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Out Of The Night
PENNY JORDAN
Penny Jordan needs no introduction as arguably the most recognisable name writing for Mills & Boon. We have celebrated her wonderful writing with a special collection, many of which for the first time in eBook format and all available right now.Stranded in a border-hills snowstorm, Emily Blacklaw had to accept the handsome stranger's offer of help - even though it meant sharing the warmth of Matt Slater's sleeping bag. It was a turning point for Emily, and the desires and passions they'd shared haunted her through the days and months that followed.Now Matt was back - and living in the same house. And Emily found it difficult to reject Matt's demands, especially since they were the same demands she secretly harboured…



Celebrate the legend that is bestselling author
PENNY JORDAN
Phenomenally successful author of more than two hundred books with sales of over a hundred million copies!
Penny Jordan’s novels are loved by millions of readers all around the word in many different languages. Mills & Boon are proud to have published one hundred and eighty-seven novels and novellas written by Penny Jordan, who was a reader favourite right from her very first novel through to her last.
This beautiful digital collection offers a chance to recapture the pleasure of all of Penny Jordan’s fabulous, glamorous and romantic novels for Mills & Boon.

About the Author
PENNY JORDAN is one of Mills & Boon’s most popular authors. Sadly, Penny died from cancer on 31st December 2011, aged sixty-five. She leaves an outstanding legacy, having sold over a hundred million books around the world. She wrote a total of one hundred and eighty-seven novels for Mills & Boon, including the phenomenally successful A Perfect Family, To Love, Honour & Betray, The Perfect Sinner and Power Play, which hit the Sunday Times and New York Times bestseller lists. Loved for her distinctive voice, her success was in part because she continually broke boundaries and evolved her writing to keep up with readers’ changing tastes. Publishers Weekly said about Jordan ‘Women everywhere will find pieces of themselves in Jordan’s characters’ and this perhaps explains her enduring appeal.
Although Penny was born in Preston, Lancashire and spent her childhood there, she moved to Cheshire as a teenager and continued to live there for the rest of her life. Following the death of her husband, she moved to the small traditional Cheshire market town on which she based her much-loved Crighton books.
Penny was a member and supporter of the Romantic Novelists’ Association and the Romance Writers of America—two organisations dedicated to providing support for both published and yet-to-be-published authors. Her significant contribution to women’s fiction was recognised in 2011, when the Romantic Novelists’ Association presented Penny with a Lifetime Achievement Award.

Out of the Night
Penny Jordan


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CHAPTER ONE
EMILY frowned as the flurries of snow ominously started to thicken into what her lifelong experience of these border hills told her threatened to be a fully grown blizzard.
She was no fool—no town-bred child whose only real experience of the truly life-threatening danger of heavy snows on these hills came from watching televised newsreel film.
Perhaps she ought to have put off her departure, but she had already spent two days longer with her parents than she had intended and, as she had explained to them, Uncle John had reached a critical point with his book and would be champing at the bit to get working on it, so she couldn’t really delay any longer.
She had seen the wry, almost amused looks her parents had exchanged, and, even though she’d thought she had taught herself long ago to accept herself as she was, she had felt a sharp, painful flash of hurt, reminding her of her childhood.
Perhaps it had been because Gracie had also been at home. Gracie: four years her junior, pretty, ambitious, self-confident, popular with everyone who knew her, and now engaged to be married to the tall and obviously besotted Australian she had brought home with her.
Emily knew that her parents were baffled by her; she could imagine them wondering where she had come from, their quiet, introverted, almost prim little brown wren of an eldest child—her smallness somehow all the more noticeable in a family of tall Scandinavian-type blondes.
And she was different in other ways, too. She had been conceived while her parents were walking in the Andes; although their home base was here in the border hills, her parents were intrepid adventurers, forever off to far-flung parts of the globe. Her father had the family talent with words and wrote very clever and witty travel books, wonderfully illustrated by her mother. Gracie, too, was a traveller, loving nothing more than to take off for far-away places at a moment’s notice.
Emily, though, was different—she hated travelling, and she hated adventuring even more. She was the quiet, stay-at-home type. She knew she puzzled and sometimes disappointed her parents. They loved her, she knew that, but it was a love fraught with a lack of true understanding of her nature.
After she had left university, they had talked enthusiastically and encouragingly of her taking a year off to travel the world, and had been rather like two hurt children when she had told them that that was the last thing she had wanted to do.
When they had learned that she was going to work for her father’s uncle, an academic who had devoted his life to the mysteries of ancient Egyptian civilisation, they had been astounded. Bury herself in the quiet backwater close to Oxford where Uncle John held the Chair in Ancient Civilisations in one of the colleges? They hadn’t been able to understand her decision then, and she knew that they understood it even less now, four years later.
Once it had hurt her knowing that they had probably dismissed her as dull and boring, because she did have her dreams and her hopes…dreams and hopes that were far removed from those of her parents and sister. Unlike them she had no craving for travel, no thirst for fresh sights and unfamiliar pastures—her dreams did not have wide horizons. It was the small, intimate world of domestic happiness she craved: a home, husband, children—love that could be shared.
Unfashionable dreams, these days; dreams that she was afraid to voice, knowing how they would be received even by her parents. Once she had even thought they might come true.
She had met Gerry while she was at university, and for the first time in her life she had been able to step outside the confines of her lack of selfconfidence…her feeling that, in being the way she was, she had somehow let both her parents and herself down. With Gerry she had felt different: self-confident, attractive, interesting. He had courted her and flattered her, wooing her skilfully and ardently, but not too ardently that she took fright.
And then, just when she had been happily beginning to dream about engagement rings and weddings, the cruel revelation of the truth had come. Gerry hadn’t loved her at all. She had been the victim of a particularly nasty and cruel male joke.
It had happened the weekend after she had gone home to see her parents. Gerry had come round to see her on the Monday. He had kissed her passionately…so passionately that she had been a little afraid.
Sex had been something new and untried for her and, much as she had adored Gerry, his obvious experience and expertise had seemed to underline her own lack of them, making her hesitant to allow the feelings inside her to break through the barriers she had imposed on them.
Normally so patient and understanding with her, this time Gerry had lost his temper. What did she want, he had asked her nastily—to remain a virgin all her life? Before she could speak he had gone on to tell her cruelly that she was lucky he was prepared to overlook her ignorance of sex, her inability to turn him on, her total lack of any kind of knowledge about how to make herself desirable.
She had never seen him in a temper before, and she had shrunk from the uncontrollable anger emanating from him, her face tense and white as she had listened in disbelief to what he had been saying.
