by Penny Jordan
‘Er—the plans first, I think.’
She cursed inwardly, wishing she could make her voice sound more forceful, more professional. As it was, it had all the uncertain, husky resonance of an adolescent trying not to betray herself to the object of her adoring crush.
She really had to pull herself together, she told herself severely, and yet, despite the fact that the kitchen was a good size and that they were virtually separated by the full width of it, she was still acutely conscious of Ben as a man.
‘Right, then,’ he agreed cheerfully. ‘The plans it is.’
The sitting-room was, as he had said, far less aggressively modernised than the kitchen, but it was also rather over-full of furniture, which meant that, once he had unrolled the plans and spread them on the table, in order to be able to see them Miranda had to stand so close to him that their bodies were practically touching.
Thank goodness the town gossips could not see them now, she reflected idly as Ben leaned forward and started to point out details of the plan to her.
‘And you can see how we intend to retain all the existing period features,’ he was saying to her.
Unwisely she made the mistake of turning her head to look at him. Unlike most men she knew, he didn’t seem to favour the use of cologne or aftershave, but there was still a clean tangy scent clinging to his skin, a potent male scent that made her feel faintly dizzy and light-headed. Her gaze slid helplessly to his mouth. He was still speaking to her, but she no longer heard the words. Her heart had started to beat far too fast as she remembered her dream and how he had kissed her.
Her mouth had gone very dry, her body felt hot, her skin somehow extra sensitive, so that when he breathed out and she felt the warmth of that exhaled breath it immediately raised a rash of goose-pimples against her flesh and made her shudder slightly as the sensation of his breath against her skin set off a chain of lightning reaction throughout her body.
When she felt her nipples actually stiffen and start to swell, she was so shocked that she actually started to glance down at her own flesh, as though unable to believe the message it was giving her.
To her chagrin she could see quite clearly against the crisp outline of her shirt the unmistakable arousal of her body, and dark flags of mortification flamed in her face as she stood there praying that Ben hadn’t noticed and wishing there was some way she could turn her back on him.
When she heard him saying, ‘It’s rather cold in here. I ought to have lit the fire,’ her embarrassment increased. Did he really think she was cold, or was he just trying to be polite? Or had he, please God, not even noticed the betraying evidence of those twin flaunting witnesses to her physical awareness of him? If only she hadn’t left her jacket in her car…but it was too late to regret that now; the only thing she could do was to pick up the cue he had given her and agree unevenly that, yes, it was rather chilly.
‘If you can hold on for a couple of minutes I’ll get the fire going. It is laid,’ he told her, smiling at her.
In other circumstances she would have been grateful to him for his circumspection and for the tactful way he avoided even giving the briefest glance in the direction of her body, but, as it was, all his tact did was to increase her own feeling of humiliation. It was all her own fault. If she hadn’t started thinking about that damned dream.
Miserably she pretended to be studying the plans while Ben crossed over to the fire. He had removed his jacket when they came inside, and now, out of the corner of her eye, she was aware of him rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. His forearms were tautly muscled, the skin smooth and firm.
An odd yearning, yielding sensation started to spread through her body, making her feel weak and shaky. As Ben put a match to the ready-laid fire, the flames flared up, their light glinting on the dark hairs coating his arms.
His arms… Her heart was pounding frantically, she discovered, a feverish flush of heat burning her skin. She suffered an almost uncontrollable desire to walk over to him and to touch his hard flesh. His skin would feel warm, not clammily so, but with the texture of expensive satin. The dark hairs would be crisp beneath her sensitive fingertips, and when she touched her lips to the inner curve of his elbow his whole body would tense in response to her caress. He would reach for her then, holding her so that they were kneeling body to body, and he would kiss her as he had done in her dream, sliding his hand into her hair, his fingers trembling silently against her scalp, his mouth gentle at first and then hungry—demanding. And as he kissed her he would draw her closer to him, so close that her breasts were pressed flat against his chest, the stimulation of his body moving against her own, causing her nipples to stiffen and ache.
He would kiss her jaw and her throat, sliding away her shirt, unfastening its buttons until he had revealed the soft curves of her breasts. He would gaze at her then, his breath caught in his throat, his hands tender as they touched her body. He would bend his head and slowly caress her naked breasts and when he did she would bury her fingers in his hair, holding him prisoner against her as she arched her body in flagrant enticement.
‘Are you all right?’
The question cut across her thoughts, wrenching her back to reality. She could feel her face burning as she tried to focus on what he was saying. She had been so lost in her thoughts, in her fantasy, that she hadn’t even realised he had moved away from the fire and was coming towards her; instinctively she bent her head over the plans, letting her hair swing forward, hoping, praying that what she had been thinking hadn’t been visible in her expression.
‘I’m fine,’ she managed to tell him huskily as he joined her at the table.
‘Well, the room should warm up pretty soon now,’ he told her, and went on. ‘The architect believes that originally the staircase would have been open to the roof, not sealed off on each floor as it is now. The new contractors agree with him, and they’ve suggested doing some investigative work to see if he’s correct. If so, it might be worthwhile trying to restore the staircase to what it was originally. Look, here’s their sketch for how the house would look if we reverted to that plan.’
