by Penny Jordan
She walked out before she said anything more she might regret. Let Camilla finish changing by herself. If she had to stay with her sister a moment longer, she could not be responsible for her actions. She passed David on the stairs, already changed into casual slacks shirt and jacket. He caught her arm as she passed him, frowning slightly.
‘Em about this Drake Harwood chap… Just how well does Camilla know him?’
She was tired of shielding Camilla, she thought bitterly, tired of always having to put her first. ‘Why don’t you ask her that yourself David?’ she suggested curtly. ‘I…’
‘So there you are darling… I was just coming to see if I could find you.’
Hard fingers circled her wrist, cool green eyes studying her flushed cheeks and angry eyes. ‘I’ve barely been gone half an hour,’ she said tersely, caught completely off her guard when Drake transferred his grip from her wrist to her waist, pulling her firmly into his arms, despite David’s presence, his body hard and firm against hers, as his unexpected action caused her to fall heavily against him, her breath tangling in her throat.
‘That’s twenty-five minutes too long.’ His free hand moved against her nape, the words feathered across her forehead.
Emma was aware of David muttering something about having to go, and hurrying past them. It must have been the jolt to her system of finding herself so suddenly off balance that was playing havoc with her pulses, she thought faintly, trying to stem the flooding tide of weakness flowing through her. There was a dangerous enchantment in being held like this… in being wrapped in concern; in being cosseted and cared for by strong male arms.
With a jerk Emma brought her thoughts under control. What was the matter with her; was she losing her mind? How could she possibly believe even for a second that Drake Harwood’s arms offered security and warmth? He was merely acting a part… merely pretending to care about her… although as yet she did not know why.
‘Let me go.’ She pushed a bunched up fist against his chest, trying to reinforce her plea with physical force, but trying to match her strength against his was laughable. Indeed he was laughing; she could feel the sound rumbling deep in his chest, and when she raised her eyes to meet his, they were a dense dark green; gleaming with mockery and amusement.
That he should dare to laugh at her was like a lighted match applied to the fuse paper of her temper; badly frayed during the build up to the wedding, her taut nerves suddenly seemed unable to take any more.
‘Don’t you dare laugh at me,’ she told him tensely. ‘Just what…?’
‘Why did you refuse to take the television job?’
His eyes weren’t amused any longer; they were cold and watchful, the crisp question taking the heat out of her anger; confusing her almost. Her mouth compressed into a firm line. She didn’t have to answer his questions; let him answer them himself.
‘Not going to speak? Well I know a remedy for that…’
Before she knew what he was doing Emma felt the warm pressure of his mouth on hers; not painfully or brutally—that she could have dealt with. No, his lips were caressing hers with a mobile, experienced sensuality that made her pulses jerk into confused awareness and her heart pound as idiotically as a gullible teenager’s. It made no sense; there was no logical reason that she could think of why he should be able to arouse this reaction inside her; her intelligence told her that experience alone could not be the answer.
What he was doing to her was a true seduction of the senses, she thought hazily; he was using his skill and her vulnerability as a weapon against her and it was one which he wielded with deadly accuracy. His tongue, warm and knowing, stroked along the curves of her still closed mouth, investigating the tensely held in corners, urging her body without using words, to disobey the commands of her brain. The scrape of his teeth against her lower lip was intensely erotic; so much so that she trembled visibly; knowing that if she didn’t give in she would soon be swamped with sensations she would not be able to control.
Against his chest the hands she had curled into fists uncurled and pressed flat as she tried to push him away. Her neck felt as though it was going to snap beneath the pressure he was applying to her nape to keep her mouth still under his, but from somewhere she found the strength to pull away just enough to mutter thickly, ‘All right, all right… I’ll tell you…’
His eyes were incredibly dark, she realised as her own locked with them; dark and hot; burning with an intensity that poured rivers of heat under her own skin. She had thought he was simply cold bloodedly trying to dominate her, but the heat of his concentrated study told a different story.
