Instant Fire
Instant Fire
Liz Fielding
The boss and his runaway bride! Joanna might have walked out on her turbulent marriage with Clay Thackeray but that never meant she stopped loving him. So when he becomes her new boss, she’s horrified – how can she work alongside the man whose every look sends delicious tingles rippling down her spine?After two years apart, Clay’s determined to understand what made his ambitious, independent wife leave. It’s certainly not lack of chemistry – one look at her and he’s longing to make up for lost time! He can see that Jo is fighting their attraction, but how will he react when he discovers her biggest secret of all… ?
The boss and his runaway bride!
Joanna might have walked out on her turbulent marriage with Clay Thackeray but that never meant she stopped loving him. So when he becomes her new boss, she’s horrified – how can she work alongside the man whose every look sends delicious tingles rippling down her spine?
After two years apart, Clay’s determined to understand what made his ambitious, independent wife leave. It’s certainly not lack of chemistry – one look at her and he’s longing to make up for lost time! He can see that Jo is fighting their attraction, but how will he react when he discovers her biggest secret of all…?
Instant Fire
Liz Fielding
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For my mother,
who opened so many doors.
Table of Contents
Cover (#ud40ad43a-4e8c-56d8-b95b-d85e45baeb62)
Excerpt (#ube2c01c4-f9d6-584a-a80d-d6db986edf5f)
Title Page (#u9d532785-2247-57f0-88c6-20f66ecdff62)
Dedication (#u8154ed6d-475a-56ae-a370-404efd3dbca2)
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u88da8f6c-dce4-5928-bd2a-321f645ceb33)
THERE was an urgency about the ring and Joanna groaned. It was the first Saturday she hadn’t worked in weeks and she had planned a lazy morning. She pulled on her dressing-gown. ‘I’m coming,’ she called, as there was a second peremptory burst on the bell.
The postman grinned as she opened the door. ‘Sorry. Miss Grant, but this one needs signing for.’ Jo took the recorded delivery letter and signed where the postman indicated. ‘Thanks. You can go back to bed now.’ She glared at his back, then turned the letter over. The envelope was thick. Nothing cheap about whoever sent the letter inside, she thought. She opened it and unfolded the single sheet. She read it quickly through and frowned. It was from a firm of solicitors offering to purchase, at a very good price indeed, a block of shares she had inherited from her father.
She read it through a second time. The purchaser was not named. ‘A gentleman has instructed us …’ that was all. Jo shrugged and threw the letter on to her desk to answer later. It didn’t matter who the ‘gentleman’ was. Her shares in Redmond Construction were not for sale.
‘You, lad!’
Jo flung a contemptuous glance over the scaffolding. Another short-sighted idiot who assumed that because she was on a construction site she must be male. Nevertheless she inspected the figure standing in the yard with interest. He was leaning against a gunmetal-grey Aston Martin and despite the foreshortened angle she could see that he was well above average height. In fact, she thought, dressed in a beautifully cut lightweight tweed suit, he was an altogether impressive figure, and gave the disturbing impression that he wasn’t short of anything.
‘What do you want?’ she called down.
He raised a hand to shade his eyes against a sudden shaft of sunlight breaking through the clouds.
‘I’m looking for Joe Grant. Is he up there?’ he called.
‘I’ll come down,’ she shouted, swinging herself on to the first of a series of ladders to descend the fifty-odd feet to the ground and then turning to face the stranger. She had been right about his height. Despite owning to five feet ten inches in stockings she was forced to look up into the lean, weather-beaten face of a man whose very presence commanded attention. And into remarkable blue eyes which contrasted vividly with a pelt of black curly hair that no amount of the most expert cutting would ever quite keep under control. Blue eyes that were regarding her with puzzlement, as if he knew something wasn’t right, but couldn’t quite put his finger on what was bothering him.
The sudden rise in her pulse-rate at the sight of this tanned stranger, the heat that seared her cheekbones and parted her lips, an immediate recognition of some deep primeval need that he had stirred, shook her easy assurance.
She clamped her lips together. ‘Well?’ she demanded and her voice was shockingly sharp in her ears.
A slight frown creased his forehead. ‘My name is Thackeray,’ he said, his soft voice seeming to vibrate into her very bones. ‘I’m looking for Joe Grant. A girl at the office told me he was working here.’
Jo stuck her hands deep in her pockets in an unconsciously boyish gesture and walked quickly away from him. ‘You’d better come over to the site office, Mr Thackeray,’ she looked back over her shoulder and called to him.
‘I’ve been to the office already. He’s not there.’ He seemed reluctant to follow her.
‘He will be.’ Jo opened the door and waited. The man shrugged and moved after her and she went inside, removing her hard hat, enjoying the small triumph of satisfaction at the exclamation from behind her as a thick mop of dark blonde hair swung free to frame her face. She shrugged out of the ancient Barbour, several sizes too large, and turned to face him. ‘I’m Jo Grant, Mr Thackeray. Now, what exactly can I do for you?’
A smile charged his eyes with warmth as he acknowledged his mistake. ‘I can think of any number of things. Accept my most humble apologies, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps,’ she conceded, cloaking her heart’s racketing response to his smile in cool politeness. This man had never been humble.
‘Does it happen often?’
‘Often enough. There’s no reason for you to feel stupid.’
‘Oh, I don’t,’ he said, easily. ‘Dressed in an outsized jacket, wellingtons and a hard hat, even the most glamorous woman might be mistaken for a boy.’
His amusement was galling. And she hadn’t missed the implication that since she wasn’t glamorous it was perfectly reasonable for him to make such a mistake.
‘Perhaps you would get to the point, Mr Thackeray?’
‘The point, Miss Grant?’
‘You were looking for me. You’ve found me.’
‘Oh, the point!’ The smile died on his lips and his expression became quite still. ‘The point is this, Jo Grant. I came to ask the bearer of that name out to lunch. So? What do you say?’
Jo drew her brows together in genuine surprise. ‘Lunch? Why on earth would you want to take me out to lunch.’
He looked at her more intently. ‘You would find such an invitation surprising?’ he asked. There was a certain practised charm about him and she realised, with a slight shock, that he was flirting with her.
‘Of course I’m surprised. You don’t know me.’
‘True,’ he conceded. ‘And I have to own up to the fact that the Joe Grant I’m looking for weighs around fifteen stone, has a beard and is in his fifties. But I am very happy to accept you as his substitute.’
Jo sat down rather suddenly. ‘No substitute at all, I’m afraid. But I’m the nearest you’re going to get. My father is dead.’
‘Joe’s dead?’ There was no disguising the shock in his voice. ‘But he was no age.’ He seemed genuinely upset and for a moment stared through the window. Then he looked down at her as if seeing her for the first time. ‘You’re Joe’s daughter? The one in the picture on his desk?’ He frowned. ‘But you were all spectacles and braces.’
Jo remembered the dreadful picture in an old frame that had been almost buried among the clutter on her father’s desk. ‘Yes, I’m afraid I was. Poor Dad. I usually managed to avoid having my photograph taken, but that was a school job. There was no escape. Mum felt obliged to buy it but out of deference to my feelings she wouldn’t put it next to my sister’s.’
‘Really? Why was that?’
‘Heather has curls, straight teeth and twenty-twenty vision.’ She shrugged. ‘Dad took pity on me.’
Measuring blue eyes regarded her with provoking self-assurance. ‘I’m certain you’d give your sister a run for her money these days, Miss Grant.’
She smiled slightly. ‘I’m afraid not, Mr Thackeray. Heather is still the family beauty. I had to make do with the brains.’
‘Poor you.’
Jo stiffened. ‘I don’t require sympathy, Mr Thackeray,’ she blurted out, then coloured furiously at her stupid outburst as she saw the laughter lighting the depths of his eyes. This man was getting under her skin, breaking through the barriers she had erected as part of the price for her acceptance in a man’s world.
‘Your self-esteem still seems in need of a little propping up, if you don’t mind my saying so. But I have to agree that you have no need of sympathy from me, or anyone else.’ Before she could reply he had changed the subject. ‘Joe said you planned to follow in his footsteps. I thought he was joking.’
‘So did he, Mr Thackeray. By the time he realised his mistake it was too late to do anything about it.’
‘Did he try?’
She remembered the pride on his face at her graduation, her mother’s delight. ‘Not very hard,’ she assured him.
His look was thoughtful. ‘I see.’
She had assumed he would take his leave once he had discovered that his errand was fruitless. Instead he folded himself into the chair at the side of her desk.
‘I’m very sorry to hear about Joe’s death, Miss Grant. What happened?’ There was a genuine concern in his face which brought the old familiar ache to her throat. She stared hard at the schedules on the desk in front of her until the dangerous prickling behind her eyelids was under control.
‘He was in his car. Apparently he had a heart attack.’ Jo dragged her mind back to the present and looked up. ‘It was three years ago.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’ve been overseas, working in Canada. I’ve been renewing some old acquaintances and when I phoned Redmonds’ office to ask for your father they said—’
‘It’s all right. A simple mistake. It happens all the time; I should have learned to be less prickly by now.’ She offered him her hand and a slightly rueful smile. ‘Joanna Grant.’
His grasp was warm, the strong hand of a man you would want on your side. ‘Clayton Thackeray.’
‘Well, I’m sorry you had a wasted journey, Mr Thackeray.’
‘Hardly wasted.’ His eyes were intensely, disturbingly blue, and she looked hurriedly away.
‘I’m not much of a substitute for Dad.’
‘I liked and admired your father, Joanna. But it occurs to me that lunch with you will be every bit as enjoyable. And you’re a great deal easier on the eye. Now that you’ve dispensed with the braces.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she protested. ‘You don’t have to take me …’ He waited, his face betraying nothing. ‘I shouldn’t …’
‘Why not?’ he asked.
‘Because …’ There was no reason, apart from the fact that she wanted to go far too much for her own peace of mind.
He smiled as if he could see the battle taking place inside her head. ‘Force yourself, Joanna.’
‘I …’ He still had her hand firmly clasped in his much larger one. ‘Thank you.’ She found herself agreeing, without quite understanding why. Except that she didn’t think he was the kind of man who ever took no for an answer.
‘My pleasure. I booked a table at the George on my way through the village. I’d planned to take your father there.’
‘Did you? Then I’d better change my boots.’ She put her head to one side and decided it was her turn to tease a little. ‘But you don’t have to impress me, Mr Thackeray. I’m just a site engineer. I usually have a sandwich down the pub.’
Laughter produced deep creases around his eyes and down his cheeks. ‘I’m not looking for a job, Joanna. And my friends call me Clay. Do what you have to. I’ll wait in the car.’
She kicked off her boots, slipped her feet into narrow low-heeled shoes and ran a clothes brush over her grey woollen trousers, wishing for once that she had a skirt to change into. Her soft cream shirt had been chosen more for comfort than style, but at least her sweater was a pretty, if impractical, mixture of pink and white. A gift from her Heather, her older sister, who ran a stylish boutique and never ceased in her attempts to add a little femininity to Jo’s wardrobe which tended to run to hardwearing clothes suitable for the site. She took down the calendar that hid the mirror, her one concession to vanity in this male world, and regarded her reflection with disfavour.
Then she shrugged. ‘Don’t kid yourself, Jo,’ she told herself sternly. ‘He’s taking you out to lunch because he knew your father. Don’t get any silly ideas.’ She pulled a face at herself, but nevertheless Heather would have been pleased to see how long her little sister spent on her hair and make-up.
Clay Thackeray ushered her into the car, opening the door and settling her comfortably before sliding into the driving seat. She was aware of interested eyes watching from every part of the site and knew that she would be teased mercilessly for the next few days by men opening doors with exaggerated politeness, offering her their arm on the scaffolding. They wouldn’t miss a trick.
‘It would be just the same if you were a man being picked up by a girl, you know. Probably worse.’ He reversed the car and turned into the lane.
She laughed. ‘Do you read minds for a living?’
‘No, but I was a site engineer myself once.’
‘Were you?’ Jo gave him a sideways glance from under long, dark lashes. He’d come a long way from that lowly position. ‘And I have no doubt that a great many girls picked you up.’
He turned and smiled. ‘A few,’ he admitted. ‘And your father certainly knew how to tease.’
‘Yes, he did.’ She had worked on sites with him during the long summer holidays from university and she had seen him at work. Had been the butt of his jokes, too. The slightest mistake was ruthlessly exploited. She had hated it, but it had toughened her up. The Aston purred as he drove gently down the lane. ‘This is a lovely car.’
‘Yes, it was my father’s. He hasn’t driven it much in recent years but he wouldn’t let me buy it from him until he considered I was old enough to be trusted with it.’
‘And are you?’
‘Thirty-three?’ he offered. ‘What do you think? The old man wanted to wait another year. He didn’t have his first Aston until he was nearly thirty-five. But I forced his hand. I threatened to buy a BMW.’ He turned into the George’s car park.
‘What a dreadful thing to do!’ But the laughter in her voice softened the words.
‘Wasn’t it?’ Their hands touched as he reached to unclip her seatbelt and they looked up at the same moment. For a long second Jo thought the world must have stopped spinning. ‘I want to kiss you, Jo Grant.’ His voice grated over a million tiny nerve-endings and she swallowed. Her pulse was hammering in her ears and she could hardly breathe. Girls weren’t supposed to kiss men they had just met. They certainly weren’t supposed to admit they wanted to.
Jo fought the inclination to meet him halfway and lifted one brow. ‘And do you always get what you want, Clayton Thackeray?’
‘Always,’ he assured her.
