by Julia James
It was imperative that she hold him at bay. Now even more so. Her father’s ingratiating suggestion about the theatre had sent alarm bells ringing yet again. He evidently wanted her to go out with the man, and the only reason he wanted that must be that he’d decided it would further his ambitions to do lucrative business with Leon Maranz.
I won’t be used like that! I won’t!
The rejection was vehement, adamant. She had never let herself be set up by her father in such a way, and she wouldn’t start now! Not even with a man she was so attracted to. That was why she had to cut Leon Maranz—even if it meant she had to resort to open rudeness the way she was doing. He wouldn’t leave her alone, wouldn’t accept that she was refusing to have anything to do with him, refusing to give an inch, a centimetre to him.
And if she didn’t …
Like a traitor to her resolve, her gaze refocussed, for a fleeting moment, on his face. She could feel her pulse surge treacherously even as she hated herself for succumbing. Feel her eyes flare, her breath quicken.
Why this man?
That was the impossible question. The one she had no answer to. The one that confounded everything.
But it doesn’t matter! The cry sounded in her head, silencing the question she could not—would not—answer. It didn’t matter why this man? Because the only salient thing about him was that he was all bound up with her father and his endless attempts to use her to his own advantage. And because of that it didn’t matter a damn what she thought of Leon Maranz, or what she might otherwise do about the way he looked at her, the way he got under her skin, the way he got past her guard, the way he made her feel. It just didn’t matter!
And this evening didn’t matter. And it didn’t matter that she was being rude to him. It didn’t matter that her father was clearly hopping mad at the way she was behaving, and that Anita was throwing dagger-looks at her. Or that Leon Maranz’s eyes were resting on her as if he had just lifted a stone and seen something crawl out from underneath it
It just didn’t matter …
For a moment sheer, raw misery filled her, intermingled with the self-contempt she could feel flushing through her for the way she was being right now—the way she had been ever since she had realised that it was this man her father wanted her to be nice to. He wanted her to accept his company, his attentions, his invitation to go the theatre with him.
Resentment spiked through her misery. Resentment at her father for putting her in this invidious position in the first place, for not giving a damn about her at all and never having done, for not caring about her mother, or her grandmother, or anyone else except himself and what he wanted. Resentment of Leon Maranz, who wanted to do business with a man like her father and who assumed she was nothing more than a pampered, workshy snobbish socialite!
And yet underlying all those layers of resentment was a deeper layer still—resignation. Resignation because with her grandmother to care for any relationship with anyone was impossible … just impossible …
Emotion twisted inside her, like wires around her throat.
‘I adore the theatre!’ Anita’s breathless gush was a welcome invasion of her inner turmoil. ‘And cabaret especially.’ Her eyes widened as if she’d had a sudden idea. ‘There’s a really good new cabaret club opened recently—it’s got rave reviews. How about if we all go on to it now?’ She beamed.
‘Great idea,’ Alistair Lassiter enthused, getting heavily to his feet. ‘I think we’ve done our bit here,’ he said portentously, nodding at the charity signage.
Anita stood up eagerly. ‘Brilliant!’ she breathed, and radiated her fulsome smile at Leon.
Flavia’s heart sank. Oh, no. To be dragged off to some wretched club—please, no!
But Leon Maranz was shaking his head. ‘I’ve an early start tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I must be making a move.’
Thank God, Flavia found herself thinking fervently. But the next moment she realised she had been premature—disastrously premature.
‘Well, in that case,’ her father was saying, holding Anita closely at his side, ‘I’d be very grateful if you could see my daughter home safely. You’d be all right with that? I’d worry about her otherwise.’
He spoke with his customary public doting fondness that made Flavia cringe at its falsity. And at the implications of what he’d just asked Leon Maranz to do.
She stood up hastily. ‘I’m perfectly capable of getting a taxi,’ she said tartly.
But Leon Maranz had got to his feet as well. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ he replied. His voice was smooth, emollient. ‘Of course I’ll see you home.’
Her father was rubbing his hands. ‘Good, good,’ he said. ‘Well, then, if we’re all ready for the off …?’
Stiffly, relieved the ordeal of the charity bash was finally over, but more than dreading the journey back to her father’s apartment, Flavia walked briskly from the ballroom. Could she possibly manage to snaffle a taxi immediately outside the hotel and make her getaway?
But getting away from Leon Maranz when he was on the prowl proved impossible. Leon’s chauffeur was already holding the door of his waiting car open for her, and she had no recourse but to climb in. Thankfully the interior was huge, and she squeezed herself against the far side of the wide seat, hastily drawing the seat belt over her and fastening it, lest Leon Maranz attempt the office himself. But he had simply thrown himself into the other side of the seat, fastened his own belt, and stretched his long legs out into the spacious well behind the glassed-in driver.
A moment later the limo was pulling out into the late night traffic of Park Lane. It would take a good fifteen to twenty minutes, at best, Flavia knew with sinking heart, to get to Regent’s Park.
