The Boss's Virgin

by Charlotte Lamb

  He grunted, head turned away. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking from the grim profile which was all she could see.

  ‘You’ll meet someone else, Tom,’ she offered uncertainly. ‘And this time it will be love on both sides.’

  The surveyor, a thin young man with horn-rimmed spectacles and a very serious expression, came out to join them, looking around the garden. ‘Very pretty out here, isn’t it? This is a really charming property, in fact. I’ll have to measure the land too, before we go. But you’ve done a very good job with the cottage. I gather it was in a pretty poor condition when you bought it, and you did most of the decorating yourself?’

  ‘All of it, apart from the retiling of the roof and the plumbing. I even put in most of the kitchen myself, modernised it all. The old man who lived here hadn’t touched the place for years and years.’

  ‘Well, I’m impressed. You’re very clever.’

  ‘Thank you. Coffee?’ She picked up the vacuum jug of coffee; it would still be hot.

  ‘Black, no sugar,’ he said, smiling at her, his blue eyes twinkling behind the heavy spectacles. ‘Do you do the garden yourself, too?’

  ‘Mostly, yes. I can’t afford to pay people to do things for me. I enjoy gardening, anyway. In fact, I like doing things well; it gives me a buzz.’

  He sipped his coffee. ‘I know what you mean. I suppose most of us like doing things well. And you make good coffee, by the way.’

  She laughed. ‘Thanks.’

  Tom shifted impatiently in his chair, irritated by this light-hearted conversation. ‘Have you talked to your solicitor yet, Pippa? About selling the cottage?’

  ‘I alerted him to the prospect. He didn’t seem to foresee any problems.’

  ‘Good. I expect you want to finalise the deal as soon as possible. I’ve put my own place on the market, but if it doesn’t sell at once the firm will help me with a temporary mortgage on the cottage.’

  ‘That will be helpful and should speed the deal.’

  The surveyor finished his coffee and got up. ‘I’ll get on with measuring the garden and the rest of the area on which the cottage stands, then I can draw up a map to go with the deeds.’

  As he walked away Tom looked at his watch. ‘Half past eleven. Nearly lunchtime. Will you have lunch with me, Pippa?’

  ‘Sorry, I’m too busy,’ she quickly said. The sooner she stopped seeing Tom the better, for both of them. There was no point whatever in continuing to see him. His restless impatience with the surveyor just now made it obvious that he did not see her in any simply friendly light. He hadn’t yet cut the strings that had bound them together. If he didn’t set eyes on her for months, he would finally forget they had ever been about to marry, especially as she was quite certain he was not in love with her. Theirs had been an affair of proximity. Tom had wanted to marry her because she was the sort of wife he had always meant to pick. She was competent, sensible, good with money and a home-maker—he had felt he could trust her.

  Now they both knew he had been wrong. She hadn’t been the wife for him, any more than he was the man for her. Tom was possessive, but he was not passionate; that was why he had been happy to wait to sleep with her. Pippa had been forced to realise that she was very definitely passionate—she burned with desire whenever Randal touched her. She wanted to feel that way about the man she did eventually marry.

  But it would not be Randal himself. He didn’t love her enough. He loved his child more, and although she admired him for his fidelity to the little boy it still hurt her feelings.

  The truth was, Randal didn’t love her the way she needed to be loved. That was the root reason why she would not marry him. She wanted a man who would love her more than anyone else in his life, always put her first. The emptiness and loneliness of her childhood had left her aching. How often she had envied friends their homes, their parents, brothers and sisters—the affection and caring of those they lived with.

  How often she had wished she had those things, too. She had always yearned for love, to be the centre of somebody’s world, to know she was beloved and cherished. She would never have that with Randal. Oh, she believed him when he said he loved her, she knew he desired her, but the strong, protective love she had hungered for as a child would never come to her from Randal. He gave that to his son, which was only natural.

