Threads of Destiny
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Sara Wood
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10
CHAPTER ONE
‘THAT man—there!’
‘What man, where?’ grumbled Mariann.
‘He’s gone! Again!’ Suzanne’s face fell.
‘Paranoid,’ her sister declared scathingly.
‘He is following me,’ insisted Suzanne. ‘Everywhere I turn, he’s staring at me, like…’ A little shiver rippled down her back. No, she thought hastily, appalled at what she’d almost blurted out. She couldn’t say ‘like a messenger from hell!’ Her sister would take her to the Funny Farm. ‘…like I’ve sprouted a purple nose!’
The two sisters giggled. ‘To tell the truth,’ mused Mariann, ‘he’s probably struck stupid by the way you look tonight, Sue. What’s happened? Been at the face pack again?’ she teased.
Suzanne gave Mariann a withering look, but she did feel different. Almost beautiful—which was unusual. Her two gorgeous sisters had always attracted the lion’s share of male interest up to now. She’d invariably ended up with runty cubs and the odd hyena.
Tonight had been unsettling, the way she’d drawn men’s attention. It was partly due to the guy himself, she realised. His ink-jet eyes, that wonderful slow, sexually charged look, had made her heart race and her body tingle with an unaccustomed excitement because she’d felt so intensely desirable and utterly feminine. Desirable because his gaze had told her so…
Mercifully, her common sense surfaced. ‘I think champagne happened, Mariann,’ she said wryly. ‘That plus emotion; having my sister and my brother getting married on the same day, and knowing that your wedding’s due soon, is enough to make anyone dizzy.’ She adopted a casual tone. ‘Umm…just in case you see this guy, find out who he is—’
‘Idiot! There are hundreds of hunks in this crush! Describe him,’ said Mariann fondly.
Suzanne flushed, trying not to sound too interested. ‘I’ve only seen his head above the crowd—’
‘Tall, then. What else? Has he got any hair?’
‘Lots.’ She ignored her sister’s flippancy, recalling every detail of the man’s image without difficulty. ‘Jetblack, smoothed back and very sleek. Strong features, Hungarian cheekbones, a tan I’d die for…’ She saw her sister’s smirk and decided to forget the foot-long eyelashes and the sexy curve of dark hair in front of his ears that she’d itched to touch. ‘Actually, it’s his eyes that you’ll notice first.’
‘I’m looking for a guy with eyes.’
‘When you see them, you’ll know what I mean,’ said Suzanne quietly, still haunted by their extraordinary intensity. ‘They’re…’ She gave a half-embarrassed laugh. ‘You know how level-headed I am, but even I can see they’re compelling. Mysterious.’
Her brow furrowed. That wasn’t entirely all. The fascination she felt lay in the fact that nothing had been constant in the alarmingly sinful blackness of his eyes, apart from the sparkling mercurial dance within them, coupled with an arrogant challenge as though he wanted her to go over and ask, ‘Who are you?’ So she hadn’t.
‘Sultry,’ she went on thoughtfully. ‘Sort of sleepy— except that sometimes it seemed they were piercing right through me—’
‘Lawksamussy, dear!’ Mariann patted her hand. ‘How many eyes has this poor guy got? It is the champagne.’ She sighed, her slanting, hazel eyes mirroring those of her sister. ‘Drink a gallon of coffee and lie down with a wet towel on your head, Sue! You’re quite wonderfully muddled! I must tell Tan—I’ve never known you to be so totally off your trolley before!’
Suzanne laughed ruefully. ‘So would you be,’ she protested, ‘if a stranger tried to scramble your brains with an egg-whisk. I think he must be either a hypnotist practising on the unwary, or deeply short-sighted. In either case, he’s…dangerous,’ she added soberly, remembering the wicked promises that had been directed at her like well-aimed arrows.
‘Just the sort I like,’ grinned Mariann. ‘Go find him. Have a great time!’ She rolled her hazel eyes comically and left.
