That the deep purple of dark-fringed eyes haunted him angered Lyon, throwing him into a whirl of parties and women once he returned to London after the holidays. And when they hadn’t worked in banishing her from his mind he had decided to see Shay once again, to talk with her, to see if she really were as beautiful as he remembered. When she had entered his office on that Monday morning he had known his memory had played tricks on him; she was even more enchanting than he remembered, those huge violet eyes dominating her beautiful face.
That she was nervous of him, of his reasons for summoning her there, was obvious, her long slender hands clasped together to stop them from trembling. ‘Why do you think I wanted to see you?’ Lyon asked harshly, unable to resist the impulse to make her suffer a little for haunting him in the way that she had.
Her throat moved convulsively, a long creamy expanse of delicate flesh he wanted to caress with his lips and tongue. ‘I—I have no idea,’ she answered steadily enough after that initial hesitation.
Some devil possessed him, annoyed at her coolness. ‘I want you to go down to your desk and get your things,’ he ordered. ‘You’re leaving.’
Shay gasped, her small breasts moving beneath the thin silkiness of her pale lilac blouse, the aroused points of her nipples visible through the lace of her bra and the sheer material of her blouse. If just thinking about seeing him again could cause that reaction it promised much for their future together! He forced himself to dampen the elation and listen to what she was saying.
‘You can’t just sack me,’ she claimed indignantly. ‘I always do my share of the work, and I haven’t missed a day or been late since I started working here. I’m not even the last one to be employed, Stacy came after me. Surely you have to have a good reason nowadays for sacking someone like this? I can’t—’
Charming as he found the increased Irish lilt to her voice when she became angry, he was bored with the game he had started with her. ‘I’m not sacking you,’ Lyon calmly interrupted her tirade. ‘I merely want you to get your coat and bag so that I can take you to lunch.’
‘Take me—? But—I—You—’ Her spluttering ceased as two bright spots of red colour entered her cheeks, her eyes two purple jewels. ‘You aren’t taking me anywhere, you arrogant swine!’ She turned on her heel, her body moving gracefully as she walked.
‘Shay!’ Lyon was on his feet in seconds, realising he had seriously misjudged this Irish vixen, that the placid demeanour and violet eyes hid a fiery temper, an independence that wouldn’t allow any man, even one as powerful as she must know him to be, to order her about. She was waiting for him when he crossed the room to her side, stiff with anger as he put his hands on her shoulders to turn her round. ‘Will you have lunch with me?’ he coaxed, trying to remember the last time he had had to persuade a woman to spend time with him. He couldn’t.
‘I don’t—’
‘Please.’ He turned her fully into his arms, her perfume as elusive as the woman herself, feeling his body quicken with the same desire that had assailed him the last time he was with her. ‘Shay?’ he prompted cajolingly.
She tilted her head back to look at him, her young face challenging. ‘Why?’
Why? God, what strange questions this woman-child asked! ‘Because I want to be with you,’ Lyon smiled.
‘You haven’t felt that same need the last three weeks,’ she accused, seeming to bite her lip as she realised how much she had revealed in that candid statement.
And she had revealed a lot; it was exactly three weeks since they had all returned to work, when he had vaguely said he might get in touch with her again. This little vixen wasn’t as immune to him as she wanted him to believe!
His gaze dropped to those revealing breasts, her breaths short and shallow, the nipples even more pronounced, showing darkly against the light material of her blouse. She wanted him as much as he wanted her! ‘I wasn’t sure if Devlin Murphy would have followed you back from Dublin,’ he teased.
‘Devlin leave his beloved Ireland?’ Shay smiled at the thought. ‘Never!’
Lyon sobered, knowing her anger was fading, that she was surrendering to the attraction she felt for him, that mischievous glow coming back into her eyes. ‘Lunch, Shay?’ he urged firmly.
Uncertainty flickered across her face. ‘Wouldn’t it look a little—odd?’
‘Maybe, a little,’ he acknowledged distantly. ‘Do you care?’
A reckless light appeared in her eyes. ‘No,’ she replied happily. ‘Not if you don’t.’
‘Why should I?’ Lyon shrugged, not caring for his employees’ opinion of his actions, and it was a long time since either he or Marilyn had been concerned with the marriage vows they had made over five years before.
‘No reason,’ Shay dismissed, her eyes glowing. ‘I’ll meet you downstairs once I’ve collected my things, shall I?’ she suggested eagerly.
He was glad now he had decided to drive himself into work that morning, the custom-built Porsche usually standing idle during the day at the underground parking at his apartment while his chauffeur, Jeffrey, drove him through the heavy traffic of early-morning London in the limousine; it saved on his own blood pressure, besides giving him the freedom to work in the back of the car during the journey. This morning he had aggressively wanted to challenge the traffic himself, daring anyone to get in his way, sexual tension making his mood volcanic.
As Shay climbed into the black vehicle beside him he thought how well she looked there, her fierce pride making her act as if she drove in fifty thousand pounds’-worth of car every day of her life. At that moment he had wanted her so badly he would have given her the car just to have one hour in bed with her. It might be a high price to pay, but he had a feeling, young though she was, the experience of making love to this woman would be worth it.
Lunch, what he had thought would be a tedious lead up to what he really wanted, became dinner too after they walked the afternoon away, the maître d’ finally having to point out to them that it was after two in the morning, that all the other patrons had left, and that the staff were waiting to go home. Lyon had been stunned—delighted!—that Shay had so interested him as he listened to her attractively lilting voice that he hadn’t been troubled by his usual malady when with a woman for any length of time, any woman—boredom. Shay had enchanted him with stories of her childhood, her grandfather, her beloved Ireland, and the fascination she felt for London, to such a point that the last fourteen hours had passed as if they were minutes. He could see by the shock in her candid purple eyes that she hadn’t realised the passing of the time either, and that pleased him.
Shay’s flat wasn’t large, just four rooms; a lounge, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom, but the warmth of the décor, the obviously lovingly hand-painted furniture and soft feminine touches all made it seem like the warmth of Shay herself enveloped you as you entered.
And he wanted that warmth for his own, wanted all that she had to give, turning her into his arms as she looked up at him shyly, the sudden silence between them after hours of endless conversation doubly significant.
Her mouth tasted of brandy and honey, her body felt soft and warm as his hands wandered over her hips and back, the hard tips of her breasts pressed against his chest through his shirt. And he didn’t want any barriers between them, his fingers deft on the buttons of her blouse.
‘Lyon?’ She frowned up at him uncertainly.
He was disappointed that she had returned to playing games, but if that was the way she wanted it he was willing to go along with it. He wanted her, any way he could get her. And if it couldn’t be tonight he would leave her with an ache as deep as his own.
‘I only want to touch you,’ he coaxed softly. ‘I’ll stop any time