Flustered by the unwavering certainty in his eyes, she made an effort at a laugh. ‘Really, Mr Thackeray, I thought the form was that you wine and dine a girl before you make a pass,’ she said, attempting to hide her bewildering, unexpected hunger for this man, bury it under a flippancy she was far from feeling.
Clay Thackeray stared at her for a moment, then he released the seatbelt, making her jump, breaking the spell. ‘You’re right, of course. And this is only lunch. I’ll have to give some thought to the question of dinner.’
Before she could gather her wits he was opening the car door for her. His hand under her arm seemed to burn through the sleeve of her jacket and neither of them spoke as he led her inside the restaurant. Clay caught the eye of the waiter and they were shown straight to their table in the corner, overlooking the river.
Jo kept her eyes firmly on the view from the window, anything but face the man opposite. She spent her working life with men and they rarely managed to find her at a loss for a word. But right now she couldn’t think of a thing to say. At least nothing that made any sense.
No such problem tormented Clay. ‘Let me see if I can read your thoughts again,’ he suggested. Jo’s grey eyes widened. The disturbing thoughts racing unbidden through her mind were not the kind she wanted him to read. ‘Duck?’ he said softly, a suspicion of laughter in his voice.
‘Is that an instruction or an observation?’ she asked, making a supreme effort to keep the atmosphere light.
‘An observation,’ he replied, drily, pointing to the birds on the riverbank. ‘You seem to be fascinated by them; I thought perhaps you were deciding which one you wanted for lunch.’ He offered her the menu. ‘Or perhaps you’d rather run an eye over this?’
Jo buried her face in the menu and by the time the waiter returned to take their order had regained something of her natural composure.
‘Something to drink?’
‘A pineapple juice topped up with soda, please.’
Clay relayed this request to the waiter and added a mineral water for himself.
‘You said you have just come back from Canada?’ Jo asked, leading the conversation into neutral territory. ‘What were you doing there?’
‘Working. My mother was a French Canadian. When she died I realised how little I knew about her or where she came from. I wanted to find out.’
‘And now you’re having a holiday?’
He hesitated for a moment before he said, ‘Not exactly. But I’m looking up old friends. When the receptionist at Redmonds said Joe was working here it was close enough to home to take a chance on finding him at the site.’
‘Home?’ She tried to ignore the treacherous rise in her pulse-rate at the thought of him living near by.
‘I bought a cottage on the river at Camley when I was over at Christmas.’
He was staying, and she was ridiculously, stupidly pleased. ‘I love Camley. It’s so unspoilt.’ She was babbling, but he seemed not to notice.
‘Yes. It’s the reason I bought the place.’ He pulled a face. ‘Stupid, really. My offices are in London; a service flat would be a lot less bother. But I couldn’t resist the cottage. It’s old and it needs a lot of work, but I suppose that was part of its charm. The builder has finished putting the structure to rights and it’s habitable, but I’m just camping there at the moment.’
‘So you’re not going back to Canada?’
‘Not permanently. At least for the foreseeable future.’ He regarded her with steady amusement. ‘Are you pleased?’ he asked.
The arrival of the waiter saved her from the embarrassment of a reply and she regarded the poached salmon he placed before her with a sudden loathing for its pinkness … the same colour that she was only too aware was staining her cheeks.
‘Hollandaise?’ Forced to look up, she discovered that he wasn’t laughing at her as she had suspected. His smile was unexpectedly warm. ‘I am,’ he said. ‘Very pleased.’
She swallowed and took the dish he offered. ‘Did you work with Dad for long?’ she asked, the catch in her voice barely noticeable.
‘He was my first project manager. I came to Redmonds from university and was put to work under him. I was very fortunate. You must miss him.’
‘Yes, I miss him. I wanted him to …’ Her voice trailed away. That was too private a need to be shared. Not something to be spoken aloud.
Sensitive to the fact that he had strayed into dangerous territory, he changed the subject, describing his life in Canada, the country. On safer ground, Jo at last began to relax.
When coffee arrived he sat back in his chair and regarded her seriously. ‘So what are your career plans, Joanna? Surely you don’t intend to stay on site?’
‘I was the first woman that Redmonds employed as a site engineer,’ she said, with a certain pride. ‘I plan to be the first woman they appoint as a project manager.’
If he was surprised he hid it well enough, but his next question suggested that he had some understanding of the problems involved. ‘Does that leave you any room for a personal life?’
‘Not much,’ she admitted.
‘But what about marriage? Raising a family?’
‘Men manage to have both.’ She was no stranger to this argument. Her sister had tried so many times to persuade her to take up a more conventional career that she had once offered to make a tape recording and play it at least once a day to save her the bother. But Heather had long since stopped trying to change her and confined her efforts these days to improving her wardrobe.
‘True, and probably not very fair. But men don’t get pregnant. Climbing up and down ladders might get to be a bit of a problem, don’t you think?’
Since Jo had no intention of getting pregnant in the foreseeable future, she ignored the question and glanced at her watch. ‘It’s late. I should get back.’
Clay regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, but didn’t pursue the subject. Instead he summoned the waiter and asked for the bill. ‘Now, about dinner. Where shall I pick you up?
Surprise that he should want to see her again made her laugh a little uncertainly. ‘There’s no need, Clay, really. It was very kind of you to take me out to lunch, but—’
‘I didn’t bring you here to be kind.’ He leaned forward. ‘I still want to kiss you, Jo Grant. You were the one who stipulated being wined and dined first. Of course, perhaps you’ve changed your mind.’ His eyes glinted wickedly. ‘In which case I’ll be happy to oblige right now.’
‘I didn’t …’ Joanna bit back the denial and stood up. It was a ridiculous conversation and she had no intention of prolonging it. Clay rose and she smiled, graciously, she hoped. ‘Please don’t let me rush you.’ She offered Clay her hand and he shook it solemnly. ‘Thank you for lunch. I won’t trouble you for a lift. I can get a taxi back to work.’ She moved swiftly across the dining-room, making for the pay-phone in Reception, where she searched furiously in her bag.
‘Can I offer you some change?’ He was leaning against the wall, watching her.
‘No, thank you,’ Jo said coldly. Then, as she realised that she had none, she changed her mind. ‘Yes,’ she snapped.
‘It’ll be at least ten minutes before one comes,’ Clay said, gently, offering her a handful of silver coins. ‘Why don’t you want me to take you?’
She refused to meet his eye. Selecting a ten-pence coin, Jo fiercely punched in the number of the local taxi service listed by the phone.
‘Don’t you want me to kiss you?’ he asked, seriously. ‘I rather thought you did.’
The phone was ringing in her ear. ‘Keble Taxis, how can I help you?’
‘I should like a taxi to collect me from the George as quickly as possible, please,’ Jo said, studiously ignoring the man at her side.
‘We’re rather busy at the moment,’ the girl told her. ‘It’ll be twenty minutes.’
‘Twenty minutes!’
Clay took the phone from her hand and spoke into the receiver. ‘We’ll leave it, thank you.’ He hung up. ‘I can’t have you late for work, can I? Not a dedicated career-woman like you. You’ll be quite safe, I promise.’
Before she could protest further he had opened the door and swept her towards the car. Settled against the worn leather, Jo was aware of a certain breathlessness. On site, except for visits from the project manager, she was in control. But she had somehow lost that control when Clay Thackeray had walked into her office. The word safe was completely inappropriate. He was a dangerously disturbing man.
They didn’t speak as they sped along the country lanes and it was with a certain relief that Jo saw the site earthworks appear above the hedge. Clay pulled into the yard and stopped. She tried to escape but he was faster, catching her hand as she moved to release the seatbelt, holding it against his chest so that she could feel the steady thudding of his heart.
‘Now you have to decide, Jo Grant.’
Jo glared at him. ‘You promised!’
‘Did I?’ He challenged her softly. ‘I remember saying that you would be safe. I didn’t specify what I would keep you safe from.’
How could such open, honest eyes hide such a devious nature? she fumed. ‘In that case I’ll get it over with now, if it’s all the same to you.’ Ignoring the fact that they had the rapt attention of the site staff, she closed her eyes and waited. A soft chuckle made her open them again. Clay was shaking his head.
‘Round one to you, ma’am. On points.’ He leaned across and pushed open the door for her. For a moment she sat, completely nonplussed. ‘Well? Are you going to sit there all afternoon? I thought you were in a hurry.’
‘Yes.’ She made an effort to pull herself together. ‘Thank you again for lunch,’ she said, auto-matically.
She climbed from the car and walked quickly across to her office, firmly refusing to give in to the impulse to look back.
It was Thursday before he phoned. A whole week.
‘Joanna?’ Her heart skipped a beat as the low voice spoke her name.
‘Clay?’ she echoed the query in his voice, but ruefully acknowledged that the man knew how to play the game. She had been on tenterhooks all week, expecting him to turn up at the site every moment. The mere glimpse of a grey car was enough to send her heart on a roller-coaster. But he hadn’t come and she had called herself every kind of fool for refusing his invitation to dinner. And then called herself every kind of fool for wanting to get involved with him. He was completely out of her reach. She hadn’t the experience to cope with such a man. She hadn’t the experience, full stop.
‘How are you, Joanna?’ She could almost see the cool amusement in those eyes.
‘Fine, thank you. And you? Are you enjoying your holiday?’
‘Not much. I’ve been in the Midlands all week on business. But you could change all that. Have dinner with me tonight.’
‘Have all your old girlfriends got married while you’ve been away?’ she parried, a little breathlessly, not wishing to seem too eager.
He chuckled. ‘Most of them. It has been nearly seven years. Will you come?’
‘I …’ For a moment there was war between desire and common sense. Desire had no competition. ‘I’d love to.’
CHAPTER TWO (#u88da8f6c-dce4-5928-bd2a-321f645ceb33)
IT WAS late when Jo finally parked the car behind the old house in the nearby market town of Woodhurst. She let herself into the first-floor flat that she had rented for the duration of the job and dumped her shopping on the kitchen table.
She wasted very little time in the shower and quickly dried her hair, a thick, dark blonde mop, streaked with pale highlights from so much time spent out of doors. There had been a time when she had wondered what it would be like to have curls like her sister, but had long since accepted the fact that they weren’t for her. Her nose was a little too bold and her mouth overlarge. Curls, a kindly hairdresser had told the fourteen-year-old Joanna as he’d cut away the disastrous results of Heather’s attempt to provide the missing locks with a home perm, were for those girls whose face lacked character. She hadn’t believed him, even then, but these days she was content with a style that needed little more than a cut once every three weeks to keep it looking good.
Satisfied with her hair, she spent a great deal longer than usual on her make-up and painted her nails pale pink. Tonight she was determined to be Joanna Grant. Jo the site engineer could, for once, take a back seat.
She had few evening clothes and she hadn’t needed to deliberate on what she would wear. She stepped into a floating circle of a skirt in pale grey georgette and topped it with a long-sleeved jacket in toning greys and pinks with a touch of silver thread in the design. She fastened large pale pink circles of agate twisted around with silver to her ears and regarded the result with a certain satisfaction. It was quite possible, she thought, with some amusement, that, in the unlikely event they should bump into any of her colleagues tonight, they would be hard pressed to recognise her.
Slipping her feet into low-heeled grey pumps, Jo spun in front of her mirror, coming to a sudden halt at the sound of her doorbell. She stood for a moment, as if rooted to the spot, vulnerable, uncertain of herself. Then the fear that he might not wait lent wings to her heels as she flew to the door.
Clay, his tall figure a study in elegance in the stark blackness of a dinner-jacket, was leaning against the stairpost regarding the toe of his shoe, and he glanced up as she flung open the door. He started to smile and then stopped, cloaking the expression in his eyes as he straightened and stared at the girl framed in the doorway.
‘Are those for me?’ Jo asked finally, to break the silence.
He glanced down at a spray of pink roses as if he couldn’t think where they had come from, then back at her.
‘I rather think they must be.’
‘Come in. I’ll put them in some water. Would you like a drink?’ she asked, trying to remember what she had done with a bottle of sherry left over from Christmas.
‘No, thanks.’ He followed her into the cramped kitchen and watched as she clipped the stems and stood them in deep water to drink.
She turned to him. ‘These are lovely, Clay. Thank you.’
‘So are you, Joanna. No one would ever mistake you for a boy tonight.’ He took a step towards her then turned away, raking long fingers through his hair. ‘I think we had better go.’ For the briefest moment it had seemed as if he was going to kiss her, and the thought quickened her blood, sending it crazily through her veins. Instead he opened the door and she followed him down the stairs to the waiting taxi.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘A little place I know by the river.’ This deprecating description hardly did justice to the elegant restaurant overlooking the Thames and she told him so.
‘I thought you would like to come here.’ He seemed oddly distracted.
‘It’s beautiful.’
He turned and looked down at her. ‘Yes. It is.’ He lifted his hand to her cheek, his fingertips lingering against the smooth perfection of her skin. ‘Quite beautiful.’
‘May I show you to your table, sir?’
Clay dragged himself back from wherever his thoughts had taken him and he tucked his arm under Joanna’s. They made a striking couple as they walked across the restaurant and several heads turned to follow their progress. Joanna was usually forced to disguise her height when walking with a man, never wearing high heels and, if not exactly slumping, at least keeping what her father had laughingly described as a very relaxed posture. Now, beside the strong figure of Clay Thackeray, the top of her head just reaching his ear, she stretched to her full height, human enough to enjoy the knowledge that she was envied by at least half the women present. Probably more.
Afterwards she couldn’t have described anything they had eaten or much of what they had talked about, although she thought he had told her something about a consultancy that he had begun in Canada and his plans for expansion into Britain. All she could remember was Clay’s face in the candlelight, his hand reaching for hers across the table, the words, ‘Let’s go home.’
