‘Not a good idea to scour the streets in search of transport,’ he murmured, allowing her to slip into the back seat, then lowering his long body in beside her.
‘Must be awful having to wait around for public transport,’ Abigail agreed easily. She could sit here and comfortably discuss the weather till the cows came home, she thought.
‘A place like this caters for the cold, though,’ he explained. ‘A lot more happens under cover. You could survive the winter months living like a mole.’
‘I don’t think I like the thought of that,’ she said, staring through the window.
‘You could get used to it,’ Ross said drily, and she felt his eyes on her averted face. ‘One could get used to anything, even if one doesn’t necessarily like it.’
Was he trying to tell her something? She glanced at him sharply, but in the semi-darkness of the taxi, his expression was bland, unreadable.
‘It’s the basic human instinct for survival,’ she said neutrally, not dwelling on unspoken innuendo, which was probably just a figment of her imagination anyway.
They travelled the remainder of the distance in companionable silence, and over an excellent meal of Cajunstyle fish and home fries they discussed everything, from the business transaction which Ross had successfully completed to places in Boston which he had seen during past visits, but which she had had no time to discover.
And of course, they drank. Superb white wine. After two glasses, she was feeling pleasantly relaxed. Those intense, glittering dark eyes no longer sent her into mild panic.
It was ten-thirty by the time they made it back to the hotel, and as the lift doors opened to her floor she turned to him with a smile and thanked him for an enjoyable evening.
He stepped out of the lift and she felt a tiny shiver of alarm as he followed her to the bedroom door, watching as she inserted her card into the lock and pushed open the door.
‘Invite me in for a nightcap, Abby,’ he said with a slow smile.
‘We have to be up early tomorrow,’ she answered in what sounded a very feeble protest to her ears.
‘So we have,’ he agreed, entering the room, and moving to sit on the small two-seater sofa by the window.
She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, torn between common sense which told her that Ross Anderson, sitting there on the sofa, casually relaxed with his fingers linked behind his head, was a dangerous man, and a strange excitement that terrified her.
She handed him his drink, a whisky and soda, and took a sip from hers, looking at him over the rim of her glass.
‘Talk to me,’ he commanded. ‘Don’t just stand there acting as though I’ve suddenly turned into the big bad wolf.’
‘What would you like to talk about?’
‘How about the latest movie you’ve been to?’ He swallowed his drink and cradled the empty glass in one hand. ‘Or the kind of music you like. No, dammit!’ He stood up and walked across to her, towering over her. ‘No, tell me why you became a secretary, not that you’re not a damn good one, instead of going to university. I listened to you over dinner, talking about the business deal I made over here. Everything sank in, didn’t it? You understood the lot, right down to the legal jargon which most people would have switched off from early in the proceedings. So with a brain like that, what are you doing working for me?’
‘I could always hand in my resignation,’ Abigail quipped, and he frowned darkly and impatiently at her.
‘You’re avoiding my question.’
‘All right,’ she muttered awkwardly, wishing that he would return to the sofa so that her breathing could get back to normal. ‘I left school at sixteen because it never occurred to me that I was bright enough to continue my studies.’ Her head snapped up and her mouth was set in a stubborn, defensive line, as though he had criticised her, even though he hadn’t uttered a word. ‘Well, it’s all right for you! You had parental support, you were always——’ her voice faltered, and she looked down at her hands, wrapped round the glass like a vice ‘—encouraged, no doubt. But with me, with me it was different. My mother never expected me to aspire beyond what she saw as the acceptable course for a girl like me, from a working-class background.’
‘And you listened to her?’
‘Of course!’ She shrugged her shoulders, and attempted a light smile which met with a hard, questioning stare that made her feel slightly giddy. ‘My mother longed for a son. I was a disappointment to her. Nothing I ever said or did ever seemed to be good enough. I guess by the age of sixteen the constant silent battle had worn me out. Don’t get me wrong,’ she said quietly, ‘I love my mother, and now I understand her better. She had a hard life bringing me up. It was a struggle. She may not have expressed it properly, but deep down all she wanted for me was a life of comparative safety, a stable job…’
‘A reliable husband.’
