The Boss's Virgin by Charlotte Lamb (i am malala young readers edition .TXT) 📗

an earthquake, the earth blown apart, wrecked, destroyed.

‘Which road do I take now?’ Randal asked and, pulling herself together, she gave him directions.

‘It isn’t far; we should be there in ten minutes.’

‘Do you like living in the country?’

‘I love it.’

He was driving slowly as they passed the junction where the accident had happened the other night. His sideways glance told her he remembered the place.

‘Where had you been?’ she asked. ‘That night?’

‘I had been having dinner with a business associate. I got lost; I don’t know this part of the country.’

They drove on and a few moments later were parking outside her cottage. He turned his head to stare at it.

‘Well, thank you for driving me home,’ she huskily said, opening the passenger door.

He got out and came round to help her, his hand firmly gripping her arm. ‘It’s a pretty place. Have you redecorated since you bought it?’

‘Yes,’ she said. Afraid her neighbours might see him, be curious about him.

‘I’d love a guided tour.’

In agitation she shook her head. ‘I’d rather not ask you in! I expect Tom will call in on his way home from work; he’ll be anxious about why I came home early. I usually come home with him. He lives quite nearby.’

Randal locked his car with a remote control, still holding her arm, then guided her towards the cottage. ‘It’s only half past four. He won’t arrive yet, will he? He looked the type to keep long hours at work. You’ve got time to show me round.’

‘Why are you so maddening?’ she fumed. ‘Why do you always have to turn everything into a battle, and win?’

He laughed softly. ‘Why do you? What is your problem? Whatever I ask you to do, you argue!’

She unlocked her front door, choked with irritation. ‘I just want you to go away! You know that!’ Samson appeared from the flowerbeds and brushed past both of them, heading for the kitchen and, he hoped, food.

Randal smiled an amused taunt. ‘Oh, I know that, but I’m not going, Pippa. I intend to save you from yourself.’

She swallowed, face disturbed. She didn’t like the sound of that. What was he plotting? There was a brightness, a mischief in his eyes, that made her feel threatened. Did he intend to stay here, confront Tom, perhaps tell Tom…? Tell him what, though? They had never been lovers. There was nothing to tell. A kiss or two, that was all. She had fled before any affair could start.

And of course that was an admission in itself, because if she had not been afraid of what might develop between them she would never have been driven to flight. Would Tom realise that?

He would if Randal drew him pictures, she grimly admitted, and no doubt that was precisely what Randal intended to do. Would Tom be shocked when he discovered she had been in love before they met?

She had never lied to him, yet she had never told him anything about Randal; she had never even mentioned his name.

He looked around at the black wood beams. ‘How old is the cottage?’

‘The deeds date form the eighteenth century, but there was a dwelling here before that, judging by old maps of the area.’ She looked at the green glass clock on the mantelpiece which she had bought in a local antiques shop. ‘Tom will be here before long. Would you mind going? I want to have a shower and change before Tom gets here.’

He took no notice, wandered around the room, looking at ornaments, books, taking them out of the white-painted shelves and flipping through them, went to the window, stared out at the back garden, then walked through into the kitchen. Crossly she followed and found him opening cupboards, inspecting the inside of the fridge. Samson excitedly cavorted around him.

‘Nice cat,’ Randal said, scratching behind Samson’s ear. ‘I like the way your kitchen is laid out; the colour scheme is very cheerful. It must be a pleasure to come in here on winter mornings.’

‘You aren’t planning to make me an offer for the place, are you?’ she tartly enquired, and he gave her a teasing grin.

‘I’m just curious about how you live. I’m trying to imagine you here. Are you always alone, or does the fiancé spend some nights here with you?’

Hot blood ran up her face. ‘I told you, I’m not discussing Tom or our relationship with you!’

His grey eyes probed her face. ‘You don’t sleep with him, do you?’ He sounded cool enough, yet something in the way he stood, body tense and alert, made her nervous. She wished she knew what he was thinking, what he was planning.

‘None of your business!’

He took a step towards her and suddenly she was terrified. Turning on her heel, she ran out, up the stairs, into her bedroom and bolted the door. Sinking down on her bed, she listened; would he come up here or leave?

There wasn’t a sound. No footsteps on the stairs, no movement in the passage outside the door.

He must still be downstairs. Or he could have gone, let himself out of the front door soundlessly.

She swivelled to pick up a hairbrush from her dressing table and brushed her gleaming chestnut hair; it was in disarray after the drive, with the wind blowing through the open window. Getting up, she looked in her wardrobe for something to change into when she had had her shower and chose a pale green tunic dress which ended at the knees. Simple but stylish, it was one of Tom’s favourites among her clothes.

She opened drawers, found clean lingerie, laid it all on her bedside cabinet, then went to the door and listened with her ear against the panel.

Still silence. She carefully opened the door and froze in shock, finding Randal leaning there; in a second he was halfway into the room and she fell back, breathless.

‘Go away!’

His gaze ran round the room, absorbing the delicate pastel colours of the walls, the pretty curtains which matched exactly the cover over her