The Riccioni Pregnancy. Daphne Clair

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СКАЧАТЬ She kicked backward with a lethal heel but he was obviously prepared for the ploy and she found only empty air. Her elbow, aimed for his solar plexus, was caught in a hard hand that slid to her wrist, then his arm went around her, bringing her against an equally hard masculine body.

      Then his breath was in her ear, his voice low, harsh. ‘Darling, don’t.’

      Darling? Her whole body went rigid within the iron circle of his arm across her midriff.

      Darling? Fury replaced fear.

      Her temples throbbed as if her heart were sending all her blood there, and her limbs went hot and boneless. His imprisoning embrace slackened a fraction, and she used the moment to twist away and face him, her right hand swinging up with all her weight behind it, delivering a slap that resounded in the quiet street like a gunshot, the force of it almost rocking him off his feet.

      ‘Bastard!’ Her voice was shrill and wavering and she wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Now he knew she was panicked, a hysterical woman shrieking futile insults because she’d been frightened out of her mind by a man looming from the night.

      His face was invisible in the darkness but she saw him lift a hand, and in a blind, useless attempt at avoidance she retreated the few inches that were left to her before her back collided with the locked door.

      And then he laughed.

      She heaved air into her lungs. Her head was buzzing and she seemed to be floating somewhere in space—dark, disorienting space. She had to take another breath before she could speak. Gritting her teeth, making her voice hard and steady, she said, ‘Give me my key.’

      He held it out to her, waiting for her to take it.

      She snatched at it, but for a fraught moment he didn’t release it, and her fingers were touching his.

      Adrenalin raced from her fingertips and through her body, making it weightless, every nerve humming with electricity. Then he relinquished the key and she whirled and tried to fit it into the lock, unable to find the tiny slot because she was shaking so badly.

      Strong male fingers closed over hers, and she jumped, then he was taking the key, efficiently inserting it, turning it, his hand on her back as he opened the door and thrust her ahead of him.

      Now they were both inside and he’d shut them into a deeper darkness, together. Her eyes useless, her other senses at screaming pitch, she could hear the faint sound of his strangely uneven breathing, smell clean cotton and wool, soap and a hint of something woodsy—and underneath it the long-unfamiliar, earthy and shockingly seductive scent of male arousal.

      His hand was still at her waist, and his arm came further about her, pulling her to him. ‘You’re trembling,’ he said. Her temple was grazed by the subtle rasp of a shaven chin. ‘I’m sorry.’

      ‘So you bloody should be!’ Anger was a defence against shame and confusion. She wrenched away from him, reached blindly for the light switch and blinked in the sudden cruel glare at watchful burnt-sienna eyes, black brows drawn together in a frown above a masterful nose, and a mouth fixed in a taut line that failed to hide its sensuous masculinity.

      His eyelids lowered as he studied her face in return. ‘You’re pale,’ he told her.

      She felt pale. ‘Have you been stalking me?’ she demanded.

      The upward jerk of his head dislodged a strand from the severely combed sleekness of salon-styled night-black hair. ‘Stalking?’

      ‘You were following me. Don’t tell me you weren’t trying to hide.’

      ‘I was trying not to frighten you.’

      She almost laughed. ‘You what?’

      ‘I thought if you saw—or heard—a man behind you in this lonely street you’d have reason to feel afraid.’

      ‘So what the hell did you think I’d feel, knowing someone was there and deliberately keeping out of sight?’ Agitatedly she slipped the bag from her shoulder, dumping it next to the phone on the half-round table near the door.

      ‘I didn’t think you knew.’

      He reached out and took her hand, placing the key into the palm and closing the fingers over it. And then he bent his head and pressed his lips briefly to the fine skin of her inner wrist, sending the pulse wild and making her tremble even more.

      Immediately he lifted his head, and even as she tried to tug away he scanned her face again, his eyes far too prescient. ‘You need a drink,’ he said.

      He looked about them and saw the door to her living room behind him, the furniture dimly discernible. Before she knew it he was drawing her into the room, switching on the light. She made another effort to pull away but he took no notice. ‘Sit down,’ he ordered, guiding her to the couch set at right angles to the small fireplace, with a solid, beautifully-grained pale rimu coffee table before it.

      She sat down because she still felt as if her bones had deserted her. ‘I don’t need a drink, and if I did I’m quite capable of getting it myself.’

      His withering look said he didn’t believe either claim. He swept a hawkish gaze about the room, and went to the glass-doored corner cabinet where a half dozen bottles occupied one shelf and a neat array of tumblers and goblets another.

      Knowing he would ignore any further protest, she tightened her lips and waited until he came back with amber liquid in a squat crystal tumbler and handed it to her.

      She gulped half of the brandy, making her throat burn, and her eyes water so that involuntarily she closed them.

      The seat cushions beside her depressed, and she opened her eyes and stiffly turned her head.

      One long arm resting on the back of the couch, he watched colour burn into her cheeks. The brandy, she told herself. She wished he wouldn’t sit so close—his thigh, encased in well-pressed dark pants that matched his superbly cut jacket, almost touching hers where the skirt of her lightweight suit bared her knees.

      ‘Drink it all,’ he said.

      She should tell him to go to hell, that she didn’t want him or any man pushing uninvited into her home, ordering her about and deciding what she needed. It wasn’t hard to guess what he thought she needed…

      Lifting the tumbler, she emptied it. Dutch courage. Her hand stayed clenched about the cool, delicate glass; a wonder that it didn’t break.

      He said, ‘Do you live alone here?’

      ‘That’s none of your business.’ The answer snapped out before she’d thought.

      Damn. Why hadn’t she claimed a boyfriend—a big, burly, protective boyfriend? Or a half dozen flat-mates, due home at any moment. Although the cottage wasn’t big enough for that many, with only two bedrooms. ‘How long have you been following me?’ she asked.

      ‘I saw you get off the bus in Ponsonby Road. Do you often walk home alone in the dark?’ He sounded condemnatory.

      Ponsonby Road was popular for its eclectic mix of businesses, where homesick Pacific Island immigrants could buy taro and yams, pawpaw and bread-fruit, and Fijian Indian women their jewel-coloured saris in СКАЧАТЬ