by Liz Fielding
Brodie knew she had been teasing him with her invitation and he had planned to tease her right back, nothing more. If he had given the matter any thought he might have expected a slap for his impertinence, outraged virtue from a woman who had declared her determination to marry the man she loved, no matter what. But the tiny shiver as he touched her lip felt like an earthquake beneath his thumb. The shock waves of it ran up his arm and through his body and nothing mattered beyond the moment.
That was when Tom Brodie stopped thinking and did what he’d wanted to do from the instant he had set eyes on Emerald Carlisle clinging to that damned drainpipe.
Emmy realised too late that it had been a mistake to stand her ground. She should have kept retreating. At least with her back to the wall she could have said she had done everything she could to avoid the results of her own stupidity.
Custer had made a stand and just look at what had happened to him.
Oh, yes indeed, there was no doubt about it, stopping had been a serious mistake and now there was nowhere to run and even if there had been she was transfixed, held prisoner in the magnetic force field Brodie seemed to be generating while he slowly lowered his head until his lips were level with hers.
And as he held her gaze with his hot grey eyes, her entire body captive in the crook of one finger beneath her chin, she slammed her eyes shut and expelled an involuntary groan through lips that she knew were too soft, too inviting. By the time she had decided she ought to do something about that, it was too late.
The kiss began with a touch as light as his thumb trace, the petal soft brush of his mouth against hers as his lips discovered hers in a slow, seductive tango that stole away any lingering thoughts of resistance. Her lips parted as his tongue dipped against her teeth and instinctively her free arm wound about his neck.
For a moment Brodie revelled in the sweetness of her mouth, her softness, the scent of her skin and her hair brushing against his cheek as she clung to him. The hand at her chin slipped behind her head, his fingers sliding through her hair to cup her nape. His other hand was at her waist, drawing her closer into his body as it tightened with desire. He wanted Emerald Carlisle and in that lost moment, when the air stood still about them, he knew that she was his for the taking.
Then his masculine back-up system, the one that knew all the pitfalls, all the traps for the unwary male, kicked in, cruelly reminding him that he was older and supposedly a whole lot wiser than this girl in his arms, this girl whose interests it was his duty to protect.
When Gerald Carlisle had instructed him to do anything required to stop his daughter from marrying Kit Fairfax, taking her to his bed, Brodie felt certain, was not what the man had in mind.
As he stiffened and pulled back, Emmy gave a faint mewl of protest and for a moment he considered consigning Gerald Carlisle to the devil, along with his conscience and quite possibly his career. Only the certain knowledge that she had been teasing him, had never intended things to go this far, stopped him. So why did he feel as he let her go that she had won? That it was giddy girl, one; wiser and older lawyer, nil?
Because this was a game he could never win?
Perhaps it was time he remembered that lawyers weren’t supposed to play games. And that Emerald Carlisle would dare anything to get her own way.
He raised his head and looked down his long, straight nose at her. ‘That’s quite a sense of humour you’ve got, Emmy. And you’ve a nice line in distraction, but since your passport is locked away in my safe your sacrifice would be pointless. That is if you’re still planning to go ahead with the wedding?’ He had finally persuaded his reluctant fingers to release her and he took a step back, just to be on the safe side. ‘You had remembered that you’re desperate to marry Kit Fairfax?’ he said, to punish himself as much as her. Then, more harshly, as he suddenly realised what she had been doing, just how far she would go to get her own way. ‘Or is the wedding just this month’s attempt at winding up your father? I’d rather you told me now because I’ve got better things to do than—’
‘Desperate,’ Emerald flung at him with just the slightest crack in her voice. His expression suggested doubt and who could blame him for that, she asked herself. Damn Hollingworth for going to Scotland. She wouldn’t have had all this trouble with Hollingworth. She certainly wouldn’t have made the terrible mistake of kissing him. But then, he wouldn’t have let her escape down the drainpipe in the first place. ‘I’m going to marry Kit as soon as possible,’ she declared, sounding rather more than desperate in her need to convince Brodie of her sincerity. ‘And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.’
‘No?’ He reached out and pressed the tips of his fingers against her lips. Cool fingers that smelt of good soap and in some indefinable way of him. ‘I’m certainly going to try,’ he said. ‘Whatever it takes.’ Then he crossed to the night table and bent to unplug the telephone. As he straightened he caught the smallest smile of satisfaction cross her lips. She assumed he was removing the telephone to prevent her from making calls, assumed that she had got away with her call from the kitchen ‘phone. Well that was good, but while it was true that he didn’t want her making any more unauthorised telephone calls, his intention in removing the bedroom ‘phone was to prevent her from listening to his.
He wrapped the wire slowly around the receiver and then crossed to the bedroom door. ‘Goodnight, Emmy. Sleep well,’ he said, before he pulled the door shut behind him with a decisive click.
Emmy closed her eyes, gritted her teeth and clenched her hands into tight little fists as a deep shuddering breath racked her. Then very deliberately she forced herself to relax and let go of the desperate urge to erupt in temper; after all she had nobody but herself to blame for what had happened.
Under the circumstances, flirting with Brodie had been quite unforgivable. And totally stupid. If he even suspected what she was up to the game would be over before it had begun.
