Passionate Awakening

by Diana Hamilton

  CHAPTER SIX

  Some choice! Annie fumed silently. She could scream and yell and wake Jamie, but that wouldn't be fair, or kind, to the child. Or she could silently resist and find herself scooped up in those strong arms, held closely against that hard male body.

  She had no choice, none at all, and she trudged sullenly at Luke's side, determined at least to handle whatever came next with dignity. A quiet, self-contained dignity was the only defence she had left.

  'In here.' He didn't touch her; he simply stood aside as he opened the door to the Professor's study, motioning her to enter. He was being cagey, handling her with polite reserve, but she didn't know how long that state of affairs was likely to last. She didn't trust him an inch.

  He had put a match to the kindling and the fire was burning well now, the flames making a curiously comforting pattern of mellow light and shade on the book-lined walls, aided only by a single, low-wattage table-lamp.

  It was warm in here, the wind that rattled the casement windows serving to emphasise the cosiness of this particular cocoon. But she wasn't going to be lulled into a false sense of security.

  Taking the initiative, she sat in the armchair facing the fire, tucking the long skirts of her robe demurely around her legs.

  'Well?' she questioned with a hint of asperity. 'Say what you want to say. I'm tired and I told Jamie I'd be next door if he woke and needed me.' She hoped he couldn't detect the way her heart was thumping.

  'He'll be out for hours,' Luke said with irritating confidence. It was on the tip of Annie's tongue to tell him he was talking through the top of his head, having already admitted he knew little of the ways of children. But she contented herself with one withering glance. She wasn't going to pick a fight. Coolly and unemotionally was the way she was going to play it.

  Her scornful glare elicited only the merest flicker of humour before he passed in front of her to toss another log on the fire. Then he straightened, dusting his hands off.

  'I want to talk to you and we're going to be very adult and civilised about it. Both are qualities you pride yourself on having, aren't they, Annie? That being so,' he casually draped himself into the chair adjacent to hers, 'you should be perfectly at ease.'

  At ease! she thought scornfully. She would be more at ease alone with a cobra! Already the tension—sexual, she had to admit—was getting to her, and she had been alone with him for less than five minutes! It made her feel disorientated, out of her depth, and she wished he would say what he wanted to say and get it over. Instead he just sat there, watching her, giving her the uncomfortable impression that he was privy to her secret thoughts, was able to get inside her body, to directly detect the rate of every last pulsebeat. And, later, she was to recall someone once saying, 'Never make a wish—you might just get it granted!'

  'So…' He looked totally relaxed, his elbows on the arms of the chair, his eyes lazing over steepled fingers. 'So when do you intend breaking your engagement to Norman?'

  His effrontery in asking that question, as if he had every right to know, took her breath away, set her heart pattering against her ribcage. Conveniently forgetting that here, in this very room, only an hour or so ago, she had realised that she could never marry Norman, she replied nastily, 'I don't. Not that it's any business of yours, of course!'

  'I'd say it was very much my business,' he gave back, disconcerting her.

  And was it her imagination, or had those deceptively lazy eyes become dangerously narrowed? Annie couldn't be sure, but just to be on the safe side she told him more pacifyingly, 'I'm afraid your logic escapes me. Now, if that was all you wanted to say, I'll go to bed.' She made to rise, her instincts—always highly tuned where he was con—warning her that she was on dangerous ground.

  'That was just for openers,' he informed her briskly, his eyes impaling her so that without being aware of how it had happened she was sitting down again.

  But she was very aware of the way her mouth had suddenly gone dry and of the way he was now looking at her, as if daring her to move a muscle.

  Her pulses skittered erratically but from somewhere she dredged up enough control to regard him with a mixture of weary patience as he began to tell her, 'If you marry Norman you'll be making the greatest mistake of your life. Can you truthfully say you love him, that you could share the intimacies of marriage with him, sleep in his bed, and not wonder what it would have been like with me?'