Immediately, Suzanne furtively scanned the ballroom for a sight of the elusive stranger, determined to pin him down and satisfy her curiosity. To her deep disappointment he was nowhere to be seen. Feeling distinctly unsettled, she decided that she’d do better to forget the guy and begin thinking about the crucial meetings she had the next day.
So she left the wedding party and walked slowly into the moonlit garden, the floating panels of her silk ballgown drifting behind her like gossamer on the grass. She felt the breeze lift her long, straight hair and automatically pressed it flat again, smoothing it into order.
Ahead gleamed the great lake that stretched to the beech woods. As she came closer she drew in her breath. A figure stood silhouetted against the sheet of moonlit water.
Beneath the thin silk of her bodice, her heart began to thud loudly. Drat! The guy she’d been talking about! She’d know that powerful head even from the back. It had become emblazoned unforgettably on her mind. Seeing it now made her feel quite nervous. Illogical, of course. Absurd.
Overwhelmed with an urge not to be seen—at least till she was perfectly composed—she stepped quickly behind the cascading branches of an old shrub rose. Its ethereal white flowers shimmered in the breeze and swamped her in a tantalising perfume as her fine-boned face lifted to see what the man was doing.
Apparently nothing. But there was sadness in the angle of his head and an anger—or perhaps frustrated despair—that revealed itself in the repeated clenching and unclenching of his hands. He wanted to hit someone, to lash out in blind rage and it was the kind of rage that hurt, very deeply.
Her breath shortened. He’d looked so sardonic and unassailable before, and she wondered what he was desperately trying to hide and why he should be so interested in her when there were scores of beautiful women to choose from.
Suzanne shifted her naked shoulders impatiently at her ridiculous fantasies. The reason his back was so tense was probably indigestion! She smiled at the thought. Maybe, she decided, with her usual practical turn of mind, he’d come out to clear his drunken haze. Or to escape from his nagging wife. Or even to agonise over his stomach ulcer.
Whatever the reason, he was very still. Despite the conventionally tailored dinner-jacket he seemed to fit in with his surroundings, and she had the impression that he felt more at home out here than in the confines of the castle, magnificent though it was.
Imperceptibly, his body tautened as if he was listening—perhaps to the rustle of animals in the undergrowth, the soft murmur of the rustling beech leaves, or the night birds…She felt her heart lift, hearing the piercingly sweet sound of a nightingale. It reminded her instantly of long summer evenings spent in her Devon home she loved so much.
‘Why are you hiding from me?’ he asked, suddenly whirling around. ‘Not your usual direct, confrontational style, is it?’
Suzanne gave a little strangled gasp at his softly spoken question. Her feet had made no sound on the tightly mown grass and yet he’d spun lightly on his heel to face the flower-laden branches of the rose which concealed her.
‘Afraid of me?’ he persisted, with quiet mockery.
‘Of course not!’ But she was. And sheepishly she emerged from her hiding place, feeling rather foolish, too. ‘I didn’t want to disturb you,’ she explained hastily. ‘It looked as though you were chewing over a problem and needed to be alone.’
‘I was thinking,’ he drawled, all tension wiped from his body. Despite the deep shadows from the giant clipped yews that concealed the details of his face, he looked relaxed. ‘I was also waiting for you to appear.’
Her disbelieving peal of laughter rang out into the silent night. ‘How clever!’ she said with a grin. ‘I’ve never met a thought-reader before!’ Seeing his frown, she added, ‘I can’t see how else you’d know I’d come out here.’
He made no effort to conceal his interest in her, his extraordinary eyes sweeping over her with a calculating male approval that made her body soften as though he’d melted it. Alarmed, she stiffened every muscle before he interpreted her response incorrectly. This wasn’t a man you could tangle with and come off unscathed. A kiss would mean seduction. Seduction would mean…She frowned, jerking back from the image of Paradise and concentrated on what he was saying.