‘Too late…’ The sound of the words reverberated against her mouth as his own possessed it, hotly and deeply, his hand at her nape, curling into her hair and bending her back until her body was as taut as a bow string, her breasts pressed flat against his chest, her mouth vulnerable to any assault he chose to make on it. She had to grip his shoulders to stop herself from overbalancing; her senses rioting out of control, her mouth warm and pliant beneath his, betraying her commands in favour of response to a deep rooted need that seemed to have sprung up inside her.
He ended the kiss slowly, lingering over his enjoyment of it, rubbing his thumb softly over the swollen contours of her mouth as he released her.
His eyes were almost jade green; hot as a tropical night, almost smothering her in a sensation of heat and languor.
‘Now tell me,’ he murmured as she stepped unsteadily away from him. ‘Why did you refuse to take the job?’
‘Did you expect me to do anything different?’ Now that she was free and back in control of her own body an irrational feverish anger possessed her; that most of the anger should have been directed against herself Emma couldn’t deny; he hadn’t forced a response from her, she acknowledged; he had seduced it; and she fool that she was had responded to that seduction. Her heart was still pounding as though she had been running; her skin hot and prickly. She wanted to deny the effect he had had on her but it was there in the aching tension in the pit of her stomach and the shivering bewilderment of her body.
‘How could I take it?’ she stormed on, trying to ignore the vulnerability he had revealed to her, and which she had never suspected herself capable of. ‘How could I sign a contract, knowing what you intended to do…?’
‘So instead you cheated on our bargain, by refusing the job, believing that I wouldn’t use the photographs if you weren’t employed by the studio?’
He was watching her closely, but Emma was too angry to pay much attention.
‘No!’ she told him vehemently. ‘It wasn’t like that at all. You can do what you like with them… humiliate me as much as you care to… but it will just be me you humiliate, not Emma Court Newsreader, I won’t be manipulated in that. I won’t be used in your publicity war against a rival magazine…’
‘And your present job?’ He said it quietly, still watching her and Emma had the distinct impression that he already knew.
‘I’ve handed in my notice.’
‘So at the present time you’re out of a job…’
‘That’s right… but no doubt I’ll be offered plenty once your magazine comes out… When…?’ Her throat closed up and she had to swallow hard to appear unconcerned as she asked coolly, ‘When will my photographs appear?’
‘That’s up to you.’ He was watching her carefully, ‘But it isn’t something I care to discuss right now. We’ll talk about it tonight. You’ve surprised me you know,’ he told her as he stepped away from her and down the stairs, and the way he said it told Emma that he wasn’t used to being surprised by her sex. ‘Nine of ten women would have signed that contract and left others to cope with the ensuing uproar…’
‘Then it’s no doubt unfortunate for us both that I happen to be the tenth isn’t it?’ Emma said tautly. She heard footsteps on the stairs behind her and glanced up to see Camilla coming down. Her sister ignored her, and instead smiled at Drake, dimpling him a flirtatious smile.
‘Drake, you are very naughty, turning up like this,’ she teased, linking her arm with his. ‘Poor David is terribly jealous.’
‘Is he?’ Emma could have sworn there was derision and even faint contempt in the green eyes as they rested on her sister’s face. ‘Have you told him what happened yet?’
Flirtatiousness gave way to alarm as Camilla withdrew from him. ‘No… and neither must you,’ she exclaimed hurriedly. ‘Promise you won’t…’
‘I’ve already given that promise—to your sister,’ Drake said coolly… ‘We struck a bargain over it, and I’ve no intention of reneging on my side of it…’ His eyes met Emma’s over Camilla’s head. ‘I’ll pick you up for our dinner date at seven,’ he said to Emma, and there was a warning implicit in the words that told her she would be unwise to try to evade him.
* * *
It was just gone six and Emma had just reached home. Her father and Uncle Ted were closeted in the study, reminiscing, and perfectly content with one another’s company. As she turned to go up the stairs Emma tried to control her erratic pulses. Dinner with Drake… If only she didn’t have to go. She was behaving like a gauche adolescent, she scorned herself; where was her self-control; her poise? Neither had proved inviolate.
