on earth had she allowed him to get so dangerously under her skin that he could provoke her this easily?
Dangerously under her skin? A tingle of apprehension shivered over her body.
‘It seemed the most sensible solution. If we’d had the slightest idea that you—’
‘Yeah, I know. Nothing would have persuaded you to come up here if you’d known you were going to have to spend three days alone with a man. Hell, I thought modern women were supposed to be fully emancipated. Let me tell you, lady, in Australia it’s the male of the species who needs to protect himself from the female, not the other way around, especially if he’s made himself a bit of money.’
‘Really?’ Sorrel looked down her nose at him. ‘Am I to presume that you’re speaking from personal experience or merely hearsay?’
There was a moment’s silence, during which he gave her a lightning look of such chilling intensity that she almost shivered. She had struck a nerve there, no doubt about it, and privately she was astounded by her own recklessness. It was completely out of character for her to behave like this.
‘Well, now,’ he told her in a calm drawl, ‘to use an American phrase, that’s for me to know and you—’
‘And you can keep the knowledge to yourself,’ Sorrel interrupted him, hot flags of temper burning in her cheeks. She wasn’t used to men who treated her like this: men who dominated their surroundings by their height and breadth, men who practically oozed sexuality in a way that was positively unnerving.
The kettle reached the boil and started to sing. Sorrel reached for it automatically, and then cried out as she forgot about the metal handle and scorched her skin.
Instantly Valentine was at her side, moving with surprising speed for such a large man, whipping up a cloth and removing the kettle from her burned hand, rushing her over to the sink to swish icy-cold water over her hot, blistered skin.
She tried to pull away, to regain control of the situation, but his body trapped her against the sink. She was a tall girl—taller, in fact, than Andrew and her father, but Valentine was at least a head taller. He made her feel fragile and vulnerable in a way that made her heart thump—or was that just the effect of the adrenalin released by her pain?
‘Have you anything to put on this?’ he asked her tersely.
Sorrel nodded. ‘There’s a medicine chest upstairs in the bathroom. I’ll get it. It will be quicker,’ she added, when she saw he was going to object. ‘It’s only a small burn.’
Once upstairs, she refrained from giving in to the cowardly impulse to shut herself in the bedroom and stay there. Her mother had never dreamed of this outcome when she had cosily announced that Sorrel and her cousin could share the large double bed.
Valentine would simply have to sleep downstairs. But on what? There were only a couple of easy chairs in the kitchen, and no spare bedding at all.
When she got back downstairs, she found him pouring out two mugs of tea. He handed her one of the mugs, and although the tea was rather stronger than she liked she took it gratefully.
‘So, how long are we likely to be cooped up here together?’ he asked her once she had assured him that her hand, although painful, was not badly burned.
‘Well, the twins go back to university at the end of the week, but I don’t know how long the snow will last. Simon should be able to get through with the Land Rover.’
‘But he won’t arrive for another three days?’
Sorrel shook her head.
‘Well, I guess unless the snow clears, we’re stuck with one another.’ He saw her face pale and raised his eyebrows.
‘Burn bothering you?’
‘No,’ Sorrel told him shortly, in a voice that announced that she didn’t like his questions.
‘Well, something is,’ he persisted, ignoring her coldness. ‘Look, it’s a long time since I last drove through snow, and since you’ve made it plain just how you feel about my company, if you could just show me where I’m supposed to sleep …’ He saw her face and frowned.
‘Now what’s wrong?’
There was no way she could avoid it. She looked at him and said hollowly, ‘There’s only one bedroom—furnished, I mean. You see, when Uncle Giles left, Mum and Dad moved the furniture out, just leaving the one bed for Simon when he comes here during the summer.’
His eyes narrowed disconcertingly, suddenly boring into her with an intentness nothing in his previous demeanour had led her to expect. She had the odd notion that she was suddenly seeing the real man, and that the cloak of bonhomie and laid-back insouciance he had shown her before was just exactly that. It gave her an uncomfortable jolt to be subjected to that hard grey stare.
‘What do you mean, one bed?’
‘Exactly what I said,’ Sorrel mumbled uncomfortably. ‘The old bed that belonged to Gran and Gramps was so heavy that Mum and Dad left it. I brought clean bedding with me, of course, but only enough for that bed.’
There was a long pause, and then he said softly, ‘I see … You mean that because your mother assumed that Val was short for Valerie and that I was therefore female, she saw no harm in the two of us sharing a bed.’
‘She was panic-stricken,’ Sorrel told him. ‘She had no idea what to do. It was too late to get in touch with you to let you know the situation.’
‘And that’s why you’ve been behaving like a cat walking on hot desert sand, is it? The thought of having to sleep with me …’
‘I am not going to sleep with you,’ Sorrel told him indignantly, her face flaming. ‘And yes, of course I was a little … embarrassed.’
‘No need to be on my behalf,’ he told her drily. ‘You won’t be the first woman I’ve shared a bed with.’
Sorrel stared at him, almost struck dumb with anger at his casual mockery of her. When she got her voice back, she said tightly, ‘No, I’m sure I’m not. But unlike you, I haven’t—’ She broke off abruptly, but it was too late.
‘You wouldn’t by any chance be trying to tell me that you’re still a virgin, would you?’
The way he said it made it sound as though she was some kind of freak, Sorrel thought wretchedly. Oh, what on earth had possessed her to be so stupid? Why hadn’t she just kept quiet? She ached to be able to make some light-hearted comment that would cover her mistake and deceive him, but one look into those steel-grey eyes warned her that it was impossible. It was like looking into the heart of a steel trap.
‘A virgin,’ he mused, watching her. ‘And you must be what … twenty-five—twenty-six?’
‘Twenty-four, actually,’ Sorrel snapped at him.
‘You’re not bad looking. Nice body … good legs,’ he added appreciatively, skimming her body with thoughtful scrutiny. It’s hard to guess what your breasts are like under that sweater, but my guess—’
He