In the back of the car she curled against him as if she had known him for years. His arm drew her close and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to rest her head on his shoulder. She didn’t think about where they were going. She didn’t care, as long as he held her.
The car eventually stopped and she lifted her head. ‘Where are we?’ she asked.
‘You are home, fair lady. Where did you expect to be?’
Glad of the darkness to hide her blushes, she allowed him to help her from the car.
‘I’ll see you to your door.’
She turned to him at the top of the stairs. ‘Would you like a coffee?’
‘I think I’m going to have enough trouble sleeping, Jo.’ His arm was around her waist and she didn’t ever want him to let go of her. As if reading her mind, he pulled her closer. ‘But, before I go, I believe you promised me a kiss.’
She lowered her eyes, suddenly shy. ‘Now?’ she asked.
‘Now,’ he affirmed, and his lips touched hers for the briefest moment, the time it took her heart to beat. He drew back the space of an inch, no more. ‘Joanna?’ His voice was a question and an answer. Then his mouth descended upon hers and her willing response answered any question he cared to ask.
When at last he released her she could hardly support herself, and he held her in the circle of his arms and stood for a moment with her head upon his shoulder.
‘I must go.’
‘Must you?’
‘Don’t make it any harder.’ He kissed the top of her head and she looked up, but he seemed to be far away, no longer with her. She fumbled in her bag for her key and he took it from her and opened the door.
‘Can I see you tomorrow?’
She hesitated for a moment, but then he smiled and on a catch of breath she nodded. ‘Yes.’
He raised his hand briefly. ‘I’ll pick you up at seven.’ Then he was gone without a backward glance and for the first time in her life she felt the pain of being torn in two. Her other half had walked down the stairs in the palm of Clay Thackeray’s hand.
Joanna wondered briefly, as she stood under a reviving shower, exactly what she had thought about before the appearance of Clay Thackeray. Since his appearance a week earlier he had filled her waking hours completely, and a good few of her sleeping ones.
A ring at the door put a stop to these thoughts and she grabbed a towelling wrap and went to answer it.
‘Clay!’
‘I’m a little early,’ he apologised.
‘Just a little,’ she agreed, laughter dancing in her eyes. ‘I thought we were meeting at seven p.m., not seven a.m.’
‘I had this sudden yearning to know what you looked like first thing in the morning.’ His eyes drifted down the deep V of her wrap and she grabbed self-consciously at it and tightened the belt, feeling at something of a disadvantage alongside the immaculate dark blue pin-striped suit and stark white shirt.
‘Well?’
‘Exactly as I imagined. No make-up, bare feet, hair damp from the shower …’ she lifted her hand self-consciously, but he anticipated the move and caught her fingers ‘… and quite beautiful.’ He stepped through the door and closed it firmly behind him.
She laughed a little nervously and stepped back in the face of such assured advances. ‘Compliments so early in the morning deserve some reward. Would you like some breakfast?’
One stride brought him to her side. He slid an arm around her waist and drew her close. ‘That, sweet Joanna, rather depends upon the menu.’
Jo’s breathing was a little ragged. ‘Eggs?’ she heard herself say. He made no response. ‘I might have some bacon.’ His eyes never left hers. ‘Toast?’ she offered, desperately. ‘I haven’t much time. I have to get to …’ He leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers and she no longer cared about the time.
‘You, Jo. Don’t you know that I want you for breakfast?’
He pulled the knot of her wrap and she made no move to stop him. Last night she knew that with very little persuasion she would have fallen into bed with him. He had known that too. It had been far too easy to fall in love with him. In the long, wakeful hours of the night she had determined that this evening she would put on some emotional armour along with her make-up. But, almost as if he had anticipated this, he had outmanoeuvred her, taking her by surprise with this early-morning raid. No make-up. No armour. No clothes. The harsh ring of the doorbell made her jump and he straightened, a crooked smile twisting his mouth.
‘Saved by the bell, Jo.’ For a moment he held the edges of her robe, then he pulled it close around her and retied the knot before standing aside for her to open the door.
‘Sorry, Miss Grant. Another of those recorded delivery letters for you to sign. You’d better pay up!’ She smiled automatically at the postman’s bantering humour and signed the form. This time she didn’t bother to open the letter, but threw it on the hall table.
‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ Clay asked. ‘It looks urgent.’
‘I know what it says. It’s from someone who wants to buy some shares I own. I’ve already told them I won’t sell.’
‘Oh? Maybe they’ve increased their offer.’
She frowned. ‘Do you think so? I wonder why they want them?’ Her eyes lingered for a moment on the envelope. ‘Perhaps I ought to find out—’
‘Forget them! They’re not important.’ She lifted her eyes to his and all thoughts of shares were driven from her head as he kissed her once more. But the moment of madness had passed and when he finally raised his head she took an unsteady step back.
‘I really must get ready for work, Clay.’
‘Must you?’ He frowned, then shrugged. ‘Of course you must. And I’m delaying you.’ He turned for the door.
‘Clay, why did you come here this morning?’
He paused for a moment, his knuckles white as he gripped the door-handle, as if debating with himself. When he looked back it was with a deadly and earnest force. ‘I thought we might have dinner at the cottage tonight,’ he said. His eyes were unreadable.
She didn’t stop to think. It was already far too late for thinking. ‘I’d love to,’ she said, the words barely escaping her throat.
She stood in the hall for a long moment after he had left, then, gathering her wits, she turned to get ready for work. Her eyes fell on the letter and impatiently she tore it open. Clay had been right, the offer had indeed been increased. His apparent omniscience gave her a ridiculous burst of pleasure.
Clay arrived on the stroke of seven and Jo picked up the soft leather bag that held everything she might need. She locked the door behind them and opened her bag to drop in the key, then turned to see him watching her.
‘Got everything?’ he asked.
‘Yes, thank you.’ Her cheeks were warm as she turned to follow him down the stairs to the waiting car.
The cottage was beautiful and very old, built of narrow autumn-coloured bricks, with a drunken pantile roof where a pair of fantail doves, golden in the evening light, were flirting. The garden had been neglected, but already work had begun to restore the stone pathways and a dilapidated dovecote. He helped her out of the car and for a moment she just stood and took it all in.
‘It’s lovely.’
‘I’m glad you like it. Come and see what I’ve been doing inside.’ Her heart was hammering as he led her up the path and opened the door, standing back to let her step across the threshold and into the hall.
The floor had been newly stripped and repolished and a jewel-rich Persian rug lay before them. She dropped her bag at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Hungry?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘Not very. Will you show me round?’
‘The grand tour?’ He laughed. ‘It won’t take very long.’
The colour in her cheeks deepened slightly. She just needed a little time to gain her bearings. It would have been so much easier if they had gone out somewhere first. Good food, wine, eased the way.
‘This is the study.’ His voice made her jump. He opened a door on the left and led the way into a square room littered with wallpaper off-cuts. ‘I’ve been trying to decide which paper to use.’
Glad of something positive to think about, Jo picked up various samples and held them against the wall. ‘I like this one,’ she said, finally.
‘That’s settled, then.’
She spun around. ‘But … it’s your choice.’
‘Yes. I know.’ He held the door to let her through. ‘That’s the cloakroom. Storage cupboard,’ he said carelessly, as they passed closed doors. ‘And this is the morning-room.’
‘This is a cottage on a rather grand scale,’ she said, admiring the use of yellow and white that would reflect the morning sun. She walked across to a pair of casement windows and opened them, stepping out into the garden. ‘You’re on the river!’ she exclaimed. ‘I hadn’t realised.’ She walked quickly down to the small mooring with its tiny dock.
‘There’s a boathouse behind those shrubs, but the roof has collapsed.’
‘Will you rebuild it?’
‘Maybe. Is it warm enough to eat out here, do you think?’
‘Oh, yes! I’ve a sweater in my bag.’ Once again the betraying heat stained her cheeks at this reminder.
‘Go and get it while I organise the food.’
‘You haven’t finished the guided tour,’ she said quickly. Then wished she hadn’t.
‘We’ve the whole evening. Don’t be so impatient, Joanna. You’ll see everything, I promise.’
She stood for long moments in the hall, making an effort to bring her breathing back under control. It was idiotic to be so jumpy. She was grown up. Twenty-four years old. She found the cloakroom and splashed cold water on to her face. Her eyes seemed twice their normal size in the mirror, the grey abnormally dark. ‘Come on, Jo,’ she told her reflection. ‘You want this man so much it hurts.’ If only he would make love to her, all her nerves would be swept away. But it was almost as if he was going out of his way not to touch her.
He had spread a cloth under a willow tree, its curtain providing a cloak of privacy from the passing boats, and was uncorking a bottle.
‘Mrs Johnson has done us proud,’ he said, as she settled on the rug beside him.
‘Mrs Johnson?’
‘She cooks, cleans, looks after me like a mother hen.’
‘Oh.’ Jo wasn’t sure she liked the idea of an unknown woman cooking a seduction feast, wondering how many times she had done it before.
He handed her a glass of wine and touched the rim with his own. ‘To Love.’
‘Love—?’
‘‘‘‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my meat.’ So I did sit and eat.’’’ He solemnly offered her a crab bouchée.
She quickly took one, but it seemed to fill her mouth and stick there. He topped up her glass and she drank nervously. For a moment he watched her, then he toyed with his food.
‘How’s Charles Redmond these days?’
‘Charles?’ She frowned. ‘Of course, you must know him. He’s made a good recovery by all accounts.’
‘Will he retire, do you think?’
‘I doubt it. The company is his life.’ She was so glad of something ordinary to talk about, she didn’t stop to consider that her boss was a very odd topic of conversation in the circumstances. She even began to enjoy the food. At last, though, the late May sun had dipped behind the trees and the temperature dropped sharply.
‘Come on, you’re shivering. I’ve kept you out here far too long.’ He caught her around the waist and hurried her indoors. ‘This way.’ Clay led the way through a door to the right and turned on a lamp which softly illuminated the drawing-room. The floor was richly carpeted in Wedgwood-blue and a large, comfortable sofa was set square before the fireplace. Behind it stood an eighteenth-century sofa table. A well-rubbed leather wing-chair flanked the hearth. The only modern touch was the hi-fi equipment tucked away in an alcove. He bent and put a match to the fire. ‘Warm yourself. I won’t be a moment.’
Jo stood in front of the large open brick fireplace, watching the flames lick around the logs, wondering, with a sudden attack of nerves, if she was being an absolute fool. She had prided herself on her detachment, her ability to hold herself aloof from the idiotic disenchantment and pain she had seen her friends put themselves through. She had her job, her career to keep her content. Now here she was, in danger of falling into the same dangerous trap.
‘Joanna?’ His voice pulled her back to him and she understood then, as they stood side by side in the flickering firelight, just why people made such fools of themselves. Clay solemnly handed two glasses to her and, not once taking his eyes from hers, opened a bottle of champagne and allowed the golden bubbles to foam into them.
He raised his glass in silent homage to her. Jo sipped the champagne, hardly conscious of the bubbles prickling her tongue; only the heightened sensation of expectancy seemed real. The tiny nerve-endings in her skin were all at attention, tingling with nervous excitement, and quite suddenly she was shaking. Clay rescued her glass and stood it on the great wooden beam that formed the mantel.
He drew her into his arms, moulding her against his body, his eyes hooded with desire. ‘I want you, Joanna Grant,’ he said, and his voice stroked her softly. She leaned her head back slightly and smiled up at him, her self-possession a paper-thin veneer masking the ridiculous racketing of her heart, and as his lips touched hers she closed her eyes.
She thought she knew what it was like to be kissed by Clay Thackeray. Perhaps it was the champagne, or perhaps it was just that she had been anticipating this moment all day. For a few moments his wide, teasing mouth touched hers in a gentle exploration of the possibilities. Then he paused and she opened her eyes, parting her lips in an involuntary sigh as old as time, any lingering doubts having long since evaporated in the heat beating through her veins. He kissed her again, fleetingly, his eyes locked on to hers, then swung her into her arms and carried her to the sofa, sitting with her across his lap, her arms around his neck. For a moment his gaze focused on her mouth. Gently he outlined her lips with the tip of his finger. She moved urgently against him and whispered his name.
‘Patience, my love. I want to enjoy you. Every bit of you.’
He peeled away her sweater, but his fingers were almost unbearably slow as they undid the buttons of her blouse and pushed the heavy cream silk aside. He kissed the soft mound of her breast where it swelled above her bra, then, edging the lace away, his mouth sought the hard peak of her nipple and she cried out as he drew it between his teeth and caressed it delicately with his tongue. Her breathing was ragged and there was a throbbing, desperate ache between her thighs which was strange and wonderful and which she was woman enough to know that only he could ease.
Her fingers dug into his shoulders. ‘Clay …’ Her voice was pleading.
He raised his head and frowned slightly. ‘Have all your lovers been so hurried?’
‘No …’ But he wanted no answer; his mouth began a thorough and systematic plunder of hers, preventing her attempts to explain, then driving them out of her head altogether.
After a while he raised his head. ‘I think it’s time we went to bed.’
She raised lids heavy with desire and with her fingertips traced the strong line of his jaw and the small V-shaped scar on his chin. She drew her brows together in concentration. ‘Clay …’ He caught her fingers, kissing each one in turn as she struggled to sit up. ‘You should know … that is, I think I’d better tell you that I haven’t ever—’
‘Haven’t what?’ His mouth continued to caress her fingers and for a moment there was only silence in the flickering firelight. Then he realised that she had ceased to respond and he raised his head. ‘What is it?’
‘It was nothing important, Clay.’ She tried to keep her voice light, conversational, but to her own ears failed dismally.
