‘Really?’ Romy’s rather disbelieving reply was automatic, because her thoughts were elsewhere. It was all terribly confusing, she thought.
Dominic seemed to inspire an awful lot of affection in the women he was not romantically involved with—like Triss and Ellen. So why, in that case, had he never married?
Ellen handed her an envelope. ‘Dominic left you this note, by the way—said I was to give it to you when you arrived. You’re to sleep in the blue room. I can show you up there now if you like.’
‘Thanks,’ said Romy as she hitched the strap of her bag over her shoulder and picked up her case. ‘I’ll quickly unpack, then see what needs doing.’
The blue room was bold and dramatic. Turquoise vied with cobalt walls for attention and should have clashed, but oddly enough did not. The large bed was covered by a throw-over which looked as though it contained the entire spectrum of blues, and the drapes were huge drifts of muslin coloured in a restful shade of pale hyacinth.
Going over to look out of the floor-to-ceiling balconied window, Romy was enchanted to see that even the flowers directly below her room were blue—delphiniums and cornflowers and deep blue, velvety pansies. Now that was colour co-ordination for you! she thought admiringly.
After Ellen had gone to make some tea, Romy sat down on the bed and ripped open Dominic’s letter. It began sardonically:
Please note that I have given you the best room in the house. Though you may, of course, disagree with me—as you and I seem fated to do, Romy—given that the room next door just happens to be mine!
But do not trouble your innocent little mind over this since there is no inter-connecting door, and even if there was I would not dream of doing anything as crass as trying to break into your bedroom late at night.
Unless, of course, you invite me to...
It was signed simply ‘Dominic’.
Romy disdainfully tore the note into tiny fragments once she had read this hateful piece of sarcasm, and let them flutter into the bin. Of all the arrogant, egotistical assumptions, she fumed as she began to unpack.
Did he really think he could just pick up where he had left off all those years ago? She pulled a face in the mirror. Because if he did—could she really blame him?
She hung her clothes up, then went back downstairs, where she introduced herself to Gilly, the caterer. Over a cup of tea, the two of them ate buttered scones and discussed the timing of the meals.
Next Romy found a basket and some secateurs and went out into the garden to pick some flowers to decorate the house. She was just snipping off one of the yellow and pink roses which Triss had admired so much when she heard the sound of footsteps and ice chinking in glasses, and some sixth sense told her that he was back.
She carefully smoothed her face into a neutral expression and turned round to see Dominic carrying a tempting-looking tray of drinks towards her.
Romy willed herself not to react, but it wasn’t easy, particularly as he was wearing black jeans which fitted much too snugly around his narrow hips. A white T-shirt emphasised the light tan which made his muscular arms such a flattering colour. If ever he was short of cash, he could, she realised despairingly, make a lucrative career out of being a male stripper!
‘Hello, Romy,’ he said softly, and his voice had all the sensual throb of a tenor saxophone. ‘Do you know it’s ninety in the shade? The hottest July since records began. So I’ve brought you a drink. It’s Pimm’s—’
‘I never drink in the middle of the afternoon,’ she told him primly. ‘And when did you get back?’
‘It’s very weak Pimm’s.’ He smiled, ignoring her question completely.
Putting the tray down on the grass, he poured her a glass brimming with mint and cucumber and lemon and ice and held it out towards her. It looked utterly irresistible.
Romy felt a tiny rivulet of sweat trickle its way slowly down the deep valley between her breasts.
‘And you do look hot,’ he murmured.
Romy took the glass he held out to her and gulped half the contents down gratefully.
His grey eyes glinted as he watched her. ‘And no wonder you never drink in the afternoon!’ he observed drily. ‘Because if you put it away at that speed you’ll be flat on your back in no time!’
Romy’s cheeks flamed furiously at the implication. He had almost had her flat on her back once before—and she had been as sober as a judge! ‘Are you trying to score cheap points?’ she demanded.
He shook his dark head. ‘Actually, no. I came out here to enjoy the day.’ He moved out of the direct sun to a spot where the clotted-cream and pink of the honeysuckle grew rampantly over a large arbour which provided a sweetly scented and shady sanctuary. He sank down onto the grass and patted a space beside him. ‘Come and sit down over here out of the sun.’
The Pimm’s and the blazing sunshine and the sight of that mocking, gorgeous face became all too much for her, and Romy didn’t so much join him on the lawn as half stumble towards him and slide down onto the grass beside him—and then wait in half-frozen terror as she realised that what she was most dreading and yet longing for him to do was to put his arms around her and kiss her.
But he merely sipped at his drink. ‘Like your room?’ he queried.
At least this reminder of his outrageous message renewed Romy’s determination to fight him every inch of the way. ‘The room is wonderful,’ she told him frostily. ‘Although the location leaves a lot to be desired. And as for your note—’
His eyes shimmered with soft grey light as he glanced at her over the rim of his Pimm’s glass. ‘You didn’t like it?’
‘I didn’t like your assumption that I would be inviting you to join me!’ She bristled indignantly. ‘In my bedroom!’
He surveyed her thoughtfully and was silent for a long, almost peaceful moment. ‘You know, Romy, sometimes you do have the most extraordinary knack of sounding like the most pure and unsullied woman...’
Romy only just stopped herself from taking a sip of her drink; she would have choked on it She put her glass down with an unsteady hand, and her eyes looked as dark as bitter chocolate as they sparked angry fire at him. ‘As opposed to a cheap little tart, you mean?’
‘Is that what you are, then?’ he questioned coolly.
She was about two seconds away from hurling the remainder of her Pimm’s at him. ‘More to the point,’ she accused him, ‘that’s what you think I am, isn’t it, Dominic?’
He didn’t reply immediately, just pushed a sprig of mint round and round his glass with his finger. One of its leaves was sticking up at right angles, and Romy thought it looked awfully like a miniature green shark swimming around in the Pimm’s.
‘You didn’t really give me much of an opportunity to form a particularly high opinion of you that day, did you?’ he said eventually. ‘When I started kissing you, I certainly didn’t expect the situation to get so completely out of hand in the way that it did.’
Romy felt the acrid taste of shame souring her mouth. She picked up her Pimm’s and drank some more. ‘And neither did I,’ she answered bitterly.
He asked the question which had haunted him ever since. ‘Did you...? Do you...?’
She met his gaze fearlessly, surprised at his sudden reluctance to speak. Dominic Dashwood stuck for words? Now that was a first! ‘Do I what, Dominic?’ she asked him crisply.
His mouth twisted into a cruel imitation of a smile. ‘Do you respond to all men quite so uninhibitedly?’
It was like a slap to the face. ‘You want to know how many millions of men have done what you did