Her lack of response had only seemed to goad him on. ‘Look at you,’ he had derided. ‘Did you really think I could possibly want you? Do you really imagine I’m going to all this trouble simply so that I can take your frigid body to bed? No way…’
He had stopped then, conscious that he had said too much, but it had already been too late. Feeling as though her world had broken apart in front of her, Emily had forced herself to confront the truth and to demand to know what he had meant.
Watching him hesitate, knowing how much she ached to believe the lies she already knew he was trying to formulate, she had deliberately denied herself that surcease, and had said quietly, ‘Will it help you to tell me the truth if I say that there’s absolutely no chance of our being lovers?’
If she had thought his temper was out of control before, she had then realised her mistake. The language he’d used, the virulence of his temper, ought to have terrified her; but somehow she had gone beyond that, to find a temporary harbour in some small corner of her mind that had sheltered her while she had listened to him pouring scorn on her, telling her that the only reason he had bothered with her was because some fellow students had challenged him to get her into bed—humiliatingly having guessed at her total lack of experience. Heavy bets had been placed on his ability to do so. He himself had stood to gain financially if he succeeded.
And what had shocked her most of all was that he had not been in the least ashamed of admitting it to her. If anything, he had seemed to think that she was the one who had behaved badly—that she had been the one at fault. Well, perhaps she had been, although her fault had not been in not allowing him to use her body, but in ever thinking that he might have actually cared for her.
She had seen him so clearly then, and had hated herself for the tawdry cheapness of the image she had foolishly believed she had loved. What she had loved was a man she had created out of her own daydreams and imagination and then clothed with Gerry’s features. The real Gerry had been nothing like the man of her daydreams.
She had learned a hard and painful lesson, and she had sworn to herself, as she had quietly demanded to know exactly how much money he would have won had he succeeded, that never again would she repeat her folly. When he had grudgingly told her, she had written out a cheque and had handed it to him.
Her parents had been generous, and she had never been short of money. There had been very little she had wanted to spend it on. She had not been fashion-conscious like most of her contemporaries. She had smiled grimly to herself, realising that she was probably the only girl in the whole university who still wore clothes that approximated to something like a school uniform: neat woollen jumpers, sturdy brogues. She dressed for comfort in clothes that helped her to blend in with her surroundings, not stand out from them.
Gerry had taken the cheque, blustering that it was no less than she owed him, and adding sneeringly that if she changed her mind and decided that she wanted to get rid of her virginity after all, he’d be prepared to oblige her for a similar amount. ‘After all,’ he had taunted her, ‘what’s the point in saving it…unless you’re planning to become a nun…’
She would cry later, she had told herself stonily, watching him leave. She would grieve later for the destruction of her dreams, but right now the most important thing focusing her mind had been that somehow or other she patch together the broken shards of what had once been a person named Emily Francine Blacklaw, and that she find a way of making that person appear to be a human being, and not a robot from whom the ability to think, reason and feel had been taken away.
Somehow, from a reserve of strength buried inside her which she hadn’t known she possessed, she had managed it, just as she had managed to appear not to notice the sometimes curious, sometimes amused looks of those of her peers who must have been privy to the original bet.
It had been the year of her finals, but now, instead of looking forward to the future, she had simply tried to endure the passing of each day as best she could. Then in a letter from her mother had come the news that her father’s Uncle John had been about to embark on actually getting down to write the book he had been threatening to work on for as long as Emily could remember. He would need to find a devoted and very patient research-assistant-cum-secretary, her mother had written, and, when she had read those words, Emily had known that she had found somewhere where she could hide herself away from a world which had become too painful and alien for her. Not a convent, precisely, she had thought with the small bitter smile which had been beginning to replace her once warm and natural, if slightly shy beam.
Perhaps if her parents hadn’t been so busy with the preparations for their forthcoming trip to Mexico…perhaps if her sister hadn’t elected to take a year off between A levels and university and travel to Australia…perhaps if she had had a close girlfriend to note the warning signs and do something about them, someone might have intervened and turned her back to face the world instead of withdrawing from it. But fate had decreed otherwise, and, by the time her parents had returned from Mexico, she had obtained her degree and had been working for Uncle John for three months.
Despite the almost monastic life he lived in the rather ramshackle house several miles outside the university town, Emily had settled very well into her new existence. She enjoyed working for Uncle John, and she had the patience to help him to disentangle and transcribe the notebooks which held over twenty years of notes made supposedly in preparation for the opus it had been his life’s dream to complete.
Although neither of them realised it, Emily’s was the hand and brain that had translated the dusty dry facts so painstakingly uncovered by the scholar into the first outline for a book—a book which John Blacklaw’s publishers had found surprisingly readable. They were an old-established and very small firm, based in the same town as the university, and well versed in dealing with their sometimes eccentric would-be authors.
Peter Cavendish, the great-great-grandson of the original founder of the business, had raised a few tut-tuts from his older relatives when he had commented enthusiastically that at last he had read a manuscript which he could not only understand, but which he had also found made him want to explore its subject in more detail.
Peter Cavendish was thirty years old and unmarried and, in the eyes of his grandfather and great-uncles, a little too frivolous for their kind of publishing. Privately, Peter confided to his mother and sisters that he intended to drag the firm into the twenty-first century by the scruff of its neck if necessary. ‘And I think I’ve found the book which will do it…’
Neither Emily nor Uncle John were as yet aware of his intentions; the book was still in its very early stages, and he had enough of the family caution to want to make sure that the old boy could produce more than half a dozen chapters before committing himself.
Now, as she drove with proper respect for the howling wind buffeting the car and the thick snow which was all too quickly whitening the road, Emily wished she had ignored Gracie’s pleas to her to extend her visit long enough for her to get to know Travis, her Australian fiancé; but, ever sensitive to the opinions of others, Emily had felt that if she did not stay her family might think that it was because she was envious or resentful of Gracie’s happiness.
She had once overheard her mother discussing her with her father, saying that she was the type of girl best suited to marriage with a similarly quiet man, with whom she could live in suburban security to raise the requisite two-point-odd children. The words hadn’t meant to be hurtful, but they had been to a girl on the threshold of womanhood who had still been dreaming of a lover of heroic proportions…a lover straight from one of Sir Walter Scott’s novels, or one of Georgette Heyer’s wondrous Regency Romances; a lover who would see through her quiet exterior, who would cherish and adore her…
She knew better now, and, if it was foolish of her to say to herself that, if she could not reach the stars, if she could not experience the heights of emotional intensity she had once dreamed of reaching, then she would rather not bother than settle for the kind of mundane relationship her mother had described, then only she knew of that folly.
And so she had stayed on, to smile at Gracie’s Travis, and to hide her real feelings at the astonishment on his face as he had looked from the tall, golden, glowing Blacklaw parents and his equally golden, glowing fiancée to the small, brown little creature who was their daughter and sister.