‘You picked a hell of a moment to play games, sweetheart.’ There was a slight edge to his voice. ‘If you’ve got cold feet you only have to say.’
‘No.’ She threw him a desperate look. ‘I just wanted you to know. That’s all. I wanted you to know that I’m …’ She cleared her throat. ‘I haven’t …’ Why was the word so difficult to say? It was nothing to be ashamed of, after all. It just seemed silly. But surely by now he must understand what she was trying to tell him. Why on earth was he being so slow?
He was staring at her, a slight frown creasing the space between his brows. ‘Joanna Grant,’ he said at last, ‘are you trying to tell me that you’ve never done this before?’ She nodded, her face hot with embarrassment. ‘That you’re twenty-four years old and still a virgin?’
‘There’s no need to repeat yourself,’ Joanna said, fiercely proud. ‘I’m well aware how ridiculous I must seem.’
‘I …’ He seemed for a moment quite unable to speak, then he lifted her on to the sofa and stood up. ‘Hardly ridiculous. But unexpected. To say the very least.’
She stood up, then, horribly, embarrassingly conscious of her state of undress, turned her back on him to straighten her clothes. She couldn’t understand why it took so long, hardly aware how her fingers were trembling on the buttons. Finally, though, it was done. Pale and empty, she forced herself to face him.
‘Could I ring for a taxi?’ she asked, with as much dignity as she could muster. ‘I think I should go home now.’
‘I’m sorry, Joanna.’ His regret sounded genuine enough, as well it might, she thought. He looked almost angry. ‘I just hadn’t anticipated this situation. Most of the women I’ve known are rather more—’
‘You don’t have to draw a picture, Clay.’
She should have known. He was used to sophisticated women who knew exactly how to please a man. Why had she ever thought he might be interested in her? Except that he had been, until she had been stupid enough to own up to her virgin state. It wasn’t as if she wanted it. There had just been so many other things, important things she had to do.
She fled to the cloakroom. Like the other rooms she had seen, it had been gutted, and there was the smell of fresh plaster. The fittings were starkly new, but the tiles were still in their boxes, stacked against the wall, and the floor was bare board. He’d only just moved in. ‘Camping’ was the word he’d used. The quality of the fittings gave the word a slightly surrealistic edge. Not that it mattered.
She regarded herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips red and swollen. She sighed and opened her bag to repair the damage as best she could.
Her sister had once suggested, quite kindly, that virginity beyond the age of twenty was an embarrassment she should try to resolve as quickly as possible. Apparently she had been right, but just now she didn’t feel much like telling her so.
Clay was waiting when she emerged. He crossed the hall quickly to take her hand but she avoided his touch. ‘Is there a telephone?’
‘You don’t have to go, Joanna. Can we talk?’
‘Talk?’ What on earth was there to talk about? she wondered. She hadn’t come to talk. Her chin high, she turned away from him before she weakened. ‘I’d prefer it if you would call a taxi.’
‘Damn your taxi!’ He reached for her.
‘Now, Clay!’ she demanded. If she let him touch her she would lose her hard-won self-control and simply weep.
For a moment the tension held him in suspension, neck muscles knotted into cords, hands clenched. Then, as if he had made a decision, he nodded slightly and relaxed.
‘Perhaps you’re right. Now is not the time. I’ll take you home.’
‘There’s no need to put yourself to the trouble.’
‘There’s every need, Joanna. Don’t argue.’
She made no further objection, sensing that it would be pointless, but she shook away his steadying hand at her elbow as she stumbled on the uneven path in the gathering darkness.
He insisted on seeing her to the door. She unlocked it and with a supreme effort managed a smile as she turned to face him.
‘Goodbye, Clay.’ She offered him her hand, sure now that she was safe. His expression grave, he took it, holding it for a moment as if he would say something. But he didn’t speak. Instead he raised her fingers to his lips.
Before she could recover from her surprise he had turned and disappeared down the stairs. She ran to the front window in time to see the car door slam. It remained at the kerb for so long that she began to think he might get out again, but then, very quietly, the car pulled away and disappeared down the street.
No longer needing to keep a rigid control upon her feelings, she let out a long, shuddering sob.
Monday was a bad day at work, but Jo welcomed the problems. It used all her energies, blocked the need to think. She had spent the weekend with her sister, avoiding thinking, for once welcoming the disapproval of the long hours she worked, the unsuitable job. Thinking wouldn’t do. She had made an utter fool of herself over Clay Thackeray and she would have to live with the memory of her humiliation for a very long time, but the longer she could put off thinking about it, the better.
‘Good morning, Jo.’
Her heart sank. A visit from the project manager was the last thing she needed this morning. She turned to the sleek, tanned figure and forced a smile to her lips.
‘Hello, Peter. We didn’t expect you back until tomorrow. Had a good holiday?’
‘Wonderful, my dear. The Greek islands in May are a perfect joy. You should have come with me.’ He didn’t exactly leer; he was never quite that obvious. But he hid his resentment at being landed with a woman on his site under a surface skim of flirtation that grated like a nail on a blackboard.
She shrugged and sighed. ‘Someone has to stay and do the work. And I’m sure the company of your wife was adequate compensation. Do you want me to walk around with you?’
‘No, it’s nearly lunchtime. I’ve just come to take you all down the pub for a drink. A thank-you for all your hard work while I’ve been away. I’ll give you a lift.’ He placed his hand on her elbow and steered her towards his car.
Jo bit down hard to prevent herself from screaming. Not that he ever did anything that could be grounds for complaint. Just the innuendo and the proprietorial hand to her back, whenever there was anyone to see, to give the impression that she belonged to him personally.
Jo made for a table by the fireplace, but he moved her on to a secluded corner. ‘It’ll get noisy there when the place fills up.’
She fumed while he fetched the drinks. It wasn’t as if he was interested in her, and for that at least she supposed she should be grateful. He was only interested in having the world believe that she was besotted by him.
‘Now, my dear. Tell me everything that’s happened while I’ve been away. Any problems?’
‘Nothing major.’ She smiled. ‘You should have had another week in Greece.’ The sentiment was heartfelt.
He leaned closer and placed his hand on hers. ‘I couldn’t stay away that long.’
She looked up with relief as she heard the door opening in the corner. It would be the men from the site. But it wasn’t them. Clay Thackeray stood framed in the doorway, very still, taking in the picture the two of them presented. For a moment their eyes clashed, then Clay took a step forward, his face taut with anger.
Quite deliberately Jo turned to Peter and smiled into his startled eyes. ‘I’m glad. I’ve missed you, darling.’ She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the mouth.
His reaction should have been comic. It was a moot point who jumped most visibly—Peter, leaping to his feet, or Jo, at the crash of the door rattling on its hinges.
It was late when she drove home. The truth of the matter was that she didn’t want to go back to her empty flat. At least while she was working she had something else to think about. Finally, however, the figures began to swim in front of her eyes and she was in danger of falling asleep over her desk. She parked the silver Mini in her allotted space and walked slowly up the stairs.
She was near the top when she became aware of an obstruction, and for a moment she stared uncomprehendingly at the long legs barring her way.
‘You’re very late. It’s nearly nine o’clock.’ Clay’s voice was accusing.
She glanced at her watch. Anywhere to hide her face, to hide from him the betraying leap of joy at seeing him again. ‘I’ve been working late.’
‘I saw you working, at lunchtime.’ His jaw muscles tightened. ‘Who was he?’
It was too late to regret her stupidity. She had behaved very badly indeed and had the unhappy suspicion that Peter would make her pay for that when he had got over the shock. But it wasn’t too late to retrieve a little self-respect.
‘What’s the matter, Clay? Did you change your mind?’
He stood up. ‘This is hardly the place to discuss it.’
‘This is the only place you’re going to discuss anything. Because I have.’ She turned away so that her eyes shouldn’t betray the lie.
‘Are you really so fickle?’ He descended to her level and grasped her face between his hands so that she was forced to look at him. ‘Who was he?’ For a moment she glared furiously up at him, defying him to make her speak. He leaned closer. ‘Who was he, Joanna?’ he repeated, the velvet drawl of his voice contradicting the gem-hard challenge in his eyes.
‘Peter Lloyd. He’s the project manager.’ The muscles in his jaw tightened and she closed her eyes. ‘He’s just come back from holiday.’
‘You appeared to be very pleased to see him.’
‘Did I? Maybe I was, Clay.’
‘Maybe.’ He suddenly released her and she rocked back on her feet. ‘He didn’t hang around for long, though. Or perhaps he came back tonight?’
‘You stayed to spy on me?’ Her eyes widened in surprise. Then a flash of anger sparked through them. ‘You should have stayed longer, then you’d know whether he came back.’
‘No!’ He stepped back. ‘No. I didn’t do that. I was too angry to trust myself at the wheel of a car. I sat in the car park for a while, that’s all, and I saw him leave, then a while later you all went back to the site.’
She frowned. ‘I didn’t notice the Aston in the car park.’
He shook his head. ‘It needed some work. I borrowed a car from the garage. Look, Jo, this is silly. Can’t we go inside and talk?’
She hesitated for a moment then shrugged and unlocked the door. ‘Why not? I know I’ll be safe in your company.’ She threw her bag on the sofa and turned to face him. ‘Won’t I?’
CHAPTER THREE (#u88da8f6c-dce4-5928-bd2a-321f645ceb33)
‘MAYBE.’ He seemed to fill her sitting-room. ‘Have you eaten?’
‘I’m not hungry, Clay. I’m just tired. All I want is a shower and my bed. Just say whatever it is you feel you have to and go.’
‘You have to eat.’ He turned her in the direction of the bedroom and firmly steered her towards it. ‘Have your shower. I’ll get you some food.’
She dug her heels in. ‘I don’t want anything from you, Clay.’
‘Yes, you do.’ His hands were still on her shoulders and his grip intensified. ‘So you’d better go and shower now, before I lose all semblance of self-control and remind you exactly what you want from me.’
She fled. Locking the bathroom door firmly behind her, she stood against it, her whole body trembling with the longing for him to slake the shattering need that the slightest touch of hand awoke in her. A longing that wouldn’t go away.
‘Damn you, Clay Thackeray,’ she whispered to herself. She took deep, calming breaths and gradually began to regain control of herself. Slowly she undressed, and stood under a fierce shower trying to work out what Clay wanted from her. She had already offered him everything a girl could give a man and he had rejected it in very short order. Angrily she flicked the switch to cold.
Shivering, she quickly dressed in cream cord trousers and an oversized fleecy sweatshirt. The blue was faded and the Prince of Wales feathers of Surrey Cricket Club were barely visible, but it had been her father’s and it was a comfort in her misery.
As she opened the bedroom door she heard a key in the lock. Clay appeared carrying a plastic bag. ‘I borrowed your key. Hope you don’t mind.’
‘When you said you were getting food, I had assumed you were going to cook,’ she protested. ‘I could have made an omelette or something.’
‘You said you were tired,’ he said. ‘Have you got any chopsticks?’
‘I’m afraid not. I just use knives and forks.’ Her lips imitated a smile.
He shook his head and tutted. ‘How very conventional.’
‘I’ve recently discovered that stepping outside the bounds of convention isn’t that good for my ego,’ she replied, sharply.
He smiled. ‘I promise I’ll do my best to restore it.’ With a wry smile he dumped a pile of magazines on the floor. ‘New Civil Engineer. I might as well be at home.’
‘I’m sure I can find you a copy of Vogue if it will make you feel more comfortable,’ she offered, but he ignored this and began to lay out a series of aluminum dishes on the glass-topped coffee-table.
‘Plates?’ he suggested.
‘Has anyone ever told you that you have a very managing disposition, Clay Thackeray?’ she remarked, crossly.
‘Managing is what I do best, Joanna Grant, so you’d better get used to it.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Jo snapped, but fetched a couple of plates and some cutlery from the kitchen. Clay piled a plate with food and handed it to her. She stared at it in dismay. ‘I can’t eat all this!’
He helped himself to food. ‘Convince me that you’ve had a proper meal today and I’ll let you off with half,’ he offered.
‘I don’t suppose you’d take a doughnut into consideration?’ He paused in the act of spooning rice on to his plate just long enough to hand her a fork. She made no further protest. At least eating precluded conversation.
‘More?’ he offered, as he watched her finish.
Jo shook her head. ‘No. But thank you.’ She forced a smile. ‘I was hungrier than I thought.’ She began to clear the dishes into the kitchen. ‘Now, perhaps you’ll tell me why you’re here?’ It seemed easier to ask the question while she was occupied. ‘What exactly do you want from me?’
He had followed her, and his voice at her ear made her jump ‘Maybe,’ he said, very softly, ‘I did change my mind. Maybe I can’t get the thought of the other night out of my head.’ He reached out and caught her wrist. ‘Maybe I’ve been driven to distraction by the thought of you offering yourself to another man … I have the feeling that Peter Lloyd wouldn’t be so tactless as to refuse you. Or is that where you’ve been all weekend?’
Jo stared at his hand, at the strong fingers curled around her wrist, the same fingers that had elicited such a eager response from her. She ignored his question. ‘Is that how you see me?’ she asked. ‘Desperate? Realising how late I’ve left it and throwing myself at every man who comes my way in the hope that one of them will take pity on me?’ She shuddered, resisting to no purpose as he pulled her into his arms, wrapping them around her, holding her close.
