Dangerous Flirtation

by Liz Fielding

  ‘Why don’t we stop this right now, Rosie?’ he asked intently. ‘Right here.’ He turned her to face the bed. ‘It’s what we both want.’

  ‘Are you including all the furniture and fittings?’ she asked, clinging tightly to the notepad in an effort to stop her hands from shaking; hoping that her voice was steadier than her heartbeat.

  ‘Furniture is no good without a house to put it in,’ he responded, as if the conversation were perfectly normal.

  She made a note, took a breath and keeping her eyes fixed on the details that Anthony had prepared just weeks earlier, ‘Do you have a problem with the description of the bathroom? Or do we have to go through this item by item?’ He made no answer and she was forced to look up. ‘Well?’

  ‘Item by item, I think,’ he replied, gently touching her lips with the tip of his fingers. ‘As “…item, two lips, indifferent red; item, two grey eyes with lids to them…”’

  ‘My eyes aren’t grey.’

  He ignored her protest, stroked her neck with the back of his fingers and smiled as he felt her quiver beneath his touch. ‘—“item, one neck, one chin…”’

  He tilted it upwards. If he kissed her every semblance of control would evaporate. She stepped back quickly and he made no attempt to hold her.

  ‘This will take hours,’ she warned.

  ‘I’m in no hurry, Rosie,’ he said, softly. He turned and opened the bathroom door. For a moment she hesitated, then stepped inside and Jack leaned against the door, watching her as she checked off the fittings against her list.

  ‘Everything is there,’ she said. ‘Shall we get on?’

  ‘I would like your opinion about this shower. You’ve used it,’ he reminded her. ‘Do you think it’s big enough for two? It could be an interesting selling point.

  ‘I can’t put that down!’

  ‘You can if I insist. But I think we’d better make sure.’ He took the pad and tape from her and put them down. ‘After you.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Jack,’ she warned.

  He didn’t bother to argue, but put his hands around her waist and lifted her from her feet. ‘Shoes off, I think.’ He shook her slightly and they fell to the floor with a clunk. Then he stepped with her into the shower stall and lowered her to the floor, keeping his hands fastened around her waist. ‘There seems to be plenty of room to me. What do you think? Why don’t you see if you can reach the soap?’

  Being held by him, a hair’s breadth from his chest, was an exquisite kind of torture. Every instinct was urging her to throw caution to the wind, take what he was offering, no matter how little. But Rosalind was beginning to understand what he meant by total commitment. She didn’t just want his body. It had to be everything or nothing. She reached for the soap, wanting to get this farce over with as quickly as possible, but as she raised her arm, he drew her hard into his body.

  ‘On second thoughts, I believe we should try it properly.’ His voice grated against every nerve-ending and a short, fierce breath escaped her lips as her hard-won control began to crumble at this assault on her senses.

  He reached for the tap and, as a cascade of warm water engulfed them, he captured her face in his hand and began, unhurriedly, to kiss her as the water streamed down her face.

  There was a kind of primeval glory about it and she wanted to be out of her clothes and in his arms, but then he raised his head to look at her and she saw from the gleam of barely disguised triumph in his eyes that he knew he had won.

  As he began to unfasten the buttons of her blouse she reached for the tap and flipped it over to cold.

  CHAPTER NINE

  FOR a scant second nothing happened. Then, as a fierce stream of cold water caught the back of his neck he abruptly released her and she stepped clear.

  ‘Definitely large enough for two. But I think the rest of the details are accurate enough,’ she said, picking up her pad, ignoring the fact that she was soaking wet and water was dripping over her notes so that the ink ran.

  He turned off the water and stepped from the shower, stripping off his t-shirt in one smooth movement and discarding it. His hands were already at the fastening of his trousers.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she gasped, rooted to the spot.

  ‘I’m taking my clothes off, Rosie. And when I’ve done that, I’m going to take off yours.’

  She didn’t wait to see if he meant it, but turned and fled, barefoot and dripping, to the safety of her car.

