With satisfaction, Nikolai saw that Ellie did indeed remember what had happened between them that night.
The longing and desire that had been inexorably building in his blood ever since she had opened the door and allowed him into her room increased with the most stunning force.
Exhaling softly, he moved the pad of his thumb from her bewitchingly full lower lip to trace her fine-boned jawline, until finally he cupped it in his hand. Pleasure and need drowned him. The extremely erotic scent she exuded and the warmth from her soft, sweetly curvaceous body had him all but hypnotised. And it only added to the agony of pleasure inside him when he hazarded a guess that underneath her insubstantial robe she was naked.
For a long moment Nikolai’s body and mind were locked in a battle for supremacy over his desire. Primal instinct vied with a logic he really did not want to entertain—and logic was losing fast. The living, breathing reality of this woman was simply too much temptation for one mortal man.
The day Maggie Cox saw the film version of Wuthering Heights, with a beautiful Merle Oberon and a very handsome Laurence Olivier, was the day she became hooked on romance. From that day onwards she spent a lot of time dreaming up her own romances, secretly hoping that one day she might become published and get paid for doing what she loved most! Now that her dream is being realised, she wakes up every morning and counts her blessings. She is married to a gorgeous man, and is the mother of two wonderful sons. Her two other great passions in life—besides her family and reading/ writing—are music and films.
Recent titles by this author:
PREGNANT WITH THE DE ROSSI HEIR
THE SPANISH BILLIONAIRE’S CHRISTMAS BRIDE THE RICH MAN’S LOVE-CHILD SECRETARY MISTRESS, CONVENIENT WIFE
BOUGHT: FOR HIS CONVENIENCE OR PLEASURE?
BY
MAGGIE COX
To Conar and Sandy
You mean the world to me, my beautiful boys!
CHAPTER ONE
‘DO YOU remember what happened, Elizabeth?’
His voice sounded as if it came from a long distance away—like a voice in a dream. Drifting in and out of consciousness, Ellie didn’t try particularly hard to stay focused. Somehow the sensation of cotton wool nothingness that had been cocooning her seemed far more appealing right at that moment than anything else. There was a great desire to sink back into its warmth and protection as quickly as possible, and avoid experiencing the all too unsettling wave of discomfort and fear that kept flowing through her like rivulets of ice every time she became conscious.
Something bad had happened. Why was this man forcing her to try and remember it? For a scant moment her eyes fixed on his hard, chiselled face, but she quickly closed them again because studying the unforgiving rigid lines of jaw, mouth and cheekbone that confronted her made her feel bad somehow…as if she’d done something wrong…something really wrong. If only she could remember what it was.
Yet maybe it was best that she didn’t remember. Thankfully, the cottonwool fuzziness returned just in time. No more trying to recall things that might cause pain and distress. She was in hospital. That much she did know. That was quite enough knowledge of her predicament to be going on with…
He cut a sombre, rather intimidating figure in his black suit, and she wondered vaguely if he might be in mourning for someone. Why was he there almost every time she opened her eyes? What was he waiting for?
The tantalising threads of some kind of personal connection hovered frustratingly close, but right then the final link was beyond her. However, the sickening feeling persisted that she had been the cause or at least the catalyst for something dreadful. Deliberately veering her thoughts away from trying to imagine what, she focused on the plain, uninspiring room, with its nondescript oatmeal-coloured walls and the hospital scent that permeated everything around her. She sensed a heaviness in the lower part of her body. Glancing down, she realised for the first time that both her legs were in plaster. Making a little sound of distress, she turned her cheek into the pillow and again shut her eyes…
One day not long afterwards Ellie woke up to a face she did remember…and it belonged to her father.
‘Don’t worry, my girl.’ He patted her hand as though she were a small, defenceless child. ‘Your old man knows what to do. I’m going to take you away from all this just as soon as I can. Tommy Barnes knows a thing or two about how to blend into the background and disappear. I haven’t spent the last twenty years doing what I do without learning a few tricks!’
‘Make-up’s ready for you now, Dr Lyons. Just follow Susie, will you? She’ll take care of you.’
Ellie really couldn’t attest to enjoying being a guest on these anodyne afternoon television programmes. Neither had she particularly taken to the label the London media had dubbed her with ever since she’d helped the drug-addicted son of a high profile politician who had been living on the streets. ‘The pony-tailed psychologist’. It made her feel about fifteen, and Ellie abhorred the idea of ever being that young and inexperienced again. Some things in life did get better with age, she’d found. The path that had led her to where she was now had been strewn with quite a few large rocks, but even so she had managed to survive the journey and make a good life for herself.
And the most surprising thing of all was that her dad had helped—in his own muddled, haphazard, seat-of-the- pants way. He’d come up trumps for Ellie after her accident five years ago, and moving from London to Scotland had been one of the best moves of her life. It had definitely given her added impetus to complete her studies in psychology and qualify for the work she’d longed to do.
About a year ago an opportunity had come for her to return to London and work in the East End at a project that was particularly dear to her heart—the plight of young people sleeping rough on the streets. Knowing something about feeling abandoned and alone, she knew a great urge to help as many of these kids as she could. But for this week at least she was located south of the river—staying at a charming little bijou hotel in Chelsea, not far from the Kings Road, funded by the cable TV company that had hired her to do a week-long special on the troubled teenage offspring of some B-list celebrities.
She could have done without this particular obligation. The small counselling practice she had set up in Hackney was growing, and what with her commitments at the centre for the homeless she needed to be back where she could do the most good—doing the ‘real’ work she’d studied so hard for. But the money for this particular stint was too good to turn down. The profile she’d unwittingly earned was at least helping Ellie to plough some money back into the centre, and she would continue to do whatever she could to help increase the meagre funding the project struggled to get by on.
Back at the hotel, after Ellie had done the show, she was waylaid by the young receptionist, with her perfect plum-coloured crop and smoothly ironed uniform, as she stepped through the revolving door into the foyer.
‘There’s someone waiting to see you, Dr Lyons. I’ve shown him into one of the meeting rooms along the corridor, so that you can have a little privacy. Room number one.’
Immediately wary, Ellie frowned. She couldn’t be too careful in her line of work, she’d found. Because of its nature, people sometimes got angry, and occasionally even tried to seek her out to give her a piece of their mind. It was the last thing she felt like doing—placating some irate viewer, or a relative of someone she’d tried to help or advise.
‘Who