Not so well as you! ‘It was superb, wasn’t it?’ she beamed. A grunt was her answer.
When they arrived at their destination she left him paying the taxi driver and went into the apartment block. Was it always going to hurt like this? Loving him like crazy, yet, at the same time, wanting to crash something heavy and painful down on his head?
She had composed her expression by the time Carter joined her in the lift. It was a silent journey upwards. Once inside the apartment she went straight to her room. He did not try to stop her.
Oh, Lord, she was here with him until, perhaps, Friday. Possibly three more days. Three more unbearable days. She was past analysing what had gone wrong and got out of her suit and went and took a shower.
A few minutes later she stepped out of the shower and, with her hair loose down her back, she donned a robe. She wished, and didn’t wish, that she hadn’t kissed him back last night.
She acknowledged that he’d got her so mixed-up she couldn’t think straight. He’d got her emotions into such an uproar that she seemed constantly on a see-saw, wanting to laugh at something he said one minute, feeling like crying the next.
Well, she wouldn’t—A knock suddenly sounded on her door and for a couple of seconds she panicked and wasn’t capable of thinking of anything. Quickly she got herself together. Unmistakably Carter wanted her for something, regardless of the fact that she could be in any state of undress, or without a stitch on for that matter! He wasn’t the sort to wait too patiently—or, in her case, too politely either.
Visualising him coming in at any moment, Ashlyn tightened the belt of her thin robe—her only covering—and went and opened the door. Only then, as she saw him make a thorough if rapid study of her long hair loose about her shoulders, her curvaceous but thinly clad, slender body, before his glance came swiftly back to her face, did she recall that she wasn’t wearing a scrap of make-up. Oh, great! And there was he, dressed up like a dog’s dinner in an immaculate suit, crisp white shirt, showered and shaven.
‘Yes!’ she snapped—why wouldn’t she? Nothing like the man you loved seeing you when you knew you weren’t looking your best!
He was not happy with her tone, she could tell. Tough! ‘I’ve a business appointment,’ he informed her sharply. So that was what they called it! ‘It’s unlikely I’ll be back to take you to dinner.’
As if she’d go! ‘Good heavens, I’ve not long finished lunch—I couldn’t eat another thing!’ she exclaimed.
‘There’s food in the—’
‘Have a good time—with your business!’ she bade him, and closed her door—and wished with all she had that she hadn’t added that last bit. Had there been a note of jealousy there? Had Carter picked it up? Oh, heavens, she did hope not.
Ashlyn went and sat down, aware that if Carter, with his quick intelligence, was not going to glean how she felt about him she was going to have to be much more careful in future.
A few minutes later, however, her pride was up in arms again. If he was truly going out on ‘business’, why couldn’t he take her with him? She was there because he ‘needed a board member’ with him, wasn’t she? Lying toad!
Well, if he thought she was staying home to have a quiet evening in while he was out on the town wining and dining his French lady-friend—she didn’t need two guesses to know that he had fixed that evening’s date with her at lunchtime—he had another think coming! She’d had the offer of a date at lunchtime too. Two of them in fact.
Without more ado Ashlyn went and found the cards the two Matthieus had given her. Matthieu Boirel and Matthieu Litique. Both had suggested she phone them—but which was which?
She recalled the nice Matthieu, the one like her cousin Teddy; but, if she’d heard his surname, she could not remember it. She then thought of the other Matthieu. She hadn’t taken to him at all.
Oh, she wouldn’t go! Yes, she would. She had a fifty per cent chance of getting the Matthieu who had seemed harmless. She wasn’t going to sit in while Carter was out tom-catting!
She shuffled the cards and took them over to the phone. Matthieu Boirel’s card was the top one. She dialled his number. ‘Allô. C’est Ashlyn Ain—’ She did not have to say more.
‘Ashlynl Chérie!’ Matthieu Boirel exclaimed—and she knew at once that she had got the wrong Matthieu!
After her phone call Ashlyn went and took stock of her wardrobe. Matthieu had spoken of them going to a nightclub. Ashlyn, with silent thanks for her mother’s foresight, decided on the gold dress with the narrow shoulder-straps.
