‘I don’t know.’
‘You haven’t had many lovers?’
She stared down at a bare patch in the faded carpet. Why pretend to be something she wasn’t? He knew she’d never swum nude until she’d done it with him and he knew several other things she hadn’t tried before he had taught her how to do them in graphic and glorious detail …
‘No. Actually, I’ve had precisely one before you.’
Dark brows knitted together. ‘One?’
‘Is that so bizarre?’
‘It’s unusual for a woman of your age. At least, it is among the kind of women I usually associate with.’ It seemed to indicate that sex was a big deal for her—something which should have made him turn his back on her and run as fast as his legs could take him. And yet he could feel a sudden warm satisfaction suffusing his veins, the slow smile which curved his lips with pleasure. ‘And was he a good lover?’ he questioned. ‘The man you thought you might marry, perhaps?’
‘Actually, he was neither. Just somebody I was at college with who was more into rugby and beer than giving a woman pleasure.’ She gave a short laugh. ‘Until he found a farmer’s daughter with several thousand acres to her name. It just took him a while to get around to telling me—and it seemed that everyone else at college knew before I did.’
He mulled over what she had just told him. A man who was not committed to giving a woman pleasure implied that she had not known real pleasure before. Could that explain those little choking tears he’d seen her try to bite back when he had made her come, over and over again?
For the first time since he had stormed in there, he looked at her properly, and that in itself was odd, because a woman’s body was usually the first thing he looked at.
She must have just got ready for bed because her face w
as scrubbed and a single plait hung down over her cotton dressing gown. It was a commonplace piece of attire—the light material was sprigged with flowers and her legs and feet were bare. She was pretty, yes—and her body was quite delicious. But there were a million women more stunning than Zara Evans. So how come he wanted to bend her into his arms every time he saw her?
‘Zara,’ he said softly.
The note in his voice made her flesh turn to goose-bumps but she continued to stare at the bare patch on the carpet as if her life depended on it. ‘Don’t,’ she whispered.
‘Don’t what?’
‘You know very well what,’ she said, a note of desperation touching her voice.
‘Look at me.’
Zara shook her head. If she looked at him she would be lost—she would drown in the depths of his pale blue eyes and start longing for things which could never be hers.
‘Zara?’
And then she found she couldn’t resist—not a moment longer. Her gaze was drawn upwards to his face, where hunger curved his sensual lips and ice-fire blazed sexual promise from his eyes.
‘Don’t do this,’ she whispered.
‘I can’t help myself—and neither can you.’
He reached out then and pulled her into his arms and she went, unresisting—eager for passion and comfort. And hadn’t it felt like a lifetime since she had run her fingers through the tumble of his hair? Or pressed herself into the hard sinews of his body and raised her face eagerly to his? She could hear the deepening unsteadiness of his breath as he kissed her and the tension in his powerful body which communicated itself to her. His hands were on her breasts now, splaying possessively over their aching weight, and he made a tiny groan as his fingers encountered the rock-hard tips.
‘I’ve been thinking about you every damned night,’ he ground out as he tore his mouth away from hers. ‘About doing this. Touching this.’ He felt her wild tremble. ‘Have you thought about me, too, Zara?’
‘Yes! Yes!‘
‘Then come home with me,’ he demanded hotly. ‘Come home with me now.’
The urgency in his voice took her by surprise and the practised caress of his fingers was setting her blood on fire. But even though it nearly broke her to do so, Zara shook her head, because she could see the danger in what he was suggesting. If she wasn’t careful, he would swallow her up and spit her out—leaving her with nothing but a broken heart. She had to hang onto her independence if she was going to survive. She had to. ‘I c-can’t,’ she said breathlessly as she felt him begin to ruck the nightdress up over her thighs. ‘At least, not tonight. It’s too late. I…have to get up very early in the morning and all my stuff is here.’
‘You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.’
‘Yes, I do, Nikolai. I work for a living, remember? And I need to work.’
He heard the note of determination in her voice and a wave of incredulity washed over him as he realised that she actually meant it. He wanted to tell her not to be so ridiculous and that he would recompense her for any lost wages. Yet he suddenly realised that he couldn’t have it both ways. He could hardly complain about women bleeding men dry of money if he wasn’t prepared to applaud someone who did the exact opposite.