‘Because you don’t want to be friends,’ she said harshly.
‘Lovers are friends, Jane.’
She flinched.
‘Not always,’ she denied. There had been nothing friendly about their sexual encounter in the hotel. And James—he had never mixed sex with friendship, either. As far as he had been concerned making love to Jane had been just a shrewd business move, an attempt to cement her loyalty.
‘Have you had many?’
Her eyebrows shot up haughtily. ‘Friends?’
‘Lovers.’
‘One or two.’ She tried to sound blasé and to her chagrin he took her literally, thereby guessing the truth.
‘Well, I didn’t take your virginity so I guess that makes me number two,’ he said teasingly. ‘Was I better than the other guy?’
She jumped to her feet, gesturing towards the carrots with a shaking hand. ‘Those need to be weeded and thinned out or their growth will be restricted,’ she said, quoting the gardening guide she had consulted that morning.
‘I take it that’s a “yes”!’ he called after her as she retreated hastily back into the house.
God, he was infuriating, she thought now, as she found a box of old clothes to sort through, most of all when he was right!
If only she could figure out his true motive for inflicting his presence on her. If it wasn’t revenge, if he felt genuine remorse for reducing her to her present circumstances, surely he would have granted her her plea to be left alone?
And if he had come here to seduce her, why didn’t he just get on with it with his usual relentless efficiency, dammit, instead of playing this drawn-out game of cat and mouse?
That first, bewildering night had set the scene. Ryan had the unique ability to tease her, annoy her, irritate her with his ‘take charge’ bossiness, only, in the next breath, to confuse her with such tender caring that she was in danger of believing in miracles... Then, just when he had her on the verge of surrender, aching for him to ruthlessly take advantage of her heightened vulnerability, he would withdraw, leaving her hollow with loneliness and seething with physical frustration.
Also, he had a way of looking at her—just looking—through half-closed eyes that reminded her of those heated hours they had spent together in that hotel room and the way he had looked at her then—all fury and wild desire. And once the memory was roused it was infuriatingly difficult to dislodge from her consciousness.
In this she was her own worst enemy. She should never have allowed him to continue to perform those intimate personal services—helping her dress and undress, brushing her hair each morning and night, dressing her wound—but she had been unable to deny herself the exquisite torture of his touch. She was an intelligent woman; she could have found a way around her temporary disabilities if she had really tried. Instead, while she had whined loudly at him for curtailing her freedom, a wicked part of her, a primitive throwback to preliberated times, had secretly wallowed in her helplessness.
It had to stop!
The situation was more innocent yet potentially far more dangerous than the one from which she had escaped. She could imagine the screaming headlines if the Press found out that Jane Sherwood had the millionaire tycoon who had caused her financial ruin acting as her unpaid domestic slave. They would come up with all sorts of kinky scenarios to explain the bizarre set-up—and they wouldn’t be far wrong—she thought with a frisson of excitement at the memory of some of the deviant desires that Ryan aroused in her breast.
Oh, God, what if Ryan had planned for the story to leak to the Press? He was quite capable of such Machiavellian cunning. But no. She hastily dismissed the idea. For it would be Ryan’s reputation that would suffer most if they were embroiled in a sex scandal that implied he was some kind of S&M freak who enjoyed playing a submissive role.
She was still brooding on the alarming possibilities when there was a sharp knocking on the front door. Assuming the worst, she opened the door warily, but it was no sleazy journalist lurking on the sagging porch.
‘Is Ryan in?’
Jane stared at the tall, skinny, sulky-looking redhead in the skin-tight acid-green dress who stood tapping a sandalled foot on the cracked boards, oozing hostile impatience. Parked haphazardly next to the four-wheel drive was a sporty convertible, its engine still ticking.
‘Uh, yes.’
‘Good.’ Without waiting to be invited, the young woman brushed past Jane into the house, her green eyes darting curiously about, widening at the sight of peeling paintwork and faded furniture.
‘Where is he—in here?’ She headed towards the hum of the fax machine in the living room.
Jane felt her blood begin to simmer. How dared Ryan invite a strange woman to her home? Especially a beautiful, long-legged waif who made Jane feel like a clumping Amazon.
‘No, he’s out the back, digging in the garden,’ she said sourly.
‘The garden! But Ryan hates gardening!’ The statement came out shrill and accusing.
Jane smiled into her incredulous face, enjoying a petty sense of revenge on both of them.