Long Night's Loving. Anne Mather

There must be something we can do.’

      ‘Oh, there is.’

      Neil’s words—and the sensual caress of his eyes—caused a blistering wave of heat to engulf her. Her hands, which had been cold, were now slippery with sweat, and she could feel the awareness that had started in the bath centred like a pulse low in her stomach.

      ‘Wh-what?’ she asked jerkily, looking anywhere but at him. God, did he know what he was doing to her, or was he just testing his famous charm?

      ‘Ride with it,’ he declared, startling her into another unwary appraisal. ‘As I see it, Lindsey wouldn’t want to be with him if he wasn’t treating her well. I was mad, sure, when you first told me, but that’s what he wants. Don’t you see? He expects me to come rushing back to London. When I don’t, he’s going to be seriously disappointed.’

      Maggie stared at him disbelievingly. ‘But you said—’

      ‘What did I say?’

      ‘You said there was something we could do.’

      “There is.’ His arm was along the back of the seat behind her, and now she could feel his fingers toying with the ends of her silky blonde hair. ‘We can spend a pleasant evening together. It’ll be like old times. Before your ego—and Oliver Massey—got in the way.’

      Maggie felt like bursting into tears. This couldn’t be happening, she thought. Not only was Neil refusing to help her, but he seemed to think her coming here had given him some divine right to torment her, not just mentally but physically as well. When his fingers brushed her neck, she almost jumped a mile, and when Neil’s hand descended on her shoulder, she thrust her empty glass onto the table and tried to move away.

      ‘Mags,’ he said, and even the way he said her name caused every nerve in her body to tingle, ‘why shouldn’t we enjoy this while it lasts?’ He looped the veil of her hair behind her ear so that he could see her profile, his breath fanning her nape as he spoke. ‘You know you want to. You’re trembling so badly, you’re in danger of shaking both of us off the sofa. Not that I’d object to that entirely. It wouldn’t be the first time we’d made love on the floor.’

      ’M-made I-love?’ she stammered, her eyes wide and panicky, gazing into his.

      ‘Why not?’ he asked, his free hand cupping her face, the pad of his thumb moving sensuously over the delicate contours of her ear. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how good it always was between us.’ His hand moved down, pausing so he could rub one swollen nipple with his palm, before coming to rest on her knee. ‘You used to tell me you ached,’ he added, his thumb defining the separation of her legs. ‘Here,’ he said, his voice uneven, but when he would have lifted the hem of her skirt she brought both hands down to stop him.

      ‘No.’

      ‘No?’

      Patently, he didn’t believe her, and she couldn’t altogether blame him. Dear God, her muscles were shaking with the effort of holding her knees together, when all she really wanted to do was open her legs.

      ‘We can’t,’ she insisted unsteadily, wishing his lean, dark face weren’t so destructively sensual in the lamplight. His narrowed eyes were watching her mouth, and almost instinctively, it seemed, her tongue emerged to moisten her parted lips.

      He disturbed her so much. He always had. She felt like someone who had been lost in the desert, desperate for water, and who had suddenly come upon a pool of fresh clean water. She was dying of thirst; she wanted to plunge in; but she was afraid it was a mirage—that if she took that final step she’d find it was only sand.

      She tried to distract herself by dissecting his features. What was there about him that held her so in thrall? