Second Chance with the Millionaire Page 6

  Saul was perched on the edge of the kitchen table, his back towards her as he bent his head in apparent engrossment towards Tara who was busily confiding to him her hopes that fat little Harriet might come away from the local gymkhana with a much prized rosette. As she walked in she was just in time to hear Saul agreeing gravely with Tara’s views.

  His head was turned towards the little girl, the strong tanned column of his neck exposed, the dark hair curling into his nape. Lucy had to subdue an aching impulse to reach out and touch him, to place her lips to that warm brown skin and breathe in the vital male scent of him.

  Almost as though her thoughts reached out to touch him he turned, his eyes darkening as he read the message in hers before she could conceal it. A tide of guilty colour ran up under her skin. She wasn’t used to feeling such intense desire. Was Saul shocked by it? Amused?

  A sense of uncertainty, of vulnerability, gripped her, leaving her feeling as embarrassed as a teenager held fast in the grips of an intense crush, and then Saul was smiling at her, his voice warm and vibrantly low, sending shivers of delight racing up and down her spine, as he said,

  ‘I know you’re away most of the day tomorrow, but I came to see if you’d have dinner with me in the evening. Tara tells me you’ve arranged for her and Oliver to stay at the vicarage.’

  ‘Yes… I… Dinner would be lovely.’

  He couldn’t fail to be aware of her confusion, of the way he affected her, but there was no amusement or mockery in his eyes as he got off the table and came towards her, just a warmth that made her head suddenly feel extremely light and her legs oddly weak.

  ‘What time do you leave in the morning?’

  ‘Early,’ she told him. ‘I’m dropping the children off on my way.’

  ‘Then I expect you’ll want an early night tonight.’ He smiled at her, warmly… intimately, she acknowledged, savouring that knowledge. If Tara and Oliver had not been there she thought he might have kissed her. Her heart started to thump unevenly, tiny frissons of excitement curling her nerve-endings.

  * * *

  ‘I like Saul, don’t you?’ Tara asked her later over supper. ‘He’s nice, isn’t he?’

  ‘Very nice,’ Lucy agreed sedately while acknowledging to herself that ‘nice’ came nowhere near to describing Saul’s personality.

  As Saul had commented, she had intended to have an early night but although she went to bed, sleep eluded her, her mind not on the next day’s interview, but on her dinner date with Saul.

  Where would he take her? Somewhere quiet and secluded? A haunt of lovers? It seemed incredible that she, who had always been so cautious and withdrawn where men were concerned, should suddenly be so achingly eager for a man’s desire. Even while part of her was faintly intimidated by the strength of her feelings for Saul, another part thrilled to the knowledge that she was woman enough to want him so intensely. Her lack of desire for her male escorts had never particularly worried her in the past—she had always been too busy to let it do so—but there was a tiny thrill of heady delight to be found in acknowledging how deeply Saul aroused her.

  If she closed her eyes she could almost imagine the heat and pressure of his mouth on hers, his hands touching her flesh. The sensuous images that flashed across her closed eyes brought a slow ache to the pit of her stomach, activating a hitherto unsuspected vein of eroticism. Her tongue touched her suddenly dry lips, her nipples peaking urgently against the fine cotton of her nightdress.

  Suddenly the night seemed far too warm, her body too keyed up for sleep. She wished it was tomorrow night and that she was with Saul…

  Telling herself that such sexual urgency was undignified and foolish in a woman of twenty-five, she tried to control her disruptive thoughts and compose herself for sleep.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE heat in the centre of London struck her like a blow the moment she stepped out of the taxi. Her publishers had an office tucked away in a quiet and very exclusive mews, but the flowers in the smartly painted black and white tubs were rimmed with dust and looked tired.

  She gave her name to the receptionist—a picture of glossy sophistication from her immaculately painted nails to her perfectly groomed hair. Once the sight of so much perfection would have automatically made her feel insecure, but now she could smile without envy at the other girl’s city patina and even feel a little sorry for her because she was cooped up here in the heart of the hot city, and because she was not going home to have dinner with Saul.

  She only had to wait ten minutes or so before going in to see her editor, and she passed the time glancing at the impressive-looking dust jackets displayed in the reception area. The publishers her uncle had referred her to handled fiction work in the main—they had several well-known names on their list; one of their writers was a well-known thriller writer, another a political correspondent turned faction author.

  ‘Mrs Francis is ready to see you now.’

  Dutifully Lucy followed the receptionist and was shown into a small office.

  ‘Lucy, how are you my dear?’

  Beverley Francis was only small, barely five foot two, her dark hair touched here and there with grey.

  She and Lucy’s uncle had been up at Oxford together, and she had the warm, but controlled, look of a woman secure in her position in life.

  Shrewd brown eyes surveyed Lucy as she sat down.

  ‘You look tired, and I’m not surprised. Your uncle was telling me the other day that things haven’t been too easy for you since your father died.’

  ‘Oh they haven’t been too bad. There were one or two bumpy patches but we’re over them now.’

  ‘Umm… You’ve got your stepmother and the children living with you I believe?’

  Lucy’s sensitive ears caught the faintly critical note skilfully hidden within the words, and automatically defended her father’s actions.

  ‘Fanny isn’t really emotionally capable of handling things alone at the moment…’

  Looking at the finely-drawn features of the girl seated opposite her, Beverley Francis wondered a little at the thoughtlessness of a father who burdened a young woman with the welfare of his second wife and family. She had two stepchildren of her own—both married with families now—two girls whom she got on with very well indeed, but who by no stretch of her imagination could she see willingly taking on the role Lucy had been obliged to adopt.

  ‘Look, I’ve booked our table for one o’clock,’ she told Lucy, glancing at her watch. ‘Shall we go straight there and discuss everything over lunch?’

  When Lucy agreed, she got up, collecting her handbag and a small notebook.

  The purpose of Lucy’s visit wasn’t mentioned again until they had been served with their main course, the conversation over their first course having been confined to Lucy’s uncle and their days together at Oxford.

  ‘We’re really delighted with what you’ve done so far,’ Beverley told Lucy without preamble, watching the tension ease out of her face. ‘You do have a genuine natural flair for writing, Lucy. Of course there’s a certain amount of smoothing out to be done, but nothing too drastic, and I can certainly tell you that we want to go ahead and publish. How much work have you done on the next book?’

  ‘A lot of research, but very little else. I know what I’m going to put in it, and what main line the story will take, but I’m still mulling over the peripheral stuff—how much or how little I expand on the more remote family connections.’

  Beverley listened closely whilst Lucy outlined her ideas for her second novel, interrupting occasionally to make a suggestion and to skilfully lead Lucy down by-lanes that hadn’t previously occurred to her.

  By the time they had finished their lunch, Lucy felt fired with a new enthusiasm to get back to her work. It had suffered during her father’s illness and since then she had been too caught up with family affairs to give it the concentration it required—she had even begun to feel reluctant to go on at all. But now all that was banished and she was full of
eagerness to get back to work. When she said as much to Beverley, the latter laughed.

  ‘That’s what good editors are for—to inspire their writers, not depress them.’

  They had talked over the minor points Beverley wanted to raise on her existing manuscript and when she eventually left the office midway through the afternoon, Lucy felt buoyed up and exultant. The re-writing work required was minimal—a smoothing off process rather than anything else, as Beverley had intimated, which she was confident she could have done within the time limit Beverley had set.

  It was late afternoon before she got to the station, but luckily she didn’t have long to wait for a train. As she got on to it she glanced rather guiltily at the glossy carrier over her arm. The silk suit she had seen in a Bond Street window had proved too much temptation to resist, the way the fabric clung to her body bringing vividly to mind her erotic imaginings of the night before. She would wear it tonight—for Saul.

  The adrenalin which had pumped through her veins all afternoon increased its speed as the train slowed down for her station. She got out, her heart thudding furiously as she headed for her car.

  ‘Lucy!’

  Delight shocked through her as she recognised Saul’s voice. He was striding towards her, almost grinning at her, his smile so wide while she stood like someone transfixed and waiting for him to reach her.

  ‘I thought I’d come and pick you up—just in case you’d forgotten about our date.’

  Forgotten? Her mouth curled into a smile at the absurdity of the thought. She had her own car parked only yards away and as she looked across at it, she regained enough sanity to ask breathlessly, ‘But how did you know what train I’d be on?’

  Saul laughed, his voice faintly self-mocking as he drawled, ‘I didn’t, so I’ve met each one.’

  The curve of his mouth invited her to share his amusement, but she couldn’t. She was too overwhelmed. Tears stung her eyes, her throat closing up with a mixture of delight and anguish. It had been years since anyone had cared enough about her to do such a thing—in fact the last person she could remember doing so was her mother.

  ‘Hey…’

  The bulk of Saul’s body shielded her from curious passers-by, his hand gentle and protective as he turned her in towards himself, his eyes concerned and faintly shadowed as he looked down at her.

  ‘I’m sorry…’ What on earth must he think of her? Shame scorched her face. Some explanation was due to him, but what could she say apart from the truth?

  ‘You’ll think me a fool I know, but it’s just that it’s been so long since anyone cared enough for me to do something as crazy as that.’

  She thought she heard him swear softly under his breath as his arms went round her, the solid strength of his body supporting her as he drew her against his warmth, her head seemed to fit perfectly in the curve of his shoulder, her eyes closing in blissful delight as she felt the light movement of his lips against her forehead.

  Abruptly he released her, his eyes glowing darkly.

  ‘You’re making it very hard for me to remember that I told myself I’d take things slowly,’ he told her huskily.

  ‘I’d better make my own way home—I can’t leave my car here.’ It was torture to step away from him, her senses brought achingly to life by the look in his eyes.

  ‘Will an hour be long enough for you to get ready to go out?’

  An hour? Being apart from him for more than five minutes would be sheer torture, but somehow she managed to nod her head and then walk away and get in her own car.

  Later she decided it was a miracle she managed to drive home without incident. When she thought about it she could not remember a single thing about the drive, but she could remember how she had felt when Saul touched her, when he looked at her with that dark desire that made her blood pound and her pulses race.

  As she stopped outside the Dower House he drove past her, sounding his horn and giving her a brief wave.

  She collected her belongings and went inside. Suddenly an hour seemed far too short a time to get ready in. She was hot and sticky and in need of a shower. Her hair needed washing after the dustiness of the city. She had to ring the vicarage and check that all was well with the children.

  She performed the last chore first, relieved to hear that all was going well.

  ‘In fact I was going to ask you if they could stay another night, they’re getting on so well with Amanda and Daniel.’

  ‘Well if you’re sure it’s no trouble?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Nancy reassured Lucy. ‘I’m enjoying it tremendously.’

  They arranged that Lucy would pick them up on Thursday morning.

  As she replaced the receiver Lucy realised with a tiny kick of pleasure that she would have a second night of freedom… a second night when… When what?

  Betrayingly her body remembered the hard warmth of Saul’s against it, and putting shaking hands against her hot cheeks Lucy warned herself not to get too carried away.

  The vibrant fuchsia pink of her outfit, so hard for someone with the paler eyes normally associated with her colouring to wear, looked stunning against the foil of her darker skin and richly warm eyes.

  The summer had given her a good tan, at the same time highlighting her blonde hair, and the effect of the vivid silk against her warm brown flesh and Nordic pale hair had a visual impact that even she found faintly startling.

  It was warm enough for her to go bare legged, a pair of high-heeled sandals emphasising the slender delicacy of her ankles.

  At twenty she had been faintly podgy, but that puppy fat had soon disappeared, and in the anxiety of her father’s illness and subsequent death she had lost more weight—perhaps just a shade too much, she thought judiciously, studying the narrow flatness of her hips, and wondering anxiously if Saul would find such slenderness unfeminine.

  She kept her make-up to a minimum, just the merest dusting of highlight across her cheekbones, its pinky tones echoed in her lipstick and eyeshadow. Perfume was something she rarely wore—her lifestyle made it unsuitable; she found it cloying during the daytime, and went out so rarely at night that she never bought any, but this evening she had filched some of Fanny’s bath oil—a perfume she did not recognise, Lutèce, but which now enveloped her in a delicately scented cloud.

  Saul was five minutes early, for which he apologised as she opened the door to him. It was a new sensation for her to have someone so eager for her company, so much so that part of her cautioned her against getting carried away, warning her that the emotion and desire she could read in Saul’s eyes could be as ephemeral as a daydream.

  But there was nothing ephemeral about the way he smiled at her as he studied the lissom slenderness of her body before helping her into the car; nothing ephemeral about the touch of his fingers against her skin as he brushed against her arm when fastening her seatbelt.

  His touch brought out a rash of goosebumps, the tiny hairs on her arm standing on end as she shook with a delicate shudder. She saw his eyes darken and his body tense as it responded to the signals of her own and felt desire flower inside her as she realised that he shared her need.

  He had booked a table at a restaurant several miles away in a peaceful riverside setting.

  Lucy knew it by repute but had never dined there before, and because it was only early in the week the dining-room was only pleasantly full.

  When they didn’t have drinks in the bar but went straight to their table, Lucy thought that Saul must be hungry, but as she was studying the menu an ice bucket and champagne arrived.

  ‘As far as your book’s concerned, I don’t know yet whether this will be to celebrate or commiserate,’ he told her softly as the waiter filled their glasses with the foaming liquid. ‘But I certainly want to celebrate my good fortune in being here with you tonight, Lucy.’

  The champagne slid coolly down her throat, fizzing intoxicatingly, the texture deliciously dry.

  They drank to one another, and then to Lucy’s book, when she
told him how well her meeting had gone.

  She ordered melon sorbet to start with, followed by salmon, ridiculously delighted when Saul chose the same. It seemed a good omen that their tastes should be so much in accord.

  Knowing the reputation of the restaurant Lucy was sure the meal was a poem of epicurean delight, but she barely registered it; she was too absorbed in Saul, in listening to him, in just simply watching him.

  He caught her doing so once, their eyes meeting, locking in a way she thought belonged only to the world of films. Her heart seemed to stop completely, and then bound into ecstatic life as Saul reached across the table to curl his fingers round her own.

  ‘I can’t believe this is happening.’

  His words echoed her own thoughts and she grimaced faintly. ‘I know… It seems faintly ridiculous.’

  ‘Ridiculous?’ He looked at her and then shook his head. ‘No. Miraculous, maybe… but ridiculous—never. I’ve waited a long time to feel this way about someone, Lucy, and now that I do I want to savour every moment of it… every second… We won’t rush things, grabbing greedily at sexual fulfilment before we’ve tasted all the delicate ancillary pleasures of courtship. I’m twenty-nine years old and I want more from this relationship than sex.’

  ‘More?’ Her voice sounded husky and unsure. What was he trying to say to her? ‘What sort of more?’

  She watched him smile, knowing with an involuntary ache that no matter how long her life might be she would never forget the way he smiled.

  ‘Oh, commitment… permanence… That sort of more.’ He said it teasingly, but his eyes were serious. Her heart jolted and lurched within her.

  ‘I’m rushing you—something I promised I wouldn’t do. I don’t want to frighten you off. Let’s talk about your book.’

  ‘I want to talk about you,’ Lucy wanted to protest, but she felt too weak to argue, to do anything other than follow his lead. Was this love? This heady, almost delirious feeling that possessed her; this ridiculous happiness that invaded her simply because they were together?