‘…so I didn’t need a crystal ball to guess that you’d follow me,’ he was murmuring laconically. ‘I knew I’d sent enough messages persuading you to search me out.’
Suzanne’s mouth opened and shut again in astonishment. ‘The truth is,’ she said coolly, annoyed by his assumption that she ran after guys who raised black and wickedly expressive eyebrows at her, ‘I had no idea you were here. I came out for a stroll because I’ve got a lot on my mind—’
A grin slashed the dark anonymity of his face. ‘I know,’ he interrupted enigmatically. ‘And now,’ he added with an infuriatingly smug satisfaction, ‘you have me to think about as well.’
The guy had concrete skin! He needed serious squashing. ‘Why on earth would I do that?’ she asked coldly in simulated amazement.
‘Because you won’t be able to stop yourself,’ he replied in amusement.
‘I’ll try,’ she promised drily, rather amused herself at his blatant nerve. ‘Oh, I’ll try!’
And then he began to stroll towards her, walking with the grace of a natural athlete, the lithe limbs flowing like liquid. Into her normally matter-of-fact mind came the vivid image of the wild ponies cantering joyfully on the moors at home. He moved with the freedom of someone who rarely knew the restriction of four walls; who acknowledged no man-made boundaries to his world; a guy with a glorious sense of freedom which he indulged shamelessly, like the unfettered ponies.
No nagging wife had ever chained him to the kitchen sink. Nothing so commonplace. And that ox-strong body looked as if it could eat or drink anyone under the table without any side effects. So no indigestion, no ulcer. What then, she wondered curiously, had made him so tense when he’d thought himself unobserved at the lakeside? It had almost seemed as though he was steeling himself in preparation for an unpleasant task, and she regretfully had to fight back the urge to ply him with questions.
‘Don’t bother to try. You’d be wasting your time,’ he said smoothly. ‘You won’t stop me from making myself the centre of your life: the guy you think of when you get up in the morning, the guy you dream of at night.’
The extravagant claim made her laugh. It was too ridiculous! ‘I’m sure this is your best chat-up line,’ she said wryly, ‘but I suggest you’d do better to try your luck elsewhere. I don’t have any time for guys who think they’re Adonis reincarnated.’
‘You’ll make the time.’
So confident! she marvelled. His back was to the silver light, his face still in the shadow of the forbidding yews. But she could see the glitter of his eyes as his slow gaze ranged over her body. Its raw male hunger made her unusually conscious of the flimsy material between her nakedness and him. And suddenly she was deeply, enjoyably aware of the sensual way the silk caressed her warm skin. Pleasurable sensation was taking over her workaday world and she wanted to lift a hand to contain her galloping heart, but dared not draw any more attention to the tightly fitting bodice. He’d studied that part of her body for too long as it was!
She felt the soft petals of a rose between her fingers. The intensified fragrance drifted to her nostrils and she discovered to her chagrin that she’d unwittingly crushed a defenceless bloom. The stranger chuckled as though he found her absent-mindedness encouraging and she frowned at him, summoning up some sense from her trembling, beautifully assaulted body.
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ she said tartly. Ironically, she was holding her own breath because he was moving forward now from the shadows and she found herself completely thrown by the expression on his face. Magnetic, she thought, her pulses racing. And deliberately so.
Without any regard for social propriety, he stood within nerve-tingling inches of her, his head angled so that the shafts of silver light fell on the aristocratic bonestructure of his face. Suzanne drew in several steadying jerks of air from her bewilderingly crushed lungs, afraid of his intentions.
And then she saw that the black hair had threads of silver above the temples and she realised he was more mature than she’d first thought, despite the youthful movement, the young man’s passion that lurked in those secretive eyes.
And finally, like it or not, she was driven to ask the question that had hovered on her lips for so long. ‘Just— who—are you?’ she croaked huskily.
