by Helen Brooks
He had been faintly smiling, but then, as Robyn said, ‘We?’ the smile died. She stared at him, wondering what she’d said.
‘My brother and I,’ he said shortly.
She couldn’t hide her surprise, her eyes widening. ‘I didn’t know you’ve got a brother?’ she said, searching her mind. He had never brought a brother along in the old days and she couldn’t remember Cass or Guy ever mentioning one.
‘Had.’ It was terse. ‘He’s dead.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Clay.’ She was horrified at her innocent blunder and it must have shown, because the closed expression on his face softened a little.
He shrugged wearily, walking over to stand beside her and looking out over the rooftops into the blue sky above as he said quietly, ‘There was an accident when we were eleven. Mitch…Mitch was my twin brother. We were very close.’
‘How terrible for you.’ She didn’t know what to say. Why hadn’t Guy or Cass ever mentioned it? Did they know?
And then she had her answer as Clay said flatly, ‘It was a long time ago and I never talk about it. Or think about it.’
He was lying. As she looked at the hard profile she knew he was lying. He thought about it all right; whatever had happened had affected him so deeply he still found it difficult to talk about it. She knew she ought to leave it at that—he couldn’t have made it plainer without being rude that he didn’t want to discuss it—but this was the first time she felt she was seeing something of the real man inside the outward persona of wealthy playboy and ruthless business tycoon. ‘Were you injured too?’ she asked carefully. ‘In the accident?’
‘No.’ The abruptness was painful rather than caustic, and Robyn could feel the darkness inside him. ‘I wasn’t with him at the time.’ He stepped out onto the balcony, which was too tiny to take more than one small cane chair along with the tubs of flowers, lifting his face to the sunshine as he said, ‘This is very pleasant. I can imagine you curling up out here with a good book.’
‘That’ll be the day!’ She spoke lightly, knowing he needed to change the subject although she was intensely curious about his brother. ‘I keep promising myself I’ll have a day or even a few days of doing nothing, a holiday of sorts, but somehow it never happens. It’s one of the things Cass reminds me about often,’ she added wryly.
Her forbearance was rewarded by one of his rare smiles as he turned to face her again. Her heart turned over and she forced herself not to visibly react. ‘She can be like a dog with a bone,’ he agreed softly, adding immediately, ‘but a very gentle, loving dog of course.’
‘Of course.’ Keep it light, Robyn. Light and easy. She took a small step backwards, waving at the chair as she said, ‘Sit down and I’ll bring you your drink. You can soak up a few rays while I freshen up.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it. You’re just as tired as me if not more, if you’ve been with Jason and Luke for any length of time. I’ll come with you for the drink. I presume the beer is in the fridge in the kitchen?’ he asked easily.
The beer was in the fridge in the kitchen, but she wanted him sitting up here, immobile, under control. He was too male, too virile, too much of everything just to be allowed to wander about! Tethered she could just about cope with him here.
She recognised the absurdity of her thoughts even as they entered her brain, but it didn’t make them any less real or change the fluttering in her stomach.
‘No, really, you relax,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s no trouble.’
‘I will relax.’ It was very even and reasonable but the thread of steel was back. ‘Once I have my beer I will return to this very spot, okay? I’m not into peeping through keyholes if that’s what you’re worried about.’
She stared at him, mortified. She was about to speak, to challenge him, but then common sense warned her that she wouldn’t even stand a chance of winning this one. And twin brother or no twin brother Clay was still an arrogant pig! Whatever had happened in his past she still loathed him, she did. She did. The reiteration still wasn’t as convincing as she would have liked. She stared at him a moment more and then admitted defeat.
‘Please yourself,’ she said a touch tartly.
‘I will, Robyn.’
She didn’t doubt that for a minute. Pleasing himself was a criterion men like Clay lived by. The waspishness of the thought was strangely comforting, fuelling, as it did, her determination to keep in mind that he was the enemy.
