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Gabriel raised his head, the glitter in his eyes making her pulse race even faster.
Taking her other hand, too, he drew her inexorably closer, until their bodies lightly touched, his thighs against hers, her breasts brushing his shirt.
“Rhiannon?” His breath stirred tendrils of hair at her forehead.
Her eyes felt heavy-lidded but she made herself look at him. She raised her eyes to his, and saw herself reflected in the dark centers.
“Rhiannon,” he said again, “would you like me to kiss you?”
Alarm flared and died. She was suddenly very calm and sure. His mouth was close to hers, its contours beautiful in a wholly masculine way, firm but not narrow, decisive yet promising tenderness.
Scarcely above a whisper, against the thunder that was the sound of her racing heart, she said, “Yes.”
DAPHNE CLAIR lives in subtropical New Zealand, with her Dutch-born husband. They have five children. At eight years old she embarked on her first novel, about taming a tiger. This epic never reached a publisher, but metamorphosed male tigers still prowl the pages of her romances, of which she has written over fifty novels for Harlequin®. Her other writing includes nonfiction, poetry and short stories, and she has won literary prizes in New Zealand and the United States.
Readers are invited to visit Daphne Clair’s Web site at www.daphneclair.com.
The Determined Virgin
Daphne Clair
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ONE
RHIANNON hated elevators, but the parking building’s lower floors had already been full when she’d driven in this morning, and carrying a box of ceramic tiles up four-and-a-half flights of stairs wasn’t sensible. Any normal person would take the easier option offered by the invitingly open doors.
She’d spent five years trying to be a normal person.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside and pressed the button for level four, relieved she was the only passenger.
As the doors were about to meet, a strong masculine hand parted them and a tall, grey-suited man stepped through the gap. Rhiannon quickly moved back, her spine coming up against the far wall.
The newcomer glanced at the lit number on the keypad and the doors slid together.
It’s all right, she told herself. He’s just an ordinary man. Needing reassurance of that, she sent a covert glance at him, and discovered with a shock that, leaning against a side wall with his arms folded, he was giving her a lazily interested inspection, lids half-lowered over silvery eyes that roamed from her chin-length, dark brown hair to her cream shirt and moss-green skirt.
Rhiannon’s nape prickled, every tiny hair standing on end, and her heartbeat increased. She tried to breathe steadily, remain calm. But even as she tightened her grip on the box in her arms and concentrated her gaze on the changing numbers over the doors, her brain registered that her companion didn’t look ordinary.
The suit, and the blue-striped shirt worn with a dark silk tie were conventional enough, perfectly fitted to a lean body that seemed to arrange itself naturally to his casual stance. But his face belonged on some ancient statue in a sunlit Grecian setting—not half a world away in the rather dingy surroundings of a parking building in downtown Auckland. Thick, almost-blond, sun-streaked hair added to the impression, its incipient waves tamed by a conventional but expensive-looking haircut.
Number two came up on the display, then three, four. The man let Rhiannon out first, following as the doors whooshed shut behind them. She hoisted her box a little higher and quickly headed for the half-flight of concrete steps leading to 4-B.
As she reached them he touched her arm. ‘That looks heavy,’ he said. ‘Let me help you.’
Her foot, already on the first step, slipped as she instinctively pulled away, turning her head to refuse the offer. She lost her balance, falling onto the stairs, and her elbow hit a concrete edge, the box slid from her grasp.
Tiles spilled, smashing against each other. Dizzy with pain, she scarcely heard the explosive word the man let out before she twisted upright on one of the steps and sat nursing her elbow, teeth gritted and eyes squeezed shut to stop herself crying out.
‘I’m sorry!’ The deep male voice was very near, and her eyes flew wide, to see the Greek-god face only inches from hers, the man hunkered down before her, one knee on the not-too-clean concrete floor. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you,’ he said.
Close up, his eyes were blue—ice-blue but not cold, and filled with guilty concern. ‘Are you hurt?’ He looked at the hand cupped about her throbbing elbow. ‘Let me see?’ His bent head came even closer, so she could see the parting among the glossy waves of his hair. A pleasant, slightly astringent aroma hinting of citrus and spicy manuka leaves came to her.
He extended a hand to touch her again, and Rhiannon instinctively shrank back, shaking her head. ‘It’ll be okay in a minute.’
‘You’re pale,’ he said abruptly.
Not surprising; she felt pale. But the dizziness was wearing off. ‘I’m all right.’ To prove it she tried to lever herself up.
‘Don’t move!’ A large hand reached out to hold hers against the cold concrete. ‘You’d better stay there a while,’ he said. And as she resisted his hold, ‘Take it easy.’
She didn’t know if the last remark was a continuation of the first, or a reaction to her attempt at escape. But his soothing yet authoritative tone helped to still her panic.
This man is not attacking you.
Making an effort to relax, she realised that the hand imprisoning hers was warm and, to her surprise, almost comforting. Then he took it away, and began picking up the tiles and replacing them in the box.
‘Some are broken,’ he said. ‘I’ll replace them, or pay whatever it costs you.’
‘You needn’t,’ she told him. ‘I was going to break them up anyway.’
About to place two jagged pieces in the box, he gave her a smiling glance of inquiry.
