Wanting Page 6

  ‘Very domesticated,’ he mocked, watching the colour film her face with almost detached interest. ‘It won’t work, Heather,’ he told her slowly when he had finished studying her body. ‘Oh, I appreciate that you might think tying back your hair and going without make-up is a turn-off, but believe me, I don’t think so—far from it. In your make-up you’re an exceptionally beautiful and sexy woman. Without it, though, there’s an earthy sensuality about you far more potent than any amount of cosmetics.’

  The gall of him! Did he actually think she hadn’t worn make-up because of him? Grinding her teeth, Heather walked past him and picked up her mug and the tray.

  ‘In case you’ve forgotten,’ she said pointedly from the door, ‘I came here to work, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.’

  ‘Your book,’ he agreed, nodding his head. ‘That’s fine by me, I’m working on one myself at the moment.’ He saw her expression and smiled. ‘Oh, I’m not lying. My business interests are fairly diverse now, but I do still write. That’s one of the reasons I bought this place. I’d intended coming up here anyway, and when I learned you were looking for a bolt-hole….’

  ‘I’m surprised you bothered,’ Heather said with heavy irony. ‘I shouldn’t have thought you would want the distraction.’

  He laughed at that. ‘Poor Heather, you’re in for a slight disappointment if you expect me to spend all day trying to coax you into my bed. When I’m working nothing distracts me, but you’re perfectly welcome to try.’

  Still grinding her teeth, Heather went downstairs. In the daylight the living room still looked as attractive as it had done the previous night, and was pleasantly warm. Some papers and a typewriter lay on the large table, as though to confirm that Race hadn’t been joking when he said he intended to work. Well, that suited her fine. Anger bubbled inside her, but behind the anger lay fear, and it took all her strength of will to force herself to walk calmly across to where she had put her own typewriter and reference books and carry them through into the kitchen.

  ‘I’ve had my breakfast, but you’d better have something to eat before you start work.’

  Race moved exceptionally silently for so large a man. She hadn’t heard him coming downstairs, and she jumped nervously, the books she had piled into her arms falling on to the floor.

  ‘My, my, you are jumpy aren’t you?’ He bent and picked them up for her, the dark hair ruffled at the back of his head, his neck brown against the checked shirt he was wearing. A curious melting sensation spread through her body, and she had to force herself not to react as he stood up, piling the books back into her arms, his fingers brushing the tips of her breasts—deliberately, she was quite sure, although he gave no indication of having touched her. It would have been quite easy for him to carry the books he had picked up through into the kitchen for her, but no, he had to give them back to her, to touch her, her body registering the contact with every nerve ending.

  How on earth had she ever thought of herself as cold? She was burning up inside with the need to reach out and touch him, to slide her palms against the taut warmth of his chest, to taste the tanned male flesh.

  ‘What’s your book about?’ He stepped casually away from her, releasing her from the spell of his proximity, allowing her mind to function without being clouded by the responses of her body. This can’t be happening to me, she thought feverishly. No man makes me feel like this. No man. But Race was, and she was sure he knew it.

  She shuddered deeply, no longer sure of her ability to keep him at bay. But she must. She had to.

  ‘A family saga,’ she told him huskily. ‘I haven’t started it properly yet.’

  ‘But you’ve obviously done a considerable amount of research. It’s historical, I take it?’ He sounded so genuinely interested, so calm and friendly that she couldn’t equate him with the man who had stood watching her earlier, telling her that she would go to him—willingly. She couldn’t take this constant seesawing on her emotions, Heather thought tiredly; Race changed too rapidly for her, making her mind ache with the effort of keeping pace with him.

  She wasn’t hungry, but she forced herself to eat some of the cereal she had brought with her, all the time conscious of him moving about in the other room, jumping when she heard the staccato sound of his typewriter. God, her nerves were in a dreadful state if something like that made her jump! She was tense, too tense, her mind wound up to breaking point. She washed up her bowl and cutlery, trying to force herself to think about her book, willing herself backwards in time, trying to imagine what it must have been like to live then, trying to feel the emotions of her characters.

  ‘I’m just going outside to check the generator.’

  Once again Race had caught her off guard, her eyes following him as he walked to the door and paused to pull on wellingtons and a thick hooded jacket. When he opened the door she gasped at the inrush of cold air and thick flakes of snow. The snow had drifted against the door, and he reached for a spade that was leaning up where his coat had been. ‘The MacNeils warned me about this last night when I was up there,’ he told her casually, as he bent to shovel away the snow. ‘Luckily he managed to get all his sheep in first….’

  The MacNeils. That was where he had been when she arrived, waiting… knowing…. Heather shivered, and it wasn’t purely because of the cold air filling the kitchen. Her eyes were drawn to the breadth of his back, the effortless way in which he removed the snow, almost hypnotised by the rhythmic movements of his body. The snow was deeper than she had expected, and it was plain that he would have to clear a path to get to the shed which housed the generator. Perhaps she ought to offer to help?

  She did, hesitatingly, and was surprised by the look of amusement in his eyes. ‘What’s the matter?’ he mocked. ‘Are you afraid I’ll get lost out there and you’ll be left all alone?’

