doors…’
Emily listened to him in growing resentment. Just what kind of person did he think she was? The answer was simple. He thought she was some kind of irresponsible, idiotic teenager. Dressed for a disco, indeed. She winced a little, recollecting her own reluctance to don the sweatshirt Gracie had proffered, and wondered what on earth this large angry man would make of Travis’s many-hued jumper—and then decided that it was perhaps as well she would never know.
As for that remark about the rescue services—her own father was one of those volunteers, and she knew all about the hazards they had to face.
Before she could say as much the man was talking again, gesturing towards her car with evident disgust as he said bluntly, ‘Well, you’ve no chance of getting that thing back on the road without a pick-up. By rights I ought to leave you here to give you a taste of what happens to idiots like you when they ignore the warnings of far more sensible human beings, and go out for drives in blizzard weather conditions; but, as you’re all too likely to ignore any advice I might give you about staying put in your car and wander off somewhere causing God alone knows what sort of trouble for whoever has to find you, I suppose I’d better give you a lift.’
A little to her own astonishment, Emily found that she was actually grinding her teeth. She had always considered herself to be a very even-tempered human being; even in the face of Gerry’s cruelty she had remained calm—on the surface at least—but suddenly she was discovering how wrong she had been about herself, and how very satisfactory it would be to fling his arrogant and grudging offer of help right back in his face.
Maturity won out over inclination, though. She had no wish to spend the night in her car…not with the intensity of the blizzard-driven snowstorm increasing with every second that passed…not when she could see for herself that already the snow was drifting and that, if it continued to do so, it might be several days and not several hours before she was rescued from her trapped car.
And so, biting back her ire, she said as coldly as she could, ‘I’ll just get my things from the car.’
Behind her she heard a derisive snort as he muttered under his breath, ‘God, you females…You can’t go anywhere without half a ton of make-up…’
Make-up…A strong desire to giggle overwhelmed her. Her make-up was restricted to moisturiser, blusher, soft pink lipstick, mascara and the merest touch of eyeshadow, and only those because she had grown tired of her mother’s and Gracie’s reproaches that she didn’t make enough of herself. No—what she wanted from her car was the warmth of Travis’s sweater, the rug, and the thermos flask of coffee and the sandwiches Louise had given her.
As she ploughed her way back to her car through snow which had deepened dramatically in the time she had been standing on the road, she pushed her hair off her face, grimacing a little. She had been so busy working with Uncle John that she hadn’t had time for her normal bimonthly trim of the neat bob in which she normally wore her hair. The result was that it had grown down to her shoulders and constantly swung down over her face in a most irritating fashion. Her mother had said that she liked it longer; Gracie had raised her eyebrows and announced that it made her look even more ethereally fragile than usual. Emily thought it was just plain untidy.
She collected her things from her car with efficient ease and saw her unwilling rescuer’s expression change as she returned towards him, carrying the thermos flask and blanket.
‘Typical student,’ he grunted critically. ‘Planning to sleep in your car, I suppose…’
Emily opened her mouth to deny that she had been intending to do any such thing, and to set him right about the other facts he had got completely wrong, and then closed it again as he continued brusquely, ‘I suppose we’d better introduce ourselves as we’re going to be travelling companions. I’m Matthew Slater. Most people call me Matt.’
Later she had no idea what on earth made her say it…what rash folly had prompted the impulse that had her replying, not by introducing herself as Emily Blacklaw, but simply as Francine.
‘Francine.’ She saw the way his eyebrows rose and added sweetly, ‘It’s a family name.’
She thought she heard him say under his breath, ‘It would have to be,’ but he had his back to her and was already ploughing his way back to his vehicle.
Automatically following in his footsteps, Emily discovered how very much longer his stride was than her own, but her jeans were already soaking wet from the knees down, and anything that saved her from sinking knee-deep in a fresh coating of snow was worth a little effort.
He made no attempt to relieve her of her possessions, nor to help her in any way at all, she fumed as she struggled against the blizzard buffeting her body and the snow stinging her face. Only when she reached the safety of his vehicle did he offer a helping hand, and then only a grim inspection of her snow-covered frame and the height from the ground to the passenger door.
She supposed that she ought not to have been surprised at the ease with which he picked her up and virtually dumped her on the passenger seat. She was after all only small and slight, and he was extremely large, but there was something so disconcertingly unfamiliar about the sensation of male hands grasping her body…about the scent of male skin dominating even the cold smell of the snow…about the warmth of male breath grazing her skin that, all of a sudden, she felt acutely breathless and helpless.
‘Where were you going, anyway?’ he asked her as he climbed in beside her and relieved her of her possessions, putting them casually in the rear of the vehicle.
It was, Emily now recognised, equipped for rugged terrain, and the pack on the floor behind her looked as though it belonged to a climber or walker. The rear passenger seats had been removed to make room for extra equipment, or perhaps for carrying stock rather than people.
‘Oh, to meet some boyfriend, I suppose. Well, if he’s any sense he’ll have stayed at home. Women…’
He obviously didn’t have a very high opinion of her sex, Emily realised warily.
‘I can drop you off in Thraxton,’ he told her as he closed his door and started the engine.
From there she could ring her parents and organise a garage to pick up her car. She could travel south by train…her mind busy with the arrangements she had to make, she was glad of her companion’s silence as he concentrated on his driving.
His four-wheel-drive vehicle had a very powerful heater. She stretched her toes out towards its warmth, wishing it were possible to remove her soaking wet clammy jeans. The sound of the windscreen-wipers was rhythmic and lulling.
Her eyes ached still from the strain of staring through her own windscreen. Drowsily she mused on how odd it was that she should feel so safe and relaxed with this brusque stranger. Normally she found strange men intimidating, and was sensitive to how she must appear in their eyes, to how they must contrast her lack of looks and sexuality to other women they knew—a sensitivity born of Gerry’s cruelty to her and her subsequent total loss of confidence in herself as a woman. This man had made his uncomplimentary view of her sex so plain, she felt none of her normal constraint. It still amazed her that he should have mistaken her for a giddy teenager prepared to drive miles through a blizzard to go dancing with a supposed boyfriend.
Perhaps she rather liked that false image of herself, she wondered sleepily…perhaps that was why she had given him her second name, instead of her workaday and, to her eyes, very applicable first name. Emily…It suited her, so everyone said. So why was it when this man looked at her he hadn’t
