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

her just now, he had conquered, had shattered all her arguments, her reasons for saying no to him.

He had realised what she had always known, that she had been dying to make love with him for so long, but had resisted him under the lash of her rational mind—and now it had happened, and she was different. As Randal had intended, she felt differently.

Or did she?

She walked out of the shower and put on a white towelling robe, towelled her damp chestnut hair, looking at herself in the cloudy bathroom mirror. Her green eyes held a bleak realisation now.

Had those moments of bliss and intimacy altered anything? He would still put his son first if it came to it. He would never put her first. She would never matter more to him than anyone else in the world.

Nothing important had changed. She still did not want to accept second place in his life. She still couldn’t stay with him; she had to go away.

Like the mermaid in the legend she would have to vanish, this time for ever.

CHAPTER NINE

SHE deliberately chose the most demure outfit she had brought with her: a dove-grey straight skirt, a black chiffon shirt which tied at the waist. Contemplating herself in the mirror, she decided it was exactly the look she wanted for the evening ahead. That last thing she wanted was to look sexy, or put ideas in Randal’s head. Her chestnut hair she brushed back and clipped at the nape with a black Spanish comb, leaving her face a clear, cool oval. She wore very little make-up: a faint touch of green on her eyelids, palest pink on her lips. As an afterthought she used a flowery perfume, an English fragrance which drifted about with her, leaving a hint of summer on the air.

She tidied her room, now that all her clothes had been put away, and watched TV for a while, although she found it hard to concentrate.

Randal tapped on her outer door an hour later. She checked on her reflection rapidly before she answered. Yes, that was how she wanted to look—remote, untouchable. As far as possible from the wildly responsive woman he had held in his arms on her bed earlier.

She opened the door and caught a flash of surprise in his eyes. He hadn’t expected her to look so serene, and noticed at once the demure way she had dressed.

But he made no comment, simply said, ‘If you’re ready, I thought we might go downstairs and have tea in the reception area. Renata said she’d bring Johnny back before six, and it’s five now.’

‘Fine, I’d love a cup of tea,’ she said, collecting her handbag, sliding the room key into it. The connecting door was still bolted; it would remain that way as long as they were here. She wanted no repetition of what had happened this afternoon; Randal could stay his side of that door.

Despite her desire to stay cool, though, she felt her pulses leap in that dangerously magnetised fashion when Randal put a hand under her elbow to guide her into the lift. Such a light, polite touch, and yet it sent her body into overdrive.

As the doors shut she hastily moved away from him, and felt his quick, probing glance; he was far too observant, and she did not trust him. But she ignored it. It was better not to say anything, give him any opportunity to gain ground.

Downstairs they sat at a table with a good view of the entrance and ordered a pot of China tea. They drank it without milk, a clear, pale straw-coloured liquid with a delicate fragrance, which was very refreshing.

Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Randal’s fingers drumming on the arm of his chair as he watched the entrance. He was agitated over whether or not his ex-wife would bring their son back as promised. She felt a pang of sympathy; poor Randal. He would go crazy if Renata had in fact abducted the child. Would she take the boy abroad, if she did? It could be months before Randal saw Johnny again, in that case, and it would turn his life into a nightmare.

To distract his attention, she said casually, ‘I was thinking, just now, that what I need is a holiday, before I start looking for another job.’

‘Where are you thinking of going?’

‘Somewhere warm—Spain or Italy, probably. I don’t know either country. I’ve had very few holidays abroad; I could never afford it until I started earning more money at the insurance company, and then I bought my cottage, and that ate up any spare cash I had.’

His grey eyes skimmed her face thoughtfully. ‘You’ve had a pretty tough life, haven’t you? No family, no real home, and very little money. It was quite an achievement to buy the cottage and do it up yourself, but at least selling it will release a good lump sum. You’ll have money now.’

‘Yes, I suppose I will,’ she agreed, thinking about it. It would be nice to have spare cash with which she could be spontaneous, which she could spend as she wished, when she wished. She had never been in that position before; every penny she earned had been earmarked for something—clothes, food, travelling expenses to and from work, redecoration on the cottage. ‘But then I’ll have to buy a new home,’ she sighed. ‘And it will probably cost far more, so I won’t have money for long.’

‘If you married me you wouldn’t need to buy a new home; you would live in mine,’ he said casually, taking her breath away.

‘Don’t make jokes like that!’ She knew he didn’t mean it, couldn’t mean it, was just teasing her. She looked at him with rage and hostility. ‘It isn’t funny!’

His grey eyes were serious, though. ‘I’m proposing, Pippa. I want to marry you.’

She stared fixedly at her cup of pale tea, fighting with the stab of jealousy in her stomach. ‘You’re still