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Liz Fielding
The boss and his runaway bride! Joanna might have walked out on her turbulent marriage with Clay Thackeray but that never meant she stopped loving him. So when he becomes her new boss, she’s horrified – how can she work alongside the man whose every look sends delicious tingles rippling down her spine?After two years apart, Clay’s determined to understand what made his ambitious, independent wife leave. It’s certainly not lack of chemistry – one look at her and he’s longing to make up for lost time! He can see that Jo is fighting their attraction, but how will he react when he discovers her biggest secret of all… ?
The boss and his runaway bride!
Joanna might have walked out on her turbulent marriage with Clay Thackeray but that never meant she stopped loving him. So when he becomes her new boss, she’s horrified – how can she work alongside the man whose every look sends delicious tingles rippling down her spine?
After two years apart, Clay’s determined to understand what made his ambitious, independent wife leave. It’s certainly not lack of chemistry – one look at her and he’s longing to make up for lost time! He can see that Jo is fighting their attraction, but how will he react when he discovers her biggest secret of all…?
Instant Fire
Liz Fielding
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For my mother,
who opened so many doors.
Table of Contents
Cover (#ud40ad43a-4e8c-56d8-b95b-d85e45baeb62)
Excerpt (#ube2c01c4-f9d6-584a-a80d-d6db986edf5f)
Title Page (#u9d532785-2247-57f0-88c6-20f66ecdff62)
Dedication (#u8154ed6d-475a-56ae-a370-404efd3dbca2)
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u88da8f6c-dce4-5928-bd2a-321f645ceb33)
THERE was an urgency about the ring and Joanna groaned. It was the first Saturday she hadn’t worked in weeks and she had planned a lazy morning. She pulled on her dressing-gown. ‘I’m coming,’ she called, as there was a second peremptory burst on the bell.
The postman grinned as she opened the door. ‘Sorry. Miss Grant, but this one needs signing for.’ Jo took the recorded delivery letter and signed where the postman indicated. ‘Thanks. You can go back to bed now.’ She glared at his back, then turned the letter over. The envelope was thick. Nothing cheap about whoever sent the letter inside, she thought. She opened it and unfolded the single sheet. She read it quickly through and frowned. It was from a firm of solicitors offering to purchase, at a very good price indeed, a block of shares she had inherited from her father.
She read it through a second time. The purchaser was not named. ‘A gentleman has instructed us …’ that was all. Jo shrugged and threw the letter on to her desk to answer later. It didn’t matter who the ‘gentleman’ was. Her shares in Redmond Construction were not for sale.
‘You, lad!’
Jo flung a contemptuous glance over the scaffolding. Another short-sighted idiot who assumed that because she was on a construction site she must be male. Nevertheless she inspected the figure standing in the yard with interest. He was leaning against a gunmetal-grey Aston Martin and despite the foreshortened angle she could see that he was well above average height. In fact, she thought, dressed in a beautifully cut lightweight tweed suit, he was an altogether impressive figure, and gave the disturbing impression that he wasn’t short of anything.
‘What do you want?’ she called down.
He raised a hand to shade his eyes against a sudden shaft of sunlight breaking through the clouds.
‘I’m looking for Joe Grant. Is he up there?’ he called.
‘I’ll come down,’ she shouted, swinging herself on to the first of a series of ladders to descend the fifty-odd feet to the ground and then turning to face the stranger. She had been right about his height. Despite owning to five feet ten inches in stockings she was forced to look up into the lean, weather-beaten face of a man whose very presence commanded attention. And into remarkable blue eyes which contrasted vividly with a pelt of black curly hair that no amount of the most expert cutting would ever quite keep under control. Blue eyes that were regarding her with puzzlement, as if he knew something wasn’t right, but couldn’t quite put his finger on what was bothering him.
The sudden rise in her pulse-rate at the sight of this tanned stranger, the heat that seared her cheekbones and parted her lips, an immediate recognition of some deep primeval need that he had stirred, shook her easy assurance.
She clamped her lips together. ‘Well?’ she demanded and her voice was shockingly sharp in her ears.
A slight frown creased his forehead. ‘My name is Thackeray,’ he said, his soft voice seeming to vibrate into her very bones. ‘I’m looking for Joe Grant. A girl at the office told me he was working here.’
Jo stuck her hands deep in her pockets in an unconsciously boyish gesture and walked quickly away from him. ‘You’d better come over to the site office, Mr Thackeray,’ she looked back over her shoulder and called to him.
‘I’ve been to the office already. He’s not there.’ He seemed reluctant to follow her.
‘He will be.’ Jo opened the door and waited. The man shrugged and moved after her and she went inside, removing her hard hat, enjoying the small triumph of satisfaction at the exclamation from behind her as a thick mop of dark blonde hair swung free to frame her face. She shrugged out of the ancient Barbour, several sizes too large, and turned to face him. ‘I’m Jo Grant, Mr Thackeray. Now, what exactly can I do for you?’
A smile charged his eyes with warmth as he acknowledged his mistake. ‘I can think of any number of things. Accept my most humble apologies, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps,’ she conceded, cloaking her heart’s racketing response to his smile in cool politeness. This man had never been humble.
‘Does it happen often?’
‘Often enough. There’s no reason for you to feel stupid.’
‘Oh, I don’t,’ he said, easily. ‘Dressed in an outsized jacket, wellingtons and a hard hat, even the most glamorous woman might be mistaken for a boy.’
His amusement was galling. And she hadn’t missed the implication that since she wasn’t glamorous it was perfectly reasonable for him to make such a mistake.
‘Perhaps you would get to the point, Mr Thackeray?’
‘The point, Miss Grant?’
‘You were looking for me. You’ve found me.’
‘Oh, the point!’ The smile died on his lips and his expression became quite still. ‘The point is this, Jo Grant. I came to ask the bearer of that name out to lunch. So? What do you say?’
Jo drew her brows together in genuine surprise. ‘Lunch? Why on earth would you want to take me out to lunch.’
He looked at her more intently. ‘You would find such an invitation surprising?’ he asked. There was a certain practised charm about him and she realised, with a slight shock, that he was flirting with her.
‘Of course I’m surprised. You don’t know me.’
‘True,’ he conceded. ‘And I have to own up to the fact that the Joe Grant I’m looking for weighs around fifteen stone, has a beard and is in his fifties. But I am very happy to accept you as his substitute.’
Jo sat down rather suddenly. ‘No substitute at all, I’m afraid. But I’m the nearest you’re going to get. My father is dead.’
‘Joe’s dead?’ There was no disguising the shock in his voice. ‘But he was no age.’ He seemed genuinely upset and for a moment stared through the window. Then he looked down at her as if seeing her for the first time. ‘You’re Joe’s daughter? The one in the picture on his desk?’ He frowned. ‘But you were all spectacles and braces.’
Jo remembered the dreadful picture in an old frame that had been almost buried among the clutter on her father’s desk. ‘Yes, I’m afraid I was. Poor Dad. I usually managed to avoid having my photograph taken, but that was a school job. There was no escape. Mum felt obliged to buy it but out of deference to my feelings she wouldn’t put it next to my sister’s.’
‘Really? Why was that?’
‘Heather has curls, straight teeth and twenty-twenty vision.’ She shrugged. ‘Dad took pity on me.’
Measuring blue eyes regarded her with provoking self-assurance. ‘I’m certain you’d give your sister a run for her money these days, Miss Grant.’
She smiled slightly. ‘I’m afraid not, Mr Thackeray. Heather is still the family beauty. I had to make do with the brains.’
‘Poor you.’
Jo stiffened. ‘I don’t require sympathy, Mr Thackeray,’ she blurted out, then coloured furiously at her stupid outburst as she saw the laughter lighting the depths of his eyes. This man was getting under her skin, breaking through the barriers she had erected as part of the price for her acceptance in a man’s world.
‘Your self-esteem still seems in need of a little propping up, if you don’t mind my saying so. But I have to agree that you have no need of sympathy from me, or anyone else.’ Before she could reply he had changed the subject. ‘Joe said you planned to follow in his footsteps. I thought he was joking.’
‘So did he, Mr Thackeray. By the time he realised his mistake it was too late to do anything about it.’
‘Did he try?’
She remembered the pride on his face at her graduation, her mother’s delight. ‘Not very hard,’ she assured him.
His look was thoughtful. ‘I see.’
She had assumed he would take his leave once he had discovered that his errand was fruitless. Instead he folded himself into the chair at the side of her desk.
‘I’m very sorry to hear about Joe’s death, Miss Grant. What happened?’ There was a genuine concern in his face which brought the old familiar ache to her throat. She stared hard at the schedules on the desk in front of her until the dangerous prickling behind her eyelids was under control.
‘He was in his car. Apparently he had a heart attack.’ Jo dragged her mind back to the present and looked up. ‘It was three years ago.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’ve been overseas, working in Canada. I’ve been renewing some old acquaintances and when I phoned Redmonds’ office to ask for your father they said—’
‘It’s all right. A simple mistake. It happens all the time; I should have learned to be less prickly by now.’ She offered him her hand and a slightly rueful smile. ‘Joanna Grant.’
His grasp was warm, the strong hand of a man you would want on your side. ‘Clayton Thackeray.’
‘Well, I’m sorry you had a wasted journey, Mr Thackeray.’
‘Hardly wasted.’ His eyes were intensely, disturbingly blue, and she looked hurriedly away.
‘I’m not much of a substitute for Dad.’
‘I liked and admired your father, Joanna. But it occurs to me that lunch with you will be every bit as enjoyable. And you’re a great deal easier on the eye. Now that you’ve dispensed with the braces.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she protested. ‘You don’t have to take me …’ He waited, his face betraying nothing. ‘I shouldn’t …’
‘Why not?’ he asked.
‘Because …’ There was no reason, apart from the fact that she wanted to go far too much for her own peace of mind.
He smiled as if he could see the battle taking place inside her head. ‘Force yourself, Joanna.’
‘I …’ He still had her hand firmly clasped in his much larger one. ‘Thank you.’ She found herself agreeing, without quite understanding why. Except that she didn’t think he was the kind of man who ever took no for an answer.
‘My pleasure. I booked a table at the George on my way through the village. I’d planned to take your father there.’
‘Did you? Then I’d better change my boots.’ She put her head to one side and decided it was her turn to tease a little. ‘But you don’t have to impress me, Mr Thackeray. I’m just a site engineer. I usually have a sandwich down the pub.’
Laughter produced deep creases around his eyes and down his cheeks. ‘I’m not looking for a job, Joanna. And my friends call me Clay. Do what you have to. I’ll wait in the car.’
She kicked off her boots, slipped her feet into narrow low-heeled shoes and ran a clothes brush over her grey woollen trousers, wishing for once that she had a skirt to change into. Her soft cream shirt had been chosen more for comfort than style, but at least her sweater was a pretty, if impractical, mixture of pink and white. A gift from her Heather, her older sister, who ran a stylish boutique and never ceased in her attempts to add a little femininity to Jo’s wardrobe which tended to run to hardwearing clothes suitable for the site. She took down the calendar that hid the mirror, her one concession to vanity in this male world, and regarded her reflection with disfavour.
Then she shrugged. ‘Don’t kid yourself, Jo,’ she told herself sternly. ‘He’s taking you out to lunch because he knew your father. Don’t get any silly ideas.’ She pulled a face at herself, but nevertheless Heather would have been pleased to see how long her little sister spent on her hair and make-up.
Clay Thackeray ushered her into the car, opening the door and settling her comfortably before sliding into the driving seat. She was aware of interested eyes watching from every part of the site and knew that she would be teased mercilessly for the next few days by men opening doors with exaggerated politeness, offering her their arm on the scaffolding. They wouldn’t miss a trick.
‘It would be just the same if you were a man being picked up by a girl, you know. Probably worse.’ He reversed the car and turned into the lane.
She laughed. ‘Do you read minds for a living?’
‘No, but I was a site engineer myself once.’
‘Were you?’ Jo gave him a sideways glance from under long, dark lashes. He’d come a long way from that lowly position. ‘And I have no doubt that a great many girls picked you up.’
He turned and smiled. ‘A few,’ he admitted. ‘And your father certainly knew how to tease.’
‘Yes, he did.’ She had worked on sites with him during the long summer holidays from university and she had seen him at work. Had been the butt of his jokes, too. The slightest mistake was ruthlessly exploited. She had hated it, but it had toughened her up. The Aston purred as he drove gently down the lane. ‘This is a lovely car.’
‘Yes, it was my father’s. He hasn’t driven it much in recent years but he wouldn’t let me buy it from him until he considered I was old enough to be trusted with it.’
‘And are you?’
‘Thirty-three?’ he offered. ‘What do you think? The old man wanted to wait another year. He didn’t have his first Aston until he was nearly thirty-five. But I forced his hand. I threatened to buy a BMW.’ He turned into the George’s car park.
‘What a dreadful thing to do!’ But the laughter in her voice softened the words.
‘Wasn’t it?’ Their hands touched as he reached to unclip her seatbelt and they looked up at the same moment. For a long second Jo thought the world must have stopped spinning. ‘I want to kiss you, Jo Grant.’ His voice grated over a million tiny nerve-endings and she swallowed. Her pulse was hammering in her ears and she could hardly breathe. Girls weren’t supposed to kiss men they had just met. They certainly weren’t supposed to admit they wanted to.
Jo fought the inclination to meet him halfway and lifted one brow. ‘And do you always get what you want, Clayton Thackeray?’
‘Always,’ he assured her.
Flustered by the unwavering certainty in his eyes, she made an effort at a laugh. ‘Really, Mr Thackeray, I thought the form was that you wine and dine a girl before you make a pass,’ she said, attempting to hide her bewildering, unexpected hunger for this man, bury it under a flippancy she was far from feeling.
Clay Thackeray stared at her for a moment, then he released the seatbelt, making her jump, breaking the spell. ‘You’re right, of course. And this is only lunch. I’ll have to give some thought to the question of dinner.’