  When Tom and the surveyor had left she sat on in the sunshine, facing facts about herself. It was childish and immature, no doubt, to want to come first with Randal—she knew people would see it that way, and maybe they were right, but she couldn’t help her own instinctive reactions. She had dreamt for too long of finding someone who would love her the way she needed to be loved. She couldn’t abandon her dream now.

  The following morning she was up early, having slept badly. First, she packed a light weekend case, taking the bare minimum of clothes.

  Then she had a shower before getting dressed in a simple green silk tunic which cut off just above her knee. With it she wore white high-heeled sandals and carried a white shoulder bag. The impression left by her reflection in her dressing table was one of cool elegance. She was satisfied by that. The last thing she wanted was to encourage Randal to think she might be an easy target.

  She forced herself to eat some fruit and a slice of toast, then filled in the time before Randal arrived by checking that the cottage was scrupulously tidy, locking all the windows and doors apart from the front door. As she finished Randal drove up in his gleaming sports car.

  Pippa’s heart missed a beat, she suddenly couldn’t breathe, but somehow she managed to pick up her weekend case and go out to meet him, locking the cottage door behind her. Randal got out of his car and took her case, put it in the boot, while, legs weak under her, she walked round to the passenger door and got into the front seat.

  Randal slid in beside her, stretched those long, long legs of his, and started the engine again. She glanced sidelong at his lightweight pale blue linen jacket, the even paler trousers, exquisitely tailored, the smooth dark blue leather shoes which shrieked money. Randal was a luxury item from head to foot; he looked gorgeous. She looked at the supple, powerful hands on the wheel and had a heart-stopping flash of memory; those hands touching her as they had on the couch in the cottage, stroking her breasts while his mouth moved possessively on her bare skin.

  She wrenched her gaze away and stared fixedly out of the window, shuddering.

  She mustn’t let herself remember. She had to get over him, stop wanting him, stop loving him.

  But how did she do that when every bone in her body melted at the thought of being in his arms?

  She had to make herself think about something else.

  ‘How long will it take to reach this school?’ She tried to sound calm and relaxed, hard though it was when she was so deeply conscious of being alone with him in this tiny space, their shoulders, their legs only inches apart.

  ‘An hour and a half. I’ve said we’ll pick up Johnny for lunch. I booked a table at the hotel; it isn’t far from the school, and the cooking is extremely good. They have a top-class chef.’

  ‘Does Johnny know I’m coming with you?’

  ‘Yes, I talked to him on the phone last night. He was very excited about spending the weekend out of school—although he loves the school, going away is a stimulating experience for him. There’s a riding stable near the hotel; he wants to spend a couple of hours there tomorrow. Would you like to ride?’

  ‘Well, I have ridden a horse a few times, Tom thought it would be fun to go—but I’m strictly a beginner and I haven’t brought any suitable clothes. I don’t have any jodhpurs or boots or a hard hat, and it’s dangerous to ride without a hat, at least.’

  ‘Maybe they hire the gear out?’

  ‘You know the place, I suppose. You’ve been there before with your son? Do they?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, I’ve never asked, but if we can hire what you need do you want to ride?’

  ‘It could be fun—are you going to ride?’


  ‘I will, if you will. There’s a qualified riding instructor who can look after Johnny, if we don’t ride, but I’d like to go just to keep an eye on him.’

  ‘And you have got the right gear with you?’

  He nodded. ‘After Johnny said he wanted to ride, I looked out some boots and jodhpurs, and I found a rather old hat which will do. There was no point in ringing you though, because the shops were shut by then, and I thought the stable might be able to find you some gear.’

  ‘Well, if they don’t hire clothes I’ll watch. Don’t worry about me.’ She leaned back in her seat, watching the green English countryside flash past.

  As they turned a corner another car tore towards them at a dangerous speed and Randal braked to avoid a crash, skewing his car closer to the hedge, as he had that night he and Tom crashed.

  The other car screeched past. Randal came to a full stop, the bonnet of the sports car mere inches from the hedge. Silence fell on them like the dust of this quiet, narrow country lane.

  Pippa only then realised that she had screamed. The echo of her cry of fear went on and on inside her head, and beside her she heard Randal angrily swearing.