But flirting with Brodie had an edge to it, an excitement that was dangerously addictive. For a moment there, she had only one thought in her mind and she suspected Brodie had been light years ahead of her. She glanced at his enormous bed as she undressed, pulled on an old rugby jersey that she wore as a nightshirt.
Light years. But she had been catching up with him fast.
Then smiling a touch ruefully as she threw back the quilt she decided that they could have managed without a pillow-bolster to make a barrier between them and still have been perfectly chaste. It was, after all, an awfully big bed. But then Brodie was an awfully good looking man so presumably he wouldn’t ever need to be lonely in it.
But that was a horribly disturbing thought and as she slipped beneath the freshly laundered cover, Emmy discovered that she absolutely hated the idea.
Brodie returned to the kitchen, crossed to the wall-mounted telephone, lifted the receiver and pressed redial. After a moment or the two the call was answered by a recording.
‘Sorry, that number has not been recognised.’
Emmy had clearly anticipated this move and punched in a jumble of numbers after her call to prevent him from checking to see who she’d rung. Little wonder she’d looked so damned pleased with herself.
It seemed that if he wanted to find Kit Fairfax he had no choice but to go with her to France.
‘Emmy?’ She opened her eyes at the tap on the door. Then she closed them again, quickly. Sun was streaming in through the high arched windows and it was too far bright after what had been a decidedly restless night. She rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in the pillow. The tap on the door was repeated, louder this time, imperative in its demand.
‘Go away, Brodie,’ she mumbled. But the pillow apparently muffled her words because behind her the door opened. ‘I said, go away. I haven’t finished sleeping.’
‘I’ve brought you a cup of tea. You can wake up while I’m in the shower.’
‘I don’t want to wake up.’
‘You don’t have any choice. We have seats on the early mor
ning Eurostar from St Pancras.’
For a moment she lay perfectly still and ignored him. With trains leaving for all points south during the entire day, he had to choose the early morning one? How efficient. How really, wonderfully, bloody efficient.
‘It was that or the really early one,’ he added. ‘Personally, I would have chosen that one, but I didn’t think you’d appreciate being woken at five.’
‘You got that right. I suppose lunch in Paris is worth an early start,’ she added, grudgingly.
‘Try dinner in Marseilles. We change at Lille.’
‘Marseilles? Why Marseilles?’
‘You said the south of France,’ he pointed out, gently. ‘Of course, if you’d like to be more specific…?’ he invited.
‘No,’ she said, quickly. ‘Marseilles will do as well as anywhere.’ Brodie, it seemed, was still half a step ahead of her.
‘I just knew you’d be pleased.’
And because Emmy realised that under the circumstances she should be pleased — and because she knew he wasn’t about to let her go back to sleep — she finally turned over, sat up and pushed the hair back from her face.
She was rather glad she’d made the effort. If you had to have an early morning wake up call, Brodie — hair tousled from sleep, his jaw so dark with the overnight growth of his beard that she wanted to reach out and rub her palm over it — was a whole lot more appealing than an alarm clock. She eased herself up the pillow and reached for the mug he was holding out to her, turning on a smile of lambent brightness. Marseilles was a big city. Anything might happen in Marseilles.
She glanced at the gold Cartier Panther on her wrist. It was just a little after six-thirty. Instead of groaning, she sipped her tea and said, ‘Hadn’t you better get a move on if we’re going to catch that train? You’ve got fifteen minutes, Brodie and then the bathroom’s mine.’
‘If we shared it would save time.’
The casual way he said it jolted Emmy. She had known all along it would be crazy to underestimate the man. He had said he would stop the wedding whatever it took and that kiss had been a bad mistake. If he’d decided that seduction was the easiest way then she was in big trouble.
She lowered her lashes, demure as a nun. ‘I make it a rule never to share a bathroom with a man I’ve only just met,’ she said.
‘Just a bed?’
By the time she had absorbed the insult and opened her mouth to protest her innocence, Brodie had removed himself to the bathroom and shut the door fast behind him. She was tempted to fling her mug, tea and all, at it, but since he would undoubtedly insist on her clearing up the mess she drank it instead. But she wouldn’t forget.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and opened her bag, considering what she would wear for the long train journey south, with the weather getting hotter every mile of the way. After a moment she shook out a short dark green bias cut dress with tiny sleeves and a sprinkling of tiny ivory spots. It was fresh, neat and cool and today she’d need to be all of those.
She gathered her underwear, matching sandals and handbag into which she transferred everything she would need from the shoulder bag she had been using the night before. It was a pity about her passport, she thought, as she checked the folder containing the euros she had collected from the bank a couple of days earlier.
Emmy glanced at the bathroom door. The shower had stopped a while ago and there was no time to dither. She extracted two hundred euros and wrapped them up in the froth of ivory silk underwear that she had piled on the bed beside her dress.
She would have to get up very early in the morning to outsmart Brodie, she decided. Fortunately, he had been a most efficient alarm clock.