And then yesterday it had snowed enough for Gracie to insist on their digging out the old sledge and going tobogganing on the snowy fields beyond the house. Unwillingly, Emily had allowed herself to be dragged along with them. And of course it should be her luck that, instead of sledging skilfully to the bottom of the hill, she should have hit a covered root and end up soaking wet and bruised sitting in a shallow, muddy pool of water hiding beneath the ice.
What had made it even more unfortunate was that she had not brought a second skirt with her, having only intended to stay two days; and so now, instead of travelling home in her neat pleated skirt and sensible blouse and jumper, she was wearing what Gracie had described as a ‘sweatshirt’ in a shade of fuchsia pink which might suit Gracie but which she felt was hideously startling on her—and worse still there was a rather dubious slogan printed across its chest in two-inch-high letters.
To go with this, Gracie had proffered a pair of jeans, ruthlessly ignoring Emily’s protests that they were far too tight and too long, telling her that she could easily shorten them, and then immediately doing so, so that Emily had had no option but to put the things on and to leave the soaking wet skirt behind her.
Weakly she had also accepted the multicoloured and huge sweater Travis had pressed on her as a ‘present’. Gracie had plainly not told him what Emily looked like, because the sweater had obviously been designed for a woman like her sister—someone tall and self-confident enough to carry off such a very vivid and eye-catching item.
In fact, the only things she had on that were her own, apart from her underwear, were her sensible flat shoes; but, looking at them and then looking at the frighteningly fast-thickening snow, Emily was forced to acknowledge that a sturdy pair of wellington boots was likely to have been more use to her.
She had deliberately chosen to drive back to Oxford over one of the high passes to avoid the traffic. Her father, who always listened to the farming weather, had warned her that more snow had been forecast, but she had assumed that he meant further small flurries of the sort they had had over the previous two days—not this potentially life-threatening blizzard. However, there was no point in panicking. A quick glance in her rear-view mirror confirmed her opinion that she had come too far up the pass to turn back; another half-hour and she would be over the pass and down the other side, heading for the small village of Thraxton, whereas if she turned back she would have to drive for over an hour to reach the nearest town.
She frowned again as she felt her car wheels start to spin, and slowed down to a safe crawl, thanking providence that her mother’s housekeeper, Louise, had insisted on providing her with a huge flask of coffee and some sandwiches. She had a new unread paperback in her overnight case, plus the car rug she always carried with her to tuck round Uncle John’s knees. He suffered badly from arthritis now, and welcomed such small touches of extra warmth and cosseting.
If she did have to spend the night in the car, she would survive. It wouldn’t be pleasant, of course, but she was sensible enough to know that it would be far wiser for her to stay in her car than to risk exposure by getting out and going looking for help. Not that she was likely to find any. These hills were barren and uninhabited, and it was too late now to wish that she had chosen the more sensible busy route.
Although it was dark, the whiteness of the snow-covered landscape gave off an eerie light; her eyes, straining to see through the driving snow clogging the windscreen-wipers, were beginning to ache, and she was conscious of how much her car was slipping and sliding despite her low gear…How much further before she reached the highest point of the road? She tried to remember if she was right in thinking there was a small lay-by not far ahead, and whether it would be more sensible to pull in there or risk going on.
She hadn’t seen any other cars since it started to snow. Soon, with the wind, the snow would start to drift. If that happened and her car got covered…She bit her lip, telling herself stoically that nothing could be gained from letting her imagination panic her—and then, just when she was beginning to think she might make it, the car skidded violently, out of control, and plunged off the road and down into a deep snow-filled ditch.
She bumped her head as the car came to rest, the seatbelt jerking her backwards painfully, and as she moved cautiously, unfastening it and forcing open her door, she was thankful to discover that she had no real injuries.
As she climbed out of the car and into the snow and surveyed them both rather shakily, she was forced to admit what she had already known: that the only way her car was going to get out of the ditch was by being lifted out. Even with the spade she had in the boot, it would be impossible for her to dig herself out.
Biting her lip with irritation, she acknowledged that there was nothing else for it. She would have to spend the night in the car and hope that by morning the snow had gone and that she would be able to appeal to a fellow motorist for help.
She was just about to get back inside the car when, almost like a miracle, she heard the sound of another car approaching. Instinctively she stepped out into the road to attract the driver’s attention, only realising too late that the sight of her was likely to make them brake and suffer the same fate as herself.
The driver of the battered, long-wheelbase, four-wheel-drive vehicle that swung round the bend obviously thought the same thing, because he glared at her and mouthed something she suspected was far from complimentary—but he did at least stop. Although, when she saw him climbing out of his vehicle, she wondered whether that was a good thing or not. He was huge: well over six feet with shoulders to match, his features concealed by a tousled mop of black hair and an equally unprepossessing beard.
As he came towards her Emily saw that he was glowering at her. He paused frowningly a foot away from her, wiping the snow off his face with a hand that she saw was hard and scarred as though he worked outdoors a lot, and she wondered if he was a local farmer.
‘Just what in hell are you trying to do? Kill us both?’ The sharp, incisive words were not spoken with a local accent or with any kind of accent at all, Emily recognised as she assimilated his angry criticism. It had perhaps been foolish of her to stand in the road, but his anger was surely a little excessive?
‘You young kids, you’re all the same,’ he continued, still glowering. ‘Not a scrap of sense in your heads…’
Emily stared at him. Just how old did he think she was? Despite his grim appearance, she doubted that he was much more than in his early thirties; she was twenty-six—not a lot of difference, and certainly not sufficient to merit his attitude.
‘Now, just a minute—’ she began, but he immediately cut across what she had been going to say, demanding curtly, ‘Have you any idea of how easy it would be for you to freeze to death out here? Look at you, dressed in an outfit more suitable for a…a city disco than these winter hills. Have you any idea just what’s involved in mounting rescue services for idiots like you? Just what it costs in men’s time? The rescue services in these hills are run by volunteers, men already badly pressed for time—men who willingly risk their lives for idiots like you with no more sense than to go driving in weather when any sane person wouldn’t set a foot out of doors…’
Emily listened to him in growing resentment. Just what kind of person did he think she was? The answer was simple. He thought she was some kind of irresponsible, idiotic teenager. Dressed for a disco, indeed. She winced a little, recollecting her own reluctance to don the sweatshirt Gracie had proffered, and wondered what on earth this large angry man would make of Travis’s many-hued jumper—and then decided that it was perhaps as well she would never know.
As for that remark about the rescue services—her own father was one of those volunteers, and she knew all about the hazards they had to face.
