haven’t asked me for directions,’ Chelsea pointed out to him as the long bonnet nosed its way out into the traffic.
In the darkness she could feel him glance at her, and a nervous fluttery feeling began in the pit of her stomach and spread outwards as he said smoothly,
‘First I thought we’d go to my place, have a cup of coffee.’
For a moment Chelsea’s brain refused to work. When she had been planning the evening she had never thought as far as this. Somehow she had imagined that it would end with her leaving the hotel with Slade and then getting a taxi home. She turned towards him to protest, checking as she saw the cold cynicism of his smile, and anger suddenly welled up inside her. It didn’t take much imagination to guess that ‘coffee’ wasn’t all he had in mind. The arrogance of the man! she seethed. Did he expect her to jump into bed with him simply because she had accepted a lift from him?
It wasn’t purely because she had angled for a lift, honesty made her admit; she hadn’t exactly kept him at a distance during the evening. Forcefully she pushed aside the thought. So Slade Ashford thought she was going to allow him to make love to her. Perhaps it was time that someone showed him that when it came to women he wasn’t as overpoweringly irresistible as he seemed to think.
This thought was enough to boost her spirits and keep her doubts at bay for the fifteen minutes it took them to reach Slade’s flat; one of half a dozen in a prestigious luxury two-storey block on the outskirts of the town set in the grounds of what had once been the old manor house.
With a cool economy of movement that made it impossible for her to object Slade drove the car into a garage at the back of the apartments, locked it, and escorted her into an attractive communal hallway.
‘My apartment’s on the second floor,’ he told her, indicating the lift.
It whisked them upwards so swiftly that Chelsea felt that she had left her stomach behind. She was twenty-six, she reminded herself dryly as they emerged from its claustrophobic confines, and this wouldn’t be the first time she had had to fend off unwanted advances; and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Shrugging aside the tiny inner voice that warned her that Slade Ashford was different, she allowed him to usher her into a small inner hall. As he snapped on the light she had a brief impression of stunningly effective faux-marble walls in rich brown and cream, one of them mirrored to add to the illusion.
‘Not my choice,’ he told her, noticing her expression. ‘I needed a place in a hurry and this one was vacant. I believe the previous owner was a businessman who let it to a … friend.’ His voice was expressionless, but the meaning was plain nonetheless, and Chelsea suppressed a sudden shudder as she contemplated how narrowly she had escaped being Darren’s little ‘friend’, his kept mistress.
‘Living room’s through there,’ Slade told her, opening another door.
It was decorated in varying shades of pale blue and grey; with expensive silk-covered settees, and a thick pile carpet, and Chelsea wondered if it was merely her imagination which made her think that despite its luxury this wasn’t a happy place.
‘I’ll take your coat. Make yourself at home while I get us both a drink.’
This was the moment when she should tell him that she wanted neither a drink nor his company, but he was gone before she could speak. She would tell him when he came back, she decided. Fortunately they weren’t very far from her own flat, and if he refused to take her home, she could always walk. She was studying a painting when he returned, and her first intimation that she was no longer alone came when she felt his hands on her shoulders, turning her round to face him, his expression hidden from her as he bent his head and touched his lips to the soft flesh swelling above the top of her dress, following the line of gold glitter.
‘Opium,’ he murmured appreciatively against her skin. ‘Tell me, is all of you as deliciously scented as this bit?’
‘Let me go!’
The persona she had assumed fell from her like a borrowed cloak, her eyes darkening with anger and fear as she pushed ineffectively at his hard shoulders.
‘Don’t you think it’s a little late to play hard to get?’ he laughed sardonically. ‘You should be honoured. I don’t normally fall for such obvious ploys, but there’s something about you …’
‘I asked you to give me a lift home, not … not maul me!’ she managed on a choked whisper.
‘Maul?’ His expression was ugly as he raised his head and looked at her. ‘Believe me, if I really wanted to I could make what I’m doing now pale into insignificance—and don’t bother starting to cry rape. There’s not a court in the land that would uphold such an accusation after the way you’ve been putting yourself about tonight—in front of witnesses too!’
Sickness crawled through the pit of Chelsea’s stomach. Dear God, what was she going to do?
‘Look,’ she began desperately, ‘there’s been a mistake …’
‘Indeed there has,’ Slade agreed softly. ‘I don’t know what your game is—but I can make a pretty shrewd guess. However, this time you aren’t getting away with it. I’m no pigeon for the plucking, and perhaps it’s time that someone made you come up with the goods you’re so good at offering—and then withdrawing.’
Panic clawed at her. She wanted to scream at him that he didn’t understand; that she wasn’t what he thought but she knew with complete certainty that he wouldn’t believe her.
Impulsively she turned on her heel heading for the door, but she had barely moved a yard before she was stopped and lifted up bodily.
‘Oh no,’ Slade told her slowly. ‘Tonight there’s no running out on your obligations.’
He kicked open a door without bothering to switch on the light, and all Chelsea could see was the generous proportions of the king-size bed. She was dropped on to it without ceremony, her attempts to struggle upright suddenly ceasing as Slade closed the door and slowly started to remove his shirt. A fury she had not expected seemed to possess him.
Trapped in the sardonic gleam of his eyes, she could neither move nor think. One part of her mind registered the smooth tanned flesh of his shoulders, and the dark finely curling hair matting his chest; the play of sleek muscles as he moved and the male grace of a torso that tapered from broad shoulders into a narrow waist; while the other screamed in silent protest at the monstrosity of what was happening to her.
‘What’s wrong?’ The soft goading words brought the colour flooding to her face. ‘Don’t tell me you’re opting for maidenly modesty at this late stage in the game and you want me to do your undressing for you?’
Her control broke then, deep shudders wracking her body as she tried to tear her eyes from his body and failed. His hands were on his belt when she finally managed to drag her gaze away, and as he came towards her Chelsea shrank back.
She heard him swear, and then his hands were on her body, not roughly as she had anticipated, but dangerously skilful as they traced the bones of her shoulders, their path followed by his lips as he explored the vulnerability of her skin.
She started to protest, but the words were cut off by the sensual pressure of his mouth as it explored the shape of her own. Sensations she had never experienced before flooded over her. Of their own volition her lips seemed to soften and part, the sudden invasion
