thing he had intended. It had been the last thing that Sandra had intended as well. His mouth compressed grimly as his taxi deposited him outside his hotel. He tipped the driver generously enough to merit a smile and walked inside.
Sandra had wanted him to sell the farm, and when he had refused she had broken off their engagement. It had hurt at the time, but now he was worldly enough to realize that he had had a lucky escape. There had been more than one woman in his life since Sandra, but no serious relationships. His sister, Ann, was constantly chivying him about it. She wanted him to settle down and get married, and was forever producing a stream of “friends” to that end.
He strode across the foyer; a tall man with a shock of thick black hair, and piercingly direct gray eyes.
He didn’t look like a farmer; his charcoal gray pin-striped suit had come from Savile Row, and he had about him that cool air of command that said unmistakably that he was successful in life.
He leaned across the desk and asked for his key. The girl who handed it to him eyed him enviously, studying the tanned planes of his face.
Now that was a man …. He smiled at her, and she felt a frisson of response shake her body. Wow … he was really something.
It was that peculiar time of the evening, too late for any lingering diners, too early for the nightclub set, and the large foyer of the hotel was almost deserted.
Marcus made his way to the cocktail bar, and then changed his mind about going in when he saw the woman strategically poised on the bar stool. She and the barman were the sole occupants of the room. She smiled at him and he looked away, suppressing a mingling feeling of pity and annoyance.
Did he look like the sort of man who paid for his sex? She was quite obviously a prostitute looking for business. As he turned to leave the bar he shrugged away his annoyance. Probably to her all potential customers looked the same, and it was juvenile of him to feel offended because she had thought he might be a possible client.
For some reason this brief trip to London to attend the Farming Management Conference had disturbed him. It brought back too many memories. London reminded him of the world he had shared with Sandra. He had been young then; young and in love.
Now he was well into his thirties, and cynical enough about both himself and the female sex to know that love had nothing to do with sexual enjoyment. It had been a long time since he had slept with a woman; too long perhaps, he thought grimly, remembering his instinctive masculine reaction to the perfumed femininity of his host’s wife at dinner.
It had been a long, hard winter, and there had been no time for extracurricular activities of any kind; but tonight, with an exotic feminine perfume tantalizing his senses, his awareness of the delicious femininity of his host’s wife, accentuated by the silky slither of her dress over her breasts and hips, he had suddenly felt an urgent need for the soft warmth of a woman in his bed.
But not a woman he had to pay, he thought disgustedly, as he pressed for the lift and then stepped into it. Ironically, he knew that there were any number of women among his friends and acquaintances who would be more than pleased to have sex with him. Unfortunately, they were not here in this hotel.
He had long ago made a rule not to involve himself sexually with the wives or girlfriends of his friends; and one of his longest-standing relationships had been with an attractive divorcee. But she had wanted a second marriage, and so they had amicably agreed to part. Sandra’s greed had made him wary of any form of commitment; and the farm took so much of his time that there was precious little left to spend searching for a wife.
The lift stopped and he got out. Dim lighting illuminated the corridor. He walked along it, checking the door numbers until he found his own. He slid the key in the lock and waited until the panel lit up to show that the door was unlocked.
The sight of the shuttered curtains threw him for a moment. He couldn’t remember closing them, but then he reflected that it had probably been done by the maids when they came to turn down the bed. He fumbled for the light switch and depressed it. Harsh yellow light flooded the room.
Someone was lying on his bed! His eyes narrowed as he studied the toweling-wrapped figure. All he could see was one set of pale pink polished toenails and a cloud of amber-colored hair.
The figure on the bed stirred, and he waited with impassively folded arms, leaning back against the closed door.
Diana’s throat was dreadfully dry, and her eyes hurt. She opened and then closed them again rapidly as the too bright light stunned her.
God, where was she? She felt totally disorientated. She moved, rolling over, and tried to pierce the drug-induced mists befuddling her.
She opened her eyes again, more slowly this time, and then they widened in shock, the mists dispersing rapidly as she saw the man watching her. Instantly she was pierced with fear. She scrambled to sit up, clutching the robe to her, as she looked frantically for the telephone. It was on the opposite side of the bed, and he was closer to it than she was.
Who on earth was he, and how had he got into her room? Was he some kind of maniac? He didn’t look like it, logic pointed out to her.
Summoning her voice, she demanded huskily, “Who … who are you and what are you doing in my room?”
There was a moment’s silence and then he said dryly, “Odd, but I thought that was my line.”
It took several minutes for the meaning of what he was saying to sink in, but once it had a surge of relief flooded over her.
He wasn’t an intruder at all, but someone who had strayed into the wrong room by mistake. She smiled at him, completely unaware of the effect her golden-eyed sleepy warmth was having on him.
Whoever she was, she had style, Marcus thought grimly. This was no ordinary lady of the night, that was for sure. How had she got into his room? Perhaps she had some arrangement with one of the staff—it wasn’t entirely unknown, or perhaps she had just got the wrong man ….
“This can’t be your room,” Diana told him. “I booked it myself this afternoon. Look.” She got off the bed, and picked up her handbag, showing him her registration card.
For a moment he was almost convinced, but then he remembered something. Walking over to the built-in cupboards, he opened one of them and showed her the clothes hanging up inside.
“If this is your room, how come you didn’t notice my stuff hanging here when you unpacked?”
Too late, Diana recalled the used glass, and the opened minibar. She should have guessed then, but she had been too wrought up to do anything other than seek the oblivion of sleep just as soon as she could. Even now her head still felt woolly, and her thoughts were confused.
“By the way … where is your stuff …?”
“I didn’t bring any luggage.” She could feel the color rising up under her skin as he looked at her, his thoughts quite plain to read in his mocking gray eyes.
Dear God, he thought she was a prostitute!
“Look, it isn’t what you think. I … I … booked in on impulse.” She turned her head away from his and said huskily, “Today … today I lost someone I loved very much. After … after the funeral I couldn’t go back to our flat, so I booked in here instead ….”
She
