When I got home I saw you on the television—–’
‘A bit of a shock for you,’ he said dryly.
‘Yes. Congratulations on the win, by the way,’ she mumbled.
‘Thanks,’ he drawled. ‘But I usually like to win with women too.’
She could imagine he did; she had often seen photographs of him in the newspapers with beautiful women—which made his wanting to take her out all the more unbelievable.
‘I’m not in any competition,’ she told him firmly. ‘If I’d known who you were yesterday I would never have accepted.’
‘But having accepted, it isn’t polite to back out now.’
‘I’m not backing out—–’ she began.
‘You are.’
‘No, I—–’
‘Rachel,’ he spoke her name softly, but he instantly had her attention. ‘I’m taking you out to dinner.’
‘But—–’
‘No more arguments.’
‘Have you always been spoilt?’ she asked moodily.
‘No,’ he answered somewhat grimly. ‘Which is why I like my own way now.’
She frowned. ‘My parents—what did you say to them?’
‘Nothing outrageous, I can assure you,’ he mocked, pulling the car over to the side of the road, ignoring the ‘No parking’ sign as he turned to look at her. ‘Richard wanted to send you some flowers for helping bring his daughter safely into the world, so I told him I would deliver them in person, and when you weren’t home your mother gave me directions to the college. That’s all there was to it.’
Her mother was an ardent tennis fan, never missed any of Wimbledon, and Rachel doubted she had taken the arrival of Nicholas St Clare on her doorstep with the calm Nick thought she had. Her poor mother was probably in a complete panic by this time!
‘Rachel?’ Nick gently touched her cheek.
She looked up at him with wide grey eyes, her lashes long and thick, her face completely bare of make-up; she did not even wear lip-gloss to college. ‘Why did you decide to bring the flowers yourself?’ she asked huskily.
His eyes deepened in colour, fixed on the parted softness of her mouth. ‘I think we both know the answer to that,’ he murmured.
Her lashes fluttered nervously. ‘We do?’
Nick nodded, suddenly so close his warm breath stirred the hair at her temple. ‘Did you know that your mouth tastes like honey?’ he said throatily, his thumb-tip caressing her lips.
It was as if they were in a world of their own, the roar of the passing traffic, the rush and bustle of the pedestrians all ceasing to exist, all the world, all the reality she needed, right here in Nick’s eyes.
His head lowered and his mouth claimed hers, parting her lips with the tip of his tongue as he felt her complete surrender. That dizzy pleasure that she had felt only fleetingly the night before came back tenfold, and her hands clung weakly to his shirt-front as he plundered her mouth with deeper intensity.
At last he raised his head, his eyes the colour of a stormy ocean, his breathing as ragged as her own. ‘Pure nectar,’ he murmured huskily.
Rachel gazed up at him with stars in her eyes. ‘Nick …?’
‘Yes,’ he breathed deeply. ‘Explosive, aren’t we? Still refuse to have dinner with me?’
At that moment she could have denied him nothing, although luckily he was asking for nothing but dinner. She forgot to be frightened of who he was, forgot her apprehension as to how long he would want her in his life, remembering only that together they were explosive.
If her parents were at all surprised to have Nicholas St Clare sitting in their lounge waiting for their daughter to change to go out to dinner with him then they didn’t show it, her mother offering him a cup of tea, her father offering him the newspaper he hadn’t even read himself yet.
Rachel floated up to her bedroom, having duly admired the beautiful bouquet her mother was arranging in vases for her. The accompanying card contained the sincere thanks of Richard Lennox.
She really didn’t have a lot in her wardrobe that was suitable for dinner with Nick, although he had warned her it would be a quiet and early dinner, as the semi-finals tomorrow meant he had to get plenty of sleep tonight. She had a silky shirtwaister dress that would be suitable for a quiet dinner for two, its muted shade of grey matching the colour of her eyes, and darkening her hair to ebony. She could see Nick approved of her appearance when she entered the lounge a few minutes later; he stood up as she entered the room, having eyes only for her.
She blushed at that look, breaking into speech about how beautiful the flowers looked in the three vases it had taken to hold them all. ‘I hope you’ll thank your brother-in-law for me,’ she said shyly.
His mouth quirked into a smile. ‘At this rate it could take a lifetime to pass your thanks backwards and forwards to each other!’
A lifetime? Yes, she would like that.
‘Do you mind if we go back to my apartment first?’ he asked once they had taken their leave of her parents. ‘I have to change.’
‘No, of course not,’ Rachel answered confidently enough, a wild fluttering sensation beginning in the pit of her stomach. ‘Go to his apartment,’ he said, so casually, when she had never even known a man who had his own apartment! All the boys she had been out with had lived either with their parents or two or three flatmates, although not for anything would she let Nick St Clare see how nervous the prospect of going to his apartment made her.
‘Help yourself to a drink,’ he invited once they were inside the luxurious apartment he called home while in England. In Wimbledon itself, conveniently near to the tennis courts, it was the top floor of a two-storey apartment building. ‘I’m just going through to shower.’
She ignored the extensive array of drinks, moving nervously about the room, a room only made personal by the magazines lying on the table, the books on the shelf in the Welsh dresser. Her parents’ home was comfortable, homely, but this apartment was something else, like one of the pictures in glossy magazines she often drooled over.
‘Like it?’
She turned at the sound of Nick’s voice, swallowing her shock as she saw he was dressed only in a black silk robe, the smoothness of the material telling her he wore nothing beneath.
She cleared her throat. ‘I—er—it’s lovely.’ She lowered her eyes to the carpet, the memory of his bare legs beneath the robe staying with her. He was more adequately dressed than he was on the tennis court, was more covered at least, and yet the intimacy of this situation unnerved her.
Nick seemed to feel none of her embarrassment, as he came over to drape his arm lightly about her shoulders. ‘Do you like Italian food?’
‘Er—yes.’
