased his frustration. Hell, the sizzling, sexually fuelled static between them was nothing short of a fire hazard! Rowena glared at him for about twenty seconds before her defiance deserted her. ‘That’s as maybe,’ she conceded, concentrating hard on controlling her wildly fluctuating complexion—women in her position did not blush like schoolgirls; neither did they ache inside the way she did. Quinn’s grin had a worryingly predatory look to it. ‘No maybe about it.’ A small shrug of her slender shoulders conceded his cocky claim. ‘You’ve only yourself to blame—laying down rules and conditions,’ she brooded darkly. ‘Whatever happened to spontaneity and free love?’ She quivered, working herself into a resentful lather as she contemplated her bad luck. She’d found the lover of her dreams—a man not noted for his steadfast devotion—and he had to get all moralistic and possessive on her. ‘Free love?’ Quinn mused. ‘I’m trying to see you as a flower child, but it’s not easy,’ he admitted. ‘You’re nothing but a reformed rake!’ The old-fashioned term seemed to suit him oddly well—he definitely had the legs for tight-fitting Regency breeches as well. Quinn’s lips quivered at this hot accusation. ‘Just for the record, in my book spontaneity is good, but you get nothing for free. You’ll have to learn to live with the fact I’m not available on a casual, nocturnal basis only. There are people who provide such services, I believe—for a price!’ Her hand flashed out but Quinn’s reflexes were faster. Rowena found her wrist enclosed in a steely grip. Feet braced on the floor, he drew her in between the confines of his iron-hard muscular thighs as he pulled her hand back down to her side, clicking his tongue in mocking disapproval. ‘I want to be part of your life, Rowena—an integral part.’ Rowena stopped struggling, at least physically. Her inner conflict was less easily subdued! Their eyes meshed and she instantly got herself lost in his sea green gaze. ‘I’ve no interest in the sort of hole-in-the-corner affair you were suggesting in New York.’ ‘Private is not the same as sordid.’ Most men would have been flattered by the sort of civilised arrangement she had offered him—no complications, no emotional dramas. ‘I’m not good at subterfuge.’ Rowena’s bosom swelled with incredulous indignation. ‘There speaks the man who’d just conned his way into this building!’ ‘If you hadn’t been so unreasonable I wouldn’t have needed to resort to less than open tactics.’ ‘Dirty tactics, you mean,’ she retorted, pulling her wrist free from his grip and waving an admonitory finger in front of his nose. ‘We both know that when you want something there’s just about nothing you won’t do!’ she snapped furiously. Quinn gazed levelly back at her, not the least disturbed by her heated indictment. He reached forward and ran a finger slowly down the soft curve of her cheek, his piercing eyes darkening as she flinched back as if burnt. ‘And at the moment I want you…’ Her angry flush faded with dramatic abruptness leaving Rowena marble pale. Her breath emerged as a shaky tremulous gasp. Where was the scornful put-down when she needed one? ‘Is that meant to be some sort of turn-on? Well, I’ve got news for you…’ It worked extremely well. ‘Your problem is you like everyone to know about your trophy girlfriends,’ she jeered hoarsely. ‘It makes you feel the big man to see yourself plastered all over the gossip columns.’ ‘I think that’s slight exaggeration, Rowena, I barely rate a couple of lines in Country Life.’ ‘Your false modesty makes me sick.’ ‘You’ll get used to the idea, you know,’ he promised. ‘What idea?’ ‘The idea of being part of a couple.’ ‘And if I don’t?’ ‘You don’t have any choice, angel.’ ‘How do you figure that one?’ ‘You need me.’ Rowena gasped. His arrogance was simply unbelievable! ‘Have you always been delusional?’ His expression abruptly softened as he assimilated the torment in her wide-spaced eyes. ‘You need me, about as much as I need you. See, I can do it, and I’ve had as little practice at it as you have. It hardly hurts at all to admit it. I’m going to teach you to say it,’ he promised. Eyes wide with horror and lips clamped defiantly shut, she shook her head vigorously from side to side. ‘We’ll see, shall we?’ There was no challenge in his statement, just total, complete conviction—whether this conviction stemmed from a misplaced notion that she was female and therefore weak and malleable, or a belief in his own ability to bend anything or anyone to his will, Rowena didn’t know. She did know a challenge would have been much easier to deal with. Rowena wanted to put him right, but she felt strangely disinclined to do anything, move, speak, breathe even—perhaps it had something to do with the almost narcotic quality of the combination of his level, deep voice and the sexily slumbrous gleam in his eyes. ‘I did knock, Rowena…’ Her PA’s tentative voice made Rowena start. ‘Yes, Bernice?’ she responded, putting as much clear space rapidly between herself and Quinn as was possible. Her mind wasn’t functioning with its usual clarity, but at least she wasn’t staring up at him like a hypnotised rabbit screaming ‘eat me’ any longer. This was one of the reasons she hadn’t wanted to see him. He walked in a room and her wits flew out the nearest window, which made no sense! Rowena had experienced sexual attraction before and stayed firmly in charge of her feelings at every level—the person involved only knew about it if she wanted him to. With Quinn she didn’t have that luxury, she was clumsy, inarticulate and painfully needy. ‘There’s a call from your sister and she says it’s urgent…’ Rowena frowned. Holly had taken her new fiancé up to Scotland to show him off to their elderly grandparents who lived in a remote part of the country called Wester Ross. ‘Fine, I’ll take it, Bernice,’ Rowena replied to her normally discreet assistant who was shooting surreptitious looks in Quinn’s direction. The young woman withdrew, blushing, when Quinn smiled at her. ‘Holly, it’s me…do you mind? This is private!’ she hissed, covering the mouthpiece and glaring across at Quinn. ‘Say hello to Holly for me,’ he requested, unperturbed by her hostility as he strolled to the far end of the room and began to read the titles on the spines of the files that filled the shelves there. ‘What? Yes, it is Quinn. No…yes, he is here. It doesn’t matter, I’ll explain later. What’s wro—?’ Rowena grew silent as her sister broke into impetuous speech the other end of the line. Rowena had her back turned to him, but Quinn could almost feel her distress as the slim, supple line of her back grew tense. Her next faltering exclamation confirmed his suspicions—Holly didn’t have good news. ‘Oh, God, no!’ Rowena raised her hand to her mouth, compressing the quivering line of her lips—not Gran! The image of Elspeth Frazer floated before her eyes. Five feet nothing with rosy cheeks, startling blue eyes and snow-white hair, she could have come straight from the glossy illustrations in a book of fairy tales. The illusion of a cosy grandmother was shattered the instant Elspeth opened her mouth. The octogenarian had never suffered fools gladly and, not only did she have a bawdy sense of humour, she possessed a will of iron. Elspeth had been a consultant paediatrician in the early fifties, when women consultants had been very few and far between. Rowena had left Holly to follow in Gran’s footsteps and become a doctor, but nonetheless Elspeth Frazer had been her own inspiration, the person she thought of when the going got tough. Rowena could never understand how a woman like her grandmother, who had fought so hard to get where she wanted, had turned her back on everything and buried herself in general practice in the back of beyond. She’d eventually asked. ‘Why, I saw your grandfather, my dear, and I loved him.’ Perplexed, a much younger Rowena had asked, ‘Well couldn’t he have come to live in the City?’ ‘He could, but he’d have been unhappy.’ ‘Well, I’d never do that for a man!’ ‘We’ll see…’ Rowena heard the familiar soft accent in her head and her eyes filled with tears. She blinked back the moisture and forced herself to ask the thing she didn’t want to. ‘Is she…? Do they think…? Don’t cry, Holly, and don’t get too technical,’ she pleaded as her doctor sister began to go into details about the suspected stroke that their grandmother had suffered that morning. She wasn’t aware that Quinn was beside her until she felt the warm imprint of his hand on her shoulder. No matter what the state of their personal relationship, she wasn’t about to reject his support. Rowena was proud, but not stupid—Quinn was the sort of man whom people automatically turned to in a crisis. She made no objection as he slid a chair under her shaky legs and urged her gently down into it. She held the receiver a little way from her ear. ‘She’s crying again.’ She gulped, raising tear-filled eyes to his face. ‘Holly never cries,’ she added, her own lower lip quivering madly. ‘Let me have it.’ Rowena relinquished the phone without a second thought. For once she didn’t resent Quinn’s air of calm authority. ‘Hello, Holly, sweetheart, it’s Quinn,’ she heard him say warmly to her sister. ‘Yes, I know, but…is Niall there? Good, put him on. Hi, Niall, it’s Quinn.’ Rowena, her head in her hands, could hear the male rumble as Holly’s fiancé responded at length. Quinn didn’t interrupt him. ‘Yes, I get the picture. It’ll be quicker if we fly up. Can you organise some transport from Inverness? Right, I’ll ring when I’ve got more details.’ CHAPTER THREE ROWENA woke up, and for several horrid moments experienced total amnesia. It didn’t last long, but realising where she was, with whom and, worst of all, why was no less horrid than the original empty void. She stretched sleepily in the confined space. There was a dull ache behind her eyes and her stiff limbs felt as though she hadn’t moved in an age. A glance at her watch revealed this wasn’t far off the truth; they couldn’t be far off Inverness. ‘You’re awake.’ The soft drawl somewhere east of her right ear was extremely welcome, not that she had any intention of allowing her travelling companion to see just how welcome. ‘Very obviously.’ Rowena raised a hand to cover her yawn as she adjusted her seat from its reclining position. Someone, she noticed, had placed a blanket over her while she’d slept. Had it been Quinn? The thought made her throat feel achey and tight. God, this has to stop, she rebuked herself sharply. Carry on broadcasting emotional and vulnerable signals like these and they’ll pick them up in the Shetlands, girl! ‘How are you feeling?’ With raised brows Quinn took in her aggressive frown. ‘Other than grouchy.’ ‘I’m not grouchy.’ Was she particularly shallow? Or was it normal to fret stupidly about trivial matters like the fact your hair was sticking up and your eyeshadow had probably run when you were on a mission that should, and did, take precedence over everything else? How was there room in her head, given her anxiety levels over Gran, to take on board the fact that Quinn looked overpoweringly virile and as vital and energetic as she felt jaded and weary? ‘And I feel perfectly fine.’ It occurred to her that she ought to be displaying more gratitude than she was, considering what he had done for her. ‘Thank you,’ she added awkwardly. There was no polite way of putting it—she had fallen apart! It was still kind of shocking to accept that this had happened—maybe if Quinn hadn’t been there she would have pulled herself together and done what needed to be done…. Perhaps it was the security of having someone she trusted to take care of her and the situation that had enabled her to temporarily relinquish her iron control. Her blue eyes fluttered wide with amazement; she did trust Quinn—utterly! When, she wondered, had that happened? Aware of his questioning regard, she lowered her eyes abruptly and began to fold the discarded blanket, her slim fingers trembling slightly as she fussed, lining the corners up with meticulous precision. It was herself she didn’t trust! If she allowed sexual attraction to dictate her actions, Rowena knew she wouldn’t be doing either of them any favours. Quinn deserved a woman who could give him the things he probably didn’t even know he wanted yet. Things like a home—not just four walls and a roof, but a real home. There would be babies, of course—babies! Talk about catch-22, she thought, resisting the impulse to place her hands protectively over her belly. Is this really me feeling wistful over a dewy-eyed version of domestic bliss…? She shook her head—this had to stop before she started listening to that voice in her head that kept saying a child needed two parents. You couldn’t make a decision on the basis of physical attraction. If she did that she might even, in a moment of weakness and self-delusion, convince herself she could provide what Quinn wanted. The result would be disaster—she’d end up resenting him from stopping her doing what she wanted to do in her career, and in turn he’d resent her because she wouldn’t be able to put him first. Quinn was a man who needed to be put first. ‘I didn’t mean to fall asleep.’ His eyes skimmed her delicately flushed face. ‘No problem,’ he responded easily. ‘I’m not used to drinking brandy in the middle of the day.’ Actually she wasn’t used to drinking it at any time, which was why the tiny amount she’d had had gone straight to her head. The stuff Quinn had discovered in her kitchen cupboard had been for culinary purposes only up to that afternoon. ‘I’d say you’re not used to drinking much any time,’ Quinn mused with his usual perception. ‘But you make a fairly amiable drunk.’ Maybe she was being paranoid, but it seemed to Rowena that his expression hinted at some private joke. She just hoped she hadn’t said or done anything too awful or disastrously revealing when she was being amiable. ‘I’m sorry about the fuss with Security…’ Fuss was a pretty mild way of putting it. It was ironic, really—normally she would have applauded their stubborn attempts to detach her from Quinn. It had actually taken Rowena some time to convince the suspicious employees anxious to do their duty that a kidnap was not in progress. She closed her eyes, mortified to even think about that terrible scene when they’d attempted to leave the magazine offices. Give it twenty-four hours and the already juicy tale would have been embellished beyond recognition. ‘Bernice is a bit overprotective.’ ‘So I gathered,’ Quinn responded drily. ‘You did have…’ Rowena felt her colour rise but doggedly she continued ‘…your arm around me.’ She saw no reason to remind him or herself how hard she had been clinging to it! ‘Kidnapping seems a pretty drastic leap to make.’ ‘Well, she did see us arguing,’ she reminded him in Bernice’s defence. ‘And I’m not normally the sort of person who goes around leaning on…anyone.’ ‘I’m touched you made an exception in my case.’ Rowena hardly noticed his wry interjection. ‘I can’t believe I just walked out like that.’ ‘You were in shock.’ Rowena’s expression made it clear that shock was a poor excuse in her eyes for deserting her post. ‘What will people think?’ ‘Do you care?’ ‘Of course I care, this is my professional reputation we’re talking about.’ Somehow she doubted if Quinn would be quite so laid back if it were his job they were discussing. ‘And in my business,’ she told him grimly, ‘there’s always someone willing to stab you in the back.’ ‘Perhaps we should ask them to turn the plane around.’ ‘Don’t patronise me, Quinn!’ she flared. ‘I want to go to see Gran, of course I do. I just wish I’d been thinking straight. I should at least have had the common courtesy to explain to Bernice, she would have cancelled my appointments…’ She frowned, trying to recall her busy schedule for the next few days. ‘Well, it’s not too late, is it?’ he pointed out practically. ‘And if you’re fretting about working I did pack your laptop.’ Rowena could have done without this reminder that, not only had Quinn arranged a private flight, treating the whole procedure as though it were no different from hiring a car, when he’d discovered that there were no seats available on the scheduled departures, but he had also packed her clothes too. Anaesthetised by the small glass of brandy he had forced between her bloodless lips, she had watched him from her cross-legged position on her bed, occasionally shouting instructions in what she seemed to recall had been a loud and stroppy tone. ‘Not those pants, decorative but far too uncomfortable!’ she’d explained as he’d pulled out a racy-looking thong from her knicker drawer to add to the clothes crammed in her case. The memory made her groan and clutch her head. ‘Could you do with a coffee?’ her attentive escort asked. Escort…hell! Quinn on escort duty meant hours and hours of contact, and far too much opportunity for her to let things slip…It was nothing short of miraculous that she hadn’t so far! The last shreds of muddled sleepiness left her as, galvanised into action, she shot upright, and, discovering there was nowhere much to go, sat down again with a bump. ‘You can’t come to Scotland!’ she exclaimed in an anguished tone. She really must have been out of it earlier to have let him get on the plane with her! ‘Short of parachuting I’ve not much option at this point.’ ‘Obviously you’ll be flying straight back.’ Quinn looked down into her worried face and smiled—but it wasn’t a comforting sort of smile. ‘I promised Niall—’ Rowena’s expression hardened. What was this, some male conspiracy. ‘Niall had no right to ask you anything. I don’t need a minder!’ A lick of flame appeared in his eyes as they stilled on her angry face. ‘No, you need a lover of the live-in variety!’ Then he smiled benignly and patted her on the back as she began to choke. ‘I promised Niall that I’d see you safely to the hospital,’ he intoned virtuously. ‘Like you never break a promise,’ Rowena snarled, placing the glass of water she’d taken several panicky gulps from down again. His steady green gaze captured and held her furtive, darting glance. ‘Actually, no, I don’t.’ A slow, steady pulse of heat throbbed through Rowena, infiltrating every individual cell. She could hear the rasp of his voice in her head. ‘You’ll like this, I promise.’ He’d said it more than once before he’d introduced her to a new sensual experience that had reduced her to incoherent, babbling worship. He’d not broken his promise or exaggerated a claim once that night. ‘Some escort you’d be,’ she croaked, trying to fight her way through the sexual thrall. She was pretty sure that it had her staring at him like some sex-starved bimbo. ‘You don’t even know where Gran and Grandpa live.’ ‘Actually I do, but I’m having a job getting my tongue around the Gaelic pronunciation. A musical language, but not exactly phonetic.’ The way she recalled it, his tongue could be pretty amazingly dextrous! Rowena, her expression fixed and horrified, barely stifled a groan at this fresh evidence of her moral disintegration. ‘And it wouldn’t really matter if my geographical knowledge of the Highlands was nil, would it? Because we’re not heading for your grandparents’ home.’ Rowena thought it wise to establish pretty quickly, for her own benefit as much as Quinn’s, that there was no we. ‘Precisely. Even I am capable of getting from the airport to the hospital.’ ‘You might well be right, but unfortunately it’s not going to be that easy…’ Rowena’s expression grew warily suspicious. ‘The plane’s been diverted to Glasgow. Inverness is closed due to bad weather.’ ‘Weather!’ She squinted through the window into the darkness. ‘What weather?’ ‘It’s snowing.’ ‘They can’t close a whole airport just because of a bit of snow.’ Rowena’s scornful smile wobbled as panic flared hotly through her. Not only did this mean it would take even longer to reach Gran, but she would be lumbered with Quinn all the way. Being in the confines of a plane cabin with him was bad enough, but a car was way too intimate! ‘I suspect it might be more than a bit, Rowena.’ She rubbed her clenched knuckles across her chin and let her head fall back. ‘This is all I need!’ she groaned. The lush sweep of Quinn’s long eyelashes concealed his expression as his eyes moved over the exposed pale length of her slender throat. ‘I’ll get you there, Rowena.’ Quinn, who had always considered himself a reasonably law-abiding, honest type of man was vaguely shocked to recognise just how far he’d be prepared to go to fulfil this promise. For Rowena he wouldn’t just bend the rules—he’d break them without a second thought. Rowena’s head snapped up. ‘Why bother? This is all working out just how you wanted, isn’t it?’ she flung recklessly at him. Annoyance scored Quinn’s high cheekbones with dark colour as his deep-set eyes found hers. ‘Right now you need to reach your seriously ill grandmother. Do you honestly think I’d welcome seeing that moment delayed when I know how important it is to you?’ His lips thinned in fastidious disgust. ‘What sort of opportunist loser do you take me for, Rowena…?’ Rowena squirmed beneath his penetrating icy glare. ‘Hell,’ she reflected with a shudder, ‘I wouldn’t like to be a medical student you take a dislike to…not that you would take a dislike to anyone, because I’m sure you’re totally objective and impartial and you wouldn’t even dream of abusing your power in such a petty way.’ Studying his face, she couldn’t decide if the faint quiver she saw around his lips was wishful thinking. ‘In case you’re wondering, this is my way of saying sorry…’ When he stared back at her, stony-faced, Rowena gave a grunt of exasperation. ‘For heaven’s sake, I think you can afford to be big about this! Cut me a bit of slack, Quinn. I don’t know what I’m saying right now, I’m so emotionally whacked!’ she admitted wearily. It would have taken a man with a lot more objectivity than Quinn to remain unmoved by the appeal in those deep blue eyes. ‘Consider the slack cut.’ Rowena heaved a relieved sigh, grateful to see Quinn had finally come down off his high horse. ‘Can’t you do something?’ she asked wistfully. ‘Your faith in my ability is moving, but I have to admit I think you’re overestimating my influence in the weather department.’ He regretted his levity as Rowena, her lips trembling, buried her face in her hands. ‘This is terrible,’ she sobbed. ‘What if I’m too late? What if she is…?’ She stopped, unable to say it, unable to think it! ‘Don’t worry,’ he soothed, stroking her glossy hair. ‘I’ll get you up to Inverness somehow.’ His offer had the opposite effect to that he’d been striving for. Rowena, her body rigid, shot bolt upright. Her brimming eyes were awash with agitated anguish. ‘You can’t…you…you can’t come.’ ‘Why?’ ‘You don’t even have any suitable clothes,’ she added in the manner of someone desperate to produce a winning argument—the desperation wasn’t feigned. Her glance automatically dropped. Quinn had removed his jacket during the flight, and she could see the muscle definition of his chest and even get a hint of the dark body hair through the thin cotton of his white T-shirt. The prickle just beneath her skin reached the surface, she felt the heat bloom in her cheeks and squirmed restlessly in her seat. When she managed to wrench her gaze back up—there was some time lapse here—Quinn was watching her with a pleased, knowing expression on his dark, sexy features that only served to increase the hot flow of blood to her cheeks. ‘I picked up some things at the airport.’ ‘You can’t have, you didn’t leave me.’ ‘I didn’t need to—I used the services of a very nice airport employee whose sole aim in life is to spend people’s money. I gave the person my size and my requirements and they did the rest.’ Rowena knew instinctively that this person had been female and attractive. ‘I suppose she took your inside leg measurements too,’ she heard herself bitch waspishly. No wonder he looked complacent. Could I sound any more jealous if I tried? she anguished. ‘Silk shirts, ties and socks won’t be much good. This isn’t some soft, safe southern village we’re heading for, this is the north of Scotland in the winter,’ she told him scornfully. ‘And I can get to Inverness myself, thank you very much.’ ‘You think you’re more suited to driving in the north of Scotland than I am? As a matter of interest, when was the last time you drove a car, Rowena?’ ‘I find public transport convenient. I do!’ she added defiantly as he gave a sceptical snort. Not getting your licence until the fourth attempt was not that unusual. What was unusual was Rowena not succeeding at something she set her mind to with her usual effortless ease. ‘Besides, there’s enough pollution,’ she added loftily. ‘I’m doing my bit for the environment.’ ‘Very public spirited of you.’ ‘All right,’ she conceded crossly. ‘I may not like driving, but I’m a very good driver. I’m just careful, is all…’ ‘I’m not contesting it,’ he soothed silkily. ‘It’s purely a personal foible of mine, but I get jumpy when the driver of a car I’m a passenger in closes her eyes when manoeuvring past a large lorry.’ ‘It was a very narrow bridge.’ And a very big lorry. ‘I’ve seen you drive around a car park for half an hour rather than reverse into a parking space.’ ‘Are you eventually going to make a point?’ One dark brow lifted sardonically. ‘I thought I already had.’ Rowena gritted her teeth; she hated his maddening calm. ‘It’s preposterous. I mean, obviously you can’t walk out on your life just because…’ ‘You need me?’ He slid a hand behind his head, mussing up his rich dark hair as he settled comfortably back in his seat. ‘Actually, nothing could be easier,’ he announced carelessly. There was nothing careless or soothing about the burning expression in the green eyes that welded with hers. Rowena clutched nervously at her tight throat as her thundering heart tried to fight its way out of her chest. She cleared her throat; anyone would think she was the sort of woman that got all turned on by all that predatory, possessive macho nonsense! ‘Well, I don’t want you,’ she announced tautly. The last thing she needed was to be even further in his debt. No, relying on Quinn would be a fatal mistake. Quinn appeared to take her rejection in his stride. ‘Your problem is you don’t know what’s good for you.’ Was he suggesting that he’d be good for her…? This wasn’t a proposition Rowena felt up to challenging. ‘Gran always said that to me too. Like you, she’s big on clichés, but only when she says them…’ For a moment fear, dark and cold, blanked out every other consideration. ‘Do you think…?’ she whispered, her eyes darkening with dread. Quinn, his expression compassionate, took hold of her hands now tortuously twisted in her lap and chafed the chilly extremities between his. ‘Cold hands, warm heart?’ he suggested. ‘The exception that proves the rule, that’s me,’ Rowena responded, unable to stop her teeth from chattering. ‘You asked me what I think. For what it’s worth, I think it’s useless to speculate on your grandmother’s condition at this point. She’s in the best possible place and she’s being cared for by the best possible people.’ Rowena nodded; what he said made perfect sense. ‘You’re right,’ she conceded. ‘It’s just hard…’ she broke off as the emotional lump in her throat became unmanageable. ‘You’re really fond of your grandparents, aren’t you?’ The note of surprise in his voice brought an angry sparkle to Rowena’s eyes. Aren’t pushy, upwardly mobile bitches allowed to care for their families? she wanted to yell. She snatched her hands from his and pushed her hair back behind her ears. ‘Why should that surprise you?’ ‘It doesn’t surprise me, Rowena, though I can think of several people it might surprise. You play your glacial ice-maiden part extremely well.’ Rowena opened her mouth to contest this description then, realising he had a point, shrugged in tired resignation. ‘Tell me about them,’ he urged unexpectedly. ‘Gran and Grandpa?’ Her neatly shaped brows drew together in straight line. ‘Why?’ ‘Do you always suspect people’s motives?’ he responded, a hint of exasperation in his tone. ‘I’ve no sinister hidden agenda, Rowena. You need to talk, and I…I want to listen.’ ‘Grandpa owned a trawler before he retired.’ ‘Fishing is a high-risk profession.’ ‘And not a very lucrative one these days. Grandpa’s old boat has been tarted up to take tourists on trips around the Summer Isles these days. Grandpa doesn’t say so but I think he finds that quite sad. Mind you, he doesn’t say much full stop, but he’s always been there for me,’ she added swiftly, just in case Quinn was mistakenly associating strong and silent with strong and unfeeling. ‘He’s unfailingly supportive…never judgemental. A quiet gentle giant.’ Her eyes misted with affection. ‘And your grandmother…?’ Quinn prompted gently. ‘Oh, she’s not quiet, in fact she’s the total opposite to Grandpa, but somehow they are right together, if you know what I mean…?’ She was so involved in her own private reflections that she didn’t see Quinn nod. ‘I just can’t imagine them apart. Gran always encouraged Holly and I to…’ She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. ‘Sorry.’ Quinn pressed a tissue into her hand. ‘They sound great; I’d love to meet them.’ ‘Oh, they’d like you,’ she said, enthusiastically, without thinking. Her jaw dropped in almost comical dismay as their eyes met. ‘That is…’ she laughed awkwardly as she lowered her gaze hastily from his ‘…what’s not to like? You’re an adorable sort of guy,’ she joked shakily. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.’ If she wasn’t careful he might realise how successful he’d been! ‘I don’t usually cry so much…’ ‘Your “don’t get mad, get even” policy doesn’t really cover this situation, does it, angel?’ Choked up, Rowena shook her head. ‘Not really. Oh, God!’ She groaned. ‘I should be there. When I think of Gran all alone…’ ‘She’s hardly alone, is she?’ ‘No, that’s true. Mum and Dad are there, that’s a good thing. Isn’t it?’ ‘Of course it is, and Holly and Niall are there too—quite the family gathering.’ Rowena sensed his unspoken question. ‘I was invited. It’s Grandpa’s birthday tomorrow and Holly wanted to show Niall off. I couldn’t justify taking a break…’ If Quinn detected the guilt in her voice he didn’t comment on it. ‘I was surprised to find out about Holly and Niall…’ Quinn’s light comment invited a response, which Rowena didn’t give. If he had been surprised, she’d been shocked rigid by the news that Holly was to marry someone she had always considered one of her own best friends. It wasn’t as if she grudged her baby sister her happiness, or that she felt she had any particular claims on Niall who, like Quinn, had been her friend since university days—she had been there for him after his first marriage had broken up. It just took some major readjusting, that was all. Quinn’s watchful eyes remained on her downcast features. ‘It was all a bit quick, wasn’t it?’ He thought he managed to hide his suspicions pretty well under the circumstances—the circumstances being he was highly suspicious of Rowena’s relationship with Niall. ‘They seem very happy,’ Rowena eventually responded carefully. The lines bracketing Quinn’s strong mouth deepened as his lips tightened. ‘And if you had any doubts, you wouldn’t say so. Being that sour grapes sound so…well, sour.’ Rowena was bewildered by the abrupt change of mood she sensed in him. ‘Meaning what, exactly?’ she gritted dangerously. ‘I always had the impression that you considered you had first refusal on Niall,’ he drawled. Rowena took a deep, wrathful breath. The problem was, there was a grain of truth in his abominable charge—not that she had ever had a romantic relationship with Niall, nor for that matter had she ever wanted one, but they had been close. Closer probably in their post-student days than she and Quinn had been. Possibly, Rowena mused, considering the matter in a new light, because there never had been any of the unacknowledged physical attraction between her and Niall that there was between her and Quinn. It was nice to go places with a very attractive man and not have to worry that he’d expect anything at the end of the evening other than stimulating conversation and good coffee. ‘Niall is everything you are not,’ she announced scornfully. Though experienced in relationships with the opposite sex, Quinn was not experienced in jealousy. It was like an open wound, which he couldn’t help poking even though it hurt. ‘And what am I, Rowena? Other than not being fit to lick Niall’s boots, that is. Is it Niall’s title you begrudge Holly?’ ‘Are you trying to insult me?’ ‘Did you fancy yourself as part of the landed gentry? Well, marrying Niall would certainly give you that,’ he admitted, reviewing their mutual friend’s blue-blooded background. ‘I never wanted to marry Niall.’ ‘Did he ask?’ Rowena flushed angrily. ‘I see he didn’t.’ ‘He didn’t ask me to marry him, the same way he never took advantage of our friendship and made a pass at me! Unlike some people I could mention!’ ‘Am I being unduly sensitive or was that little jibe aimed at me? If so, I feel obliged to say in my defence that the way I recall it, sweetheart, you were pretty anxious to be taken advantage of,’ he reminded her with unforgivable accuracy. ‘Just for the record, I do not begrudge Holly anything!’ Rowena snapped, finding it hard not to lose her rag totally in the face of extreme provocation. ‘Sure you don’t.’ ‘I don’t!’ she bellowed back, unable to take his tolerant contempt any longer. ‘And as for what you are, that’s simple, Quinn. You are the most arrogant, infuriating, manipulative male I’ve ever met—and in case you have any doubts, that wasn’t a compliment!’ she finished, lifting a hand to her hot, sticky brow. ‘I’m stuck with you as far as Glasgow,’ she stormed, ‘but after that I’m going on alone.’ Quinn, unfazed by her animosity, just smiled in that laconic, laid-back, wildly attractive way of his and announced his intention of snatching a few minutes’ sleep. He seemed to drift into a deep, untroubled slumber about two seconds after his eyes closed and, much to her chagrin, stayed that way until the attractive flight attendant woke him to fasten his seat belt. Their plane was about the last one to land—quite bumpily, as it happened, as the nail marks gouged in Quinn’s hand from where Rowena had gripped it could testify—before the airport ground to a total standstill. The blizzards that had cut off the far north had, it seemed, reached Glasgow. ‘I don’t know why you’re following me,’ Rowena remarked icily to the tall figure at her shoulder. ‘I’m only here as an interested bystander, but should you require my services…’ ‘I won’t.’ ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, miss,’ the harassed-looking individual behind the car-hire counter apologised. ‘We don’t have a four-wheel drive left…’ Rowena tapped her beautifully manicured nails on the desk. ‘Then what do you have?’ she enquired with barely disguised impatience. The young man told her. ‘That’ll do.’ ‘It’s snowing…’ ‘I had noticed.’ The recipient of her abrasive sarcasm flushed and, feeling guilty, Rowena smiled tightly to take the sting out of her words. The smile only further flustered the young man who shot the intimidatingly beautiful blonde’s companion a look of appeal, but the tall man shrugged and remained silent. ‘Well, actually, the police are advising people who don’t have to make a journey to stay at home…most people are…’ ‘I’m not most people, and I do have to make a journey,’ Rowena responded, disguising her increasing sense of urgency behind a cold façade. ‘Well, perhaps you could wait until morning?’ One look from those icy eyes silenced the young man. Clearly unhappy, he dropped the keys into her outstretched palm. ‘How far are you planning to go?’ ‘Inverness.’ His eyes widened. ‘You’re joking—right!’ ‘If you knew the lady better, you wouldn’t bother asking that.’ Rowena spun around. This wasn’t the first time today Quinn had insinuated she had no sense of humour. She had a great sense of humour! ‘Nobody asked you, Quinn Tyler!’ Quinn regarded her angry face impassively. ‘I can take a hint.’ Rowena laughed bitterly. ‘Since when?’ ‘Just remember, keep in the highest gear possible when driving on snow and don’t brake in a skid, steer into it,’ he advised her gravely. ‘I knew that!’ she called after him. Rowena watched the tall retreating figure and experienced none of the deep sense of relief she should have; she only felt a nasty sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her chin up, she took a deep sustaining breath. She was alone and she would cope, she told herself sternly, just as she always had. This sense of stubborn optimism lasted until she passed the seventh abandoned vehicle slewed horribly across the road. It was while her attention was distracted by the desolate image that her own car hit a patch of black ice and began to move in the wrong direction. Panic took over—she had no control whatsoever. Quinn held his breath as the silver Saab ahead went into a dramatic skid—the whole scene was picked up in stomach-churning detail by the light of the taxi’s headlights. He began to breathe again as it came to an abrupt halt on what had once been a grassy verge. ‘How much do I owe you?’ he asked the taxi driver who had been following Rowena’s car at a discreet distance. The driver named a hair-raising sum. Quinn, who had agreed to paying quadruple the going rate to persuade the reluctant driver to venture out, didn’t blink as he handed over the exorbitant sum. ‘I told you not to brake,’ he shouted above the howl of the wind as he ducked his head inside the car. Rowena’s first thought was for the baby. Fortunately the only part of her that had suffered from the abrupt stop was her forehead, which had glanced against the windscreen. With a relieved sigh, she pushed back her hair from her face and lifted her head off the steering wheel as a blast of cold air and a flurry of snow hit her. The dazed expression in her eyes wasn’t entirely due to impact; the brush with danger had released a flood of protective maternal instincts as powerful as they were unanticipated. The baby’s all right, the baby’s all right. Like a record stuck in the groove, the relieved litany kept going around and around in her head. Blinking, she stared up in disbelief at the tall dynamic figure who had wrenched open the car door. She shivered; the nervous sweat that bathed her body was swiftly growing clammily cold in the icy temperature. What she wanted to say was, I’m glad to see you! Our baby’s all right. What she actually said, in a crossly accusing tone, was, ‘How did you get here?’ Quinn flung his bag in the back seat. ‘Never mind that, slide over,’ came the terse instruction. Normally Rowena would have objected in the strongest possible terms to being addressed so peremptorily, only right now she was too stressed out by the nightmare few miles she’d driven to think coherently. Conscious only of a deep sense of relief, she meekly did as Quinn instructed. The noise level of the growling wind was deadened to a dull roar as he closed the door behind him. ‘You’re bleeding,’ he remarked quietly. ‘Am I?’ Quinn’s dark skin tones looked peculiarly pale in the subdued light inside the car. Still dazed, Rowena winced slightly as his long, square-tipped fingers gently probed the bruised area on her temple. She remained passive during the examination, but her near-death experience didn’t stop her stomach muscles clenching painfully as the enclosed space started to fill up with a warm male, uniquely Quinn fragrance. She lowered her eyes self-consciously and watched the snow melt on the shoulders of his jacket—Quinn had the sort of shoulders that filled out jackets extremely well. ‘It’s only superficial,’ he announced clinically. ‘I think I must have hit my head on the windscreen.’ A muscle in his lean cheek did some unauthorised jumping. ‘You could have killed yourself!’ No clinical objectivity this time! Rowena recoiled from the white-hot blaze of outrage in his eyes. ‘Well, I didn’t,’ she pointed out mildly. ‘So there’s no point stressing out over what might have happened.’ Their eyes meshed and an explosive sound of frustration escaped from between Quinn’s clenched teeth. ‘You are totally unbelievable. You’re not going to admit you were wrong, are you?’ ‘It’s not something I’m good at, but then neither are you,’ she felt impelled to add. Quinn grunted. ‘I’m driving you to the nearest hotel.’ He lifted his cell phone from his pocket and began to punch in a number. ‘I’ll let Niall know what’s happening. Hell!’ He glared at the inanimate object in his hand. ‘There’s no reception.’ ‘Just as well, because I’m not stopping at a hotel. I’m going to Inverness.’ Quinn regarded her set stubborn expression with an expression of frustrated incredulity. ‘I can’t decide if you’re just stubborn or plain stupid.’ ‘There’s no need to get offensive.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re not going to do your grandmother or anyone else any good if you manage to get yourself killed, woman. You do realise that, I suppose?’ Rowena did, but the compulsion to reach her grandmother was so strong that it pushed every other consideration to the back of her mind. It was partly a guilt thing, of course, some objective corner of her mind admitted freely. Her grandfather’s birthday wasn’t the first family occasion she’d missed. If it was too late to make up for all the times she hadn’t made this journey—the times when she’d put her career ahead of family commitment—Rowena knew she’d never be able to live with herself. Please let me have a second chance, she begged silently. Rowena was all too aware that second chances came along rarely. ‘If you’re too scared to drive me I’ll drop you off at the next service station,’ she declared. Quinn searched her pale face and saw not an inch of give in her zealot-like determination. He shrugged. ‘If you’ve got a death wish, far be it from me to frustrate you.’ |
CHAPTER TWO
AS SHE’D gone over the events in her head that had led to their becoming lovers Rowena had tried time after time to work it out, but she hadn’t been able to pinpoint the exact moment that friendship had become something else. It had begun before her short stint at the New York office, which the powers that be had deemed essential for someone about to take over the running of the London end of the operation. Rowena had needed an escort for a big charity bash and Quinn, who had just accepted a senior post at a major teaching hospital in the city, had stepped in at the last minute. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t noticed, but after knowing him for so long Rowena took his spectacular looks for granted. The admiring glances he’d received that night, not to mention the envious comments she’d received from friends and acquaintances, had brought home to her just what a gorgeous creature he was. It had been a good night—no, better than good—Quinn had a way of making his companion feel very special. He was also a great dancer, and an even better conversation-alist—he had a dry wit and a clever tongue that had had her laughing half the night. She’d laughed so much that several acquaintances had commented on the fact, which had made Rowena wonder—for about two seconds—if she didn’t take things a little too seriously as a rule. ‘You were a big hit,’ she told him when he dropped her off at her flat in the early hours. Head against the backrest, she yawned and fished around for the shoes she’d slipped off her aching feet when she’d got into Quinn’s Jaguar. Quinn inclined his dark head. ‘We aim to please.’ ‘So now I know how you manage to captivate all those women.’ Quinn worked hard, but he played hard too. He had a taste for fast cars, motorbikes and beautiful women, but no staying power with the latter as far as Rowena could tell—not that she held this against him. Perhaps like her he was married to his career, or maybe he hadn’t met the right girl yet…The fleeting thought made her feel vaguely dissatisfied. ‘If I didn’t know you so well,’ she teased him, adjusting the strap on her kitten-heeled sling-back, ‘I might even make a pass at you myself.’ For what felt like a long time he looked at her, his expression enigmatic. ‘Is that all that’s stopping you?’ Rowena’s smile didn’t make it past the starting-post—there was no shadow of humour in his face, just a taut, dangerous expression that made the nerve endings deep inside her stomach tortuously flutter with excitement. She couldn’t remember what she’d said to fill the awkward lingering silence that had followed, but she knew his contribution had been nil. He’d just sat there and let her babble like an idiot. One thing she did recall, very well indeed as it happened, was how it had felt when his arm had brushed against her breasts as he’d stretched over to open the car door for her. She had been mortified, not to mention confused, when her nipples had responded instantaneously to the brief contact. She had prayed he hadn’t noticed them thrusting brazenly through the thin fabric of her bodice as she’d slid with a hastily mumbled thank-you from the car. There had been no legitimate reason to refuse the series of invites that had followed—after all they were friends, and there was nothing wrong, she had told herself, with having a meal with a friend, or going to the theatre. As for walking by the river in the rain, what could be a more innocuous way to spend an evening? Quinn’s behaviour had given her no cause for complaint; there had been no repeat of that electric moment in the car. No, he had acted like the perfect gentleman despite the fact that she, for some perverse reason, had gone out of her way to recreate the moment—maybe it had been just to convince herself it had actually happened…? Letting her hand linger longer than strictly necessary on his arm or knee, a lot more eye contact than was normal between them, making sure he’d been able to see her very excellent legs when she’d sat opposite him. Nothing too heavy or obvious; at least that was what she’d thought until one night, sitting in her flat after having been out for dinner, Quinn had bluntly demanded an explanation. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she blustered. ‘I’m not playing at anything.’ He dragged an unsteady hand through his thick hair. ‘Well, whatever that nothing is you’re doing, it’s driving me crazy.’ His green eyes came to rest on her face. ‘You’re driving me crazy.’ ‘I am?’ she exclaimed, unable to hide her pleasure. ‘You’d never have known,’ she added with a condemnatory frown. After a startled moment Quinn began to laugh. It was such a warm, uninhibited sound she couldn’t bring herself to be cross with him. ‘Well, if you must know, I’m quite attracted to you,’ she divulged bluntly. ‘The idea takes some getting used to…’ With a hint of bravado she raised her eyes and saw it was Quinn’s turn to look pleased—and relief rushed through her. It would have been too embarrassing if she’d been reading the wrong messages. ‘I think,’ he replied huskily, ‘that it might be worth the effort.’ Mesmerised by the stark hunger in his darkly lashed eyes, she felt her knees start to tremble. Her heart was battering against her ribcage like a sledgehammer. He would be an excellent kisser—with a mouth like that how could he not be? she reasoned, allowing her gaze to rest dreamily on that stern, sensual outline. The idea of putting her theory to the test had her literally trembling with anticipation. ‘You don’t think it’s too silly an idea, then,’ she gasped, feeling a bit light-headed with relief—well, maybe relief wasn’t solely responsible for that strange but marvellous floaty feeling. Quinn took the wilful curve of her jaw in his hand, his fingers stroking the smooth skin of her throat. The touch was so gentle and his strength was so formidable that Rowena found the contrast deeply exciting. ‘Not silly at all,’ he replied. His deep, husky voice sent tiny shivers up and down her spine. ‘I knew you’d understand—you being not exactly big on the whole commitment thing.’ Rowena was so relieved that she hardly registered the wary expression that flickered into his eyes. ‘I mean, neither of us have the time to lavish on a proper relationship, do we?’ she told him happily. ‘With that whole pet name, flowers, and plans for the future stuff. Most of all the plans for the future,’ she added with a heartfelt shudder. ‘But we all have…needs.’ It was probably ignoring hers that was responsible for her present distracted condition. ‘I think I should be honest with you.’ ‘By all means be honest,’ Quinn responded drily. Rowena nodded, glad they were in accord. Quinn had let go of her chin and she wished he hadn’t. She wondered if it would be quite acceptable for her to take the initiative and touch him…? God, but she wanted to, she thought, her eyes running covetously over his lean frame. ‘Of course I’ve tried sex, but, I’ve got to admit, it wasn’t an unqualified success. To be quite honest,’ she added, the words coming in a rush, ‘I’m terrible at it, but I’m willing to learn.’ She heard the stark sound of his inhalation and wished she’d not been quite so frank, but it was true: sexually she was what was popularly termed frigid. The first time might have been put down to inexperience, but the second time had been a full five years later, and though her lover—an attractive, experienced man she’d liked a lot—had been perfectly polite, she’d been able to tell he’d been in no hurry to repeat the experience, and actually neither had she. Since then she’d been able to channel her energies into her work—until Quinn. ‘Let me get this straight—you want me for sex and nothing else.’ His low, very quiet tone sent a quiver of apprehension up her spine. Anxiously she searched his face but it was impossible to read anything from his enigmatic expression. ‘Well, I wouldn’t put it like that exactly.’ ‘Well, I would!’ he yelled suddenly. ‘I’d put it exactly like that. I’ve heard you called callous, Rowena. I’ve heard you called a cold, calculating bitch.’ Rowena flinched. It was a tired old sexist line that she’d heard many times before and it never failed to make her mad as hell—it hadn’t hurt as it did hearing Quinn say it, though. It was nonsense, of course—a man who shared the qualities that made her good at what she did would have been universally admired for his skill, but not her. No, she was female so that automatically made her as hard as nails. ‘And I’ve always stuck up for you, but I’m beginning to see how much you’ve changed since the old days!’ he blazed. ‘Sex isn’t something you schedule like a finance meeting.’ Rowena listened to his diatribe in stunned silence. ‘I didn’t mean…I had no intention of insulting you, I just wanted to be upfront, Quinn.’ ‘I’m slow,’ he reflected with a bitter smile, ‘but not that slow. I don’t need a diagram to tell me what you want.’ At some level he was aware that he was overreacting—after all, he’d been propositioned before. Quinn’s scornful sneer reawakened her temper. ‘I have to tell you, Quinn, I find all this righteous outrage at being treated like a sex object just a tad hypocritical coming from you of all people. I mean, a man with a track record like yours hardly screams commitment, does he? Or don’t you like it when someone turns the table on you? The way you’re going on anyone would think you wanted a serious relationship or something…’ She saw his face and her eyes widened. ‘Good god!’ she gasped, horrified. ‘You didn’t, did you…?’ She laughed in what was pure nervous disbelief, but he could hardly be expected to know that. ‘I’ve been accused of being shallow in my time…’ His voice had dropped to a soft, menacing whisper, but Rowena was in no mood to be intimidated. ‘I can’t imagine why,’ she muttered belligerently. The glacial flicker of his long-lashed eyes silenced her. ‘But it would seem I’m an amateur compared to you.’ ‘The way I hear it you get by,’ she retorted childishly. ‘Then maybe you hear it wrong,’ he cut back in a chilly voice. ‘I may not be able to match your clinical objectivity, but I’m not totally unrealistic. I accept that some relationships are never going to go anywhere, but they’re fun anyway. I’ve been there and done that, but not as often as you seem to think.’ Rowena hardly noticed this dry postscript; she was too busy dwelling on the lurid images drifting around in her head of Quinn having fun. She actually felt quite unwell—she’d had doubts about that lobster. ‘Part of the excitement of entering a relationship is not knowing where it’s going.’ Diverted by this peculiar viewpoint, Rowena forgot momentarily about the sick churning in her stomach. Personally Rowena always liked to know exactly where she was going. ‘The exploration,’ Quinn expanded forcibly. ‘The wondering whether it might lead somewhere, whether she might be the one.’ Rowena’s jaw dropped—it was something of a revelation to learn that Quinn believed there was such a thing as the one. Let alone discover he was actively looking for her. Boy, had she got Quinn wrong—the man was a romantic! ‘With you there would be no wondering, we’d both know exactly where we were going—nowhere!’ he continued. Rowena’s chin came up. She didn’t much care for that combination of pity and contempt on his face. It was pretty obvious there was no point suggesting they went nowhere together. ‘Let’s call it crossed wires,’ she suggested with an easy-come, easy-go shrug. Rowena had her pride and she didn’t want him to guess how disappointed, mortified and frustrated she was by his rejection. His own shrug was just as untroubled and dismissive. Dragging her thoughts kicking and screaming back to the present, Rowena slid a wary, half-defiant look in the direction of her staff. Their expressions were respectful enough now but Rowena wasn’t fool enough to imagine that this situation would last for two seconds once she was out of the door. She hadn’t gained her hard-nosed, cool-headed reputation by accident and now in two seconds flat she’d blown her cover wide open. ‘Happy? Hardly,’ she snapped venomously, fixing Quinn with a look of loathing. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse us, Quinn was just leaving.’ Clinging to the tattered shreds of her dignity and trying to show she was still in charge, Rowena shoved Quinn’s jacket at him and nodded imperiously in the direction of the door. ‘So soon,’ Quinn bemoaned sarcastically, throwing his jacket casually over his shoulder. ‘We hadn’t even started talking money yet.’ He waved casually to the three watching women as Rowena, seething with exasperation, grabbed him by the arm. ‘That would be right!’ Rowena flared contemptuously—God, why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut? ‘You always did have your eye on the big bucks, Quinn. Why else go in for plastic surgery?’ ‘Perhaps I thought I could make a difference,’ he suggested mildly. Rowena sniffed, unwilling to admit even to herself that her accusation of avarice had been out of line, not to mention totally inaccurate. Quinn was considered a world expert in facial reconstructive surgery and, though he did make big money from the high-profile clients who sought him out, Rowena knew he didn’t restrict his expertise to those who could pay for it. The vast bulk of his workload was, and always had been, within the NHS, even though he could have made much more by working exclusively in the private sector. Not that money mattered to Quinn, coming as he did from a wealthy, privileged background. ‘Three-thirty in my office, Sylvia!’ Rowena called, putting a bold face on her unorthodox departure. The three women exchanged glances as the door closed. ‘I knew I recognised his name…’ Anna cried. ‘He did Lexie Lamont’s new nose, so they say, and I saw him on that telly programme last month—the one about that teenager who got hit in the face by a jet ski.’ Sylvia nodded. ‘I saw it; the girl got all choked up every time she talked about him.’ ‘Small wonder!’ Anna exclaimed. ‘Did you see the before picture? She mashed just about every bone in her face to pulp—all he had to go on when he rebuilt it were pictures.’ ‘There’s no mistake, then, he’s really a doctor. I suppose it’s lucky we didn’t send the others home,’ her assistant reflected. A naughty grin appeared on Sylvia’s pretty face. ‘Is it just me or do you get the impression boss lady isn’t too keen on sharing…?’ The explosive sound of laughter was clearly audible to Rowena as she stalked, head held high, from the crowded ante-room crowded with leather-clad clones. ‘I hope you’re satisfied now!’ she gritted to Quinn. ‘Don’t fret, Rowena, I’m sure your ice-cold bitch image can survive worse than this.’ ‘I hate you!’ If that were true, how it would simplify matters. ‘I can live with that,’ he lied, increasing his pace to keep up with her. ‘It’s being ignored I’m not so comfortable with,’ he concluded grimly. ‘I’ve heard of men who turn to stalking when they get given the push, but I never thought you’d be one of them, Quinn. If only I’d known then what I know now…’ As if it would have made any difference, a self-derisive voice-over in her head insisted on supplementing. ‘I haven’t been given the push.’ Rowena came to an abrupt halt in front of her PA’s desk. Hands planted on her hips, she swung around, causing her silver-blonde hair to bell around her face before settling down into the loosely tendrilled nape-length style she’d recently adopted. ‘Consider yourself pushed, Quinn.’ Quinn smiled. ‘Like hell I will!’ Ignoring her loudly voiced protests, he placed his hand against her chest and thrust her through the open door of her office. ‘Hold all Ms Parrish’s calls,’ he instructed the startled-looking young woman behind the desk. ‘Call Security, Bernice!’ Rebecca yelled shrilly just before Quinn kicked the door closed. ‘I suppose you think this ridiculous caveman act is impressive!’ she jeered, retreating to the other side of her large desk—the symbol of her authority. Unfortunately it didn’t afford her that warm, in-charge feeling it normally did. ‘If you think spending just one night with me entitles you to behave like this you’re sadly mistaken, not to mention living in the wrong century. As for taking off your clothes—I’m not even going to ask!’ she choked, her nose wrinkling in disgust at the thought of Quinn parading half naked in front of the other women. ‘If I hadn’t come in when I did, heaven knows how far you’d have gone!’ ‘And you don’t like that idea?’ Quinn didn’t sound as though her disgust displeased him. It made her feel sick to the stomach. ‘I hate to spoil your pathetic male fantasies of women fighting over you, but I simply don’t like the idea of you wasting my staff’s time. We have deadlines to meet, you know. How would you like it if I smuggled myself into your hospital and tried to pass myself off as a nurse?’ ‘Give me a minute here, I’m just picturing you…Does the uniform have one of those cute frilly caps?’ Rowena didn’t have time to respond to this outrageous piece of sexism before his languid air of mockery vanished, revealing the sort of penetrative expression that made her nostalgic for his irritating mockery of seconds before. ‘What the hell have you been doing to yourself, Rowena?’ He sat down on the edge of her desk and stretched his long legs out in front of him. ‘I had my hair cut.’ ‘That’s not what I mean. You’ve lost weight.’ ‘Thank you.’ Her hips had always been the envy of her more amply endowed friends, but losing almost a stone in weight during the past few weeks meant that the short skirt she was wearing today no longer clung to her hips, but hung loosely. ‘You look terrible.’ In case I hadn’t got the point, she thought caustically. ‘You don’t lose that sort of weight so quickly unless you’re ill or under a lot of pressure,’ he announced authoritatively. Her glance slid evasively from his. Did morning sickness count as being ill? ‘Well, thanks for the medical assessment, Doctor, but I’m neither. It’s just too many late nights, and no time to eat.’ ‘In fact life’s just one long party.’ He didn’t bother hiding his scepticism. ‘Absolutely,’ she maintained defiantly. ‘Which no doubt accounts for you ignoring my e-mails and phone calls—although that isn’t a problem now, is it? Not since you had all your numbers changed and went ex-directory.’ Rowena watched with an irritated frown as he began to mess up the row of pencils laid out symmetrically on her desk. Looking at his long, clever fingers brought a sudden rush of memories, his fingers dark against her pale breasts. His fingers sliding between… Rowena caught her full lower lip between her teeth. She resented the fact he was making her behave guiltily. ‘That was pure coincidence,’ she announced with stilted defiance. He lifted his head, and from beneath the sweep of inky dark lashes looked enquiringly across at her. ‘And is it coincidence that had me made persona non grata at your apartment building?’ Rowena had a firm policy of ignoring things she couldn’t deny and she did so now with a careless toss of her fair head. ‘I’ve only just got back, Quinn. New York was hectic.’ She wished straight off she hadn’t mentioned New York. She thought of New York and, unlike normal people who had spent any time there, she didn’t associate with the vibrant, alive, noisy, scary, exciting place it was. No, Rowena immediately associated it with Quinn, incredible sex and the frightening consequences of the latter… ‘What about the weekend you came home?’ ‘You knew about that?’ Startled, she glanced up to see an expression she couldn’t quite place on his face. ‘Wasn’t I meant to?’ ‘It was no secret.’ Recovering a little composure, Rowena managed to continue in a persuasively reasonable tone. ‘I’ve just started a new job. I’ve hardly had time to make contact with every casual acquaintance I have.’ She gulped, but the sound was drowned out by the sibilant hiss of his indrawn breath. Oh, God, that had come out all wrong and then some…! ‘Casual acquaintance,’ he said very softly and deadly silkily. Then, even softer, ‘Casual acquaintance. Tell me, Rowena, how do you say hello to people you know quite well?’ She closed her eyes as an image appeared in her mind’s eye of herself walking down the crowded New York street three months ago, surrounded by a seething mass of humanity. Maybe it had been the mild culture shock of moving to another city where she knew nobody, or maybe it had been the stress of proving herself, but she had never felt so alone in her life. Then she’d seen him. She hadn’t even needed to get a proper look at that unmistakable profile—his innately elegant, long-legged stride would have been sufficient proof. Two men in the world couldn’t move that way. Without thinking she had barged through the people separating them, breaking every rule of pedestrian etiquette and probably bruising a few shins to get to him. Waving her bag above her head, she’d shrieked his name like a demented banshee until she’d been hoarse. She’d almost been at his shoulder when he’d finally turned around and Rowena, her face flushed, breathing hard, had come to an abrupt halt. Shock of recognition in his eyes had morphed into hot desire. An answering desire had shimmered hot and liquid through her. ‘You’re here,’ she said stupidly. ‘I can’t believe it.’ And then he kissed her. ‘Convinced now?’ he asked, when he lifted his head. Rowena stared dizzily up into his face unable to focus properly—unable to do anything much except stare at him. The native New Yorkers, a tolerant bunch and not easily surprised, had parted around the embracing couple. ‘I always knew you’d be a good kisser, you’ve got such a beautiful mouth.’ Her hands, pressed flat against the hard surface of his chest, felt his responsive rumble of laughter. He continued to display his proficiency at kissing in the taxi, then in the lift going up to his hotel room. The kissing didn’t stop once the door had closed behind them but other things started, things she couldn’t even think about without blushing. Hurtling back into the present, Rowena was still faced with Quinn’s anger at being called a casual acquaintance. ‘You caught me at a weak moment,’ she defended herself. ‘There was no catching involved—the way I recall it you did the running.’ He reached across and touched her chin with his forefinger. ‘And you wonder why I’ve been avoiding you,’ she said, jerking her chin away from his grip. ‘I thought that was all in my mind.’ Quinn spun around on the smooth surface of the desk until his legs were the wrong side of it—her side. ‘I knew it would be like this,’ she muttered, grabbing two handfuls of silvery fair hair and shaking her head from side to side. ‘I thought you understood New York was a mistake, not the start of something.’ Nothing that she had any intention of telling him about just now, anyhow. ‘The only mistake I made was allowing you to persuade me to leave.’ Rowena’s heart dropped as far as her narrow, expensively shod feet. His inflexible tone and grim expression suggested that he was about to compensate for that mistake. She closed her eyes, incredibly frustrated by his unyielding, downright mule-headed attitude. ‘Talking to you is like…like talking to that wall!’ Which, if things went on like this, she’d be doing in next to no time. She could see it now—crazy fashion editor carted away by the men in white coats. How her enemies would love that…another fast-track hot shot hits the dust! ‘You want me,’ he insisted. At least this was one subject he didn’t have any doubts about—he couldn’t be in the same room as her without knowing that Rowena craved his touch just as much as he did hers. This knowledge only increased his frustration. Hell, the sizzling, sexually fuelled static between them was nothing short of a fire hazard! Rowena glared at him for about twenty seconds before her defiance deserted her. ‘That’s as maybe,’ she conceded, concentrating hard on controlling her wildly fluctuating complexion—women in her position did not blush like schoolgirls; neither did they ache inside the way she did. Quinn’s grin had a worryingly predatory look to it. ‘No maybe about it.’ A small shrug of her slender shoulders conceded his cocky claim. ‘You’ve only yourself to blame—laying down rules and conditions,’ she brooded darkly. ‘Whatever happened to spontaneity and free love?’ She quivered, working herself into a resentful lather as she contemplated her bad luck. She’d found the lover of her dreams—a man not noted for his steadfast devotion—and he had to get all moralistic and possessive on her. ‘Free love?’ Quinn mused. ‘I’m trying to see you as a flower child, but it’s not easy,’ he admitted. ‘You’re nothing but a reformed rake!’ The old-fashioned term seemed to suit him oddly well—he definitely had the legs for tight-fitting Regency breeches as well. Quinn’s lips quivered at this hot accusation. ‘Just for the record, in my book spontaneity is good, but you get nothing for free. You’ll have to learn to live with the fact I’m not available on a casual, nocturnal basis only. There are people who provide such services, I believe—for a price!’ Her hand flashed out but Quinn’s reflexes were faster. Rowena found her wrist enclosed in a steely grip. Feet braced on the floor, he drew her in between the confines of his iron-hard muscular thighs as he pulled her hand back down to her side, clicking his tongue in mocking disapproval. ‘I want to be part of your life, Rowena—an integral part.’ Rowena stopped struggling, at least physically. Her inner conflict was less easily subdued! Their eyes meshed and she instantly got herself lost in his sea green gaze. ‘I’ve no interest in the sort of hole-in-the-corner affair you were suggesting in New York.’ ‘Private is not the same as sordid.’ Most men would have been flattered by the sort of civilised arrangement she had offered him—no complications, no emotional dramas. ‘I’m not good at subterfuge.’ Rowena’s bosom swelled with incredulous indignation. ‘There speaks the man who’d just conned his way into this building!’ ‘If you hadn’t been so unreasonable I wouldn’t have needed to resort to less than open tactics.’ ‘Dirty tactics, you mean,’ she retorted, pulling her wrist free from his grip and waving an admonitory finger in front of his nose. ‘We both know that when you want something there’s just about nothing you won’t do!’ she snapped furiously. Quinn gazed levelly back at her, not the least disturbed by her heated indictment. He reached forward and ran a finger slowly down the soft curve of her cheek, his piercing eyes darkening as she flinched back as if burnt. ‘And at the moment I want you…’ Her angry flush faded with dramatic abruptness leaving Rowena marble pale. Her breath emerged as a shaky tremulous gasp. Where was the scornful put-down when she needed one? ‘Is that meant to be some sort of turn-on? Well, I’ve got news for you…’ It worked extremely well. ‘Your problem is you like everyone to know about your trophy girlfriends,’ she jeered hoarsely. ‘It makes you feel the big man to see yourself plastered all over the gossip columns.’ ‘I think that’s slight exaggeration, Rowena, I barely rate a couple of lines in Country Life.’ ‘Your false modesty makes me sick.’ ‘You’ll get used to the idea, you know,’ he promised. ‘What idea?’ ‘The idea of being part of a couple.’ ‘And if I don’t?’ ‘You don’t have any choice, angel.’ ‘How do you figure that one?’ ‘You need me.’ Rowena gasped. His arrogance was simply unbelievable! ‘Have you always been delusional?’ His expression abruptly softened as he assimilated the torment in her wide-spaced eyes. ‘You need me, about as much as I need you. See, I can do it, and I’ve had as little practice at it as you have. It hardly hurts at all to admit it. I’m going to teach you to say it,’ he promised. Eyes wide with horror and lips clamped defiantly shut, she shook her head vigorously from side to side. ‘We’ll see, shall we?’ There was no challenge in his statement, just total, complete conviction—whether this conviction stemmed from a misplaced notion that she was female and therefore weak and malleable, or a belief in his own ability to bend anything or anyone to his will, Rowena didn’t know. She did know a challenge would have been much easier to deal with. Rowena wanted to put him right, but she felt strangely disinclined to do anything, move, speak, breathe even—perhaps it had something to do with the almost narcotic quality of the combination of his level, deep voice and the sexily slumbrous gleam in his eyes. ‘I did knock, Rowena…’ Her PA’s tentative voice made Rowena start. ‘Yes, Bernice?’ she responded, putting as much clear space rapidly between herself and Quinn as was possible. Her mind wasn’t functioning with its usual clarity, but at least she wasn’t staring up at him like a hypnotised rabbit screaming ‘eat me’ any longer. This was one of the reasons she hadn’t wanted to see him. He walked in a room and her wits flew out the nearest window, which made no sense! Rowena had experienced sexual attraction before and stayed firmly in charge of her feelings at every level—the person involved only knew about it if she wanted him to. With Quinn she didn’t have that luxury, she was clumsy, inarticulate and painfully needy. ‘There’s a call from your sister and she says it’s urgent…’ Rowena frowned. Holly had taken her new fiancé up to Scotland to show him off to their elderly grandparents who lived in a remote part of the country called Wester Ross. ‘Fine, I’ll take it, Bernice,’ Rowena replied to her normally discreet assistant who was shooting surreptitious looks in Quinn’s direction. The young woman withdrew, blushing, when Quinn smiled at her. ‘Holly, it’s me…do you mind? This is private!’ she hissed, covering the mouthpiece and glaring across at Quinn. ‘Say hello to Holly for me,’ he requested, unperturbed by her hostility as he strolled to the far end of the room and began to read the titles on the spines of the files that filled the shelves there. ‘What? Yes, it is Quinn. No…yes, he is here. It doesn’t matter, I’ll explain later. What’s wro—?’ Rowena grew silent as her sister broke into impetuous speech the other end of the line. Rowena had her back turned to him, but Quinn could almost feel her distress as the slim, supple line of her back grew tense. Her next faltering exclamation confirmed his suspicions—Holly didn’t have good news. ‘Oh, God, no!’ Rowena raised her hand to her mouth, compressing the quivering line of her lips—not Gran! The image of Elspeth Frazer floated before her eyes. Five feet nothing with rosy cheeks, startling blue eyes and snow-white hair, she could have come straight from the glossy illustrations in a book of fairy tales. The illusion of a cosy grandmother was shattered the instant Elspeth opened her mouth. The octogenarian had never suffered fools gladly and, not only did she have a bawdy sense of humour, she possessed a will of iron. Elspeth had been a consultant paediatrician in the early fifties, when women consultants had been very few and far between. Rowena had left Holly to follow in Gran’s footsteps and become a doctor, but nonetheless Elspeth Frazer had been her own inspiration, the person she thought of when the going got tough. Rowena could never understand how a woman like her grandmother, who had fought so hard to get where she wanted, had turned her back on everything and buried herself in general practice in the back of beyond. She’d eventually asked. ‘Why, I saw your grandfather, my dear, and I loved him.’ Perplexed, a much younger Rowena had asked, ‘Well couldn’t he have come to live in the City?’ ‘He could, but he’d have been unhappy.’ ‘Well, I’d never do that for a man!’ ‘We’ll see…’ Rowena heard the familiar soft accent in her head and her eyes filled with tears. She blinked back the moisture and forced herself to ask the thing she didn’t want to. ‘Is she…? Do they think…? Don’t cry, Holly, and don’t get too technical,’ she pleaded as her doctor sister began to go into details about the suspected stroke that their grandmother had suffered that morning. She wasn’t aware that Quinn was beside her until she felt the warm imprint of his hand on her shoulder. No matter what the state of their personal relationship, she wasn’t about to reject his support. Rowena was proud, but not stupid—Quinn was the sort of man whom people automatically turned to in a crisis. She made no objection as he slid a chair under her shaky legs and urged her gently down into it. She held the receiver a little way from her ear. ‘She’s crying again.’ She gulped, raising tear-filled eyes to his face. ‘Holly never cries,’ she added, her own lower lip quivering madly. ‘Let me have it.’ Rowena relinquished the phone without a second thought. For once she didn’t resent Quinn’s air of calm authority. ‘Hello, Holly, sweetheart, it’s Quinn,’ she heard him say warmly to her sister. ‘Yes, I know, but…is Niall there? Good, put him on. Hi, Niall, it’s Quinn.’ Rowena, her head in her hands, could hear the male rumble as Holly’s fiancé responded at length. Quinn didn’t interrupt him. ‘Yes, I get the picture. It’ll be quicker if we fly up. Can you organise some transport from Inverness? Right, I’ll ring when I’ve got more details.’ CHAPTER THREE ROWENA woke up, and for several horrid moments experienced total amnesia. It didn’t last long, but realising where she was, with whom and, worst of all, why was no less horrid than the original empty void. She stretched sleepily in the confined space. There was a dull ache behind her eyes and her stiff limbs felt as though she hadn’t moved in an age. A glance at her watch revealed this wasn’t far off the truth; they couldn’t be far off Inverness. ‘You’re awake.’ The soft drawl somewhere east of her right ear was extremely welcome, not that she had any intention of allowing her travelling companion to see just how welcome. ‘Very obviously.’ Rowena raised a hand to cover her yawn as she adjusted her seat from its reclining position. Someone, she noticed, had placed a blanket over her while she’d slept. Had it been Quinn? The thought made her throat feel achey and tight. God, this has to stop, she rebuked herself sharply. Carry on broadcasting emotional and vulnerable signals like these and they’ll pick them up in the Shetlands, girl! ‘How are you feeling?’ With raised brows Quinn took in her aggressive frown. ‘Other than grouchy.’ ‘I’m not grouchy.’ Was she particularly shallow? Or was it normal to fret stupidly about trivial matters like the fact your hair was sticking up and your eyeshadow had probably run when you were on a mission that should, and did, take precedence over everything else? How was there room in her head, given her anxiety levels over Gran, to take on board the fact that Quinn looked overpoweringly virile and as vital and energetic as she felt jaded and weary? ‘And I feel perfectly fine.’ It occurred to her that she ought to be displaying more gratitude than she was, considering what he had done for her. ‘Thank you,’ she added awkwardly. There was no polite way of putting it—she had fallen apart! It was still kind of shocking to accept that this had happened—maybe if Quinn hadn’t been there she would have pulled herself together and done what needed to be done…. Perhaps it was the security of having someone she trusted to take care of her and the situation that had enabled her to temporarily relinquish her iron control. Her blue eyes fluttered wide with amazement; she did trust Quinn—utterly! When, she wondered, had that happened? Aware of his questioning regard, she lowered her eyes abruptly and began to fold the discarded blanket, her slim fingers trembling slightly as she fussed, lining the corners up with meticulous precision. It was herself she didn’t trust! If she allowed sexual attraction to dictate her actions, Rowena knew she wouldn’t be doing either of them any favours. Quinn deserved a woman who could give him the things he probably didn’t even know he wanted yet. Things like a home—not just four walls and a roof, but a real home. There would be babies, of course—babies! Talk about catch-22, she thought, resisting the impulse to place her hands protectively over her belly. Is this really me feeling wistful over a dewy-eyed version of domestic bliss…? She shook her head—this had to stop before she started listening to that voice in her head that kept saying a child needed two parents. You couldn’t make a decision on the basis of physical attraction. If she did that she might even, in a moment of weakness and self-delusion, convince herself she could provide what Quinn wanted. The result would be disaster—she’d end up resenting him from stopping her doing what she wanted to do in her career, and in turn he’d resent her because she wouldn’t be able to put him first. Quinn was a man who needed to be put first. ‘I didn’t mean to fall asleep.’ His eyes skimmed her delicately flushed face. ‘No problem,’ he responded easily. ‘I’m not used to drinking brandy in the middle of the day.’ Actually she wasn’t used to drinking it at any time, which was why the tiny amount she’d had had gone straight to her head. The stuff Quinn had discovered in her kitchen cupboard had been for culinary purposes only up to that afternoon. ‘I’d say you’re not used to drinking much any time,’ Quinn mused with his usual perception. ‘But you make a fairly amiable drunk.’ Maybe she was being paranoid, but it seemed to Rowena that his expression hinted at some private joke. She just hoped she hadn’t said or done anything too awful or disastrously revealing when she was being amiable. ‘I’m sorry about the fuss with Security…’ Fuss was a pretty mild way of putting it. It was ironic, really—normally she would have applauded their stubborn attempts to detach her from Quinn. It had actually taken Rowena some time to convince the suspicious employees anxious to do their duty that a kidnap was not in progress. She closed her eyes, mortified to even think about that terrible scene when they’d attempted to leave the magazine offices. Give it twenty-four hours and the already juicy tale would have been embellished beyond recognition. ‘Bernice is a bit overprotective.’ ‘So I gathered,’ Quinn responded drily. ‘You did have…’ Rowena felt her colour rise but doggedly she continued ‘…your arm around me.’ She saw no reason to remind him or herself how hard she had been clinging to it! ‘Kidnapping seems a pretty drastic leap to make.’ ‘Well, she did see us arguing,’ she reminded him in Bernice’s defence. ‘And I’m not normally the sort of person who goes around leaning on…anyone.’ ‘I’m touched you made an exception in my case.’ Rowena hardly noticed his wry interjection. ‘I can’t believe I just walked out like that.’ ‘You were in shock.’ Rowena’s expression made it clear that shock was a poor excuse in her eyes for deserting her post. ‘What will people think?’ ‘Do you care?’ ‘Of course I care, this is my professional reputation we’re talking about.’ Somehow she doubted if Quinn would be quite so laid back if it were his job they were discussing. ‘And in my business,’ she told him grimly, ‘there’s always someone willing to stab you in the back.’ ‘Perhaps we should ask them to turn the plane around.’ ‘Don’t patronise me, Quinn!’ she flared. ‘I want to go to see Gran, of course I do. I just wish I’d been thinking straight. I should at least have had the common courtesy to explain to Bernice, she would have cancelled my appointments…’ She frowned, trying to recall her busy schedule for the next few days. ‘Well, it’s not too late, is it?’ he pointed out practically. ‘And if you’re fretting about working I did pack your laptop.’ Rowena could have done without this reminder that, not only had Quinn arranged a private flight, treating the whole procedure as though it were no different from hiring a car, when he’d discovered that there were no seats available on the scheduled departures, but he had also packed her clothes too. Anaesthetised by the small glass of brandy he had forced between her bloodless lips, she had watched him from her cross-legged position on her bed, occasionally shouting instructions in what she seemed to recall had been a loud and stroppy tone. ‘Not those pants, decorative but far too uncomfortable!’ she’d explained as he’d pulled out a racy-looking thong from her knicker drawer to add to the clothes crammed in her case. The memory made her groan and clutch her head. ‘Could you do with a coffee?’ her attentive escort asked. Escort…hell! Quinn on escort duty meant hours and hours of contact, and far too much opportunity for her to let things slip…It was nothing short of miraculous that she hadn’t so far! The last shreds of muddled sleepiness left her as, galvanised into action, she shot upright, and, discovering there was nowhere much to go, sat down again with a bump. ‘You can’t come to Scotland!’ she exclaimed in an anguished tone. She really must have been out of it earlier to have let him get on the plane with her! ‘Short of parachuting I’ve not much option at this point.’ ‘Obviously you’ll be flying straight back.’ Quinn looked down into her worried face and smiled—but it wasn’t a comforting sort of smile. ‘I promised Niall—’ Rowena’s expression hardened. What was this, some male conspiracy. ‘Niall had no right to ask you anything. I don’t need a minder!’ A lick of flame appeared in his eyes as they stilled on her angry face. ‘No, you need a lover of the live-in variety!’ Then he smiled benignly and patted her on the back as she began to choke. ‘I promised Niall that I’d see you safely to the hospital,’ he intoned virtuously. ‘Like you never break a promise,’ Rowena snarled, placing the glass of water she’d taken several panicky gulps from down again. His steady green gaze captured and held her furtive, darting glance. ‘Actually, no, I don’t.’ A slow, steady pulse of heat throbbed through Rowena, infiltrating every individual cell. She could hear the rasp of his voice in her head. ‘You’ll like this, I promise.’ He’d said it more than once before he’d introduced her to a new sensual experience that had reduced her to incoherent, babbling worship. He’d not broken his promise or exaggerated a claim once that night. ‘Some escort you’d be,’ she croaked, trying to fight her way through the sexual thrall. She was pretty sure that it had her staring at him like some sex-starved bimbo. ‘You don’t even know where Gran and Grandpa live.’ ‘Actually I do, but I’m having a job getting my tongue around the Gaelic pronunciation. A musical language, but not exactly phonetic.’ The way she recalled it, his tongue could be pretty amazingly dextrous! Rowena, her expression fixed and horrified, barely stifled a groan at this fresh evidence of her moral disintegration. ‘And it wouldn’t really matter if my geographical knowledge of the Highlands was nil, would it? Because we’re not heading for your grandparents’ home.’ Rowena thought it wise to establish pretty quickly, for her own benefit as much as Quinn’s, that there was no we. ‘Precisely. Even I am capable of getting from the airport to the hospital.’ ‘You might well be right, but unfortunately it’s not going to be that easy…’ Rowena’s expression grew warily suspicious. ‘The plane’s been diverted to Glasgow. Inverness is closed due to bad weather.’ ‘Weather!’ She squinted through the window into the darkness. ‘What weather?’ ‘It’s snowing.’ ‘They can’t close a whole airport just because of a bit of snow.’ Rowena’s scornful smile wobbled as panic flared hotly through her. Not only did this mean it would take even longer to reach Gran, but she would be lumbered with Quinn all the way. Being in the confines of a plane cabin with him was bad enough, but a car was way too intimate! ‘I suspect it might be more than a bit, Rowena.’ She rubbed her clenched knuckles across her chin and let her head fall back. ‘This is all I need!’ she groaned. The lush sweep of Quinn’s long eyelashes concealed his expression as his eyes moved over the exposed pale length of her slender throat. ‘I’ll get you there, Rowena.’ Quinn, who had always considered himself a reasonably law-abiding, honest type of man was vaguely shocked to recognise just how far he’d be prepared to go to fulfil this promise. For Rowena he wouldn’t just bend the rules—he’d break them without a second thought. Rowena’s head snapped up. ‘Why bother? This is all working out just how you wanted, isn’t it?’ she flung recklessly at him. Annoyance scored Quinn’s high cheekbones with dark colour as his deep-set eyes found hers. ‘Right now you need to reach your seriously ill grandmother. Do you honestly think I’d welcome seeing that moment delayed when I know how important it is to you?’ His lips thinned in fastidious disgust. ‘What sort of opportunist loser do you take me for, Rowena…?’ Rowena squirmed beneath his penetrating icy glare. ‘Hell,’ she reflected with a shudder, ‘I wouldn’t like to be a medical student you take a dislike to…not that you would take a dislike to anyone, because I’m sure you’re totally objective and impartial and you wouldn’t even dream of abusing your power in such a petty way.’ Studying his face, she couldn’t decide if the faint quiver she saw around his lips was wishful thinking. ‘In case you’re wondering, this is my way of saying sorry…’ When he stared back at her, stony-faced, Rowena gave a grunt of exasperation. ‘For heaven’s sake, I think you can afford to be big about this! Cut me a bit of slack, Quinn. I don’t know what I’m saying right now, I’m so emotionally whacked!’ she admitted wearily. It would have taken a man with a lot more objectivity than Quinn to remain unmoved by the appeal in those deep blue eyes. ‘Consider the slack cut.’ Rowena heaved a relieved sigh, grateful to see Quinn had finally come down off his high horse. ‘Can’t you do something?’ she asked wistfully. ‘Your faith in my ability is moving, but I have to admit I think you’re overestimating my influence in the weather department.’ He regretted his levity as Rowena, her lips trembling, buried her face in her hands. ‘This is terrible,’ she sobbed. ‘What if I’m too late? What if she is…?’ She stopped, unable to say it, unable to think it! ‘Don’t worry,’ he soothed, stroking her glossy hair. ‘I’ll get you up to Inverness somehow.’ His offer had the opposite effect to that he’d been striving for. Rowena, her body rigid, shot bolt upright. Her brimming eyes were awash with agitated anguish. ‘You can’t…you…you can’t come.’ ‘Why?’ ‘You don’t even have any suitable clothes,’ she added in the manner of someone desperate to produce a winning argument—the desperation wasn’t feigned. Her glance automatically dropped. Quinn had removed his jacket during the flight, and she could see the muscle definition of his chest and even get a hint of the dark body hair through the thin cotton of his white T-shirt. The prickle just beneath her skin reached the surface, she felt the heat bloom in her cheeks and squirmed restlessly in her seat. When she managed to wrench her gaze back up—there was some time lapse here—Quinn was watching her with a pleased, knowing expression on his dark, sexy features that only served to increase the hot flow of blood to her cheeks. ‘I picked up some things at the airport.’ ‘You can’t have, you didn’t leave me.’ ‘I didn’t need to—I used the services of a very nice airport employee whose sole aim in life is to spend people’s money. I gave the person my size and my requirements and they did the rest.’ Rowena knew instinctively that this person had been female and attractive. ‘I suppose she took your inside leg measurements too,’ she heard herself bitch waspishly. No wonder he looked complacent. Could I sound any more jealous if I tried? she anguished. ‘Silk shirts, ties and socks won’t be much good. This isn’t some soft, safe southern village we’re heading for, this is the north of Scotland in the winter,’ she told him scornfully. ‘And I can get to Inverness myself, thank you very much.’ ‘You think you’re more suited to driving in the north of Scotland than I am? As a matter of interest, when was the last time you drove a car, Rowena?’ ‘I find public transport convenient. I do!’ she added defiantly as he gave a sceptical snort. Not getting your licence until the fourth attempt was not that unusual. What was unusual was Rowena not succeeding at something she set her mind to with her usual effortless ease. ‘Besides, there’s enough pollution,’ she added loftily. ‘I’m doing my bit for the environment.’ ‘Very public spirited of you.’ ‘All right,’ she conceded crossly. ‘I may not like driving, but I’m a very good driver. I’m just careful, is all…’ ‘I’m not contesting it,’ he soothed silkily. ‘It’s purely a personal foible of mine, but I get jumpy when the driver of a car I’m a passenger in closes her eyes when manoeuvring past a large lorry.’ ‘It was a very narrow bridge.’ And a very big lorry. ‘I’ve seen you drive around a car park for half an hour rather than reverse into a parking space.’ ‘Are you eventually going to make a point?’ One dark brow lifted sardonically. ‘I thought I already had.’ Rowena gritted her teeth; she hated his maddening calm. ‘It’s preposterous. I mean, obviously you can’t walk out on your life just because…’ ‘You need me?’ He slid a hand behind his head, mussing up his rich dark hair as he settled comfortably back in his seat. ‘Actually, nothing could be easier,’ he announced carelessly. There was nothing careless or soothing about the burning expression in the green eyes that welded with hers. Rowena clutched nervously at her tight throat as her thundering heart tried to fight its way out of her chest. She cleared her throat; anyone would think she was the sort of woman that got all turned on by all that predatory, possessive macho nonsense! ‘Well, I don’t want you,’ she announced tautly. The last thing she needed was to be even further in his debt. No, relying on Quinn would be a fatal mistake. Quinn appeared to take her rejection in his stride. ‘Your problem is you don’t know what’s good for you.’ Was he suggesting that he’d be good for her…? This wasn’t a proposition Rowena felt up to challenging. ‘Gran always said that to me too. Like you, she’s big on clichés, but only when she says them…’ For a moment fear, dark and cold, blanked out every other consideration. ‘Do you think…?’ she whispered, her eyes darkening with dread. Quinn, his expression compassionate, took hold of her hands now tortuously twisted in her lap and chafed the chilly extremities between his. ‘Cold hands, warm heart?’ he suggested. ‘The exception that proves the rule, that’s me,’ Rowena responded, unable to stop her teeth from chattering. ‘You asked me what I think. For what it’s worth, I think it’s useless to speculate on your grandmother’s condition at this point. She’s in the best possible place and she’s being cared for by the best possible people.’ Rowena nodded; what he said made perfect sense. ‘You’re right,’ she conceded. ‘It’s just hard…’ she broke off as the emotional lump in her throat became unmanageable. ‘You’re really fond of your grandparents, aren’t you?’ The note of surprise in his voice brought an angry sparkle to Rowena’s eyes. Aren’t pushy, upwardly mobile bitches allowed to care for their families? she wanted to yell. She snatched her hands from his and pushed her hair back behind her ears. ‘Why should that surprise you?’ ‘It doesn’t surprise me, Rowena, though I can think of several people it might surprise. You play your glacial ice-maiden part extremely well.’ Rowena opened her mouth to contest this description then, realising he had a point, shrugged in tired resignation. ‘Tell me about them,’ he urged unexpectedly. ‘Gran and Grandpa?’ Her neatly shaped brows drew together in straight line. ‘Why?’ ‘Do you always suspect people’s motives?’ he responded, a hint of exasperation in his tone. ‘I’ve no sinister hidden agenda, Rowena. You need to talk, and I…I want to listen.’ ‘Grandpa owned a trawler before he retired.’ ‘Fishing is a high-risk profession.’ ‘And not a very lucrative one these days. Grandpa’s old boat has been tarted up to take tourists on trips around the Summer Isles these days. Grandpa doesn’t say so but I think he finds that quite sad. Mind you, he doesn’t say much full stop, but he’s always been there for me,’ she added swiftly, just in case Quinn was mistakenly associating strong and silent with strong and unfeeling. ‘He’s unfailingly supportive…never judgemental. A quiet gentle giant.’ Her eyes misted with affection. ‘And your grandmother…?’ Quinn prompted gently. ‘Oh, she’s not quiet, in fact she’s the total opposite to Grandpa, but somehow they are right together, if you know what I mean…?’ She was so involved in her own private reflections that she didn’t see Quinn nod. ‘I just can’t imagine them apart. Gran always encouraged Holly and I to…’ She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. ‘Sorry.’ Quinn pressed a tissue into her hand. ‘They sound great; I’d love to meet them.’ ‘Oh, they’d like you,’ she said, enthusiastically, without thinking. Her jaw dropped in almost comical dismay as their eyes met. ‘That is…’ she laughed awkwardly as she lowered her gaze hastily from his ‘…what’s not to like? You’re an adorable sort of guy,’ she joked shakily. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.’ If she wasn’t careful he might realise how successful he’d been! ‘I don’t usually cry so much…’ ‘Your “don’t get mad, get even” policy doesn’t really cover this situation, does it, angel?’ Choked up, Rowena shook her head. ‘Not really. Oh, God!’ She groaned. ‘I should be there. When I think of Gran all alone…’ ‘She’s hardly alone, is she?’ ‘No, that’s true. Mum and Dad are there, that’s a good thing. Isn’t it?’ ‘Of course it is, and Holly and Niall are there too—quite the family gathering.’ Rowena sensed his unspoken question. ‘I was invited. It’s Grandpa’s birthday tomorrow and Holly wanted to show Niall off. I couldn’t justify taking a break…’ If Quinn detected the guilt in her voice he didn’t comment on it. ‘I was surprised to find out about Holly and Niall…’ Quinn’s light comment invited a response, which Rowena didn’t give. If he had been surprised, she’d been shocked rigid by the news that Holly was to marry someone she had always considered one of her own best friends. It wasn’t as if she grudged her baby sister her happiness, or that she felt she had any particular claims on Niall who, like Quinn, had been her friend since university days—she had been there for him after his first marriage had broken up. It just took some major readjusting, that was all. Quinn’s watchful eyes remained on her downcast features. ‘It was all a bit quick, wasn’t it?’ He thought he managed to hide his suspicions pretty well under the circumstances—the circumstances being he was highly suspicious of Rowena’s relationship with Niall. ‘They seem very happy,’ Rowena eventually responded carefully. The lines bracketing Quinn’s strong mouth deepened as his lips tightened. ‘And if you had any doubts, you wouldn’t say so. Being that sour grapes sound so…well, sour.’ Rowena was bewildered by the abrupt change of mood she sensed in him. ‘Meaning what, exactly?’ she gritted dangerously. ‘I always had the impression that you considered you had first refusal on Niall,’ he drawled. Rowena took a deep, wrathful breath. The problem was, there was a grain of truth in his abominable charge—not that she had ever had a romantic relationship with Niall, nor for that matter had she ever wanted one, but they had been close. Closer probably in their post-student days than she and Quinn had been. Possibly, Rowena mused, considering the matter in a new light, because there never had been any of the unacknowledged physical attraction between her and Niall that there was between her and Quinn. It was nice to go places with a very attractive man and not have to worry that he’d expect anything at the end of the evening other than stimulating conversation and good coffee. ‘Niall is everything you are not,’ she announced scornfully. Though experienced in relationships with the opposite sex, Quinn was not experienced in jealousy. It was like an open wound, which he couldn’t help poking even though it hurt. ‘And what am I, Rowena? Other than not being fit to lick Niall’s boots, that is. Is it Niall’s title you begrudge Holly?’ ‘Are you trying to insult me?’ ‘Did you fancy yourself as part of the landed gentry? Well, marrying Niall would certainly give you that,’ he admitted, reviewing their mutual friend’s blue-blooded background. ‘I never wanted to marry Niall.’ ‘Did he ask?’ Rowena flushed angrily. ‘I see he didn’t.’ ‘He didn’t ask me to marry him, the same way he never took advantage of our friendship and made a pass at me! Unlike some people I could mention!’ ‘Am I being unduly sensitive or was that little jibe aimed at me? If so, I feel obliged to say in my defence that the way I recall it, sweetheart, you were pretty anxious to be taken advantage of,’ he reminded her with unforgivable accuracy. ‘Just for the record, I do not begrudge Holly anything!’ Rowena snapped, finding it hard not to lose her rag totally in the face of extreme provocation. ‘Sure you don’t.’ ‘I don’t!’ she bellowed back, unable to take his tolerant contempt any longer. ‘And as for what you are, that’s simple, Quinn. You are the most arrogant, infuriating, manipulative male I’ve ever met—and in case you have any doubts, that wasn’t a compliment!’ she finished, lifting a hand to her hot, sticky brow. ‘I’m stuck with you as far as Glasgow,’ she stormed, ‘but after that I’m going on alone.’ Quinn, unfazed by her animosity, just smiled in that laconic, laid-back, wildly attractive way of his and announced his intention of snatching a few minutes’ sleep. He seemed to drift into a deep, untroubled slumber about two seconds after his eyes closed and, much to her chagrin, stayed that way until the attractive flight attendant woke him to fasten his seat belt. Their plane was about the last one to land—quite bumpily, as it happened, as the nail marks gouged in Quinn’s hand from where Rowena had gripped it could testify—before the airport ground to a total standstill. The blizzards that had cut off the far north had, it seemed, reached Glasgow. ‘I don’t know why you’re following me,’ Rowena remarked icily to the tall figure at her shoulder. ‘I’m only here as an interested bystander, but should you require my services…’ ‘I won’t.’ ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, miss,’ the harassed-looking individual behind the car-hire counter apologised. ‘We don’t have a four-wheel drive left…’ Rowena tapped her beautifully manicured nails on the desk. ‘Then what do you have?’ she enquired with barely disguised impatience. The young man told her. ‘That’ll do.’ ‘It’s snowing…’ ‘I had noticed.’ The recipient of her abrasive sarcasm flushed and, feeling guilty, Rowena smiled tightly to take the sting out of her words. The smile only further flustered the young man who shot the intimidatingly beautiful blonde’s companion a look of appeal, but the tall man shrugged and remained silent. ‘Well, actually, the police are advising people who don’t have to make a journey to stay at home…most people are…’ ‘I’m not most people, and I do have to make a journey,’ Rowena responded, disguising her increasing sense of urgency behind a cold façade. ‘Well, perhaps you could wait until morning?’ One look from those icy eyes silenced the young man. Clearly unhappy, he dropped the keys into her outstretched palm. ‘How far are you planning to go?’ ‘Inverness.’ His eyes widened. ‘You’re joking—right!’ ‘If you knew the lady better, you wouldn’t bother asking that.’ Rowena spun around. This wasn’t the first time today Quinn had insinuated she had no sense of humour. She had a great sense of humour! ‘Nobody asked you, Quinn Tyler!’ Quinn regarded her angry face impassively. ‘I can take a hint.’ Rowena laughed bitterly. ‘Since when?’ ‘Just remember, keep in the highest gear possible when driving on snow and don’t brake in a skid, steer into it,’ he advised her gravely. ‘I knew that!’ she called after him. Rowena watched the tall retreating figure and experienced none of the deep sense of relief she should have; she only felt a nasty sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her chin up, she took a deep sustaining breath. She was alone and she would cope, she told herself sternly, just as she always had. This sense of stubborn optimism lasted until she passed the seventh abandoned vehicle slewed horribly across the road. It was while her attention was distracted by the desolate image that her own car hit a patch of black ice and began to move in the wrong direction. Panic took over—she had no control whatsoever. Quinn held his breath as the silver Saab ahead went into a dramatic skid—the whole scene was picked up in stomach-churning detail by the light of the taxi’s headlights. He began to breathe again as it came to an abrupt halt on what had once been a grassy verge. ‘How much do I owe you?’ he asked the taxi driver who had been following Rowena’s car at a discreet distance. The driver named a hair-raising sum. Quinn, who had agreed to paying quadruple the going rate to persuade the reluctant driver to venture out, didn’t blink as he handed over the exorbitant sum. ‘I told you not to brake,’ he shouted above the howl of the wind as he ducked his head inside the car. Rowena’s first thought was for the baby. Fortunately the only part of her that had suffered from the abrupt stop was her forehead, which had glanced against the windscreen. With a relieved sigh, she pushed back her hair from her face and lifted her head off the steering wheel as a blast of cold air and a flurry of snow hit her. The dazed expression in her eyes wasn’t entirely due to impact; the brush with danger had released a flood of protective maternal instincts as powerful as they were unanticipated. The baby’s all right, the baby’s all right. Like a record stuck in the groove, the relieved litany kept going around and around in her head. Blinking, she stared up in disbelief at the tall dynamic figure who had wrenched open the car door. She shivered; the nervous sweat that bathed her body was swiftly growing clammily cold in the icy temperature. What she wanted to say was, I’m glad to see you! Our baby’s all right. What she actually said, in a crossly accusing tone, was, ‘How did you get here?’ Quinn flung his bag in the back seat. ‘Never mind that, slide over,’ came the terse instruction. Normally Rowena would have objected in the strongest possible terms to being addressed so peremptorily, only right now she was too stressed out by the nightmare few miles she’d driven to think coherently. Conscious only of a deep sense of relief, she meekly did as Quinn instructed. The noise level of the growling wind was deadened to a dull roar as he closed the door behind him. ‘You’re bleeding,’ he remarked quietly. ‘Am I?’ Quinn’s dark skin tones looked peculiarly pale in the subdued light inside the car. Still dazed, Rowena winced slightly as his long, square-tipped fingers gently probed the bruised area on her temple. She remained passive during the examination, but her near-death experience didn’t stop her stomach muscles clenching painfully as the enclosed space started to fill up with a warm male, uniquely Quinn fragrance. She lowered her eyes self-consciously and watched the snow melt on the shoulders of his jacket—Quinn had the sort of shoulders that filled out jackets extremely well. ‘It’s only superficial,’ he announced clinically. ‘I think I must have hit my head on the windscreen.’ A muscle in his lean cheek did some unauthorised jumping. ‘You could have killed yourself!’ No clinical objectivity this time! Rowena recoiled from the white-hot blaze of outrage in his eyes. ‘Well, I didn’t,’ she pointed out mildly. ‘So there’s no point stressing out over what might have happened.’ Their eyes meshed and an explosive sound of frustration escaped from between Quinn’s clenched teeth. ‘You are totally unbelievable. You’re not going to admit you were wrong, are you?’ ‘It’s not something I’m good at, but then neither are you,’ she felt impelled to add. Quinn grunted. ‘I’m driving you to the nearest hotel.’ He lifted his cell phone from his pocket and began to punch in a number. ‘I’ll let Niall know what’s happening. Hell!’ He glared at the inanimate object in his hand. ‘There’s no reception.’ ‘Just as well, because I’m not stopping at a hotel. I’m going to Inverness.’ Quinn regarded her set stubborn expression with an expression of frustrated incredulity. ‘I can’t decide if you’re just stubborn or plain stupid.’ ‘There’s no need to get offensive.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re not going to do your grandmother or anyone else any good if you manage to get yourself killed, woman. You do realise that, I suppose?’ Rowena did, but the compulsion to reach her grandmother was so strong that it pushed every other consideration to the back of her mind. It was partly a guilt thing, of course, some objective corner of her mind admitted freely. Her grandfather’s birthday wasn’t the first family occasion she’d missed. If it was too late to make up for all the times she hadn’t made this journey—the times when she’d put her career ahead of family commitment—Rowena knew she’d never be able to live with herself. Please let me have a second chance, she begged silently. Rowena was all too aware that second chances came along rarely. ‘If you’re too scared to drive me I’ll drop you off at the next service station,’ she declared. Quinn searched her pale face and saw not an inch of give in her zealot-like determination. He shrugged. ‘If you’ve got a death wish, far be it from me to frustrate you.’ |