Miranda focused desperately on the plans. Her mind and body were in total chaos. She felt as though she were undergoing some kind of breakdown, she reflected dazedly as she tried to focus on where Ben was indicating. She couldn’t believe what was happening to her; that she had actually stood there and imagined… Her mouth had gone dry again and her heart was pounding.
‘No, you’re looking in the wrong place,’ Ben was saying to her. ‘Perhaps if I stand here.’
To her consternation, she felt him move behind her and come to stand so close to her that she could feel the warmth coming off his body, and knew without turning round that all she had to do was to move an inch or so to come into physical contact with him. He stretched out his left arm as he leaned forward, placing his hand flat on the desk so that she was virtually imprisoned by his body. ‘Look, here is the sketch,’ he was saying to her, indicating with his right hand where she was to look.
Hesitantly she did so. She felt almost sick with tension and shock. She had never once in her life envisaged that she could feel like this…react like this. To imagine such intimacies with a man she barely knew…to want such intimacies to the extent…
She flicked her tongue nervously against her dry lips.
Against her ear, she heard Ben saying teasingly, ‘It might help if we tucked this out of the way, so,’ and unbelievably his hand stroked through the fine softness of her hair, tucking it behind her ear.
It was something she herself did a hundred times a day, a gesture so automatic and taken for granted that, if anyone had ever told her that to have it performed by someone else would prove so sensual and disturbing an experience that she would literally be shaking with the effort of controlling her reaction, she would have laughed at them, or accused them of indulging in a bout of over-imagination. But she would have been wrong. Just that light brush of Ben’s fingers against her skin, a movement so
casual, so clinical almost, so devoid of anything even remotely lover-like, had still been enough to set off such an explosive chain of sensation within her body that she felt physically exhausted by the intensity of them.
She couldn’t endure any more. If she had to stay here much longer…
‘The plans are marvellous, Ben,’ she started to gabble. ‘I take back everything I said. I’m afraid I really must leave, though.’
‘Leave? But what about dinner?’
Dinner. Dinner? Did he honestly expect her to sit down and calmly pretend… She gave a small shudder, and fibbed frantically, ‘I’m sorry. I’d forgotten, but I’ve already arranged to see an old friend this evening. Her husband’s away on business and she’s all on her own. It had completely slipped my mind until you were showing me the plans.’
‘I see.’
She suspected that he didn’t believe her. There was a coldness in his eyes and his voice as he stepped back from her that warned her that he had probably guessed she was lying. But just so long as he hadn’t guessed why she was lying.
He insisted on accompanying her to her car and, opening the door for her as she got in, he leaned down towards her and said, ‘Thanks once again for warning me about Charlesworth.’
‘One good turn deserves another,’ Miranda quipped shakily. ‘After all, you did save me from him at the golf club do.’
‘Mm, I did, didn’t I?’
He was, she realised, looking at her mouth, causing a nervous fluttery sensation to run riot through her body.
‘I’m sorry you can’t stay for dinner. Still, if you have a prior engagement…’
‘A prior engagement,’ she repeated stupidly, unable to drag her gaze from his, unable to forget the way he had looked at her mouth and made her feel as though…as though he wanted to kiss it.
‘Yes…with your friend. The one whose husband is away.’
The iron was back in his voice, the coolness in his eyes.
She tried to start the car, but her fingers were trembling so much she couldn’t turn the key properly until the third attempt.
‘Drive carefully,’ he told her as she finally got the engine started.
Drive carefully… Only when she was sure that he wouldn’t be standing there watching her any longer did she allow herself to look into her rearview mirror. What would have happened if she had told him the truth…that there was no friend…that she had lied in a desperate attempt to get away from him because…because…she couldn’t trust herself to be with him and not betray what she was feeling? When he had looked at her mouth just then, it had been almost as though he was willing her to do something. Like what? Invite him to kiss her?
She shuddered wildly, her hands sticky with perspiration as she clung to the steering-wheel. She was letting her imagination create fantasies that had no place in reality, imposing her own feelings, her own desires on to him. Horror-struck, she tried to control her careering thoughts. What was happening to her? Less than a week ago she had been a completely normal, sane, level-headed twenty-eight-year-old. Now…now she was heading with all the folly, all the idiocy, all the illogicality of a woman who had fallen instantly and hopelessly in love.
In love. ‘Please, God, no,’ she whispered through gritted teeth. Bad enough that she should desire him, but to love him as well…!
CHAPTER SIX
THAT night Miranda had the dream again, only this time it was stronger, clearer. She woke up with her body wet with sweat and her heart pounding, an ache in the pit of her stomach that made her go scarlet with embarrassment and guilt, even though there was no one there to witness her confusion.
How could she have dreamed like that, experiencing sensations and needs she had never even known? Her fingertips still burned as though they had actually come into contact with Ben’s flesh, her lips actually stung as though they had truly been kissed with all the force and desire Ben had evidenced in her dream.