  Muttering under her breath that she wished he would, Heather picked one of her books and started studying it, ignoring the sounds from outside, trying to blot out her awareness of him. He had closed the door and she could see nothing. How long would it take him to dig through to the hut? She glanced at her watch, trying to fight down her growing sense of anxiety as twenty minutes and then half an hour went by. It was silly really, all she had to do was to go and open the door to see where he was, but pride wouldn’t let her, her imagination tormenting her with pictures of him instead. Could he have hurt himself?

  Panic flared and she clamped down on it. The light she had switched on to work flickered suddenly and she glanced apprehensively towards the door, mentally cursing herself when it opened and Race walked in, stamping the snow off his boots, shaking his head and dislodging flakes of snow and moisture, the sound and sight of him filling the kitchen, the air crisp with the scent of outdoors, mingling with the healthy male smell of his body.

  ‘I don’t think the generator can last out much longer,’ he told her, removing his jacket. ‘I’ll go out later and bring in the logs. Luckily. they’re dry and there are plenty of them, but the fire will only heat the living room.’

  When he had finished removing his boots and jacket he came over to her, standing behind her chair, leaning forward until she could feel his cold breath against the back of her neck as he bent to read the title of her book, hands resting either side of her on the desk, enclosing her, making her vulnerably aware of everything about him. She froze instinctively, knowing that he was doing it deliberately, playing on her emotions.

  ‘We ought to organise some sort of rota,’ he surprised her by saying, ‘for the chores. How about me doing lunch today and you doing dinner, and then tomorrow we’ll get something sorted out?’

  Heather hid her surprise, nodding her head. She wasn’t used to men who talked casually about ‘doing the chores’. Neither her uncle nor the twins ever lifted a finger at home, and she wasn’t on intimate terms with the other men she knew enough to know how domesticated or otherwise they were. Race had a strength about him that refused to be quelled, an implacability she could not
fight. It was like a solid iron wall. That was why he kept on insisting that she wanted him. He couldn’t possibly know how she felt, and she wasn’t going to let him find out. Dear God, to think she had come all this way, running away from him! She glanced out at the snow-covered landscape which had afforded her so much pleasure when she first woke up. Now she would give anything for the snow to disappear and for her to be able to walk out of the door. However, far from disappearing, if anything it was snowing even harder, she noticed as she walked into the kitchen, and the wind had picked up too, the fierce keening sound making her shiver, despite the warmth of her clothes and the cottage.

  She filled the kettle, switching it on and glancing into the other room where she could see Race’s dark head bent over some papers on the table. Should she offer to make him a cup? Wasn’t it more sensible to try and build up some sort of working relationship rather than endure open warfare? She found one of the jars of coffee she had brought with her and tried to open it, but the top resisted all her efforts, her wrist aching as she refused to give in. The kettle was boiling and she glanced wrathfully at the recalcitrant jar, placing it on the table with a thump while she went to switch off the kettle.

  ‘Having problems?’ She hadn’t heard Race come into the kitchen. He picked up the jar, releasing the lid with an effortless ease that made Heather shiver, thinking of the power and strength in those lean fingers. He smiled mirthlessly at her, as though he had read her mind and offered tauntingly, ‘Some things call for subtlety—not brute strength. How tall are you, by the way?’ he added, bringing a rich tide of colour to her face as he surveyed her. ‘Six foot?’

  Heather’s mouth compressed. ‘Five ten, actually,’ she told him, picking up the jar and removing a mug from the cupboard.

  He didn’t say anything else, but Heather was left with the impression that he knew how acutely conscious she was about her height. Strangely enough, instead of making her hunch into herself, the gibe had the effect of making her consciously stretch her body proudly, her eyes brilliantly emerald against the paleness of her face as she spooned coffee into her mug.

  ‘Would you like a cup?’

  Race nodded and she went to get another mug, wondering why every time he stepped into a room it suddenly seemed to shrink. He took his coffee back to the table and soon became engrossed in what he was doing. Heather went back to her own typewriter and books, settling herself in the kitchen, and then checking the fridge to see what she could make for their evening meal. In the end she decided on a casserole. Her aunt was an excellent cook and had passed her skill on to both her daughter and her niece, and as she sliced vegetables for the casserole, her movements economically deft, Heather found her tensed muscles gradually starting to relax. She didn’t think she would ever get over the shock of turning round this morning and discovering Race Williams in the same room. Of all the cruel blows fate could have inflicted upon her! She felt a renewal of her tension as the subject of her thoughts came in and put his empty mug by the sink, his eyes widening fractionally as he watched her.

  ‘Very domesticated—it suits you,’ he added unexpectedly, watching her with narrowed eyes. ‘Why get so uptight about your height?’ he asked softly, startling her, her expression betraying her before she could conceal her reaction. ‘Is that what makes you so aggressive?’ he asked, still watching her. ‘Perhaps it’s time that someone taught you that even Amazons are still women?’

  ‘And you’re just the man to do it, I suppose,’ Heather retaliated angrily. ‘Does it never occur to you that a woman might just be sufficient unto herself; that she might not need a man to show her how to be female?’