‘Yes! Is that so wrong?’
Their eyes clashed and she heard the heavy thud of her heart, felt the dryness of her mouth.
‘Understandable, but still a waste of talent.’ He bent his head and brushed her lips with his mouth. He reached for her glass, which he placed on the sideboard, without his eyes leaving her face.
She might have had two and a half glasses of wine, and she certainly felt unsteady, but she wasn’t so unsteady that she didn’t realise the sudden danger she was in. Ross Anderson was a powerful man who played games by his own private set of rules.
His hand curled into her hair, pulling her head backwards, and she opened her mouth to protest. Nothing emerged. His mouth found hers and the sweetness of his tongue against hers scattered her unvoiced protest. She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around his head, groaning huskily as his lips trailed over her skin, over her neck, a leisurely, intimate caress that made her gasp.
He lifted her off her feet in one easy movement, and placed her on the wide double bed, with his arms still around her. In the still room she could hear her rapid breathing echoing his, urgent, feverish sounds that seemed to be coming from another person altogether, not her, not careful Abigail Palmer.
His hand moved along her back, slowly unzipping her dress, slowly unclasping her lacy bra, and an immense yearning invaded her body. She moaned and felt as though she was burning up as he eased one arm out of the dress, then the bra, exposing her breast with its hard, aching nipple.
With an instinct born of desire she cradled the full swell of her breast, offering it to him, and he took the nipple into his mouth and sucked hard on it while his tongue flicked hungrily over the sensitised tip.
He pressed her flat against the bed and continued to kiss her mouth while he completed the manoeuvre of slipping her dress down to her waist and removing her bra, then, with trembling fingers, she undid the small buttons of his shirt and circled his broad torso with her hands.
This was madness, she thought, but something inside her, stronger than reason, wanted the madness to continue. He caressed both breasts with his hands, massaging them, licking the milky whiteness, teasingly taking his time before he began to nuzzle the large brown nipples. It was an eroticism which she had never experienced in her life before.
She had always thought that lovemaking was something gentle, a soft, easy meeting of bodies. She had never imagined for a moment that it could be like this, like being set ablaze, with every pore and nerve on fire.
It was only when she felt his hand along her thigh, cupping the moistness between her legs, that the enormity of what she was doing really sank in, and it sank in with dizzying speed. One minute she had been lost in a crazy world of sensation and the next she was staring at the horror of a situation which had gone completely out of hand. Her eyes flew open and she jerked back with a stifled gasp of dismay.
He lifted his head, but she was already pulling back, desperate to put some distance between them. She wriggled against him, frantically yanking up her dress. It didn’t take him long to figure out what was going on. Anger darkened his face and that made her move even faster, leaping off the bed and watching him, ridiculously, as if any moment he would attack.
CHAPTER SIX
THEY stared at each other for a long time in the dimly lit room, then he stood up, looking at her with derision as she flinched back.
He hadn’t got undressed. Only the front of his shirt was undone and she made very sure that she didn’t look at the sliver of brown chest exposed. She had just about given up on relying on her brain to have any input into what her body wanted to do.
He began doing up the buttons of his shirt, then he slipped the black jumper over his head and stuck his hands in his pockets. They were still looking at each other like two warring animals. He was the first to break the silence.
‘I can’t stand women who play games,’ he said derisively.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You know damn well what I’m talking about.’ There was hostile aggression underneath the cold voice. ‘Does it give you a kick to lead a man up the garden path and then, once he gets to the top, inform him that the front door is locked and bolted? Was that the score between you and your boyfriend? I thought that you had seen him for what he was, but maybe I was wrong.’ He took a step towards her and her nervous system went into overdrive. ‘Maybe,’ he said silkily, unsmiling, ‘he saw you for what you really were. Is that closer to the mark? Did he get fed up with kisses on the cheek and promises of better things to come?’