Before she could gather her wits he was opening the car door for her. His hand under her arm seemed to burn through the sleeve of her jacket and neither of them spoke as he led her inside the restaurant. Clay caught the eye of the waiter and they were shown straight to their table in the corner, overlooking the river.
Jo kept her eyes firmly on the view from the window, anything but face the man opposite. She spent her working life with men and they rarely managed to find her at a loss for a word. But right now she couldn’t think of a thing to say. At least nothing that made any sense.
No such problem tormented Clay. ‘Let me see if I can read your thoughts again,’ he suggested. Jo’s grey eyes widened. The disturbing thoughts racing unbidden through her mind were not the kind she wanted him to read. ‘Duck?’ he said softly, a suspicion of laughter in his voice.
‘Is that an instruction or an observation?’ she asked, making a supreme effort to keep the atmosphere light.
‘An observation,’ he replied, drily, pointing to the birds on the riverbank. ‘You seem to be fascinated by them; I thought perhaps you were deciding which one you wanted for lunch.’ He offered her the menu. ‘Or perhaps you’d rather run an eye over this?’
Jo buried her face in the menu and by the time the waiter returned to take their order had regained something of her natural composure.
‘Something to drink?’
‘A pineapple juice topped up with soda, please.’
Clay relayed this request to the waiter and added a mineral water for himself.
‘You said you have just come back from Canada?’ Jo asked, leading the conversation into neutral territory. ‘What were you doing there?’
‘Working. My mother was a French Canadian. When she died I realised how little I knew about her or where she came from. I wanted to find out.’
‘And now you’re having a holiday?’
He hesitated for a moment before he said, ‘Not exactly. But I’m looking up old friends. When the receptionist at Redmonds said Joe was working here it was close enough to home to take a chance on finding him at the site.’
‘Home?’ She tried to ignore the treacherous rise in her pulse-rate at the thought of him living near by.
‘I bought a cottage on the river at Camley when I was over at Christmas.’
He was staying, and she was ridiculously, stupidly pleased. ‘I love Camley. It’s so unspoilt.’ She was babbling, but he seemed not to notice.
‘Yes. It’s the reason I bought the place.’ He pulled a face. ‘Stupid, really. My offices are in London; a service flat would be a lot less bother. But I couldn’t resist the cottage. It’s old and it needs a lot of work, but I suppose that was part of its charm. The builder has finished putting the structure to rights and it’s habitable, but I’m just camping there at the moment.’
‘So you’re not going back to Canada?’
‘Not permanently. At least for the foreseeable future.’ He regarded her with steady amusement. ‘Are you pleased?’ he asked.
The arrival of the waiter saved her from the embarrassment of a reply and she regarded the poached salmon he placed before her with a sudden loathing for its pinkness … the same colour that she was only too aware was staining her cheeks.
‘Hollandaise?’ Forced to look up, she discovered that he wasn’t laughing at her as she had suspected. His smile was unexpectedly warm. ‘I am,’ he said. ‘Very pleased.’
She swallowed and took the dish he offered. ‘Did you work with Dad for long?’ she asked, the catch in her voice barely noticeable.
‘He was my first project manager. I came to Redmonds from university and was put to work under him. I was very fortunate. You must miss him.’
‘Yes, I miss him. I wanted him to …’ Her voice trailed away. That was too private a need to be shared. Not something to be spoken aloud.
Sensitive to the fact that he had strayed into dangerous territory, he changed the subject, describing his life in Canada, the country. On safer ground, Jo at last began to relax.
When coffee arrived he sat back in his chair and regarded her seriously. ‘So what are your career plans, Joanna? Surely you don’t intend to stay on site?’
‘I was the first woman that Redmonds employed as a site engineer,’ she said, with a certain pride. ‘I plan to be the first woman they appoint as a project manager.’
If he was surprised he hid it well enough, but his next question suggested that he had some understanding of the problems involved. ‘Does that leave you any room for a personal life?’
‘Not much,’ she admitted.
‘But what about marriage? Raising a family?’
‘Men manage to have both.’ She was no stranger to this argument. Her sister had tried so many times to persuade her to take up a more conventional career that she had once offered to make a tape recording and play it at least once a day to save her the bother. But Heather had long since stopped trying to change her and confined her efforts these days to improving her wardrobe.
‘True, and probably not very fair. But men don’t get pregnant. Climbing up and down ladders might get to be a bit of a problem, don’t you think?’
Since Jo had no intention of getting pregnant in the foreseeable future, she ignored the question and glanced at her watch. ‘It’s late. I should get back.’
Clay regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, but didn’t pursue the subject. Instead he summoned the waiter and asked for the bill. ‘Now, about dinner. Where shall I pick you up?
Surprise that he should want to see her again made her laugh a little uncertainly. ‘There’s no need, Clay, really. It was very kind of you to take me out to lunch, but—’
‘I didn’t bring you here to be kind.’ He leaned forward. ‘I still want to kiss you, Jo Grant. You were the one who stipulated being wined and dined first. Of course, perhaps you’ve changed your mind.’ His eyes glinted wickedly. ‘In which case I’ll be happy to oblige right now.’
‘I didn’t …’ Joanna bit back the denial and stood up. It was a ridiculous conversation and she had no intention of prolonging it. Clay rose and she smiled, graciously, she hoped. ‘Please don’t let me rush you.’ She offered Clay her hand and he shook it solemnly. ‘Thank you for lunch. I won’t trouble you for a lift. I can get a taxi back to work.’ She moved swiftly across the dining-room, making for the pay-phone in Reception, where she searched furiously in her bag.
‘Can I offer you some change?’ He was leaning against the wall, watching her.
‘No, thank you,’ Jo said coldly. Then, as she realised that she had none, she changed her mind. ‘Yes,’ she snapped.
‘It’ll be at least ten minutes before one comes,’ Clay said, gently, offering her a handful of silver coins. ‘Why don’t you want me to take you?’
She refused to meet his eye. Selecting a ten-pence coin, Jo fiercely punched in the number of the local taxi service listed by the phone.
‘Don’t you want me to kiss you?’ he asked, seriously. ‘I rather thought you did.’
The phone was ringing in her ear. ‘Keble Taxis, how can I help you?’
‘I should like a taxi to collect me from the George as quickly as possible, please,’ Jo said, studiously ignoring the man at her side.
‘We’re rather busy at the moment,’ the girl told her. ‘It’ll be twenty minutes.’
‘Twenty minutes!’
Clay took the phone from her hand and spoke into the receiver. ‘We’ll leave it, thank you.’ He hung up. ‘I can’t have you late for work, can I? Not a dedicated career-woman like you. You’ll be quite safe, I promise.’
Before she could protest further he had opened the door and swept her towards the car. Settled against the worn leather, Jo was aware of a certain breathlessness. On site, except for visits from the project manager, she was in control. But she had somehow lost that control when Clay Thackeray had walked into her office. The word safe was completely inappropriate. He was a dangerously disturbing man.
They didn’t speak as they sped along the country lanes and it was with a certain relief that Jo saw the site earthworks appear above the hedge. Clay pulled into the yard and stopped. She tried to escape but he was faster, catching her hand as she moved to release the seatbelt, holding it against his chest so that she could feel the steady thudding of his heart.
‘Now you have to decide, Jo Grant.’
Jo glared at him. ‘You promised!’
‘Did I?’ He challenged her softly. ‘I remember saying that you would be safe. I didn’t specify what I would keep you safe from.’
How could such open, honest eyes hide such a devious nature? she fumed. ‘In that case I’ll get it over with now, if it’s all the same to you.’ Ignoring the fact that they had the rapt attention of the site staff, she closed her eyes and waited. A soft chuckle made her open them again. Clay was shaking his head.
‘Round one to you, ma’am. On points.’ He leaned across and pushed open the door for her. For a moment she sat, completely nonplussed. ‘Well? Are you going to sit there all afternoon? I thought you were in a hurry.’
‘Yes.’ She made an effort to pull herself together. ‘Thank you again for lunch,’ she said, auto-matically.
She climbed from the car and walked quickly across to her office, firmly refusing to give in to the impulse to look back.
It was Thursday before he phoned. A whole week.
‘Joanna?’ Her heart skipped a beat as the low voice spoke her name.
‘Clay?’ she echoed the query in his voice, but ruefully acknowledged that the man knew how to play the game. She had been on tenterhooks all week, expecting him to turn up at the site every moment. The mere glimpse of a grey car was enough to send her heart on a roller-coaster. But he hadn’t come and she had called herself every kind of fool for refusing his invitation to dinner. And then called herself every kind of fool for wanting to get involved with him. He was completely out of her reach. She hadn’t the experience to cope with such a man. She hadn’t the experience, full stop.
‘How are you, Joanna?’ She could almost see the cool amusement in those eyes.
‘Fine, thank you. And you? Are you enjoying your holiday?’
‘Not much. I’ve been in the Midlands all week on business. But you could change all that. Have dinner with me tonight.’
‘Have all your old girlfriends got married while you’ve been away?’ she parried, a little breathlessly, not wishing to seem too eager.
He chuckled. ‘Most of them. It has been nearly seven years. Will you come?’
‘I …’ For a moment there was war between desire and common sense. Desire had no competition. ‘I’d love to.’
CHAPTER TWO (#u88da8f6c-dce4-5928-bd2a-321f645ceb33)
IT WAS late when Jo finally parked the car behind the old house in the nearby market town of Woodhurst. She let herself into the first-floor flat that she had rented for the duration of the job and dumped her shopping on the kitchen table.
She wasted very little time in the shower and quickly dried her hair, a thick, dark blonde mop, streaked with pale highlights from so much time spent out of doors. There had been a time when she had wondered what it would be like to have curls like her sister, but had long since accepted the fact that they weren’t for her. Her nose was a little too bold and her mouth overlarge. Curls, a kindly hairdresser had told the fourteen-year-old Joanna as he’d cut away the disastrous results of Heather’s attempt to provide the missing locks with a home perm, were for those girls whose face lacked character. She hadn’t believed him, even then, but these days she was content with a style that needed little more than a cut once every three weeks to keep it looking good.
Satisfied with her hair, she spent a great deal longer than usual on her make-up and painted her nails pale pink. Tonight she was determined to be Joanna Grant. Jo the site engineer could, for once, take a back seat.
She had few evening clothes and she hadn’t needed to deliberate on what she would wear. She stepped into a floating circle of a skirt in pale grey georgette and topped it with a long-sleeved jacket in toning greys and pinks with a touch of silver thread in the design. She fastened large pale pink circles of agate twisted around with silver to her ears and regarded the result with a certain satisfaction. It was quite possible, she thought, with some amusement, that, in the unlikely event they should bump into any of her colleagues tonight, they would be hard pressed to recognise her.
Slipping her feet into low-heeled grey pumps, Jo spun in front of her mirror, coming to a sudden halt at the sound of her doorbell. She stood for a moment, as if rooted to the spot, vulnerable, uncertain of herself. Then the fear that he might not wait lent wings to her heels as she flew to the door.
Clay, his tall figure a study in elegance in the stark blackness of a dinner-jacket, was leaning against the stairpost regarding the toe of his shoe, and he glanced up as she flung open the door. He started to smile and then stopped, cloaking the expression in his eyes as he straightened and stared at the girl framed in the doorway.
‘Are those for me?’ Jo asked finally, to break the silence.
He glanced down at a spray of pink roses as if he couldn’t think where they had come from, then back at her.
‘I rather think they must be.’
‘Come in. I’ll put them in some water. Would you like a drink?’ she asked, trying to remember what she had done with a bottle of sherry left over from Christmas.
‘No, thanks.’ He followed her into the cramped kitchen and watched as she clipped the stems and stood them in deep water to drink.
She turned to him. ‘These are lovely, Clay. Thank you.’
‘So are you, Joanna. No one would ever mistake you for a boy tonight.’ He took a step towards her then turned away, raking long fingers through his hair. ‘I think we had better go.’ For the briefest moment it had seemed as if he was going to kiss her, and the thought quickened her blood, sending it crazily through her veins. Instead he opened the door and she followed him down the stairs to the waiting taxi.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘A little place I know by the river.’ This deprecating description hardly did justice to the elegant restaurant overlooking the Thames and she told him so.
‘I thought you would like to come here.’ He seemed oddly distracted.
‘It’s beautiful.’
He turned and looked down at her. ‘Yes. It is.’ He lifted his hand to her cheek, his fingertips lingering against the smooth perfection of her skin. ‘Quite beautiful.’
‘May I show you to your table, sir?’
Clay dragged himself back from wherever his thoughts had taken him and he tucked his arm under Joanna’s. They made a striking couple as they walked across the restaurant and several heads turned to follow their progress. Joanna was usually forced to disguise her height when walking with a man, never wearing high heels and, if not exactly slumping, at least keeping what her father had laughingly described as a very relaxed posture. Now, beside the strong figure of Clay Thackeray, the top of her head just reaching his ear, she stretched to her full height, human enough to enjoy the knowledge that she was envied by at least half the women present. Probably more.
Afterwards she couldn’t have described anything they had eaten or much of what they had talked about, although she thought he had told her something about a consultancy that he had begun in Canada and his plans for expansion into Britain. All she could remember was Clay’s face in the candlelight, his hand reaching for hers across the table, the words, ‘Let’s go home.’
In the back of the car she curled against him as if she had known him for years. His arm drew her close and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to rest her head on his shoulder. She didn’t think about where they were going. She didn’t care, as long as he held her.
The car eventually stopped and she lifted her head. ‘Where are we?’ she asked.