Once in the kitchen she poured the beer into a glass despite Clay’s protestation he would drink it from the bottle, and then flounced immediately into the bathroom. He could sit on the balcony, he could sit in the sitting room, he could sit and watch her in the bath if he so desired! It really wouldn’t affect her one way or the other what he did, because he didn’t affect her. She wouldn’t let him.
It was sheer heaven to divest herself of the sand, and once she had bathed she washed her hair too before climbing out of the bath and wrapping the bath sheet round her body sarong-style. Clean and scrubbed she felt more herself again.
She opened the door cautiously but all was quiet, and she padded through to the bedroom where she applied body lotion with reckless abandon on her arms which had also caught the sun, and then rich moisturing cream on her neck and face. Her nose was glowing like a beacon. She peered at herself in the mirror and groaned softly. Come home, Rudolph; all is forgiven, she thought wryly. A touch of make-up was definitely called for here.
Foundation cream toned down the redness to a warm glow, and she used just the merest stroke of mascara to enhance her lashes. She didn’t want him to think she had made up for him. She had, but she didn’t want him to think it!
After grabbing a pair of cotton combat trousers from the wardrobe and a black vest-top, she dried her hair as quickly as she could and piled it up high on top of her head in a loose pony-tail. She was going for casual. Non-dressy, non-girly, non…come-on. Okay, so the vest top showed her figure off somewhat…satisfactorily, and the mass of burnished curls high on her head was a subtle contrast to the vest and combat trousers, but that wasn’t her fault, was it?
She looked at herself in the mirror just as she was leaving the bedroom. Silver studs in her ears? Yes. A feminine touch without being too obvious. And a dab of perfume at her wrists and throat was just womanly, that was all.
She took a long, deep breath before she emerged out onto the landing, and then walked steadily over to the stairs and ran lightly up them after extracting another beer from the fridge. ‘Reinforcements?’ she called brightly as she saw Clay sitting on the balcony.
‘Great, thanks.’ He turned and smiled at her, but then his gaze returned almost immediately to the view as he said, ‘Amazing what a bird’s-eye view can reveal. Did you know the girl in the house opposite likes to sunbathe in the nude?’
Oh, no—she’d forgotten about Maria’s little penchant for displaying herself to half of Kensington. The exotic dancer in one of the local nightclubs was a dedicated naturist as her perfect tan confirmed.
‘Uh-huh,’ she said nonchalantly.
‘I’m beginning to think I miss a lot by living in Windsor.’ He turned and added, ‘Want any help with the meal?’
Robyn forced a thin smile. ‘I wouldn’t dream of dragging you away from the view,’ she said pithily.
‘I prefer the one I’m looking at now.’ His voice was soft, throaty, and it flustered her more than she would have liked.
She tried to think of something airy and blasé to say but her mind was blank. Completely blank. Come on, Robyn, you can do better than this, she warned herself silently. He’s used to witty social chit-chat, light flirting and innuendo; that was the name of the game in the cosmopolitan circles Clay moved in. Someone staring gormlessly at him with their mouth half open was not his scene.
‘Clay, what’s this job you talked about?’ she asked abruptly.
‘Ah…’ He stood up slowly, moving off the balcony and into the sitting room before continuing, his eyes on her flushed face, ‘
It won’t be for a while yet.’
‘A while?’ There was something in his voice that made her wary.
‘Next year…probably.’ He eyed her unrepentantly.
‘There isn’t a job, is there?’ she stated tightly.
‘No,’ he agreed meekly, ‘although there probably will be. I’m sure opportunities will arise—’
‘I don’t want your handouts, Clay,’ she snapped testily, ‘and I don’t appreciate being lied to.’
‘It wasn’t exactly a lie, more an exaggeration.’
‘It was a lie, Clay.’ Her voice brooked no argument.
‘Okay, it was a lie.’ He managed to look magnificently sexy and little-boy ingenuous at the same time. ‘Does this mean no Bolognese?’ he asked humbly.
