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

putting you on a pedestal. I was waiting until we were married before I laid a finger on you, because I thought you were a virgin, pure as driven snow. And now, less than a week before our wedding, I find you in bed with a stranger!’

‘I’m s…’ she began, and Tom suddenly shouted at her.

‘Don’t keep saying that!’

For a second she felt danger in him, a rage surging under his pale skin, making his body tense. She even thought he was going to hit her, and as their eyes met she knew she was thinking that too, but in the end Tom’s basic decency won out and his shoulders sagged. He turned away from her to stare out of the window.

After a minute’s silence that felt more like hours, he said, ‘So what now? The wedding’s off, I presume? Do you want me to deal with all the cancellations and phone calls? It would be better coming from me.’

‘What…what will you say?’

‘I’ll tell the truth. We’ve changed our minds at the eleventh hour.’ There was another pause, then he said abruptly, ‘Will you be okay?’

She was touched by his concern. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

‘Goodbye, then.’

Spinning on his heel, he walked out of the room. She stood there, listening to him going, feeling limp and exhausted. The front door quietly closed.

It was so sudden, this ending—a week ago they had been busy planning the last details of their wedding, yet now there would be no wedding.

Her brows knit. What about her job? Tom had said goodbye—had he meant she no longer had a job? His words had sounded so final and she wouldn’t be surprised if he had been firing her by implication.

How could they work together after this? The office gossip was going to be horrendous. Humiliating for Tom. The girls were going to be sorry for him, and, worst of all, show it, which he would hate. And if she went back, it would be embarrassing for her, too. People would whisper behind their backs, stare whenever they met them; some would drop hints, even have the cheek to ask direct questions.

Why? Why call the wedding off? Is there someone else? Have you met another guy? Or has Tom found another woman?

She shuddered, imagining it. No, she couldn’t bear to go back and face Tom’s hurt eyes, his wounded bride, or one of those curious, insolent interrogations.

Tomorrow she would have to write, resigning, and then she would put her cottage on the market and move again. A sigh wrenched her. Last time there had been no problem moving home, that shabby little room hadn’t mattered to her, but this time she was bitterly reluctant to leave her home, the cottage she had spent so much time and energy and money on improving. It had been the very first real home she had ever had. She did not want to leave it. But she knew she couldn’t stay here, not now.

Standing at the window into the back garden, she watched sunlight sparkling on spring flowers: the few last white narcissi, pale, frail flowers, purple hyacinth, whose fragrance made them hypnotic for insects which buzzed between them, making deep splashes of colour against the green of the lawn, newly budding bluebells under the apple tree not yet in blossom. She would probably never see another spring here.

Tears filled her eyes. She leaned on the window frame, put her hands over her eyes, weeping.

The first she knew of Randal’s arrival was when he took hold of her shoulders and turned her towards him, one hand behind her head, pushing her face into his chest. She was too miserable to protest or struggle; she desperately needed comfort. Weakly, she lay against him, sobbing.

His fingers stroked her hair, rubbing her scalp in a sensuous rhythm she found hypnotic. ‘Was he very unpleasant?’

She drew breath, said shakily, ‘Not at all. I almost wish he had been. He was hurt, which was far worse. I feel so guilty.’

Randal put a finger under her chin and lifted her head, stared down into her tear-wet green eyes. ‘You didn’t love him and he’d have realised it eventually, after you married him, and then he’d have been a damn sight more hurt. Surely you see that?’

She didn’t answer, her mouth trembling. Randal put his thumb on it and traced the weak curve, caressed her upper lip, watching her like a cat watching a mouse. To her, his grey eyes seemed cruel, predatory.

‘I think you’d better go now,’ she said, eyes flaring with hostility.

His arms tightened round her and he bent his head to take her mouth fiercely. The heat of the kiss melted her anger, made her knees give way under her, but she didn’t mean to let him do this to her again. She had to get control of herself—and him.

She grabbed his shoulders to push him away but couldn’t move him. It was like trying to push over a rock.

Abandoning the attempt, she meant to let her hands fall, but his kiss deepened, invading her parted mouth. A groan broke from her. Her fingers curled instinctively and she found herself holding on as if she was clinging to the only thing that would stop her collapsing on the floor.

Randal murmured thickly, pulling her even closer, and lifted her off her feet. A second later she was lying on the couch, still held in his arms, her body on top of his, his hand grasping her head, holding it still, while he went on kissing her with a devouring passion that turned her blood to fire.

When he lifted his head she couldn’t move, her green eyes drowsy and half closed, breathing thickly as she stared down at him, her body aching with pleasure.

‘You see? You’re mine,’ he whispered. ‘It would have been a crime if you had married that poor fellow. He deserves a wife who loves him. It was kinder for him to find out, even if the shock did hurt him. He’ll get over it and