by Anne Mather
‘I—what?’ she said at last, moving out of the way of a group of accountants from the office, who looked at them both with evident curiosity as they filed into the pub.
‘A savage,’ said Morgan harshly, his mouth thinning to a fine line, and, although Catherine had just said it, she faltered over the endorsement.
‘Well—you—weren’t exactly polite, were you?’ she mumbled, pushing her own hands into the deep pockets of her cashmere coat. She didn’t know what the temperature was, but, in spite of the fact that the sun was still shining, she was freezing, and she was pretty sure Morgan must be, too. ‘Oh, forget it,’ she added, dipping her chin into her collar.
Morgan didn’t move. ‘Is that the current man in your life?’ he asked, and if she hadn’t felt so distracted Catherine thought she would have laughed.
‘Mel?’ she exclaimed. ‘Melvin Scott?’
‘If that’s his name.’
Catherine sighed. ‘Mel’s a married man!’
‘So?’
‘So—no. No, of course he’s not the current man in my life.’ She bent her head. ‘There is no—current—man, and you know it.’
‘Do I?’
Morgan regarded her intently for a few moments, and Catherine felt every hair on her body rise. No, she told herself severely. No, this could not be happening. But it was—and when he put out his hand and gripped the back of her neck, she didn’t resist as he pulled her towards him.
CHAPTER SIX
HIS MOUTH WAS firm and persuasive; not aggressive, as she had half expected, but warm and possessive, his tongue pressing insistently against her lips. Although she kept her hands in her pockets, she was aware of his nearness down the whole length of her body, and it took the utmost effort to keep her lips together. His free hand linked with the other, his thumbs tipping her face up to his. The touch of his admittedly cool hands on her warm skin caused shivers up and down her spine, but their familiarity sent flames of fire licking along her veins.
When he let her go, she stepped back in confusion, not entirely in control of her movements. Her glasses were steamed up, and she brushed them with an impatient hand. Morgan’s lips tilted in knowing sympathy. ‘Lunch, hmm?’ he suggested, as Catherine became embarrassingly aware of her surroundings. She had no idea how many people had passed them while he was kissing her, but, judging by the amused faces at the windows of the pub, they had caused quite a spectacle.
‘I…’ She looked awkwardly around her. ‘Oh—all right.’ She gave in unwillingly. ‘But I only have about three-quarters of an hour left.’
‘That’s OK.’ Morgan shrugged, and held out his hand. ‘Let’s walk.’
In spite of her misgivings, which grew with every passing minute, Catherine went with him. But she didn’t take his proffered hand. She kept her balled fists securely anchored in her pockets, and, with a careless shrug, he accepted the rebuff.
‘You kiss like a virgin,’ he said, after a few minutes, and Catherine could barely restrain her indignation.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her voice icy. ‘You, on the other hand, kiss, as you do everything else: arrogantly!’
‘But not savagely, right?’ he suggested drily, and she gave him an aggravated look.
‘Why did you do it?’ she asked, shaking her head. ‘You must have known I didn’t expect you to.’
‘What?’ Morgan arched a dark brow. ‘Kiss you?’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘I wanted to.’
‘No.’ Catherine could almost swear he had deliberately misunderstood her. ‘Come here, to the office, to meet me.’ She frowned. ‘How did you find out where I worked anyway? Oh—not Denzil, please!’
‘I did find out where you worked from him,’ declared Morgan, taking her arm to guide her over the road, and although she gave him a horrified look, he was undeterred.
‘I thought I made it clear—’
‘I didn’t precisely ask him where you worked,’ he declared, allowing her to escape him again when they reached the opposite pavement. ‘I asked where Kay worked, that’s all.’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘Clever, hmm?’
Catherine expelled the breath she had hardly known she had been holding. ‘Hardly,’ she retorted, tersely. ‘As Melvin, and at least half the other members of the staff, saw us together, it’s not going to be long before it reaches Kay’s ears, is it?’
Morgan gave her a sideways glance. ‘And that matters to you.’
Catherine made a helpless gesture. ‘It should matter to you.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh—well, because—’
‘Because, what?’