‘It should.’ She didn’t trust the humility. Such an emotion was an enigma to Clay Lincoln. But if there was no job prospect, it must mean he had come to see her because he wanted to and, despite every sane and sensible instinct that was urging her to show him the door, Robyn found herself saying, ‘But as you’re clearly dead on your feet I can’t exactly send you away hungry. But once you’ve eaten, that’s it. I’ve got work to do.’
‘Thank you, Robyn.’ It was far too humble to be genuine.
Yes, right, thank you, Robyn. She was already berating herself for being such an idiot as to fall for the blatant manipulation as she scurried down to the kitchen. He’d clearly got something important on tomorrow that he’d travelled halfway across the world to deal with, and he’d called round to see her on the off chance rather than spend the evening alone.
But he had called round, and to her. Not some model type or one of the many numbers in the little black book she was sure he’d got.
She savoured the thought for a moment as she whisked the sticks of spaghetti out of their long tube on the top of the breakfast bar, and then as she put the lid back on the glass tube she realised what she was doing. Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous, she told herself sternly. Okay, a good few years had passed since that night she had run away from him with shame and hurt tearing her apart. It would be good to be able to finally lay the ghost of that whole episode once and for all, something she’d realised in the last weeks she had never done. She didn’t want to hate Clay Lincoln; she didn’t want to hate anyone.
But—and the but was huge—there was a great big difference between letting go of something that was ultimately harming only herself and actually striking up a relationship, however tenuous, with him. That would verge on the insane.
He would eat her up and spit her out and not even notice that he’d done so. That was the sort of man he was; he lived his life in the fast lane. He had been fascinating and captivating and a million miles out of her league when she was sixteen, and nothing had changed. Except…she now had the sense to see the situation clearly.
Her mouth set in a grim line and she opened the fridge, taking out a half-full bottle of white wine and pouring herself a generous glass before she carried on with the meal. Dutch courage maybe, but she needed all the help she could get with Clay upstairs.
‘That was wonderful.’ As Clay stretched back in his chair Robyn forced herself not to react as hard male muscles bunched and then relaxed again. The broad chest and wide, very male shoulders were shown off to perfection by the thin, lightweight shirt he was wearing. By the time she had trotted upstairs from the kitchen earlier with two steaming plates of spaghetti Bolognese, he had discarded the tie he’d been wearing and had undone the first few buttons of his shirt. It had caused an immediate rush of blistering awareness she could have done without.
‘I’m glad you enjoyed it.’ Robyn smiled brightly, determined not to dwell on what seeing him at her table did to her fragile equilibrium. ‘There’s apple and almond pie for dessert, or chocolate mousse? Both shop bought I’m afraid.’
‘There’s not any custard to go with the pie, is there?’ Clay asked hopefully.
Robyn swallowed. The slight touch of boyishness was dynamite. ‘Sure,’ she said evenly. ‘I can make you some.’
‘Great. Pie then, please.’ He stood up as he spoke and reached across for her plate which he piled on top of his own.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked quickly.
‘I’ll wash the dishes while you get the pie,’ he said offhandedly, as though the two of them squeezed into the limited confines of the kitchen was nothing at all to worry about. Which it probably wasn’t for him, Robyn reflected silently.
‘Don’t be silly, you’re the guest.’ She rose herself, reaching across for the plates, and then paused as he surveyed her with cool ice-blue eyes. ‘May I?’ She indicated to the plates with a brittle smile, determined not to be intimidated by his piercing perusal.
‘No, Robyn, you may not,’ he countered easily, before turning and making his way to the stairs.
Impossible, infuriating, arrogant man. Robyn stood for a moment more, her face mutinous, and then followed him down to the kitchen where, to her dismay, she saw him with his sleeves rolled up and his hands deep in soapy water. She stared at him, her whole stomach somersaulting. This was getting far too cosy and, worse, the touch of domesticity only served to heighten and accentuate the dark maleness at the heart of his attraction.