  After a minute, he turned towards her, releasing his seat belt, his face full of concern.

  ‘Are you okay? I’m sorry about that. He was doing about eighty miles an hour—we’re lucky I wasn’t driving fast myself and we came out of it unscathed.’

  She laughed unsteadily, tears of fear and wild humour in her green eyes. ‘Déjà vu. That was pure déjà vu. Just like the night you and Tom crashed into each other.’

  He smiled wryly. ‘I suppose it was. My heart is going like a steamhammer. Feel it.’

  He took her hand and carried it to his chest, laid in on his shirt above where his heart beat violently. The warmth of his body lay under her palm; she pressed down on it, wanting desperately to undo his blue shirt and feel his skin against hers.

  Randal watched her face closely and must have read the leap of hunger in her eyes because he suddenly leant over, his body above hers, coming down on her, holding her down. She knew she should push him away, refuse to let him kiss her, but the shock of the near accident was still inside her; she felt reckless, abandoned. She met his mouth with passion, her lips parting. His hands caressed her, and she felt desire tear through her like a hurricane, destroying everything in its path.

  If they had not been sitting in a car at that moment, heaven knew what might have happened next, but they were parked on a public road and visible to anyone driving past. They could not go too far.

  Randal groaned, slowly lifting his mouth. ‘I would kill to have you now. Do you know what you do to me?’

  Dazedly she lay there, eyes half closed, breathing thickly. She knew what he did to her—did he feel like this?

  Her senses rioted: heart beating dangerously fast, pulses throbbing with fever, heat burning deep inside her. She hadn’t wanted him to stop, had needed him to go on, to take her, satisfy this terrible need.

  ‘We’d better get on or we’ll be late arriving at the school, and even later for lunch,’ Randal said, running a hand over his deeply flushed face. ‘Sit up, Pippa. Stop tempting me.’

  He clipped his seat belt together, started the engine again and slowly moved off, and she closed her eyes, fighting to get back to normal.

  The rest of the drive was uneventful; they didn’t talk any more. She pretended to be asleep and, indeed, did doze a little, drifting in and out of daydreams, fragments of memory, of him kissing her, touching her.

  They reached the school just as many other cars were leaving, loaded with boys being taken off for the weekend by their parents. Randal parked on the wide gravel driveway, left her in her seat and walked into the school to find his son.

  Pippa curiously gazed up at the building, built rather like a Scottish castle, with four storeys of stone walls draped with Virginia creeper, rows of arched windows and, at each end, turreted towers. She hoped it had central heating or it must be an icebox in winter.

  A few minutes later Randal returned with his son, who was carrying in one hand a leather overnight bag. Johnny was taller than she had expected, a healthy-looking boy with his father’s dark hair and slim build, but as they came closer she saw that he had sensitive features, wide blue eyes, a fine nose and wide mouth, a mobile face that reflected his emotions as he talked to his father.

  She slid out of her seat to greet him, smiling.

  ‘Johnny, this is Pippa,’ Randal told him, taking his overnight bag and putting it into the boot of the car, and the boy held out his hand, staring at her.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hi, Johnny,’ she said, holding his small, slim fingers warmly. How much did he take after his mother? Physically he was very like Randal, but what about his nature, his personality? Was that inherited from Randal, too, or from his mother?

  ‘We have to hurry,’ Randal told them. ‘We mustn’t be late for lunch at the hotel. Hop in, Johnny.’

  They drove off a moment later and were soon at the hotel, a white Georgian building in spacious gardens. Randal manoeuvred his way through the arched gateway into the car park behind the hotel.

  ‘This was once a coaching inn, in the eighteenth century,’ he told her and Johnny. ‘The coaches came through that arch and their horses were stabled overnight in those boxes, groomed, fed and watered, to rest until early next morning.’

  The old stables had been painted pristine white and were used as outbuildings. Hanging baskets of flowers swung along the walls, spilling geraniums and nasturtiums, pink and white and vivid orange, giving colour to the ancient stone-cobbled floor. They all got out. Randal carried their bags through a door marked ‘Reception’ Pippa and Johnny followed him into the low-ceilinged lobby and found him signing them all in while a pretty receptionist watched him, smiling.