is it finished? if it is i will start reading it
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no i am afraid its not finished yet coz i was busy the past couple of days but i promise that i will try my best to finish it soon
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Welcome back Nargis, I am glad you are well We missed you :flowers2::flowers2: |
thank you we dont whant to troble you uploaded when you can
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CHAPTER FOUR
‘THAT’S it, then.’ Quinn loosened his seat belt and leant back in his seat with a sigh. He pressed a finger to the permanent indentation between his dark brows; his head ached dully after the lengthy period of intense concentration. Rowena looked from Quinn’s remote profile to the snow silently building up on the windscreen. ‘It can’t be!’ she cried, adjusting the angle of the overhead light as she consulted the map that lay open on her lap. ‘There must be another way. It stands to reason.’ Even as she spoke Rowena recognised the futility of her protest. Quinn reached across and closed the book. ‘This car isn’t going any farther, Rowena,’ he said gently. ‘We’re stuck.’ So far closed roads and the police had made them re-route three times, and gradually they’d got farther and farther off their original route. ‘But…’ Quinn shook his head firmly. The snow had now completely covered the windscreen, lending an eerie white glow to the interior of the car. Even though the heater was pumping out heat, Rowena shivered. ‘It’s not negotiable, sweetheart, we’re stuck. We’ll just have to sit tight until someone rescues us. It’ll be light in an hour or so.’ They wouldn’t be the only ones waiting for rescue; they’d passed several vehicles along the way in a similar predicament. ‘And when will that be, do you think?’ Rowena quavered hoarsely as her mind began to actively contemplate the hours ahead. It wasn’t the physical discomforts of the situation that filled her with horror. Actually, horror was inadequate to describe her feelings as she thought about the hours ahead stranded in the car with Quinn. Her stomach muscles, sensitive to the frisson of sexual heat that shot through her tensed frame, tightened. Quinn shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he admitted, shifting his position to ease the tension that was tying the muscles in his neck in knots. His mellow soothing tone irritated the hell out of Rowena. ‘Don’t you care?’ ‘Naturally I care, I just don’t see much point getting hysterical. Or would you prefer me to panic?’ A nerve in his cheek thrummed as he recalled how close he’d been to doing so when her car had gone into that skid. Quinn panicking—no, I don’t think so! Another time the idea would have made her laugh. Quinn was cool and competence personified. ‘I’m sure this is nothing to a man who makes life and death decisions for a living, but humour me, Quinn, I’m only the girl who writes about the latest fashion craze!’ One dark brow quirked as he shifted in his seat to face her properly. ‘Do I detect a shade of disillusionment…?’ he wondered, sounding surprised. ‘You do not!’ she denied forcefully. She moderated her tone, aware she could be accused of sounding like the lady who protesteth just a tad too much. ‘And, just for the record, I am not getting hysterical. I’m merely showing a normal degree of concern. What are you doing now?’ ‘I’m going to make sure the exhaust is clear of snow,’ he explained, zipping his jacket up to his chin. ‘The last thing we need is the car filling up with carbon monoxide. You stay put,’ he added, fishing a torch from his pocket. Rowena sketched an angry mock salute, which he acknowledged with an undisturbed grin. Where, she felt like asking, did he think she was about to go? She rubbed a small hole in the condensation that had built up on her window, and, nose almost pressed to the glass, watched him make his way to the rear of the vehicle through the thigh-deep snow that surrounded their stranded vehicle. Waiting impatiently for him to reappear, she exhaled against the glass and began to idly doodle in the fogged window. It wasn’t until she saw his tall figure re-materialise that she registered what she’d drawn on the glass. A giant heart pierced with an arrow and the initials RP and QT inside it stared accusingly back at her. With a horrified gasp Rowena rubbed out the childish, incriminating evidence and settled back in her seat before the door opened—either she was exhibiting early symptoms of cabin fever or her subconscious was in a sorry state! ‘Sorted,’ Quinn revealed a short time later as, shaking his head to release the snow clinging to his dark hair and eyelashes, he slid smoothly back into his seat. ‘Next we let the appropriate authorities know where we are.’ Rowena only had the vaguest of ideas who the appropriate authorities might be, but Quinn seemed confident he did. She watched as he withdrew his phone from his breast pocket and punched in a number. ‘The battery’s too low,’ he revealed after a few fruitless attempts. Rowena folded her arms protectively across her chest and discovered she was shaking. ‘Well, that’s just great, isn’t it?’ ‘So this is my fault now, is it?’ Rowena flushed with guilt and caught her lower lip between her teeth as she encountered his ironic, irritated stare. Did he think she needed it spelling out that she was to blame for their predicament? To her discomfort he pursued the topic further. ‘I suppose you’d prefer to be stuck in the middle of nowhere alone…?’ Rowena gulped. ‘Is that where we are?’ she whispered fearfully. ‘In the middle of nowhere?’ This wouldn’t have come as a shock to a brighter person, she concluded, averting her eyes from the emptiness of the dark bleak landscape outside her window. ‘You tell me, you were the navigator.’ She looked so stricken that Quinn wished he’d resisted the temptation to wind her up. Actually it wasn’t Rowena he was annoyed with, it was himself. He couldn’t blame his own actions on ignorance; it had been obvious from the outset that this insane journey had been doomed to failure. The only thing that had persuaded him to play ball was the sneaking suspicion that Rowena was quite capable of bribing some other idiot to help her if he didn’t—or, worse still, trying the journey on her own the minute his back was turned! The problem was Rowena was just too used to getting her own way. ‘Well, actually, I sort of lost track…’ One dark brow rose satirically as she fumbled for words. ‘All right,’ she conceded with a sigh. ‘I’ve not the faintest idea where we are.’ ‘I’ve got a confession to make too…’ I bet it’s not as spectacular as the one I’ve got to make some time soon! How long, Rowena wondered bleakly, was she going to be able to keep her secret? It didn’t help when every time she looked at Quinn her conscience gave her hell. She silently cursed the cruel fate that had conspired to throw them together this way. How could she tell Quinn she was expecting his baby when she still hadn’t had time to come to terms with it herself? ‘I already kind of suspected that you had no idea where we were.’ ‘Because I’m a female and therefore incapable of reading a map, I suppose.’ ‘It was a joke, Rowena. The usual response is a laugh—you ought to try it some time.’ His eyes drifted towards her mouth. His body responded helplessly to the sight of the soft pink contours. ‘I don’t know how you can joke about something like this,’ she choked, lifting resentful eyes to his face and discovering in the process that he didn’t look amused. His shifting expression revealed a totally unexpected gleam of raw hunger and hurriedly she looked away, her heart thudding scarily fast. ‘There is nothing even vaguely amusing about this situation as far as I can see,’ she said, forcing the words past the aching congested feeling in her throat. She viewed a mental graph charting her day’s achievements—it didn’t make happy reading. She’d set out to escape Quinn and reach Gran—she’d failed spectacularly on both counts. One minor consolation, she thought, was when you hit rock bottom things couldn’t get worse… Quinn looked slightly taken aback by her hissing animosity. ‘Never heard of laughing in the face of adversity, Rowena?’ Rowena snorted and refused point-blank to respond to his cajoling words or meet his eyes. ‘Well, I always say—’ ‘Something deep and profound, no doubt,’ she muttered. One dark brow quirked but he didn’t respond to her sarcasm. ‘Don’t waste time worrying over things you have no control over.’ ‘Profound…I was right.’ Annoyance stirred deep in Quinn’s emerald eyes. ‘This situation will be a lot easier to endure if you keep the smart backchat and cynicism to the bare minimum.’ Rowena heard the unspoken or else in his voice and her jaw tightened belligerently. ‘It would be a lot easier,’ she snapped back, ‘if you didn’t treat me like a child.’ ‘Have you listened to yourself lately, sweetheart? I’ve heard more mature comments from sulky seven-year-olds.’ Rowena flushed in annoyance as she reluctantly acknowledged there was more than a little justification in his accusation. ‘I know you’re anxious about your grandmother, but sitting here feeling sorry for ourselves and scoring points isn’t going to get us far.’ And pretending nothing was wrong would? ‘No, that’ll take a snowplough, and I’m not feeling sorry for myself.’ Quinn’s arm brushed against her leg as he leaned between their seats into the rear of the car, and the brief contact made her hopelessly responsive nerve endings surge into tingling life. Rowena couldn’t control the survival instinct that made her shrink protectively back in her seat—she hoped Quinn hadn’t noticed. ‘What are you doing now?’ she asked. He shot her a brief, unsmiling glance. ‘Concentrating on some of those things we do have some control over.’ He hefted his holdall onto his lap and unzipped it. ‘The petrol’s low, so we can’t leave the engine running indefinitely. It’s going to get cold so we should add a few layers.’ He pulled out several items of clothing. Snapping a sales tag off a crew-necked lightweight thermal fleece, he dropped it in Rowena’s lap. ‘Put that one on. It may not be your first choice in this season’s leisure wear but it’s better than hypothermia. Besides, if we don’t stay warm we might be obliged to raise our body temperatures in the good old-fashioned, time-tested manner…’ Rowena rubbed the fine smooth fabric absently between her fingers. Her blue eyes remained innocently uncomprehending; the faintest suggestion of a frown line above her neat aquiline nose deepened fractionally as their glances collided. ‘Skin to skin contact,’ he elaborated. The mocking smile that revealed a set of even white teeth didn’t reach his eyes. ‘The last resort…or the first, depending on your point of view…’ A rosy bloom washed away the pearly, almost opalescent sheen of her fair skin. ‘Oh!’ In her head she could see the contrast of pale fair skin against dark olive-toned flesh…She blinked hard to dispel the disturbing images. ‘And I got the impression just now you wouldn’t welcome that.’ He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. It was not encouraging to have the woman he was running after cringe away from his touch. He had noticed her shrinking back in her seat and now he thought she didn’t like him touching her! How ironic was that? ‘I could tell you how my skin craves your touch…’ She cleared her throat and her voice unexpectedly fell from faltering falsetto to husky rasp. ‘But I’m afraid, Quinn, I don’t have the time or inclination to soothe fragile male egos!’ Her scornful glare grew limp around the edges as she saw her contemptuous sarcasm had not cut him to the quick. Actually, all of a sudden he was oozing very male satisfaction and looking scarily confident! ‘Don’t worry, Rowena, I haven’t made out in a car since I was a teenager, and I’ve no intention of reacquainting myself with the joys now.’ Meaning I’m no major temptation! Terrific! She was horrified to catch herself contemplating just how long it would take her to make Mr Iron Control Tyler eat his words…and maybe her too! ‘I never have,’ she revealed absently as she slipped off her jacket prior to pulling on the fleece. ‘Never have what?’ Quinn selected a few more items before zipping up the bag and flinging it over his head. ‘Made out in a car,’ she elaborated, pulling the top over her head. She smoothed down her ruffled hair and found that Quinn was looking at her with a startled expression. ‘Never…?’ She shook her head. ‘Your education really was neglected, love.’ The expression in his eyes was making her nervous. It might be her imagination, but to Rowena it suggested that Quinn wouldn’t mind filling in the gaps in her education personally. ‘It’s hardly an obligatory development milestone and I had more important things than groping on my mind in my teens,’ she told him with lofty scorn. ‘Aren’t you curious?’ ‘Not even slightly,’ she said, clumsily drawing her padded jacket on over the fleece. ‘Well, if you change your mind…’ Rowena flushed to the roots of her hair. Laughing to himself, Quinn began adding his own layers. The sound of his deep laughter made her grit her teeth. In her line of work, Rowena had flirted with film stars and discussed the global economy with statesmen; she could hold her own in the most sophisticated of company and she didn’t enjoy the novel experience of being made to feel like a gauche, inexperienced adolescent. ‘Shall we pool our supplies?’ Quinn asked once he was satisfied Rowena was insulated to his satisfaction, which involved the addition of several layers of unattractive clothing. He laid out two chocolate bars and a packet of mints on the dashboard. ‘I suppose you’re on a permanent diet.’ He sounded resigned. ‘Nothing remotely resembling carbohydrate or sugar in your pockets?’ ‘I don’t diet, but neither do I fill my pockets with junk food on the off chance I get cut off by a blizzard.’ ‘Have you not got anything useful on your person?’ ‘Perhaps it would have been more sensible to ask me that before you made me pile on the layers. I feel like a mummy,’ Rowena complained. Head on one side, he considered her suggestion. ‘Nah,’ he denied. ‘You look like one of those little nests of cute Russian dolls. What are they called…?’ ‘I’m not sure, but the way I recall it they don’t have waists.’ She glanced down at her own disguised by the bulk of her clothes and went a little paler as she remembered that her own would most likely be just a memory soon. ‘No slur on your waistline intended,’ he soothed, amused by this unusual display of feminine vanity. ‘You know, I had a set of them when I was a kid. Removing the outer layers never lost its appeal for me…’ His indolent drawl, laced with sexual innuendo, had Rowena shivering under her layers and frantically breaking contact with those mesmeric eyes of his—eyes that carried a message not nearly as innocent as his words. ‘I thought dolls were for girls,’ she mocked, looking away, her cheeks self-consciously pink. ‘My parents are the couple least likely to be heard saying boys will be boys. They were dead against sexual stereotyping of any type,’ he explained solemnly. ‘I was encouraged to be in touch with my feminine side from an early age, and I’d say,’ he admitted with a provocative leer, ‘that on the whole it paid dividends.’ ‘I doubt very much if your parents had those sort of dividends in mind,’ she observed with a disgusted sniff. ‘They could give you some lessons in not being narrow-minded,’ he shot back. ‘I’m not narrow-minded because I find your bed-hopping lifestyle distasteful,’ she countered austerely. A look of sardonic amusement gradually spread across his face as his green eyes searched her flushed features. ‘You’re jealous!’ He laughed with throaty masculine delight. Rowena’s mouth was actually open to hotly deny this ridiculous claim when a thrill of shocked recognition shot through her body—he was right! The thought of Quinn with other women brought out the green-eyed monster in her. ‘Nothing,’ she lied shakily, ‘could be farther from the truth. I don’t envy your conquests, I just wish like hell I hadn’t been one of them. In fact,’ she added, warming to her theme, ‘if I could go back and erase one moment in my life it would be that one in New York!’ She heard the hissing sound of Quinn’s furious inhalation, deeply regretful of what she’d said and just as deeply determined not to retract it. ‘And that would be because you hated every minute of it…?’ With eyes like ice chips and a harsh, scathing frown on his face, Quinn still looked sinfully attractive—in fact, if she was totally honest, the menace added an element of not unattractive danger. ‘Yes…no…you know I didn’t. You’re a perfect lover! Happy now?’ she asked, her voice thick with resentment. ‘Not especially. If it was so damned perfect, why do you want to erase it?’ Shaking her head, Rowena turned away from the simmering fury in his frustrated glare. Chin cupped in her hands, she rocked forward in her seat and sighed. When she lifted her head Quinn was shocked to see the sparkle of tears on the end of her long eyelashes. ‘If it hadn’t happened my life wouldn’t be so complicated.’ Quinn gave a snort of disgust. ‘What is it with you? Don’t you allow for any spontaneity at all in your life?’ His easy contempt brought all her fear and resentment rushing to the surface. How easy it was for him, how simple—he wasn’t the one carrying a baby; he wasn’t the one whose life had jumped about a hundred scary miles off track! ‘I have no intention of making excuses for the way I am to you or anybody else, and I don’t share your fondness for spontaneity, Quinn, which is hardly surprising. If I hadn’t been so spontaneous I wouldn’t be pregnant!’ she yelled. There was a delay of perhaps twenty seconds before Quinn’s head went back as though she’d landed a blow on his jaw—or maybe somewhere even more sensitive. Clamping a hand over her mouth, she watched the healthy colour seep from his face until his bronzed skin looked almost greyish. Rowena’s own colour wasn’t looking too healthy. Saying it out loud had suddenly made the pregnancy scarily real; until this moment she’d been able to file the facts away for future consideration. That was no longer possible; the situation had suddenly been catapulted into the here and now! ‘Oh, God! I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that…’ Was there a gentle way of telling someone he was going to be a father? ‘But you made me so angry…’ Looking curiously vacant, Quinn’s glazed sea-green eyes fixed frowningly on her face. ‘Pregnant…?’ He caught his breath in a long sibilant hiss. ‘You did say pregnant…? With my baby?’ Rowena flinched. The question hurt her more than she had thought possible. ‘Sorry, but there are no other candidates.’ She rubbed a shaky, distracted hand over her forehead and felt the clammy dampness of her skin. She shook her head. ‘Forget I said anything,’ she instructed him with a bitter little laugh. ‘This is my problem.’ ‘Forget!’ Rowena could almost feel the waves of incredulous fury emanating from his rigid frame. ‘So this is why you’ve been avoiding me. This is why you wouldn’t speak to me…When were you going to tell me?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Or weren’t you going to tell me…?’ This was just the start! Rowena shook her head and closed her eyes, envisaging the inevitable recriminations, arguments and ultimatums, and the unstable concoction of fear, hurt and unacknowledged yearning that she’d been keeping a lid on over the past few weeks suddenly exploded. Tears began to cascade silently down her alabaster-pale cheeks until with a husky cry she tore open the car door and, oblivious to Quinn’s harsh warning cries, she stepped out into the darkness. It didn’t matter that she had nowhere to run to—the instinct to run away went beyond logic. Actually it was more a matter of stumbling than running. The snow was still falling in a blinding horizontal sheet and it was lying a good two feet deep on the ground—considerably deeper where it had drifted. The world was white on black, but not silent black or still white, but a noisy, roaring, inhospitable place that filled her ears with a constant howl and almost drowned out the thunderous thump of her own heartbeat. She struggled onwards, her head bowed against the biting intensity of the driving snow, which bit into her skin like sharp ice pellets. Rowena concentrated on her feet, picking them up one at a time, and taking the next step. If she thought at all it was just about keeping going and picking herself up when she stumbled. The picking herself up part rapidly became more and more difficult. When it came to the point where every step was agony and each breath made her feel as if her lungs were on fire, perhaps someone with less guts and sheer pigheaded stubbornness would have lain down quietly in the soft snow, but it didn’t occur to Rowena even for one second to give up—she was not one of life’s quitters. The dry stone wall she encountered suddenly offered a little respite from the worst of the wind. She squatted down behind it trying to catch her breath and pondering glumly on the reckless stupidity of her actions. The logic that had told her escaping from the safety of the car was a really good idea was growing fuzzier by the second. Now she had the leisure to think, it finally dawned on her that she was in very real danger. The chain of events that had led her, the accomplished editor of a world-famous magazine, to this place was of secondary importance. What she needed to focus her thoughts on was getting herself back to the car. Where was the car? She gulped and pushed aside the gibbering fear that was just a whisper away. She’d done the wrong thing; now it was time to do the right thing. There was a right thing to do in the circumstances, wasn’t there…? Her racing brain retrieved the useful memory of a documentary she’d recently watched about people who’d survived in far worse situations than this. The tale of a chap who had survived for three nights in sub-zero temperatures on Snowdonia had featured prominently. Of course, she was neither well equipped nor an ex-SAS member, which made the link tenuous—but how hard could it be to dig a hole in the snow and sit tight…? She shivered and wished she’d paid more attention to the survival details they’d described at the time. Noticing that the blackness around was less dense, she stood up and, braving the worst of the buffeting chilly wind, scanned the bleak landscape for some clue as to which way she’d come, or some sign of life, a house…anything! She was about to sink back down, her spirits rock-bottom, when she caught a glimpse of movement. Heart racing hopefully, she lifted a hand to shield her eyes and squinted through the blizzard. She gave a sob of relief as she made out the definite outline of a tall figure moving parallel to her. It was impossible to make out any details but Rowena was sure it was Quinn; it had to be Quinn. Rowena saw no conflict between her craving to find a safe haven in Quinn’s arms and her recent, equally strong desire to flee from him. He’s coming for me. Her blissful anticipation of rescue was short-lived. It didn’t take her long to figure out that if he carried on in that direction he’d not see her at all. The situation called for immediate action. She leapt to her feet, waving her warms above her head. Her cries were whipped away by the wind. The solitary figure, battling through the elements on the course that would take him away from her, remained oblivious to her wild gesticulations and cries. She had to get to him. The burst of adrenaline that surged through her body enabled her to keep going longer than would otherwise have been possible, but eventually not even Rowena’s legendary determination could keep her on her feet. Lying face down in the snow, so exhausted she couldn’t lift a finger, Rowena felt the tears seep from between her closed eyelids and for the first time in her life contemplated defeat. The tears hadn’t been flowing very long when she felt a large hand clamp over her shoulder. A moment later she was hauled bodily to her feet. Big, capable gloved hands cupped her face and brushed the snow from it. Rowena found herself looking into a grim face that looked harsh enough to be carved from the savage elements. Snow clung to Quinn’s long eyelashes and dark brows, his skin looked especially dark in contrast, and his sea-green eyes glittered like gems. ‘Quinn,’ she mouthed weakly, but nothing audible emerged as her lips moved stiffly. Closing her eyes, she let her body sag limply against him. She felt his chest lift as a powerful sigh juddered through his body, then his arms closed tightly about her. For a moment they stood that way, his breath warm against her cheek as her heartbeat slowed to a frantic canter. For a short, blissful time Rowena completely forgot the storm raging around them. Too soon he was pushing her away and his keen gaze was skimming urgently over her face as his hands moved in a similarly capable, clinical manner over her body, checking for injuries. He couldn’t see any signs of injury, but…‘Are you hurt?’ Rowena sensed his bellowed question rather than heard it as his words were snatched away by an extra-strong gust of wind. It was crazy, she reflected. Nothing essentially had changed about her situation, it was still fraught with danger—danger of her own making! Even a man like Quinn, who only saw problems as things to be solved rather than insurmountable obstacles, couldn’t subdue the elements, but somehow his mere presence made a positive outcome to the situation seem inevitable. Quinn saw her shake her head to indicate her unharmed condition, and relief more intense than anything he had ever felt before flooded through him. She was all right—he could afford to be angry now. Rowena recoiled from the lick of fury in his eyes. ‘Have your lost your mind, woman?’ he asked with hoarse incredulity. Better lose my mind than my heart, she thought glumly. ‘How far is the car?’ As her own stupidity was not something she could defend it seemed appropriate to change the subject. Quinn frowned and brought his face down to level with hers. His nose nudged hers and she felt his exhaled breath warm on her icily numb face. She repeated her question. ‘Not far—and I’ve an excellent sense of direction,’ he replied. There was little point panicking her. He’d been too busy concentrating on following Rowena’s tracks in the snow, which were being covered at a terrifyingly rapid rate, to look out for landmarks. ‘That means you’ve no idea either,’ she translated. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be desperately woodsy? What about those back-to-nature stints you were always taking—communing with nature and all that rubbish?’ Quinn didn’t reply. He just turned up the fur-trimmed collar of her jacket and, taking her face firmly between his hands, kissed her hard on the lips. His lips have to be cold, so mine must be colder, Rowena surmised vaguely as his warm mouth moved in a very expert fashion against her own lips, which parted easily under his probing assault. His thrusting tongue hungrily sought the deep recesses of her open mouth and the warm, lethargic feeling that had spread through her treacherously co-operative body morphed into hot, liquid fire. With a throaty cry she pressed her supple body up against him and moulded herself to the hard, inflexible contours of his male body. A small moan of protest emerged from her lips when he stopped kissing her and lifted his head. ‘My God, woman, but you do choose your moments!’ Quinn breathed, a wry smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. ‘You started it.’ And finished it! She cleared her throat, embarrassed by the recognition that she’d displayed considerably less will-power than him. After a brief glance into her antagonistic face Quinn pulled the thermal-lined leather gloves off his own hands and slid them onto her icy extremities. Her mouth opened in protest. ‘But…’ ‘For once in your life, shut up!’ he advised, giving her collar a final tweak. Rowena was still in a submissively shocked, post-kiss condition when he heaved all five feet ten of her casually across his shoulder, fireman fashion, and strode off. ‘Comfy?’ he bellowed over his shoulder. ‘No!’ Rowena hit his broad back with her fists a couple of times and yelled insults about Neanderthals, but it was a purely token protest. It might be a very ungainly form of transport, but she was too exhausted to raise any serious objections to this treatment. Fortunately there was nobody about to see her ignominious position, for if there had been her credibility as a serious feminist would have been shot to hell! She settled herself into as comfortable a position as was possible and comforted herself with the fact she could blame any future kissing incidents on the prolonged rush of blood to the head she was experiencing. Quinn soon realised that the odds on them finding their way back to the car were remote. His eyes methodically scanned the horizon, searching for some form of shelter as he tramped carefully onward. His thoughts were growing grim when he caught his first glimpse of the chimney stack just visible behind the copse of trees. He judged it couldn’t be more than a hundred metres or so away. Rowena felt him pause and change direction. She lifted her head. ‘What is it?’ she mouthed, craning her head around at an angle to get a glimpse of his profile. Rowena followed the direction of his gaze when he jerked his head in the direction of the dark patch of skeletal trees up ahead. She couldn’t see anything, but Quinn obviously could and she was prepared to take it on faith; Quinn wasn’t the type to hallucinate. She mimed her desire to get down and after a moment he acquiesced. With his arm around her waist hugging her to his side, they made their way towards the small copse. It felt to Rowena as if it took for ever, but eventually they reached a small rusty gate that led up what, before the snow, might have been a garden path to the front door of the stone cottage that the chimney stack was attached to. By this time it was slightly more morning than night, and the pale grey dawn light made it easier to assess their surroundings. Quinn pulled the hood back from his head and scanned the unfriendly aspect of the building. Rowena did the same, displaying far less objectivity about the closed and deserted look of the house than he was. ‘It doesn’t look as if anyone’s at home,’ she quavered as her heart sank. Her spirits lifted a little as she recalled the uncivilised hour. ‘But they’d be in bed, wouldn’t they?’ ‘Possibly,’ Quinn agreed, sparing her the briefest of glances. ‘If so we’re about to wake them up.’ He manoeuvred his way past a snow-covered garden trough filled with ice-encrusted Christmas roses and hammered on the front door. There was no reply. ‘Stop there. I’ll go and check around the back.’ His perceptive glance swivelled back to her face. ‘You got a problem with that?’ Rowena closed her mouth and swallowed back the instinctive protest on her tongue. She shook her head firmly as if the idea of being left alone didn’t make her as jumpy as hell. Her chin went up. ‘I’ll be fine.’ ‘Good girl,’ he approved, his eyes crinkling deliciously as he smiled warmly at her. She watched worriedly as he edged his way around the far corner of the building. His shoulder caught the branch of a snow-laden tree and dumped its entire covering onto the ground, almost blocking the path he’d just taken. She stamped her feet on the ground. They’d be really painful when the circulation began to return—if it ever began to return. No, cancel the if. Be positive, Rowena! Quinn was probably not gone much more than five minutes, but to Rowena it felt like a lot longer. When she heard the unmistakable sounds of the bolts on the front door being pushed back she smiled from pure, delirious relief and rubbed her gloved hands together in eager anticipation. When the door swung inwards the heavy snow lying against it fell inside the room with a rush. Quinn appeared. ‘Someone was in,’ she cried, standing back while he kicked some of the powdery snow back outside. ‘No.’ ‘No?’ A frown creased the smoothness of her wide brow ‘Then how…?’ A hand shot out and pulled her unceremonially inside. Rubbing her arm, Rowena glared at Quinn as he closed the door against the elements. ‘I broke in,’ he explained, turning back to her once the process was completed. Rowena’s eyes widened. ‘B-but you can’t just break in…’ she stuttered, her law-abiding instincts deeply shocked by his casual disclosure. She blinked as he shone a torch across her face. ‘There’s no electricity but I found this. Take it,’ he added, pushing a second torch into her hands. ‘You stole it.’ ‘If you’re going to be pedantic, I borrowed it,’ he responded in reply to her disapproving retort. ‘What would you suggest we do, Rowena?’ Quinn asked, sounding exasperated. ‘Stumble around in the dark, or maybe freeze to death outside?’ ‘No, of course not, but—’ ‘No buts about it,’ Quinn retorted, handing her the torch and turning to pull open a heavy curtain from a window.’ ‘Heavens!’ Rowena exclaimed, taking note of the room she was standing in for the first time. ‘Yeah, not what you expect, is it?’ It certainly wasn’t. The modest exterior of the building gave little hint of the fact that the inside of what must originally have been a pretty humble cottage had been virtually ripped out to leave one large open-plan living area on the ground floor. The flagstone floors were scattered with a selection of good quality, bright ethnic rugs. The original artwork on the stone walls was equally colourful and the eclectic mixture of furniture shrieked expensive. ‘I wonder who lives here?’ ‘Well, whoever does, they weren’t expecting visitors.’ Rowena responded with automatic antagonism to his authoritative tone. ‘How do you know?’ ‘Only one bed.’ He nodded towards the polished wood staircase that led upstairs. ‘A big bed,’ he added, a definite note of amused approval in his voice. ‘How can you think about beds at a time like this?’ she asked, trying hard not to let her mind dwell on the joint subject of Quinn and large beds. ‘I was thinking of the lack of spare beds—not what goes on in them.’ I wasn’t, Rowena admitted to herself. Shivering, she continued to examine their surroundings while Quinn began to open up the rest of the curtains. The south-facing wall of the room turned out to be almost totally glass, and it had the effect of bringing the outdoors into the room. Rowena could see how that might be rather nice on a sunlit evening, or even on a terrible snowy evening if the heating was on full blast and there was a big fire in the hearth, but right now it made her shiver uncontrollably and look away. It was hard not to think about what might have been if Quinn hadn’t found her. Quinn looked around, mentally prioritising. For the moment personal interests had to be of secondary importance. ‘It could be worse,’ he conceded, rubbing his hands together. ‘Next…a bit of heat, I think,’ he decided after a moment’s practical reflection. He opened the doors of the black cast-iron wood burner that sat in the big stone inglenook and found it laid ready to light. Another quick search revealed a convenient box of matches on top of the log basket on the hearth. He waited until the tinder inside caught and closed the door and turned to Rowena. ‘We can’t just make ourselves at home, Quinn,’ Rowena fretted. ‘If it makes you any happier you can make a full inventory of any items we use and we can leave our phone numbers. You could start now—item one, two matches…’ ‘I suppose…’ she began dubiously. Quinn’s dark brows slated satirically. ‘I was joking.’ ‘Well, I’m not, and what if the owners come home and find us…squatting?’ Unable to stop shivering violently, Rowena moved closer to the giant room heater, which was beginning to chuck out a little warmth—just enough to stop her breath freezing quite so obviously in the air. ‘That’s hardly likely, given the weather conditions, but if they do it’ll save me the bother of finding the fuse box. Not that it’s likely to help. I suspect we can put the lack of power down to a localised cut. Or maybe not so local,’ he mused thoughtfully. ‘The snow’s probably brought half the lines in the county down.’ Rowena searched his face and found no signs of the guilty discomfort she was experiencing. She found it incredible he could just walk into someone else’s home and not feel like a thief, and she envied him. ‘Doesn’t it bother you at all that we’re breaking and entering?’ ‘I’d prefer to see myself featured in the tabloids as a daring housebreaker than a frozen corpse,’ he admitted frankly. When it was put like that, her concerns did seem trivial. ‘Which reminds me…’ Rowena watched as his dark glossy head bent. He began systematically opening the doors of the handsome maple kitchen cupboards until, with a grunt of triumph, he emerged with a thick piece of card, which after a bit of judicious trimming he proceeded to jam in the hole in the window he had smashed to get inside. Rowena smiled reluctantly as she slowly stretched her aching limbs. No number of hours dutifully—some would say obsessively—spent in the gym had prepared her well-toned thigh and calf muscles for tramping through snow. ‘Are you sure you haven’t done this before?’ Quinn turned, his narrowed eyes focusing on her face. ‘Today’s just full of firsts…’ he revealed unsmilingly. It wasn’t hard to catch his drift. Rowena’s breath escaped in one long silent hiss, her hands curled tightly inside the too-big gloves as she tensed expectantly, but to her relief he didn’t pursue the subject. ‘I don’t suppose that jacket is waterproof?’ ‘Maybe not, but it’s in this season’s must have colour…’ she explained, tongue firmly in cheek. ‘Do you like it? I got my usual thirty per cent discount…’ Quinn liked what was in it. ‘Nice to see you haven’t lost your sense of humour.’ ‘I didn’t think you thought I had one.’ She stopped, shaking too hard to continue. Quinn silently berated himself for standing around chatting while she was freezing. ‘You must be wet to the skin,’ he announced after subjecting her dejected figure to a searching scrutiny. ‘We need to get you out of them and into dry things,’ he said, concern in his eyes despite his brusque tone. ‘Pity there’s no hot water. What you could do with is a really hot bath…’ His voice trailed off. Despite the fact Quinn was an exceptionally disciplined man and he knew his main priority was doing everything within his means to ensure their survival, he couldn’t evict a maverick image from his mind of the long hot steamy bath they’d shared that night in his hotel room in New York. It took all his will-power to finally dispel the image of Rowena, her sultry smile just about visible through the wet strands of hair plastered across her face the moment before she’d thrown her head back and stretched her arms languorously above her head. The action had drawn her firm breasts upwards as he’d allowed the water cupped in his hands to slowly fall over the rosy-tipped quivering peaks. ‘Quinn…Quinn…are you all right?’ The odd glazed expression slid from his eyes as he gave his head a tiny shake and focused on Rowena’s concerned face. ‘Did you say something?’ he said, sounding unaccountably defensive to Rowena. Her puzzled frown deepened. ‘Are you all right?’ ‘Barring the odd touch of frostbite—’ he extended his hands palm up towards her ‘—I’m fine.’ She stopped puzzling over the unusually harsh rasp in his voice as she examined his tapering fingertips. It wasn’t just the thought of those clever fingers being harmed that made her stomach muscles quiver violently. ‘Don’t joke about it,’ she pleaded huskily, touching the tip of her tongue to the beads of moisture along her upper lip. ‘Sit by the fire and get some of those wet things off. I’ll go upstairs and see what I can…borrow.’ One brow arched, he shot her a challenging look. Rowena shrugged her shoulders and threw him the torch she still carried. Once she was alone she did as Quinn requested, though unfastening buttons was not easy with fingers that were slow and clumsy with cold. She had stripped down to her bra, pants, shirt and socks by the time he returned. Quinn returned quietly. The hunched figure, her slender back turned to him, was violently shivering before the fire. He was engulfed by a wave of tenderness so intense it felt as if a hand had casually thrust through his ribs and were squeezing his heart. It was the sound of Quinn’s soft, sibilant curse that made Rowena conscious she was no longer alone. Like a startled animal she turned her head and their eyes meshed, violet blue with deep green. No glare of oncoming headlights could have been as paralysing as his intense scrutiny, nor could they have made her feel more helpless and vulnerable. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. As questions went that one was particularly dumb, and his tight-lipped grim response underlined the dumbness. ‘How long have you got?’ Rowena bit her lip and turned her head away. She dealt on a daily basis with important, powerful people and she had never been short of a clever reply. Quinn was the only person she knew who could make her feel stupid, clumsy and totally inadequate. This alone was reason enough not to get involved with him. Pity I didn’t figure that out a bit sooner, she reflected, pushing aside the memories still fresh in her mind that completely contradicted this bitter theory. The flip side of feeling stupid and clumsy was feeling gloriously empowered and energised—embracing your sexuality was a scary thing to do at her age! She watched as he dropped the large pile of stuff he was carrying on the nearest armchair and advanced towards her carrying a white fluffy bath sheet, which he draped around her from head to toe. Rowena felt the blast of heat as he opened the wood burner with the toe of his boot and threw on a couple more dry logs, which immediately began to crackle satisfactorily. Quinn then threw off his own waterproof, which, unlike her own, seemed to have lived up to its description before he joined her. ‘Now let’s get your circulation moving,’ he said, dropping down onto his knees in front of her. ‘You look blue,’ he added, swallowing hard as his eyes scanned the slender rounded contours of her long slim legs. ‘W…what are you doing?’ Wobbling, she leant heavily on his shoulder as he lifted one foot to roll down her sodden sock. It hit the floor with a wet thwack as he tossed it carelessly over his shoulder. ‘You’re so untidy,’ she disapproved as he allowed her to replace her bare foot on the ground. ‘Show a bit of respect—this is someone else’s home.’ Quinn lifted his head and looked around the big living space. ‘I don’t know,’ he mused. ‘I think I could feel at home here.’ ‘I thought you already did. I’d feel a lot happier if you didn’t.’ She couldn’t throw off the guilty conviction that any minute now the real owners would walk through the door. ‘We’ll debate the moral aspects later,’ he promised drily as the other sock joined its mate. ‘I’d prefer to concentrate my efforts on avoiding hypothermia right now, if you don’t mind. Take that shirt off,’ he instructed her tersely. ‘And whatever’s underneath it.’ The last time Quinn had ordered her to remove intimate items of her clothing there had been a lot less objectivity in his manner. Rowena dismissed this memory, ashamed of the rush of heat it brought to the surface of her cold skin and the achy quivering effect low in her belly. Irrationally she even found herself resenting his practicality. Perhaps now he knew she was pregnant he didn’t think of her in that way…? This was a definite possibility—after all, how many men found hugely pregnant women seductive…? Rowena didn’t know, but she suspected most who claimed they did were just paying lip-service. She could always ignore his instruction on principle—the principle being what, exactly, Rowena? she asked herself mockingly. What’s bothering me anyhow? If she had an ounce of common sense she’d be thanking her lucky stars that exposure to low temperatures and the thought of her shortly being the size of an elephant made him immune to her charms! ‘Don’t just stand there, woman, it’s not like I haven’t seen everything there is to see,’ he reminded her crudely. ‘The last time you were invited.’ She immediately regretted introducing this subject as an image floated before her eyes of herself with her skirt yanked up around the top of her thighs, her shirt open to the waist revealing shamelessly swollen nipples still glistening and wet from the ministrations of his tongue and lips as she lay beneath him, begging him with hoarse urgency to do whatever he liked—and as quickly as possible! Dry-throated, she swallowed. The shame and, worse still, the fizz of hot squirmy excitement low in her belly made her assiduously avoid his eyes. She still couldn’t believe it had been her doing and saying those things. Through the concealing shield of her lashes she saw his dark head lift once more. ‘So I was…’ The smoky reflective gleam in his eyes made Rowena, whose heart was already banging frantically against her ribcage, wonder if he was recalling the same moment—mind you, there had been others equally incriminating. One corner of his mobile mouth lifted in his trademark lazy half-smile. ‘If it makes you happier I won’t peek.’ Rowena had no intention of giving him the opportunity! Careful not to dislodge the concealing bath sheet, she slid her arms out of the shirt and slipped it over her narrow shoulders, very conscious that all she now wore were her bra and an insubstantial pair of pants. It occurred to her as she modestly unclipped her light lacy bra in a similar fashion that she was behaving in a totally untypical coy fashion—it wasn’t her own body she wasn’t comfortable with, but the way Quinn made her feel about that body. Unlike any other man of her acquaintance he made her feel like a deeply sexual woman, a woman with strong appetites and uncontrollable passions. She didn’t think she knew that woman very well—she trusted her even less! Quinn made no comment, but she could almost hear his sarcastic thoughts when she folded both items of clothing into a neat parcel before disposing of them. ‘Ouch, that hurts!’ she protested as he began to rub her legs briskly with a second towel. Tingling life painfully returned to her limbs as he ignored her protests. ‘Don’t be a baby!’ His curt tone was as abrasive as his actions. She felt his rhythmic actions falter at just about the same moment the ‘B’ word made the inevitable link in her own head too. He looked awfully pale—perhaps he was in denial as she had been at first…? Lower lip caught between her teeth—it stopped it trembling—and still tented in the bath sheet, she took the other towel from his hands. The atmosphere of slightly uneasy intimacy had become one of cold suspicion and hostility. ‘You don’t need a medical diploma on the wall to do that, I think I can manage now,’ she mumbled, avoiding his eyes. After a moment Quinn released the towel with a curt nod. ‘If that’s what you want. Only it’s not going to go away, Rowena.’ She didn’t make the mistake of thinking he was referring to her goose-bumps. ‘Unless of course you make it go away…?’ |
CHAPTER FIVE
THE full significance of Quinn’s tense postscript was lost on Rowena for a full twenty seconds. When his meaning did finally hit her, her violet-blue eyes shot open. ‘You think that I’d…?’ Drawing herself up to her full height, she fixed her outraged gaze coldly on the man still kneeling at her feet. Despite his stance there was nothing remotely submissive about Quinn’s expression. Neither, much to her amazement, did it contain any of the critical condemnation she’d expected to see. Her righteous wrath fizzled away as she recognised the tense apprehension in his unblinking emerald stare. Apprehension wasn’t something she associated with Quinn. He always gave the impression of being so completely in control of himself and events, but he was undoubtedly stealing himself to hear her reply. What did you expect? she derided herself scornfully. You told the man you were carrying his baby just before you ran off into a blizzard forcing him to risk life and limb to save you. You didn’t have to be very imaginative to figure out these events might have shaken even Quinn’s impregnable self-assurance. The hypocrisy of her own outraged posture also struck her forcibly—why wouldn’t he think she’d consider the easy option? It was only when she had considered it that she herself had realised that abortion was not an easy option—not for her at least… She heaved a tiny sigh and shook her head—the gesture was infinitesimal, but it had a dramatic effect on Quinn, who visibly slumped with relief as the tension eased from his lean body. Quinn’s eyes closed. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead and massaged the tightly stretched skin, then exhaled heavily. His eyes opened. ‘I’m glad.’ This throaty revelation was unnecessary—Rowena had never seen anything that approached the concentrated elation she saw briefly reflected in his gleaming eyes. Pressing his hands against his well-muscled thighs, he then rose in one smooth, supple motion. Just watching him move made her tummy muscles clench rhythmically. Without speaking, he caught the edges of the towel draped over her shoulders, pulled it up over her head and began to systematically blot the moisture from her hair. Rowena stood there meekly accepting his ministrations, fighting the ridiculous urge to turn her face into his capacious palm and press her lips against his warm skin, and wondering with the tiny remaining sane portion of her mind why he wasn’t saying anything else—he had to want to. She broke the silence when she could no longer stand wondering. ‘Don’t get the idea…I mean…this isn’t an unplanned teenage pregnancy…’ His slanted satirical smile didn’t reach his watchful eyes. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’ ‘I meant the teenage part,’ she elaborated swiftly, horrified that he might think even for one minute she’d got pregnant deliberately. ‘It’s not like I didn’t know all the options open to me.’ Sure, the sarcastic voice in her head agreed, you were so clued up you didn’t even protect yourself properly. ‘And I did think about it…not having the baby,’ she admitted, a shade of defensiveness creeping into her tone as her heavy lashes lifted off her cheek. Quinn’s eyes flickered briefly down to hers before he returned his attention to his task. ‘Considering the number of times you’ve lectured me on the rights a woman should have over her own body, this doesn’t come as a massive shock. But you’ve made your decision…’ Rowena’s eyes widened—he was right, it was time to throw the pro and con lists she’d religiously compiled out of the window. She’d have saved a lot of time if she’d just followed her gut instincts from the beginning. ‘That’s the important thing.’ ‘It was my decision to make.’ It seemed critical to establish this. ‘Yes.’ Perversely his ready compliance annoyed her. Anyone would think she wanted him to give her an argument, call her a shallow ice-maiden who put her career before everything else. Maybe deep down she thought she deserved condemnation. ‘And I suppose you expect me to believe you’d be displaying this impressive tolerance and understanding if my decision didn’t happen to be the one you wanted me to make?’ Or was she making yet another assumption…? Maybe the thought of fatherhood under these circumstances didn’t please him—maybe he totally hated the idea…? Perhaps he’d like nothing better than to learn she was planning an abortion…? There was a big difference between wanting to share a bed with an independent woman and being lumbered with the responsibilities of fatherhood. Rowena had heard enough horror stories to know that even when the event was planned a baby could put the most stable relationship under a lot of strain. This didn’t surprise her, but what did was the fact that most of these people reduced to walking zombies by their newborn offspring frequently went on to have another baby and in some cases more than that! Not that it was reasonable to compare herself and Quinn to these people. By no stretch of the imagination could what they had be termed stable—for that matter it could hardly be termed a relationship! Quinn’s eyes skimmed her face, acknowledging her cynical, slightly wary expression with a wry grimace. Heaving a sigh, he let the towel slide back down to her shoulders and finally stopped acting as if extracting every last drop of moisture from her hair was all he was thinking about. ‘I could say I’m the very epitome of liberal-minded political correctness…but I’m not an impartial observer here, Rowena. There would have been some…conflict,’ he admitted, choosing his words with obvious care. ‘Meaning you’d have fought me every inch of the way,’ Rowena translated, feeling foolishly relieved to know he wouldn’t prefer her to get rid of the baby. ‘Meaning I’d have done what I had to. I respect the fact it’s your body and therefore the ultimate decision has to be yours, but it’s our baby and I’d have done my utmost—not just because of the baby, but because…’ He stopped mid impassioned speech and surveyed her face with darkened eyes. ‘I don’t think any of us know how we’re going to act in a given situation until we find ourselves there.’ Rowena relaxed a little and nodded. She didn’t resent his truthfulness. Honesty always had been one of Quinn’s most attractive characteristics—if you left out the incredible body, the air of attractive danger and a voice that could soften the most cynical female, deep inside where it mattered. ‘Sometimes,’ she admitted huskily, matching his honesty with some of her own, ‘things seem all right, in theory…’ Her expression grew sombre as she contemplated with trepidation the inevitable long-reaching consequences this decision was going to have on her life and future. ‘Admitting you are wrong isn’t a sign of weakness.’ Her indignation flared—as if he was the expert on admitting he was wrong! ‘What are you doing?’ she gasped as, totally without warning, Quinn swept her up into his arms. Alarming as it was to find herself cradled in extremely strong masculine arms, when you were five feet ten inches there was some novelty value in being treated as if you weighed nothing. She recalled how far he’d carried her earlier in the blizzard and realised with a tinge of awe that his impressive physique was not just for show. Rowena was just beginning to almost enjoy herself when Quinn spoiled it. ‘You’re really not as light as you look.’ He grunted as he hefted her a little higher into his arms. Rowena scowled at his hawkish profile as she automatically threw an arm over his shoulder to steady herself. Just because she had never felt the urge to seek shelter in strong male arms, it didn’t mean she relished being reminded she wasn’t one of those petite females who brought out the protective, chivalrous instincts in men. On the other hand, men—the ones she didn’t intimidate—saw her as a challenge, someone to be subdued. ‘Nobody asked you to pick me up,’ she reminded him sourly. ‘It’s quicker this way. We need to speed up the process—you’re not warming up fast enough.’ Rowena had no argument with that—she felt as if she’d never be warm again—it was Quinn’s method of achieving this desirable goal that had her worried. ‘Will you put me down?’ Again with no warning he did as she requested, right onto the centrally situated, oversized sofa, which was laden with cushions and draped with a richly coloured kelim. Quinn impatiently brushed half the cushions onto the floor with his forearm and pushed the rest into a soft pile behind her back as he set her down. He then proceeded to drag the heavy sofa with her on it closer to the fire. Before she could comment, let alone protest, he pulled a king-sized duvet from the stack of things he’d brought downstairs and with a curt instruction to, ‘Lift your bottom, sweetheart!’ he slid it under her on the sofa, then folded it envelope-style over her. Still shaking helplessly with cold that seemed to have bitten deep into her bones, she pushed her chin on top of the soft cocoon. ‘Is it just with me you act like some sort of prehistoric caveman? Or don’t you ever consult anybody…?’ She stopped and tried not to stare too obviously as Quinn began to unzip the leather trousers he was still wearing. She tried to be objective about what was revealed by his impromptu striptease, but it wasn’t easy. He really had the very best legs a man could have, she decided, trying to drag her covetous gaze from the athletically bronzed strength of his long lower limbs. ‘I’m sure consultation is a good thing and as a rule I’m all for it,’ he asserted, acting as if he hadn’t heard her loud sceptical snort. ‘But when a problem needs to be resolved without delay I don’t think committee decisions are the most effective way of going about it.’ ‘I always had you pegged as one of those despotic types in a previous life,’ she revealed crankily. If he shed his clothes half as fast as he made decisions she didn’t have long before she was in deep trouble. Rowena despised her weakness as the heavy dragging sensation low in her pelvis got increasingly difficult to ignore. ‘A benevolent despot.’ ‘There’s no such thing,’ she claimed throatily. ‘Remember when I mentioned the skin-to-skin way of raising body temperature?’ Rowena gulped—as if she could have forgotten. A wave of faintness made her head spin as she contemplated what he appeared to be suggesting. ‘Well, this is a modified version.’ Hand extended, he passed her the fine woollen top he’d been wearing next to his skin. Rowena tore her gaze from his lean, finely muscled torso and looked at it blankly, her eyes huge in her pale face. ‘It’s warm; put it on,’ he urged. Warm from his skin, which at the moment was only covered by a pair of designer boxers! Her nipples, perhaps in anticipation of the second-hand warmth on offer, began to tingle and harden into tight, painful buds—heaven knew what they’d do if it was firsthand warmth! ‘It won’t bite.’ Rowena wished she shared his confidence, not to mention his clinical objectivity. If she could have thought of one sensible reason why she shouldn’t lay material still warm from his skin against her own, Rowena would have used it to avoid a gesture of such unavoidable intimacy. Her fevered mind couldn’t come up with an even semi-sensible reason so, nodding, she took a deep breath and forced her clenched fingers to unlock. Holding the quilt in her teeth, she eased her hand out from beneath the cover and snatched the top from him. Ducking down under the folds, she pulled the top over her head, the soft material chafing against her oversensitised breasts as she eased her arms into the sleeves. He was right—it was still warm with his body heat. When she emerged her overbright eyes discovered Quinn was pushing his own arms back into one of his outer layers—a black fleece slightly thicker than the one he’d handed her. ‘I wouldn’t have looked.’ Two red circles appeared on her pale cheeks. ‘I prefer not to take any chances.’ He eyed the hostile tilt of her chin and his big shoulders lifted in a surprisingly good-natured shrug. ‘You’re probably right,’ he conceded as he approached the sofa. ‘Now budge over.’ Rowena’s hands came up in a protective gesture across her chest that caused the quilt to slither down to her waist. Hastily she snatched it up again. ‘What? You can’t…you’re not…’ Rowena discovered almost immediately that he could and was! She closed her eyes and held her body rigid as his long, lean body slid under the cover and lay down beside her. The duvet settled back around them. ‘Phase two…’ ‘Oh, no!’ she whimpered under her breath. ‘This really isn’t what I want,’ she added in a firmer tone. She was confident that Quinn wasn’t the sort of man who would cross that particular line even if he thought she was lying through her teeth. If he responds with a corny, You don’t know what you want, I’ll kill him, Rowena decided wrathfully—even if it is true. Quinn slid onto his back. ‘Lie on top of me.’ ‘No way!’ After her extraordinarily submissive behaviour in New York, perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that he had got the idea she liked being told what to do in bed—not that this brusque instruction bore any real resemblance to the huskily erotic requests he had made of her that night. Just thinking about the velvet rasp in his voice sent shiver after voluptuous shiver down her rigid, trembling spine. Quinn looked into her eyes and was worried by the glazed expression he saw there—hopefully nothing more sinister than exhaustion had put it there. ‘God, you’re shaking like a leaf. This is stupid, Rowena.’ ‘I’ll warm up in a minute,’ she said, not really believing it by this point. ‘No, you won’t. I’d offer to go on top, but I thought you’d prefer to be in control…’ Rowena couldn’t smile at his joke; she was fast coming round to thinking that any control she had around Quinn could only ever be illusionary, and if he made the slightest move to touch her he’d know it too! ‘Hell, woman, this isn’t some elaborate seduction technique—you’re suffering from mild hypothermia.’ His expression grew grim as he thanked his lucky stars once more they’d found shelter when they had. ‘I am?’ ‘Trust me, I’m a doctor…’ ‘Not my doctor.’ Her doctor didn’t make house calls wearing a skimpy pair of boxer shorts. And thank god for that! The friendship barrier had been hard enough to get by without that added complication. ‘And doctors are having their socks sued off by dissatisfied customers every day of the week,’ she reminded him grouchily through chattering teeth. ‘I’m not joking, Rowena, this is the most efficient way of raising your body temperature to a safe level.’ He was relieved to see that his words seemed to have finally convinced her that he wasn’t joking about the urgency of the situation. All—all!—he had to do now was retain the sort of professional objectivity he had boasted he possessed. She shot him a wary look. ‘How do we do this?’ ‘However you like.’ Whichever way it was going to hurt, of that he had no doubt. He’d spent the last couple of months in an almost constant state of arousal, fantasising like a teenager about her, and now she was about to press that much-fantasised-about flesh against his own and the only thing he was allowed to display was clinical objectivity. It didn’t get much more painful than that! He willed his uncooperative body to relax as Rowena cautiously slid a leg over his hips. Quinn smiled encouragingly and hoped the intense strain he felt didn’t show as she placed a hand beside his shoulder. Nostrils flared, he averted his eyes from the pleasing movement of her breasts swinging free beneath her borrowed top. Miraculously his own body stayed inert as the rest of her celestial body—hell, he loved the long, lean elegant lines of her supple body—followed. He shook his head and regretfully dispelled the sensual image from his head. He couldn’t afford that indulgence—it was taking all his concentration and will-power to keep his natural bodily responses in check. Silently he began to recite the nerve supply to the entire gastro-intestinal tract. It was a technique he’d not employed for a long time, but it had worked when he was an inexperienced—in every sense of the word—student with a desire to please his first lover! Rowena tried telling herself she was lying on top of a heat source, not a stunningly virile male in peak condition, but somehow she couldn’t visualise Quinn as a hot-water bottle! She bit down so hard on her lower lip to stop herself moaning out loud as she lay her legs beside the hair-roughened length of his that she drew blood. Every nerve ending in her body was screaming out in awareness! She tried to blank out the scent and texture of his skin and failed abysmally. Her damp hair tickled his chin and Quinn’s recitation stumbled momentarily as his concentration lapsed. Look on the bright side, mate, he told himself, at least her face is turned away. Schooling his expression into a blank canvas on top of everything else would have been one demand too many. If he’d needed a reminder that this wasn’t about satisfying his frustrated libido, the shocking chill of her slender body through the thin fabric of the top she wore provided it. Several minutes passed—it felt a lot longer to him—and she still didn’t relax. ‘Comfy?’ Was he joking? ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she responded, trying desperately hard not to do anything that might be construed as provocative—she envied Quinn his apparent ability to switch off. ‘Not hurting you, am I?’ She tensed all over again as something half between a guttural groan and a gasp escaped his lips. ‘What…?’ She would have looked to see what was wrong but his open hand moved to the back of her head, holding it where it was on his shoulder. ‘Just an elbow in the wrong place,’ he explained, adjusting her arm, which was sandwiched between them. ‘You feeling any warmer?’ Rowena had been too busy stressing about the physical contact and her lustful thoughts to register that she was feeling less teeth-jarringly icy. ‘You know, I think I might be,’ she said, her relief showing in her surprised tone. ‘I told you so. Now let’s speed up the process, shall we?’ Rowena hardly had time to begin wondering in some trepidation what he meant when he began to briskly massage her all over in a detached, businesslike manner. It was obvious the last thing on his mind was sex, which made her feel doubly ashamed of her own fixation. Even though she had thought it impossible, Rowena did eventually relax, and she even began to enjoy the situation as gradually the hard, tight, circular movements of his hands that had made her skin tingle became long, smooth, sweeping motions that moved from shoulder to flank and back. The combination of the delicious warmth and his clever hands had all the coiled tension in her body seeping slowly away. She lay there a long time enjoying the physical contact—any contact was better than none, as far as her touch-starved body was concerned—before she finally turned her head to look at him. His eyes were closed, the shadow of his lashes creating a dark shadow across the jutting line of his cheekbones. Greedily she examined the sharp planes and angular hollows of his face. It wasn’t until that moment that she finally accepted just how often during their short period of separation she’d literally ached to look at him. As if he sensed her scrutiny, Quinn’s dark eyelashes began to lift. Rowena froze and she found herself staring into sensational deep aquamarine eyes. Quinn had frustrating eyes that could turn her bones to water and at the same time shield his thoughts totally from her. Her tentative smile faded as she received none in return. ‘I’m much warmer.’ ‘The thaw seems to have gone further than skin-deep.’ It was impossible to tell from his dry tone if he thought this was a bad or good thing. ‘If you ever want a career change you could make a fortune as a masseur…’ ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’ She hitched herself a little higher so that his fingers, which had been splayed in the small of her back, came to rest on the curve of her firm bottom. She gave a determined little wriggle and sighed. ‘That’s so good, Quinn.’ Quinn’s lean fingers spasmed digging into her firm resilient flesh. His hand lifted clear of her skin. ‘Sorry.’ His hoarse tone gave her the first hint that he might not be as laid-back about the situation as he’d seemed so far. The discovery made Rowena feel slightly less depraved and more than slightly relieved! She stretched lazily and gave another sexy, sinuous little wriggle that Quinn had no doubt was not accidental, and a pulse beside his mouth began to throb. Tongue caught between her teeth, she raised herself on one arm and, arching her back, ran a finger casually down his chest. ‘My feet are still cold,’ she complained, running her toes down his calf to illustrate her claim. ‘See…’ The borrowed top, which just about skimmed her hips, hiked up as she brought her knee up. ‘Shall I warm them on you?’ The innocent enquiry was barely out of her mouth when she found herself tipped sideways until they lay shoulder to shoulder. ‘Just what the hell do you think you’re doing, Rowena?’ Smouldering eyes locked with hers. Her back against the sofa, her front against his front, there wasn’t any way Rowena could avoid that accusing glare. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said, not pulling off the dumb act at all convincingly. She sighed as her eyes slid from his. ‘I suppose I was being a little…provocative…’ She was suddenly annoyed with herself for feeling so guilty. Wasn’t she a modern woman with needs of her own and as much right as a man to make the first move? She’d read all the articles—hell’s bells! She’d written a lot of them. ‘Is this Rowena being brutally honest?’ No, this is Rowena saying the first stupid thing that comes into her head! Her antagonism faded perceptibly as she encountered the tender expression in his eyes. ‘Is this Quinn rubbing salt in the wound?’ She sighed. ‘I don’t see what’s so bad about being provocative…’ ‘Did I say there was anything wrong?’ ‘You want an apology? Fine, I’m sorry I came on to you.’ ‘You’re sorry,’ he parroted hoarsely. The veil of her lashes lifted once more as she heard the rasp of his incredulous inhalation. ‘I don’t want your apologies, woman, I want you!’ Her stomach flipped over. ‘You do?’ Her body sagged in relief. His hand cupped her chin. ‘This can’t have come as a shock; I’ve hardly been trying to disguise the fact.’ ‘Well, no,’ she admitted, blushing. ‘But that was before you knew…I thought maybe me being pregnant had put you off the…physical side of things, and I’d hate you to think that I was coming on to you because I need a father for the baby,’ she rattled on nervously. ‘Because nothing could be farther from the truth.’ The fingers around her jaw tightened. ‘Need has nothing to do with it, Rowena, you’ve got a father for the baby—me!’ ‘You know what I mean,’ she responded, wary of the implacable expression in his eyes. Oh, he knew what she meant, all right! Perhaps now wasn’t the right moment to make it plain to her that he wasn’t about to be a part-time father, Quinn thought drily. ‘I think I get the general drift…but I’m confused. Why the…provocation, after you’ve been holding me at arm’s length?’ Was he joking? There were many men in this world she could safely snuggle with, but Quinn wasn’t one of them! She found she had no control over the direction of her blue eyes as they dropped with embarrassing obviousness from his eyes to his firm, sensual mouth and back again. ‘Do we have to analyse this?’ she agonised hoarsely, the whole of her restless body burning up with frustrated desire. ‘I think maybe we do.’ What are you going to do? the voice in his head asked mockingly. Hold out indefinitely? Sure, that’s really likely! If this was his way of punishing her, it was working! How could she satisfactorily explain the fact that something just felt right. Rowena sighed, and struggled to get her frustration in check. It had reached the point where there seemed little point in prevaricating. ‘The thing is, I’ve been thinking about you…us…well, actually,’ she corrected, her lips quivering into a self-derisive curve, ‘I’ve been trying not to because—’ ‘Because your concentration is shot to hell and things like eating are a chore. You laugh at jokes when you haven’t heard them and, worst of all…or is it best…?’ he recited, his gaze fixed and unblinking, his tone unemotional and flat. His head went back and Rowena watched completely riveted as the muscles in his strong throat worked. ‘The worst thing is when you wake up in the middle of the night, your body aching, and the only person that can take that ache away isn’t there.’ Lifting a crooked arm to cover his eyes, he suddenly rolled away from her onto his back, his broad, powerful chest heaving. About mid-way through the final impassioned instalment in his narrative, Rowena had begun to nod wonderingly and she continued to do so even when he stopped speaking. Ambivalent emotions churned in her stomach. The raw, barely restrained hunger she’d seen in Quinn’s face, and discovering they’d been suffering almost identical symptoms, had both frightened and deeply excited her. ‘I didn’t know you felt like that,’ she whispered, raising a hand to the side of his face. His arm fell away from his eyes. Lips twisted cynically, he scanned her face. ‘You didn’t want to know.’ He caught her wrist and held her fingers there against the day’s growth that cast a dark shadow over his lower jaw. Rowena wasn’t prepared to take all the blame. ‘I suppose if you hadn’t been so stubborn about us having an affair we’d have already got this out of our systems.’ ‘If it makes you feel better to believe that, Rowena, go right ahead and cling onto that belief.’ ‘I think maybe the only thing that will make me feel better is feeling you inside me,’ she declared boldly. Her eyes glazed hotly as she thought of Quinn’s mouth on her skin, his fingers stroking her, Quinn sliding hard into her—and her mouth opened to drag air noisily into her oxygen-depleted lungs. A groan was ripped from his throat before his mouth came crashing down on hers. Fingers hooked into his hair, Rowena opened her mouth, welcoming the hot, probing invasion of his tongue. Frantically she plastered herself against him, revelling in the pain as the hard swell of his arousal ground into her belly. ‘You have no idea,’ he rasped, ‘how often I’ve thought about this…’ Rowena nodded, pressing frantic kisses to the curve of his jaw, his throat, his eyelids. ‘Oh, but I do,’ she cried brokenly. ‘I do!’ His big hands ran down the curve of her spine and, cupping the rounded contours of her bottom, hauled her hard against him. His mouth left hers for a second as he yanked the top over her head. It was closely followed by his own. His naked flesh touched hers and the fire in her veins exploded, scorching away any residual sanity in its wake. She felt his teeth tug at her lower lip, felt his breath hot and rapid on her cheek as his hands cupped, stroked and squeezed her swollen breasts, catching each engorged pink nipple in turn between his thumb and forefinger and teasing the aching nubs of flesh. Each caress sizzled along her nerve endings, wave after wave of pure sensation that reduced Rowena to a moaning, compliant wreck. ‘You like this…?’ Rowena’s eyelids felt heavy; it was hard to lift them—but the effort was worth it! God, but he was beautiful! ‘I like it.’ Her voice sounded as if it were coming from a long way away. Then more firmly, but still trembling and strange, ‘A lot!’ Breathing heavily, she dragged the quilt down to look at all of him—the breath snagged painfully in her throat. He was incredible, she thought, marvelling hungrily at the perfection of his streamlined body. There wasn’t an ounce of surplus flesh on his spare frame to hide the stupendous muscular development and the boxers he wore were equally inadequate to hide the extent of his arousal. ‘You’ll get cold.’ Rowena laughed huskily. That hardly seemed likely; she was burning up, her veins were filled with fire, her throat ached with emotional need. She reached out and touched his flat belly and felt the immediate satisfactory sharp contraction of his strong muscles as he sucked in his breath in a harsh gasp. He let her hands explore some more until they slid a little too low, then, ignoring her protests, caught them in one of his own. ‘Too much, too soon,’ he explained thickly, pinning both her hands above her head in his capable grasp. ‘I can’t touch you.’ ‘But I can touch you.’ An insolent, sexual smile curved his lips as she shuddered hard against him. ‘You’ll like that, won’t you…?’ His green eyes, smouldering as though they were lit by an inner flame, melded with her own. ‘Yes.’ She licked her dry lips as her dilated pupils stayed glued to his dark face—she was his utterly, and the unconditional surrender felt strangely liberating. A restless twist of her hips sent the quilt slithering to the floor. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep you warm,’ he breathed into her mouth. ‘Please,’ she replied simply. Quinn looked into her smoky eyes, and what he saw took his breath away. Rowena shivered, but not from cold this time. Quinn’s free hand was on her stomach, and soon his lips were there too, tracing a slow, tingling path across her flesh. She moaned as her insides violently contracted and then did so again and again until she felt she couldn’t breathe. Even with her eyes closed the room was spinning. He pushed her body down under him and loomed over her. This display of masculine strength she would have scorned in her right mind only heightened her escalating, scalding excitement. Watching the play of emotion over her passion-pale features, he slid his hand under the edge of her stretchy smooth pants and felt the betraying heat and slickness between her legs. The feral sound of her keening wail made him pull back. Rowena’s eyes, the dilated pupils almost obliterating the blue, snapped open. ‘Don’t stop!’ she implored in an agonised whisper. ‘Please…!’ Quinn released her hands and pressed a burning kiss to her parted lips. ‘I think you’d be much more comfortable without these…’ He fingered the lacy waistband. ‘I would—I definitely would.’ What Quinn’s actions lacked in finesse as he roughly slid the pants down her long legs he more than made up for in urgency. He parted her legs, need stamped indelibly on his hard-edged features as he savoured the mind-blowingly erotic sight of her sensuous body waiting for him—she was his! ‘Now, Quinn, please!’ Her eyes glowed with a slumberous passion as she parted her legs still wider—it was an invitation that Quinn couldn’t and didn’t resist. During the first breathless moment of penetration Rowena, overcome by the sheer blissful wonder of her softness being stretched and filled, just clung, her fingers digging into his back, her long legs wrapped around his waist. As they moved, hot, slick skin on slick skin, her sense of self disappeared. There was no individual Quinn and Rowena; there was just mindless pleasure and the promise of more held tantalisingly out of reach. Each thrust of his body took her deeper and deeper into the maelstrom of sensation; the blood pounded darkly in her head as his erotic whispers became frantic pants. She felt the climax coming, building strength inside her before the shattering release actually arrived. Pleasure rolled over her like a tidal wave, bathing each individual cell of her body, stretching each individual sinew and fibre to their limitations. Above her she was conscious of Quinn shuddering and he cried out her name over and over until the final hot, pulsing surges of his body stilled. Their breathing gradually stilled as they lay tangled together. He would have slid from her then, but Rowena, already half asleep, held him tight. CHAPTER SIX ROWENA woke to find herself staring up at a canopy. She blinked as the gold fleur-de-lis embroidered on the deep blue pleated silk slid into focus. She sat up, taking the quilt she was wrapped in with her, and realised she was lying in bed—a very large, carved, dark oak four-poster and one that to her certain knowledge she’d never seen before. It took her several hazy moments to recall the sequence of events that had taken her to the cottage and this bed. She clutched her tousled blonde head and groaned—talk about complicating things! Quinn, she reasoned, must have carried her upstairs while she’d slept, slept after…! A tide of heat washed over her body, and hastily she fast-forwarded over what had immediately preceded her falling asleep. It wasn’t easy; her thoughts showed a weak tendency to dwell dreamily on her temporary madness. Gran! Her eyes flew open in alarm and guilt crowded out everything else. While they’d been making love her gran had been fighting for her life. How could I be so shallow…so selfish? she berated herself. Self-disgust churned in her stomach. How long had she slept? It could have been round the clock for all she knew. Her sense of disorientation increased as she looked around wildly for a clock and found none, and the heavy curtains were drawn so it was impossible to gauge the time of day. Sliding from under the warm covers, Rowena grabbed a light embroidered throw off a small sofa at the foot of the bed to cover her nakedness. Lifting up the tail of the improvised sarong, she then ran over to the window and pushed aside the curtains. She was relieved to see it was still daylight; that relief was tempered by the fact it was still snowing like crazy. ‘I thought I heard you moving around.’ Rowena spun to face the figure who had silently materialised in the room, the chinks of light from the disturbed curtains catching her hair, turning it to a bright silver halo around her fine-boned face. Quinn was no longer in black leather. He now looked equally virile and desirable in a pair of dark moleskin trousers and a chunky knitted cream sweater he’d obviously appropriated. The owner of the cottage, it would seem, was a big man also. It was hard not to notice that the outfit fitted Quinn’s broad-shouldered, long-legged frame extremely well—if a little too snugly in the hip area. Rowena swallowed and brought her restless gaze back to his face. ‘You look better,’ he announced, after subjecting her pink-cheeked face to a cool-eyed scrutiny. ‘Did you sleep well?’ he added as his enigmatic eyes continued to scan her wary face as though he expected to see something written on the clear, creamy skin. Like someone afraid to incriminate herself in an interrogation, Rowena kept her face blank. She nodded awkwardly—after what she’d been imagining his opening comments might be, this innocuous enquiry was actually a relief. She just hoped he kept things simple and didn’t start some deeply embarrassing post-mortem, because if he did she didn’t know how she was going to explain away her wanton behaviour! ‘Too well. What time is it?’ she asked, tightening the loop of fabric gathered loosely over her bosom. Quinn laid down the tray he carried. ‘Tea time.’ He didn’t appear perturbed or particularly surprised by his less than warm reception. ‘Will you be mother?’ He winced, and straightened up, brushing a stray hank of hair from his eyes. ‘Sorry, no pun intended—’ he began apologetically. ‘For goodness’ sake, I’m pregnant—’ she responded snappily, ungrateful for his display of consideration. Rowena didn’t want consideration, she wanted everything to be the way it had been. Dream on, a cruel voice of realism in her head mocked. ‘I’m not made of china—don’t for heaven’s sake start censoring what you say on my account,’ she told him in exasperated distaste. ‘Right, no special treatment…I’ll make a mental note of that,’ he promised gravely. Her eyes narrowed as she tried to detect mockery in his solemn face. ‘How long exactly have I been asleep?’ ‘I don’t know exactly,’ he mocked, mimicking her crisp tone. ‘If I’d known it was important I’d have made a note.’ Rowena made an impatient sound in the back of her throat. ‘It’s about four-thirty, if that’s any help.’ ‘Four-thirty—but that’s—’ ‘Halfway between four and five.’ ‘Half the day’s gone!’ She gasped, tucking her hair behind her ears in an agitated jerky gesture. ‘How could you let me…?’ she wailed. She bit her lip and tried to tighten her grip on her self-control and the throw wrapped carelessly around her—an accident waiting to happen. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’ She looked wildly around the room. ‘I should be doing…’ ‘What?’ One dark brow quirked and Rowena shook her head, struck dumb by her growing sense of impotence. Her slender shoulder slumped defeatedly. ‘Something,’ she responded in an agonised whisper. It was hard for Quinn to reconcile the lonely, fragile figure before him with the indelible mental image in his head of that smart-mouthed, feisty lady editor who not only incited respect, lust and insanity in him in about equal measures, but also provided him with a constant, stimulating challenge in a way no other woman had ever done. He’d always known Rowena had a more vulnerable side; what he hadn’t known was how strong his own protective instincts would be on the occasions she revealed it. This wasn’t about the fact that she was carrying his child, this was about the fact that he loved her—every time he admitted it to himself it got easier. One arm extended, he took an impetuous step towards her. It was too much, too soon for Rowena, who knew that his touch suspended all rational mental processes. She took a stumbling backward step that brought her legs in contact with the low, deep window sill. There was a self-derisive glitter in Quinn’s eyes as his arm fell back to his side. Rowena felt she ought to be pleased by the neutral expression on his normally mobile features when he eventually did speak, but now she found herself wondering about what he was hiding. ‘I know you’re worried sick about your gran and, left to you, you’d prefer to hike across the Grampians than wait the snow out with me, but the fact is your presence at the hospital is in no way essential to her recovery. She has expert medical care and if she does wake up before you arrive she’s surrounded by people who love her…’ ‘Wake up?’ Rowena curtly cut in with a frown. Quinn sighed, mentally cursing his blunder. ‘Just a figure of speech. Do you—?’ She scanned his face. ‘She’s unconscious, isn’t she?’ His veiled eyes dropped tellingly and she gasped. ‘Why didn’t anyone tell me?’ Her voice quivered with emotion. ‘She had lapsed into coma when I spoke to Niall before we got on the plane,’ Quinn admitted quietly. ‘He asked me to pass on the information, and I intended to, but you were too upset at the time. I thought I’d wait until later on.’ ‘Just how much later on did you have in mind?’ she asked bitterly as she reviewed all the opportunities he’d had. ‘I didn’t think telling you would serve any useful purpose. You were already stressed enough and in my judgement you—’ His judgement! Rowena saw red; her bosom swelled wrathfully—the arrogance of the man, the conceit! All her life she’d been coming up against exactly this sort of patronising sexual stereotyping, the convenient result of which was that men ended up making all the important decisions in life. The way she saw it, masculine concern was very often nothing but another example of male powerplay. ‘And your judgement is the only one that counts, I take it,’ she cut in icily. Though when he replied Quinn sounded composed, he had no control over the two dark stripes of angry colour that appeared high across his slashing cheekbones. ‘I made a call—’ Rowena’s hands balled into fists as she impatiently brushed a stray tear from her cheek. ‘It wasn’t your call to make,’ she cut him off furiously. His big shoulders lifted fractionally. ‘And as I was about to say—I’d do the same again,’ he announced, condemning himself even further in her eyes by still not displaying any regret whatsoever for the high-handed way he’d acted in withholding the vital piece of information. ‘How dare you!’ She gasped, her blue eyes flashing. ‘Ignorance is not bliss, it’s just ignorance. The next thing you’ll be expecting is my thanks!’ ‘I didn’t do it for your gratitude, Rowena.’ ‘No, you did it because I’m some pathetic, weak little girlie who needs to be protected from the nasty truth,’ she sneered. ‘Did it make you feel like the big strong man, keeping me in the dark?’ she asked bitterly. A flicker of something like anger moved at the back of Quinn’s eyes. ‘I would have told you when I thought the time was right,’ he gritted. That figured. ‘When you thought…oh, that’s all right, then,’ she trilled nastily. ‘You want the truth, Rowena, great, that’s absolutely fine by me.’ With her back already literally against the wall, this time there was nowhere for her to retreat when he advanced menacingly towards her. ‘For instance, we could stop pretending we both don’t know the real reason you’re prepared to behave with all the native nous of a lemming to get to your grandmother is because you’re torn apart with guilt. Tell me, how many invitations have you refused during the past twelve months?’ he continued inexorably when she shook her head in mute, horrified denial. The last remaining shreds of colour faded from Rowena’s cheeks. ‘You’re eaten up with remorse every time you think about all the time you didn’t spend with her because your high-powered career was so much more important than visiting with elderly relatives.’ He must think I’m a total bitch, she thought, steeling herself to meet his angrily scornful eyes squarely just as the heat appeared to be fading from them. Considering the fact that she had always known Quinn had a capacity for displaying great ruthlessness when he wanted to, she ought to have known better than to actually request him not to treat her with kid gloves. Quinn also had a capacity for tenderness and compassion, which in her self-righteous indignation she’d condemned him for—it wasn’t really surprising he’d hit back. ‘I think you’ve made your point, Quinn,’ she murmured unhappily. Quinn had been feeling lousy even before her dignified response. He deeply regretted allowing her to goad him into making such brutal remarks. ‘That was unjustified. I’m—’ ‘No, it’s true, I’m selfish and self-centred—’ Quinn shook his head. ‘Not to mention very close to feeling sorry for myself,’ she added with a small, forced laugh. ‘When you’re focused on one thing it’s easy to lose sight of the big picture,’ he told her, laying a tentative hand on her shoulder, his fingers tightening slightly when she didn’t immediately reject his touch. ‘As for people around us, we all of us take them for granted. Why, I’ve lost count of the number of girlfriends who have accused me of always putting them second to my job.’ Rowena wondered wryly whether this timely reminder of his diverse and extensive selection of sexual partners was meant to cheer her up—if so it was a major miscalculation! She had difficulty controlling the nauseous feelings of jealousy his soothing words evoked. Quinn lifted a strand of lint-fair hair in his fingers and let it fall again. He tucked her chin into the angle of his jaw and hugged her. ‘Loss of consciousness in your grandmother’s condition is not unusual and it doesn’t mean she couldn’t eventually make a full recovery.’ Hands on his forearms, Rowena pulled away from the light embrace. ‘You’re not just saying that?’ she pleaded, not daring to allow herself to read too much into his words. He caught her chin in his hand and smiled ruefully down into her upturned features. ‘What, and treat you like someone who can’t take it on the chin? I wouldn’t dare!’ His expression grew sober. ‘Seriously, Rowena, I don’t want to raise any false hopes, but there’s no point assuming the worst. In fact, instead of stressing, I think we should be thanking our lucky stars. It could have been a lot worse.’ Rowena gaped incredulously up at him. His tall, dynamic figure made a most unlikely Pollyanna. ‘How, exactly?’ The curtains rings rattled as he reached over her shoulder and pulled them apart. Taking her by the shoulders, he turned her bodily around one hundred and eighty degrees. ‘We could be out there,’ he said, nodding pointedly at the frosty wilderness outside. Rowena shuddered and leant back and retreated into the warm solidity of his chest. ‘So I suggest we make the best of the situation. It’s not perfect, but—’ ‘You don’t say!’ Despite everything, his painfully upbeat attitude was amusing. ‘For one thing the décor up here is a bit too…’ head on one side, she watched him consider the ornate furnishings and bold colour scheme in the large room ‘…gothic for my taste, but you’ll be pleased to hear that the monster stove below has hotplates and can not only boil a kettle, it also heats the water—you know what that means.’ ‘I do?’ ‘Baths,’ he declared with lip-smacking relish. ‘And I have nothing but admiration for the bathing facilities. You could fit an army in the tub—go take a look,’ he advised, steering her in the right direction. ‘On second thoughts, try the tea first—brewed with my own fair hands. There was only dried milk, but it’s drinkable.’ Now that he mentioned it, tea did sound rather good. She touched the tip of her tongue to her dry lips and approached the tea-tray perched a bit precariously on the side of the bed. As she sat down she was careful not to dislodge it. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked, watching with amusement as she sipped the hot drink, an expression of blissful concentration on her face. ‘Because there’s not a bad selection of dried goods on offer and, as the deep freeze is beginning to defrost without power, I think we’re almost morally obliged to eat some of the stuff before it wastes.’ Rowena had some problems with his logic, but she was hungry and she admitted as much. ‘And then there’s the clothes problem…not that I have any problem with your present outfit.’ His slow, sensual smile made her heart race painfully. ‘I did notice that you’ve solved your own clothes problem,’ she retorted, her own glance moving hurriedly from his thigh area where her errant gaze showed a marked tendency to linger. Quinn pushed the ribbed cuffs of the sweater he wore up over the tanned skin of his forearms. ‘Not too bad, is it? he mused complacently. Rowena tore her flustered gaze from the hair-roughened skin he’d revealed. ‘And they call women the vain ones!’ she retorted hoarsely. With a grin Quinn strutted towards her and struck a dramatic pose in front of one of the large ornate mirrors that filled the room. They were so numerous that it meant it was hard to stand anywhere in the room and not see yourself. Personally Rowena found it disturbing to repeatedly catch glimpses of someone who looked like her, but was in some obscure way different—something about the eyes…? ‘When I think that I blew my one big chance at a modelling career…’ he bemoaned, throwing her a look of mock dejection. “‘Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest…?”’ Her teasing grin faded as it dawned on her that the answer to that question for her at least would always be Quinn. ‘You didn’t say—did you see anything I could wear?’ ‘No, this is definitely a male domain, nothing in the cupboards screams female—well, that’s not strictly true,’ he conceded. ‘I did find several odd items, all assorted sizes, if you get my drift…’ Rowena looked puzzled. ‘I don’t.’ Quinn’s expression of frank disbelief faded to amusement as it dawned on him she was actually being serious—for a woman who had written some very cynical articles in her time about male infidelity, Rowena had a charmingly innocent streak. ‘Put it this way, I don’t think our absentee host is heavily into monogamy.’ Perhaps this blushing thing was physiological—something to do with her pregnancy. She hoped it was only a temporary aberration because it definitely wasn’t in keeping with her hard-nosed image at all. ‘In fact, a man after your own heart,’ she commented lightly. The smile in Quinn’s eyes sparkled some more in a frighteningly charismatic way. ‘Now that I come to think about it, there was this very nice basque in a thirty-six D…I don’t suppose you could find some use for it…?’ he wondered innocently. Rowena’s teeth came together in a ferocious fake smile. ‘The only use I’d have for a D cup is to hold my laundry!’ she declared with a wistful peek down at her chest. Quinn threw back his head and his big booming laughter rang out. It was as warm and uninhibited as the man himself, she found herself thinking as he wiped tears of mirth from his face. ‘It’s extremely insensitive—not to mention callous—to treat a woman’s physical shortcomings as a joke,’ she informed him tartly. The attractive laughter lines around his eyes smoothed out as their glances collided. ‘You don’t have any physical shortcomings,’ he announced abruptly. His eyes continued to devour her hungrily for several paralysing seconds before he got to his feet. ‘You have a good rummage for something to wear and I’ll sort out some food.’ Rowena, who found she had been holding her breath during that prolonged eye contact, released a long, shuddering sigh when she was left alone. Maybe, she pondered as she carefully sorted through the drawers of neatly folded clothes, it was a mistake to act as if the air didn’t crackle with electricity when they were in a room together. It wasn’t unreasonable to suppose that he’d want to do something about that sizzle once their more urgent needs like shelter and food were dealt with. Quinn’s old hunter-gatherer instinct had obviously kicked in strongly—especially after she’d all but ravished him earlier! You couldn’t just blow hot and cold on the man without offering some sort of explanation, no matter how lame. Perhaps she should tackle the problem head on and tell him—Sleeping together means nothing, Quinn, she could say. Sex is no basis for a long-term relationship, and even if I were into long-term relationships…which I’m not…I can’t risk falling in love. It’s a genetic thing; all the women in my family go a little strange when they fall in love. No, if she told him that he’d just think she was crazy. After due consideration what she actually said when she emerged downstairs was, ‘That smells nice.’ She noticed her favourite Gucci boots, barely recognisable in the their scuffed, battered condition, sitting forlornly beside the hot stove. She accepted their demise more philosophically than she would have a few hours earlier, when things like what she was wearing had still seemed important. Perhaps near-death experiences did that to a person…? Not that she could claim to be totally unconcerned about her appearance. Quinn, with his unstudied elegance, was the sort of man who made women conscious of their appearance. As she recalled the advice of a lady who had once been a top model Rowena’s head went up and her shoulders back as she crossed the room towards him. ‘It’s not what you wear, darling,’ she’d told Rowena, ‘it’s the way you wear it. If you carry yourself well you can look stylish in a sack.’ Well, what she was wearing now had to be one up from a sack! ‘Mushroom risotto, made with some dried shitake and chanterelles. Pass that saffron, would you…?’ Quinn requested without removing his gaze from the large open pan he was stirring. Rowena who had spent a long time fussing stupidly over her appearance—which, when your dress was a man’s baggy jumper and your footwear was wrinkled woolly socks, was pretty sad—experienced a totally irrational feeling of pique as she did as he requested. ‘This is definitely what I’d term back to basics,’ she observed, getting a closer look on the large pan perched on the cast-iron hotplate atop the room heater. Her forearm accidentally nudged his as she handed him the spice. ‘Sorry.’ Quinn turned his hand over, but instead of closing his long fingers around the spice pot he looked back and forth from the sleeve of his jumper to the almost identical sleeves of the one she wore. A slow grin spread across his ruggedly handsome face; the comparison seemed to amuse him. He lightly touched the fine-boned delicacy of her blue-veined wrist, feeling the echo of a strong pulse as his finger skated along the bony projection beneath her thumb. Again the contrast fascinated him, but not in a way this time that brought a smile to his lips. His eyes lifted and skimmed her face, taking in the big, dilated pupils and the half-scared, half-defiant expression on her delicately flushed English-rose face. Rowena was perfectly still, her eyes focused on his mouth, and each breath she took was an effort. Abruptly he dropped her wrist and, taking the spice pot from her lax grip, turned back to the cooking pot, leaving her to wonder whether what had happened had been a figment of her imagination. ‘We could buy matching anoraks too.’ Suffering from the effects of severe anticlimax, Rowena lowered her eyes and tried to distance herself from the ache deep inside. ‘If I was ever seen in an anorak my career would be in tatters.’ ‘You used to say that about having a baby,’ he reminded her, sprinkling some of the fragrant golden saffron threads into the cooking mixture. Rowena watched the saffron melt into the creamy dish, her whole body rigid with tension. ‘So I did.’ Quinn tasted a spoonful of creamy rice mixture and gave a satisfied grunt. ‘Don’t look so worried. Given your well-known views on the subject of executives with babies, I expect there’ll be a few sly nudges at first, but we can weather it,’ he announced confidently, placing the cooking pot on the table. ‘Could you pass down a couple of plates…?’ He nodded towards the shelf behind her. His benevolent line in advice set Rowena’s teeth on edge. Mouth set in a hard line, she reached up and did as he requested, blissfully unaware that the sweater she wore as a dress rode indecently high over her smooth hips as she did so. But Quinn noticed. She brought the plates crashing down on the wooden surface beside the steaming pot. She glared at him and he looked back, looking distinctly shifty. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked warily. Rowena folded her arms across her chest. ‘Where do I start?’ The streaks of heat across his cheekbones, no doubt as a result of his time spent huddled over the hot stove, seemed to be fading. ‘Firstly, there is no we.’ Quinn smiled thinly as he surveyed her flushed, antagonistic face. ‘It’s good to see a bit of colour back in your cheeks. And second? I take it there is a second…?’ he speculated drily. ‘Second,’ she bit back obligingly, ‘I haven’t changed my mind about anything at all. I still think that you can’t be a good wife and mother and have enough left for your career.’ Quinn’s expression hardened, and eyes as merciless as the sea swept her face. ‘Then you didn’t mean it when you said that you were keeping…?’ ‘I did mean it,’ she retorted impatiently. ‘I am going to keep the baby.’ She saw a wave of palpable relief pass over his tense features and tried not to soften her resolve. There were big changes ahead for her and she was scared. She couldn’t admit this to Quinn, but she could make him appreciate that insulting her intelligence by acting as if there would be no problem was not on! His eyes narrowed cynically. ‘Do I hear a but coming on…?’ ‘But I’m trying to be realistic. There aren’t enough hours in the day to do my job as well as I’d like to now.’ ‘You could always move into the office, or maybe not sleep at all.’ ‘I can do without the constant stream of facetious interruptions!’ ‘Consider my lips sealed,’ he returned with mock humility. Rowena thought it best not to consider his lips at all but, despite her caution, her stomach muscles tightened. ‘If there aren’t enough hours in the day now…when a demanding baby comes along…’ She gave an eloquent shrug. ‘You want a pat on the back for your noble sacrifice—fine, but while you’re being realistic, Rowena, it might be a good idea to remember that babies don’t just demand, they give too…’ Rowena stiffened at the reprimand in his voice. Resentment swelled in her tight chest. Sure, Quinn could afford to sneer at realism while she was doing the worrying for both of them. All he’d have to do was buy a new wallet to accommodate a few snapshots of his new baby and make the odd weekend free for a walk in the park. The fact that she’d have treated any suggestion that he might be anything more than a token presence in the baby’s life with extreme hostility didn’t affect her seething resentment. ‘I’m aware of that.’ She sniffed coldly. ‘Deciding to keep the baby wasn’t a sentimental decision…’ Sentimentality implied something superficial, and something far deeper and more profound, something she still didn’t understand herself, had motivated Rowena when she’d decided she wanted to keep this baby. ‘No, I can see that sentimentality would not be in keeping with your image.’ Her fingernails inscribed deep half-moons in the soft flesh of her palms as her hands balled into tight fists. He seemed determined to misinterpret everything she said. ‘I don’t have an image!’ Her teeth grated as one dark, eloquent brow lifted in silent scepticism. ‘What, not even the ice-maiden?’ he wondered, affecting surprise. His expression hardened. ‘Come off it, Rowena! People think you recharge your batteries at night, not sleep, and you play up to the role for all it’s worth. I’m not saying there’s a problem with that if it works for you; the problem arises when you carry on playing the role at home. Home, the place where you chill out, have a few beers with friends—cast your memory back, Rowena, you’re sure to remember what it’s like.’ His lip curled as his scornful gaze travelled over her body. ‘Or maybe not?’ He silently despaired at the fact that even in the midst of the heated row the promise of slim curves beneath the shapeless covering had an instant effect on his libido. He could almost feel the soft peach down of her skin. He shifted his stance uncomfortably—it was a strong effect, and not the sort that was easy to hide. It was the sort of effect that told Rowena it didn’t matter if she acted like a total bitch—Quinn Tyler was still a complete pushover when it came to her! He needn’t have worried because Rowena’s eyes didn’t leave his contemptuous face. For the sort of lifestyle Quinn described, you needed friends, Rowena thought dully. Over the years her circle had not expanded, but got smaller. At least she now knew what Quinn really thought about her. Given his strongly expressed views it seemed pretty obvious that it wasn’t pleasure in her company that made him seek her out—that left her body and sex. It wasn’t the first time a man had wanted her for her body—it was the first time the knowledge had hurt and depressed her this much! Well, it was good that was sorted, she told herself bracingly. At least she wouldn’t embarrass them both by reading anything deep and meaningful into his pursuit. ‘I suppose that makes me the person you’d least like to be stuck in a blizzard with. Bad luck, Quinn, but I suppose those are the breaks…’ She exhaled through her quivering nostrils. It didn’t seem likely that Quinn would believe what she was about to say, but she knew it was important for her to try—for some reason, Quinn’s opinion mattered to her. ‘Don’t laugh.’ This didn’t look likely. ‘But if you must know, I’m keeping the baby because I’ve discovered I’m as genetically programmed to protect this new life as the next woman…’ A knot of emotion ached in her throat as she met his eyes—he was still displaying no inclination to laugh, but she thought she did see something close to shock move at the back of his eyes. ‘It came as just as much of a shock to me.’ Her quick, self-derisive smile held no humour. It had been more than a simple shock; for someone who had been fighting against genetic programming most of her life, this was an incredibly hard admission to make to herself, let alone a second party—especially a second party who was personally involved. ‘I’m not shocked, Rowena,’ he replied, his voice surprisingly gentle. ‘I’m sure you’ll make a great mother.’ ‘I’m glad one of us is.’ His gentleness was nearly her undoing. She felt the tears sting her eyelids as she blinked rapidly, her eyes focusing on the steaming plate of food he slid in front of her. ‘I’ve never had a broody moment in my life.’ A baby deserves a better mother than me, she decided as a fresh batch of doubts assailed her. ‘You’ve never been pregnant before either. At least I’m assuming…?’ Rowena was amazed to see her fingers curled against the darker skin of his wrist. Her sensitive stomach flipped over before she self-consciously released him and picked up a fork. ‘No, I’ve never been pregnant before,’ she enunciated in a clear, icy voice. ‘Have you?’ She was already deeply regretting going public with her interlude of self-doubt. Quinn was undoubtedly ruthless and sneaky enough to turn any weakness she displayed to his own advantage. The problem was, she didn’t yet know what he did want. Quinn grinned and began to rub his wrists. ‘No, I’ve no experience to speak of, but I expect we’ll muddle through somehow…’ That we word again! And she didn’t know how anyone could look cheerful at the prospect of muddling through! Muddling through filled her with deep horror. Right now her head was filled with so much muddle, half the time she didn’t know her own name. Why, she was so muddled that, until he’d revealed exactly what he thought about her, she’d even questioned if it were possible Quinn hadn’t fallen in love with her—you couldn’t get more muddled than that! ‘Is there something wrong with your short-term memory, Quinn? I’ve already told you there is no we! There is not going to be any cosy scene of domestic bliss. I may be pregnant but some things haven’t changed. I don’t require a husband.’ ‘I don’t recall asking you to marry me.’ Rowena experienced an unexpected and totally perverse pang of abandonment. ‘Good, that saves me the embarrassment of refusing you. This is very good,’ she added brightly as she placed a forkful of risotto into her mouth. ‘And as always your concern for my feelings is uppermost.’ This time there was no mistaking his sarcasm. Rowena chewed nervously on her full lower lip. ‘I’m sorry if I hurt you, Quinn.’ If he hadn’t been so stubborn they could have had a nice time with no complications—at least, they could have if she hadn’t got pregnant. ‘But I told you my terms in New York—’ ‘Terms!’ he exploded, his face darkening with anger. ‘Good God, woman this isn’t a business negotiation we’re discussing, it’s a love affair.’ ‘I would never have a love affair with someone who yells at me!’ She shied away as he put out a hand towards her. A frustrated sound escaped from between Quinn’s bared teeth as his hand came down with a bang on the table surface. ‘I think I’ve some excuse for yelling. Why didn’t you tell me about the baby, Rowena?’ Rowena looked into his dark, impossibly attractive face and accepted what she’d been fighting against: she was in love with Quinn Tyler, and no matter how many telephone numbers she changed or how many miles she put between them, nothing was going to change that! The world spun and Rowena thought she might faint. She had put her faith in the theory that if a person took sensible precautions she could avoid falling in love. Discovering that her theory was seriously flawed left Rowena with no place to hide. Rowena hadn’t had to look very far to see how love could dramatically change women. Loving Grandpa had made Gran abandon a glittering career without a second thought, and it hadn’t stopped there—oh, no! After she’d married Dad her mother had rejected the exciting uncertainty of life as a budding young actress in favour of the security of life as a drama teacher, trying to teach a bunch of unappreciative kids who’d have preferred to be watching cartoons to the delights of Shakespeare. Now all she had was a scrapbook collection of yellowing newspaper reviews which Rowena had once found her weeping over. And now sensible Holly was jumping headlong into marriage with Niall, despite his dismal track record and the fact they had nothing whatever in common and at a point when distractions could be fatal to her fantastic career prospects! At least they had all had the comfort of knowing the men they loved were equally as soft in the head when it came to them. I’ve gone one better, I’ve fallen in love with a man who has never used the ‘L’ word, not even once! Rowena thought frantically. ‘Slow down, Rowena, you’re hyperventilating…Rowena!’ Quinn repeated sharply. He touched her shoulder and she pulled back, her eyes wide and hostile. ‘I’m fine…’ Slowly her breathing slowed and the red dots dancing before her eyes retreated. ‘I wasn’t ready to tell you. I didn’t even know at that stage what my plans were.’ ‘And now you do?’ ‘I’ll hand in my notice, of course.’ She was winging it and trying simultaneously to give the impression she’d given the whole thing a lot of intelligent thought—she could hardly say she was having trouble thinking a minute ahead. ‘Freelance writing is an option, I do have excellent contacts.’ ‘Hand in your notice! Are you insane?’ This scathing judgement seemed bang on to Rowena, who was wondering what she thought she was doing, blurting out the first rash thing that had come into her head. Only stubborn pride stopped her admitting she’d just been sounding off, that she actually didn’t know what she was going to do. A look of tired comprehension spread across Quinn’s strained face as their eyes met. ‘Oh, I get it, this is a matter of principle, I suppose…’ He was finding it increasingly difficult to abide by his earlier resolve not to get too confrontational or heavy while Rowena was very obviously still pretty traumatised by their snowy adventure. Rowena was perturbed to discover Quinn didn’t appear too impressed by her sacrifice—actually he looked blazing mad. ‘Principle and practicality, but, yes, it would be hypocritical to do anything else.’ Why didn’t she just say, You’ve ruined my life, Quinn, and have done with it? He thought. ‘And you’re never hypocritical, I suppose. My God!’ he exclaimed bitterly, raking a hand roughly through his dark hair. There was a limit to how much rubbish a man could listen to! ‘Do you know, at times you can be the most stiff-necked and pompous woman I’ve ever met! You’re totally obsessed with image. Do you ever consider anyone else but yourself and what you want?’ Rowena flinched at the ferocity of this unexpected tirade. Somewhere an image of Gran appeared, her robust frame frail, the intelligent light in her eyes dimmed…‘That’s not true!’ she gasped weakly. Quinn’s lips twisted in a sardonic smile that left his marvellous eyes cold and hostile. Rowena found it hard to recognise this Quinn in the laconic, laid-back individual she knew. ‘Really? I must have missed you asking me how I feel about becoming a father.’ He saw the flare of startled dismay in her eyes and refused to let it soften his resolve. He’d respected her hormones, repressed his baser instincts until she’d asked him not to, and given the best interpretation he knew how of an enlightened, modern man who respected a woman’s wishes, but there came a point when enough was enough and he’d passed it! ‘Have you even thought about it?’ Rowena felt her face colour guiltily. ‘I’ve already told you…’ she faltered uncertainly ‘…I thought I ought to sort out how I felt first.’ ‘I thought you had it all sorted, down to the big grand gesture of quitting your job,’ he mocked. ‘And don’t try telling me that’s got anything to do with not being able to combine motherhood and a career.’ He shook his head. ‘Sure, you’d take a bit of stick, but with a bit of humour you’d weather it. Oh, sorry,’ he drawled, ‘I was forgetting you never learnt how to laugh at yourself. Hell, talk about going from the sublime to the ridiculous! You’ll pack in the job you’ve always wanted just because—’ His reaction struck her as the height of perversity. Since when had Quinn rated what she did? ‘Who said I always wanted it?’ she snarled back. ‘You did, and even if you hadn’t I think I’d have guessed, seeing as how you went for it like a heat-seeking missile, and displayed just about as much consideration for anything and anybody that got in your way.’ So not only did he think she was a work-obsessed automaton, he thought she was a ruthless operator who wouldn’t know an ethic if it poked her in the nose! Rowena turned away and didn’t see the expression of consternation that flickered across his face. When she turned back her chin was up and her eyes were glistening defiantly. ‘I’m sorry if my methods offend your fine sensibilities.’ Quinn grimaced and wondered if he was going to stop saying the wrong thing any time soon. ‘Rowena…’ Shaking her head, she stepped back before his fingers could grip her shoulder. ‘I suppose,’ she mused with a small, bitter smile, ‘that I should be grateful you didn’t accuse me of sleeping my way to the top!’ With a sharp, angry twist of her head she sent a heavy strand of hair that lay across her cheek whipping backwards. ‘Hardly—you’ve not allowed any precious time in your schedule for anything as frivolous as a love life.’ Rowena didn’t bother denying this disdainful observation—partly because there was a lot of truth in it. ‘I suppose you’d think better of me if I’d slept with anything with a pulse, like you! Oh, no,’ she sneered, not allowing him an opportunity to respond. ‘Then I’d have been a tart.’ Her eyes blazed as she dwelt on the unfairness of it. ‘And don’t give me any of your “this is the twenty-first century” enlightened stuff; men like you, no matter what they say, always have double standards.’ Quinn stood there watching her bosom heave in agitation. ‘How many lovers have you actually had?’ The outrageous question coming totally out of the blue disconcerted Rowena almost as much as the gleam in his half-closed eyes. ‘I…what…? None of your business!’ Outrage brought a rush of fresh colour to her pale cheeks and stiffened her spine to ramrod rigidity. Quinn was unrepentant. ‘Five, twenty…’ One dark brow lifted. ‘More…less?’ ‘Why do you want to know? Other than nasty, prurient curiosity, that is,’ she said, her lips quivering in distaste. ‘Well, you weren’t on the pill…and you weren’t carrying any condoms…’ Not the normal behaviour of a sexually active woman, in his experience. ‘Which hardly makes me a virgin.’ Just a reckless fool with no self-control where Quinn Tyler was concerned. ‘No, just not the person best qualified to write some of the articles you have been responsible for.’ ‘Which you’ve read, I suppose?’ she drawled sarcastically. ‘I’ve seen enough to recognise a common theme.’ ‘Prove it,’ she challenged, calling his bluff. She was pretty sure he had never read a word she’d written. ‘Let me see…’ Rowena’s smug smile broadened as he appeared to flounder. “‘Men have been doing it for years, now it’s our turn”…?’ She was no longer smiling. “‘Cheat, but don’t get caught.” Would you say that’s a fair selection of your more grabbable titles?’ ‘You’re taking it totally out of context!’ she accused hotly. ‘I never advocated casual sex. In fact, I’ve frequently pointed out that many woman feel pressurised by the media to act like some sort of sex addicts when a great many of us would actually prefer a good book and a box of chocolates,’ she explained, with a pitying sniff of feminine disdain. ‘That surely would depend on what sort of lover they had.’ A dangerous grin slashed his lean features as his lashes lifted to reveal an equally menacing glitter in his eyes. The prickle under Rowena’s skin—a constant companion when Quinn was around—became a raw pain as she was hit by a wave of sexual longing so strong that for several moments her vocal cords were literally paralysed. ‘And I suppose if it was Quinn Tyler she’d not want to get out of bed all weekend…?’ she finally managed to retort huskily. The second the words were out of her mouth the images started playing in her head of the varied methods Quinn could and in all probability had used to keep his partners too exhausted to get out of bed. ‘I hate to sound conceited, but that’s not a situation without precedent.’ He smiled wolfishly. Before she’d been on the receiving end of that smile Rowena had fondly imagined ‘weak-kneed’ was just a figure of speech—now she knew differently. She took a deep gulp and plunged on defiantly, trying to focus on anything but his eyes. ‘And recently I’ve been researching an interesting article on celibate marriages…’ ‘Celibate marriages?’ he repeated incredulously. ‘Whatever will they think of next?’ he hooted. Rowena listened to his predictable male reaction with a pitying smile. ‘There’s nothing new about celibate marriages. Actually there are a lot of people out there who lead a perfectly fulfilling life without sex—out of choice—and before you start I have to tell you I’ve heard every crass joke about Viagra there is. Why assume a sexless marriage is a loveless marriage? I expect reactions like yours are why people aren’t inclined to go public about it. Not that I’d expect you to appreciate the relief some people experience when you take all the—’ ‘Passion and excitement?’ His flip interruption earned him a stern frown—the sort that made cocky assistant editors feel insecure. Unfortunately it didn’t have a similar dampening effect on Quinn. ‘Passion and excitement rarely make it past the first year…’ ‘That’s longer than your boyfriends, so I hear tell,’ he responded promptly. Rowena kept a hold on her temper with difficulty. ‘Platonic love has more staying power,’ she gritted. ‘And some people prefer the less volatile emotions like companionship and affection. Mutual respect,’ she added, dogged determination creeping into her tone as she refused to be influenced by his amused scepticism. She might even appreciate the irony one day in singing the praises of celibacy when her brain was filled to the brim with steamy sexy images—but not in the foreseeable future, she decided as a ribbon of cold sweat slid down her spine! ‘Is there some reason you can’t have mutual respect and passion?’ ‘Men,’ she retorted, ‘are notoriously incapable of juggling more than one task. I think the same goes for emotions. They respect their mothers, they love their children and they lust after their nubile secretaries,’ announced the woman who despised generalisations. The same woman who had an article on her laptop detailing the unfair press men received in the media these days. She wondered what Quinn would make of, ‘Has the balance swung too far in the other direction?’ She’d regretfully decided, ‘Are we castrating our men?’ might be a bit too strong for the magazine’s target audience. ‘My secretary is called Vincent and at a guess I’d say the idea of me being consumed by lust would alarm him deeply…’ ‘You know what I mean,’ she snapped crossly. He nodded. ‘Sure, men are shallow, sex-crazed monsters about covers it, I think. Well, as fascinating as the subject of other people’s sex lives—or, in this case, lack of them—is, we’re rather slipping from the point here.’ Just as well he’d remembered his point, because all she could concentrate on now was the flickering images in her head and what upped the agony factor was the fact that Quinn’s eager victim was no longer anonymous. She saw that same face every time she looked in the mirror. ‘You’re usually such a cautious person.’ His puzzled eyes moved over her face, noting several signs of strain there, including pinpricks of moisture beading her upper lip which he immediately fantasised about blotting with his own tongue before he—Don’t go there, Quinn, he instructed himself urgently. Too late! ‘I’m sure you’ve never left your car door unlocked in your life, and I’d have sworn that you’ve never left home without a tissue or other female essentials…’ And obviously the women Quinn knew thought of condoms as essentials. Come to think of it, a rival magazine that had done a piece on the average *******s of the handbag of a woman between the ages of twenty-five and thirty had thought so too, so possibly it was she who was wildly out of step with the times. ‘Is that meant to be a crude analogy? Because if so—’ ‘Hold up,’ he protested, holding up a hand to defend his innocence. ‘No analogy, crude or otherwise, no double or single entendre, even. I was just making an observation that you’re a very careful person—and before you jump down my throat again I’m not saying that’s a bad thing, I’m just pointing out it was a bit out of character.’ ‘It was a bit out of character for me to sleep with you…’ ‘It was, but now I’m happy to say it’s becoming a regular occurrence.’ Rowena closed her eyes—she’d walked right into that one! She tried not to let her thoughts get sidetracked. It was not easy, but she needed all her wits about her if she wasn’t going to reveal something that would only make it harder to say no when Quinn made his next move. It didn’t seem overly conceited to think he would at some point—if he hadn’t throttled her in the meantime. It was hard to remember, with all this aggression floating around, that they’d once had such an easy rapport. A nasty thought occurred to her. ‘I hope you’re not trying to imply it’s my fault I’m pregnant?’ she began. ‘Is that where this is leading? Because if you are—’ ‘It’s no more your fault than it is mine.’ Which, Rowena recognised immediately, wasn’t the same thing as saying either of them was innocent. ‘The only blameless person here is the baby.’ His long-lashed eyes dropped to Rowena’s flat belly. ‘I don’t think there’s much to be gained from apportioning blame…God!’ He groaned, immediately contradicting himself. ‘It’s no excuse, I know, but I’ve never had a condom tear on me before…’ The colour faded from her cheeks. ‘A condom tore? So that’s how…I did wonder, because you were so careful…’ Well, that was one mystery solved, but it opened up another. ‘And you knew? Why didn’t you say something?’ ‘I did, you said it didn’t matter. Actually,’ he recalled, a contemplative gleam in his eyes, ‘you said nothing mattered except—’ ‘Yes, well, there’s no point in post-mortem,’ Rowena cut in brightly—reminders of what she’d said she could do without. Actually Quinn had turned out to be very responsive to requests and even orders in her more urgent moments. It had never occurred to Rowena before that you could actually lead a man where you wanted him to go, and Quinn had displayed an amazing talent for interpreting her most inarticulate pleas. ‘I suppose you realise it’s the height of bad manners to quiz a woman on her sexual history,’ she added darkly. ‘If you must know, I’ve had enough lovers.’ ‘And were any of these numerous relationships long-lived?’ ‘I didn’t say there were lots, just enough and I’ve never had any interest in long-term relationships…’ she countered evasively. ‘How could I have forgotten?’ he drawled at his driest. ‘I hate to ruin all your plans to be a struggling single parent who’s nobly sacrificed her career for her baby…’ Rowena got the distinct impression he wasn’t sold on nobility ‘…but,’ he continued, his voice grim, his expression uncompromising, ‘this baby has two parents, and most people would expect a man in my position to give financial support. In fact,’ he added, ‘some people might expect me to do more…more as in marry you,’ he added when her blank expression of wary incomprehension didn’t lift. Very aware of his keen eyes on her face, Rowena kept her expression very still. ‘Well, luckily for you I’m not one of them.’ She even managed a passable laugh. ‘I’ll take that as a no, shall I…?’ Rowena frowned. He didn’t sound like a man who’d just had a lucky escape. ‘Well, if you don’t want to marry me, perhaps it would be better all round if I took responsibility for the baby after the birth. Personally I don’t think it can be good for a kid’s emotional development to have a mother who never stops reminding him or her of how great a career she could have had if she hadn’t sacrificed her all on the altar of maternal love. No,’ he mused, his eyes as hard as flint as they surveyed her face. ‘The more I think about it, the more sensible it seems. That way your meteoric rise need not be disrupted…If you carry on the way you are, in another couple of years you’ll never write another word—but, my, you’ll be powerful and that’s what counts, isn’t it?’ Leaving her sitting there with her mouth open, her face white with stunned disbelief, Quinn casually picked up his plate and left the table. |
CHAPTER SEVEN
FOR several seconds Rowena sat there too shocked to respond. She had wondered what Quinn wanted from her, now she knew—he wanted her baby! Not only did he want the baby, it was equally obvious he didn’t really want her—not even as an optional extra! You couldn’t class his brief reference to marriage as a real proposal! No, all Quinn wanted was a walking incubator, she thought as a blinding wave of rage washed over her. With a wrathful cry she suddenly leapt to her feet, slithering a little on the smooth stone floor in her stockinged feet. She righted herself and, with her hands planted firmly on her sashaying hips, advanced threateningly towards the tall figure who was stacking dirty dishes as if he’d not just as good as tried to kidnap her unborn child. Rowena waited for a few impatient toe-tapping seconds for him to acknowledge her presence before she lost patience—she was in no mood to be ignored—and prodded him in the back. ‘You’ll have this baby over my dead body!’ With an exclamation of frustration she ripped away the tea towel he’d been drying his hands on. ‘For heaven’s sake you’re not in Theatre and washing up isn’t a sterile procedure!’ she hissed. ‘Force of habit.’ ‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’ One corner of Quinn’s mouth lifted in a contemptuous curl as he surveyed her animated and angry features with cold, unfriendly eyes. ‘What do you want me to say?’ ‘A grovelling apology would be a good start.’ ‘I’d have thought you’d have welcomed the idea,’ he riposted languidly. ‘I mean, you obviously think our child is nothing more than an inconvenience.’ ‘How dare you look down your superior nose at me?’ she exploded, her hands balling into tight fists of frustration. ‘At least I’ve not bought into the glossy magazine image of a glowing mother and shiny new baby.’ ‘So now you’re the expert? Been moonlighting for one of those pregnancy magazines? Or has your magazine done a spread on designer outfits for the well-dressed newborn?’ His scorn brought an angry flush to her cheeks. ‘You’re a patronising pig!’ she told him with complete conviction. ‘Maybe I am, but it still doesn’t alter the fact that I’ve encountered a few more mothers and babies in my time than you,’ he retorted drily, recalling his exhausting stint on Obs and Gynae when newly qualified. ‘I’ve actually delivered my share of healthy babies.’ He didn’t add that he wouldn’t care to be put in a position where he had to do so again. ‘It’s what happens when they leave the hospital I’m thinking about.’ She didn’t dare think about what went before, after the one glimpse she’d taken inside the medical textbook Holly had left at her place. The peek had left her glassy-eyed and panic-stricken. ‘Let me tell you about motherhood. I’ve seen friends, who thought nothing of clubbing it to dawn the night before an important breakfast meeting, crawl into work after having a baby with bags under their eyes beyond even your capability of fixing. They are barely able to keep their eyes open past ten a.m. and ring the nanny with anxiety attacks at least ten times a morning. As for the glossy pictures…’ she snorted derisively ‘…I’ve been around when they take those. For every one that’s printed there are fifty where the baby is throwing up or screaming inconsolably.’ Breathless, she prodded him once more, this time in the chest. It was no more yielding than his stony, uninterested expression. ‘And what makes you think you could be a better parent than me?’ she demanded. ‘Just because you can knock up a meal out of a store cupboard.’ She gestured to the neglected risotto sitting sadly on her plate. ‘And incidentally it was over-seasoned—that doesn’t make you good father material!’ ‘I never said I’d make a good father—how can anybody know what sort of parent they’ll make? But I’m willing to give it my best shot. It’s not a crime to be excited about the prospect of parenthood, Rowena, but I’m not stupid. Of course I know it’s going to take a lot of adjustment. There’s a world of difference between being realistic and being negative.’ This combination of reasoned argument and sarcasm was mostly wasted on Rowena, whose short-circuited brain hadn’t managed to make sense of anything beyond ‘excited’. She gave her head a tiny puzzled shake as her bemused eyes met his. ‘You’re excited about having a baby…?’ A wary frown appeared between his brows as he nodded firmly. ‘What did you expect me to be?’ Angry…annoyed, at least…maybe even appalled. ‘I’d love to be excited,’ she admitted wistfully. The outline of his strong features suddenly blurred as hot tears filled her eyes. She blinked rapidly to stop them overflowing. ‘What’s stopping you?’ he prompted, his anger fading away to nothing as she raised her luminous, tragic eyes to his. For once Rowena couldn’t hide the conflict that was tearing her apart from the inside out. ‘I can’t…’ She gulped. ‘I’m too s…scared.’ A bitter little laugh escaped her aching throat. ‘No, that’s not true. Actually,’ she admitted bluntly, ‘I’m terrified. What if I can’t do it? What if I’m a lousy mother?’ Her voice shook as her deepest fears were revealed. ‘Oh, I know everyone thinks I do everything well. You know why that is, don’t you?’ Quinn shook his head, afraid to say or do anything that might make her retreat behind her defences once more. ‘I never attempt anything I know I won’t be brilliant at…’ ‘Except driving,’ Quinn interceded lightly. She sniffed ruefully. ‘Except driving,’ she agreed. ‘It’s a neat trick.’ Rowena nodded, her jaw set rigid to stop her chin wobbling as she swallowed the lump in her tight, aching throat. ‘I may be a coward, but don’t run away with the idea I’ll let you have this baby, Quinn. I’d fight you every step of the way if you made me.’ ‘Why?’ Rowena blinked, confused as much by the peculiar expression in his eyes as the abrupt question. ‘Well, obviously…because…because…’ Quinn took her by the shoulders and gave her a tiny shake. ‘Because…?’ ‘Because I want this baby.’ Her eyes widened to their fullest extent when she realized what she had just said. ‘Because your body clock’s ticking louder? Because your hormones are overriding your common sense?’ ‘No!’ she denied, fiercely resentful of his suggestions. ‘I just want a baby.’ A sense of wonder drifted over her face. ‘My baby,’ he said softly. Without thinking Rowena nodded—that was a big part of it. ‘I do…I really do.’ It was scary to hear herself admit for the first time that her decision to have the baby had very little to do with hormones or a sense of moral responsibility. She’d hidden away from the simple truth behind terms like duty and responsibility, and she’d blamed it on her biology, but all along she’d wanted a baby—not just any baby, but one that was hers and Quinn’s! Despite this revelation, there were still some corners of conflict in her mind. Part of her still thought it was selfish for someone like her to want a baby. Quinn’s head went back as he released a deep sigh. ‘At last!’ he breathed. He straightened up and eyed her with approval tinged by relief. ‘It took you long enough.’ Her bewilderment deepened. ‘I don’t understand,’ she faltered. ‘Sure you do,’ he denied warmly. ‘It’s not difficult. You want this baby, Rowena—our baby.’ His eyes flared with satisfaction. And that makes him happy? she thought. This was making less and less sense. ‘A minute ago I wasn’t a fit mother, and you wanted to take the baby away from me.’ Her expression darkened at the memory and without his being aware of it her hands spread protectively over her belly. A fresh unpleasant possibility occurred to her. ‘People will say my life is empty,’ she wailed. ‘That I can’t get anyone to love me and that’s why I’m having a baby.’ Maybe they had a point? Oh, God, what was she doing, saying these things to Quinn? He was probably taking notes for his lawyer. The problem was, now that she’d finally started saying what she was feeling, she couldn’t seem to close the floodgates. Like the copious tears she was continually brushing from her cheeks, the words just kept flowing. ‘Do you think there’s a possibility you’ve been reading your own copy too often…?’ ‘I’m perfectly serious!’ she snapped. ‘I know, that’s what’s so scary,’ he muttered. ‘Or, then again, perhaps they’ll think the baby’s the ultimate fashion accessory…?’ he observed slyly. Eyes wide with shocked indignation, her head reared back. She grunted and released her breath in a rueful sigh the second she encountered the wry expression in his heavy-lidded eyes. ‘You have a very warped sense of humour,’ she said. It occurred to her that Quinn seemed to be less shocked by her revelations than she was. ‘Perhaps, but in a long line of extremely stupid things you’ve said recently that had to be one of the most stupid. There are a lot of people out there who love you, Rowena Parrish. You know that.’ ‘I know that,’ she admitted shamefaced, thinking of her family who were even now probably worried sick about her. There was a little ache in her heart because if Quinn had wanted to add himself to the list he referred to he had surely just had the ideal opportunity. His silence spoke volumes. ‘If you were as lacking in maternal instincts as you make out you’d have jumped at the opportunity to palm off the baby and not turned all feral on me.’ He rubbed the area mid-way up his chest where her aggressive finger had left a red patch that would later become a bruise. ‘I didn’t turn feral,’ Rowena denied, embarrassed at the description. A flicker of shock crossed her face. ‘Did you say that thing—about taking the baby—deliberately, to get a reaction?’ she asked, not sure she liked the idea of him manipulating her in such a calculating manner. ‘I wish I could claim to be that perceptive, but actually I just lost my cool. It’s pretty hard when someone you care for is acting as if you’ve ruined their life—especially when it’s a pretty justified viewpoint,’ he brooded darkly. For a brief moment Rowena flirted with the idea of challenging him about the ‘someone you care for’ ******* of his statement, but on sober reflection she decided to leave well alone. Leaping on some casual comment smacked of sad desperation, so instead she summoned up a strained smile. ‘I suppose that’s something; it’s bad enough talking to you at the best of times. If you suddenly developed the ability to see into my head too…Well, it just doesn’t bear thinking about!’ she admitted frankly. Especially when you considered the erotic fantasies swirling about in her head! ‘Sometimes,’ he replied, catching the angle of her jaw between his thumb and forefinger, ‘I think I do know what you’re thinking and on those occasions it seems spookily like you know what I’m thinking too…Let’s try out the theory. What am I thinking now?’ he asked throatily. Rowena caught her breath. His expression was still and tense and inside all that stillness his wonderful eyes glowed. They had that dark, raw, turned on look that made her melt inside and turned her control switch all the way to frantic! She licked her lips nervously and swayed towards him, completely mesmerised. He had barely even touched her and in a matter of seconds she was totally out of control. She wanted him to touch her, though; she wanted it badly. Her heart rate would have set cardiac monitors screaming warnings, her skin temperature shot up several degrees. She was so aroused that every slight movement, the very touch of the air on her skin made her shift restlessly. ‘Well…?’ This was the point where she could easily have cooled things down with a few well-chosen words. Instead of using those words she heard herself respond in an embarrassingly weak, breathless whisper. ‘I really…I really couldn’t say.’ ‘I’m thinking about your hair.’ His voice had the texture of rough velvet as he reached out and let a few soft strands of her pale hair slide through his long fingers. ‘So silky, so fine.’ Rowena shivered and did so again and again as uncontrollable tremors slid through her body. ‘And your skin, so smooth and firm like satin.’ One finger trailed down her cheek before falling away. His darkened eyes fell at the same moment to the agitated rise and fall of her unconstrained breasts under the borrowed sweater. When his eyes lifted they were burning. It was just a look but her insides flooded with hot pleasure and even hotter desire—she was on fire for him. She whimpered with relief when he took her face between his hands and drew her pliant body towards him. ‘Are you going to kiss me any time soon?’ she asked, looking from his eyes to his mouth and back again. ‘All in good time,’ he purred, running his tongue over the inside of her full, pouting lower lip. Anticipating the actual moment he would eventually possess the honeyed sweetness of her lips only heightened the desire coursing like fire through his veins. However, this small display of will-power gave him the illusion he still had some control, some choice, but deep down Quinn knew that where Rowena was concerned his discipline was nil! The bottom of her stomach dissolved. ‘Oh, my God!’ Weak with need to the point of collapse, she clung to him. Her engorged nipples burned, the clutching, congested ache low in her belly reached crisis point as her firm, rounded thighs trembled. Given the urgency of her need, this was not a moment for subtlety! Motivated now by nothing but a driving need to assuage the demanding ache centred between her legs, she pushed herself against him, rubbing her body erotically against the aggressive bulge of his hard arousal. As she felt him suck in his breath Rowena pressed her open mouth to his. Quinn’s response was immediate; he was kissing her back with a frantic hunger and wild intensity that made her senses spin. Like a famished man, his tongue plunged and tasted, his teeth nipped—it was more than a kiss but less than total possession, and Rowena wanted total possession! Her neck extended to give his mouth access to the smooth, graceful curve. ‘Take me to bed?’ she whispered as his breath fanned over her ear. Eyes burning, she turned her face to his. Quinn’s face was very close to hers. She had time to hazily note that there was a dark flush along his cheekbones and the angular planes of his face appeared harder and sharper in the moment before his piercing eyes captured her own. After that she couldn’t see anything but those glorious emerald depths. ‘See, I told you, you do know what I’m thinking.’ He grinned, sweeping her up into his arms. When Rowena woke some time later darkness had fallen; the candles in the wall sconces flickered, sending dancing, elongated shadows across the crumpled bedclothes and the two occupants. Yawning, she stretched languidly, with an almost feline grace, and her knee came into contact with something solid and warm. Shocked into wakefulness, she jerked back, her blue eyes shot open—then she relaxed. It was Quinn. Who else did you expect? she asked herself mockingly. Rowena had never woken up beside a man, never watched a man sleep, and the unexpected intimacy of this warm, sleepy afterglow took her by surprise. Head supported on one hand, she looked curiously at the man beside her. He lay asleep on his stomach, his head turned to one side with the heavy, decadent, embroidered velvet top cover pushed down to his waist. The soft golden candlelight flickered over the powerful sculpted contours of his back and brought out the subtle auburn highlights in his dark, glossy hair. His even-coloured golden skin looked satiny and smooth. He appeared to be sleeping deeply, the rhythm of his breathing deep and regular, his head cradled in the crook of one arm. In slumber his stern profile was softer, almost vulnerable. Looking at the strong, clean-cut lines of his jaw, the droop of heavy lashes across his slashing cheekbone, made her feel almost protective—or was it almost possessive…? No almost about it, girl! The thought of any other woman being where she was, seeing what she was seeing, made her sick with jealousy. It was an emotion she’d never experienced in relation to a male before, and the raw intensity of it scared her. Would he wake if she touched him? Her fingertips flexed as she silently contemplated tracing the line of his strong, supple spine all the way down to that intriguing cleft just above his tight buttocks. The texture, taste and scent of that smooth olive-toned skin was still fresh in her head. A small, gloating smile tugged at full lips still tender and swollen from his kisses as she thought about rediscovering the tactile delights his body offered. Quinn shifted restlessly in his sleep and Rowena drew guiltily back, and then she drew back some more as he rolled even closer in the big bed. She bit back a startled cry as, with an indistinct, throaty murmur, he threw his arm over her body. She lay there hardly daring to move, hardly daring to breathe. His arm heavy, inert and warm lay just below her ribcage, effectively pinning her to the bed. Well, this wasn’t strictly true—she could have moved, it was more a case of she didn’t want to! She shot a darting glance to his long fingers curled possessively over the crest of her hip and a flash-flood of heat engulfed her body. Slowly, concentrating on a small portion of her body at a time she forced herself to relax. It wasn’t as if it was a bad feeling having his warm body close to her, so close in fact she could feel his breath on her neck. Her own body still felt warm and satiated, the glow low in her belly a reminder of Quinn’s ferociously tender possession. Quinn had lit the candles before they’d made love. ‘That settles it. Definitely a love-nest, no doubt whatsoever,’ he announced authoritatively. ‘Candles are a girl thing. The only reason a man uses candles is to put a lady in the right mood.’ ‘Speaking from personal experience, are we?’ she mocked as she covetously watched the long, lean fluid lines of his body as he padded about with lithe, unselfconscious grace, lighting them all before the burning taper in his hand almost singed his fingertips. ‘Have you burnt yourself? You should put them in water.’ ‘I’ve a much better idea,’ Quinn replied, leaping onto the bed with athletic fervour. ‘You lick them cool for me. Medically speaking, saliva has astonishing healing powers.’ This scandalous suggestion made her colour rise. ‘That’s a very resourceful suggestion,’ she admitted hoarsely. ‘I’m a very resourceful man.’ The resourceful man started stripping off his trousers. If she’d been feeling a little more assured Rowena might have challenged him to prove this claim. But she thought her response was pretty adequate—Quinn’s reaction to it suggested it was, anyhow. The complacent grin was certainly wiped off his face when, kneeling just in front of him, she whipped the borrowed jumper over her head and flung it carelessly aside. His eyes and jaw dropped simultaneously. ‘Oh, my God!’ she heard him mutter. Her eyes smouldered with sultry triumph as the air was audibly expelled from his lungs in one long, painful gasp. Surviving his scorching scrutiny without covering herself or moving was a feat of remarkable endurance. Eventually she could bear it no more. ‘Which hand was it?’ His glazed, unfocused gaze returned jerkily to her face. ‘To hell with hands!’ he growled, lunging for her. The memory of what came next she would treasure for the rest of her life. His erotic explorations made her skin burn. And when it came the climax surpassed the mere physical—it touched her soul. In fact it did more than that: it provided proof positive for a born cynic that she had one! Maybe some of what she felt communicated itself to Quinn because he didn’t question the tears that poured down her cheeks as he drew her into his arms afterwards. ‘Why are you crying?’ The sound of his voice in the present made Rowena start violently. Awkwardly she edged farther down beneath the covers and drew them up over her bare shoulders. ‘I didn’t know you were awake.’ She hadn’t known she was crying either. She touched the back of her hand to her cheek and felt the moisture. ‘I’m about half and half.’ Quinn rolled onto his back and stretched luxuriously, one arm flung over his head. ‘Are you going to tell me why…?’ Rowena, conscious that she had been all but drooling at the rippling display of muscular perfection, withdrew her flustered glance and shook her head. ‘Hmm?’ ‘You might recall I asked you why you’re crying a whole sixty seconds ago,’ came the wry reminder. Considering he was responsible for her lack of concentration, she didn’t think it very nice of him to be irritated by it. ‘Oh, that.’ She shrugged, dismissing the tears. ‘I wasn’t crying, I was just thinking about…’ She dropped her eyes self-consciously. She could hardly tell him his ardent love-making was so spectacularly unforgettable—so uniquely fulfilling that the memory would probably still be able to reduce her to an emotional basket case when she was an old, old lady. ‘About something that made you cry?’ Suspicion threaded his words. She rubbed her nose against the sheet. ‘What can I say? I’m a mess of seething hormones.’ The comment invited laughter but Quinn didn’t seem to realise it; his expression remained sombre and thoughtful. ‘I suppose you are.’ A man would have to be very insensitive to ask a woman whose hormones were all over the show to make a life-changing decision. Abruptly he rolled onto his stomach and planted a hand either side of her face on the pillow. There was nothing in any way lecherous about his lazy, warm smile but her heart began to race. But then the scent of his skin in her nostrils was enough to do that and you couldn’t discount the degree to which the brazen pressure of his heavy thigh against her own disconcerted her! Rowena swallowed convulsively—he was so damned gorgeous she couldn’t take her eyes off him. He looked down at the outline of her slim body lying beneath him. A frown appeared above his aquiline nose as his roaming glance reached the suggestion of soft hips under the covers and stayed put. ‘I take it your gynaecologist has not picked up any problems?’ he probed cautiously. ‘I’m pregnant, not ill, Quinn.’ Quinn looked exasperated by her impatient response. ‘In other words you’ve not seen a doctor yet.’ He sighed, shaking his head. ‘That’s so typical of you, Parrish.’ ‘I’ve seen you.’ Suppressing a bubble of naughty laughter, she caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘Quite a lot of you actually, Tyler,’ she elaborated with a lascivious little leer as her glance followed the flow of dark body hair on his chest to the place where it arrowed into a thin fine line over his lean belly. The image sent an excited shiver down her spine. ‘And very nice too,’ she admitted, a husky catch in her voice. ‘Very kind of you to say so.’ She reached up and let her fingers slide across his collarbone. A slow, sultry smile tugged at her wide, sexy mouth. ‘You know,’ she mused throatily, ‘I think I might be passably good at it after all. It as in sex, and passably as in pretty marvellous.’ Quinn raised himself above her and supported himself on straight arms. After his initial sharp inhalation his breathing seemed to have settled into a shallow, almost laboured pattern. ‘You wouldn’t be trying to distract me, would you?’ At this point Rowena, who was regretting her brazen behaviour, would have liked to turn away, but breaking eye contact with Quinn when he had other ideas was a nonstarter. ‘You haven’t told me what you think.’ ‘I think,’ he finally responded in a low, sardonic drawl, ‘that it isn’t outside the realms of possibility. In fact, given the right encouragement, I think you could be brilliant.’ He shook his head as a slow grin split his dark features. ‘Though I have to admit you’re doing pretty well just doing what comes naturally.’ With a laugh he suddenly rolled away from her. Rowena found herself laughing too as they lay side by side staring at the rich canopy over their heads. Almost in unison they turned their heads to face one another. Continuing the symmetrical theme, the laughter died from both their faces at the same moment—the moment that the electricity flashed between them. As if drawn by an invisible cord, Rowena leaned towards him, bringing her face close up to his. ‘Come on,’ fess up, Rowena, you haven’t seen a doctor, have you?’ A sound of frustration whistled through her teeth as she angrily rolled herself in the sheet and to the opposite side of the bed. Her femme fatale act obviously needed some work. Talk about anticlimax! ‘I’ve hardly had time yet to see doctors,’ she said crossly. ‘That’s no excuse—it’s been over two months since the baby was conceived. It’s always possible to make time for the important things in life,’ he evangelised virtuously. Virtue, she reflected grumpily, was so much harder to stomach when you knew the person dishing it out was right. ‘What sort of things would those be, Quinn?’ she asked, displaying deep interest. ‘Being seen at film premières with bosomy starlets?’ Quinn grimaced. ‘Ah, you saw that one, did you?’ ‘Holly sent me the video tape.’ At the time she had wondered why her sister had imagined that seeing Quinn for thirty seconds parading through a foyer of celebrities with a skimpily dressed actress on his arm would offer any entertainment value. ‘Actually, Angie wasn’t really that well endowed. It was just an unfortunate camera angle and a lot of, erm, underwiring…’ He shifted his weight onto one elbow and used his other hand to mime the uplift aspect of his description. Rowena sniffed with lofty disdain. ‘Unfortunate from whose point of view?’ ‘I was simply doing a mate a favour, you know.’ She smiled understandingly. ‘And hating every minute of it, I could tell,’ she guffawed insincerely. ‘Mark, the poor sod, had mumps. He was totally gutted; he’d been chasing Angie for months. He had enough to worry about with the spectre of infertility hanging over him without imagining some smoothie running off with his girlfriend.’ And this from the smoothie of all smoothies! ‘And he thought you were a safe pair of hands? My, doesn’t he need his head testing!’ Quinn’s fascinating mouth twitched. ‘As illuminating as this display of claws is, I think we’re drifting again…’ He didn’t allow Rowena, who had opened her mouth to hotly contest this accusation of jealousy, to get a word in before he seamlessly continued. ‘The first thing we do when we get back to London is organise some antenatal care for you. I know a really first-class woman, Alex Stone, you’d get on with her…but of course if you have someone else in mind…’ ‘You mean I can actually choose my own doctor?’ She gasped, giving her best rendering of a helpless little girl voice. ‘Are you quite sure?’ ‘Very funny. But, seriously, Rowena, we shouldn’t drag our feet on this one—’ ‘We?’ ‘Of course we. I want to be with you every step of the way with this, Rowena, before and after the birth. And while we’re talking about it, this might be as good a time as any to think about the benefits of us moving in together?’ He looked and sounded so damned casual that Rowena’s first thought was that she must have misunderstood him. ‘You’re suggesting that we move in together?’ ‘It would make child care a lot easier—think about it…’ he suggested, hardly sounding as if her decision was exactly life or death to him. ‘There’s no desperate hurry, but I think you’ll find it makes sense,’ he added, levering himself upright and throwing back the covers, displaying a relaxed attitude to his naked state that Rowena frankly envied. Sense! The argument no longer had the same pulling power for her that it had done until recently. No, Rowena had discovered she wasn’t so different from her contemporaries after all. She didn’t want sense, she wanted passion! She wanted a man who said his life would be nothing without her in it; she wanted promises of eternal devotion—in short, she wanted the full works! And Quinn very obviously wasn’t going to supply them. There was a certain horrid irony to the situation. Rowena, who had spent her life avoiding emotional complications, had fallen for a guy who had an approach as pragmatic as her own had been. Still, you couldn’t throw the baby out with the bath water…a flicker of affection closely followed by worry crossed her face as she heard Gran’s brisk, no-nonsense voice in her head serving up this favourite piece of advice. It was one she had frequently employed when Rowena had been on the point of ditching some scheme or other that hadn’t gone exactly to plan. It wasn’t exactly hard to think of plus points beyond the mere practicality of living with Quinn when he was strutting about the bedroom in a state of beautiful undress. And who was to say his feelings wouldn’t deepen later? Rowena, the covers modestly drawn around her shoulders, sat upright. The defiant tilt of her chin was aimed more at the small voice in her head that despaired at the unrealistic, fingers-crossed decision she’d arrived at with such undue haste than at him. ‘All right, then.’ ‘All right?’ Quinn paused in the act of retrieving his trousers from the floor—not a situation that would show off most men to their best advantage, but then Quinn was not your average man! She watched him straighten up with that smooth, fluid grace that typified his every movement; her stomach responded quiveringly to the striking erotic image. ‘On one condition.’ ‘We are talking about us moving in together, here, aren’t we?’ Rowena nodded. Unusually for Quinn, he was displaying shock—perhaps at the speed with which she’d reached her decision. ‘I think we should have a probationary period during which we can find out if we’re compatible,’ she said, trying with her aloof demeanour to rebalance any appearance of undesirable eagerness she might have previously displayed. ‘We know we’re perfectly compatible.’ His eyes moved extremely obviously in the direction of the tumbled bed covers, inescapable evidence of their frantic coupling. If sex was all it took to make a successful relationship, they’d have it made, she thought, removing her own gaze from the proof of their lovemaking. ‘I’m talking about outside the bedroom,’ she snapped back. ‘Two seconds.’ Her frown deepened. ‘Two seconds what?’ ‘It took seconds for your blush to peak.’ ‘You were timing it?’ He nodded. ‘That might be a record.’ ‘I’m awfully glad I amuse you.’ This was only their future she was talking about and he was making dumb jokes at her expense. Quinn sighed. ‘It’s only a joke. I like you blushing. It’s charming and cute.’ ‘Cute!’ she echoed, her face screwed up in disgust. ‘Is that meant to be a compliment? If so, I have to tell you, you badly miscalculated.’ Quinn’s jaw tightened. ‘Perhaps you should compile a blacklist of unacceptable compliments.’ How did he always turn things around so that she came out the unreasonable one? ‘You wouldn’t call a man cute, would you?’ Not the most staggeringly intelligent riposte you’ve ever come up with, Rowena, she told herself. ‘You don’t want me to answer that, do you?’ Rowena shook her head, feeling a complete moron. ‘But I do want you to treat me like your intellectual equal, not someone to pat on the head.’ ‘So I’m supposed to say your intellect turns me on? Well, quite frankly I’d be lying. Your mind is a maze to me, your motivations are mostly a complete mystery, I just think I’ve got you worked out and you go and—’ ‘Do something daft and get pregnant.’ ‘There you go again!’ he yelled as, pushing his fingers deep into his dark hair, he shook his head wearily from side to side. ‘Putting words into my mouth. For heaven’s sake, woman, why can’t you just go with the flow?’ He sighed. With an inarticulate squeal of frustration Rowena grabbed a pillow and pushed her head under it. It was hard to maintain his animosity when confronted by the image of her neat little behind stuck up in the air, swaying gently backwards and forwards. When her repertoire of foul language was exhausted Rowena emerged, her cheeks pink and her hair sticking up. ‘Have you any idea how much you irritate me when you say things like that?’ she demanded. ‘Things like what?’ ‘Chill out, go with the flow…’ With a choked sob she pulled the pillow across her chest and buried her face in it. She stayed like that for several moments, rocking back and fro before straightening up. ‘Well, any trial run seems obsolete now, doesn’t it?’ Quinn folded his arms across his bare chest and looked belligerent. ‘Why’s that?’ ‘Are you mad? We’ve got nothing whatever in common. The fact is I’m a picture straightener, always have been, always will be, and you…’ She forced herself to look at the tall, dynamic figure who made her ache with a mixture of lust, love and frustration. ‘At heart you’re a slob, Quinn. Oh, I know you look respectable when you’re working.’ Respectable hardly covered the elegant, commanding figure he cut in his dark designer suits and handmade shoes. ‘But that’s not the real you, is it?’ ‘You think you know who the real me is?’ He looked fascinated. ‘The real you is the one crawling round underneath that motorbike of yours wearing jeans and a tee shirt covered in oil.’ ‘Well, I’d look damned stupid fixing the brake pads on the bike in a suit and tie, wouldn’t I?’ ‘You’re missing the point.’ ‘No, I’m not, you’re getting bogged down with a lot of stupid details that don’t really matter. The bottom line is your life has improved beyond all recognition with me in it.’ A laugh of pure disbelief was torn from her throat. ‘You really are unbelievable!’ She gasped, half laughing at his outrageous arrogance. ‘It’s true, you’ve always needed a challenge—’ ‘I can’t dispute you’re that!’ ‘Your trouble is you inspire admiration, awe and fear in men.’ ‘But not in you?’ ‘No, when I’m not wanting to strangle you, I’m thinking about when, where and how I’m going to make love to you,’ he announced with breathtaking candour. All manner of steamy images passed rapidly before her burning eyes as she drew in a shuddering breath. ‘Always supposing we did move in together, and I’m only saying supposing…’ she began shakily. ‘Of course.’ She was relieved to see he was happy to play along with the pretence that her decision hadn’t always been a foregone conclusion. She’d been making sensible decisions all her life—perhaps it was time she started making the odd crazy one. She was starting to think that steering clear of emotional attachments hadn’t been sensible, just cowardly. Or maybe there was only so long you could ignore your genes—perhaps it was her destiny to go crazy like all the other women in her family. ‘There’s another condition,’ she explained, trying to give the impression this codicil was an unimportant afterthought. Quinn looked suspicious. ‘You don’t want me to sell my bike, do you?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think we should date anyone else.’ She half expected him to pick up on the inescapable fact there wasn’t much possibility of her pulling with a bump the size of a house preceding her into a room! ‘Monogamy?’ Quinn sucked in his breath and shook his head doubtfully. ‘That’s a big ask!’ Rowena’s heart dropped somewhere south of her knees; her stomach churned. If her eyes hadn’t also dropped she’d have recognised the unmistakable flare of anger in Quinn’s lustrous eyes. ‘It’s non-negotiable,’ she gritted. Compromise was one thing, becoming a doormat was something else again. ‘Good grief, woman!’ Quinn ejaculated, his expression morphing into one of extreme exasperation as his green eyes skimmed her flushed face. ‘Do you actually think I’m the sort of man who would have one woman at home and keep a bit on the side?’ He looked at her expression of self-conscious guilt and snorted with disgust. ‘Oh, that’s just damned great,’ he drawled with a jaundiced scowl. ‘You do, don’t you?’ Rowena’s eyes slid uncomfortably away from the accusation in his cynical glare. ‘I just wanted you to know what you were letting yourself in for,’ she muttered, chewing her lip. ‘It would seem I’m letting myself in for living with a woman who thinks I have no staying power in the fidelity department.’ ‘It’s not too late to change your mind!’ she flared. Quinn’s narrowed gaze stilled on her flushed face. ‘Oh, you’ll not get rid of me that easily, sweetheart.’ Rowena shivered. ‘You make it sound like a threat,’ she accused, secretly relieved he hadn’t taken her up on her rash offer. It was quite horrifically politically incorrect to be attracted by the air of danger he was effortlessly projecting, but she couldn’t help herself. Perhaps, she pondered, it was all right to be turned on by menace when you knew the person oozing it would never hurt you. Quinn smiled and pulled the narrow-cut trousers up over his snaky hips. ‘A threat, a promise.’ He shrugged carelessly. ‘It’s much the same thing.’ A promise, she thought, didn’t have sinister overtones. ‘All this quarrelling doesn’t seem a very auspicious start to this…this…’ What did you call what they were embarking on? She glanced up at Quinn who had obviously recognised her dilemma and had no intention of helping her out. ‘Arrangement,’ she finished with a sigh of relief. ‘People in arrangements frequently quarrel, Rowena, though I can hardly expect you to know about such things.’ ‘Meaning…?’ ‘Meaning you’ve got a nerve questioning my commitment. If you recall, it was me who wanted to put our relationship on a more formal footing right from the beginning—you were the one that wanted the freedom to shop around.’ The crude assessment made her wince. ‘Just how many lovers do you think I’ve had?’ she yelled. ‘I have never shopped around, as you put it, and you can’t pretend that you would have been talking about moving in together if I hadn’t got pregnant.’ ‘We’ll never know, will we?’ Rowena knew evasion when she heard it. ‘And the point is you are pregnant. Let’s deal with that.’ Rowena took a deep breath. He was right. She had to deal with the knowledge that she loved someone who didn’t love her. It’s not a total tragedy, she told herself sternly. Stop griping about what you don’t have and wake up to what you do have—Quinn is a fantastic lover, he’ll make a great father to our child and he’ll never deliberately hurt you. ‘Yes, and a baby needs security.’ Not to mention two parents. An odd expression flickered into Quinn’s eyes. ‘And what do you need, Rowena?’ Love! she wanted to shout. Fortunately the emotional lump the size of a large boulder that was at that moment lodged in her aching throat ruled out such an indiscreet and unwise response. Mutely she shook her head. ‘I know right now it feels as if you’re giving up your freedom, but you never know—one day you might even come to believe you’d gained something even more precious.’ Leaving her to ponder his cryptic parting shot, he pushed open the door of the en suite bathroom and strode inside, the door clicking closed after him. Rowena had just started tidying away the remains of the meal Quinn had cooked when he appeared wearing a towel around his trim middle. ‘What are you doing?’ Despite the fact it must be perfectly obvious what she was doing, in the interests of harmony Rowena replied, ‘Clearing up.’ ‘Leave it until later,’ Quinn responded, dismissing the sink half full of dirty pots with a lordly gesture. ‘But…but…’ Her eyes widened as Quinn snuffed out the candles she’d lit between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Now you can’t see them. Does that make it easier?’ His dark velvet voice reached her through the blanket of darkness. ‘I’ll still know they’re there.’ She started as his hand closed firmly over hers. ‘Listen, I think I’m taking it pretty well considering you obviously find it hard to choose between me and dirty dishes. So stop fussing, woman, and come with me.’ ‘Come where? I can’t see,’ she protested, resisting just enough to demonstrate she wasn’t a pushover, but not enough to discourage him too much as he tugged her forward. ‘I’ll see for us both.’ ‘Oh, and I suppose you can see in the dark?’ ‘Actually I do happen to have exceptional night vision…’ ‘And an ego the size of Ben Nevis,’ she grumbled as an iron arm fastened around her waist. ‘It doesn’t look as if I have much choice, does it?’ ‘And we all know how much you love to sit back and let someone else take control.’ Frowningly, she absorbed his smooth comment as he led her across the room and to the foot of the stairs without bumping into anything. It was either luck or it hadn’t been an idle boast—he really could see in the dark. ‘Are you saying I’m a control freak?’ she demanded as they mounted the stairs together. Quinn laughed bitterly in reply but didn’t pause. He led her swiftly through the bedroom and towards the bathroom. Rowena tried to wrest her arm from his tenacious grip. ‘Will you just let me—?’ ‘Stop it, you’ll hurt yourself.’ ‘No, actually, you’ll hurt me…’ With a curse Quinn released her arm. ‘Thank you,’ she began sarcastically. Quinn leant over her head and pushed the bathroom door behind her open. Her head automatically turned in the direction of the soft light that suddenly spilled from the room. ‘Oh, wow!’ she breathed, stepping like someone in a dream over the threshold. The opulent room with its enormous claw-footed bath was filled with the light of flickering candles; they covered just about every available surface. The soft light picked out the fragrant oil floating on the warm water filling the tub. If there had ever been a seduction scene set, she was looking at it. She heard the door softly close. ‘You did this for me?’ she whispered, not turning around. His hands moved to her shoulders, drawing her back against his body. ‘I did this for us, Rowena,’ he corrected throatily. ‘I’d like us to take some good memories away with us.’ Tears standing out in her eyes, she spun around. ‘Oh, Quinn,’ she cried, ‘I’ve already got more of those than I ever thought possible!’ she declared passionately. ‘There’s room for more, though…?’ She reached boldly for the zip on his trousers. ‘Definitely,’ she agreed, her eyes not leaving his. |
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