  * * *

  If Rosalind had hoped that interest in the house would be minimal, she was to be disappointed. Every day she had to drive out to Wickham two or three times to show prospective purchasers over the property. Endure the contempt in his eyes. The first time he had solemnly handed her the pair of shoes she had abandoned in her flight.

  ‘Miss Parry left in a bit of a hurry last time,’ he offered in explanation to the woman who had come to view the Lodge, and Rose had had to endure her barely contained curiosity as they had toured the house.

  ‘How many days is it now to the wedding, Rosie?’ he asked each time he saw her and she answered without comment. ‘Looking forward to it?’ he asked once, trying to provoke some response. ‘You look a bit pale, but perhaps that’s just bridal nerves? I’d be nervous if I was marrying Anthony.’

  ‘Anthony wouldn’t be very happy about it, either,’ she replied.

  To punish her he chose to follow them around the house, chatting easily to the middle-aged couple who seemed very keen. ‘The house is being sold as it is,’ he reminded them. ‘With all the furniture.’ They were in the master bedroom and he learned against the doorway. ‘Miss Parry will vouch for the comfort of the bed.’

  She stiffened, but they took no notice, apparently absorbed in the size of the fitted cupboards.

  * * *

  Since the incident with the shower, she had been careful not to be alone with him. All business contact had been via Julie. If he phoned her at home she didn’t know. She used the machine to filter all her calls and he didn’t leave any messages.

  Every time she went to the car park for her car she half expected him to appear. Every time the office door bell rang, she jumped. After a week which almost reduced her to a nervous wreck, a week in which nothing had happened, she was at last beginning to relax, believing he had finally got the point.

  Then a couple with a small boy made an appointment to view the Lodge. The child was clearly bored to death with house-hunting and Jack took pity on him, inviting him to play a game on his computer.

  After the parents had seen everything, the child was still stretched out on the floor alongside Jack, several layers down in a dungeon, fighting his way out with a little help. ‘Throw in the computer and the game and I’ll buy the house,’ the child’s father joked.

  Jack turned from the screen, briefly. ‘Sorry. The computer’s no problem, but the game is a prototype. It’s still under development.’

  ‘Is that what you do? Develop games software?’

  ‘Mr Drayton loves to play games,’ Rose said, without any thought of the consequences. ‘It’s what he does best.’

  It was the first time she had led the professional veneer slip and Jack rolled onto his side and looked up at her.

  ‘I sense disapproval. Move over, lad, we’ll have to teach the lady to show a little respect.’

  The boy wriggled over without taking his eyes from the screen. ‘Very funny, Jack. But I’m afraid I have another appointment—’

  ‘Here, in about twenty minutes. You might just as well stay.’

  It was true. She had planned to drive a little way down the road to a layby and wait there but he patted the floor beside him. ‘Come along, Rosie. No need to be shy,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you what to do.’

  The couple exchanged a glance and retrieved their son. ‘We’ll see ourselves out.’

  ‘Well, Rosie? What’s the matter? It’s only a game, after all. You’ve the rest of your life for the serious stuff.’ She didn’t think he was ta
lking about the game on screen, but she was unable to move, unable to advance or retreat. He rolled on to his back and lay propped on his elbows while mayhem erupted upon the screen behind him.

  ‘I think you’ve lost, Jack,’ she said as “Game Over” flashed up on the screen.

  ‘It’s never over until the fat lady sings,’ he said, rising in one smooth movement, trapping her on the wrong side of the door. She jumped as he took her hand and he smiled, apparently satisfied at this evidence that he still had the power to evoke an instant response from her. ‘Come along, I’ll show you.’ He led her back to the computer. ‘While we’re waiting?’

  ‘Waiting?’

  ‘For the next group of tourists to troop through the stately home.’

  ‘Jack, why are you doing this to me? You’ve had your fun.’

  ‘And paid for it.’ He ran a finger over the yellowing bruise on his cheek but she refused to be drawn into another apology. ‘Humour me. What have you got to worry about after all? You’re getting married tomorrow. Nearly safe home.’

  ‘This is silly,’ she said, gesturing at the screen.

