after his disclosure about his parents and the pain in his voice when he had referred to his mother. The knowledge that he’d been hurt as a child made Lily feel differently towards him. Made her want to soothe him. To find out what had been worse than his mother leaving. Feeling this way about him wasn’t clever. It could only lead to heartache—her own!
She sighed heavily and felt his gaze linger on her. She really didn’t want to have any reason to lessen the animosity between them. Without that it would be far too easy to fall back into her adolescent fantasy that he was her dream man. What she needed to remember was that deep down he was essentially a good person, but any solicitude he extended towards her didn’t automatically cancel out what he really thought of her.
‘No comment, Lily?’
And he was calling her Lily now, instead of Honey. Oh, she really didn’t want him being nice to her.
‘You shouldn’t have done that before,’ she berated him, letting her embarrassment and uncertainty at this whole situation between them take centre stage.
He glanced at her briefly. ‘Tell you I enjoyed your film?’
‘Divert attention away from that reporter on the red carpet by kissing me.’
His direct gaze made her nervous, so she focused on the darkened buildings as the big car sped along Finchley Road.
‘You looked like you needed it,’ he said softly.
‘I didn’t.’ Lily knew she was being argumentative, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. ‘And now your picture—our picture—is going to be splashed all over the papers tomorrow. They’ll think we’re lovers.’
The car pulled up outside his exclusive mansion and he turned to her before opening the door. ‘They’d probably have assumed that anyway given that I accompanied you.’
Bert opened the door and Lily smiled her thanks to him before stalking after Tristan, annoyance at his cavalier attitude radiating through her. ‘Assuming and confirming isn’t the same thing,’ she retorted. Realizing too late what her words implied, she hoped he wouldn’t pick up on it.
Movement further up the street alerted them to a lurking photographer, and Lily allowed Tristan to usher her up the short walkway to the black double front doors that looked as if they shone with boot polish.
He pushed one open and she preceded him into the marble foyer, and then followed him through to the large dining room where he turned to face her.
‘Interesting phrasing. But I’m not sure how I could have confirmed something that’s not true?’ he drawled, a dangerous gleam lighting his eyes.
‘Oh, you know what I mean,’ she said, flustered by the strength of her confusing emotions. ‘I’m tired.’
‘Is that your way of defending your Freudian slip?’
‘It wasn’t…’ She noted his raised eyebrow and swore. ‘Oh, go to hell,’ Lily fired at him, walking ahead of him through to the vast sitting room, dominated by a king-sized sofa that faced plate-glass windows overlooking the city.
‘You know, all this outraged indignation over my attempt to help you before seems a little excessive to me,’ Tristan said from behind her.
Lily turned, her eyes drawn to his lean, muscular elegance as he propped up the doorway even though she was determined not to be drawn in by his brooding masculinity. ‘Oh, really?’
Tristan leant against the doorjamb and studied Lily’s defiant posture. Her face was flushed, and more wisps of hair had escaped her bun and were kissing her neck. Her lips were pouting, and he’d bet his life savings that she’d crossed her arms over her chest to hide her arousal from him. He knew why she was so angry. He knew she felt the sexual pull between them and was as enthralled by it as he was.
And, while she might be upset with the media fall-out from his actions on the red carpet, he hadn’t missed the way her lips had clung to his and how her violet eyes had blazed with instantaneous desire when he’d kissed her.
‘Yes, really. Want me to tell you what I think is behind it?’ he asked benignly.
‘Pure, unadulterated hatred.’ She faked a yawn and he laughed.
‘You know what they say about hatred, Lily.’ Tristan stalked over to the drinks cabinet and threw a measure of whisky into a glass. Two days with her and he was beginning to feel like an alcoholic!
‘Yes, it means you don’t like someone. And my reaction to your behaviour is not excessive in the slightest. All you’ve done tonight is give the tabloids more fodder—and for your information I could have handled that reporter by myself.’
Tristan raised his glass and swallowed the fiery liquid in one go, welcoming the sharp bite of distraction from the turn the conversation had taken. All he’d done was compliment her performance!
‘Was that before or after you had the panic attack?’ he asked silkily.
‘It wasn’t a panic attack! And just because I tell you something personal it doesn’t mean you get to take over. You’re not God’s gift—even though you clearly think you are.’
Tristan turned slowly and stared at her. He’d heard the clear note of challenge in her voice and he knew the reason for it. And, by God, if he didn’t want to do something about it—regardless of everything that lay between them.
He wanted her, and he knew for damned sure she wanted him, and looking at her right now, with her legs slightly apart and her hands fisted on her hips, her chin thrust out, he knew she wanted him to do something about it too.
Not that she would admit it.
He let his eyes slide slowly down her body and then just as slowly all the way back up. The pulse-point in her throat leapt to life, but she made no attempt to run from the hunger he knew was burning holes in his retinas.
There was something interminably innocent about her provocative stance, almost as if she didn’t know what she was about, and it pulled him up for a minute. But then he discounted the notion. She might not be the Jezebel he thought she was, but women like Lily Wild always knew what they were about. He’d had enough of the simmering tension between them, and knew just how to kill it dead.
‘Okay, that’s it,’ he said softly, placing his empty glass on the antique sideboard with deliberate care. ‘I’m giving you fair warning. I’m sick of the tension between us—and the reason for it. You’ve got exactly three seconds to get moving before I take up from what we started six years ago. But this time there’ll be no stopping. You’re not seventeen any more, and there’s no secretary to interrupt us like yesterday. This time we’re on our own, and I’m not in the mind to stop at one kiss. Neither, I suspect, are you.’
Lily didn’t know what thrilled her more—his blunt words or the starkly masculine arousal stamped across his handsome face. Her heart took off at full gallop and her stomach pitched alarmingly.
Six years ago she had wanted him with the desperate yearning of a teenager in the throes of a first crush. The night of Jo’s party she had dressed for him, watched him, noticed him watching her—and then, on the back of a couple of fortifying glasses of vintage champagne, she had asked him