The train was comfortable and Brodie had booked first class seats. Well, why wouldn’t he when her father would pick up the bill? Even so, Emmy was beginning to regret faking her fear of flying. It hadn’t got her what she wanted and now she would have to sit next to Brodie for the best part of seven hours. Under normal circumstances that would not have been a hardship; normally she would have regarded the opportunity to flirt at length with a man like Brodie as the most delightful prospect.
These, however, were not normal circumstances which was why on arrival at St Pancras she had headed straight for the bookshop and picked out three paperbacks. She wasn’t about to risk taking just one book that she might hate after three pages. She turned to Brodie. ‘I’ll need some money to pay for these,’ she said, abruptly.
It was the first time she had deigned to speak to him since he had gone through her bag and removed everything but small change. She had anticipated the move, but sustained indignation had been the only possible response. If she had been too meek, he would have smelt a rat and since he had already had a demonstration of her most likely hiding place, it wouldn’t have taken him long to find the two hundred euros hidden in her bra. She wished she had dared take more, but that would have left too little money to have been convincing.
It was a small victory, but she was pleased with it. And she was determined to take the first opportunity to put it to good use.
‘I was beginning to think we were going to spend our entire journey in silence,’ he said, taking the books from her and paying for them.
‘We are,’ she said. ‘You’d better get something for yourself.’
Brodie shrugged. ‘I’ve got plenty of work to keep me occupied. All done here?’ he said, handing her the books, but keeping the receipt. ‘No mints, chocolates, barley sugar?’ She glared at him. ‘Then we should go through security. ‘
They boarded the train. Breakfast was served and passed in deliberate silence on Emmy’s part, in apparent oblivion on Brodie’s. He ate absent-mindedly, more interested in the document he was reading than her apparent bout of the sulks.
‘It’s incredibly rude to read at the table,’ Emmy declared, finally driven to protest at this lack of attention.
He turned, surprised. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t think you wanted to talk. At least, not to me.’ He closed the file he had been reading and waited.
She felt foolish. Having protested that she was being ignored she now had to say something, but under that cool, slightly distant gaze all she could think of was last night, when his eyes had been anything but cool and he had kissed her. Desperate, she made a gesture towards the papers he had been reading and sent her orange juice flying. She watched in horror as the thick, pithy liquid spread over the file and began to seep towards the legal documents it contained.
The steward, spotting this minor catastrophe, immediately mopped up the worst of the spill and whisked away the cloth. Brodie took the papers from the folder, wiped them on his napkin and handed the folder to the steward. ‘Perhaps you could dispose of this?’
‘Of course, sir. And I’ll bring the young lady another glass of orange juice.’
‘No,’ Emmy said, quickly. ‘There’s no need. Thank you.’ The man departed and she turned to Brodie. ‘I’m sorry. Are your papers ruined?’
‘No. They’re fine.’ He reached for his document case and slipped them inside, but not before she’d seen the name on the top sheet.
‘Good grief! Is he your client?’ she asked. He flickered a glance at her and she realised he was just a touch amused that she was impressed. ‘Since when have multi-millionaire pop stars been clients of a stuffy old firm like Broadbent, Hollingworth and Maunsell?’ she demanded.
‘Since I’ve been a partner.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘I doubt it.’
It wasn’t in Emmy’s nature to sustain a feud, or remain silent for long no matter what the provocation and this was her opportunity to break the ice. ‘Then enlighten me.’
Brodie regarded her for a moment, the wide innocent gold-flecked eyes set beneath dark, delicately winged brows. Despite her red hair, Emmy’s lashes and brows were dark and lustrous against a creamy complexion. She was very beautiful. And all the more dangerous because of it. Despite that, or maybe because he enjoyed dicing
with danger, he accepted this tentative olive branch.
‘I’ve known Chas since primary school,’ he said.
‘Chas?’
‘That’s his name. Charles Potter.’
‘I can understand why he changed it.’
‘When he was offered his first contract, he couldn’t afford a proper solicitor so his mother suggested he ask my advice — since I was going to study law.’
‘But…’
‘We don’t all have the benefit being born with a whole canteen of silver spoons in our mouths, Emmy.’
‘Oh.’ For a moment she looked crestfallen. Then, ‘Tell me about the contract.’
‘It looked good, the numbers were big and it was the sort of contract no eighteen-year-old musician would have turned down. A lot of them didn’t and have lived to regret it.’
‘You advised him not to sign?’
‘The contract was for an impressive number of albums but there was no time cut-off and it seemed to me that if he was still recording in twenty years time it might just be on the same contract. I suggested he negotiate for a fewer albums or a time limit. They wanted him and let’s be honest how many pop stars have careers lasting decades?’
‘So he stayed with you.’
‘He trusts me. I’m godfather to his firstborn.’
‘It’s a nice story, Brodie. Do you still hand out advice for free?’
‘I get my best clients that way and some of my worst ones.’ She raised one of those glossy brows. ‘I run a legal clinic at an advice centre in one of the less salubrious parts of London.’
‘You are a regular Mr Nice Guy.’
‘One who’ll give you some advice for free right now.’ His face was grave, his eyes serious. ‘Catch the next train home, Emmy. If Fairfax is genuine he’ll wait for your father to come round. Give you your country wedding in the local church.’