  ‘Never,’ Race told her arrogantly. ‘And don’t you start telling me that’s how you feel. You might not want to admit it, even to yourself, but you aren’t immune to sexual desire, Heather.’ He moved, too quickly for her to avoid him, his arms coming round her from behind, imprisoning her, his hand resting just below her breast, monitoring the hurried thud of her heart.

  ‘Let go of me!’

  She felt the tension in his body. ‘Only when I’m good and ready,’ he told her thickly. ‘Why do you keep on rejecting me? I know you aren’t indifferent to me.’

  She wasn’t. Her body was acutely conscious of his proximity, of the warmth and strength of him beneath the covering of his clothes. Her heart was racing against his hand and she felt herself drowning in her need to submit to the hypnotic tide of sensuality emanating from him. But she mustn’t give in to it. To him she was just a momentary diversion. Someone who had strayed into his life and made the mistake of challenging him. That was what this was all about. Her taunts had stung and he was determined to make her pay for them.

  His hands moved upwards, exploring the shape of her breasts, and she had to fight not to react; to control her breathing so that it wouldn’t betray her torment. He wasn’t just touching her, he was using every ounce of willpower he possessed to dominate, to subdue her.

  ‘You want me, Heather.’ He murmured the word against her ear, tracing its delicate shape with his tongue. He had deliberately tricked her into coming up here, but even knowing that she felt herself weakening, giving up to the golden haze of pleasure enveloping her. ‘Stop fighting me,’ he warned her, and then he was turning her in his arms, his hands sliding down to her waist, holding her against him, his mouth hard and determined on hers, while her body melted against him so completely that her mind reeled in horror.

  And Race knew exactly what he was doing to her. The small growl of satisfaction she heard deep in his throat was one of pure male victory, the sweep of his hands against her body so openly possessive that her mind cringed. And then when she had least expected it she was free, her body trembling with reaction, her eyes unknowingly shadowed.

  ‘When I take you to my bed I want you there willingly, wanting the feel of my body against you, as much as I need to feel yours against me,’ he told her, answering her unvoiced question. ‘I want total capitulation, Heather,’ he told her softly, ‘nothing else will do.’

  And he had trapped her here with that in mind. He would play on her emotions, on her body, until he had reduced her to mindless subjugation, but she would rather die first. Hadn’t she learned years ago the folly of giving herself completely to any man, the pain that would automatically follow?

  ‘I want to possess you body and soul,’ Race told her thickly, ‘and I will do, Heather, I will.’

  Just for a moment she saw the man behind the cool, mocking facade and her heart lodged momentarily in her throat, her body responding against her will to the sexual need in his voice, her pulses racing at the primitive explicitness he had expressed.

  It was a full five minutes before she could feel calm enough to return to the work she had spread out on the table. Somehow the lives of her characters felt dull and flat, and she stared at her typed notes, forcing her mind to concentrate, reminding herself that until Race came into her life this book had been one of the most important things in it. He overpowered and dominated her, and he frightened her because of the responses he elicited from her. It would be fatally easy to give in, to let herself drown in the floodtide of desire he sparked off inside her, to give herself body and soul into his keeping, letting him direct the course of her life, giving herself completely to him as she knew now he wanted her to; and the knowledge shook her, frightening her because it was so illogical and dangerous.

  If she gave in she would eventually have to come to terms with losing him, with the knowledge that he had taken what he wanted and no longer desired her, she had seen it happen to so many other girls, she knew what men were like once their desire was satiated.

  She must be mad to even contemplate giving in to him! She had seen the desire blazing in his eyes the first time they met, and despised him for it, or so she had told herself at the time, thinking she could use it as she had used other men, to pay for Brad’s deception, but Race had outmanoeuvred her and now she was trapped in this cottage with him, while he stalked her, w
aiting… waiting… with all the patience of a jungle predator waiting to pounce at the first sign of weakness.

  Eventually she managed to start work on her book, slowly and painfully at first, until her nerves relaxed, lulled by the sounds of activity from the other room, the clatter of the typewriter interspersed occasionally by some muttered comment from Race, bearing out his earlier claim that when he worked he was totally absorbed in what he was doing. She herself found it much harder, but gradually the old magic started to work, the lives of her characters started to exert their old spell on her, and she was genuinely startled when Race’s shadow fell across her notebook, his fingers pushing through his hair as he studied what she was doing.

  She covered the book instantly, suddenly protective of her work, not wanting him to see and criticise, but to her surprise he did neither, simply perching on the edge of the table, studying her shuttered mutinous face for a while before saying, ‘Terry tells me that you started to write when you were in your teens—like me. My mother wanted me to become a doctor. She was very disappointed when I joined our local paper as a reporter, but it was what I’d always wanted to do.’ His mother? Strange he should mention her and not his father!

  ‘But you left Fleet Street?’ Heather was interested in spite of herself, consumed by a sudden craving to discover as much about him as she could.

  ‘Yes, because I’d gone as far as I could go. I’d lost the gut-gripping excitement, the sheer thrill of what I was doing, and I knew the time had come to stop. I’d had enough of foreign lands, political quarrels, wars, dying and maimed children, so I stopped.’