How could a dream be so real, so physical? she asked herself sickly as she got out of bed. Her throat felt dry, and her body ached. What she needed was a calming drink of herbal tea. Something to soothe her over-inflamed nerves and send her back to sleep—a dreamless sleep this time.
Even now, when she was fully awake, she still couldn’t banish the memory of her dream intimacy with Ben. How had it happened? How had her mind, her subconscious been able to furnish her with such a shockingly intimate mental image of his body, of his touch, with so strong and lingering a sensation of having been held in his arms, of having been caressed…loved by him?
As her conscious mind flinched from the memories she was trying to suppress, the cup she was holding slipped from her fingers, smashing on the kitchen’s stone-flagged floor with a noise that hurt her eardrums. As she bent down to pick up the broken shards of pottery, one stabbed sharply into her finger.
A few minutes later, sucking it where it was still bleeding, she stared broodingly out through the window into the darkness.
This idiocy had to stop. It was almost unbelievable that she, who had prided herself on being so in control of her life, should now feel as though that control had been wrested from her; that her life was in fact frighteningly out of control.
If she could just find a way to stop having these dreams. She shivered as she sipped the herbal tea she had brewed, wrapping her fingers round the cup, and trying to force her thoughts into some kind of order.
There must be a way she could get back in control of her life…of her emotions…of her needs. All right, so she found Ben Frobisher physically desirable—there was no point in trying to deny that, at least not to herself—but that did not mean that he had to invade her dreams every night, taking over her subconscious, revealing to her needs…emotions…feelings she had never hitherto experienced.
She padded restlessly around her kitchen, telling herself fiercely that it was useless trying to blame Ben for her dreams; that the fault, the guilt, the blame lay with her.
But what if it wasn’t merely physical desire she felt for him…what if it was something else…something stronger…deeper…and far, far more dangerous? What if…what if what? What if she loved him?
She tried to deny the thought as she had tried to deny it before, but it remained lodged in her consciousness, refusing to go away, no matter how much she tried to evade or bury it.
Tonight at his cottage she had felt so…so frightened and helpless…so caught up in what she was feeling that she had had no control left to fight it; and even after she had left him, even after she had driven safely away, she had still ached for him, had still wanted to turn her car round and go back, to tell him she had changed her mind, to beg him to allow her to stay with him.
She shivered, putting down her empty cup. If she didn’t go back to bed soon, she might as well not bother. Already her disturbed nights were beginning to tell on her. She must stop thinking about him, she told herself wearily as she went back upstairs. She must find a way of blotting him out of her thoughts…out of her dreams.
Easy to say, but far, far harder to do, she acknowledged tiredly half an hour later, lying rigidly awake in her bed, too afraid to allow her tired body to relax into the sleep it needed.
* * *
A WEEK passed without her seeing Ben. A casual remark by her father informed her that he was apparently in London working and wouldn’t be returning until the following week.
Ironically, when this information should have relaxed her, all it actually did was to increase her tension, to make her even more fearful of allowing him to slide into her thoughts in her unguarded moments.
Every day she told herself that today she would not think about him, and yet every day, somehow or other, she would find that treacherously she was doing exactly that.
She even went out and bought herself a child’s money-box, which she kept on her desk and into which she made herself pay a small monetary fine whenever her determination not to think about him lapsed.
When, after only three days, she had virtually fi
lled the money-box, she was forced to admit that by providing it in the first place she had been subconsciously encouraging her own self-betrayal.
As another measure to keep him out of her thoughts she resolved to avoid going anywhere near the house in the High Street, and yet every day or so, it seemed, she managed to find an equally valid and important reason why she should break this decision.
She attended the monthly meeting of another of her committees, and gritted her teeth when she was gently quizzed by some of its older members about her new ‘boyfriend’.
Even her father had heard the gossip, and had looked mildly surprised when she had rounded on him quite fiercely when he’d asked her if it was true that she and Ben were going together.
‘No, we are not,’ she had told him bitingly, adding, ‘Honestly, Dad, you know what this place is like for gossip.’
‘Sorry,’ he apologised. ‘Pity, though. Nice chap. Helen’s invited him to the wedding, by the way.’
The wedding was only ten days away. Helen had found the perfect outfit in Bath, reminding Miranda that she had still to find something suitable to wear. Pointing out to her father that she would be in sole charge of the agency while he was enjoying his leisurely honeymoon, she claimed the privilege of daughter as well as partner and told him that she intended to take a day off in order to go out and buy herself a new outfit.
Although he grumbled about it, Miranda knew him well enough to know that he didn’t really mind.
She chose a Wednesday, their local half-day, which meant that the town and business would be relatively quiet.
It was some months since she had last visited Bath—prior to Christmas, in fact, in order to do her Christmas shopping—and, as always, she immediately fell under the city’s architectural spell.
No, she didn’t have anything specific in mind, she told the girl in the dress shop where she bought most of her clothes. A suit or separates, something smart, but perhaps not quite as businesslike as her normal choice of outfit.
‘I think we’ve got just the thing,’ the girl told her, smiling. ‘A range of separates made in Germany. Pricey, but very, very well-made.’