of her taut, slender body. ‘I’d be doing you a favour if I forgot my manners and took before I was offered.’
Heat was building up inside her. She couldn’t cope with it. Or him. And if Tom were to walk in now—or Helen—what would they think, seeing them like this?
Panic and guilt pushed her heart up into her throat and forced out a frenzied whimper, and he slid his hands behind her shoulderblades, the pressure inescapable as he pulled her body into his.
‘Relax, Bess.’ His voice was unforgivably soothing, the touch of his hands, the imprisoning, sexy strength of his thighs making her unthinkingly respond to his gentling command as easily as if he’d touched a control button. ‘I’m trying to open your eyes a little, that’s all. I’m not aiming to hurt you, ravage you on the kitchen floor. Because, so far as any of us know, we only have one life to live. I hate waste, and you’re wasting yours.’
‘You know nothing about me,’ she objected, and wondered why her voice was so submissive, why her head was burrowing into the drugging warmth of his impressive shoulders, why the thought of Tom’s imminent arrival meant nothing to her now.
And she felt her entire body lose every scrap of resistance as his lean hand cradled her head as if he liked the way it felt against his body, and he contradicted softly, ‘I knew all about you before I saw you. More from what Helen left out than from what she said. She’s a beautiful, vital woman and as far as she’s concerned you’re not merely her pale shadow, you barely exist. And she’s made sure that’s the way everyone else sees you too. Am I right?’
Bess didn’t answer. She couldn’t. He had made her mind spin off into orbit. This wonderful, shocking intimacy had blanked out her brain, leaving only sensation.
‘It’s a criminal waste,’ he continued in the same husky, hypnotic voice, as if he had expected no reply, not even the smallest effort at self-defence. ‘You have far more potential than you realise, or have been allowed to realise. Tom’s a nice enough guy, but he’s not for you. You deserve more than the safe predictability of life with him. Go out and look for what you’ve never had. Break away—find the passion and drama of living—find yourself.’
The sudden surge of emotion that stormed through her was too intense to be borne and she pushed herself backwards within the confines of his arms. They were both mad. He for spouting such nonsense, she for listening—even for a second. He knew nothing about her; why should he say such things?
‘Let me go,’ she commanded tightly, her face going white when she saw his taunting smile.
The colour flooded shamefully back when he countered, ‘You wanted it. When a woman uses physical force on a man she usually expects a physical response.’ His arms dragged her back into the curve of his body. ‘You asked for this, and you got it. So stop complaining.’ The wicked gleam of his eyes was hidden by the sweep of dark lashes. ‘Or isn’t this enough? Are you asking for more? Is that what you’re trying to tell me? Don’t be afraid to admit what you feel.’
‘No!’ Appalled, she pushed the denial out, and to her shame felt her eyes swim with tears of humiliation and shame. Had he been right? It didn’t bear thinking about, but she had never used her fists on anyone before. Had she unconsciously sought physical contact, using the small violence of her fists to provoke a response, taking it for granted that he wouldn’t punch her right back but use a far more devastatingly effective method of responding?
She shook her head to clear it of the awful selfknowledge and the tears brimmed and fell. And that was her salvation, because he put her gently aside, brushing the floury deposits from his shirt, his voice blank as he said, ‘I’ll make coffee. We could both use a cup.’
Bess scrubbed her wet eyes with her apron, too emotionally distraught to say a thing, and turned to the sink, trying to block out the rattle of china, the chink of a teaspoon, to shut down all her senses as far as he was concerned because she didn’t want to know what he was doing. She didn’t want to know he existed at all.
She shot out of the way as he came to her side to fill the kettle—right over to the other end of the room—just as Tom came through the door, rubbing his hands and wrinkling his nose appreciatively.
‘Jessica said you’d offered to make lunch. Smells good.’
His smile was so safe, so uncomplicated. Bess could have hugged him. But she wouldn’t display any emotion in front of Vaccari. She’d done too much of that already—to her everlasting bewilderment and shame. Instead, she said quickly, ‘You’ve timed it right. We’re just about to take a coffee-break.’ Which hadn’t been the right way to put it, she decided wearily as Tom’s face turned sullen, his eyes narrowing with suspicion as he watched the elegantly casual Italian take down an extra cup and saucer from the dresser.
‘Break from what?’
Bess swallowed a sigh. Tom would be remembering her hectic appearance after she’d danced with Vaccari last night. She could have said, He’s been manhandling me again. Do something about it. But she said no such thing. She knew, no matter how unjust it was, that the Italian would regard whatever outraged ferocity Tom was able to dredge up with no more trepidation than he would a bluebottle buzzing inside an upturned jar.
So she forced a smile, removing her apron as she walked over to the dresser.
‘A break from cooking. Luke’s just come in from a walk.’ She felt sneaky, and vilely guilty. Vaccari would know now that she was capable of lying to her finance, if only by omission. She took another cup from the dresser. ‘Take coffee up to Helen, would you?’ she asked the enigmatically smiling brute. ‘Tom and I will have ours in the sitting room.’
Thank heaven she sounded cool enough. And if her face was flushed then Tom would put it down to the heat of the kitchen.
But her attempt at appeasement hadn’t worked, she realised as Tom followed her through with the tray of coffee. He sounded peevish as he muttered, ‘Having Vaccari around is spoiling the whole weekend. I can’t think why your mother invited him to stay.’ He slumped down on the sofa, accepting the cup Bess handed him, stirring it irritably.
‘She didn’t. Helen brought him, remember? He’s her latest,’ she stressed. ‘Everyone thinks it’s serious because she’s never introduced one of her menfriends before.’ Colour touched her cheeks. She knew exactly why she’d made a point of mentioning that—forcefully reminding herself that Vaccari was Helen’s man. Though she shouldn’t need the emphasis, should she? She was happily engaged to Tom.
She made an impatient gesture with her hands, brushing the subject aside. She wanted to spend this time discussing her job offer. And for that she needed Tom in receptive mood, and enough time at their disposal to go into the pros and cons very thoroughly.
But the reminder that it had been Helen who had foisted the Italian on them seemed to have added to his displeasure. Bess couldn’t understand it. On the surface, Vaccari was pleasant enough. Tom couldn’t know what he’d said and done to her. And he couldn’t possibly care who Helen got serious about. He couldn’t stand her.
‘What were you thinking of, sending him to wake her?’ Tom grumbled, his face going red. ‘It’s like giving him an invitation to—well—’ He went redder. ‘It’s hardly proper.’ He lifted his cup and gulped at his coffee, as if he needed something to hide behind. Bess swallowed a smile.
Proper! He didn’t know how unintentionally funny he could be. He would hate it if he thought she was laughing at him. But his old-fashioned attitudes, his
