wolf. The man who had once been his champion had become a cynical, hard-bitten misogynist, with one broken marriage behind him and no right...no right...
He almost laughed out loud at his own self righteous indignation. He wasn’t angry with Richard. He was just plain, old-fashioned jealous. His body was clamouring to take this girl and they were in the classic setting for seduction—alone in a cottage, deep in the most beautiful countryside. And honour dictated that he couldn’t make a move on her.
It was probably just as well, under the circumstances. He didn’t have the time for dalliance. Or the strength to spare. But it was a pity. This girl had far more than beauty to commend her. She had courage.
Faced with an intruder, anyone might have thrown hysterics, but she’d just been angry with him. Not for breaking in, for heaven’s sake, but for taking Sophie out on a wet night. As if he had had any choice.
He could use that kind of courage right now. But so far he hadn’t done a very good job of convincing her that he was the kind of man she would want to help. And Richard would never forgive him for involving his pretty new wife in something messy. Not that he was about to underestimate her. He thought Dora might just be the girl to give his kind of problems a run for their money.
Nevertheless, given half a chance to summon assistance, she would undoubtedly take it. And, with that thought uppermost in his mind, he walked across to the telephone and hunkered down to examine the socket. ‘How about that screwdriver?’ he asked, turning to her.
She was watching him, slate-dark eyes solemn. Then, without a word, she crossed the carpet on those pretty bare feet, the soft silk of the wrap, now tightly fastened about her, clinging to her legs as she walked. ‘It’s brandy,’ she said, as she handed him a glass.
He raised the glass, and raised his brows at the quantity of liquor. ‘Enough to lay me low for week,’ he said, finding it suddenly a great deal easier to concentrate on the pale amber liquid pooled in the bottom of the glass than meet her silent disapproval.
‘Then don’t drink it. I can assure you the last thing I want is for you to be here for an entire week.’ She looked at the socket. ‘Do you have to do that? I’m hardly likely to dial 999, am I? After all, I’ve already sent the police away.’
‘The police, yes. But I’m sure there’s someone else you’d like to call. I’ll reconnect it before I leave, I promise.’ Sooner. But she stood her ground. ‘It would be a lot easier just to pull it out of the wall, Dora. You decide.’
Having made her point that the telephone was important, she capitulated. ‘There’s a screwdriver in the kitchen.’
‘Then I suggest you fetch it.’ Quickly, before his ribs made the decision for them.
She turned abruptly, her robe stirring the air against his cheek as it swirled round, returning a moment later with a small screwdriver. Then she retreated to the fireplace, kneeling down in front of it so that her hair fell forward over her shoulder, a skein of honeyed silk in the light of a tall lamp that stood on the sideboard beside the drinks tray.
Damn, damn, damn. She was a complication he hadn’t bargained on. His life was already loaded with complications, and Richard’s empty cottage had seemed the perfect place to hole up while he sorted them out.
As he watched her, she reached for the poker. It was halfway out of the stand when his fingers tightened around her wrist. Startled, she turned to look up at him. ‘I’m going to make up the fire,’ she protested.
‘Are you?’ For a moment their eyes clashed, hers stormy grey and about as welcoming as the scudding thunderclouds that had blacked out the moon as he’d crossed the fields with Sophie whimpering in his arms.
‘What else? Laying you out with a poker isn’t going to improve things, is it?’ she said.
‘It would give you time to get help.’
‘Oh, right,’ she said, looking pointedly at the telephone. ‘And how do you suggest I do that? By telepathy?’
‘No. You would get in your car and drive away. You did say you had a car, didn’t you?’ Her wrist was slender, ridiculously slender, the bones delicate, fragile beneath his fingers, stirring the kind of longings that were madness even to contemplate. It had been a long time since he had been this close to a sweet-smelling woman.
He wanted to lower his mouth to the pulse he could feel racketing under the pale skin, taste it, press her palm against his cheek and pull her tight against him to ease the sudden, unexpected ache of longing.
Madness.
CHAPTER THREE
MADNESS. Even if she hadn’t been Richard Marriott’s wife.
As mad as believing that she could wield that great long poker in cold blood and strike him with it. Yet he still relieved her of it with his free hand, before releasing her wrist. Delicate it might be, but he’d been in too many tight spots to take the risk. That was how he’d survived for so long in a dangerous world.
‘Well?’ he demanded.
Dora didn’t bother to answer his question. Instead she rubbed at her wrist, as if to rid herself of his touch, and, thoroughly disgusted with himself and his thoughts, Gannon turned away from her dark, accusing eyes.
‘I’ll see to the fire,’ he said, stirring the ashes with the point of the poker so that the embers pulsed redly.
‘Man’s work, is it?’ she sneered at him. ‘And what am I supposed to do? Rush out to the kitchen and rustle you up some food?’
‘Thanks for offering, but, no, thanks.’ He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten, and his stomach was practically sticking to his backbone, but he had his pride. His stomach, however, had heard the word food and audibly protested. He glanced at the girl beside him and ventured a smile. ‘I’m on a diet.’ She didn’t respond to this olive branch. Quite frankly, he didn’t blame her.
He threw some small pieces of stick that had been drying in the basket beside the hearth into the warm embers, and for a moment there was silence as they both watched the wood begin to smoke, then crackle into flame. He added more wood as this sudden application of heat reminded him just how cold he was. August in England. Log fires and thunderstorms. It figured.
Dora, still kneeling on the rug in front of the hearth, felt rather than heard the shiver run through him. She was still trying to reel in her senses, to recover from what she had seen in his eyes as he had grasped her wrist, to recover from an almost overwhelming urge to put her arms about him and hold him. Except she wouldn’t have just held him. What she had seen in his face needed a far deeper comfort than that. Yet she’d made no attempt to pull free, and if he hadn’t released her—
‘You’re wet,’ she said, and heard the tiny tremor in her voice.
Gannon turned back to look at her, looking just a moment too long before he switched his gaze to his legs. His jeans, wet to the knees, were beginning to steam in the heat. He’d missed the showers as he’d cut across country, but the grass had been soaking, and, although he’d abandoned his muddy shoes in the kitchen, his socks had left damp marks on the beautiful new carpet.
‘It’s been raining,’ he said, as if this was sufficient explanation. ‘Don’t worry about
