‘Care to dance, Clare?’
She blinked her surprise but quickly found herself on the dance floor.
‘Matt said to tell you he’d be leaving shortly, ostensibly to go back to the motel. But he wants to know if he could meet you somewhere private for a drink.’
Clare was dumbfounded. And furious! She’d heard of pop stars sending their henchmen out to collect some groupies for the night, but this…this was outrageous!
‘Tell me, Bill,’ she began with an innocent air, ‘do you always procure Matt’s women for him? Or is it only on these out-of-town jaunts?’
Bill didn’t appear the slightest bit offended. Clearly being unflappable and unoffendable were required qualities in a big-time agent. ‘I see,’ came the cool reply. ‘I presume the answer, then, is no.’
‘Please don’t presume, Bill,’ she swept on, her voice cool but her heart pounding with anger. ‘I wouldn’t dream of turning down such a prize. I just hope he realises that a drink will be all he’ll be getting!’
‘Matt is a gentleman,’ he stated, then added with what Clare thought considerable irony, ‘Where can he meet you?’
Clare could hardly believe this was happening. Two years of dealing with country men had made her forget how daring and aggressive some city men could be. They did what others only thought about. Her temper rose, her vow earlier in the night to see this man in hell catapulting back into her brain. She couldn’t deliver hell exactly, but she sure as heck would teach him a lesson or two!
‘I live in a flat above the pharmacy in the main street,’ she said, smiling. ‘There’s access from the back lane. I’ll leave the porch light on. Tell him to just walk up the steps and knock.’
‘You leave first,’ Bill said, projecting a secrecy Clare found disgusting, though predictable. ‘Matt will be with you as soon as he can.’ He strode briskly away, a hint of smugness playing on his lips.
She stared after him, still disbelieving. She watched him go up to Matt, held her breath as he whispered in his ear. Matt was frowning and then his head was turning. Those incredible blue eyes locked with hers. Her heart stopped, then seemed to tremble.
My God, what had she just done?
For the second time that night, Clare fled.
CHAPTER THREE
CLARE paced nervously around her flat. Every now and then she would stop and rearrange the pillows on her oversized sofa, unaware that such an action might have Freudian overtones. She kept going to the back window and looking out into the lane, one moment hoping that he would hurry and the next wishing he’d never turn up.
She spun away from the window for the umpteenth time and resumed her pacing. God, what a fool I am! A blithering idiot to think I can play at games like this. The man’s dangerous. Here I am, hating him for his arrogance, his presumption, plotting to take him down a peg or two, yet, underneath, trembling with anticipation and excitement.
A sharp rap on her door sent her into a spin.
He’d come…
With her heart hammering inside her lungs she fairly raced to the door. Just in time did she pull herself up, steady her breathing, drum up a mechanical smile. She opened the door. ‘Did you have any trouble finding the place?’ came her cool enquiry.
‘Not at all.’ He stepped inside without waiting to be asked, immediately removing his jacket then plucking aside the bow-tie. ‘That’s better.’ He continued to undo the buttons at his neck as his eyes roved around the flat. ‘Hmm…nice place,’ he murmured, throwing her a smile then depositing his things on the nearest chair.
‘I like it,’ she said tightly. She closed the door and turned to flick an uneasy glance around her recently refurbished flat.
Only a couple of lamps threw light into the living area and suddenly, she was reminded of what Sam had said about it the week before. ‘Wow, sis, that’s some room! Ve-ry sexy.’ While Clare had laughed about such a description at the time, now, she started seeing her choice of furnishings with new eyes.
The white shag-pile rug was overly thick and felt luxurious beneath bare feet. The focal point of the room, a wide four-cushioned sofa, was lushly covered in velvet the colour of red wine. Two overstuffed armchairs were also velvet, one black, the other a burgundy and white stripe. Sensuous fabrics. Rich, flamboyant colours.
Only one painting hung on the stark white walls. It showed a man and a woman reclining on a rug under a tree, a picnic basket nearby. Clare had always found the scene relaxing, yet now, as Matt walked over to look at it, she had a totally different view. Suddenly it seemed that the couple’s eyes were half-closed because of the drugged aftermath of making love and not due to a full lunch. She pictured them lying on that rug, oblivious to the groups of people in the background, oblivious to everything except each other.
‘Rather an erotic painting, isn’t it?’ Matt commented as he turned slowly round to fix her with a thankfully bland look.
‘I’ve never thought so,’ she managed with an airy nonchalance.
Till now, she added privately, her eyes travelling down his handsome face, past a strong, tanned neck, into the swirl of dark hairs springing up from his chest.
She’d made it down to his waist before dragging her eyes away and walking on wobbly knees to the walnut corner cabinet. With her back towards him she was able to suck in a few calming breaths and pull herself together before turning round. ‘What would you like to drink?’ she asked politely.
‘Got any port?’ He flopped down on the sofa and rubbed his forehead with a long, elegant finger.
Clare brought out a bottle of Samuel port as well as two fine crystal glasses. They tinkled as she set them down on the marble side-table nearest Matt, and it took all her control not to spill the liquid as she filled both glasses. Her enforced composure was such little protection against the sexual aura vibrating from this man. Resisting his attraction was like skating on thin ice, she fancied. One slip and she’d go under.
Those knowing blue eyes bored steadily into her while she hovered with the drinks and she was half expecting him to do something obvious like stroke her fingers when she handed him his glass. If he did, she feared she would spill the whole kit and caboodle into his lap.
He didn’t.
Her own drink in hand, Clare proceeded to sit down on the other end of the sofa, straightening her dress over her knees. Once settled, and at a reasonable distance from her adversary, she felt better. A little stiff maybe, but at least able to lean back, sip her port, and hold his gaze without wavering.
He smiled lazily at her. ‘Thank God tonight’s over.’
‘Surely you must be used to that sort of function by now?’ she said drily. ‘You should be able to go through the motions on automatic pilot.’
‘Tonight was a little different.’ He sipped his drink and eyed her closely. ‘Bangaratta has, to say the least, surprised me.’
‘Really? I would have thought it was exactly as you’d imagined, balloons and all!’
He laughed. ‘Funny you should say that. It was the first thing that struck me. The balloons!’
‘I would have thought it was Flora in her red and pink dress.’
He shot her a startled glance but made no comment. Then he said the most amazing thing.
‘You’re still in your dress, I’ve noticed.’
Her mouth dropped open. My God! Had he expected her to slip into ‘something more comfortable’? A black lace négligé perhaps? And why, damn it, did she find such an outrageous expectation so exciting?
He