‘Well, because—Denzil’s bound to find out, too.’
‘So?’
‘Oh…’ Catherine felt herself flushing now. ‘Don’t be so obtuse. Denzil’s bound to rag you about seeing me.’ And that was an understatement, she thought bitterly.
Morgan’s brows drew together. ‘You and Denzil—is there something between you two?’
‘You have to be joking!’ Catherine was appalled.
‘Do I?’ Morgan didn’t look convinced.
‘Yes!’ Catherine ground her teeth together. ‘I know he’s your cousin, but I wouldn’t touch Denzil Sawyer with a barge-pole!’
Morgan’s hand on her arm halted her abruptly. ‘How do you know he’s my cousin?’ he demanded, and now there was no trace of warmth in his expression. ‘What have they been saying?’
Catherine swallowed. ‘Nothing. They’ve been saying nothing. Kay mentioned it, that’s all. By accident, I think. The morning after the dinner party.’
‘Ah…’ He let her go then, and they continued walking towards the Embankment. Away to their left, the solid walls of the Tower of London rose against a clear blue sky, with the grey waters of the river reflecting their endurance. ‘So—why wouldn’t you touch old Denny with—what was it you said—a barge post?’
‘A barge-pole,’ corrected Catherine shortly, wishing they could get off this topic. ‘I…just don’t like him, that’s all. I never did.’
‘Never did,’ echoed Morgan doggedly. ‘That implies you’ve known him a long time.’
‘Long enough.’ Catherine hesitated. ‘We—that is, Neil, my ex-husband, and I, used to go out with the Sawyers, in the old days. Since—since the divorce, I don’t see much of them at all.’
‘And that’s a plus?’
‘So far as Denzil is concerned, definitely.’
Morgan considered her averted face with some shrewdness. ‘I guess he made a pass at you. Am I right?’
Catherine sighed. ‘Yes. No—’ She broke off, unwilling to say anything that might later be used to hurt Kay. ‘That is—I’m not your cousin’s type, believe me!’
‘Why do you continually put yourself down?’ Morgan protested, shaking his head. ‘You’ve got beautiful skin, beautiful hair, beautiful eyes—even if you do have to wear these,’ he added, pushing her spectacles up her nose with a careless finger. He gave her a crooked smile, his eyes sweeping intimately over her body. ‘And a figure any man would kill to get his hands on!’
Catherine’s face was burning now. ‘Please,’ she said, wishing the ground would simply open up and swallow her. ‘You’re embarrassing me.’
‘Why? It’s the truth.’
‘It’s not the truth.’ Swallowing her pride, Catherine turned to look at him. ‘I’m too tall, too fat and too ordinary to warrant compliments of that kind, and—and I wish you wouldn’t make fun of me!’
Morgan’s eyes narrowed. ‘I guess this guy—what was his name? Neil? Yeah, Neil. I guess he’s responsible for this low opinion you have of yourself, isn’t he?’
‘No—’
‘Well, someone sure as hell is,’ he ground out angrily. ‘Lord, what do I have to do to make you believe me? I’m here, aren’t I?’
‘Only because I didn’t fall into your arms at the first opportunity,’ retorted Catherine, glad of the chance to tell him what she really thought. ‘It must have been quite a novelty for you to find a woman who wasn�
��t interested in your body! I dare say you thought that was why I took you home to dry off that night. Well, it wasn’t. I felt sorry for you, that’s all!’
There was silence after this outburst, and, glancing sideways at his closed, unreadable expression, Catherine felt a renewed sense of guilt. He hadn’t, in all honesty, done anything to deserve the things she had said to him. She didn’t really know why she had said what she did. In effect, it had been a defensive gesture; a desire to defend herself, before any attack was imminent.
He halted suddenly, and Catherine, who had been unprepared for this move, walked on a few steps, before realising he wasn’t with her. When she did comprehend what had happened, she looked behind her, and, seeing him just standing there, his hands in his pockets, she cautiously walked back.
‘Morgan—’
Her use of his name was questioning, and he looked at her with eyes like yellow ice. ‘That’s me.’