  The studied look of weary patience fled. Of all the conceited, self-opinionated, vile—! She had had her temper under control until now, and she recognised how very close she was to losing it completely. But a supreme effort had her primming her mouth as she countered him acidly.

  'If I make mistakes then that's my problem, not yours. But I can tell you I'd never make the mistake of giving you a second's thought—in any capacity whatsoever.'

  'Wouldn't you?' His voice was velvet-smooth, and she watched with terrified fascination as he left his chair and moved towards her, silently, like a cat. Her heart almost stopped beating and she knew that if he intended to prove his point she would be powerless to lift a finger to stop him.

  'I wonder.' The richness of his voice was a caress, enough in itself to overpower her senses, and a frisson of bitter-sweet sensation coursed through her as he reached out and lifted her to her feet.

  'Does Norman's touch make your flesh grow weak?' he asked silkily. 'Can his mouth blind you to reason? Can his hands make you remember there's a passionate woman behind that prim exterior?'

  He wasn't touching her, just holding her an arm's length away, but his voice was touching, his eyes were touching, exploring every inch as if he could see clear through the thick barrier of her robe.

  Her body felt on fire. She had never felt such primitive desire for a man before. With his eyes, his voice, he was capable of bringing forth a feeling of abandoned wantonness that hadn't surfaced for years.

  And she had never felt quite like this before, certainly not with Norman, dear, dull Norman. Not even with Hernando, whom she had wanted with all the hedonistic desire of a seventeen-year-old.

  But beneath her fear of him, of what he could do to her, was emerging an unquenchable excitement. And that was terrifying because it meant that she had no control over her own body, not where this one man was concerned. But she did have the use of her brain, she reminded herself muzzily. She had to attack him verbally, it was the only defence she had. She drew in her breath roughly, forcing out her words.

  'You make me ill!' Fighting now, she wrenched her arms from his grasp, her eyes furious, rejection of him, of the way he made her feel, boiling in her blood. 'You're everything I despise in a man. You're a conceited, arrogant creature! Not content with trying to seduce your own cousin's fiancée behind his back,' she choked, tears of rage making her eyes glitter, 'you've bought the loveliest house in the area for the sole purpose of adding it to your chain of pocket-lining hotels. I hope you're proud of yourself!'

  'Good,' he said softly, astonishing her. She had expected him to retaliate, to show anger at being thwarted. But, infuriatingly, he looked pleased with himself, satisfied even. She was the one out of control, hurting, the one who couldn't think straight through the amalgam of outrage, confusion and downright hatred that boiled in her brain.

  Tears were streaming uncontrollably now, almost blinding her. But she had too much pride to wipe them away. Stumbling, she made for the door, unwilling to spend a moment longer in the same room as her tormentor, but he was there before her, barring her way, and compassion gentled his voice as he said huskily, 'Poor Annie, poor baby.'

  And that was all it took to have her sobbing, gulping back the shaming tears, totally vulnerable because no one, ever, had spoken to her in that tone. It was as if her pain was his, as if he really cared. For one of the few times in her life she didn't feel emotionally alone.

  She didn't know how she came to be in his arms, but she was. And it felt good, as if she had come home after a long, cold journey. He was rocking her gent
ly and she could feel the warmth of him, feel his steady heartbeat against the rapid pattering of her own, feel the softness of his shirt beneath her splayed and suddenly heavy fingers, smell the clean male scent of him.

  His breath was warm against the softness of her cheek as he said, 'I had to get you angry enough to give yourself away. I had to try to get at the truth, sweetheart.'

  Little by little he was easing her back into the comforting ambience of the fire-glow, and she hadn't the strength or the will left to resist him, to stamp her own authority on this dreamlike interlude. She didn't know whether she had any authority left to stamp around, she thought hazily. Her flesh was quivering, melting, where it met his lean, rangy body. Their clothing seemed no barrier at all where sensation was concerned.

