‘Maybe I am.’ His voice thickened by emotion that had been simmering all day, Lucas slid his hand round the back of her head and forced her to look at him. ‘Maybe I’m so desperate I don’t care what I do tonight. Or who I do it with. And maybe that makes this the worst place you could be right now, Emma.’ He could feel her pulse galloping under his fingers. Sensed that she was afraid to breathe in case she upset the delicate balance that existed between them. She was afraid she was going to tip him over the edge and he found himself incapable of reassuring her. He’d always thought of her as sturdy and robust but the thin silk of his shirt revealed slender, flowing lines and everything fragile.
And he wasn’t to be trusted with fragile, was he?
He’d already proved that.
The thought was like a shower of cold water.
His hand dropped.
Disgust was a bitter taste in his mouth. Was he really so desperate that he’d risk hurting one of the few genuine people in his life? ‘You should leave. Now. Go downstairs and lock your door.’ He wondered why she couldn’t sense the urgency. Or was it just that she had no sense of danger?
Either way, she didn’t move. ‘There’s no way I’m leaving you like this.’
‘You should have left hours ago when I told you to and then we wouldn’t have found ourselves in this position.’
‘I’m glad I didn’t. You shouldn’t be on your own tonight.’
‘Because you’re worried about your job?’
‘No. Because I’m worried about you.’
‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ The violence in him was so close to the surface that he could taste it. He stepped towards her, her subtle perfume sliding over his senses and disturbing the balance of his control. ‘I should be on my own. It’s the only way that works.’ He expected her to step back but she didn’t even flinch.
‘It doesn’t look as if it’s working to me. Perhaps it’s time you considered a different way. Perhaps, instead of alcohol and oblivion, you might try friendship and comfort.’
‘Friendship?’ The word chafed against his raw feelings. ‘You think right now I have friendship on my mind?’
‘No. I don’t think that. I’m not stupid. But I think you are hurting so badly all you want to do is make it stop. You want a rest from the pain. And I made that pain worse by finding that photograph,’ she said quietly, ‘and I’m sorry for that.’
‘You have no reason to be sorry. Now go.’
‘No. We can find another way to do this.’
He shouldn’t have been surprised by her stubbornness because she showed the same indomitable spirit at work. ‘There is no “we” in this, Emma. And as for friendship—’ it seemed imperative to smash her illusions about that ‘—I don’t have friends. I have people who want something from me and people who work for me.’ His harsh analysis didn’t seem to surprise her. Maybe she wasn’t as naïve as he thought she was.
‘You only think like that because of the company you keep. But you shouldn’t judge everyone based on the actions of Tara Flynn. She shouldn’t have left you alone tonight. That was wrong of her.’
At another time he would have been amused that she thought Tara capable of the sort of care she was describing. ‘Perhaps she was sensible. Perhaps she realised that it wasn’t safe to stay’
The heat of the fire had dried her hair curly and it tumbled in thick, dark waves over the snowy white of his shirt, which was proving woefully inadequate as a cover-up. The flickering light from the fire shone through the thin fabric, clearly outlining the dips and curves of her body and suddenly it was becoming harder and harder to do the right thing and send her away.
‘It’s true that I work for you. But it’s wrong to dismiss that relationship as a purely economic arrangement. I’ve worked closely with you for two years. I care.’ She bit her lip. ‘I was with you this time last year when you emptied a bottle of whisky and slept in your office, although I doubt you remember.’
It came back to him instantly. The blanket. She was the one responsible for the blanket. It was a question that had bugged him on and off over the past twelve months and now he had the answer.
Emma.
She hesitated and then held out her hand. ‘Stop drinking, Lucas. You’ve tried that and it hasn’t worked. We’re going to find another way to get through tonight. And before you make another caustic comment involving all sorts of physical alternatives, I should point out that there are a million other options that aren’t going to make it embarrassing to bump into each other in the morning.’
‘What options?’ His mind had been so full of those physical alternatives that it took him a minute to focus on what she’d said.
She pursed her lips thoughtfully. ‘We could play chess?’
‘Chess?’ Did she even realise that he could see through the shirt? No, presumably not or she wouldn’t have been standing there so confidently.
‘I’m a brilliant chess player.’ Her fingers closed over his, soft and warm, her grip surprisingly firm.
Instead of removing his hand from hers as he should have done, Lucas found himself staring at her mouth. ‘You don’t want to challenge me to chess. It would end in tears.’
‘Your tears, I presume.’ A half smile tilted that mouth at the corners. ‘There’s no need to make excuses. If you’re too scared to play, I understand. There’s always Scrabble. But I should warn you that I know all the words in the Chambers dictionary containing Z and X and I’m a ruthless player. I will not hesitate to use a Q on a triple word score.’
Ruthless? He looked down at her sweet face and almost laughed. She wouldn’t know ruthless if she passed it in the street. ‘These are your best suggestions for distraction? Chess and Scrabble?’
‘Unless you’re up for an all-nighter, in which case I’m a whizz at Monopoly.’
‘You think it’s wise to play Monopoly with an architect?’
‘Why not? If you’re trying to scare me you won’t succeed. If you were a building contractor, perhaps I’d be nervous of your capacity to build large hotels on your property, but an architect like yourself who is capable of nothing more impressive than pretty drawings—’ she shrugged ‘—no challenge. So—which is it to be? Chess, Scrabble or Monopoly? Do you want to play?’
Yes, he wanted to play.
But none of the games she was suggesting. The game he wanted to play was far, far more dangerous. He wanted to play with fire. He wanted to kiss that mouth, strip off that shirt that barely covered her and seek oblivion in the most basic way known to man. And he wanted to do it again and again until his mind was wiped of everything except her. Until he forgot. Until the pain was drowned out by other sensations.
Why not? Nothing else had worked. Nothing else had helped.
And then he remembered that this was Emma.
And that she was absolutely and completely off-limits.
He forced himself to extract his hand from hers. ‘I’ve never met anyone who could beat me at chess,’ he said coldly, ‘and I can’t think of anything worse than property development with toy money. I put a bowl of soup in your room. If it isn’t enough then help yourself to anything you find in the kitchen.’ He turned his back to her and waited to hear the outraged tap tap of her footsteps retreating towards the stairs as she responded