She wondered whether Leon Maranz was going to attempt any form of conversation with her, but to her relief he merely glanced at her, bestowed a brief, social smile upon her, then took out a mobile phone from his tuxedo and proceeded to make a series of phone calls. All were of a business nature, and Flavia allowed herself the respite of letting her head rest against the smooth, cool leather of the headrest and close her weary eyes.
She didn’t want to look at him. Didn’t want to see him, long legs stretched out, shirt moulding his broad chest, strong, compelling features animated, as he gave what appeared to be a series of terse instructions to those who were presumably his minions. No, she didn’t want to look at him at all. Wanted to blank him out—write him out of her existence.
In a short while I’ll be done with him and this whole impossible situation will finally be over! I’ll never have to set eyes on him again!
She waited for relief to flood through her—because it must, obviously, at the thought of finally being shot of the man who had caused her nothing but nerve-racking jitteriness all the endlessly long evening.
But it didn’t come.
Instead she felt her eyes flick open, her head turn sideways. Her gaze light on the man who had caused her so much torment.
Out of nowhere she felt her pulse jolt, her throat catch. Her eyes fastened to him, to his aquiline profile, to his features cast into stark relief by the street lights as they moved across his face with the car’s motion. She wanted to gaze at him, not tear her eyes away. Just go on gazing at him. Drinking him in.
She was never going to see him again …
And suddenly—ridiculously, absurdly, insanely—she knew she didn’t want never to see him again. Didn’t want to know that for the rest of her life the most she would ever see of this man would be if she looked him up on the internet, or saw his photo in the pages of the financial news.
In this enclosed, contained space, with the anonymous driver invisible behind his smoked glass partition, the outer world beyond the tinted windows was shut out. The world that was full of resentment of her father and responsibility for her grandmother. It all seemed suddenly remote, distant. Instead, there was only the cocooning space of the car’s interior, a world of its own, closed and intimate. Enclosing herself and the ma
n sitting only a metre away from her, his presence so close it was like a physical pressure on her.
She caught the male scent of him—the faint aroma of brandy, of expensive lightly spiced aftershave. Saw the slight darkening of his jawline, the sable feathering of his hair, the profile of his long dark eyelashes. Everything about him was assailing her senses. She felt faint with it, her breath catching. She clung to the leather strap in the car’s interior, her other hand crushing her clutch bag, her breath held in her lungs, and she could not tear her eyes away from him.
As if in slow motion, it seemed to her, he turned his head towards her. Looked back at her full-on, meeting her helpless gaze. Helplessly she saw him halt his call in mid-speech. In slow motion he seemed to cut his call, slide his phone back into his jacket pocket, keeping his attention totally, completely on her.
And she couldn’t tear her eyes away—still couldn’t. She could feel her eyes flaring, her focus dissolving. Her breath was frozen, and his gaze on her made her feel as she had never felt before …
And then he smiled.
Not a brief, impersonal one as he had before.
A slow, sensual smile.
Personal.
Intimate.
It was as if the whole world had slowed down. The car was at a traffic light and the low, powerful throb of the engine seemed to be vibrating all the way through her, accentuating the slow, heavy throb of her own heartbeat. She felt herself dissolving, melting, kept upright only by the physical power of his gaze levelled on her, holding her like a physical grip, refusing to relinquish her.
He was forcing her to acknowledge him—to acknowledge his power over her. The power of his desire for her …
Of hers for him …
Because that was what it was—she knew it, accepted it. Whatever she might think of this man, she knew that he affected her in a way no other man ever had. In a way that she’d had no idea she could be affected. She might resist it, resent it, reject it—but she could feel the potent force of it, feel her susceptibility, her vulnerability. Feel herself, her body, the blood in her veins, answering it. Feel it drawing her …
She sat motionless, her eyes fastened to his, as the low throb of the car’s engine vibrated through her consciousness. She was there, in that captive space, the world beyond nothing but a dim blur of noise and discordant lights. All that existed was her—and the man now reaching out his hand, letting his fingers trail slowly down the curve of her cheek, a smile playing about his mouth.
And she let him. Let him smile at her knowingly, intimately. Let him reach for her, touch her. Let his fingers draw softly down the satin of her cheek. Felt a thousand nerve-endings sigh like velvet melting.
Let him curve his hand around the tender nape of her neck, the tips of his fingers shaping her skull. Let him murmur something … she knew not what. Because her gaze was held by his, liquid into liquid, and then his head was bending towards hers, he was taking her mouth with his.
She could not move. Not a muscle. Not a fibre of her being. Her entire being was in the sensation he was creating, the silk of his mouth laving hers.
Her eyes closed, helpless, as his kiss deepened. And she yielded to it—to him—for how could she do otherwise? How could she do anything but let this exquisite, sensuous touch go on and on and on? She arched towards him, yearning towards him, and the pressure of his fingers at her nape strengthened. She felt with a susurration of shock that his other hand was shaping her breast, splaying across it, and it was ripening to his touch, her nipple cresting against his palm. It was the most incredible feeling she had ever felt. Her mouth was opening to his, and all she wanted in all the world was to have him kiss her, to arch her body towards him and feel it fire with a pleasure so intense she gave a low, insensible moan in her throat.