‘László,’ he murmured, imbuing the name with soft, seductive sibilants. He took her hand in his and lifted it, bowing his dark head, his lips a hair’s breadth from her alarmingly quivering fingers. When he shot her a look from beneath his black brows, his eyes were twinkling in sinful amusement. ‘I am an Angel.’
‘Devil,’ she corrected breathily in a weak joke. But meant it. How else, she thought in dismay, could any normal man play havoc with her insides?
He smiled as though in confirmation. ‘If you like. In either case, I’m the answer to all your prayers,’ he mocked.
In confusion, she drew her hand away. Flirting wasn’t something she indulged in and it made her feel uncomfortable. ‘As far as I remember,’ she said levelly, with an attempt at a casual shrug of her pale silken shoulders, ‘I put in a request for peace on earth and a balding banker.’
He laughed in delight then dropped his eyes. They’d been sending unwelcome signals of a rather intense hunger to her. The dark lashes flickered on his prominent cheekbones—a true Slav feature, along with the straight black brows and the finely chiselled mouth that hinted at extreme sensuality. She felt a little wobbly and sought a reason.
Champagne, she thought, remembering her earlier excuse to her sister. Please let it be that! she thought. It had flowed like water and she wasn’t used to such luxuries. Her legs felt boneless suddenly. Hiding a rueful smile, she reached out her small, delicate hand to rest on the low wall behind her for support. He saw the gesture and looked pleased so she hastily explained, with a small laugh. ‘I’m a bit giddy—’
‘Yes. I thought you were,’ he drawled.
Flushing at his meaningful tone, she struggled to knock this conversation on the head and to run—no, walk casually!—back to the ballroom. The strains of a slow, dreamy lassu came from the ballroom where her sisters must be dancing; Tanya with her new husband, Mariann with her fiancé. It was time she joined them before the romantic night softened her brain into a sloppy blancmange.
‘It’s the non-stop dancing,’ she said, all on her dignity. ‘My legs are shaking with over-exertion.’ His expression told her that he didn’t buy that. ‘And I’m full of bubbles!’ she continued in desperation. ‘I need a quiet moment to recover. So, if you don’t mind, perhaps you’d go and dance to that gypsy music with someone who really appreciates dominant guys who come on strong,’ she suggested bluntly.
‘That’s not gypsy music. Can’t you hear that it lacks raw emotion? It’s Hungarian, with a dash of tourist,’ he answered cynically.
Since he was determined not to budge, she began to walk beside the lake and realised too late that she was moving away from the house. Nervously she hoped he wouldn’t think she was encouraging him. ‘I thought the orchestra were all gypsies,’ she said irritably, for the sake of something ordinary, anything, to break the increasing tension. ‘They’re wearing gypsy costumes.’
‘You’re dressed like an innocent. But who knows what hell-fires lurk beneath the flimsy silk that’s struggling to cover your breasts?’ he argued, his eyes burning into her pale, swelling flesh above her bodice and she willed her hands to hang at her sides and not to betray her agitation by clutching her bosom like a frightened virgin— which she was. Before her apprehensive eyes, his mouth grew softly sensual. ‘I might look conventional,’ he said huskily, knowing he must look nothing of the kind, ‘but what cruelty and what secrets are concealed beneath this Milanese tailoring? What wicked schemes am I dreaming up, even now, while I walk beside you, enjoying your extraordinary beauty? And what lies would both of us be prepared to tell to save our skins, or to project an image of how we look to the world?’
She was shaken. That hadn’t been a casual line of thought. It was almost as though he was warning her about his intentions. Afraid to involve herself with him, she decided it would be safer to ignore his extraordinary remarks.
‘The music sounds genuine to me,’ she said huskily and bristled at the sardonic smile that swept his lips into a wicked curve and taunted her for being a coward.
‘Authentic gypsy music is never heard by any outsider,’ he said gently. ‘Besides, it needs the open air for it to come to life. A room throttles its spirit.’
