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

‘No, I followed in a taxi, then walked behind you along Bond Street.’

She thought harder, forehead wrinkled. ‘How did you know where I worked?’

‘Your fiancé told me where he worked, so I rang up and asked the switchboard if you worked there, too.’

Simple when you know how, she thought; she should have guessed he would track her down if he wanted to, but she hadn’t thought he would want to.

‘They tried to put me through, but someone in your office said you had just left, were going shopping in your lunch hour. I was ringing on my mobile from the foyer of the building. A minute later I saw you come out of the lift so I followed.’

She was speechless. He made it sound perfectly normal to follow people around, spy on them—nothing to get excited about. But she was so furious she couldn’t even get a word out.

He gave her a wry grin, eyes teasing. ‘Stop glaring at me. I had to see you. You knew that, from the minute his car crashed into mine. You knew we had to meet again, that we have a lot to talk about.’

‘We have nothing to talk about! I don’t want to talk to you at all. I just want to get back to my office and forget you exist.’

But she was so nervous that she put up a shaky hand to brush stray strands of bright hair away from her cheek, aware that he watched the tiny movement with those intent, glittering eyes.

‘And you think you can do that, Pippa?’ he drawled, moving even closer so that their bodies touched.

She couldn’t bear the contact, shifted away into the corner, body tense and shuddering.

‘Yes.’ But her eyes didn’t meet his and she felt him staring at the telltale pulse beating hard in her throat.

He reached out a hand; one long finger slid down her cheek then down her neck, awaking pulses everywhere it rested, until it pressed down into that pulse in her throat. ‘What’s the point of lying? You’re not convincing me; you’re only lying to yourself.’

‘Don’t touch me!’ she muttered, knocking his hand away.

The taxi turned into a hotel entrance, set back from the road. She looked up at the grand façade, ornate and baroque, with ironwork balconies outside every other widow, flags flying on the steep roof. She had heard of the hotel but never been inside it; it was far too expensive. Normally she would have loved to go there for lunch, but not with him.

‘You get out here; I’ll go on to my office!’ she insisted, holding on to the seat with both hands.

To her relief and surprise, he got out without replying and paid the driver. Only then did he turn back towards Pippa. ‘Out you get!’ He reached over and undid her seat belt before she had notice of his intention.

She wanted to yell, scream, hit him, but the hotel doorman had appeared behind him, magnificent in livery dripping with gold braid, smiling an obsequious welcome, and she was too embarrassed to make a scene in front of such an audience.

‘I can’t. Let me go,’ she said instead, very quietly, still hanging on to the seat.

‘Let me help you,’ he blandly murmured, and the next second he had taken her by the waist and was lifting her out of the taxi. Keeping his arm around her, he guided her up the steps into the hotel foyer while the doorman closed the taxi door and followed them. A moment later Pippa found herself being propelled into a lift; the door shut and the lift began to rise.

There was nobody else in the lift with them; she felt free to break away from him, using every ounce of her strength, looking at him with angry hostility as she reeled against the lift wall.

‘How dare you manhandle me like this? And if you think you can get me up to your bedroom…’

‘Suite,’ he coolly corrected. ‘There’s a sitting room; we can have lunch there.’

‘I am not going with you! Bedroom or suite, I am not going anywhere alone with you!’

‘You’re alone with me now,’ he pointed out in silky tones, leaning over her in what she interpreted as menace, despite the laughter gleaming in his eyes. His proximity was threat enough, even when he didn’t touch her.

‘Stop it! Keep away from me!’ she whispered, trembling.

His face was inches away from her own. ‘What are you so afraid of, Pippa? Me? Or yourself?’

Confused, she muttered, ‘Don’t be stupid. How can I be afraid of myself?’

‘Of what you really want,’ he enlarged, eyes watching her intently. ‘Of your own instinct and desires. You’re so terrified of how you feel that you need to shelter behind a pretence of hating me. You can’t risk so much as a look at me, can you?’

Face burning, eyes flickering nervously, she said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Do I have to remind you that I’m getting married in a week’s time?’

The lift stopped and the doors opened. Nobody was waiting on that floor; there was no one in view at all. He stepped out, grabbed her hand and jerked her out after him.

‘I am not going with you! Let go of me!’ She struggled to get away, flailing at him with one hand, managed to land a blow on his cheek, and gave a little cry of pain as she hurt herself on the hard edge of his bone structure.

‘Serves you right! You shouldn’t be so violent!’ He ran an exploring hand over his cheek where a red mark burnt. ‘That hurt me almost as much as it probably hurt you.’

‘Good!’

A room door nearby opened and an old lady in a pink linen suit, wearing a small black hat with a black lace veil which fell over her eyes, came out, gave them a startled, uneasy look.

‘Is anything wrong?’ she quavered.

Pippa hesitated fatally; he answered before she could. ‘She’s shy, that’s all. Honeymoon nerves! You