  'What truth?' Her mind had difficulty in forming the question which that enigmatic statement of his seemed to demand. All that really concerned her now was the sheer physical bliss of being held, held so very tenderly, by the man she had called her enemy.

  There was no enmity now, simply a warmth, a softness, a certainty. All her life she had wanted to feel she belonged—to a person, to a place. She had learned to live on the surface of life, coping with those unfulfilled longings, realising that no one had the right to expect to have everything they wanted. And now, strangely, she felt she had come home, that home was in this man's arms.

  His hands were gentle on her body as he sank down on a chair and pulled her with him. Cradled within the warm curve of his body, held by the caring strength of his arms, she made no protest when he stroked his fingers through the bright softness of her hair, fitting her head into the crook of his shoulder, his lips soft and undemanding against the quivering curve of her own. And she knew she hadn't the wit, the energy, or the desire to protest against anything he might do.

  'You think you hate me because I threaten your dull, safe relationship with Norman,' he told her throatily. 'But most of all, I suspect, because I beat you down over Monk's Hall.'

  His mouth moved against hers, a gentle, teasing ghost of a kiss, a kiss fragmented into a thousand tiny, tantalising movements of skin against skin, almost taking, almost tasting, an erotic glimpse of what could come. She couldn't focus her mind on his words, only on his mouth as it touched hers, withdrew and touched again… and again.

  'You feel no passion for Norman because you don't love him and because for some reason known only to yourself you distrust sexual passion.'

  Gently, taking her by surprise, the tip of his tongue trailed sweet moistness between her lips, dipping just slightly into the soft corner of her mouth, and her hands clutched his body convulsively as sheet lightning sensation rocked her.

  His lips withdrew, moving slowly to the tip of her nose, her eyelids—each fluttering in turn beneath that infinitely seductive male mouth. Achingly, she longed for more, much more than the tantalising kisses that promised so much, withheld so much…

  Her body was compliant, pulsing with frantic need, aching, wanting…

  Only moments before she had been hating him and he had reduced her to unthinking, illogical rage, reduced her to tears, and now reduced her to this. And, strangely, it didn't matter now. The chemistry, the magic between them, was far more powerful than she could ever have believed possible. And he was telling her things she shouldn't want to hear, shouldn't want to know.

  'So you sublimated all the sexual passion Norman couldn't answer into a pile of bricks and mortar— Monk's Hall. And, as you see it, I took it from you. And so you think you hate me for it. But you don't hate me at all, do you, Annie?'

  She was almost prone in his arms now and his mouth dropped to the pulse that fluttered rapidly at the base of her throat, and she couldn't have argued with him to save her life.

  'You want me, Annie, as I want you. But you're afraid to admit it.' His fingers had found the top of the fastener that secured the swamping robe she wore and, inch by slow inch, he slid the zipper down until the curves of her high round breasts were revealed for his lingering appraisal. 'I'm going to teach you not to be afraid of your sexuality, to welcome it,' he told her huskily, and she tried to shake her head, to deny that she was in any way afraid at this moment, that she would welcome his lovemaking with every fibre of her being. But the effort of speech was beyond her and she instinctively opened her mouth for his kiss as his head descended, her fingers reaching up to thread convulsively through the crisp darkness of his hair.

  This time the kiss went deep, utterly beguiling her, turning her trembling body into one endless ache of yearning. In a small, almost forgotten corner of her mind she knew she was betraying herself, betraying her long-held principles. Sickened by her mother's example, she had always promised herself that she would only make love with a man if there were a long-term commitment on both sides. Casual sex was not for her. But, oddly, even that didn't seem to matter. Nothing mattered but the precious magic of what was happening between them.

  She felt as if she had entered another plane, a place where nothing had substance but this sweet ravishment of the senses, the promise of sublime fulfilment.