Catherine licked her lips. ‘I—what are you doing?’ She lifted her shoulders awkwardly. ‘I—thought we were going for a walk.’
Morgan’s lips twisted. ‘What’s the point? As you said, I’m only interested in what you can do for me. If you’re not prepared to come across, why should I waste my time with a homely broad like you?’
Catherine’s colour drained away. No one, not even Neil at his cruellest, had ever made her feel so stupid—or so ugly. She felt shocked: beaten; totally defeated—and numbed by a pain that was threatening to tear her in two.
Her legs felt numb, too. When she tried to move them, they felt like two amorphous lumps of jelly that wouldn’t go where she wanted them. She wanted to run. She wanted to put as much distance between her and Morgan Lynch as was humanly possible, but all she could do was stumble away. And, when she heard the footsteps coming after her, there was nothing she could do. He caught her easily, effortlessly overpowering her feeble attempts to fight him off, and propelling her back to where he had been standing before. That was when she saw the car. The sleek grey Mercedes was parked at the kerb, right where he had halted. And, although she did her best to resist him, he bundled her inside, sliding in after her, so that she was forced to scramble inelegantly over the gear console.
She heard him lock the door behind him, long before she could reach the passenger door-handle. It had a central locking system, of course, so there was no point in her thinking she could escape that way. She was trapped in here with him, for as long as he chose to detain her. Unless she hammered on the windows, she thought bitterly. And did she really want to draw attention to herself all over again?
‘I’m sorry.’
The harsh apology took Catherine completely by surprise. She had been endeavouring to pull the skirt of her coat down around her knees. Her unconventional entry into the car had left her clothes in some confusion, her blouse having separated from her waistband, and her skirt riding up around her thighs. However, when Morgan spoke, her hands momentarily stilled, her eyes moving to his dark face, as disbelief warred with uncertainty.
‘I mean it,’ he said, half turning towards her, his left arm dropping along the seat behind her. She felt his fingers brush her hair, and jerked her head away, but his hand still descended on her nape. ‘You’ve only yourself to blame,’ he continued, the pad of his thumb massaging a spot just below her ear. ‘Christ, how do you think I feel, when you accuse me of lying about you, just to get you into bed? That is how you think I get my kicks, isn’t it? The things I’ve said about you—they’re just a come-on, right?’
‘Well, aren’t they?’
Catherine turned her head and looked at him, trying not to show how his caressing fingers were affecting her. This was all a game to him, she was still convinced of that. It had to be. Men like him were not interested in—how was it he had put it? In ‘homely broads’ like her!
‘No,’ Morgan retorted now, startling her. His eyes darkened. ‘At least—not for the reasons you say,’ he added, his gaze dropping to where the buttons of her blouse had parted in their struggle to reveal the lacy bra beneath. ‘I want to go to bed with you. I’d be a fool if I didn’t. But not to satisfy some belief I have that I’m irresistible to women! I’m not. You’ve proved that, haven’t you? I’m just a regular guy, who finds you very attractive. What’s so unusual about that, for God’s sake?’
Catherine bent her head. ‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why me?’ She took an uneven breath. ‘Did—did Denzil put you up to it?’
Morgan swore softly, and then, as if unable to prevent himself, he bent towards her, his mouth covering hers with uncontrolled intent.
Catherine strained away from him, but the door at her back was an unyielding barrier. There was no escape within the limited confines of the car, and the hand she pressed against his chest was no deterrent to his determination. His weight compelled her back against the seat and when breathlessness decreed that she take a gulp of air, his tongue slipped between her teeth.
Immediately, the whole tenor of their embrace changed. The heated pressure of his lips gave way to a hot, wet invasion, his tongue stroking hers like rough velvet. Her spectacles misted over, and, as if he objected to not being able to look into her eyes, they were discarded on to the dashboard. Then his free hand gripped her thigh just above her knee, and the passing thought—that she had obviously not succeeded in pulling down her skirt—was quickly stifled by the hungry urgency of his kiss.
