that she had practised in the motel mirror the previous night.
‘Well, well, well…the Marvel-lous Miss Mitchell, I presume?’
His voice was like silk drawn over rough gravel, sarcastically smooth with a rustling hint of hard, underlying crunch.
A voice used to giving orders. To being obeyed. No polite deference or preening arrogance here. Just utter authority.
Vivian clenched her hands behind her back as the unpalatable truth burst upon her.
She would have far preferred to deal with the civilised Suit! A Suit might be persuaded to sacrifice a small victory for an immediate, larger gain.
This man looked too unconventional, too raw-edged, too primitive ever to have heard of the words ‘negotiated surrender’. He looked like a man who enjoyed a fight—and had had plenty of them.
Looking defeat in the face, Vivian knew there was no going back. She had to try and beat him at his own game. But no one said she had to play it solely by his rules.
CHAPTER THREE
‘THE elusive Mr Rose, I presume?’ Vivian echoed his mocking drawl, hoping that she sounded a lot more in control of herself than she felt.
There was a small, challenging silence. He inclined his head, still studying her with the arrested fascination of a scientist confronting a new form of life.
Vivian smoothed her hands nervously down the side-seams of her skirt, and to her horror her fingers encountered the crumpled tail of her blouse trailing from beneath the back of her unbuttoned jacket. Somehow it must have worked free on that nerve-racking climb. Trying to maintain her dignity, she continued to meet his dissecting stare coolly, while surreptitiously tucking her blouse back into the waistband of her skirt.
He noticed, of course, and a curious flicker lightened his expression before it settled back into brooding aggression.
‘So…do we now blithely proceed from our mutual presumptions, or do we observe strict propriety and introduce ourselves properly?’
His murmur was rife with hidden meanings, and Vivian hesitated, wondering whether she was reading her own guilt into his words.
‘Uh—well, I think we know who we are…’ She closed her eyes briefly, cursing herself for her faltering of courage at the critical moment.
When she opened them again, he was metaphorically crouched in waiting.
‘I think, therefore I am?’ he said softly. ‘Very profound, my dear, but I’m sure Descartes intended his philosophy to be applied to something more meaningful than social introductions. However, far be it from me to contradict a lady, particularly such a highly qualified one as yourself. So, we have an agreement that I’m Nicholas Rose of Nowhere and you are Miss Mitchell of Marvel-Mitchell Realties. Welcome to my world, Miss Mitchell.’
He kicked himself away from the door and walked swiftly towards her, hand outstretched. Without looking down, she was aware that he limped. She was also aware of the savage pride in the single, glittering eye which effortlessly dominated her attention. It seemed to flame with a strange inner light, until the almond-brown iris was shot with blazing spears of gold as he came to a stop in front of her, closer than was comfortable or courteous, towering over her by at least six inches as he insolently invaded her personal space.
She accepted his proffered hand with a wariness that proved wise when the strength of his grip turned out to be even greater than she had anticipated. His hand wrapped almost completely around hers, trapping it as he extended the moment of contact beyond politeness into the realm of pure intimidation.
The calluses on his palm as he eased the pressure created a friction against her softer skin which felt disturbingly familiar. It was like the faint warning buzz she had experienced when touching a faulty electrical socket. Indeed, the very air around him seemed to crackle and carry a whiff of burning. It was as if there was a huge energy source humming inside him, barely restrained by flesh and blood.
He released her slightly maimed fingers, the gold flecks in his eye blowing with a strange satisfaction as she stayed stubbornly where she was, lifting her firm chin, refusing to be daunted by his superior size and strength, or by the unsettling reciprocal hum in her own bones.
Surprisingly, he was first to disengage from the silent duel, turning away to sling himself down in the chair at the desk, stretching his long legs out in front of him. He didn’t offer her a seat, just leaned back and regarded her in a way that seemed indefinably possessive. Vivian’s blood tingled in her cheeks and she adjusted her spectacles again.
His thin mouth curved cruelly. ‘Shall we proceed to the business in hand, then, Miss Mitchell? I take it you followed all the instructions in the fax?’
She thought of the tense drive down, the nerve-racking hours alone in the motel, the wallowing boat…and his helicopter. She set her teeth and nodded.
‘Truly a Marvel—an obedient woman,’ he punned goadingly, and Vivian’s flush deepened with the effort of controlling her temper. ‘And, knowing that your company’s successful purchase of my land depends on your pandering to my every annoying little whim, of course you followed those instructions to the letter, did you not, Miss Mitchell?’
This time she wasn’t going to chicken out. She squared her shoulders. ‘No. That is, not exactly—’
‘Not exactly? You do surprise me, Miss Marvel-lous.’
Nerves slipped their leash. ‘Will you stop calling me that?’
‘Perhaps I should call you Miss Marmalade instead. That would be a more descriptive nickname—your hair being the colour it is… That wouldn’t offend you, would it? After all, what’s in a name? “That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet”…’
His frivolity was definitely a trap, the quotation from Romeo and Juliet containing a baited message that Vivian could not afford to acknowledge without betraying her tiny but infinitely precious advantage.
‘As a matter of fact, there’s an awful lot in a name,’ she said, ignoring the lure. ‘Mine, for example, is Vivian Mitchell—’
Instead of leaping to his feet in justifiable outrage, he rocked his chair on to its back legs with his booted heels, his expression one of veiled malice as he interrupted her confession. ‘Vivian. Mmm, yes, you’re right,’ he mused, in that low, gratingly attractive voice. ‘Vivian… It does have a certain aptness to your colouring, a kind of phonetic and visual rhythm to it…razor-sharp edges springing up around singing vowels. I do have your permission to call you Vivian, don’t I, Miss Mitchell?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she bit off, his feigned innocence making her feel like a mouse between the paws of a lion. ‘But you requested that Janna Mitchell bring you the documents and co-sign the settlement. Unfortunately my sister couldn’t come, so I brought them instead. Otherwise, everything is exactly as you asked…’
‘She couldn’t come?’ he asked mildly. ‘Why not?’
Having expected a savage explosion of that banked energy, Vivian was once more disconcerted by his apparent serenity.
She moistened her lower lip nervously, unconsciously emphasising its fullness.