  A porter collected their luggage, to take it to their rooms, while they walked through the hotel to the dining room for lunch.

  As the head waiter showed them to their table Johnny gave a little gasp and stopped dead, staring across the room at another table where a ravishing blonde was half rising, staring too.

  ‘Mummy!’

  Pippa’s heart burned over in sick dismay.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SO THAT was Renata, Randal’s ex-wife! And she was every bit as beautiful as everyone had ever said she was. Her figure was full and curvy, high, beautifully shaped breasts emphasised by the lilac shirt she wore, the lapels open and deep, revealing the smooth golden flesh, a trim waist, slim hips and long, long legs in white, tight-fitting jeans. Her hair was the colour of summer corn, ripe and golden, falling in rich waves around her lovely face.

  Every man in the place was staring avidly, coveting her. Pippa gave Randal a quick, searching look, and found him staring too.

  He must have been in love with her once. Perhaps he still was under his talk of hating her? It wouldn’t be surprising. Pippa knew she, herself, was attractive, but she had no illusions. She couldn’t hold a candle to Renata. The other woman was one of the best-looking women she had ever seen.

  She was smiling now, at her son, and Johnny ran to her, was gathered up in her open arms and kissed.

  ‘Surprise, surprise!’ she cooed at him.

  Randal walked over there, too, as if drawn by invisible ropes, said curtly, ‘Why didn’t you let us know you were coming?’

  ‘I did say I’d try, didn’t I? But I wasn’t sure I’d make it. I didn’t want to disappoint him if I couldn’t get here.’ Still holding her son’s hand, she smiled up at Randal lazily, her blue eyes sultry. ‘How are you, Randal? You look terrific.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Randal shot a glance at the man seated at the table, gave him an unfriendly nod. ‘Hello, Alex.’

  ‘Hi, how’re you?’ the other man drawled in a strong Australian accent. He was tall, bronzed, blond, with a clean-cut profile, and wore a tan linen suit, jacket open to show a lemon shirt.

  ‘Fine thanks.’ Randal hel
d his hand out to his son. ‘But we’d better have our lunch now—see you later, no doubt. We’re staying here. Are you?’

  ‘For tonight, at least,’ Renata said. ‘Maybe we could have dinner?’ She glanced past Randal at where Pippa was standing beside their table. ‘Is that your girlfriend? You didn’t say there was someone special. We must meet her—could we make up a foursome tonight?’ Her gaze coolly slipped over Pippa in her simple green silk tunic, one pencilled brow lifting in silent, unfavourable comment. ‘Pretty,’ she murmured in tones that made it clear she did not really think Pippa was anything of the kind, and Pippa stiffened in resentment. Who did she think she was?

  ‘Give us a ring later,’ Randal said remotely, walking away, bringing Johnny with him.

  As the little boy sat down he looked at Pippa and said, ‘That’s my mummy.’

  ‘Yes,’ Pippa said with a forced, bright smile, picking up the menu and pretending to study it with interest.

  Johnny copied her, following the words with his finger.

  ‘Can I have this melon filled with fresh fruit?’ he asked his father. ‘Sorbet’s a kind of ice cream, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, and this is raspberry sorbet. Good choice. I think I’ll have the same.’

  ‘Steak with peaches? That sounds nice. I never ate steak with fruit before.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Randal said, as if not quite listening. His forehead was lined; he looked abstracted.

  Watching him from behind lowered lashes, Pippa caught the frowning look he threw across the room at his wife and wished she knew precisely what was going on inside his head. Clearly it had thrown him to see Renata here—but just what sort of shock had it been? There was a streak of dark red across his strong cheekbones, a little tic under one eye. Randal was trying to seem calm and in control, but obviously he was nothing of the kind.

  The waiter came and took their order. She had melon, too, with fruit and the raspberry sorbet, followed by halibut in a light orange sauce.