Intrigued despite herself, Suzanne considered that solemnly for a moment as they walked silently across the closely cut grass. Floating across the softly lit garden, the lilting cadences of the violins became sharper, more painfully emotional as the group got into its stride and let rip with a deep, Hungarian passion. Touristy or not, it did sound better under the stars.
‘Yes,’ she conceded slowly. ‘Indoors it sounded like a Viennese operetta. Here, it’s…’ She hesitated, unnerved by the man’s satisfied growl.
‘Yes?’ he prompted, in a disconcertingly smoky voice.
‘It sort of joins the air,’ she finished lamely. It also seeped into her bones and filled her head like an intoxicating drink, weakening every inch of her with its seduction, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. The thought was startling enough, without voicing it.
He didn’t laugh. She would have been mortified if he had. ‘Given the opportunity, it will pervade our entire bodies,’ he husked. ‘And make us helpless because it calls to something primitive and reckless within us all.’
He felt that too. She groaned inwardly, not wanting him to lose control of his emotions. She stumbled; his hand reached out and cupped her elbow and then dropped away again. But she’d felt the dry heat of his palm and her body felt shot to pieces from the current of sexual electricity that had passed between them. Frightened by the intensity of his emotions—and his apparent decision to direct his attentions to making a pass at her, Suzanne managed to lift her shoulders in a casual gesture.
‘I suppose it has to go somewhere,’ she said, attempting to sound amused. But she felt confused, because the fateful combination of the music and László was definitely doing something odd to her out in the garden, reaching parts she’d rather were left dormant.
Something—someone—was casting a spell on her. Too many people getting married, too many lovers around! she thought ruefully. The whole day had been a fairytale; the bridal procession for the dual weddings of her sister Tanya and brother John; the picturesque village church, its wooden interior bright with folk paintings; the lavish picnic in the castle grounds; the pageantry of the glittering banquet and the ball afterwards. No wonder her feet seemed to be floating above the ground. It wouldn’t do! She was supposed to be the sensible, downto-earth one in the family! Time to land on solid ground again.
Coward’s way out.
‘I wish you’d go,’ she said curtly, stopping dead in her tracks and letting her irritation show. ‘I’d like to be alone.’
‘Face to face with a challenge and you don’t like taking it up?’ he murmured provocatively.
Her mouth thinned. ‘You’re not a challenge,’ she said with a firmness she didn’t feel deep inside. ‘Look, if you’re determined to deny me some privacy,’ she added, with a toss of her head, ‘then I might point out that, as a relative of the man who owns this land, I have a greater claim on this bit of the garden than you do.’ Her hand waved vaguely at the banks of orange blossom, pouring out their heady scent.
‘I wouldn’t count on that,’ he growled softly and his expression hardened like stone.
Her huge hazel eyes searched him warily. ‘My sister married Count István Huszár today. This is his estate.
My brother manages the Castle Huszár Hotel—’ she
began in stiff reproof.
‘I accept that you have quite a strong connection with the land.’ To her astonishment, the extravagant mouth thinned and a film of pain briefly dulled the brilliance of his eyes. ‘It’s natural that you should imagine I have less right than you to be here.’
He said that as if it weren’t true—which was impossible. And she wondered what he was trying to suggest. There was something odd about his manner, as though beneath that apparently suave exterior he resented István for owning the castle. She wasn’t sure why she should think that, except perhaps for the faintly contemptuous curl of his lip when she’d spoken István’s name, the unconscious way he’d planted his legs apart when she’d mentioned her right to be there and the pos sessive sweep of his gaze whenever he’d scanned the landscape.
She shivered. Someone had walked over her grave. Seeing his hard, cold eyes on her, she pulled herself together quickly. ‘Well, I can hardly credit that you’ve bought the estate from my brother-in-law on his wedding-day,’ she remarked sarcastically.
‘As if I would! He and your sister would be homeless then, wouldn’t they?’ he answered. The smooth, silken tone turned to gravel. ‘And so would István’s mother,’ he growled. ‘The tragic countess.’
