Violet was disconnected before she had time to start thinking on her feet. Was, for instance, Damien going to be present? Would there be an awkward three-way conversation where they both tried desperately to undo what they had so carefully knitted together at the very beginning? She assumed not. She assumed that Eleanor had invited her for a one to one. She had no idea what she would say to the other woman. She would have to be vague. Her fingers itched to dial Damien’s mobile and ask him what he had said to his mother but she felt faint just at the thought of hearing that deep, dark, sexy drawl down the end of the line.
Several hours later, standing in front of the imposing Georgian block, some of which had been converted into luxury apartments, others remaining as vast houses, such as his, Violet had to fight down a sickening attack of nerves.
The road where he lived was a statement to the last word in opulence. Gleaming back wrought-iron railings guarded each of the towering white-fronted mansions. The steps to each front door were identical in their scrubbed cleanliness and the front doors were all black with shiny brass knockers for appearance only as a bank of buzzers was located at the side.
She had only been to his place a handful of times but she remembered it clearly. The exquisite hall with its flagstoned floor, the pale walls, the blond wooden flooring that dominated the huge open spaces. Everything within those mega-expensive walls was of the highest standard and state-of-the-art. There was no clutter. She had always found its lack of homeliness off-putting. Now, as she dithered in front of the imposing black door, she had to take some deep breaths to steady her nerves, even though she was nearly a hundred per cent certain that he would not be at home. A cosy chat with Eleanor and she would be on her way. Her uneasy conscience that she hadn’t contacted the older woman would be put to rest. They would meet in the future, of course they would, and it would be fine just as long as Damien wasn’t around, and maybe, down the line, he could be around because she would have moved on from him.
She pressed the buzzer and settled back to wait because she was certain that Eleanor would not be moving at the speed of light to get to the door, however keen she was to see her.
It had been a lovely day which had mellowed into a cool but pleasant evening. In this expensive part of London, there were few cars and even less foot traffic and she was idly watching a young woman saunter past on the opposite side of the wide, tree-lined road, attempting to infuse a reluctant puppy with enthusiasm for a walk it clearly didn’t want, when the door was pulled open behind her.
The greeting died on her lips. For a few seconds her heart seemed to arrest. Damien framed the doorway. He was wearing a pair of faded black jeans that hugged his long, muscular legs and a white T-shirt, close-fitting enough to outline the strong, graceful lines of his body. Memories of touching that body rushed towards her in a tidal wave of hot awareness. In only a matter of a few months, he had guided her down myriad sensual roads never explored before. Her mouth went dry as she thought of a few of them.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked inanely.
‘It’s my house and, funny...I was just about to ask you the same thing.’ He half stepped out, pulling the door behind him and blocking out the light from the hall.
‘I came to see your mother.’ She just wanted to stare and stare and keep on staring. Instead, she looked down at her shoes, some sensible black ballet pumps that worked well with her skinny jeans. She had stopped dressing to hide. It was one of his many lasting legacies to her—the self-confidence to be the person she was.
‘And that would be...? Because...?’ Damien leant indolently against the doorframe and folded his arms. His fabulous eyes were veiled and watchful as he stared down at her. However, his nerves were taut and he was angry with himself for the seeping away of his self-control. There was nothing left to be said on the subject of their non-relationship. He had offered her marriage. She had thrown his offer back in his face and he was not a man who allowed second bites at the cherry.
He wondered why she had come. Had she had second thoughts? Had she come round to all the advantages marriage to him would provide? His mouth curled with derision. He shifted as his body refused to cooperate and jumped into gear as his eyes unconsciously traced the sexy outline of her breasts underneath the figure-hugging top she was wearing. But hell, she could wear something only seen on someone’s maiden aunt and yet have any red-blooded male spinning round in his tracks to stare. He couldn’t understand how he could ever have credited her with being anything but sex on legs. He must have been blind and those tight jeans...that jumper. He wanted to pounce and rip them off her so that he could touch what was underneath. Given the circumstances, it was an entirely inappropriate reaction and he was furious with himself for even allowing his mind to travel down those pathways.
‘Because your mother phoned and asked me to come here,’ Violet muttered. She balled her hands into fists. So he didn’t even have the simple courtesy to ask her inside. He would rather conduct a hostile conversation on his doorstep.
‘Pull the other one, Violet. My mother left to return to Devon hours ago. So tell me why you imagine she would be waiting here for you? No, don’t bother to answer that. I wasn’t born yesterday. I know what you’re doing here.’
Violet’s mouth dropped open and she looked at him in bewilderment. At the same time, it was dawning on her that she had been coaxed into coming to his house by Eleanor, who had schemed for...what, exactly? A heartfelt talk where their so-called differences would be ironed out? And a reconciliation might take place? If only she knew the truth of their relationship.
‘And you can forget it.’
‘Forget what?’
‘Any plan you might be concocting to show up here unannounced and resume where we left off.’
‘I wasn’t doing any such thing!’ Violet gasped.
‘Expect me to believe that? When you’re dressed in the tightest clothes possible? Showing off your assets to maximum advantage?’ He pictured her in the unflattering dress she had worn that very first time when she had hesitantly walked into his office and scowled because the image didn’t dispel his reaction to her body.
‘You’re being ridiculous! Your mother asked me over here. She said she wanted to chat and I felt guilty because I should have called her, I should have made contact!’
Damien was fast reaching the same conclusion as Violet had only seconds before. She hadn’t come here to try and entice him back into the bedroom. Having recognised that, he had to firmly bank down the fleeting suspicion that he rather enjoyed the notion of her making a pass at him. Naturally, he would have rejected it. But not before he felt immense satisfaction at having her plead with him for a second chance.
‘You’re impossible!’ Violet could scarcely believe the accusations flying at her. Admittedly, there was some small chance that he might have jumped to the wrong conclusions, but how on earth could he think that she had dressed to impress? She was suddenly aware of the tightness of her clothes where she hadn’t been before. Her breasts were heavy and aching within the constraints of her lacy bra and, as her eyes travelled upwards, doing a reluctant, hateful tour of his impressive body, she could feel herself getting damp between her thighs. She recalled his fingers down there, his mouth sucking and licking until she was writhing for more.
‘You have an ego as big as a cruise liner if you imagine that I would come here to...to...make a pass at you! You’re the most arrogant man I’ve ever met!’ She longed to inform him, coldly, that she had moved on, but she couldn’t bring herself to utter such a whopper.
As she stood there, floundering in front of his assessing eyes, she heard a voice behind him. A woman’s voice. Coy and cajoling. For a few seconds she froze and then her eyes widened as the owner of the voice materialised into view.
How on earth could he have dared to accuse her of wearing tight clothes? The leggy brunette with the short, silky bob was clad in white jeans that fitted