Before she could say as much the man was talking again, gesturing towards her car with evident disgust as he said bluntly, ‘Well, you’ve no chance of getting that thing back on the road without a pick-up. By rights I ought to leave you here to give you a taste of what happens to idiots like you when they ignore the warnings of far more sensible human beings, and go out for drives in blizzard weather conditions; but, as you’re all too likely to ignore any advice I might give you about staying put in your car and wander off somewhere causing God alone knows what sort of trouble for whoever has to find you, I suppose I’d better give you a lift.’
A little to her own astonishment, Emily found that she was actually grinding her teeth. She had always considered herself to be a very even-tempered human being; even in the face of Gerry’s cruelty she had remained calm—on the surface at least—but suddenly she was discovering how wrong she had been about herself, and how very satisfactory it would be to fling his arrogant and grudging offer of help right back in his face.
Maturity won out over inclination, though. She had no wish to spend the night in her car…not with the intensity of the blizzard-driven snowstorm increasing with every second that passed…not when she could see for herself that already the snow was drifting and that, if it continued to do so, it might be several days and not several hours before she was rescued from her trapped car.
And so, biting back her ire, she said as coldly as she could, ‘I’ll just get my things from the car.’
Behind her she heard a derisive snort as he muttered under his breath, ‘God, you females…You can’t go anywhere without half a ton of make-up…’
Make-up…A strong desire to giggle overwhelmed her. Her make-up was restricted to moisturiser, blusher, soft pink lipstick, mascara and the merest touch of eyeshadow, and only those because she had grown tired of her mother’s and Gracie’s reproaches that she didn’t make enough of herself. No—what she wanted from her car was the warmth of Travis’s sweater, the rug, and the thermos flask of coffee and the sandwiches Louise had given her.
As she ploughed her way back to her car through snow which had deepened dramatically in the time she had been standing on the road, she pushed her hair off her face, grimacing a little. She had been so busy working with Uncle John that she hadn’t had time for her normal bimonthly trim of the neat bob in which she normally wore her hair. The result was that it had grown down to her shoulders and constantly swung down over her face in a most irritating fashion. Her mother had said that she liked it longer; Gracie had raised her eyebrows and announced that it made her look even more ethereally fragile than usual. Emily thought it was just plain untidy.
She collected her things from her car with efficient ease and saw her unwilling rescuer’s expression change as she returned towards him, carrying the thermos flask and blanket.
‘Typical student,’ he grunted critically. ‘Planning to sleep in your car, I suppose…’
Emily opened her mouth to deny that she had been intending to do any such thing, and to set him right about the other facts he had got completely wrong, and then closed it again as he continued brusquely, ‘I suppose we’d better introduce ourselves as we’re going to be travelling companions. I’m Matthew Slater. Most people call me Matt.’
Later she had no idea what on earth made her say it…what rash folly had prompted the impulse that had her replying, not by introducing herself as Emily Blacklaw, but simply as Francine.
‘Francine.’ She saw the way his eyebrows rose and added sweetly, ‘It’s a family name.’
She thought she heard him say under his breath, ‘It would have to be,’ but he had his back to her and was already ploughing his way back to his vehicle.
Automatically following in his footsteps, Emily discovered how very much longer his stride was than her own, but her jeans were already soaking wet from the knees down, and anything that saved her from sinking knee-deep in a fresh coating of snow was worth a little effort.
He made no attempt to relieve her of her possessions, nor to help her in any way at all, she fumed as she struggled against the blizzard buffeting her body and the snow stinging her face. Only when she reached the safety of his vehicle did he offer a helping hand, and then only a grim inspection of her snow-covered frame and the height from the ground to the passenger door.
She supposed that she ought not to have been surprised at the ease with which he picked her up and virtually dumped her on the passenger seat. She was after all only small and slight, and he was extremely large, but there was something so disconcertingly unfamiliar about the sensation of male hands grasping her body…about the scent of male skin dominating even the cold smell of the snow…about the warmth of male breath grazing her skin that, all of a sudden, she felt acutely breathless and helpless.
‘Where were you going, anyway?’ he asked her as he climbed in beside her and relieved her of her possessions, putting them casually in the rear of the vehicle.
It was, Emily now recognised, equipped for rugged terrain, and the pack on the floor behind her looked as though it belonged to a climber or walker. The rear passenger seats had been removed to make room for extra equipment, or perhaps for carrying stock rather than people.
‘Oh, to meet some boyfriend, I suppose. Well, if he’s any sense he’ll have stayed at home. Women…’
He obviously didn’t have a very high opinion of her sex, Emily realised warily.
‘I can drop you off in Thraxton,’ he told her as he closed his door and started the engine.
From there she could ring her parents and organise a garage to pick up her car. She could travel south by train…her mind busy with the arrangements she had to make, she was glad of her companion’s silence as he concentrated on his driving.
His four-wheel-drive vehicle had a very powerful heater. She stretched her toes out towards its warmth, wishing it were possible to remove her soaking wet clammy jeans. The sound of the windscreen-wipers was rhythmic and lulling.
Her eyes ached still from the strain of staring through her own windscreen. Drowsily she mused on how odd it was that she should feel so safe and relaxed with this brusque stranger. Normally she found strange men intimidating, and was sensitive to how she must appear in their eyes, to how they must contrast her lack of looks and sexuality to other women they knew—a sensitivity born of Gerry’s cruelty to her and her subsequent total loss of confidence in herself as a woman. This man had made his uncomplimentary view of her sex so plain, she felt none of her normal constraint. It still amazed her that he should have mistaken her for a giddy teenager prepared to drive miles through a blizzard to go dancing with a supposed boyfriend.
Perhaps she rather liked that false image of herself, she wondered sleepily…perhaps that was why she had given him her second name, instead of her workaday and, to her eyes, very applicable first name. Emily…It suited her, so everyone said. So why was it when this man looked at her he hadn’t seen an Emily but instead had mistaken her for a Francine? She was still sleepily musing over this conundrum when she fell asleep.
The man at her side gave her a frowning look of disapproval and then returned his concentration to his driving.
It had been a mistake to delay his departure from the Cairngorms for that extra day. He had an appointment tomorrow that he must keep, but this was likely to be his last opportunity to go climbing for quite some time. Still, he was paying for his self-indulgence now, having to help out this idiotic female…He grimaced as he looked at her. Tiny little thing…what on earth had possessed her to wear that appalling garment with its dubious invitation? She looked so young and innocent as she slept. His mouth tightened. As he had good cause to know, her sex was adept at promoting fictitious images. He had once thought Jolie just as innocent—until he had found her in bed with someone else three days before their wedding.
She had cried and pleaded with him, begged him to understand, and he, God help him, had been tempted…until he had discovered the real reason she had wanted to marry him. Being wanted for your wealth was one of the penalties paid by the offspring of rich men, his father had told him, adding forthrightly that in any case he considered twenty-one far too young for a man to marry. He had had a miraculous escape, he had added.
