Nights of Passion. Anne Mather

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      Rachel shivered. It was the first time he’d touched her, and she was overwhelmingly aware that her response had been far from indifferent. For a moment, her senses had been assaulted by the clean, male scent of his body, his heat briefly robbing her of the will to move away. She was aware of her nipples pebbling beneath her cotton tee shirt, a melting feeling that centred somewhere low in her abdomen, turning her limbs to water.

      Realising she had to get a hold of herself, she shoved the pack of cheese she was holding into the fridge and backed up against the closed door. That was better, she thought, feeling the chill cooling her spine and causing goose bumps to take the place of the beads of sweat that had feathered the back of her neck.

      Then, without exactly looking at him, she said, ‘Why should it matter to you?’

      Joe shook his head. Damned if he knew. He didn’t know what the hell he was getting into here, but he knew he couldn’t just walk away without at least attempting to understand what was going on.

      In an effort to distract himself from the urge to capture her chin in his hand and force her to look at him, Joe propped his hips against the table behind him and folded his arms. ‘How often did Daisy see her father before he moved to the States?’ he asked, and her green eyes flickered briefly in his direction.

      ‘How often?’ He sensed she didn’t want to answer him and he wondered why. ‘Um—she saw him,’ she said with a lift of one shoulder, prevaricating. ‘Anyway, that’s not why you’re here, is it? I expect you’d like to confirm the arrangements for Monday. If you’ll tell me where and at what time you’d like us to meet you …’

      ‘My chauffeur will pick her up.’ Joe was aware that she was nervous, that she’d like to get this over with and for him to go. He frowned, and then asked curiously, ‘What’s wrong? Why are you so defensive? Is it because Steve wanted to take Daisy to Florida with him when he left England and you wouldn’t let him?’

      ‘What?’ Rachel was forced to look at him now, stunned at the accusation. And despite her reluctance to discuss her exhusband with a virtual stranger, she added tensely, ‘Steve never even suggested taking her with him. Did he tell you that he did?’

      Joe raked long fingers over his scalp. He should never have started this. ‘That was the impression I got,’ he said at last, watching the colour drain out of her face. His free hand curled into a fist. ‘Obviously I was wrong.’

      ‘Yes.’ Rachel drew a choking breath and turned away, unable to look at him any longer. ‘Yes, you were,’ she continued, pressing her palms against the door of the fridge now, aware that it wasn’t helping. ‘If—if you must know, I don’t think Daisy even noticed when Steve left the country.’

      There, she’d said it. Something she’d never said to anyone, not even Steve’s mother. But it was true nevertheless. Her exhusband had spent little time with Daisy when they’d been together, and after the divorce he’d always been too busy with his new wife and her friends—and, of course, his golf—to care that Daisy was growing up without a father.

      Joe stifled an inward groan. He knew he’d upset her, knew he’d torn the skin off an old wound that was apparently still raw enough to bleed. And that wasn’t his nature. He didn’t hurt women; even the women he’d ended relationships with were still speaking to him. Yet, although he’d guessed he was getting into deep water when she’d avoided his question, he’d persisted in probing, in exposing her vulnerability.

      His muscles tightened. He should get the hell out of here now, before he did something they would both regret. He didn’t even know why he felt such a sense of responsibility towards her, but the fact remained, he did.

      Pushing away from the table, he laid an impulsive hand on her shoulder. She jumped, and he realised she was trembling. God, this was a woman who’d been married and divorced, who’d borne a child, for heaven’s sake; yet he still felt responsible for her. He couldn’t resist; his fingers tightened on the fine bones beneath her tee shirt and the urge to pull her into his arms became almost irresistible.

      The air between them was fairly crackling with emotion, and for once he wished Daisy would interrupt them. Hell, this wasn’t his problem, he told himself, but that didn’t stop him from moving closer until her bottom brushed temptingly against his thigh.

      Rachel moved then, jerking away from him, not understanding why her eyes were suddenly filled with tears. She’d shed all the tears she was going to shed for Steve Carlyle, she told herself fiercely. And she didn’t need Joe Mendez’s pity either. She could just imagine how this would play when he got back to Florida, and the idea that Steve and Lauren might find her stupid feelings amusing was totally humiliating.

      ‘Rachel,’ Joe said helplessly, ‘I’m sorry.’

      ‘Don’t be. I’m not.’ She pulled a tissue out of the box on the window sill and quickly blew her nose. ‘I’ll get Daisy. I expect she’s dying to know what’s going on.’

      Joe groaned. ‘What is going on, Rachel?’ he demanded, and she was obliged to turn and face him.

      ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said, striving for a lighter tone. But when she attempted to move past him, Joe saw the betraying sparkle of tears on her lashes.

      ‘Hell, Rachel,’ he protested, and ignoring all the good advice he’d been giving himself, he caught her about the waist and hauled her into his arms.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      IT WAS meant to be a way of comforting her, of showing his support, of proving he wasn’t a selfish bastard like her exhusband appeared to be, or so he told himself. But it didn’t turn out that way. From the moment their bodies came together, from the moment her tee shirt parted from her jeans and he felt the softness of bare flesh beneath his hands, a knot of pure sensual need twisted in his belly.

      She was breathing rapidly, her breasts flattened against his chest so he could feel every agitated gulp she took. Her lips were parted and the warmth of her breath was moistening the skin of his throat, spreading heat to every sensitised extremity.

      ‘Rachel,’ he said again, his voice thicker now, and the urge to slide his hand beneath her shirt and find the swollen peaks that were rubbing oh-so-sensuously against his shirt proved irresistible. He could see the pulse palpitating just beneath her ear, and he wondered how it would feel against his tongue.

      He thought she said something then, but the faint whisper of her voice was drowned by the pounding of his own heart. With the womanly scent of her body to distract him, it was hard to think of anything but how incredible it would feel to have her naked beneath him.

      He was becoming aroused. His trousers were becoming uncomfortably tight, and he guessed if he could feel it she could feel it, too. Not that that stopped him from wanting her, but it was time to grasp what little control he had left and put an end to this madness.

      It took an effort, but he pulled his hands from beneath her tee shirt and raised them to her shoulders. Then gently, but firmly, he attempted to put some space between them. It would be easier to think without the innocent sexuality of her body seducing his, he told himself grimly. But when he saw her face, his good intentions crumbled. She looked so bewildered suddenly that something inside him seemed to snap. With a groan of resignation, he abandoned any hope of getting out of this unscathed. Pulling her against him again, he captured her face between his palms and lowered his head to hers.

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