  Slowly, tantalisingly, he drew down the zipper, exposing the satiny length of her body to his shadowed eyes, and then those eyes raised to meet hers and they were smouldering with desire as he said thickly, 'Let me love you, Annie,' and her lips parted on a sigh because she knew she couldn't say no.

  One word would have ended it now, she knew that, but she was incapable of saying that word and her lashes fluttered submissively on to her cheeks as the dark head bent to hers.

  The subtlety of his mouth's exploration was sheer luxury, and she was trembling with a need she hadn't known existed in such intensity as his hands travelled ravishingly, learning the shape of her, the texture of her. She knew that soon she would be his, and she savoured that knowledge because she knew that something within her had changed, and soon now, very soon—

  'Annie! Annie!' She was to wonder, later, at the incredible shrillness of a child's voice at night-time. 'Annie—I wanna wee-wee!'

  Luke's breathing had been ragged, his body very still, in that moment before he had put her aside, very gently, and raised himself to his feet.

  'I'll go,' he'd told her, his eyes on fire as he'd traced a light finger over the bruised outline of her lips. 'This shouldn't take long.'

  But long enough for her to come to her senses.

  Feeling as if a bucket of ice-cold water had been emptied over her, she struggled back into her robe, her fingers fumbling with the zip, almost falling over herself as she crammed her feet into her slippers.

  The interruption of one highly successful seduction scene had been farcical, to say the least. She wondered if Luke had ever had such a thing happen to him before. She would lay odds he hadn't!

  Like the women who would have attracted him, such scenes in the past would have been smooth as fine old brandy, highly sophisticated, glamorous.

  He might have known that with boring Annie Ross things would be very different! She didn't know why he'd bothered, she thought savagely. And she didn't know whether to laugh or to cry, so she settled for being ashamed of herself instead.

  And shame kept her awake for most of the night, one ear pricked for any further sound from Jamie's room. At some time, not long after she'd crept into bed and burrowed deep within the blankets, Luke had tapped lightly on her door and she had growled, 'Go away! I hate you, Luke Derringer!' and he must have heard because he'd gone away without attempting to open the locked door.

  But most of all she hated herself. How could she have been so despicably weak? For years she hadn't been troubled by physical lust—which was what she felt for Luke, she assured herself.

  When a smooth, dark Spaniard with eyes like liquid coal had intoxicated her with his golden voice, his expert hands, she had been besotted enough to ignore the lessons learned from her mother's behaviour—that pathetic and constant pursuit of so-called love. But Willa had noted her daughter's blossoming, had soon discovered the reason for it, and
had taken Hernando from her with shaming ease.

  Willa had had to prove herself irresistible, prove that no man would look at another woman while she was around. That the other woman had been her daughter, and that her young heart might have been broken, hadn't counted.

  For weeks Annie had believed her heart was broken, but that had been excusable. She had been just seventeen.

  But there was no excuse now, none at all. For seven years she had known better than to trust mere physical attraction, knowing that there had to be more, something much deeper, if a relationship were to last. And yet all it had taken had been a husky voice, a pair of deep blue eyes, a lean and powerful body, and there she'd been—on the point of begging him to make love to her!

  His taking of Monk's Hall was as nothing to the way he had taken her pride, the respect of self she had so carefully built over the last seven years.

  When at last she fell asleep she was out for the count, and only woke when a battering at her door had her opening bleary eyes to Jamie's yell of 'Wake up, Annie!'

  And then Luke's deep tones, informing her that it was gone ten, set her insides lurching uncomfortably. Pulling on the robe which now had such shameful memories, she wondered how she was ever going to face Luke again after what had happened.

  Gingerly, she unlocked her door and shot back the bolt. She had put up barriers where none had been needed. Luke would never have forced himself on her, no matter how aroused he had been. She had to respect him for that. For at that moment she respected him more than she respected herself, she decided uncomfortably. One word from her would have had him backing off. Just one word, and she hadn't been able to say it. Hadn't wanted to say it!