Perhaps he had…certainly the experience had soured him against committing himself to any kind of permanent relationship with someone else. There had been women, of course—episodes he was not proud of and which soon lost their savour—but over these last few years there had been no one, and he had been content with that state of affairs. Until now, because for some reason this idiotic female asleep beside him was making him uncomfortably aware of the fact that he was, after all, a man and not a monk!
He wondered how old she was…eighteen? Nineteen? He was thirty-four, and she was not his type anyway. Jolie had been a soignée elegant blonde, tall and slim. This…this child wasn’t much over five feet two, and as for her shape—impossible to see what it was like under that appalling sweatshirt.
When he had picked her up, though, his hands had fitted easily around her waist. Her wrists were fragile and narrow, and she had the longest eyelashes he had ever seen—unless they were false…
As he stole another look at Emily’s sleeping profile, just to make sure that he hadn’t imagined that thick, long sweep of curling lashes, the road dipped for a hundred-yard stretch where it was fully exposed to the full force of the blizzard, and before he could do a single thing about it his Land Rover had run straight into an eight-foot drift of snow.

CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS Matt’s savage curse that woke Emily, combined with the sudden jarring sensation as the Land Rover’s engine stalled.
As she opened her eyes and blinked sleepily, she realised immediately what had happened, and it was Emily and not Francine who asked automatically, ‘Can we dig our way out, or…?’
Matt gave her a sharp look. Was she serious? The only women he knew would rather die of exposure than risk their long varnished nails by wielding a spade. ‘It might be easier to reverse; the drifts are only going to get worse if we turn back.’
Immediately Emily shook her head. ‘It’s too late,’ she told him calmly. ‘The road will be blocked where it dips down to the river. That’s always the first place the drifts form.’
He gave her another sharp look, but recalling the stretch of road she was referring to had to admit that she was probably right.
‘It looks as if we’re well and truly stuck, then,’ he said tersely. Inwardly he was cursing himself for not setting out earlier. If he had not been having doubts about the wisdom of interviewing for this new job…
Now he had no option but to spend what was left of the night in the close confines of his Land Rover with this idiotic female, who smelled disturbingly of some kind of no doubt expensive French scent.
Emily would have been stunned had she known what he was thinking. The French scent was in fact the rose-scented soap she always used and was so accustomed to that she had no idea of the way it clung so pervasively to her skin.
‘I suppose we ought to get out and check that we can’t dig our way out,’ she suggested cautiously.
‘I’ll do it,’ her companion said tersely. ‘There’s no point in both of us getting soaked.’
Emily wanted to point out that, since she already was, it seemed sensible that she should be the one to check on the extent of the drifting; but she suspected that this arrogant, lordly male would never accept that a woman could do such a task as effectively as a man, so she said nothing and watched as he opened his door and climbed out.
His inspection of their plight was thorough, she had to admit when he eventually returned. She doubted that she would have had the fortitude to stay outside for so long. Snow clung to his sweater and jeans, turning him into a walking snowman, and she watched as he brushed the worst of it off before climbing back inside.
‘We haven’t a hope of getting out,’ he told her crisply, ‘and God knows how long we’ll be stuck here for.’
‘Probably only until tomorrow,’ Emily told him. ‘They normally try to keep this road open if they can. It’s a pity we can’t pull off the road to leave room for the snow plough,’ she added thoughtfully, causing him to give her a considering look.
Perhaps, after all, she was not as idiotic as he had first assumed; certainly there was no trace of panic in her behaviour at his announcement that they were stuck. He wished grimly now that he had stopped at that garage and bought himself something to eat, but he had been so conscious of how late he had been in leaving.
‘I suppose we’d better keep the coffee until we get cold,’ Emily murmured, speaking her thoughts out loud as she sifted through her brain trying to remember the most important laws of cold-weather survival.
They were more fortunate than most. They had warm clothing, a hot drink, some food, and a certain amount of shelter, although she suspected that the Land Rover would soon become very cold indeed without the engine running. She glanced over her shoulder into the rear of the vehicle, wondering if she had actually seen what looked like a rolled up sleeping-bag there. If so, they were very fortunate indeed. If not…well, she had Travis’s sweater to give her an extra layer of warmth, and, if only she could pluck up the courage to do so, she really ought to remove her wet jeans and wrap the car rug round her legs. It was silly to worry about modesty in this kind of situation, where the cold, wet fabric wrapped around her legs could dangerously lower her body temperature to the point where at some stage during their incarceration she could start to suffer from hypothermia.
As though he had read her mind, Matt suddenly said curtly, ‘You’d better get those wet jeans off. I’ve got a spare pair you can have.’
Emily struggled not to laugh at the thought of her wearing his jeans. ‘That won’t be necessary,’ she told him coolly. ‘I can use the car rug.’
To her astonishment he shook his head. ‘No, we’ll both need that later.’
When he saw her expression he said grimly, ‘Look, I don’t like this any more than you, but we’ve got to face facts. The temperature in here is going to drop so fast that within an hour both of us are going to be frozen. That means we’ve got to preserve what body heat we still have by any means we can.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s almost nine o’clock. A bit early to be thinking of going to sleep, but in the circumstances it’s going to be our wisest course of action. I’ve got a sleeping-bag in the back. It’s large enough for both of us.’
He heard her automatic protest and frowned at her before saying stiffly, ‘Spare me the shrieks of maidenly modesty; this isn’t some kind of sexual come-on. I’d be saying exactly the same thing to another man, and, given the choice between a man, a woman or a dog to share the sleeping-bag with me right now, I’d prefer the dog.’
Emily was quite sure that he would, and she knew what he was saying was the only sensible course of action open to them. Even so, something vulnerable and tender inside her shrank from the intimacy of what she knew must be done. To sleep so physically closely to this hard, cynical man, who had shown her so clearly what he thought of her and of her sex, was so directly opposed to all the dreams she had once held and cherished that it was as though that part of her emotions she had managed to blank off when Gerry hurt her had suddenly sprung into painful, hurting life; and, she thought miserably, how typical of her it was that the first time she should share such intimacy with a man had to be with one who had made it witheringly plain just how unappealing he found her.
What did she want, she asked herself crossly—to make love here in this cold, uncomfortable vehicle, with a man who was a stranger to her? Or was it simply that she wished for once in her life to see herself as desirable in a man’s eyes? Did she simply ache for the panacea of knowing that, had she wanted to pursue it, the opportunity to arouse him sexually was there?
What was happening to her? she wondered nervously. Was it because she had spent the last four days witnessing the very obvious sexual chemistry between Gracie and Travis? Was it because she had known that at night the two of them were wrapped in one another’s arms…sharing the kind of ecstasy she herself had once dreamed of knowing?