‘You are home, fair lady. Where did you expect to be?’
Glad of the darkness to hide her blushes, she allowed him to help her from the car.
‘I’ll see you to your door.’
She turned to him at the top of the stairs. ‘Would you like a coffee?’
‘I think I’m going to have enough trouble sleeping, Jo.’ His arm was around her waist and she didn’t ever want him to let go of her. As if reading her mind, he pulled her closer. ‘But, before I go, I believe you promised me a kiss.’
She lowered her eyes, suddenly shy. ‘Now?’ she asked.
‘Now,’ he affirmed, and his lips touched hers for the briefest moment, the time it took her heart to beat. He drew back the space of an inch, no more. ‘Joanna?’ His voice was a question and an answer. Then his mouth descended upon hers and her willing response answered any question he cared to ask.
When at last he released her she could hardly support herself, and he held her in the circle of his arms and stood for a moment with her head upon his shoulder.
‘I must go.’
‘Must you?’
‘Don’t make it any harder.’ He kissed the top of her head and she looked up, but he seemed to be far away, no longer with her. She fumbled in her bag for her key and he took it from her and opened the door.
‘Can I see you tomorrow?’
She hesitated for a moment, but then he smiled and on a catch of breath she nodded. ‘Yes.’
He raised his hand briefly. ‘I’ll pick you up at seven.’ Then he was gone without a backward glance and for the first time in her life she felt the pain of being torn in two. Her other half had walked down the stairs in the palm of Clay Thackeray’s hand.
Joanna wondered briefly, as she stood under a reviving shower, exactly what she had thought about before the appearance of Clay Thackeray. Since his appearance a week earlier he had filled her waking hours completely, and a good few of her sleeping ones.
A ring at the door put a stop to these thoughts and she grabbed a towelling wrap and went to answer it.
‘Clay!’
‘I’m a little early,’ he apologised.
‘Just a little,’ she agreed, laughter dancing in her eyes. ‘I thought we were meeting at seven p.m., not seven a.m.’
‘I had this sudden yearning to know what you looked like first thing in the morning.’ His eyes drifted down the deep V of her wrap and she grabbed self-consciously at it and tightened the belt, feeling at something of a disadvantage alongside the immaculate dark blue pin-striped suit and stark white shirt.
‘Well?’
‘Exactly as I imagined. No make-up, bare feet, hair damp from the shower …’ she lifted her hand self-consciously, but he anticipated the move and caught her fingers ‘… and quite beautiful.’ He stepped through the door and closed it firmly behind him.
She laughed a little nervously and stepped back in the face of such assured advances. ‘Compliments so early in the morning deserve some reward. Would you like some breakfast?’
One stride brought him to her side. He slid an arm around her waist and drew her close. ‘That, sweet Joanna, rather depends upon the menu.’
Jo’s breathing was a little ragged. ‘Eggs?’ she heard herself say. He made no response. ‘I might have some bacon.’ His eyes never left hers. ‘Toast?’ she offered, desperately. ‘I haven’t much time. I have to get to …’ He leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers and she no longer cared about the time.
‘You, Jo. Don’t you know that I want you for breakfast?’
He pulled the knot of her wrap and she made no move to stop him. Last night she knew that with very little persuasion she would have fallen into bed with him. He had known that too. It had been far too easy to fall in love with him. In the long, wakeful hours of the night she had determined that this evening she would put on some emotional armour along with her make-up. But, almost as if he had anticipated this, he had outmanoeuvred her, taking her by surprise with this early-morning raid. No make-up. No armour. No clothes. The harsh ring of the doorbell made her jump and he straightened, a crooked smile twisting his mouth.
‘Saved by the bell, Jo.’ For a moment he held the edges of her robe, then he pulled it close around her and retied the knot before standing aside for her to open the door.
‘Sorry, Miss Grant. Another of those recorded delivery letters for you to sign. You’d better pay up!’ She smiled automatically at the postman’s bantering humour and signed the form. This time she didn’t bother to open the letter, but threw it on the hall table.
‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ Clay asked. ‘It looks urgent.’
‘I know what it says. It’s from someone who wants to buy some shares I own. I’ve already told them I won’t sell.’
‘Oh? Maybe they’ve increased their offer.’
She frowned. ‘Do you think so? I wonder why they want them?’ Her eyes lingered for a moment on the envelope. ‘Perhaps I ought to find out—’
‘Forget them! They’re not important.’ She lifted her eyes to his and all thoughts of shares were driven from her head as he kissed her once more. But the moment of madness had passed and when he finally raised his head she took an unsteady step back.
‘I really must get ready for work, Clay.’
‘Must you?’ He frowned, then shrugged. ‘Of course you must. And I’m delaying you.’ He turned for the door.
‘Clay, why did you come here this morning?’
He paused for a moment, his knuckles white as he gripped the door-handle, as if debating with himself. When he looked back it was with a deadly and earnest force. ‘I thought we might have dinner at the cottage tonight,’ he said. His eyes were unreadable.
She didn’t stop to think. It was already far too late for thinking. ‘I’d love to,’ she said, the words barely escaping her throat.
She stood in the hall for a long moment after he had left, then, gathering her wits, she turned to get ready for work. Her eyes fell on the letter and impatiently she tore it open. Clay had been right, the offer had indeed been increased. His apparent omniscience gave her a ridiculous burst of pleasure.
Clay arrived on the stroke of seven and Jo picked up the soft leather bag that held everything she might need. She locked the door behind them and opened her bag to drop in the key, then turned to see him watching her.
‘Got everything?’ he asked.
‘Yes, thank you.’ Her cheeks were warm as she turned to follow him down the stairs to the waiting car.
The cottage was beautiful and very old, built of narrow autumn-coloured bricks, with a drunken pantile roof where a pair of fantail doves, golden in the evening light, were flirting. The garden had been neglected, but already work had begun to restore the stone pathways and a dilapidated dovecote. He helped her out of the car and for a moment she just stood and took it all in.
‘It’s lovely.’
‘I’m glad you like it. Come and see what I’ve been doing inside.’ Her heart was hammering as he led her up the path and opened the door, standing back to let her step across the threshold and into the hall.
The floor had been newly stripped and repolished and a jewel-rich Persian rug lay before them. She dropped her bag at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Hungry?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘Not very. Will you show me round?’
‘The grand tour?’ He laughed. ‘It won’t take very long.’
The colour in her cheeks deepened slightly. She just needed a little time to gain her bearings. It would have been so much easier if they had gone out somewhere first. Good food, wine, eased the way.
‘This is the study.’ His voice made her jump. He opened a door on the left and led the way into a square room littered with wallpaper off-cuts. ‘I’ve been trying to decide which paper to use.’
Glad of something positive to think about, Jo picked up various samples and held them against the wall. ‘I like this one,’ she said, finally.
‘That’s settled, then.’
She spun around. ‘But … it’s your choice.’
‘Yes. I know.’ He held the door to let her through. ‘That’s the cloakroom. Storage cupboard,’ he said carelessly, as they passed closed doors. ‘And this is the morning-room.’
‘This is a cottage on a rather grand scale,’ she said, admiring the use of yellow and white that would reflect the morning sun. She walked across to a pair of casement windows and opened them, stepping out into the garden. ‘You’re on the river!’ she exclaimed. ‘I hadn’t realised.’ She walked quickly down to the small mooring with its tiny dock.
‘There’s a boathouse behind those shrubs, but the roof has collapsed.’
‘Will you rebuild it?’
‘Maybe. Is it warm enough to eat out here, do you think?’
‘Oh, yes! I’ve a sweater in my bag.’ Once again the betraying heat stained her cheeks at this reminder.
‘Go and get it while I organise the food.’
‘You haven’t finished the guided tour,’ she said quickly. Then wished she hadn’t.
‘We’ve the whole evening. Don’t be so impatient, Joanna. You’ll see everything, I promise.’
She stood for long moments in the hall, making an effort to bring her breathing back under control. It was idiotic to be so jumpy. She was grown up. Twenty-four years old. She found the cloakroom and splashed cold water on to her face. Her eyes seemed twice their normal size in the mirror, the grey abnormally dark. ‘Come on, Jo,’ she told her reflection. ‘You want this man so much it hurts.’ If only he would make love to her, all her nerves would be swept away. But it was almost as if he was going out of his way not to touch her.
He had spread a cloth under a willow tree, its curtain providing a cloak of privacy from the passing boats, and was uncorking a bottle.
‘Mrs Johnson has done us proud,’ he said, as she settled on the rug beside him.
‘Mrs Johnson?’
‘She cooks, cleans, looks after me like a mother hen.’
‘Oh.’ Jo wasn’t sure she liked the idea of an unknown woman cooking a seduction feast, wondering how many times she had done it before.
He handed her a glass of wine and touched the rim with his own. ‘To Love.’
‘Love—?’
‘‘‘‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my meat.’ So I did sit and eat.’’’ He solemnly offered her a crab bouchée.
She quickly took one, but it seemed to fill her mouth and stick there. He topped up her glass and she drank nervously. For a moment he watched her, then he toyed with his food.
‘How’s Charles Redmond these days?’
‘Charles?’ She frowned. ‘Of course, you must know him. He’s made a good recovery by all accounts.’
‘Will he retire, do you think?’
‘I doubt it. The company is his life.’ She was so glad of something ordinary to talk about, she didn’t stop to consider that her boss was a very odd topic of conversation in the circumstances. She even began to enjoy the food. At last, though, the late May sun had dipped behind the trees and the temperature dropped sharply.
‘Come on, you’re shivering. I’ve kept you out here far too long.’ He caught her around the waist and hurried her indoors. ‘This way.’ Clay led the way through a door to the right and turned on a lamp which softly illuminated the drawing-room. The floor was richly carpeted in Wedgwood-blue and a large, comfortable sofa was set square before the fireplace. Behind it stood an eighteenth-century sofa table. A well-rubbed leather wing-chair flanked the hearth. The only modern touch was the hi-fi equipment tucked away in an alcove. He bent and put a match to the fire. ‘Warm yourself. I won’t be a moment.’
Jo stood in front of the large open brick fireplace, watching the flames lick around the logs, wondering, with a sudden attack of nerves, if she was being an absolute fool. She had prided herself on her detachment, her ability to hold herself aloof from the idiotic disenchantment and pain she had seen her friends put themselves through. She had her job, her career to keep her content. Now here she was, in danger of falling into the same dangerous trap.
‘Joanna?’ His voice pulled her back to him and she understood then, as they stood side by side in the flickering firelight, just why people made such fools of themselves. Clay solemnly handed two glasses to her and, not once taking his eyes from hers, opened a bottle of champagne and allowed the golden bubbles to foam into them.
He raised his glass in silent homage to her. Jo sipped the champagne, hardly conscious of the bubbles prickling her tongue; only the heightened sensation of expectancy seemed real. The tiny nerve-endings in her skin were all at attention, tingling with nervous excitement, and quite suddenly she was shaking. Clay rescued her glass and stood it on the great wooden beam that formed the mantel.
He drew her into his arms, moulding her against his body, his eyes hooded with desire. ‘I want you, Joanna Grant,’ he said, and his voice stroked her softly. She leaned her head back slightly and smiled up at him, her self-possession a paper-thin veneer masking the ridiculous racketing of her heart, and as his lips touched hers she closed her eyes.
She thought she knew what it was like to be kissed by Clay Thackeray. Perhaps it was the champagne, or perhaps it was just that she had been anticipating this moment all day. For a few moments his wide, teasing mouth touched hers in a gentle exploration of the possibilities. Then he paused and she opened her eyes, parting her lips in an involuntary sigh as old as time, any lingering doubts having long since evaporated in the heat beating through her veins. He kissed her again, fleetingly, his eyes locked on to hers, then swung her into her arms and carried her to the sofa, sitting with her across his lap, her arms around his neck. For a moment his gaze focused on her mouth. Gently he outlined her lips with the tip of his finger. She moved urgently against him and whispered his name.
‘Patience, my love. I want to enjoy you. Every bit of you.’
He peeled away her sweater, but his fingers were almost unbearably slow as they undid the buttons of her blouse and pushed the heavy cream silk aside. He kissed the soft mound of her breast where it swelled above her bra, then, edging the lace away, his mouth sought the hard peak of her nipple and she cried out as he drew it between his teeth and caressed it delicately with his tongue. Her breathing was ragged and there was a throbbing, desperate ache between her thighs which was strange and wonderful and which she was woman enough to know that only he could ease.
Her fingers dug into his shoulders. ‘Clay …’ Her voice was pleading.
He raised his head and frowned slightly. ‘Have all your lovers been so hurried?’
‘No …’ But he wanted no answer; his mouth began a thorough and systematic plunder of hers, preventing her attempts to explain, then driving them out of her head altogether.
After a while he raised his head. ‘I think it’s time we went to bed.’
She raised lids heavy with desire and with her fingertips traced the strong line of his jaw and the small V-shaped scar on his chin. She drew her brows together in concentration. ‘Clay …’ He caught her fingers, kissing each one in turn as she struggled to sit up. ‘You should know … that is, I think I’d better tell you that I haven’t ever—’
‘Haven’t what?’ His mouth continued to caress her fingers and for a moment there was only silence in the flickering firelight. Then he realised that she had ceased to respond and he raised his head. ‘What is it?’
‘It was nothing important, Clay.’ She tried to keep her voice light, conversational, but to her own ears failed dismally.
‘You picked a hell of a moment to play games, sweetheart.’ There was a slight edge to his voice. ‘If you’ve got cold feet you only have to say.’
