‘It’s very late—’
‘Or early,’ he put in lightly. ‘Depends on your point of view, doesn’t it?’ he teased. ‘I want to see you again, January,’ he told her firmly. ‘Tomorrow,’ he added determinedly. ‘Will you have lunch with me?’
Would she? Could she? Dared she?
Because she was in no doubt that if she agreed to see this man again there would be a repeat of the kisses they had just shared, that the next time there might be no pulling back—that even now her body still burned for the touch of his!
But could she not see Max again? Could she just walk away from him, from the totally new emotions she had known just now in his arms, and calmly get on with the rest of her life? Could she do that? Did she want to do that?
‘Lunch tomorrow would be nice,’ she accepted huskily, not quite able to meet his gaze now, afraid that he might be able to see the hunger still burning in her eyes if she did. A hunger that seemed to consume every part of her…
‘Nice isn’t quite the way I would have put it.’ Max’s mouth twisted ruefully. ‘But I suppose it will have to do,’ he accepted self-derisively. ‘Are you going to be okay driving home in this weather?’ He frowned up at the snow that was falling more heavily than ever.
What was the alternative? To stay the night with him in his hotel suite? Somehow she didn’t think so! She might respond to this man in a way that was totally new—and a little frightening?—to her, but that didn’t mean she was about to fall willingly into his arms at the first opportunity.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she dismissed, willing her hand not to shake as she unlocked her car door. ‘This is the north of England, Max; it often snows here. If you allowed your life to be dictated by the weather you would never do anything,’ she assured him.
‘Okay,’ he agreed with obvious reluctance. ‘Where shall we meet for lunch?’ he prompted as January got into her car.
She looked up at him. ‘How about here? At twelve-thirty? There’s a nice pub a couple of miles away where they serve a great Sunday lunch.’ Working at the hotel, she did not want to be seen by Peter Meridew eating lunch here with one of the guests. Especially a guest like Max!
‘Okay.’ Max nodded slowly, bending down so that he filled the doorway, making it impossible for January to close the car door. ‘You won’t change your mind?’ he prompted huskily.
She already had—several times! But, no…she wouldn’t change her mind.
‘I’ll be here at twelve-thirty,’ she promised, giving an involuntary shiver as the piercing wind and snow entered the car. ‘Brr.’ She grimaced pointedly.
‘Sorry,’ Max murmured ruefully, stepping back so that she could close the car door.
January wound down the window. ‘You should get inside,’ she advised lightly, grateful when her car started the first time she turned the key; it was an old car, and prone to letting her down at inconvenient moments. ‘You’re getting very wet!’ As were his tailored suit and expensive-looking leather shoes.
Now where had she—?
‘I’ll wait here until you’ve driven off, if you don’t mind,’ Max told her grimly. ‘It’s the least I can do!’
He so obviously wasn’t accustomed to having his wishes overridden in this way that January couldn’t help but smile. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she told him as she drove off with a wave of her hand.
She passed John on his way to his own car as she drove out of the car park, giving him a friendly wave too before accelerating out onto the deserted road.
She would be lying if she said it was an easy drive home, because it was far from that, the drive on the untarmacked cart-track that led up to the farm the worst part of it. But at last she arrived in the farmyard, relieved to switch off the car engine and get out of the car, flexing the tension from her tired shoulder muscles.
Tension not just caused from the difficult drive home, January conceded ruefully. There was Max, her response to him, to worry about, too.
But the tension left her completely as she stood looking at the surrounding countryside, at the snow-covered hills, slowly becoming filled with an inner peace. The land, as far as her eye could see, belonged to them. It might be a tough life sometimes, a lot of hard work, often with no obvious return, the weather and circumstances unkind to them occasionally, too, but it was all theirs.
Nothing—and no one—was ever going to change that…
She was late for their luncheon appointment, by precisely ten minutes, Max realized, scowling after yet another glance at his gold wrist-watch as he strolled restlessly up and down the reception area of the hotel.
Always a stickler for being on time for appointments himself, Max found January’s tardiness doubly frustrating. Firstly, because of that abhorrence of lateness in others as much as in himself; secondly—the fact that January hadn’t arrived at twelve-thirty, as she had said she would, might mean that she wasn’t coming at all!
It was that second reason that was the most frustrating.
Maybe he had come on a little strong with her again last night? Maybe he shouldn’t have kissed her quite that passionately?
But once he’d held January in his arms, not to have kissed her in the way he had had been totally beyond his control. In truth, he had wanted to do a lot more than just kiss her!
Her body had been warm and fluid, her breasts pressed invitingly against his chest, her thighs moulding perfectly against his; it had taken every ounce of his will-power not to sweep her off her feet and carry her up to his hotel room. Where he had wanted to explore every delectable inch of her body with his hands and lips!
Stop it, Max, he instructed himself firmly. Wasn’t it enough that he had spent a sleepless night, initially worrying in case she hadn’t got home safely, and wishing that he had asked her to call him when she’d got in, followed by a hunger just for sight or touch of January, without repeating that discomfort now? He couldn’t remember the last time he had hungered for a woman in this way—if he ever had!—let alone got up in the middle of the night to take a cold shower in an effort to deal with the problem.
He glanced at his watch again. She was fifteen minutes late now—
‘Er—sir? Mr Golding, isn’t it?’
He turned to scowl in acknowledgement as the receptionist called hesitantly across to him.
‘I believe there’s a telephone call for you.’ She pointed to the telephone at the end of the desk, the flashing light indicating the call.
Probably Jude, checking up on progress, Max realized frowningly as he moved to take the call. Just what he needed at this precise moment!
‘Yes?’ he snapped into the receiver.
‘Max?’ January returned uncertainly.
He willed himself to relax, not to show how angry he was—and failed miserably. ‘Where the hell are you?’ he rasped; the fact that she was telephoning him at all meant that she wasn’t on her way here—or, in fact, intending to be!