Horrible to see herself as the kind of person who could feel envious of another’s happiness…who could actually bitterly resent the unfairness of a fate that had given her such yearning romantic ideals and, at the same time, ensured that her looks and her personality must make the fulfilment of those ideals nothing more than an impossible fantasy. Far better if she could have, as her mother had once said, settled for a dull, pragmatic husband and an equally dull, placid life, instead of yearning for the intensity of passion and desire.
She was quiet for so long that Matt actually began to think she was going to refuse. Idiotic woman, he fumed. Did she really think that he would actually want to take advantage of their intimacy, here in this uncomfortable and unromantic setting?
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wishing he had not had a sudden and disconcerting image of her lying on soft, clean sheets, her silky hair tumbling round her shoulders the way it had done while she was asleep, those amazing grey eyes slumberous with passion, that delicate, feminine body arched in eager supplication towards his own.
He ground his teeth, infuriated by his own weakness. It was that damned perfume she was wearing…it was conjuring up all manner of erotic images.
‘Look, if you imagine that—’
‘I’m not imagining anything,’ Emily lied quickly, adding as calmly as she could, ‘Of course, you’re right. We have no option other than to share the sleeping-bag.’ She gave a small shiver, aware that already she was getting cold and, worse, that her legs were slowly growing almost numb. It was that knowledge that provoked her into action.
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to take off my jeans,’ she reminded him nervously.
‘Yes,’ he agreed tersely, wondering why on earth he was behaving like such a fool. Did he really prefer to risk suffering hypothermia than to matter-of-factly point out to her that both of them were likely to remain far warmer inside the sleeping-bag if they both removed their jeans and sweaters and allowed their combined body heat to circulate between them more effectively?
Emily’s heart sank as he grimly announced these facts. She knew that he was speaking the truth, but the thought of lying next to him stripped down to her bra and briefs was a very daunting prospect.
‘I think perhaps we should have a cup of coffee and a sandwich first,’ she suggested hesitantly, waiting for him to mock her obvious reluctance to undress—but to her surprise he agreed, almost as though he felt as uncomfortable with the situation as she did herself.
It was a novel thought. Her only experience of male sexual behaviour was restricted to Gerry, and Gerry would have been very quick indeed to torment someone in her position. Gerry enjoyed inflicting emotional pain. She had quickly recognised that once the scales had been ripped from her eyes.
A little to her own astonishment she heard herself saying quietly, ‘My father is in a local voluntary rescue team. I know he’d be the first to agree with everything you’ve said.’
His head came up and he looked at her. ‘In that case I’m surprised he allowed you to drive anywhere tonight.’
Emily didn’t tell him that her parents had themselves been on the verge of leaving, this time for the rain forests of Brazil. Instead of telling him this she said coolly, ‘I’m an adult, not a child. I make my own decisions.’
She watched as his mouth compressed. He had a rather nice mouth beneath that straggly beard. His bottom lip was full and curved. She wondered hazily what it would feel like to touch it with her fingertips, and then swallowed nervously as her stomach plunged in shock at her own wayward thoughts.
‘An adult! You’re, what…eighteen? Nineteen?’ He was scowling at her again.
‘Actually,’ she told him shakily, ‘I’m twenty-six.’
Twenty-six! He stared at her. It must be because she was so small that she looked so much younger. Twenty-six…a woman, not a child…and so not innocent, either, despite the fact that those huge grey eyes seemed so unaware and unawakened.
‘I’ll get the coffee,’ he told her austerely. ‘You’d better get those jeans off.’
For such a large man he was surprisingly light on his feet, Emily reflected, as he managed to manoeuvre himself between the two front seats to crawl into the rear of the vehicle.
Her own hands had become awkward and clumsy, or perhaps it was the thick and unfamiliar fabric of the jeans that waywardly refused to respond to her demands. Whatever the cause, it seemed to take her ages to tug off the clammy fabric.
Once she had done so she was grateful for the huge oversized sweatshirt, which reached down almost to her knees…and not just for the warmth it offered, but because it concealed the minute briefness of her underwear which had been chosen because she had liked the pretty delicacy of the embroidered satin, and which she had never intended should be exposed to anyone’s view other than her own. The cut of the briefs was such that they emphasised the feminine roundness of her hips and the length of her legs in a way which she was suddenly aware was very provocative indeed.
‘Coffee?’
The curt voice from behind her made her swing round, causing Matt to wonder what on earth had put that look of sick misery in her eyes, unable to know that she had been thinking of Gerry, remembering how he had taunted her so cruelly, how he had found her so undesirable.
‘You’d better get in the back,’ Matt announced brusquely. ‘It’s getting dangerously cold in here. The sooner we’re in that sleeping-bag, the happier I’ll be.’
Acknowledging that he was right, Emily started to crawl awkwardly into the back of the Land Rover, totally unaware that, as she did so, the front of her sweatshirt was trapped beneath her body causing the back to ride up, so that Matt, automatically glancing into the driver’s mirror, had a very clear and erotic view of the rounded curve of her bottom, more revealed than concealed by the brief scrap of satin clinging so seductively to her skin.
It infuriated him that he should continue to stare into the mirror for far longer than he would have wished, so that the way he finally took hold of her shoulders and virtually hauled her over the seat left Emily not only feeling bruised and breathless but also in no doubt of just how exasperating and irritating he found her presence.
She drank her coffee quickly, savouring its fragrant warmth, but decided that after all she didn’t want to eat. Her stomach was churning nervously and she was having to fight hard not to look at the sleeping-bag Matt had unrolled, and to rigidly keep her back to him as she heard the small betraying sound that signified that he was removing his outer clothes.
She intended to keep on her sweatshirt until the last possible moment, all too conscious that her bra was every bit as revealing as her briefs, and so she waited until she was quite sure that all the slithering sounds which she suspected meant that Matt was climbing into the sleeping-bag had finished, before quickly tugging off her sweatshirt and hurriedly diving for the protective cover of the sleeping-bag.
Only Matt wasn’t already in it. Instead, he was waiting grimly beside her. The sight of him—a shadowy, intimidatingly male figure with a bronze torso and a wedge of dark hair that arrowed downwards over a body that was less bulky and muscle-bound than she had envisaged to a pair of mercifully respectable boxer shorts—caught her unprepared. She froze and looked wildly for something to focus on other than his body, while he said frigidly, ‘If you’re quite ready, I think we’d both better get inside the sleeping-bag before either of us loses any more body heat.’
She was already shivering, her legs icy-cold from the knees downwards. Even so, she found herself hesitating, wishing there were some other way. But there wasn’t, and she had no other option but to crawl into the sleeping-bag which he was holding open for her, to find that he had already put the car rug inside—which would account for the rustlings she had heard and which had deceived her into thinking he was already inside it.