‘No.’ She threw him a desperate look. ‘I just wanted you to know. That’s all. I wanted you to know that I’m …’ She cleared her throat. ‘I haven’t …’ Why was the word so difficult to say? It was nothing to be ashamed of, after all. It just seemed silly. But surely by now he must understand what she was trying to tell him. Why on earth was he being so slow?
He was staring at her, a slight frown creasing the space between his brows. ‘Joanna Grant,’ he said at last, ‘are you trying to tell me that you’ve never done this before?’ She nodded, her face hot with embarrassment. ‘That you’re twenty-four years old and still a virgin?’
‘There’s no need to repeat yourself,’ Joanna said, fiercely proud. ‘I’m well aware how ridiculous I must seem.’
‘I …’ He seemed for a moment quite unable to speak, then he lifted her on to the sofa and stood up. ‘Hardly ridiculous. But unexpected. To say the very least.’
She stood up, then, horribly, embarrassingly conscious of her state of undress, turned her back on him to straighten her clothes. She couldn’t understand why it took so long, hardly aware how her fingers were trembling on the buttons. Finally, though, it was done. Pale and empty, she forced herself to face him.
‘Could I ring for a taxi?’ she asked, with as much dignity as she could muster. ‘I think I should go home now.’
‘I’m sorry, Joanna.’ His regret sounded genuine enough, as well it might, she thought. He looked almost angry. ‘I just hadn’t anticipated this situation. Most of the women I’ve known are rather more—’
‘You don’t have to draw a picture, Clay.’
She should have known. He was used to sophisticated women who knew exactly how to please a man. Why had she ever thought he might be interested in her? Except that he had been, until she had been stupid enough to own up to her virgin state. It wasn’t as if she wanted it. There had just been so many other things, important things she had to do.
She fled to the cloakroom. Like the other rooms she had seen, it had been gutted, and there was the smell of fresh plaster. The fittings were starkly new, but the tiles were still in their boxes, stacked against the wall, and the floor was bare board. He’d only just moved in. ‘Camping’ was the word he’d used. The quality of the fittings gave the word a slightly surrealistic edge. Not that it mattered.
She regarded herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips red and swollen. She sighed and opened her bag to repair the damage as best she could.
Her sister had once suggested, quite kindly, that virginity beyond the age of twenty was an embarrassment she should try to resolve as quickly as possible. Apparently she had been right, but just now she didn’t feel much like telling her so.
Clay was waiting when she emerged. He crossed the hall quickly to take her hand but she avoided his touch. ‘Is there a telephone?’
‘You don’t have to go, Joanna. Can we talk?’
‘Talk?’ What on earth was there to talk about? she wondered. She hadn’t come to talk. Her chin high, she turned away from him before she weakened. ‘I’d prefer it if you would call a taxi.’
‘Damn your taxi!’ He reached for her.
‘Now, Clay!’ she demanded. If she let him touch her she would lose her hard-won self-control and simply weep.
For a moment the tension held him in suspension, neck muscles knotted into cords, hands clenched. Then, as if he had made a decision, he nodded slightly and relaxed.
‘Perhaps you’re right. Now is not the time. I’ll take you home.’
‘There’s no need to put yourself to the trouble.’
‘There’s every need, Joanna. Don’t argue.’
She made no further objection, sensing that it would be pointless, but she shook away his steadying hand at her elbow as she stumbled on the uneven path in the gathering darkness.
He insisted on seeing her to the door. She unlocked it and with a supreme effort managed a smile as she turned to face him.
‘Goodbye, Clay.’ She offered him her hand, sure now that she was safe. His expression grave, he took it, holding it for a moment as if he would say something. But he didn’t speak. Instead he raised her fingers to his lips.
Before she could recover from her surprise he had turned and disappeared down the stairs. She ran to the front window in time to see the car door slam. It remained at the kerb for so long that she began to think he might get out again, but then, very quietly, the car pulled away and disappeared down the street.
No longer needing to keep a rigid control upon her feelings, she let out a long, shuddering sob.
Monday was a bad day at work, but Jo welcomed the problems. It used all her energies, blocked the need to think. She had spent the weekend with her sister, avoiding thinking, for once welcoming the disapproval of the long hours she worked, the unsuitable job. Thinking wouldn’t do. She had made an utter fool of herself over Clay Thackeray and she would have to live with the memory of her humiliation for a very long time, but the longer she could put off thinking about it, the better.
‘Good morning, Jo.’
Her heart sank. A visit from the project manager was the last thing she needed this morning. She turned to the sleek, tanned figure and forced a smile to her lips.
‘Hello, Peter. We didn’t expect you back until tomorrow. Had a good holiday?’
‘Wonderful, my dear. The Greek islands in May are a perfect joy. You should have come with me.’ He didn’t exactly leer; he was never quite that obvious. But he hid his resentment at being landed with a woman on his site under a surface skim of flirtation that grated like a nail on a blackboard.
She shrugged and sighed. ‘Someone has to stay and do the work. And I’m sure the company of your wife was adequate compensation. Do you want me to walk around with you?’
‘No, it’s nearly lunchtime. I’ve just come to take you all down the pub for a drink. A thank-you for all your hard work while I’ve been away. I’ll give you a lift.’ He placed his hand on her elbow and steered her towards his car.
Jo bit down hard to prevent herself from screaming. Not that he ever did anything that could be grounds for complaint. Just the innuendo and the proprietorial hand to her back, whenever there was anyone to see, to give the impression that she belonged to him personally.
Jo made for a table by the fireplace, but he moved her on to a secluded corner. ‘It’ll get noisy there when the place fills up.’
She fumed while he fetched the drinks. It wasn’t as if he was interested in her, and for that at least she supposed she should be grateful. He was only interested in having the world believe that she was besotted by him.
‘Now, my dear. Tell me everything that’s happened while I’ve been away. Any problems?’
‘Nothing major.’ She smiled. ‘You should have had another week in Greece.’ The sentiment was heartfelt.
He leaned closer and placed his hand on hers. ‘I couldn’t stay away that long.’
She looked up with relief as she heard the door opening in the corner. It would be the men from the site. But it wasn’t them. Clay Thackeray stood framed in the doorway, very still, taking in the picture the two of them presented. For a moment their eyes clashed, then Clay took a step forward, his face taut with anger.
Quite deliberately Jo turned to Peter and smiled into his startled eyes. ‘I’m glad. I’ve missed you, darling.’ She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the mouth.
His reaction should have been comic. It was a moot point who jumped most visibly—Peter, leaping to his feet, or Jo, at the crash of the door rattling on its hinges.
It was late when she drove home. The truth of the matter was that she didn’t want to go back to her empty flat. At least while she was working she had something else to think about. Finally, however, the figures began to swim in front of her eyes and she was in danger of falling asleep over her desk. She parked the silver Mini in her allotted space and walked slowly up the stairs.
She was near the top when she became aware of an obstruction, and for a moment she stared uncomprehendingly at the long legs barring her way.
‘You’re very late. It’s nearly nine o’clock.’ Clay’s voice was accusing.
She glanced at her watch. Anywhere to hide her face, to hide from him the betraying leap of joy at seeing him again. ‘I’ve been working late.’
‘I saw you working, at lunchtime.’ His jaw muscles tightened. ‘Who was he?’
It was too late to regret her stupidity. She had behaved very badly indeed and had the unhappy suspicion that Peter would make her pay for that when he had got over the shock. But it wasn’t too late to retrieve a little self-respect.
‘What’s the matter, Clay? Did you change your mind?’
He stood up. ‘This is hardly the place to discuss it.’
‘This is the only place you’re going to discuss anything. Because I have.’ She turned away so that her eyes shouldn’t betray the lie.
‘Are you really so fickle?’ He descended to her level and grasped her face between his hands so that she was forced to look at him. ‘Who was he?’ For a moment she glared furiously up at him, defying him to make her speak. He leaned closer. ‘Who was he, Joanna?’ he repeated, the velvet drawl of his voice contradicting the gem-hard challenge in his eyes.
‘Peter Lloyd. He’s the project manager.’ The muscles in his jaw tightened and she closed her eyes. ‘He’s just come back from holiday.’
‘You appeared to be very pleased to see him.’
‘Did I? Maybe I was, Clay.’
‘Maybe.’ He suddenly released her and she rocked back on her feet. ‘He didn’t hang around for long, though. Or perhaps he came back tonight?’
‘You stayed to spy on me?’ Her eyes widened in surprise. Then a flash of anger sparked through them. ‘You should have stayed longer, then you’d know whether he came back.’
‘No!’ He stepped back. ‘No. I didn’t do that. I was too angry to trust myself at the wheel of a car. I sat in the car park for a while, that’s all, and I saw him leave, then a while later you all went back to the site.’
She frowned. ‘I didn’t notice the Aston in the car park.’
He shook his head. ‘It needed some work. I borrowed a car from the garage. Look, Jo, this is silly. Can’t we go inside and talk?’
She hesitated for a moment then shrugged and unlocked the door. ‘Why not? I know I’ll be safe in your company.’ She threw her bag on the sofa and turned to face him. ‘Won’t I?’
CHAPTER THREE (#u88da8f6c-dce4-5928-bd2a-321f645ceb33)
‘MAYBE.’ He seemed to fill her sitting-room. ‘Have you eaten?’
‘I’m not hungry, Clay. I’m just tired. All I want is a shower and my bed. Just say whatever it is you feel you have to and go.’
‘You have to eat.’ He turned her in the direction of the bedroom and firmly steered her towards it. ‘Have your shower. I’ll get you some food.’
She dug her heels in. ‘I don’t want anything from you, Clay.’
‘Yes, you do.’ His hands were still on her shoulders and his grip intensified. ‘So you’d better go and shower now, before I lose all semblance of self-control and remind you exactly what you want from me.’
She fled. Locking the bathroom door firmly behind her, she stood against it, her whole body trembling with the longing for him to slake the shattering need that the slightest touch of hand awoke in her. A longing that wouldn’t go away.
‘Damn you, Clay Thackeray,’ she whispered to herself. She took deep, calming breaths and gradually began to regain control of herself. Slowly she undressed, and stood under a fierce shower trying to work out what Clay wanted from her. She had already offered him everything a girl could give a man and he had rejected it in very short order. Angrily she flicked the switch to cold.
Shivering, she quickly dressed in cream cord trousers and an oversized fleecy sweatshirt. The blue was faded and the Prince of Wales feathers of Surrey Cricket Club were barely visible, but it had been her father’s and it was a comfort in her misery.
As she opened the bedroom door she heard a key in the lock. Clay appeared carrying a plastic bag. ‘I borrowed your key. Hope you don’t mind.’
‘When you said you were getting food, I had assumed you were going to cook,’ she protested. ‘I could have made an omelette or something.’
‘You said you were tired,’ he said. ‘Have you got any chopsticks?’
‘I’m afraid not. I just use knives and forks.’ Her lips imitated a smile.
He shook his head and tutted. ‘How very conventional.’
‘I’ve recently discovered that stepping outside the bounds of convention isn’t that good for my ego,’ she replied, sharply.
He smiled. ‘I promise I’ll do my best to restore it.’ With a wry smile he dumped a pile of magazines on the floor. ‘New Civil Engineer. I might as well be at home.’
‘I’m sure I can find you a copy of Vogue if it will make you feel more comfortable,’ she offered, but he ignored this and began to lay out a series of aluminum dishes on the glass-topped coffee-table.
‘Plates?’ he suggested.
‘Has anyone ever told you that you have a very managing disposition, Clay Thackeray?’ she remarked, crossly.
‘Managing is what I do best, Joanna Grant, so you’d better get used to it.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Jo snapped, but fetched a couple of plates and some cutlery from the kitchen. Clay piled a plate with food and handed it to her. She stared at it in dismay. ‘I can’t eat all this!’
He helped himself to food. ‘Convince me that you’ve had a proper meal today and I’ll let you off with half,’ he offered.
‘I don’t suppose you’d take a doughnut into consideration?’ He paused in the act of spooning rice on to his plate just long enough to hand her a fork. She made no further protest. At least eating precluded conversation.
‘More?’ he offered, as he watched her finish.
Jo shook her head. ‘No. But thank you.’ She forced a smile. ‘I was hungrier than I thought.’ She began to clear the dishes into the kitchen. ‘Now, perhaps you’ll tell me why you’re here?’ It seemed easier to ask the question while she was occupied. ‘What exactly do you want from me?’
He had followed her, and his voice at her ear made her jump ‘Maybe,’ he said, very softly, ‘I did change my mind. Maybe I can’t get the thought of the other night out of my head.’ He reached out and caught her wrist. ‘Maybe I’ve been driven to distraction by the thought of you offering yourself to another man … I have the feeling that Peter Lloyd wouldn’t be so tactless as to refuse you. Or is that where you’ve been all weekend?’
Jo stared at his hand, at the strong fingers curled around her wrist, the same fingers that had elicited such a eager response from her. She ignored his question. ‘Is that how you see me?’ she asked. ‘Desperate? Realising how late I’ve left it and throwing myself at every man who comes my way in the hope that one of them will take pity on me?’ She shuddered, resisting to no purpose as he pulled her into his arms, wrapping them around her, holding her close.
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Liz Fielding
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: The boss and his runaway bride! Joanna might have walked out on her turbulent marriage with Clay Thackeray but that never meant she stopped loving him. So when he becomes her new boss, she’s horrified – how can she work alongside the man whose every look sends delicious tingles rippling down her spine?After two years apart, Clay’s determined to understand what made his ambitious, independent wife leave. It’s certainly not lack of chemistry – one look at her and he’s longing to make up for lost time! He can see that Jo is fighting their attraction, but how will he react when he discovers her biggest secret of all… ?