Instant Fire. Liz Fielding

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      ‘This is a cottage on a rather grand scale,’ she said, admiring the use of yellow and white that would reflect the morning sun. She walked across to a pair of casement windows and opened them, stepping out into the garden. ‘You’re on the river!’ she exclaimed. ‘I hadn’t realised.’ She walked quickly down to the small mooring with its tiny dock.

      ‘There’s a boathouse behind those shrubs, but the roof has collapsed.’

      ‘Will you rebuild it?’

      ‘Maybe. Is it warm enough to eat out here, do you think?’

      ‘Oh, yes! I’ve a sweater in my bag.’ Once again the betraying heat stained her cheeks at this reminder.

      ‘Go and get it while I organise the food.’

      ‘You haven’t finished the guided tour,’ she said quickly. Then wished she hadn’t.

      ‘We’ve the whole evening. Don’t be so impatient, Joanna. You’ll see everything, I promise.’

      She stood for long moments in the hall, making an effort to bring her breathing back under control. It was idiotic to be so jumpy. She was grown up. Twenty-four years old. She found the cloakroom and splashed cold water on to her face. Her eyes seemed twice their normal size in the mirror, the grey abnormally dark. ‘Come on, Jo,’ she told her reflection. ‘You want this man so much it hurts.’ If only he would make love to her, all her nerves would be swept away. But it was almost as if he was going out of his way not to touch her.

      He had spread a cloth under a willow tree, its curtain providing a cloak of privacy from the passing boats, and was uncorking a bottle.

      ‘Mrs Johnson has done us proud,’ he said, as she settled on the rug beside him.

      ‘Mrs Johnson?’

      ‘She cooks, cleans, looks after me like a mother hen.’

      ‘Oh.’ Jo wasn’t sure she liked the idea of an unknown woman cooking a seduction feast, wondering how many times she had done it before.

      He handed her a glass of wine and touched the rim with his own. ‘To Love.’

      ‘Love—?’

      ‘‘‘‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my meat.’ So I did sit and eat.’’’ He solemnly offered her a crab bouchée.

      She quickly took one, but it seemed to fill her mouth and stick there. He topped up her glass and she drank nervously. For a moment he watched her, then he toyed with his food.

      ‘How’s Charles Redmond these days?’

      ‘Charles?’ She frowned. ‘Of course, you must know him. He’s made a good recovery by all accounts.’

      ‘Will he retire, do you think?’

      ‘I doubt it. The company is his life.’ She was so glad of something ordinary to talk about, she didn’t stop to consider that her boss was a very odd topic of conversation in the circumstances. She even began to enjoy the food. At last, though, the late May sun had dipped behind the trees and the temperature dropped sharply.

      ‘Come on, you’re shivering. I’ve kept you out here far too long.’ He caught her around the waist and hurried her indoors. ‘This way.’ Clay led the way through a door to the right and turned on a lamp which softly illuminated the drawing-room. The floor was richly carpeted in Wedgwood-blue and a large, comfortable sofa was set square before the fireplace. Behind it stood an eighteenth-century sofa table. A well-rubbed leather wing-chair flanked the hearth. The only modern touch was the hi-fi equipment tucked away in an alcove. He bent and put a match to the fire. ‘Warm yourself. I won’t be a moment.’

      Jo stood in front of the large open brick fireplace, watching the flames lick around the logs, wondering, with a sudden attack of nerves, if she was being an absolute fool. She had prided herself on her detachment, her ability to hold herself aloof from the idiotic disenchantment and pain she had seen her friends put themselves through. She had her job, her career to keep her content. Now here she was, in danger of falling into the same dangerous trap.

      ‘Joanna?’ His voice pulled her back to him and she understood then, as they stood side by side in the flickering firelight, just why people made such fools of themselves. Clay solemnly handed two glasses to her and, not once taking his eyes from hers, opened a bottle of champagne and allowed the golden bubbles to foam into them.

      He raised his glass in silent homage to her. Jo sipped the champagne, hardly conscious of the bubbles prickling her tongue; only the heightened sensation of expectancy seemed real. The tiny nerve-endings in her skin were all at attention, tingling with nervous excitement, and quite suddenly she was shaking. Clay rescued her glass and stood it on the great wooden beam that formed the mantel.

      He drew her into his arms, moulding her against his body, his eyes hooded with desire. ‘I want you, Joanna Grant,’ he said, and his voice stroked her softly. She leaned her head back slightly and smiled up at him, her self-possession a paper-thin veneer masking the ridiculous racketing of her heart, and as his lips touched hers she closed her eyes.

      She thought she knew what it was like to be kissed by Clay Thackeray. Perhaps it was the champagne, or perhaps it was just that she had been anticipating this moment all day. For a few moments his wide, teasing mouth touched hers in a gentle exploration of the possibilities. Then he paused and she opened her eyes, parting her lips in an involuntary sigh as old as time, any lingering doubts having long since evaporated in the heat beating through her veins. He kissed her again, fleetingly, his eyes locked on to hers, then swung her into her arms and carried her to the sofa, sitting with her across his lap, her arms around his neck. For a moment his gaze focused on her mouth. Gently he outlined her lips with the tip of his finger. She moved urgently against him and whispered his name.

      ‘Patience, my love. I want to enjoy you. Every bit of you.’

      He peeled away her sweater, but his fingers were almost unbearably slow as they undid the buttons of her blouse and pushed the heavy cream silk aside. He kissed the soft mound of her breast where it swelled above her bra, then, edging the lace away, his mouth sought the hard peak of her nipple and she cried out as he drew it between his teeth and caressed it delicately with his tongue. Her breathing was ragged and there was a throbbing, desperate ache between her thighs which was strange and wonderful and which she was woman enough to know that only he could ease.

      Her fingers dug into his shoulders. ‘Clay …’ Her voice was pleading.

      He raised his head and frowned slightly. ‘Have all your lovers been so hurried?’

      ‘No …’ But he wanted no answer; his mouth began a thorough and systematic plunder of hers, preventing her attempts to explain, then driving them out of her head altogether.

      After a while he raised his head. ‘I think it’s time we went to bed.’

      She raised lids heavy with desire and with her fingertips traced the strong line of his jaw and the small V-shaped scar on his chin. She drew her brows together in concentration. ‘Clay …’ He caught her fingers, kissing each one in turn as she struggled to sit up. ‘You should know … that is, I think I’d better tell you that I haven’t ever—’

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