There wasn’t much space in the back of the Land Rover, and in order to get inside the sleeping-bag she had to wriggle past him. Her hip brushed against his arm, her skin quivering at the contact with the rough hairiness. Tiny flutters of sensation quivered to life deep in her stomach, an odd physical tension aching there. Shadowy insubstantial thoughts clouded her mind. Sometimes in her dreams she had felt like this, experienced this disturbing ache.
Shivering, she crawled into the sleeping-bag, keeping firmly to one side of it and lying with her back to its centre as she waited for him to join her. He was equally cautious—only there was a lot more of him than there was of her, and the sleeping-bag was not really designed for two people. It was inevitable that, as he slid down inside it, his body should brush hers, but what was surely not equally inevitable was the sensation that that brief contact should cause.
Once, she had desired Gerry, or she had thought she had, but even his most coaxing, skilful caresses had never aroused that sudden wanton spurt of awareness she had just experienced now. It must be her age, she told herself shakily as she lay rigid with shock. Either that or a reaction to Gracie’s engagement…or perhaps her body was simply reacting physically to the intimacy she had sensed between Gracie and Travis.
It was ironic to remember that once she had daydreamed about just such an encounter, just such a stranger coming into her life and stirring her to immediate and reckless need and desire. Then it had seemed an idyllic romantic daydream; a thrilling fantasy of instant mutual awareness and responsiveness. Now that she was actually faced with the reality of experiencing urgent and extremely wanton physical yearning for a man who was a complete stranger, she was terrified by the implications of that desire, unable to understand why she was experiencing it.
It was just proximity, she told herself frantically…just a dangerous trick that her body was playing on her; but, as she felt the warmth of Matt’s body reach out to engulf her, she held herself rigid with tension, genuinely appalled by the reactions of her own body, terrified of going to sleep in case in doing so she somehow or other betrayed what she was experiencing.
Matt didn’t need his already low opinion of her sex reinforced by having to wake her up and point out to her that he did not find her sexually desirable. She could just imagine his reaction, were she in her sleep to give in to the lustful impulses that were filling her with such extraordinary and unfamiliar sensations.
She, who had never once in her life felt the slightest desire to make sexual advances to a man, and yet who was now unbelievably struggling not to give in to the mental temptation of allowing herself to imagine how it would feel to run her fingers over that dark wedge of body hair, to press her lips to that strong male throat…to…
‘For God’s sake, relax. I’m not going to touch you.’
The harsh command made her jump guiltily. No, he wasn’t going to touch her, but she—she dared not make any response to him. It was safer to pretend that she was already asleep.
On his side of the sleeping-bag, Matt groaned and told himself that the discomfort in his body was caused by the fact that he hardly dared to breathe, never mind move. He could almost feel the tension emanating from the slim feminine body lying so close to his own.
What in hell’s name did she think he was going to do? Did she really think he had so little control, so little respect for her as a fellow human being? But then, perhaps she had after all been aware of that far too lingering attention he had given the sight of her half-naked body. He closed his eyes and then opened them again as he was tormented by a mental image of his hands reaching out to close on the warm curves of her hips, to draw her back against his own body and turn her round and…
What the devil was the matter with him? Here he was, indulging in the most erotic kind of mental fantasies over a woman he knew absolutely nothing about, who probably already had a whole string of lovers, and who had made it more than plain that she had absolutely no desire to include him in their number.
No. Honesty compelled him to admit that his own extraordinary responsiveness to her had in no way been caused by any overt or covert sensual invitation on her part.
He only prayed that he did not turn over in his sleep and put his erotic fantasies into action. If he did, he had no doubt at all that his sleeping partner would be very caustic and acerbic in her denunciation of him—and quite rightly so.
Half an hour later, still wide awake and no closer to subduing his unruly body, Matt knew what he was going to have to do.
Emily felt him move beside her and tensed as she realised he was getting out of the sleeping-bag. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked him woodenly. Had she somehow or other communicated her feelings to him? She had been so careful not to touch him…not to allow her flesh to even brush against his, and yet humiliatingly it seemed he must be aware of what she was feeling.
‘It just occurred to me that perhaps I ought to try and stay awake,’ he lied. ‘Someone might be trying to get through with the snow plough.’
Emily knew that he was lying. There was no way that they would attempt to clear the road until daylight. Outside the temperature was still dropping, and it was still snowing. She sat up, too emotionally disturbed for caution as she said shakily, ‘You’re lying. You know no one is going to attempt to clear this road tonight, and so do I.’
There was a small silence, and then he agreed almost curtly, ‘All right, so I’m lying. If you must have the truth, dammit, you might as well have it—but I warn you, you won’t like it. If I stay in here with you one more minute, I doubt that I’ll be able to keep my hands off you.’
It was said so abruptly, so reluctantly, and with so much self-dislike that it was several seconds before what he was saying actually sank in. When it did, Emily felt her skin flush with brilliant colour, her voice as dazed as her brain as she whispered huskily, ‘You can’t mean that.’
‘Perhaps I shouldn’t mean it, but I’m afraid it’s the truth. I want you in my arms, under my body—in the most intimate way it is possible for a man to want a woman,’ he underlined almost savagely. ‘And believe me, you can’t be any more contemptuous of me than I am of myself. I assure you, I’m not—’
He broke off, leaving Emily to wonder what he had been about to say. He wasn’t going to pretend he loved her…how could he? He wasn’t going to apologise for wanting her? He wasn’t going to actually put his physical desire into actions? Why not, when every sense she possessed was telling her how much she wanted that same intimacy with him which he had just described so brusquely. Wanted it…ached for it…yearned for it…She took one shaky breath and then another. This had to stop, and right now.
She opened her mouth to tell him so and instead, shockingly, incredibly, heard herself asking breathlessly, pleadingly almost, ‘Do you really want to make love to me?’ What was she saying? Where was she going? What was she doing, embarking down a road which could only go one way?
It seemed a long time before she heard his bleak, clipped, ‘Yes…why?’
She took a deep breath, not allowing herself to think about what she was doing, holding fast to a deeper, more primitive instinct, like someone clutching a lifeline in heavy seas.
‘I…I feel the same way.’ When he was silent, she added, ‘I want to make love with you.’
It was said…the need voiced. She had opened herself to him to accept—or reject—whichever he chose, and she could not begin to understand why she had done so. Only that she had responded to something within him that had struck an answering chord within her.