‘I’ve been waiting for this moment since the first I set eyes on you …’
His voice was low against her mouth. Husky, but with an intensity about it that penetrated through all the layers of her defences just as his touch, his possessing kiss, had penetrated.
For a long, endless moment his eyes entwined with hers, and she was helpless, utterly helpless, to do anything but let her gaze sink into his, let the slow, heavy slug of her heart resonate with his. His eyes held hers, his mouth grazed hers, his palm cupped her breast …
‘Come back with me now—tonight—stay with me.’
The low husk of sensual desire was still in his voice, but there was another note, too …
Confidence. Assurance.
Assumption.
And suddenly her body was no longer boneless, pliant in his clasp. She pulled back, pulled away. He reached for her again, as if to reclaim her, but Flavia stiffened. In an instant she was the way she had been all evening.
And in the next instant she had reached for the door handle, acting instinctively, urgently. She had to get out! Now!
‘Flavia!’
She heard her name, but she was gone. Pushing open the car door, standing momentarily on the road, then in the next instant registering that the vehicle in the lane beside her was a taxi with its ‘For Hire’ light showing. She yanked open the passenger door and tumbled inside just as the driver, taken by surprise, started forward when the lights changed to green.
‘Regent’s Park!’ she bit out urgently, and collapsed back into the seat. Her heart was pounding, her head muzzy with shock. She closed her eyes.
Dear God, what had she let happen? How—how had she let it happen? How had Leon Maranz gone from ignoring her and making phone calls to making love to her …?
Kissing me like that—caressing me like that!
She glanced down at her torso. Mortification swept over her—her nipples were still crested, aroused. Compelling, undeniable witness to just what she had done—what she had let him do …
Her body seemed to be fizzing as if champagne were bubbling through it, as if it was still resonating from his kiss, his caress. It seared through her brain so she could still feel the impact of his touch.
I got out just in time—just in time!
It was a mantra that replayed itself for the rest of the night and was still there in the morning. Desperately she tried to find a reason for why Leon Maranz had been able to so precipitately sweep aside her defences the way he had—overwhelm her guard as effortlessly as if she had never raised it in the first place.
He took me by surprise. I didn’t stand a chance!
Yes, that was it—that was how it had happened! She’d been holding him at bay all evening—holding down her hopeless reaction to him, her disastrous attraction to him—and it had been so hard to do, so hard to keep fighting it the whole time, with him doing his best to get past her guard, to thaw her frigid defences against him. And then out of nowhere, just as she’d thought him finally distracted by his business calls, she’d stupidly let herself gaze at him, and then he’d sensed her momentary lapse, realised her weakness … and made his move.
Swiftly, expertly, overwhelmingly …
Sweeping away all her resistance. Overpowering her defences as if they were made of cotton wool.
Hot, sensuous memory flooded through her synapses like a warm, seductive wave of sensation, as she replayed those moments in his arms, his mouth exploring hers, his palm shaping her breast …
No! No, she must not let herself remember, recall, replay … Must shut that memory right down, lock it down so that she was no longer haunted by it.
That was what she told herself all that day, on the train journey down to Dorset. She had set her alarm early to get out of the apartment before her father and Anita surfaced, to get to the station and pile herself on to a morning train, to stare sightlessly out of the window as she passed the time not thinking, not remembering …
Only rationalising. Ruthlessly, remorselessly, rigorously.
I met a man. A man like I’ve never met before. And for some inexplicable and irrational reason he had an effect on me no other man has ever had. Which is ridiculous, because he’s
nothing like any man I’ve ever been out with! And it’s impossible even to contemplate anything with him! He belongs to my father’s world and I want nothing to do with it—and even if he didn’t I still can’t have anything at all to do with him, because my place is with my grandmother. I have an indelible responsibility for her, and nothing on earth can change that. Nothing.
And if he did sweep past my defences last night, then I must take that as even stronger evidence that I should and can and must have absolutely nothing more to do with him! Because he’s made it clear—crystal clear!—that he’d sweep me off to bed as well!
Would she have gone with him?
That was the stark, unanswerable question that hung in her head. He had assumed she would—she’d heard it in his voice, heard that note of confidence, of assurance. Of course, since she’d melted in his arms in the back of his limo, she would melt all over him in bed straight away!
And you would have, too …
The whispering, treacherous thought wound into her brain and found an echo in her treacherous flesh … which quickened at the thought. Her pulse was insistent, a sensual, shimmering tremor quivering through her body. A vision leapt in her mind: herself entwined with him, laid upon a wide, waiting bed, and his dark sloe eyes burning into her as he possessed himself of her with mouth and hands and all his strong, lean body …
But it was a vision—only that. Nothing more. Not real, not actual—and it never could be, never would be.
She swallowed, forcing herself to focus on the passing landscape beyond the windows of the train. All around her the wide English countryside spread to the horizon. Fields and hedges and woods and little houses, all flashing past. She was going home. She was going back to her grandmother and that was her reality. Only that.
A man who could melt her with a single glance of his dark, dark eyes was nothing to do with her.
Nothing.
She went on staring sightlessly.
Inside her, a little pool of bleakness formed.