He turned to look at her, his expression mildly exasperated. ‘Stop frowning.’ And he turned back to the dishes.
‘I’m not.’ She knew she had been. ‘It’s just that I prefer to be in charge in my own kitchen.’
‘You cooked the meal; you’re getting the pie; you are in charge for crying out loud,’ he said irritably, his tone making it quite clear he considered this a pathetic conversation.
Short of wrestling him out of the place—which wasn’t an option—she had no choice but to accept defeat gracefully, Robyn conceded reluctantly, because this was a pathetic conversation! ‘Do you want coffee?’ she snapped abruptly.
‘Please. Black.’ He patently ignored her tone.
Once the custard was ready Robyn cut two pieces of pie and popped them into the microwave, just as the coffee machine began its chugging. Clay had wandered across to stand at the side of her, and now he gave the custard an idle stir in its bowl before surreptitiously bringing the spoon to his mouth.
‘Hey! I saw that.’ She was half laughing at the childish action as she turned to face him, and he grinned back at her, the laughter lines radiating from his eyes. And then, like the time in the car, their glances held and lengthened.
Robyn was aware of the ping of the microwave but for the life of her she couldn’t respond to it. One strong hand tilted her chin as the brilliant gaze continued to hold her fast, and then he pulled her closer to him, her figure slight against the height and breadth of his.
Slowly the black head bent and Robyn made no effort to try to evade his lips. Rhyme and reason had gone out of the window, her body was dictating events now. Languorously her head with its mass of high-bobbing curls fell back against the muscled curve of his arm, and his mouth was hard and urgent on hers.
She made a little sound deep in her throat and he answered it with one of his own, his hands moving down to shape her softness into his hard frame as her arms wound round his neck.
The kiss was almost savage in its intensity but Robyn’s mouth was as hungry as his, the frantic pulse beating at the base of her slender throat echoing the hard slam of Clay’s heart against his ribcage.
She was arched back, his body bent over hers, and his lips trailed over her throat and into the soft swell of her breasts before moving back to her mouth with renewed fire. She was taking in the wildly intoxicating scent of him and she could feel the blood singing through her veins, feel each separate pulse throb.
She had known it would be like this. As they continued to devour each other she was aware she was meeting him passion for passion but she felt no timidity, just a desperate need to get closer still. His hands were roaming over her body, moulding her into him and seemingly possessed of a feverish need to know every inch of her, and as hi
s fingers caressed her breasts through the material of the vest top she was aware of their peaks hard and aching beneath his flesh.
‘You’re so fresh, so beautiful…’ His voice was thick and throaty against her mouth. ‘I’ve wanted to do this from the moment I saw you again.’
She had wanted it too. Through the throbbing desire she was aware of her mind warning her about something, something important, but his hands and mouth were the only things that were real. She was melting, dissolving into him, and she couldn’t think.
When a phone began to ring somewhere it didn’t register on Robyn’s whirling senses until she felt Clay stiffen. He pulled her closer for a moment, as though in protest, but the sound went on and on and Robyn realised the ring wasn’t her phone.
‘My mobile.’ His lips had eased to a gentle caress and he gave her one last kiss before straightening and letting her go. ‘I’m waiting for a call from the States; I’d better take it.’
A call from the States? He could have been talking in double Dutch so completely was she unable to take it in.
She leant back against the kitchen cupboards and watched him leave the room, her head spinning and her knees weak with the force of the physical storm that had exploded within her.
His footsteps on the stairs informed her he was going to the sitting room where he had left his jacket, but it was a full minute before she could move, and then it was to only sink onto one of the stools under the small breakfast bar.
Had she completely lost her mind? She placed her hand on her heart which was pounding so hard it actually hurt. What had she been thinking of? She gave a little whimper and then froze at the sound. This was Clay Lincoln. Clay Lincoln. She shook her head and then reached blindly for the coffee pot, pouring herself a cup with shaking hands and drinking it straight down, black and scalding hot. It helped, a little.