As she waited she said hesitantly, ‘I can’t pretend to understand why. I know I’ve probably shocked you. If you’d prefer not to…’
Opposite her, Matt tried to probe what lay behind the cool, well-mannered words—if she was simply playing a joke on him, trying to make a fool of him, or if she actually meant it. He tried to tell himself that there was no way he could feel this urgent, clamouring desire for a woman about whom he knew nothing at all other than that he wanted her, but his body refused to listen to such logic. His body was reinforcing what he already knew—his body…
Emily heard him mutter something under his breath and tensed, waiting for his rejection, her back held rigidly towards him.
And then, unbelievably, she felt his hands on her shoulders turning her towards him, his voice low and ragged as he said rawly, ‘We shouldn’t be doing this, you know…’ He held her roughly as though pleading with her to deny him.
‘No…I know…’ Emily responded breathlessly, knowing even as she spoke that there was no power on earth that could stop this extraordinary mutual need that was driving them both.
And most extraordinary of all, she marvelled dizzily as she felt his arms close around her and draw her down against him, was the feeling she had of being so safe with him…so free to express herself and her desires, so free from restraint and shyness, so in tune with him that it was as though she had known him all her life, rather than a space of time that could be counted in minutes and hours instead of days and years.
‘If you should change your mind…’ The words whispered against her lips, tantalising their soft flesh.
Here was her chance to hold back, to let caution and common sense hold sway, to withdraw from this madness which seemed to have possessed her—but ignoring it, rejecting the opportunity he was giving her, she heard herself saying almost fiercely, ‘No…no. I don’t want to change my mind…’

CHAPTER THREE
‘YOU’RE sure you want this…Me?’
The words thrilled against her skin, raising a rash of gooseflesh, making her quiver and then tense as she felt Matt’s lips tracing the shape of her mouth, exploring it, cherishing it so that her tension died in a flood of wonder and pleasure.
Why had she never known that it was possible to feel like this; that the delicate, almost hesitant touch of another mouth against her own could arouse her to such dizzying pleasure and need? It was as though this sensual exploratory meeting of their lips was something she had dreamed of—yearned for for an aeon of time, rather than knowing she wanted it only seconds before she experienced it.
Against Matt’s mouth she whispered back, ‘I want you,’ and another thrill of anticipation ran through her as she felt the answering tension in Matt’s body.
An unfamiliar heady eagerness to reach out to him and show him, with the touch of her hands and her lips, just what delight it gave her to have him near her overwhelmed her. She, who had never once initiated an embrace with any man—not even Gerry—had suddenly turned into a woman she could hardly recognise.
How had she known that the delicate touch of her fingertips against his skin would make Matt tense and groan against her mouth, tightening his hold on her, drawing her down against him so that her body was enveloped in the heat and maleness of his?
His hands cradled her head, his fingers sliding into her hair as his mouth explored the delicate contours of her face. His warm breath against her ear made her tremble and shiver beneath a shower of fiery darts of excitement. Sensations she had never known existed coiled through her stomach and swelled the soft curves of her breasts, inciting her to move with instinctive enticement against Matt’s body, as her wanton flesh silently begged him to free it from the final barriers left between them.
She wanted to feel him against her, she recognised. She wanted to feel the hard heat of his skin against her own, to experience the touch of his hands and mouth against her body, and to explore the alien contours of his with hers. Her needs suspended reality and her ability to rationalise, her mind reeling under the shock of the dominating demands of her body.
As Matt’s hand swept back her hair to lay bare her throat to the hungry assault of his mouth, she arched eagerly towards him, not in humble supplication, but in proud demand, knowing by some primitive instinct that, whatever the differences between them, in this their need for one another they met as equals.
The heat of his breath against her skin, the hard pressure of his mouth, the sharp bite of his teeth, the rough stroke of his hands on her skin, all of them were so perfectly attuned to her own needs that to experience them fed her desire at the same time as they momentarily satisfied it.
An instinct she hadn’t known she possessed told her when to draw her own mouth against his flesh, when to stroke it tenderly with her tongue and when to graze it more ardently with the subtle pressure of her teeth.
Their surroundings, the storm which had brought them together, the fact that they were strangers to one another—all these had faded into insignificance. All that was important was that Matt had at last removed the last barriers of their underwear, and that his hands were cupping and shaping her breasts. That his thumbs were stroking eagerly, wonderingly almost, against the sensitive hardness of her nipples as though he knew exactly the intensity of her need to have him touch her just like that; as though he knew that even another second’s delay in doing so would have stretched out the taut hot wire of desire that compelled her that little bit too far.
And, when he lowered his head and took one tender, flaunting nub of flesh into his mouth, caressing it gently with his lips and then his tongue, raking it less gently with his teeth and then finally sucking so erotically and rhythmically on it that her whole body turned fluid and pulsed in a shockingly arousing harmony with it, it was as though she had waited for this moment, this pleasure…this man, for an infinity of time.
What she was experiencing went far beyond right or wrong, far, far beyond worrying about doing the right thing…about defending herself from hurt and pain. This need they were sharing was so elemental, so fierce, so overpowering that it cut across every layer of civilisation, laying bare the deepest essences of their humanity.
The Emily she had always known, had always been, would rather have died a thousand deaths than cry out in a pleasure that was almost pain at the sheer impossibility of containing what she was feeling—what he was making her feel. The Emily she had thought of herself as being could never have imagined herself wanting to share with any man her joy in the pleasure he was giving her—wanting to tell him, to show him, to give to him in equal measure all that he was so generously giving to her. The Emily she had thought she was would never have eagerly and openly murmured her need when Matt turned his head to caress her other breast as he had done its twin.
‘Francine…I can’t believe this is happening. You’re…’
Emily tensed. Francine. She had forgotten about that. Would he have wanted her the same if she had told him she was Emily? A rose by any other name…
Francine. Perhaps it was being Francine that gave her the freedom to behave in a way that Emily could never have behaved.
Matt’s mouth touched her stomach, sending tiny pulses of electric sensation coiling through her, making tiny nerve-endings beneath her skin beat frantically in excitement. His hand stroked her hip; soon…
‘No. Not yet,’ she told him huskily. ‘I want to…’ She stopped, realising that she had almost said ‘I want to love you.’ What words did you use to tell a man that you wanted to explore and enjoy the sensation of his flesh beneath your hands and mouth the way he had done yours? That you wanted to give him the same pleasure he had given you; that you wanted to share with him your joy in the fact that he was a man?
If they existed she had no idea what they were, and so, while he hesitated, she simply asked softly, ‘Can I do this?’ and then placed her mouth against his body, tentatively tracing the aureole of his nipple, so different from hers—and yet, perhaps in some ways not so very different after all, she decided as she felt him shudder and move restlessly against her, his hands gripping her waist and then stroking up over her body before he buried them in her hair, silently urging her to repeat the caress, and then not so silently as she fulfilled his silent command and experienced the satisfaction of feeling his body shudder in immediate response to her touch.

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