Merlyn's Magic. Кэрол Мортимер

a shower. I can assure you I am now completely sober.'

      That he had taken a shower was obvious by his still-damp hair, although even now it was drying back into those riotously dark curls. But the reckless glint had gone from his eyes, the anger from his expression, and in its place had come a weary look, almost of defeat.

      ‘I hope you like what I've chosen for dinner,’ she said lightly, some of her tension dissipating now that she was sure she didn't have a drunken host to contend with; she had a feeling this man could be dangerous enough, without that. ‘There's a beef casserole, with baked potatoes, and apple pie—–'

      ‘I'm sure it will be fine,’ he dismissed as a man not much interested in the food he ate, ingesting it only through necessity.

      ‘Yes.’ She eyed him frowningly. ‘Well, if you would like to wait in the lounge—–'

      ‘I wouldn't,’ he cut in softly.

      Merlyn was filled with a new wariness now as she sensed the speculation in his gaze as it moved slowly over her body, the hair on her nape seeming to stand on end as a ripple of awareness flowed down her spine, her nipples suddenly taut against the softness of her jumper.

      ‘Come here,’ Rand suddenly instructed throatily, his stance one of challenge.

      Her gaze flew to the hardness of his face. ‘What?’ she said breathlessly.

      His brows rose slightly at her obvious nervousness. ‘I said come here,’ he repeated slowly, his gaze lowering pointedly to the hard thrust of her nipples beneath the clinging wool.

      She felt like a puppet having her strings pulled as she crossed the room to stand in front of him, her eyes a dark stormy green as she stared up at him, her breath caught in her throat as she waited for the master to dictate what her next move should be.

      Rand returned her look with narrowed eyes, the slight rise and fall of his chest indicating the shallowness of his breathing. The bell of the timer on the microwave broke the spell, anger flaring in Rand's eyes—white hot fury turning them from grey to platinum. ‘You have flour on your nose,’ he declared harshly, turning away.

      Her hand rose shakily to wipe away the flour. The gesture was mechanical as she was still watching Rand as he strode forcefully from the room, knowing he had brought her to him for quite a different reason, a reason that he had instantly regretted once he realised what he was doing.

      If there had been any women in his life since his wife's death then no one but he—and they—knew about it. Before his marriage to Suzie Forrester he had often been mentioned in the gossip columns, had been a highly eligible bachelor, with numerous women in his life. During his marriage to Suzie, his actions had been just as newsworthy, but since her death he might as well have disappeared, never going to London, and certainly not involved in any of the social whirl he and Suzie had seemed to enjoy so much during their marriage.

      But a few seconds ago there had been a physical hunger in his eyes—for Merlyn.

      He was drinking brandy again when she brought the casserole up to the dining-room, although he joined her in a glass of wine with their meal, and he didn't go back to the brandy after they had eaten.

      ‘So,’ he sat across the room from her, ‘you can do magic after all.'

      ‘What?’ She blinked up at him, startled by the comment.

      ‘The meal you “conjured” up was very nice,’ Rand's voice was mocking.

      She moistened her lips, relaxing slightly. ‘Thank you, but your cook did most of the work, I just defrosted.'

      ‘You're from London.’ It was a statement, not a question.

      Merlyn instantly realised it was a mistake to ever relax around this man. ‘Yes,’ she confirmed warily.

      ‘Decided to get away from the rat-race for a few days, hm?’ His scornful tone told her exactly what he thought now of London and the social life there.

      ‘I decided I'd like a change of scenery, yes,’ she answered dryly. ‘I could have stayed there and had weather better than this.'

      ‘Touché.’ His mouth quirked as he glanced out of the window where the rain could still be seen and heard. ‘Are you in business in London?’ The sharpness in those silver eyes belied his relaxed state as he lounged in the armchair.

      This time Merlyn was ready for the directness of his questioning, meeting that narrowed gaze steadily as she answered him. ‘No.'

      Dark brows rose. ‘You're a little cagey, aren't you?’ he taunted softly.

      ‘No more so than you, surely?’ she challenged with cool confidence.

      Rand's mouth tightened. ‘I'm not in the habit of relating my life-story to complete strangers!’ he rasped.

      ‘Neither am I,’ Merlyn returned softly. ‘Besides,’ she added as she sensed he was about to demand that she tell him exactly what she did in London, ‘as you've already guessed, I'm here for a break. And when I get away like this I like to forget all about my work.'

      ‘You're making your profession sound very mysterious.’ He sipped at the coffee she had poured him, watching her over the cup's rim.

      Merlyn's movements were deliberately controlled. ‘I didn't mean to,’ she dismissed coolly.

      ‘It isn't the oldest profession for women, is it?’ Rand taunted, deliberately provoking her.

      She suspected that women had been acting in one way or another since the beginning of time, that they were only now allowed to show they were as capable as men, but she realised that wasn't the ‘profession’ he referred to. ‘Women wouldn't need to provide that service if men didn't want it,’ she snapped waspishly. ‘It's a question of supply and demand!'

      Rand eyed her angry expression with amusement. ‘You speak as if from personal experience.'

      Her eyes flashed like emeralds. ‘I'm twenty-six years old, Mr Carmichael, and I've met my share of—–'

      ‘You know my name.’ His eyes were narrowed on her suspiciously.

      She instantly realised her mistake, although years of training kept her expression bland. ‘Anne mentioned that her neighbour had to be her brother-in-law, Brandon Carmichael.'

      He didn't look convinced. ‘You didn't know who I was before you came up here?'

      She arched auburn brows. ‘Who are you, Mr Carmichael?’ she mocked.

      Surprise widened his eyes, and then his mouth quirked self-derisively. ‘I think I deserved that!'

      ‘I think so, too,’ Merlyn nodded, relieved the danger seemed to have passed.

      He ran an impatient hand through his hair. ‘It's just that since this damned film on Suzie has been announced I've had several reporters trying to find out who I'm sleeping with now!'

      Merlyn had received her own share of bad press over the years, although nothing as personal as that. She would have felt as angry as he obviously was, would probably have felt as resentful towards the film and everyone connected with it, too.

      ‘You aren't a reporter, are you?’ he grated as she seemed to pale a little.

      ‘No,’ she laughed gratefully.

      ‘I hope not,’ he scowled. ‘Because rain or no rain you would be thrown out in it right now if I even suspected—–'

      ‘I'm not a reporter, Rand,’ she repeated firmly. ‘But I did realise who you were before Anne told me, although looking as you do now I had trouble recognising you.'

      ‘Looking as I do now?’ he challenged.

      She shrugged. ‘The long hair and beard; they went out of fashion years ago.'

      ‘And when they were in fashion I was too damned busy trying to make my fortune to be able to indulge myself