Recalling the way Matthieu Boirel had ogled her at lunchtime, she was not, in all honesty, looking forward to the evening she had arranged with him. But each time she thought of putting through an urgent call to cancel she thought of Carter expecting her to stay placidly in the apartment while he went off amusing himself. Besides, she had no idea, bearing in mind she had met Matthieu at a business lunch, if any last-minute cancellation she made might be detrimental to any business Carter had in mind.
Well, she hoped, hoped, hoped that Carter would be at the same nightclub where she and Matthieu planned to be that night. It would give her enormous pleasure to thumb her nose at him—he with his ‘There’s food in the—’ Let him eat it!
In the event she did not see Carter at the nightclub Matthieu Boirel took her to. In fact it was so dark in there, until her eyes became accustomed to what light there was, she felt she could have been sitting at a table next to her long-lost aunt and never have known it!
Not that any aunt of Ashlyn’s would frequent such a place! Ashlyn owned that she had never been to a club quite like it. Matthieu had called for her before time; the concierge had telephoned her to say Monsieur Boirel was there. She’d opted not to have him sent up. Pausing only to drape her matching stole about her, she’d picked up her evening bag and gone down to greet him.
The moment she’d got into his car and he’d ‘accidentally’ placed his hand on her knee, she’d known that she had made a mistake in arranging to see him. But, when she’d firmly removed his hand and he’d murmured, ‘Pardon,’ she’d thought she could handle him.
She began to have her doubts about that, though, as the evening in the dingy little club wore on. He did not offer her anything to eat—not that she wanted anything—but he tried hard to ply her with drink. Ashlyn stuck firmly with the one she had.
They were seated on a bench type of seat. Matthieu moved closer and put an arm along the back. She moved away. Other couples were dancing—at least she could make out outlines of couples moving to the sound of music coming from somewhere.
‘Shall we dance?’ Matthieu asked.
It seemed a good idea. If she moved any further away from him, she’d fall off the end of the seat. ‘That would be nice,’ she consented, thinking that she must try and spread herself away from him when they got back. Encouragement he did not need: it soon became clear that dancing with him was not a good idea after all. He held her too close and she felt she was suffocating.
She took a hold of his waist, intending to push him away. He got the wrong idea and grabbed her more firmly. Business or no business, it was time to tell him to get lost.
Ashlyn then thought that he had got the message anyway, because he breathed in her ear, ‘Shall we go?’
It was the best thing he’d said all night. ‘Please,’ she said—and was never more grateful to be out in the fresh air.
Any feeling of relief she experienced, however, was short-lived, because she soon discovered that, while they spoke each other’s verbal language perfectly, they were on different planets when it came to body language.
For they had been driving less than five minutes back to her apartment, or so she thought, when Matthieu Boirel turned the car into a side-street, stopped the engine and, with an urgent, ‘I can’t wait any longer,’ made a lunge for her.
Ashlyn was just not ready for it. In no time flat he had her pinned beneath him, his loose mouth seeking hers. It was then that she came rapidly
to life. Carter’s mouth was the last mouth to touch hers and she wasn’t having that wonderful memory sullied by this oaf.
‘No!’ she yelled. ‘Non!’ But Matthieu Boirel took no notice.
The next few minutes were a complete and utter nightmare as she fought against what seemed to be this man’s maniacal desire for her. He just would not listen to her pleas to leave her alone. Which left her terrified, gulping for air when she had the chance, and fighting and kicking like fury whenever she was able.
His face was near, so she bit it, and kept on biting until, with a yell of rage, he let her go. By some sheer magical good luck she found the door-catch, and she was out of the car while he was still holding his face, out of the car and running, running, crossing streets, and still running.
Ashlyn slowed down only when her frequent glances behind showed her she was not being followed. She had no idea where she was, or what the time was. Then, by sheer good fortune, she saw a taxi heading her way—but she was in such shock by then that she didn’t care whether it was taken or not—or even if it ran her over.
