Merlyn's Magic. Carole Mortimer

in subtle greens, greys, and off-white. Huge cut-glass chandeliers adorned the high ceilings and the delicately ornate staircase in front of her was like something out of a fairy-story—or a film-set, Hollywood-style, that is; things weren't done as grandly in England. What was clearly apparent was that it wasn't a hotel but a family home!

      Her dismay was obvious as her gaze returned to her reluctant host. ‘I'm sorry, I seem to have—Atishoo!’ The force of the sneeze made her shake uncontrollably, her eyes starting to water.

      ‘You seem to have caught pneumonia,’ her host remarked wryly. ‘Come on.’ He took her arm and pulled her towards the staircase.

      ‘Where are we going?’ Merlyn voiced her alarm. After all, what did she know about this man? She had no way of telling if he had any more right to be here than she did; he could just be taking refuge from the storm too. He certainly didn't look wealthy enough to actually own this house! Unless he was the caretaker? That was quite possible. If she had a house like this she wouldn't want to leave it unattended. But the man facing her didn't look the type she would entrust her lovely home to either! Well, maybe she would. After all, she suspected she could entrust her heart to him without too much encouragement.

      ‘Upstairs,’ he murmured softly. ‘Scared?'

      The recipient of a lot of teasing from a much older brother, Merlyn had never liked to be mocked, her eyes sparkling challengingly. ‘Of you?’ she taunted in a derisive voice.

      His mouth quirked. ‘Why not? As soon as I get you upstairs I'm going to rip all your clothes off,’ he stated calmly.

      Merlyn stiffened, drawing herself up to all of her five feet five inches in height, aware even as she did so that the man seemed to tower over her by nearly a foot, and that he weighed at least a hundred and eighty pounds. As she had driven up she hadn't seen another house anywhere near this one, and she was well aware that she would stand little or no chance against his weight and size if he should decide to take advantage of her vulnerability.

      Nevertheless, she stood her ground. ‘I might have something to say about that,’ she murmured.

      Dark brows rose. ‘Judo expert, are you?’ he mocked.

      ‘I could be,’ she evaded determinedly.

      ‘Do you usually make this much fuss about taking your clothes off for a shower?’ he taunted.

      ‘Shower?’ she blinked. ‘You—–'

      ‘Yes?’ he teased softly.

      There were two red spots of anger in her otherwise pale cheeks, her indignation apparent by the scathing look she was sending him, the whole effect ruined by the ignominious sneeze she suddenly gave.

      ‘No more arguments,’ he declared, pulling her up the stairs with little regard for her stumbling, pushing her into a bedroom and stripping her coat off her before she had time to stop him. She did manage to pull back as he began to unbutton her blouse. ‘What is it?’ He frowned at her modesty. ‘I have seen the unclothed female body before,’ he told her impatiently.

      She didn't doubt it. There was a raw masculinity about him that bespoke an intimate knowledge with women and his power over them. But he hadn't seen her body before, and that was the one she was worried about. Her hands placed over his halted his movements. ‘I don't even know your name,’ said Merlyn in exasperation.

      His brow cleared, the mockery back. ‘You mean that if we had been formally introduced you would have let me take your clothes off without protest?’ he drawled.

      This time the twin spots of colour in her cheeks were from embarrassment. ‘No, I—–'

      ‘You can call me Rand.’ He sighed his impatience with her indignant anger. ‘And if you won't let me undress you then at least have the good sense to do so yourself, and then get into a hot shower. I'll be downstairs making us some coffee.’ He walked forcefully from the room.

      Merlyn was left with the impression that she had just survived a whirlwind. She sank slowly down on to the bed behind her, until she realised her sodden clothes would be dampening the silky peach coverlet. She stood up to undress, her thoughts with the puzzling man downstairs.

      Rand. It had a nice sound to it. Her glance fell to the bed beside her. How would it feel to be in that bed beside him, her body entwined with his, crying out his name as he possessed her? Because that man would possess, not merely make love. That warm tingling she had known when she first looked at him returned to her body as she envisaged his dark head next to her fiery one on the pillows. He—–

      ‘Here you are.’ Rand walked back into the room without warning, carrying her suitcase and vanity now, his eyes narrowing on the nakedness of her flesh beneath the dark blue of her unfastened blouse. Merlyn didn't need to look down to know that her flesh looked like pale ivory against the dark material.

      Again that feeling of time standing still possessed her, and she made no effort to conceal the rounded curve of her breasts from his gaze. Instead, she made a rather provocative movement which brought the barely concealed nipples into thrusting prominence against the silky caress of the material.

      Rand turned away abruptly. ‘I thought you might like a change of clothes,’ he bit out. ‘Come downstairs when you're ready. I'll be in the lounge.'

      As the breath slowly released from her lungs, Merlyn became aware that she hadn't drawn a breath since the moment Rand had burst in with her cases. No man had ever had this effect on her, and she found the feeling very disquietening. She didn't go around thrusting her body at men she had just met either. But then, she had never wanted a man like this before! Something was definitely making her act out of character, because she came from a family that masked their emotions, that didn't make any overt shows of feeling. Thrusting herself at Rand had been positively blatant!

      The hot shower she took soothed the chill from her bones, it also stopped her teeth from chattering, what it didn't do was dampen that inner heat she had known from the moment she set eyes on Rand, as if her body knew and recognised him.

      It was so ridiculous, had to be part of some sort of fever. For the first time in her life she wished flu on herself— she certainly couldn't actually want to make love with a complete stranger.

      Pointedly keeping her gaze averted from the bed that had given her such erotic thoughts a few minutes ago, she gratefully pulled on dry denims and a warm jumper, although in the centrally-heated house the latter would probably be too hot once she was thoroughly rid of the chill that still racked her body. Her hair was already part-way dry, and she brushed it loosely down her back, ruefully accepting that it would become a mass of thick curls without the use of her hair-dryer to style it. In a profession where appearances often counted for everything, she had forgotten the last time her hair had been allowed to dry in this wild way. Oh well, what was the point in worrying about that now, when there wasn't a thing she could do about it? And she couldn't possibly look any worse than she had when she arrived!

      The door to the bedroom opposite hers stood open now and, her curiosity piqued, Merlyn couldn't resist a glance inside. Like the rest of the house it was a splendidly furnished room, very masculine, and obviously belonged to her reluctant host, the huge bed easily able to accommodate his large frame, the peach and brown decor warm but lacking any femininity. It was a man's room, and—–

      Merlyn felt as if the breath had been knocked from her body as she stared at the photograph on the table beside the bed. It was of a beautiful, dark-haired woman with laughing blue eyes, love glowing in those eyes for the person on the other side of the camera.

      Merlyn was drawn like a magnet to the inscription in the bottom right-hand corner of the photograph. ‘Darling, I love you'. It didn't say who darling was, but because it was Rand's bedroom it had to be him, there was no signature to the declaration, but there didn't need to be one; no one who had lived in England the last ten years could help but know the woman who had dominated both British screen and theatre for that time. Suzie Forrester …

      He had said his name was Rand, but—Brandon? Was that man downstairs