“I can’t resist flowers. I used a palette knife.”
“Aren’t you clever! “ He was giving the painting his full attention. “Who taught you?”
“Oh, a relative,” she said evasively.
“As forthcoming as usual?” His black eyes mocked. “You know, you could make a good living as an artist, Sonya. I could help you.”
“You think that preferable to my capturing your uncle’s heart and along the way a good slice of his fortune?” she retorted more sharply than she had intended. But she was made nervous by how easily he was getting under her skin. If he stayed too much longer she didn’t think she could withstand his powerful aura. The very last thing she wanted was for a man to turn her whole world inside out. Contact was too dangerous. He would never give her what she needed. He would eventually marry some beautiful young woman within his own circle. She knew there would be a long list for him to choose from.
He sensed her concealed agitation. “Is that what you really want, Sonya?” The force of his gaze pinned her in place.
“What I want is perhaps something I will never get,” she said enigmatically. “Now would you excuse me for a moment? I want to get out of this tracksuit.” From the moment she had met him, every instinct had warned her not to allow him to come close. She knew she couldn’t deal with emotions that could not be contained.
“Take your time,” he called after her as she started to move down the narrow passageway. “I’m going to take a look at your books.” He crossed to the large timber bookcase that stood against the end wall. It was jammed with books. “German, French, Russian, Hungarian, how weird is that?” he called after her. “No need to be in a rush to tell me.”
“See how much you can work out on your own,” she threw ironically over her shoulder.
When she returned she was wearing a long turquoise and lime-green dress that hung from shoestring straps over her bare shoulders. The bodice clung lovingly to her breasts, then fell in a fluid drop to her ankles. She wore little silver ballet shoes on her feet. Obviously she had run a brush through her hair, but the great thing was she had left it loose. “What languages do you speak?” he asked quietly, not taking his eyes from her. She looked so beautiful, so strangely innocent, he had to suck in his breath.
“A few.” She moved quickly into the kitchen. There would now be a high barrier between them.
“You read Goethe and Schiller in the original? I saw that wonderful monument to them both when I was last in Germany. Then you have the French collection. A well-thumbed Flaubert’s Madame Bovary, Victor Hugo, Dumas, Gautier among others. A lot of Hungarian literature, Janos Arany, Kazinczy, Molnar, a very old chronical of Magyar affairs.”
“You know perfectly well I have Hungarian blood.”
“I know nothing of the sort,” he lightly jeered. “Hungarian accent according to Rowena. Norwegian surname. Norwegian ancestry? What’s the big secret anyway? What is it you’re frightened of giving up? There has to be a better way, Sonya. Your manner, the extreme reserve, only adds fuel to the fire. It’s as if you didn’t exist up until five years ago.”
“Maybe I’m on the run from villains,” she suggested, preparing the coffee.
He shot her an impatient look. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. You don’t trust me one bit.”
“How can I when you make yourself one-hundred-percent inaccessible? What sort of life have you had?”
He sounded as though it really mattered to him. That shook her. Her body was filling with shivery sensations.
“You must have had lovers?” How had they ever let her go?
She looked up very quickly from what she was doing, green eyes frosted. “Why make it sound as if I had a brigade of them? The truth is, I don’t like men all that much.”
“So you keep the ones you consider dangerous at a distance. It’s the why I want to know. There’s got to be an answer.”
“Distance is effective,” she said, pressing the button on the coffee machine.
“Generally speaking women who want distance don’t give off high-octane sparks,” he said dryly. “Not to men anyway. You do, Sonya. You know it. I know it.”
She felt the heat that rushed into her cheeks. “How do you know I don’t already hate you?”
“Okay, tell me,” he invited. “Do you?”
She kept her eyes down. “Black or with cream?”
“All right, don’t answer me,” he said as though it was just what he expected. “Black, two sugars.”
“Something with it?”
“No, thank you, Sonya. For God’s sake come from behind that counter. There’s not a lot of danger out here.” How could he claim that, when the atmosphere was potentially explosive?
She gave him a cool look. “This is where I make the coffee.”
“Looks more like you’re barricading yourself in.”
“I definitely am not.”
“You definitely are,” he contradicted.
“Well, we’re enemies, aren’t we? In a manner of speaking, of course.”
He considered. “It might surprise you, Sonya, but I’m not gunning for you.”
“What else would you call it?” She came around the counter, carrying the tray set with coffee things.
He stood up to take it from her, the brief touch of his hands on hers enough to soak her in warmth.
“On the coffee table, please,” she said, trying to regain her habitual cool. “I hope it’s the way you like it.”
“What I’d like is for you to sit and talk to me,” he said very seriously.
“I fancy our talk would turn into an interrogation.” She shrugged. “You know my name, age, occupation, my address. What else do you need?”
“I have to say—plenty.” His tone hardened somewhat. “You’re getting yourself into something here, Sonya, as I’ve already warned you. You should be prepared. You told Marcus you’d ring him this evening.”
“I will. No need to make it sound like a duty.” She sat down on the opposite sofa, leaving her coffee on the table.
“Do you fully understand how much he cares for you?” he asked.
“Well, I care for him,” she replied with a touch of aggression. “His humour, his gentle nature, his generosity, the brilliance of his mind. There aren’t many men as gentle and courtly as Marcus. I feel safe with him.”
“Will you marry him if he asks you?” He put it to her bluntly.
Her emerald eyes flashed fire. “Are you really entitled to an answer?”
“Please don’t be cute.”
“Cute? Cute? You must be crazy!” Tempestuously she leapt to her feet, her hair flying. “I am not like that. Why don’t you answer my questions.”
“I might if you sit down again.” He was having difficulty keeping his own emotional balance. He felt desire coiled deep within him like a tempting serpent. It was imperative he keep his distance, adjust his moral compass in the right direction.
“So don’t make me angry.” Sonya sank down again, reaching for a silk cushion as if she might throw it at any moment. “My question: are you serious about your Paula or are you just stringing her along?”