She went swiftly into the street and stood in the middle of the road waving her arms. The taxi screeched to a halt, the driver grumbling like fury. She got into the taxi and, striving for all the dignity she could manage, given that her hair was a mess and Lord knew what her make-up was like, she gave him the address of the apartment.
The taxi moved off and she felt too exhausted to worry that she did not have her bag, which she had left behind in her rush to escape Matthieu Boirel’s car. The concierge could pay; she would pay the concierge back later, or Hamilton Holdings would. She didn’t seem to be thinking straight, and felt like bursting into tears when the taxi driver pulled up outside the apartment block.
Managing to hold back tears, she asked the concierge to pay and give a generous tip. Seeming astonished that this usually immaculate-looking young woman should return in such a state, he assured her that he would.
As well as having no money, she had no doorkey. But that didn’t bother her either. If Carter wasn’t in she would park herself outside the apartment door. At least here she felt safe.
Carter was in. She rang the bell. It was answered immediately. He was still up, dressed in shirt and trousers—and he was furious!
‘Where the hell have you been?’ he bellowed before he’d barely shut the door.
Ashlyn, feeling closer to tears than ever, was afraid to speak lest she break down and start sobbing. Unable to speak, she rushed past him. But, as she might have known, he wasn’t having that.
He followed her to her room, turning on the main light as he came in. In that strong light and not the table-lamp glow of the sitting room, he saw for the first time her ashen face and her shocked look.
‘What happened?’ he demanded to know at once.
‘I went out with Matthieu Boirel; he—’
‘Alone?’ Carter barked, clearly knowing at once who Matthieu Boirel was.
‘Yes,’ she answered wearily, wishing Carter would go. She wanted to forget it; she didn’t need this third degree. She turned away, realising that by some miracle she still had her stole about her. Perhaps she’d straightened it in the taxi; she couldn’t remember. She took it off, wanting to go to bed, wanting to go to sleep, wanting to pretend that it had never happened.
Then she noticed, as Carter at once noticed, that both the straps of her dress were broken and hanging down, and that her arms were red and starting to bruise.
‘What in God’s name has happened to you?’ Carter thundered, enraged—his fury was back with a vengeance!
CHAPTER EIGHT
ASHLYN was glad to hear fury in Carter’s voice. It made her begin to get angry too—and saved her from tears. She had done nothing wrong that she could think of, except maybe been a little too proud. But she hadn’t deserved Matthieu Boirel’s assault on her, and she did not deserve Carter bellowing at her now, either.
‘I got attacked, that’s what happened!’ she flew at him, glad of her anger, glad of her fury.
‘Who by?’ Carter blazed. ‘Boirel? Did he...?’
‘No! All he managed to do was to scare me half to death!’ she charged. ‘I got away.’
‘Where is he?’ To her amazement she saw that Carter was boiling over with outrage—but not for her! His expression was violent—he looked ready to kill Matthieu Boirel! She could only put it down to shock that his doing so seemed quite a good idea.
Somehow her anger was neutralised. ‘I left him in his car in some side-street,’ she answered. ‘With any luck he’s still nursing a badly bitten face.’
‘You bit him?’
‘As hard as I could! I’d hoped I was ringing Matthieu Litique,’ she felt she should explain, ‘but—’
‘You rang and asked Boirel out?’ Carter looked astounded.
‘What if I did?’ This was all she needed—for Carter to know she’d been so miffed when he’d gone out for the evening that she had decided to go out too. ‘They both asked me out at lunchtime and gave me their cards, only I didn’t know which one was which and rang the wrong one and...’ Her voice tailed off. Carter was looking angry with her again.
‘You’re not safe to be let out!’ he stated shortly, but she had had enough.
‘Leave me be!’ she shouted, furious again. She didn’t know where she was when Carter came and took hold of her arms. ‘And cut that out!’ she raged, distraught, not thinking properly. ‘I’ve just been through that! I w-want comfort—n-not r-rape!’
Carter looked at her, thunderstruck. Then, ‘Dammit,’ he groaned, and she realised that his hold had been more to steady her than anything else when she’d started shouting. He came closer, and gently, tenderly, he eased her into the cradle of his arms. ‘I wouldn’t rape you, little one,’ he soothed, and placed a whisper of a kiss in her hair.
