them of their schooldays—or maybe it just gives them a feeling of power over the opposite sex,’ he concluded, his eyes glittering with an unspoken question.
But Romy couldn’t think straight enough to answer any question, unspoken or otherwise. Because his handshake assumed an air of almost shocking intimacy as she felt that first brief caress.
The sensation of having him grasp her fingers like that made her mouth fall open in an instinctive gasp, and she remembered just how intimately those hands had explored every centimetre of her body... She had to battle to stop herself from swaying.
‘Are you feeling ill?’ His eyes narrowed and he let her hand go, but he hadn’t missed the darkening of her eyes and the swift hardening of her nipples beneath the silken T-shirt, and Dominic felt a small but triumphant surge of sexual power heating his loins.
His voice sounded concerned, but Romy didn’t miss the speculative gleam in those steely grey eyes. ‘No. I’m just—hot.’ She indicated the blazing sun with a wave of her arm. ‘That’s all.’
He nodded. ‘Of course you are,’ he agreed formally. ‘Hot and bothered. It’s been the hottest July on record. So why don’t we go inside and I can fix you something cool to drink while we discuss the job?’
Romy was horribly aware that he automatically seemed to be taking control of the situation, and found herself wondering just why she was allowing it to happen.
Romy’s whole life was her job. She was a party planner, or an “entertainment expert” as she preferred to call it! She took the sting out of organising any function—from the smallest children’s birthday tea to the grandest weekend shooting party.
She spent the majority of her time working in other people’s homes, from huge and austere Scottish castles to the most opulent of London residences, and she had never suffered a single qualm about the nature of her work in the past.
So why did she now feel as though she was some poor, unsuspecting little fly being lured into the web of an evil black spider?
And why the hell didn’t he say something about what had happened between the two of them five years earlier? About the man she had gone on to marry?
Feeling weak and more than a little shaky, Romy followed him through a long, echoing hallway and into an airy sitting room which overlooked a garden bright with summer flowers. Even further into the distance shone the golden dazzle of sunlight as it glanced off the waters of the lake.
‘Please sit,’ he suggested, though he did no such thing himself, moving to stand by the elegant stone fireplace and surveying her with a cool watchfulness, an insulting and almost icy detachment in his face which Romy suddenly longed to smash into smithereens.
‘Thanks.’ She perched on the edge of a yellow damask chaise lounge before turning towards him. Taking all her courage into her hands, she drew in a very deep breath and said, ‘So just why have you invited me here today, Dominic?’
An ironic twist of the lips she remembered so well was the only outward reaction to her remark. ‘Ah! So you do recognise me?’
She gave him a bitter, brittle smile. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous! Of course I recognise you!’
‘Well, that’s a relief,’ he observed, with sardonic emphasis.
‘Or do you imagine for a moment that I always have—’
‘Sex with complete strangers in lifts?’ he supplied drily.
An angry flare of colour emphasised Romy’s high cheekbones. ‘I did not have sex with you!’ she protested huskily.
‘No? Depends on your definition of sex, surely?’ he queried insultingly. ‘It’s true we stopped short of actual—’
‘Stop it!’ Romy yelled, and actually clapped her hands over her ears, but dropped them almost immediately when she realised how childish the gesture must appear.
‘Why?’ he questioned, in mock surprise. ‘Does it bother you?’
‘Of course it bothers me!’ she declared.
‘What does?’ he snapped. ‘Your indiscriminate sexual appetite? Or your cuckolding of the man who was my best friend?’
‘And what about you, Dominic?’ she retorted, trying to resist the thrill it gave her just to say his name out loud. ‘Does it make you feel good to know that hours before you were due to be best man at our wedding you were practically ripping off my underwear?’
‘Ripping it off?’ he drawled arrogantly. ‘I think your memory must be defective, Romy. As I recall, we didn’t actually remove any of your clothes, did we? But I suspect that you would have needed very little coaxing to do so! Don’t you? Be honest now.’
Her cheeks still on fire, Romy shut her eyes, as if that would dispel the tantalising and forbidden pictures which had sprung up before her mind’s eye with disturbing clarity. And when she opened them again she surprised a taut, angry mask which had momentarily hardened his features. So he was tense, too, was he? she thought with surprise. Then why? Why bring her here? ‘That’s all water under the bridge now, surely?’ she asked him.
His eyes were piercing, their silver-grey light as direct and as steely as a sword. ‘Is it? I find that I tend to file the whole episode away under “unfinished business” rather than “water under the bridge”.’
‘Perhaps that’s your conscience troubling you?’ Romy suggested sweetly, and then immediately wished she hadn’t.
‘Perhaps it is.’ His eyes were icy cold. ‘And what about your conscience, Romy? Does that ever give you a sleepless night? Do you ever think about Mark? Did you think about Mark as you made those false wedding vows—?’
‘They were not false!’ she declared automatically.
‘Those false wedding vows,’ he persisted, with deadly calm. ‘Just hours after I felt you climax beneath my fingers.’ He shook his head, as if he had been given an insurmountable problem to solve. ‘It still seems scarcely credible to me that the supposedly virgin bride my college friend had spoken of so proudly and so fondly should have been grappling half-naked with me within minutes of our meeting.’
But it wasn’t like that! Romy would have yelled at him, if he hadn’t literally taken her breath away with his candour. Nothing like that!
Except that he wouldn’t believe her—and why should he? There was a whacking great kernel of truth behind his words. She had done all those things he had accused her of—and more! And if she tried to defend her actions she would sound like the worst kind of hypocrite—the kind of woman who allowed herself to get carried away by passion and then turned around and blamed the man.
No, if there was any blame to be apportioned then it must be laid firmly at her door. After all, Dominic had not forced her to do anything she had not wanted to. Quite the contrary, in fact...
Dominic stared at her and frowned. Her face had gone as white as a glass of milk and she had started to sway. Instinctively, he moved away from the fireplace and was beside her in seconds, his hands gripping at her upper arms beneath the soft material of her jacket.
‘Romy?’ he demanded roughly, the soft feel of her flesh beneath his hands making him want to do something much more elemental than comfort her. ‘Are you OK?’
The way he said her name was like cool water to a thirsty camel, the touch of his hands like some rejuvenating life-force, and Romy found herself staring helplessly into his eyes.
Close up, his presence haunted her even more. Initially she had thought that he had changed very little, but she had been wrong. It was true that the thick ruffled hair had remained untouched by grey—a fact made all the more remarkable by its coal-dark blackness—but the years had subtly redefined his face, Romy realised. All the softness of youth had completely disappeared. His features were harder, while his mouth fell naturally into a cynical line. Around the piercing grey eyes were now the fine