  ‘I know. Everyone thinks it’s silly. My accountant thinks it’s hysterical.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ she said, glancing at her watch. It was already well past five o’clock and her next appointment was in just over a quarter of hour. If she left it would be tantamount to admitting that she was afraid to stay. At least playing his stupid game she wouldn’t have to indulge in verbal gymnastics simply to keep one step ahead of him. ‘But you’d better hope that one of today’s applicants buys this place, because this is the very last time I’m coming out here.’

  She knelt down in front of the monitor and he handed her a control. ‘With the wedding tomorrow, Rosie, that hardly comes as a great surprise. What does surprise me is that you’re working at all. Can’t you bear to be away from Anthony for more than half an hour at a time?’

  She knew she should own up. ‘Jack...’

  ‘Yes?’

  She couldn’t do it. Not now. Not here. She was too vulnerable. If she told him the truth he would know that he had won and she would be at his mercy. She glanced at her watch again. Fifteen minutes. He hoped Mr Fulton wouldn’t be late.

  ‘Nothing. How’s the club coming along?’ she asked, desperate for some neutral subject.

  ‘I’ve no idea. I haven’t been near the place. You’d better ask your father, it’s his baby now.’ He restarted the game. ‘Or did you think I’d throw a tantrum and sack him after your little display of temper put me in casualty?’

  She shook her head. ‘You’re not that small-minded.’ She held up the control, feeling foolish. ‘What am I supposed to be doing with this?’

  ‘I’ll show you. Here, it’s easier if you stretch out.’

  ‘Don’t you have a table?’

  ‘This is how the kids will play it.’

  ‘Oh, right…’ She kicked off her shoes and lay flat on her stomach.

  ‘Now, take it like this.’ He settled beside her, his arm around her shoulders, helping her to direct it. She was about to protest, but instead jumped as a fierce monster disappeared to the realistic sound of a death rattle and he tightened his grip. ‘Watch the screen,’ he commanded as she shifted uncomfortably. ‘Total concentration. Was your mother glad to see him? Your father?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t been home. I thought it was better to leave them alone for a while to sort out their problems.’

  ‘Well, it’ll be nice to have him around tomorrow to give you away.’

  ‘Give me...’ Ashamed, she turned away to hide the heat that seared across her cheekbones. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Concentrate, Rosie, or you’ll get eaten. Look out!’ A giant spider dropped from above with a blood-curdling screech and she screamed and dropped the control, turning away from the screen and burying her face in the soft wool of his shirt. ‘Realistic, isn’t it?’ he said, gravely, holding her lightly.

  ‘Why do people play this?’ she asked, a little breathlessly. He caught her chin in his hand and tilted it gently upwards.

  ‘They enjoy the excitement, the risk. Don’t you feel it?’

  ‘No,’ she said, quickly and returned her attention to the screen. He handed her back the control.

  ‘Try again, Rosie. You’ll soon get the hang of it. Tell me,’ he said, glancing sideways at her, his arm once more about her shoulder, his hand firmly directing hers but there was no sense of the game. It was simply a background noise to the sensations that were pouring through her. Bewildering, disconcerting.

  ‘What?’ she asked, trying to get a grip.

  ‘Where did you finally settle on for the honeymoon? Is it going to be culture, or ruins?’

  ‘Ruins?’ She had no idea what he was talking about. She was only aware of the warmth of his arm around her shoulder, the touch of his fingers on hers.

  ‘That was the plan wasn’t it?’ He rolled away from her and she almost cried out at this desertion. He lay on his side propped up on his elbow, watching her as she tried helplessly to escape a horde of killer bees without his help. He reached over and removed a pin from her hair. ‘Is it still lots of sight-seeing in Italy?’

  ‘Italy?’ She gasped as he drew her close against him, moulding her body to his and helped himself to another pin. On the screen, a dozen aliens died unnoticed.

  She dropped the control, put up her hands to prevent his raiding fingers. ‘Jack, don’t,’ she murmured, but there was no conviction in her voice. Because she didn’t want him to stop.

