she gave Rania her head and galloped across the Downs, Araminta enjoyed the cool wind in her hair and the sense of freedom that was so far removed from being cooped up in the house, bent over her laptop, as she had been for the past days. But at least the proofs were ready and she could post them off tomorrow.
Slowing her pace, Araminta became aware of another horse and rider coming out of the copse. She glanced in their direction, noting the equestrian’s good seat and the fine proportions of the horse. Then all at once her heart stood still and she gulped. Surely it couldn’t be Victor Santander?
She’d been so involved in her work for the past few days that she’d forgotten the phone message he’d left and the insurance that still needed to be dealt with. Now, as the horses approached one another, she braced herself. He would probably be cross that she hadn’t phoned back. And he’d be entitled.
Victor reined in the fine chestnut and watched appreciatively as Araminta brought her mount to a stop. She looked quite lovely astride the skittish mare. A flash of amusement gripped him as he approached, realising that her expression was that of a guilty child. Amused rather than annoyed that she had obviously forgotten all about his call, he reined in next to her. The truth was, it intrigued him to meet a woman who was so outwardly unresponsive to him, yet who he was certain held hidden depths of sexual response.
Suddenly the idea of setting out to seduce Araminta and find out if that response truly existed became vastly appealing. He’d discovered now that she was a widow. Good. No jealous husband to contend with. Plus, he’d never seduced a widow. This could be a first.
‘Hello,’ he said casually, riding alongside her now, noting how lovely she looked, her cheeks pink and her golden hair a windblown mass that he wished he could drag his fingers through.
‘Hello.’
‘You didn’t get my message?’ he asked, looking her straight in the eye, allowing her no escape, amused as the colour in her cheeks heightened. He smiled inwardly. It would definitely be amusing to see the fair Araminta Dampierre writhing to his touch. And writhe she would, he assured himself, with all the arrogant confidence of one used to getting his own way.
‘I’m afraid I forgot to phone back,’ she apologised. ‘I’ve been very busy with my book the past few days.’
‘I see,’ he responded coolly. ‘Well, I got in touch with the insurance company and they’ll be sending you some forms to complete.’
‘I’m sorry. I should have remembered.’
‘Yes, you should.’
‘Look, I don’t know what to say.’ She bit her lip and reined in the horse. ‘I really am sorry. I get a bit carried away when I’m working.’
‘Hmm.’ He eyed her carefully, wondering if she was ready. Like the mare she was restraining, she would need careful handling, this one, he reflected, taking her measure. It surprised him, but she obviously had little experience of handling men. Or being handled.
‘Is there anything I can do to make up for having put you to all this trouble?’ she asked doubtfully.
‘Actually, there is,’ he said, a smile hovering now he knew he’d got her where he wanted.
‘Tell me—what?’
‘Have dinner with me tonight.’
‘Oh, I don’t think—’
‘You said you wanted to make up for having put me to so much trouble,’ he reasoned, a sardonic gleam in his flashing golden-flecked dark eyes.
‘Yes, but—’
‘But?’ He raised a quizzical brow. ‘Is having dinner with me such a penance?’
‘Of course not. All right,’ she conceded, smiling and giving in. ‘What time?’
‘Eight o’clock at the Manor. Though I can pick you up, if you’d prefer?’
‘Oh, no. I can pop over.’
‘Then, à toute à l’heure,’ he said in French before glancing at the sky. ‘You’d better get home before it pours. I’ll race you to the road.’ He turned his horse and set off across the Downs.
Never able to refuse a challenge, Araminta raced after him. Soon they were riding neck and neck in an exhilarating dash across the Sussex countryside and arrived simultaneously at the roadside.
‘We seem to be pretty well matched,’ he said, eyeing her admiringly as they pulled up at the crossroads.
‘That was fun!’ Araminta exclaimed, laughing engagingly.
‘We must make sure we repeat the exercise,’ he agreed, leaning over and taking her gloved hand in his, seeking her eyes. ‘I shall await you at eight.’
Then he wheeled the horse around and cantered off in the direction of the Manor, leaving Araminta wondering why on earth she had accepted what she knew to be a dangerous invitation that must surely spell trouble. She would do well to keep their conversation on neutral ground, she realised, grimacing as the first drops of rain fell. This man was by far too smooth, too knowing, and the increasing attraction she was experiencing was ridiculous, to put it mildly. Instinctively she sensed that she was out of her league. But surely she could control this silly attraction? Surely that couldn’t be too hard?
Turning her horse, she headed for home, telling herself that all it took was self-discipline. Nothing more.
He was standing far too close for comfort, and his whole being was far too overpowering, Araminta realised as she listened to his knowledgeable analysis of several paintings gracing the drawing room walls. Araminta showed suitable interest, wondering all the while how it was possible that a man she barely knew could have such a powerful effect on her.
It was as if she’d changed, as if something within her yearned for him in a visceral, primitive way that was not only unladylike, but which she’d also always despised in other women. The truth was she’d never experienced such longing first-hand. In fact, now that she thought about it, she’d rarely been just physically attracted to anyone. Even when she’d met Peter it had taken quite a while before she’d realised she was fond of him. And that had been because of his character, his charm, his fun, not because he oozed charisma and sex appeal.
But this man was different. Even as they chatted he exuded a tense, dangerous quality that should repel but that instead acted upon her like a magnet.
Dinner was delicious—lobster bisque followed by roast pheasant. Victor had gone to great trouble to make her feel at ease. To her astonishment Araminta confided in him, told him about her next book, and some of her future hopes and fears in that domain. And he listened, obviously interested and admiring.
She sighed now, feeling warm and at ease. Perhaps it was a combination of the pleasant conversation, the softly candlelit room, the wine and the after-dinner drink that she held loosely in her left hand that were responsible for her being so aware of him. She smiled when he looked down at her, those dark eyes flecked with gold so penetrating that she wondered suddenly if he could read her soul. She shivered and hoped he hadn’t a clue what was on her mind. Wished she didn’t know herself.
‘Are you cold?’ he asked, slipping