Her senses were swimming with the mindless passion he was evoking, and she couldn’t prevent her hands from sliding into the thick dark hair at the back of his neck. His hair was so clean, and smooth, and silky, clinging to her fingers when she wound the rich strands around them, and he made a strangled sound in his throat, his hand moving further up her leg.
And then, abruptly, she was free, and Morgan was moving back into his own seat, straightening his trousers, and adjusting the lapels of his jacket. Running one hand over his crotch, and the other through the tumbled state of his hair, he made a concerted effort to control himself, and Catherine took the opportunity to but ton her blouse. But her fingers trembled as she endeavoured to thread the buttons back into the holes, and Morgan, noticing her difficulty, brushed her hands aside.
‘I’ll do it,’ he said huskily, taking hold of the offending studs, and, although she resented his high-handedness, she let him take over. The unusual awareness of her own arousal, that was heightened when his knuckles brushed the sensitive skin above her breasts, was causing her no small sense of anxiety. And, while she realised she should be grateful to him for calling a halt to something that had rapidly been getting out of hand, she wished she had been the one to do it.
‘There you are,’ he said, after a moment, tugging the two sides of her coat across her chest, as if he couldn’t bear to look at what he’d done. ‘And here are your glasses,’ he added, rescuing them from the ledge in front of him. He watched her put them on, and then slumped down in his seat. ‘OK.’
Catherine’s tongue appeared to moisten her lips. ‘Can I go now?’
‘If you want to.’ Morgan was staring straight ahead, and she saw to her relief that no one out side the car seemed to have noticed what was going on inside it.
‘Well—if you’ll unlock the door—’
‘Don’t you want lunch?’ he interrupted her shortly, and her eyes widened with the incongruity of his question.
‘Lunch?’ she repeated, staring at him, in what she hoped was cold disbelief. ‘Do you realise what time…? Oh, God!’
Her scathing question gave way to real dismay, and he looked at her. But Catherine was staring at her watch, unable to believe what she was seeing. It was nearly two o’clock! She had been due back at the office about fifteen minutes ago, and here she was, at least ten minutes’ walk from Cannon Square.
‘What’s wrong?’
His tawny eyes were concerned, and, forgetting for a moment that he had just forced her into the car against her will, and taken advantage of her, Catherine told him.
‘So what?’ he said carelessly. ‘I’m late, too, but I doubt if the might of the US Embassy will grind to a halt because of it.’
Catherine gave him an impatient look. ‘I don’t suppose it matters to you—’
‘I don’t suppose it does.’
‘But I’m never late.’
‘There’s always a first time.’
Morgan’s response was mocking, and, guessing she was going to get no help from him, Catherine reached to open the door.
‘Wait.’ His voice arrested her. ‘I’ll take you back, you know that. But—well, as you’re late already, it wouldn’t hurt to compound the offence, would it?’
‘If you think I’m going to some restaurant—’
‘Who said anything about a restaurant?’ With a wry grimace Morgan turned, and hauled a small picnic basket off the back seat. He balanced it on the console between them, and flicked it open. ‘Sandwiches, fruit, and a bottle of champagne,’ he said, looking up into her astonished face. ‘It was supposed to be someplace more romantic than this.’ He indicated the customs buildings across the street. ‘But what the hell? It’s better than nothing.’
Catherine shook her head. ‘You planned all this.’
‘Well—not all of it,’ he admitted drily, his eyes holding hers with disconcerting solemnity. ‘Particularly not all that garbage about why I’m seeing you.’ He gave a short, mirthless laugh. ‘I guess I really blew it, didn’t I? Just now. God, I didn’t mean to get so heavy! You going on about Denny bugged me, I guess.’
Catherine caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘I think—I think we should just forget about it,’ she said, realising how prudish that sounded. She put a nervous hand up to her spectacles. ‘Where did this come from?’
‘The picnic?’ Morgan shrugged. ‘I bought it.’ He paused. ‘Are you going to have some?’
Catherine hesitated. ‘Are you?’
‘Sure.’ Morgan was indifferent. ‘I’m hungry. If I can’t have what I really want, I guess eating’s the next best thing.’
‘Oh.’