  ‘You should always wear your hair loose, Rosie.’ Another pin and the chignon began to slide. He ran his fingers through it, shaking it loose and his touch on her scalp was like a drug, instantly addictive and when he took his hand away she heard herself moan. All the days she had been coming to the house, fending off the teasing, holding herself aloof, had built up the tension within her. Now, at his touch it was as if the dam had suddenly been breached and nothing could stop the flood of passion from spilling over and submerging them both.

  ‘Run now, Rosie,’ he murmured, and the sound of his voice stroked over her skin like velvet. ‘If you can.’ But she was unable to move. Boneless, weak, as if she had been driving at high speed. Her breathing was shallow, her lids were half-closed, her lips parted waiting for him to take possession. He took a handful of her hair in his long fingers and in one swift movement bound her to him.

  His lips fluttered briefly against her eyelids, touched her cheekbones, followed the curve of her jaw to the tip of her chin. She sighed and reached up for him, letting her hands explore his face. He remained quite still while the pads of her fingers moved gently over the bruised cheek, the raw scar. She stroked his temples, traced the strong brows, outlined the fierce, proud mouth.

  Her hands needed no schooling. They moved instinctively over his neck and throat until they reached the barrier of his shirt. Then they began to undo the buttons.

  Her eyes remembered the broad chest, the dark sprinkling of hair that was rough under her fingers. He seized her hands, preventing her further exploration. A small complaint escaped her lips. ‘You’re all mine now, Rosie.’ His voice was husky, his eyes dark above her. ‘There’s no escape.’

  She offered no argument and his tongue outlined her hot, swollen lips as she reached for him greedily, dragging him down to explore the exciting depths of his mouth and make them her own, the world forgotten in her impatience as she arched against him, proud to feel the urgent response of his body against hers.

  He groaned. ‘Witch. You’ve got to be a witch.’

  * * *

  When she woke the sun was streaming in through the window and she felt like a child on Christmas morning. Exultant, brand new. For a brief, confused moment she wasn’t sure why, then Jack shifted beside her, throwing his arm about her in his sleep and the joy of it all came flooding back. She turned on her side to look at him. Treasuring the way his face crumpled against his pillow, the strength of square tanned shou
lders. A lock of hair had fallen over his forehead giving him an oddly boyish look and he was smiling in his sleep.

  She lay for a while contemplating the pleasures of a night that on reflection had involved not one, but a considerable quantity of caps being tossed over windmills. The thick carpet of the study floor had absorbed the impact of that first explosive union when neither of them could wait another second. Afterwards he had simply picked her up and carried her up to his bed.

  Sometime in the night he had raided the kitchen and come back to bed with a tray of food. It was only then she remembered Mr Fulton. The reason she had been able to relax, felt so safe was that any moment he would ring the doorbell wanting to view Wickham Lodge and rescue her. But Mr Fulton had never arrived.

  ‘There was no appointment,’ Jack confessed, when she mentioned it.

  ‘But I spoke to the man myself. He wasn’t registered with us so I phoned his office to check that he was genuine.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Fulton is real enough. He works for me.’

  ‘He… I think you’d better explain, Mr Drayton,’ she said, severely.

  ‘Do I have to? Think about it, Rosie. How else was I going to keep you here, all to myself for a while? I was beginning to run out of ideas.’

  ‘You underestimate yourself.’

  ‘No. I underestimated you. I thought while I kept you coming to the house you might just realise how much I wanted you. How much you wanted me. And you kept coming. Detached, cool, professional, this beautiful hair pinned to perfection. Lord, if you knew what those horrible hairpins did to me. I wanted to rip them out, carry you up here and make wild and passionate love to you.’

  ‘You were going to miss out the study floor?’ she enquired, affecting surprise.

  ‘That was your fault, my darling. You were...how can I put it? Impatient?’

  ‘That wasn’t a complaint.’ She pulled a face. ‘And correct me if my memory is at fault, Jack Drayton, but you seemed quite enthusiastic yourself!’

  His mouth curved in a lazy smile. ‘Guilty, ma’am, as charged.’ He leaned across and kissed her shoulder. ‘In fact, it’s quite incredible how enthusiastic I am.’