The Petrelli Heir. KIM LAWRENCE

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      The throaty comment was open to interpretation, but Izzy, struggling to stay in control, chose to treat it at face value. ‘I believe Rory worked for you. He really enjoyed it.’ Her jittery glance encompassed the empty churchyard; anything that meant she could legitimately not look at him was good. ‘Everyone’s made their way to the hotel.’ Good manners made her add, ‘Do you know the way? Can I help you?’

      ‘I really hope so, Izzy, or is that Isabel?’

      Her eyes flew to his face. She moistened her lips nervously with her tongue, struggling against the sensation that she was sinking beneath a wave of sexual awareness that was wrapping itself around her like an invisible straightjacket.

      Breaking contact with his sardonic glittering stare, she conjured up a smile of sorts. ‘Nobody calls me that.’ She made a show of looking around. ‘It’s Izzy. Looks like we’re the last … or are you not going to the reception?’ she asked hopefully.

      ‘Wild horses would not keep me away.’

      ‘Really … oh, well, it’s not far. Do you need a car?’

      Without meaning to she dropped her glance to his leg. She remembered the red livid scars she had seen gouged into the muscles of his thigh during their night together. She had been conscious of a slight limp when he had approached her in the bar, but had dismissed it until she had seen the cause. The scarred tissue had shocked her, causing her sensitive stomach to quiver in reaction to the obvious pain they represented.

      ‘Thank you, but I think I can make it under my own steam,’ he said. Instantly he was catapulted into the past as he remembered her gasp when she had first seen the scars that night two years ago.

      Survivor’s scars, he called them. They were not pretty now, but two years ago they had been relatively fresh; the livid purple puckered tracks gouged in his flesh had been the thing of horror movies. In his head he had anticipated her revulsion to them and had schooled himself not to care. It had only been his desire to see her that had stopped him turning off the light.

      He had offered but she’d refused. She had lain on the bed where he had left her as he had removed his clothes. She had been laughing throatily after the shoe he had flung over his shoulder had hit a mirror, cracking it in a zigzag from top to bottom.

      But when she had seen his scars she had stopped laughing and he had tensed. Pity as a reaction was even less attractive to him than repugnance.

      Holding his eyes, she had flipped sinuously over onto her stomach and grabbed his wrist. Shaking her head, she had pulled his hand away from the lamp.

      She had looked at the ugly red line that began high on his thigh and ended a few inches above his knee and asked, ‘Does it hurt?’ adding huskily when he shook his head, ‘Can I touch …?’

      ‘Touch?’

      Roman had taken an involuntary step back. He had always taken his body, the perfect symmetry of his strong limbs and his naturally athletic physique, for granted, but all that had changed overnight. His body had betrayed him and become the enemy and though not a vain man he accepted that others would be repelled by his scars. For him they were a constant reminder not to take anything for granted—ever.

      ‘Why would you want to? Morbid curiosity?’

      Her astonishment had been too spontaneous to be feigned. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

      ‘I am normally considered to be above average in the brains department.’

      Her slow wicked smile had made the lust in his belly grip hard. ‘I’m not that interested in your brains.’

      Her blouse, unbuttoned to the waist, had billowed out as she’d pulled herself up onto her knees. He had been unable to take his eyes off her, the tantalising shadows of her nipples through the lace of the bra that matched her pants, as with sinuous grace she had risen from the bed and come to stand beside him. Barefooted she had come up to his shoulder. ‘Are you hiding any more of those?’

      He had been unprepared and shocked when she had reached out again and touched him, lightly running a finger down the raised scar tissue.

      He had caught her wrist, unable to keep the bitterness from creeping into his voice as he’d asked, ‘Isn’t that enough?’

      ‘No.’ Tilting her head to look at him, she’d pulled her hand from his grip. ‘Not nearly enough. I want to touch all of you,’ she’d whispered. ‘I don’t want to miss any place out.’

      Roman felt lust clutch hard and low in his belly and was dragged back to the here and now. A faint growl worked its way upwards from his chest before he managed to push the images away.

      ‘We could always walk together.’ Of all the things they could do together, walking was not high on his list, but he was not about to let her escape.

      ‘Actually I’m in a bit of a hurry.’

      He felt his exasperation climb. Dismay was not a response Roman was accustomed to from attractive young women, and he suspected the novelty value would wear off quickly.

      ‘And you think I can’t keep up?’ He might not be taking the lead on any climbs, but his limp only manifested itself now when he was extremely fatigued.

      ‘No, of course …’ She took a deep breath and sighed. ‘Fine.’ Said with all the enthusiasm of someone who had just agreed to give up her place on the last lifeboat.

      Roman was torn between amusement and annoyance at the grudging concession. His annoyance would have been a lot greater had he not known that she was as aware of the chemistry spark between them as he was, but for some reason she was reluctant to acknowledge it …

      He was confident that whatever the reason for fighting the attraction she would lose the battle, and he relished the prospect of seeing the confident bold woman he knew was there under her diffident, fresh-faced exterior.

      ‘A pleasant stroll down a leafy village road on a sunny day—what could be nicer?’ murmured Roman as he fell in beside her, matching his stride to hers.

      ‘The inn is fourteenth-century.’

      ‘Is the tour commentary optional?’

      She slid him a sideways look of dislike. He had no manners at all but a great profile. Her glance drifted lower. Actually he had a great everything. ‘I thought you might be interested. My mistake.’

      ‘I’m fine with the charming company and the leisurely stroll,’ he murmured, adding drily, ‘Very leisurely stroll.’

      Izzy compressed her lips, and, to squash any suspicion he might have that she wanted to prolong this walk, lengthened her stride. It was a struggle, despite his comments to the contrary, to believe that his mangled leg did not give him pain, but he showed no sign of difficulty in matching her pace.

      As they continued down the steep, winding village street a silence developed … not of the comfortable variety. In the end and despite the risk of drawing another of his rude comments, Izzy cleared her throat. She had to do something to drown out the silent tension.

      ‘It was a lovely service … Rachel looked beautiful, didn’t she?’

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