He hated them all, she thought suddenly, paling with the knowledge. But why? ‘What do you know about them?’ she asked warily. An unnamed and irrational fear clutched at her heart. She must find out. ‘And what—?’
‘Are you intending to live here?’ he broke in, totally ignoring her questions and scowling down on her. ‘One big, happy family?’
‘No,’ she said curtly, a need to find out more about this guy and an ingrained politeness prompting her to add; ‘Hungary is beautiful, full of wonderful people— and I’ve enjoyed my time here immensely, but I love my Devon home too much ever to leave it permanently.’ Her expression took on a far-away, wistful look, easing out the lines of worry. Widecombe-in-the-Moor. Soft green hills, ancient woods, tiny stone villages and peace. She’d never, ever want to settle anywhere else.
‘Then it’s even more extraordinary that you speak Hungarian,’ he observed, his sharp eyes on her. ‘Not a bad accent, either.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, grudgingly delighted by his praise. Carefully skirting around him, she began to walk back, and he immediately joined her, moving so close to her hip that he was in danger of treading on her skirts. ‘I took a crash course in the language,’ she said, wondering how she could turn the conversation back to István. ‘I need it for my new business. I’d learnt Russian at school and that seemed to help—also the fact, perhaps, that my late mother was Hungarian.’
He showed no surprise, which rather disappointed her. She was proud of the speed with which she’d picked up the notoriously difficult and unique language—but then she had the motivation, of course.
‘Maybe your roots are stronger than your English upbringing,’ he said quietly. ‘Our blood has a way of making itself felt.’ Suzanne looked at him, surprised by the slight tremor of emotion in his voice but he continued before she could comment. ‘And now you practise by chatting to the Hungarian guests at this lavish double wedding. So much happiness in one family,’ he drawled.
Suzanne stiffened. Somehow he managed to sound as though he wished them ill. Her hands began to shake and she gripped her skirts. ‘We’ve all worked hard for what we have,’ she said nervously. ‘No one gets anywhere without effort.’
‘That’s true,’ he agreed drily. ‘It was quite an effort for me to gatecrash this wedding.’
‘You’re a gatecrasher?’ she asked, stopping in utter amazement. He didn’t look like one—in fact he displayed an assurance and a sophistication most men would envy. So it was inconceivable that he’d stoop to gatecrash a party. The back of her neck prickled. Perhaps he was an uninvited enemy, who’d come to cause trouble. ‘Why come to the wedding?’ she asked sharply. ‘Given a choice, most men would rather have all their teeth out!’
‘Oh, food, fun, to meet people.’ His eyes flickered and narrowed. They were never still, but constantly watching every detail of her expression, each movement she made, and she felt disturbingly naked as a result of his constant watchfulness. ‘I thought it would be interesting to see the estate and its owner.’
Her heart sounded loud in her ears. There had been a wealth of meaning in his bitter tone and in the grim bleakness of his expression. ‘To make trouble?’ she asked huskily, her eyes huge with anxiety.
‘I lived here once,’ he said, his voice flat and unemotional.
Suzanne gasped. ‘In the castle?’
‘I was born in it,’ he said shortly.
‘Born here! That’s amazing! No wonder you had the urge to gatecrash and make a sentimental journey!’ She ignored the sardonic curl of his lip that suggested he didn’t know the meaning of sentimental journeys and thought rapidly. Since the countess had been in residence all her life—and had no living relatives—he couldn’t be a nephew. ‘Was your mother a guest here when she was pregnant or something?’
She’d been mentally calculating that Hungary would have been under Russian dominance at the time of his birth. His mother must have been a friend of the countess. Or a friend of the countess’s hateful husband. Forgetting the wisdom of keeping a distance from this man, she paused and looked up at him, searching his face for clues to the mystery, knowing she wouldn’t rest till it was solved.
