Her eyes were drawn to the faint shadow of body hair visible through the fine fabric and she had absolutely no control over the flutter low in her belly. An image of dark, smooth skin came into her head and she swallowed convulsively. It was like walking into a solid wall; the wave of paralysing longing that hit her made her head spin.
The situation called for her to face some facts she’d been ignoring. Since their first meeting she hadn’t been able to get Roman out of her thoughts. At first she had tried to resist, but then she had told herself that indulging in the fantasies could do no harm. That had been a mistake, one which she was suffering for now.
She was obsessed!
Given full rein her fantasies had multiplied and got out of control. Now she couldn’t look at him without her mind being filled by all kinds of erotic images her feverish imagination had conjured.
Well, it was about time she got her subconscious under control. She took a deep breath. They were talking about Abby, which made her preoccupation with sex all the more shameful.
‘Upset? Not really, it just hits you sometimes…I miss her,’ she admitted simply. Abby wouldn’t have thought her sexual fantasies shameful. If her sister had been here she would no doubt have advised her to go for it, she thought with a smile.
‘Was there an illness…or an accident—?’ There was nothing in his tone or attitude that she could put her finger on, but the question did not come over as a casual enquiry. ‘You don’t want to talk about it?’ he asked.
‘Not especially, but it would seem you do.’ She picked up the cushion and hugged it tightly to her body, rocking a little as she pulled her knees up to her chest. ‘Why is that? Did you know Abby?’ Her eyes widened as she shot him a questioning look.
‘I can’t recall meeting an Abby Smith.’
‘Oh, but Abby didn’t use Smith. She said I looked like a Smith but she didn’t—she was right,’ she reflected, running a hand over the brown hair that Abby had always advised her to bleach. Blondes darling, definitely have more fun!
‘She was an actress?’
Scarlet shook her head. ‘She intended to be one day, but she was a model—Abby Deverell. She was quite successful. Well, actually, she was very successful.’
‘Your sister was Abby Deverell?’
Scarlet could see him trying to find some similarity in her own features. It would be a fruitless search; Abby had been beautiful.
‘People always do that, but we’re not alike.’
God, the woman had had his child and he couldn’t even recall her face clearly. What sort of man did that make him?
‘So you did meet her?’ Scarlet wondered why she hadn’t considered the possibility earlier. It would certainly explain his brooding expression, she thought, slanting a surreptitious glance at his strong profile.
#p#????#e#
‘Yes, I did meet her,’ he returned abruptly.
Now he had a name and face…or he should have a face. The woman had fronted a very high-profile publicity campaign just a few years ago. You hadn’t been able to walk down the street, open a magazine or switch on a television without seeing her face.
So why, when he tried now to visualise those photogenic features, was he only able to see the face of her younger sister?
Scarlet didn’t register the abruptness of his reply. ‘She was very lovely, wasn’t she?’
He responded to her wistful appeal with an affirmative nod, not because he remembered, to his shame he didn’t, but because it was obviously what she wanted to hear. ‘Yes, she was.’
He had spent one night at her flat. He knew the date; it should have been his first wedding anniversary. He had woken up fully dressed on her sofa with a raging headache; she had said she had let him sleep it off.
‘Did you know her well?’
His silence lasted a long time—a noticeably long time.
Scarlet drew a sharp breath as she suddenly went icy cold all over, convinced that he was about to admit they had been lovers.
‘No, I didn’t know her well.’
The sigh of relief that whistled through her clenched teeth was silent. If he had been Abby’s lover, why would it have made a difference…? What was there for it to make a difference to? It wasn’t as if there was, or ever would be, anything between her and Roman.
‘So Sam knows you’re not his real mother?’
‘Of course. You shouldn’t lie to children.’
‘A very sound principle,’ he approved smoothly. ‘And when Sam’s older and he asks about his parents you’ll be able to tell him…?’
Unwittingly, she thought, he had touched upon a subject that had concerned her for some time. Sam would ask about his father, it was inevitable, but what was she supposed to tell him? The truth? Or was she to invent a hero that a boy could be proud of? It was a minefield.