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!
‘Well, at the moment I’m at home—’
‘You should be here!’ he snapped, his hand tightly gripping the receiver.
‘But until a short time ago I was sitting in my car in a ditch,’ January continued, determined. ‘Max, I’m sorry,’ she added huskily.
‘I really am. I set out in plenty of time to get there at twelve-thirty, but the car skidded on some ice, I lost control, and—well, I ended up in the ditch. I telephoned as soon as I could—’
‘Are you hurt?’ Max cut in sharply, furious with himself now for having lost his temper with her initially. If she were hurt—! That possibility didn’t bear thinking about!
‘Just a little bump on the head,’ January dismissed. ‘But the car is probably a write-off—’
‘Forget the car,’ he cut in. ‘It’s easily replaceable. You aren’t.’
‘Well it might be easily replaceable to you.’ She laughed ruefully. ‘I’m not in such a healthy financial position, I’m afraid. But never mind that,’ she changed the subject. ‘There is no way I’m going to make it for lunch now, so could we make it dinner this evening, instead? March says she doesn’t need her car this evening, so I can borrow that. As long as I promise not to put that in a ditch, too,’ she added dryly.
Max’s head was still full of horrifying visions of the first time she had landed in a ditch, at how nearly he had lost her, when he had only just found her!
‘Wouldn’t it be easier if I were to pick you up?’ he suggested tautly. ‘That way, if anyone ends up in a ditch, it will be me!’
‘No, that won’t do at all,’ she came back instantly.
‘January, could you just forget this idea you have that my meeting your family is tantamount to an engagement announcement,’ he interrupted impatiently, ‘and just look at the safety aspect instead? I do not want—’
‘Max, this has nothing to do with what my family may or may not think—’ The embarrassment could be heard in her voice ‘—and everything to do with the fact that I live in a very remote area, high up in the hills. Trying to direct you there would be a nightmare.’
In that case, the thought of her driving down to him was a nightmare, too—for him. He—
‘Maybe we should just forget meeting up at all,’ January continued evenly. ‘The weather seems to be against us, and—’
‘No!’ Max cut in tautly. ‘No, January, to me not seeing you today is not an option.’ He simply couldn’t go through another night like last night!
‘To me, either,’ she came back softly.
So softly, Max wasn’t sure he had heard her correctly, or whether it was just wishful thinking on his part. The former, he hoped!
‘Okay, dinner,’ he accepted huskily. ‘Here. At seven-thirty.’
‘Fine,’ she agreed breathlessly. ‘Oh, before you go, Max, there is just one little thing…’ she added teasingly.
‘Yes?’ he prompted warily, feeling his tension rising once again.
‘Don’t you think it might be helpful if I were to know your surname?’ she asked playfully. ‘It was a little embarrassing a few minutes ago when I telephoned and had to ask Patty if there could possibly be an irate-looking guest pacing up and down in Reception—because I had no idea how to ask for you by name!’
That thought hadn’t even occurred to him. But, now that he thought of it, he didn’t know her surname either; it hadn’t seemed important at the time.
It still wasn’t important; she was January to him, the woman he wanted with a fierceness that was totally consuming his every waking thought. Although he could see her point…
‘Golding,’ he supplied laughingly. ‘Maxim Patrick Golding.’
Complete silence on the other end of the telephone line followed his announcement. A sudden, tense silence.
‘January…?’ he prompted as the seconds slowly passed with only that silence on the other end of the telephone line.
‘Did you say Golding?’ she finally asked in a hushed voice.
‘Yes, I did,’ Max returned warily. ‘January—’
‘You’re M. P. Golding?’ Her voice rose disbelievingly.
Max’s hand tightened about the telephone receiver. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong. ‘I just told you I am,’ he confirmed slowly, having no idea what the problem was with his name. Only knowing that there obviously was one.
Why had January repeated his name in that formal way, M. P. Golding, as if he were the author of a book, or—? Or…!
‘January, what’s your own surname?’ he prompted with a wince of foreboding.
‘With first names like January, March and May? I’m sure, if you try, you can work that one out for yourself, Mr Golding! If there’s really any need for you to do so!’ she added scathingly. ‘Goodbye!’
‘January—’ Max broke off abruptly, realizing as he heard the clatter of the receiver being slammed down on the other end of the line that he was talking to himself.