The dark eyes glittered briefly. ‘My father lived in the castle. I left when I was still a baby.’ His hand briefly caressed her head and she took a startled step backwards. ‘The moonlight makes your hair look like a sheet of black silk,’ he murmured, switching effortlessly from the factual to soft seductiveness.
‘Does it, indeed?’ she said frostily. ‘I knew you must be short-sighted. My hair is actually chestnut in the cold light of day.’ To her amazement, her voice was husky, as though his velvety words had affected her. Her finely drawn brows met in concern over the slender bridge of her nose, the shadows darkening her eyes to a glowing chocolate brown.
‘I’m not short-sighted,’ he said softly. ‘Everything about me is operating at one-hundred-per-cent capacity and is firing away on all six cylinders.’ Suzanne swallowed, knowing full well what he included in that claim. He flashed his white, even teeth in mocking amusement at her reaction. ‘I can only say that your hair is the most beautiful I’ve ever seen, that your face has a luminous quality and your eyes would—’
‘Put the stars to shame?’ she suggested croakily, furious at the falseness that laced his words. He was teasing her, she thought angrily. ‘Stop flirting,’ she muttered through her teeth. ‘I don’t fall for blarney.’
‘You weren’t getting any,’ he answered soberly.
For a long moment, their eyes locked and she read the truth. This wasn’t a casual flirtation, born of politeness or boredom. He really did find her attractive. No, she had to be honest; he had strongly sexual intentions. There was an element of intent about his expression and a stark, raw need that had no business in those languid black eyes.
She flipped up her head and her straight fall of hair swung heavily around her bare shoulders. ‘Back off. You’ve gone far enough,’ she said levelly. It was her Nanny-knows-best voice and had made men cringe before as if she’d delivered a slap and sent them to bed with a bowl of porridge. It had no effect on him.
‘We’re going to go a lot further than this,’ he promised confidently. ‘All the way, in fact. And I must confess, I’m relieved you’ve interpreted my interest so accurately. You’ve saved me at least twenty minutes of small-talk and gentle persuasion.’
‘You arrogant—!’ Her neck lengthened as she drew
herself up angrily to her full five foot seven. And found his eyes melting irresistibly into hers. It was a moment before she could trust her voice to be steady. What a gall he had! ‘It didn’t need much interpretation,’ she snapped. ‘Your signals have been so powerful that I’m surprised no one’s picked them up on the BBC World Service. I know there’s a tradition of bridesmaids being available for a little romancing at weddings, but that doesn’t apply to me. If you’re after an evening’s amusement, you’d be better off chasing moonbeams.’
‘I don’t think so. You’re perfectly aware of what there is between us,’ he told her softly, completely ignoring her rebuke.
‘Yes—too short a distance,’ she countered crisply. ‘I intend to make that half a mile.’
‘Stay,’ he ordered, his eyes melting into hers. ‘Let me explain the plans I have for you.’
‘Explain them to the fish in the lake,’ she muttered. ‘You have as much chance of landing one of them.’
Disdainfully she walked away, discovering to her irritation that she was having to force herself to break the threads that had held her tethered to the spot. Grimly she strode on. So she was fascinated by him. Attracted. Drawn by his hints of mystery, the thrill of some unknown danger. She knew that he had dishonourable intentions and yet the urge to throw caution to the winds and prolong their meeting was unbearably strong.
He was laughing, the sound reverberating in his deep chest and finding disturbing resonances in hers. ‘We’ll meet again, Suzanne, depend on it!’ he called after her, while she frantically pressed her fingers hard against her emptied lungs.
Her pace quickened till she was striding angrily along the greensward, her long skirts flying behind her. She knew he was watching her and her naked back and shoulders were icing under his gaze. In that laugh had been a sinister undertone, a threat of some kind. She stumbled, gritted her teeth and carried on, walking faster and faster till she was out of breath and faintly slicked with sweat in the warm night.
