‘It’s not something they’re likely to discuss with me,’ she said flatly. ‘Perhaps you’d extend me the same courtesy, and keep out of my personal affairs.’
He gave her a mocking look. ‘But there don’t seem to have been any, Cass. Even the mildest approaches have had the brush-off. Why? And don’t tell me your heart’s in the grave,’ he added cynically. ‘The vibrant creature who sold me an advertising campaign didn’t give that impression at all.’
‘That’s typical masculine arrogance,’ she said stormily, her breasts rising and falling jerkily. ‘None of you can believe that it’s possible for a woman to lead a full, satisfying life without a—a tame stud somewhere in the background.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Well, believe this, Mr Grant. I’ve been married. My husband is dead. I have a child and a career, and I love both of them. There’s no need, no room in my life for another—relationship. Incredible as it must seem, I’m just not interested.’
The long lashes lifted, and the brilliant hazel eyes searched her flushed passionate face remorselessly. ‘Do you prefer women perhaps?’
The breath caught in her throat. ‘Oh.’ She almost threw herself off the sofa. ‘Of course. The obvious explanation. If not one sexual connotation, then another. My God, you make me sick.’ She paused, swallowing thickly. ‘Now—get out. Just because I don’t fancy you, doesn’t give you the right to force yourself into my home and insult me.’
‘Is that what I did?’ He rose, and, barefoot as she was, she felt dwarfed although she’d always regarded herself as being of reasonable height for a woman. But it wasn’t just a physical thing, she thought. It was a question of personality, an aura of vibrant, sensual masculinity which was almost tangible, making the small living room seem cramped.
He said softly, ‘Why the hostility, Cass? Why the aggression? When other men have tried to get near you, you’ve always let them down lightly. What makes my treatment so different? From the moment you ran into my arms in that corridor, you looked as if you’d been poleaxed. All afternoon, I was watching those beautiful wounded eyes, and asking myself “Why?” I’m still wondering.’
‘Because for a moment you reminded me of my late husband,’ she said shortly. ‘Now, will you please go?’
The dark brows snapped together, and his mouth compressed tautly. He gave a short, unamused laugh. ‘I suppose I should have expected that. But I didn’t.’ He shook his head. ‘All right, Cass, I’ll go and leave you to convalesce in peace.’
At the front door, he paused, the lean tanned face sardonic. ‘Well, good evening, Ms Linton. It’s been—instructive, if nothing else. And I forgive you for lying to me about your marriage. Because, I have to confess, I lied to you too. I implied my dinner invitation had no sexual motive. It wasn’t true. I wanted to get you into bed, Cass. I still want to, and I will.’
Before she could guess his intention or take evasive action, he took her by the shoulders, pulling her towards him in one swift, effortless movement. She cried out, but the sound was instantly muffled under the brief, searing pressure of his mouth.
It was over almost at once. He smiled at her.
‘And sooner,’ he said softly, ‘rather than later. Sleep well, darling.’
And was gone.
CASS was still shaking two hours later, but from rage, she assured herself over and over again, not any other emotion.
She turned and punched savagely at an inoffensive sofa cushion. The sheer sexual arrogance of the creature. He clearly hadn’t listened to one word she’d said, so securely armoured in his own conceit that it made him deaf to any point of view but his own.
And when she got back to work, gallingly, she would have to maintain a surface civility towards him at least. Or she could go to Barney, and ask to be taken off the account, she thought frowningly, only that would involve her in all kinds of explanations, she would much prefer to avoid.
But there had to be some way to convince the Rohan Grants of this world that she was not just—there for the taking, the frustrated widow of joke and insinuation.
She hated milky drinks, but she made one for herself before she went to bed, in the hope that it would help her sleep, then lay tossing and turning until far into the night.
But contrary to all expectations, she felt fine when she woke the next morning. Perhaps temper had helped burn out the few remaining germs, she thought drily.
After breakfast, she went downstairs to collect Jodie.
‘I see your visitor was back,’ Mrs Barrett commented archly as she let Cass in.
Cass smiled coolly. ‘A little problem at work.’ And that was putting it mildly, she added silently.
‘Well, I don’t know,’ Mrs Barrett said, vexed. ‘You’d think they’d leave you alone when you’re poorly.’
‘There’s no justice, Mrs B.,’ Cass said cheerfully. ‘But I’ll take care it doesn’t happen again.’ And how.
Her reunion with her daughter was everything she could have desired. Until they got back to their own flat, that is.
‘Mrs Barrett’s nice,’ Jodie remarked. ‘She lets me watch unsuitable things on television. She calls it “the box”.’
Cass’s lip quivered. ‘How do you know they’re unsuitable, madam?’
‘Because you always change channels when they come on. You think I don’t notice, but I do,’ Jodie said serenely. ‘Is that man coming back?’
Cass’s heart skipped a beat. ‘What—man?’ She tried to sound casual.
‘The one who came to see you. Mrs Barrett said he came again yesterday.’ Jodie’s face was angelic. ‘Is he going to be my Daddy?’
‘No, he is not,’ Cass said forcibly.
Jodie gave a heavy sigh. ‘I liked him.’
Cass gave her a long look. ‘Jodie—you didn’t say anything to him, did you?’
‘What about?’ Jodie didn’t meet her gaze—a bad sign.
‘About being your Daddy,’ Cass said desperately.
The answer was too long in coming. ‘No-o-o,’ Jodie said, slowly and evasively.
‘Jodie,’ Cass threatened.
Her daughter’s mouth trembled. ‘He didn’t mind, Mummy. He wasn’t cross.’ She ventured an appealing look. ‘He laughed.’
‘I bet he’s never stopped,’ Cass said savagely. ‘What on earth possessed you?’ She sighed, running a distracted irritable hand through her hair. ‘Never—ever say such a thing to a visitor again.’
‘Mrs Barrett said he was your boyfriend.’
‘Well, Mrs Barrett was wrong,’ Cass said with unwonted sharpness. She saw Jodie flinch, and gentled her tone. ‘Sweetheart, he’s a client—a very important man at my work. Not Daddy material at all,’ she added, trying to make a belated joke of it all.
‘He said he’d be honoured,’ Jodie said mournfully.
Cass could have screamed.
She supposed reluctantly, thinking it over later, that it was to his credit that he’d been kind to the child—let her down lightly. But it didn’t make her like him any better, or add relish to the prospect of having to face him again.
She