She had lost them when Drake kissed her, she acknowledged wryly. In retrospect it seemed impossible that a mere kiss should have such a devastating effect on her, and she was inclined to think she had overreacted; something brought on by her quarrel with Camilla and the stresses and strains leading up to the wedding. It seemed a much more plausible explanation than to admit that sexually at least she found Drake Harwood overwhelmingly attractive. That she could respond to someone so intensely on a purely sexual level, had been something she had never considered or experienced before, and it was a touch disconcerting.
She dressed for their dinner date almost automatically. Her wardrobe wasn’t extensive; unlike Camilla she wasn’t a clothes-aholic and she pondered on what to wear, ultimately selecting a new Caroline Charles outfit she had purchased in a fit of extravagance. The slim black silk skirt clung to her hips, the white jacket cut to mould itself neatly to her body emphasising her narrow waist. The jacket buttoned at a military angle and although simple, the outfit could be dressed up or down as the occasion demanded. Black silk stockings and high heeled shoes completed the outfit, and after scrutinising herself carefully in her mirror Emma decided that she had chosen correctly. The plain black and white of her suit gave off a formal, even faintly austere impression she decided, not seeing in the way the silk clung to her body a sensuality that was not immediately obvious but which held an allure that would linger long after the more obvious had been forgotten.
Drake arrived exactly on the dot of seven. She heard the Ferrari long before she saw it. Monster, she thought tetchily, glancing out of her bedroom window, as it stopped outside. A bright gleaming red, it certainly caught the eye, she decided cynically—exactly right for the type of man who liked to be noticed; to cause a ripple of interest when he appeared.
She dodged back away from the window, as Drake got out and walked up the path. She was in the hall by the time he rang the bell, opening the door to him with cool pleasantness. That was the best way to treat him she had decided, with a certain amount of tolerant disdain.
He raised his eyebrows as he studied her and pronounced, ‘Very nice… In fact very, very nice.’
For some reason his compliment angered her. She felt like rushing upstairs and ripping the suit off. That was it, she decided as she gave him a cool smile, it was his air of believing that she had dressed specifically to please and attract him that infuriated her; that and his lordly bestowal of the compliment—a bone for a trained performing dog, she thought waspishly, following him out to his car.
Contrary to her expectations he was a controlled and considerate driver. Almost as though he realised her disdain for his car, he flicked a glance at her as he drove and said whimsically, ‘This car is the embodiment of all my boyhood dreams—it’s something of an anachronism in these days of petrol shortages and fuel conserving cars, but…’ He shrugged and then added, ‘I sense a certain amount of disapproval. Is it for the car… or for me?’
‘A car is an inanimate object,’ Emma responded coolly.
‘Ah, so it is for me…’
‘You can hardly expect me to be thrilled by the way you’ve turned up out of the blue and forced this dinner date on me,’ Emma told him.
‘But surely you expected some response? You must have known I wouldn’t let your actions go by unremarked upon?’
‘I didn’t do it as an attention seeking exercise,’ Emma told him curtly, infuriated by the intimation behind his words that she had deliberately set out to entice a response from him. ‘I did it because my own code of ethics prevented me from taking the job when I knew that by doing so I would be causing a good deal of potential embarrassment to my employers…’
‘Yes. It’s very strong, isn’t it, this code of ethics of yours? First it leads you into protecting your sister, and then to protecting your would-be employers. I wonder if it could be extended to embrace me as well.’
‘You?’ Emma turned scornful eyes toward him. ‘And what would you need to be protected from?’
