Fated Attraction. Кэрол Мортимер

I——’

      ‘Oh for goodness’ sake!’ the ‘young lady’ cut in crossly, struggling into a sitting position to glare up at both of them, as no one actually seemed inclined to assist her. ‘As you so rightly pointed out,’ she snapped at the driver, ‘if I don’t soon get up off this road I’m going to be run over by other traffic and killed!’

      ‘Here,’ he bit out impatiently, his arms curiously gentle as he swung her up against his chest. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered as the movement caused her obvious pain. ‘I will be seeing to this young lady’s welfare,’ he informed the crowd with finality.

      Much to their disappointment, the ‘young lady’ noted ruefully, before she was briskly carried away to be placed on the warm leather passenger seat of the old-design Jaguar.

      ‘My clothes!’ she protested before he could slam the door behind her.

      Irritation furrowed his brow once again before he glanced back at the suitcase and the strewn clothing.

      ‘Hell!’ he muttered with suppressed violence, closing her car door with the same controlled emotion.

      But he did go back and pick up the clothes and push them haphazardly inside the case.

      She watched his impatient movements in the wing-mirror, sure that the more delicate items of clothing—her bras and briefs were made of the finest silks—would be beyond salvation after his rough handling of them.

      But the crowd had dispersed now, much to her relief, even the dogged heckler having taken himself off now that there wasn’t any further fun to be had, at anyone’s expense.

      But, as the boot of the car was wrenched open and her suitcase flung inside, she realised how very alone she was with this man—a man who hadn’t shown even a glimmer of a gentler side to his nature. He radiated barely controlled anger as he got in beside her, and she realised she couldn’t get out of the car and get away from him even if she wanted to because her hip hurt her so badly and her ankle refused for the moment to support her weight, slight as it was.

      If the man turned out to be some sort of kidnapper she didn’t even think a ransom would be paid for her if it were demanded; she very much doubted that Jordan would pay to have her returned to him.

      She might have been in the gutter a few minutes ago, filled with frustration and despair, but now she had a feeling she could be in danger!

       CHAPTER ONE

      ‘JANE SMITH!’

      She kept her head held high, although she could feel the delicate colour slowly staining her cheeks at his scepticism of the name she had given the nurse at the hospital when that lady had come to take her details before she was seen by the doctor. She had sensed the derision of the man at her side then, but he had at least waited until they were alone before expressing his scorn.

      She wondered what his feelings would have been if she had calmly announced her full name.

      Which she had no intention of doing.

      It was quite a mouthful, for one thing. Another factor dictating his reaction would be whether or not he had heard of her family. If he hadn’t it wouldn’t mean a lot to him. She had also learnt during the last week that using her full name, in certain circumstances, got her absolutely nowhere.

      She had to admit she had been more than a little relieved when he had driven her straight to the accident department of this well-known hospital, although she knew without seeing the doctor that she hadn’t actually broken anything, that she was probably just badly bruised. Although that felt painful enough.

      She was just relieved she had been wrong about the ‘danger’ she had sensed. The man obviously couldn’t wait to get rid of the responsibility of her!

      In the bright lights of the hospital waiting-room he looked even more like her image of Heathcliff than she had first thought. His hair was very dark, not quite ebony, but a rich teak-brown, inclined to curl over the collar of his shirt and ears now that it was dry, eyes the colour of grey slate made even more vivid by the dark bronze of his skin. It was a strong face, unrelenting, and the darkness hadn’t deceived about the hollows and shadows, his face all angles and deep grooves; character-lines, Jordan would probably have called them.

      He looked slightly older than Jordan’s thirty years, possibly in his mid-thirties, and the well-worn comfort of the Jaguar he drove was also evident in the worn denims and small-checked jacket he wore. A man who seemed to care little for his appearance, and yet at the same time there was something magnetically attractive about him, his masculinity undoubted, his virility tangible.

      Older than her set, out of her experience, at least fifteen years her senior, and yet she felt a certain curiosity to know more about him. Strange …

      He had to be married, of course, or possibly divorced. If he hadn’t been one, or both, at his age, that surely only left—— No, she didn’t for one moment believe his inclinations lay in that direction. He might find her an irritant, but that didn’t mean he found all women so.

      What would his wife, or ex-wife, be like? she wondered. Probably tall and blonde and athletically minded, as she was sure he was; he certainly didn’t keep as fit as he looked by the odd game of golf, as many men tried—and failed—to do. Or maybe his wife hadn’t shared his interests at all, maybe that was the reason they were divorced.

      Ridiculous.

      She had the man married and divorced, and she didn’t even know his name!

      ‘A good English name,’ she stoutly defended what was, after all, part of her name. She stuck out her hand. ‘I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.’

      His mouth twisted at her sudden formality given the circumstances, and Jane was made to see herself through his mocking eyes. Small and pert, with a body that could easily be called boyish in the fitted denims and bulky sweater, except that the full swell of her breasts was clearly discernible beneath the woollen garment, and her hair was a long, Titian—as the Duke of York chose to call this particular shade of hair that was also the colour of his wife’s!—riot of virtually uncontrollable curls that reached almost down to her waist, more tangled than usual this evening after the rough treatment it had taken from the wind and rain outside. Sparkling blue eyes the colour of sapphires dominated the beauty of her pointed face, a face bare of its usual make-up because she had felt too despondent earlier to take the usual trouble with her appearance, utterly defeated, on her way back to Jordan and his ‘I told you so’s.

      And instead of that she was sitting in a hospital waiting-room with a man who looked as if he would like to take that ‘Titian’-coloured hair, wind it around her neck, and strangle her with it!

      ‘Raff Quinlan,’ he announced drily. ‘And I have never cared to look into its origins.’

      And he wasn’t about to start now, his tone implied.

      Raff Quinlan. Even his name was different, interesting.

      Her hand dropped back to her side as he made no effort to take it in his much larger one. ‘Am I keeping you from something?’ Her voice was tart at the obvious snub.

      He returned her gaze coldly. ‘Yes.’

      He wasn’t just blunt, he was downright rude!

      She drew in an angry breath. ‘I didn’t choose to be run down by your car …’

      ‘My dear Miss Smith,’ he exploded, grey eyes blazing angrily. ‘I did not run you down with my car. You——’

      ‘The doctor will see you now,’ a young nurse cut in firmly, giving Raff Quinlan a reproving look as she wheeled the chair he had insisted on for Jane when they first arrived through to the examination-room. ‘Would you like to accompany your wife?’ she offered as an afterthought.

      Wife?