of her mind she wondered whether there wasn’t some inevitable logic to her behaviour after all. She had had boyfriends in the past, but they had never measured up to the hopelessly impossible standards which she had set in her imagination. I’ve spent my life searching for a fairy-tale, she thought bitterly, looking for some dark, dramatic knight in shining armour. How could college boys and local lads ever have filled the role? None of them had fuelled her imagination.
With James it had been different from the word go. He had been altogether different from the sort of boys she had been accustomed to, as different as a shark was from a goldfish. Underneath that sophisticated exterior, he possessed a rapier mind and a lean, predatory sex appeal which she had never in her life come across.
She had taken one look at him and she had been bowled over. Nothing in her life had prepared her for that heady rush of excitement which his mere presence could arouse in her, and she had done nothing to protect herself.
But then, looking back on it now, she had not realised just how quickly she would become engulfed, until he filled her every waking moment, until she only seemed to breathe, to come alive, when he was around. She had given everything of herself to him, without ever really stopping to realise that he had given precious little in return.
What a fool I’ve been, she thought with an angry stab of pain, throwing myself into bed with him, lapping up the crumbs he’s tossed out like a thirsty dog at a bowl of water. Where has all my pride gone?
Little wonder she had never mentioned him to her parents. Some instinct must have warned her that their relationship, if it could be called that, was far from satisfactory, and her parents would have had a fit if they had known what an emotional mess she was in. They were old-fashioned people with old-fashioned principles, and sleeping with a virtual stranger did not, by any stretch of the imagination, fit into the category of upholding old-fashioned principles.
All these things had been fermenting away in her head for some time now, but it was only here, sitting in this armchair, clutching this photo, that they all came together and filled her with horror. How could she have been so stupid?
It had been sheer cowardice, she realised, sticking with James. It had been an intense, addictive relationship from the start, and whenever common sense had shown the slightest sign of putting in an appearance, she had quickly ushered it away because just the thought of never seeing that hard-boned, arrogant, good-looking face again, of never knowing that dry, incisive humour, had terrified her.
She was so lost in her thought that she was unaware of the door opening until he filled the doorway, a tall, looming figure that made her heart skip a beat. For a second, she had to blink because it was almost as if the intensity of her thoughts had managed to conjure him up in front of her, then she began to feel that familiar pounding in her chest, that weak-kneed craving she had whenever he was around, and she had to steel every nerve in her body not to respond to him.
If he was surprised to see her, he didn’t show it. He came into the room, moving with the lithe grace of someone whose body was finery tuned to perfection, and discarded his coat, loosening his tie and tugging at it so that he could undo the top button of his shirt.
‘What,’ he said at last, walking towards her and giving her a long, appraising look, ‘are you doing here? I thought that you would have been safely tucked up in bed in the cottage.’ He bent down, reaching out to support himself on the arms of the chair, and she had a dizzy sensation of drowning.
This was how it always was. He could always somehow reduce her to a mindless, obedient female, but this time it wasn’t going to work, this time she wasn’t going to allow herself to get swept into that vortex of passion that he could generate without even really seeming to try.
‘I knew that you would be back around now,’ Claire muttered, grateful that the study was in virtual darkness. The lamp on the desk was switched on, but that was the only source of light, not enough for him to detect the sharp red colour that had flowed up to her cheeks.
‘So you came to greet me,’ he murmured softly. He reached out and lazily trailed one finger along her neck, under the thin material of her blouse. She had earlier discarded her thick blue jumper, and now she wished desperately that she hadn’t. It would have provided a barrier against those long, sensual fingers. Her body felt as though it had been frozen, and she was hardly aware of him undoing the buttons of her shirt until he slipped his hand under, to caress the full swell of her breast, his thumb moving erotically over the tight bud of her nipple.
She gasped with a mixture of astonishment and unwilling arousal, and her body jerked into life. She pushed his hand away and wriggled frantically to get up, but he was still leaning over her and he coiled his fingers into her hair, forcing her to remain where she was.
His face had hardened at her unexpected reaction, but he was still in control, although he wasn’t pleased, that much was evident from his tight expression. She felt a swift dart of pleasure and very slowly but very pointedly she began to button up her shirt, taking her time and hoping that he couldn’t make out just how nervous she was.
‘Playing games, Claire?’ he asked coolly, straightening up and walking across to the mahogany bar in the corner of the study. He poured himself a drink and turned to face her.
‘No,’ she answered, over-loud. ‘When have I ever played games with you?’ Her hands were still trembling and she sat on them, feeling the photo under her thigh and curling her fingers around it.
‘Then would you care to explain your presence here? It’s been one hell of a day and I don’t relish rounding it off by trying to guess what’s going on in that head of yours.’ He switched on the overhead light and she blinked, dazzled and taken aback. She didn’t want to see that dark, arrogant face any more than she wanted him to see hers, and with the light switched on she felt as though there was nowhere to hide.
‘Perhaps,’ she said, with a hysterical edge to her voice, ‘I came for conversation. Having a relationship with someone does involve the odd bit of conversation, doesn’t it? Or maybe I’m asking for too much from you.’
‘What the hell has got into you?’ he asked grimly. ‘If you’ve decided to come up to the house, at eleven-thirty at night, to subject me to a monologue on the values of conversation, then it can wait. I’m damned tired and I have no intention of indulging this unexpected bout of temper.’ He gulped down the remainder of his drink and then slammed the glass on to the desk, making her jump.
‘I want to talk to you!’ she said in a burst, sliding her eyes away from his because she knew that he had the ability to reduce her to a gibbering wreck if he decided.
‘By all means.’ He began walking towards the door, undoing his shirt.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked, springing up and following him, half running to keep up as he strode into the massive hall, then up the winding staircase towards his bedroom.
This is ridiculous, she thought. She had sat there for well over two hours, clutching that wretched photo, armed and prepared for confrontation, and here she was now, racing along behind him like some damned serf while he casually undressed along the way. By the time he arrived at his bedroom door, he was tugging his white shirt out of the waistband of his trousers.
She stopped where she was, by the door, knowing that his bedroom was just about the last place in the world where she should be having a serious conversation. But maybe, she thought with unaccustomed cynicism, that was his ploy. He was damned shrewd, shrewd enough to know that by bringing her here he would immediately have the advantage. Hadn’t he always had the advantage in the bedroom?
He stripped off his shirt and tossed it on the chair by the window, not looking in her direction.
His body had always fascinated her, with its sensual, powerful lines and light bronze colouring so unusual in the English. In one of his rare moments of confidence, he had told her that that had to do with the fact that his mother had been Italian, a wild, dark-haired beauty who had swept his stolid English father off his feet, much to his relatives’ disgust. The only thing English about me, he had assured her, is my name, and she could believe