her fantasies? And worse, in less than three days she’d have to look him in the face and not betray that the best sex she’d ever thought of had been with him in a dream.
She rose from the bath, little trembles like earthquake aftershocks making her unsteady. Despite her cool skin, she glowed with sensation. She draped a towel over herself, and tried to ignore the way the cloth grated against her nipples. Standing on the bath mat, she forced her body, even her toes, to relax, and stared down at them. Small grains of sand were on the bath mat.
* * * *
Breathless, Magnus opened his eyes. Tremors still raced over his skin. The need for her had only just been fulfilled and she’d gone much too soon. The heady scent of her pleasure still clung to him. He’d have tasted, taken longer to savor each exquisite second, if he’d realized how incredible she could be. A moment of wonder took him. Had he controlled the dream? If he had, he’d have caught her sooner, spared himself the exertion of the run across the sands, not bothered with the sweetness of her kisses. No, like a fool he’d have had her as soon as he reached her. She’d taken over. That’s why she’d gone so soon. She’d commanded it all, from their first glance.
Magnificent.
He licked his lips slowly to try to recall the taste of hers, lifted his hands under the sheet in an effort to recapture the heavy warmth of her breasts cradled in his palms. The luscious sweetness of her as he’d plunged deep inside her could never be replicated. Her honeyed wetness tormented him. Hunger to take her in what might pass as reality ripped through him. Not since Julia had he known such a passion. Dreams weren’t enough. He wanted her here, needed to see her eyes filled with stars before they closed in pleasure, yearned to hear the breathy cries of abandonment she made in response to his rhythmic thrusts.
He threw the crumpled sheet back, rose and padded over to the window. “What have you done, my wanton Miss Armstrong? What have you done to us both?”
Shadows from the sliver of moonlight weaved in the courtyard below. Not yet near the half. There was time. Sheer exhaustion overtook the memory of her. He had to sleep. He must be ready for when they met again.
Chapter 4
The line of traffic shunted along at a snail’s pace, and Sian checked the clock on the dash. “Sod it,” she cursed. A new flash of blue lights about half a mile in front meant she wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry.
An accident, it must be. She’d be late again, on the back foot with Mr. Johansson from the word go.
Her best cashmere business suit would be creased to hell, and she’d twitch under the lash of his animosity. As if she needed any more tension for this meeting. For two days solid, she’d repeated the mantra he can’t read my dreams, but even as she did, she twitched in all the wrong places for another taste of him. Waiting for the traffic to move, she tapped her foot, gnawed at her lip.
Desperate for something to help calm her, she shoved on one of her relaxation CDs, but the soft melodic sounds didn’t soothe. Her agitation seemed multiplied by them. “Come on,” she shouted at the line of cars in front, but her yell made no difference. It took her a further twenty minutes to get past the hold-up.
As soon as she had gone by the police cars, she put her foot down hard, swung her car out into the fast lane and hammered it all the way to the turn off for Darnwell village. The car was well over the speed limit as she pelted along the hectic miles of road that wound through dense woodland to the gothic palace belonging to Count Johansson.
She had to get there.
The compulsion intensified the closer she got. At last, the black gates came into view, and relief overcame apprehension, for a few seconds at least. Small stones spun, lumps zinging at her paintwork, as she sped up the drive. She slammed the brakes on and shot out of the car as fast as she could.
Today at least, no rain marred the view, but the place remained as though it lurked in the rich wealth of trees around it. Forgoing the antique doorknocker, she rang the bell and waited. “He can’t read my dreams,” she muttered, one last effort at her mantra. The knots in her stomach and the nagging need to see him didn’t dissipate.
Oh God.
Magnus opened the door, and his gaze locked on hers. He knew. She fought to remain standing, gripped the doorjamb for support. Not only did he know, but he wanted her to understand that he knew. The realization coiled around her tight as gaffer tape. His dark eyes held the calculating flash of hunting yellow, and she stifled the urge to run, to race away as fast as she could...with the prayer he’d follow and capture her.
“Sorry I’m late again,” she said, breathed in his cologne, and tried to catch hold of her sanity.
“Good morning, Miss Armstrong,” he said. “I had the local radio on. I knew you’d be late with the accident. It’s caused a massive hold-up. I won’t ask if your journey was good. Where would you like to start today?”
Her mouth dried in anticipation. She’d like to start by tearing off the gray casual shirt he wore and raking her nails over the muscles it hid. Her heartbeat raced. She’d like to start by savaging his mouth, as he’d taken hers, by shoving him to the floor and straddling him. Wetness dampened her underwear. Then she’d open the zip on those jeans and find him hot and hard. She’d like to start now.
Swallowing her need along with the lump in her throat, she fought for control. “Erm…” She flicked her glance over to the trees, anything to avoid his enticing gaze. “As the weather’s better today, what about another look at the gardens?” she finally managed, reaching for her computer. “I’ll just get...” Oh, hell. She’d left the bag in the car. “I’ll go and get my iPad.”
“I’m sure you could manage without it. Why not walk and take in the impressions first. You can always come back for it after lunch.” His light tone didn’t match the intensity of his gaze.
“Lunch?” she said. “I didn’t know I was staying for lunch.”
“I thought you might like to. It will give the traffic time to clear.” He took two or three paces from her, and his dark hair glinted as he stepped into a patch of sunlight. But he didn’t belong in the light. This man roared his part of the darkness, stifled her in shadows. He belonged in the black velvet of night and the mysterious twilight grays of evening. She could hardly breathe, struggled to take another gulp of air. The muscles of her inner thighs clenched and a quiver of excitement stole slowly over her.
“This way, Miss Armstrong.”
Heaven help her get through the day without begging him to… Quashing her desire down, she followed his long stride over the gravel. Through the arch in the wall, she stepped after him into a formal rose garden. A deep breath here firmed her resolve.
There had been so many opportunities over the years with the company to get involved with clients, all of which she’d gracefully declined. Mr. Johansson would learn he was no different. Entanglements of that kind led to bad business, or so her boss warned her. The irrational fascination with this compelling man had to stop.
No matter what, he couldn’t read her dreams.
The roses, almost at the end of their season, smelled heady sweet as she breathed them in, and their fragrance calmed her. The rose beds were set in geometric squares trimmed with box hedging. Green wrought iron benches stood at intervals along the paths.
He
