‘Don’t apologise—I was enjoying it.’
Her eyes fell, and she swallowed again. Was it her imagination, or did his jeans fit more snugly than before? She looked hastily away. This was ridiculous. She had never intended this to happen when she came here tonight! She must be out of her mind, ogling him and giving him ideas. Women like her——
‘Penny for them.’
She shook her head, and then started as his hands closed over her shoulders and turned her back towards him.
‘Let’s get this out of the way, shall we? Then perhaps we can both concentrate.’
Oh, God, he’s going to kiss me, she thought in desperation, and then it was too late to think, because those sensuous, beautiful lips were on hers, like the touch of a butterfly, light and delicate, searching.
She made a tiny moue of sound and his arms slid round behind her, coaxing her up against his long, rangy body as his mouth settled more firmly against hers. She felt the warm tip of his tongue caress her lips, and her mouth opened of its own accord to receive his kiss.
His tongue felt like velvet, warm, coaxing, seeking hers out and dallying with it, then retreating, encouraging hers to follow in a little dance.
She played along, fascinated by the texture of his mouth, the clean, sharp edge of his teeth, the firm fullness of his lips—and his taste, sweet and fresh, with a faint trace of mint.
He eased away, sucking her lower lip into his mouth and nipping it gently with his teeth. The sharp stab of desire shocked her and she jerked away, her eyes wide, her chest rising and falling with her ragged breathing. Their eyes were locked, and she was stunned at the raw animal need etched on his face.
He quickly blanked it and moved away.
There—that wasn’t so bad, was it?’ he said casually, but his voice was as ragged as her breathing and his body betrayed him.
She felt her shoulders droop. What happened next? Was she expected to sleep with him? Sing for her supper, so to speak?
Her silence must have registered, because he put down the bowl of salad he was carrying and came over to her, his hands cupping her shoulders and kneading gently.
‘Charlotte, it’s all right. We don’t have to take this anywhere if you don’t want to.’
But I do! she wanted to shout, but couldn’t. Anyway, if they did he would soon lose interest in her.
Funny how much the idea of that hurt.
She shook her head helplessly. ‘I thought we were looking at a video.’
‘We will—hell, Charlotte, I wasn’t trying to get you here under false pretences. I don’t work like that. If you want to watch the video, we’ll watch the video. If you want to talk, we’ll talk. If you change your mind about——’ His broad shoulders shifted in a little shrug, and his mouth tipped slightly. ‘Let’s take it hour by hour, shall we?’
‘Can we?’ she asked, doubtful.
‘Oh, yes. Let’s start with supper because I’m starving, then we’ll go and watch the video and look through the literature, and then—well, we’ll see.’
‘No,’ she said, her panic surfacing finally through the haze of desire. ‘No, we’ll have supper and watch the video, and then I’ll go home. I don’t care if you accuse me of running away——’
‘Charlotte.’ His voice was softly reproachful. ‘I’m not going to accuse you of anything, and you certainly don’t need to run anywhere. You can walk away from me at any time.’
She didn’t believe him. Experience, she had found, was the best teacher, and when it came to escape she was very experienced.
Except usually she had had the sense to do it long before this point.
Only once before had she failed to escape, and she had paid the price for years. In many ways she was still paying it, and probably always would.
She backed away.
‘I—I need a drink,’ she said feebly, and, turning swiftly, she almost ran back into the conservatory.
He didn’t follow her, but left her, curled up on the chair among the squashy cushions, facing firmly down the garden, her thoughts in turmoil. Her body was still throbbing, aching with a need she hadn’t known she could feel, and she clutched the cold glass like a lifeline.
After a few minutes she heard him come up behind her and touch her gently on the shoulder.
‘Charlotte?’
She stiffened. ‘Yes?’
‘Supper’s ready. I thought we could eat it out here, if you like.’
She closed her eyes. ‘Supper?’
‘Come on.’
He helped her up, holding her when the pins and needles stabbed her feet where she had sat on them, and with an understanding smile he led her to the table in the kitchen. The food was spread out—cold meats, dressed salads, a huge bowl of frilly lettuce, chunks of crusty brown bread, a big block of pale yellow butter—and she stared at it blankly.
‘Charlotte, what is it?’ he asked softly.
She looked up at him, at the blue eyes searching her face, the broad, strong brow furrowed slightly in concern, the mouth, so gentle and yet so powerful, the instrument of her downfall.
‘It’s you,’ she said bluntly.
‘I’m not a threat.’
‘Yes, you are—to me.’
He shook his head. ‘No. It’s something else. Something old that’s still hurting you.’
Hurting? Yes, she supposed it was. ‘I’m divorced,’ she blurted out.
‘And?’ he coaxed.
Her shoulders twitched in a little shrug. ‘He was a pig. I find it difficult to relate to men.’
‘Did he knock you about?’
She laughed, the sound high and strained. ‘He didn’t need to. There’s more than one form of abuse.’
He said nothing, but his eyes spoke volumes. Reaching for her, he turned her silently into his arms and enfolded her in a wordless hug of comfort.
‘Poor, poor girl,’ he said finally, and his hand smoothed over her hair, as if she were a hurt child. She felt his lips press against her head, the gentle gesture strangely soothing, and her arms slid round his sides and hung on.
He felt so good—big, safe, like a rock in the crazy world of her see-sawing emotions.
He held her like that for ages, till she was calm again—although not perfectly calm, because underneath she could still feel that raw, untamed need simmering gently, just waiting for another excuse to leap into life.
She gently disentangled herself from his arms, and turned away.
‘Here.’
She found a pristine handkerchief in her fingers, and was amazed to realise she had been crying.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
‘Don’t be. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. Come on, let’s eat and go and watch this film, then if you like we can talk about it.’
‘It?’
‘Yes, it. Whatever it is that’s eating you up inside.’
Strangely the thought of talking to him didn’t frighten her any more. It would almost be a relief to share the nightmare at last—or part of it. Some—the worst bit—was hers and hers alone.
That she would never share.