Passionate Retribution. KIM LAWRENCE
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Название: Passionate Retribution
Автор: KIM LAWRENCE
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
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‘You always were a bully.’
‘And you were always a pampered brat,’ he replied dispassionately. She froze when he grasped her chin, forcing her to look up into his eyes. ‘You were always trying to get attention, I seem to recall.’
She tried to jerk away, a hot denial on her lips.
‘You have a very selective memory, infant. Oh, I quite forgot, you’re a mature woman these days,’ he drawled mockingly. ’strange, I doubt that—despite outer appearances.’ His unoccupied hand rose to trace carelessly the outline of her breast from the fabriccovered under-curve to the bare upper slope.
The casual intimacy induced an instantaneous physical response of her flesh, which she endured with confused misery. She swallowed a constnction in her dry throat, aware of the rasp of fabric against her sensitised flesh. The bodice of her dress seemed suddenly painfully tight.
‘The sort of attentions you gave me were delightful interludes. Like throwing me in the lake in November.’ She breathed deeply, regaining a little equilibrium now that his hand was no longer in contact with her flesh, even though his cool fingers seemed to have left an imprint like a brand on her skin. ‘Or pushing my face in the dirt,’ she added, warming to her theme. ‘And—’
‘All of which were preferable to indifference.’
He must have seen the dawning of awareness flicker in her eyes.
‘Y-you were incredibly awful to me,’ she faltered.
‘I believe the punishment usually fitted the crime.’
‘Children may have few rights to speak of,’ she replied, barely coping with an odd breathlessness that was afflicting her, ‘but I’m an independent agent now. And I have no intention of going anywhere with you except away from the immediate precincts of Charlcot.’
‘How long before you’re back?’ he sneered. ‘Living at home at twenty has to limit your emotional development to some extent, even when the said home has all the anonymity of a hotel.’ He gave her a look of mild contempt. ‘A five-star hotel, of course. No wonder you still act like a spoilt brat.’
‘The way I live my life has got nothing to do with you.’
‘Live?’ he drawled sarcastically.
‘I would have left home,’ she began, stung by the contempt. It was easy for him—nothing had ever been there to hold him back. She envied his freedom. I’m free now, she reminded herself: no fiancé, no terminally ill father to be mollified. Should I be celebrating? A bubble of hysteria rose in her throat.
Luke was watching her closely…was that concern? No, it couldn’t be, she decided. ‘Emily…’ He spoke her name angrily, with an urgency that made the wild laughter die abruptly.
‘So it’s true.’ Her mother’s strident voice broke the brief strained silence
Emily sighed, feeling suddenly weary. She hadn’t heard her father bring in reinforcements Here we go again! she thought. As if he’d picked up the energy draining from her, Luke interposed himself between her mother and herself. Not out of any wish to preserve her sanity, she thought, assailed by a strange nebulous hunger. More likely he didn’t want her to end the farce before he had extracted all the spiteful revenge he possibly could from the situation.
Her mother was as cold as her father had been hot; the gist of her words indicated that she wasn’t surprised at Emily’s behaviour. Emily listened to her whole life being described as a deliberate series of actions geared to give her parents the utmost degree of distress. She had the impression that her mother felt somehow vindicated by this final example of her ungrateful behaviour.
She stood frozenly dazed as her mother swept out of the room, dismissing her youngest child, her thoughts concentrated only on minimising the scandal attached to an engagement broken almost before it had been born.
‘Such warmth, such compassion,’ she heard Luke murmur. She looked at him, surprise widemng her blank eyes as he draped his jacket across her shoulders. It held the soothing heat of his body. She gave an involuntary shudder.
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