‘Oh you’d be surprised,’ he told her softly, forestalling any further questions by adding, ‘but we’ll discuss it over dinner. Here we are…’ As he turned into the George’s narrow car-park entrance, Emma fell silent so that he could concentrate on manoeuvring the car. He parked it deftly and then helped her to alight. He had all the old-fashioned gentlemanly courtesies at his finger-tips she had to give him that… but that didn’t change the fact that he was still a wolf… and as rapacious and dangerous as any of that breed, despite any sheep’s clothing he might choose to assume.
Emma could tell by the deference of the waiters that they, like her, were aware of his aura of power and self-confidence. Their table was slightly secluded from the others; by a window, which in the already fading daylight gave pleasant views over the George’s garden. Once an old-fashioned coaching inn, the hotel had gardens which stretched down to the river, and in summer the restaurant was often packed with out of town visitors who had heard of its charm and excellent chef.
‘Well,’ Emma pounced the moment they had given their order. ‘What do you want to talk to me about that couldn’t be said this afternoon.’
‘Let’s eat first.’ His lazy drawl, and the laconic way he smiled at her increased Emma’s impotent fury. He seemed determined to reinforce the fact that he was the one in control; that he held the whip handle. ‘If you pick a fight with me now it will only ruin your digestion,’ he added accurately reading the intention in her tense posture. What was it about this man that drove her beyond the limits of all reasonable caution; that practically willed her to behave in a way that was in direct contradiction of the standards she normally set herself?
‘I don’t have the slightest intention of picking a fight with you,’ she lied coldly. ‘I’m not a child Drake; and besides,’ she added tauntingly, ‘what makes you think you’re so immune?’
She had wanted to prick his ego a little, to bring home to him the fact that he too was only human, but all he did was laugh and say lazily, ‘Discipline… I’m a very disciplined man, Emma. I never waste either time or energy if I can help it. Unlike you I have no desire to fight… on the contrary…’
The look he gave her reminded Emma forcibly of the way he had kissed her on the stairs that afternoon. A warm, golden heat slithered disturbingly along her veins, but she forced herself to ignore it, to ignore everything but the food in front of her. Disciplined was he, she thought bitterly, glancing surreptitiously at him. Well she should show him what discipline was.
It was torture not to demand that he tell her exactly why he had sought her out, and by the time they had reached the coffee stage of their meal Emma was ready to burst with ire and impatience.
Even so she was determined not to say a word. She
would wait for him to speak.
He had been served with a brandy before he did so, Emma having refused a liqueur. She had already drunk quite enough for one day, what with the champagne this afternoon and now wine with her meal. Something told her that she was going to need her wits about her to contend with Drake Harwood successfully.
Her self-control, hard won though it had been, hadn’t deceived him. He smiled at her as he warmed his brandy glass in his palm and remarked softly, ‘Very well done Emma… You know I find myself admiring you more and more all the time.’
‘Then don’t,’ Emma said shortly. ‘Save your admiration for those who want it.’
‘Like your silly little sister, do you mean. You know,’ he ruminated slowly, ‘I’m surprised at her new husband, he’d have been much better off with you.’
‘David happens to love Camilla,’ Emma told him stiffly. Despite her own doubts concerning the marriage, she wasn’t going to let anyone else get away with such a provocative statement, especially when it implied a criticism of her sister.
‘I hope to God he isn’t expecting a virgin bride.’
The comment stunned her.
‘Oh come on,’ he was patently amused, ‘don’t tell me you can’t see that he’s the type who would, but unlike you my dear, Camilla is anything but virgin. And no, I’m not speaking from personal experience,’ he added laconically before she could say a word, ‘but certain things speak for themselves, and just as there is that about you that tells me that you have had no lover; there is that about your sister that tells me she has.’
Emma thought of several retorts and banished them all in favour of what she hoped was a coldly repressive silence.
‘What’s the matter? Shocked because I’ve guessed the truth? Are you really so ashamed of it, Emma?’
‘Neither ashamed or proud,’ she told him with a coolness she was very proud of. Some deep seated instinct warned her against lying; he would know immediately what she was doing and it would be humiliating to be taxed with that on top of everything else. ‘It is simply that as yet I have not met…’