How long she stood there shaking, being gently held by him, she had no idea. Tears came to her eyes and spilled over, and she didn’t seem able to stop them. She felt ashamed of crying, ashamed of what had happened to her, ashamed—and mixed-up.
Nor did she want to look at Carter when, after long, long minutes of him just holding her safe, he drew back to look into her face, possibly to gauge if she was any better.
‘Oh, little darling,’ he breathed when he saw her tearstained face. Ashlyn had never known a man’s touch could be so sensitive when, having led her to the bathroom, he sat her down and tenderly sponged her face and oh, so considerately dried it.
And Ashlyn wanted to cry again. Because had this not happened to her she would never have imagined that Carter could be so sensitive, so caring. Not that he truly cared—it was surely just that he was there and she seemed in need of someone’s help and he was the one available.
‘I’m all right now,’ she told him bravely as a modicum of pride began to stir.
‘You look it,’ he smiled, and was as ever in charge as he asserted, ‘Come on, let’s get you to bed.’
He helped her from the bathroom, and she hated him a little because it was clear he knew where to find a woman’s nightdress when he pushed a hand under her pillow and retrieved hers. She was all at sixes and sevens, though, when, after bringing her nightdress over to her, his hands went to the zip at the side of her dress.
Anxiously she jerked away. ‘I c-can manage now,’ she stammered, backing from him, her head a nonsense as shock from her experience with Matthieu Boirel clashed with a tingle of awareness of Carter’s touch to her skin.
‘Steady—steady,’ he gentled her. ‘I didn’t mean to—’ He broke off, and then instructed evenly, ‘Get into bed. I’ll go and see if I can find you a couple of aspirin.’
‘I don’t want asp—’ Why was she arguing?
Carter’s look was kind, but he was still the one in charge when calmly he cut in to tell her, ‘It’s either that or I call a doctor.’
‘Oh, really!’ she flared impatiently.
‘Aspirin or doctor?’
Swine! ‘Aspirin.’
‘Have much to drink?’ he enquired easily before he went.
She shook her head. ‘One gin and tonic—and I didn’t finish all of that.’ Her voice had started to wobble as she remembered. ‘And I don’t want to talk about it.’
His expression softened. ‘Get into bed, there’s a love.’ He left her to go searching for aspirin.
Ashlyn, as instructed, was in bed when Carter returned. He came over, placed a glass of water on the bedside table and switched on the small bedside lamp. Then he turned off the centre light. Ashlyn found that softer light comforting, and obediently sat up and swallowed two aspirins when Carter handed her the glass of water.
Then he took it from her and placed it on the bedside table again. ‘Lie down,’ he instructed. ‘You’ll be all right now. I’m not far away if—if you get uneasy.’
Just his understanding alone was comforting, but when Ashlyn went to lie down she suddenly felt agitated and struggled back up again. ‘I—can’t,’ she said breathlessly, a kind of panic overtaking her.
‘Little love,’ Carter breathed, and, sitting down on the side of her bed, he reached for her. ‘Come here,’ he said. His arms came around her, and again, for long minutes, he held her. ‘Shh—you’re all right,’ he murmured gently.
‘I can’t stop shaking,’ she told him.
‘I know. Don’t worry about it. You’ll be fine.’ He pulled back and looked into her wide green eyes. ‘Come on,’ he coaxed with a smile. ‘You need some rest, some sleep.’
He was right and she knew it. Ashlyn moved out of his arms and lay down, and immediately wanted his arms back. ‘Don’t go,’ she heard her voice whisper, barely aware that she was speaking.
And she knew no end of relief when he teased, ‘Would I?’ She smiled. She loved him. She closed her eyes—and panicked once more. Her eyes shot wide. ‘I’m here,’ he reassured her quickly, reading the fear in the worried green depths of her eyes.
‘Carter. Carter,’ she said urgently. ‘W-would you kiss me?’
He looked at her, studied her, and she loved him because he seemed to know just why she wanted him to kiss her—so that she might forget the revulsion caused by that other man’s mouth.
A Business Engagement Page 13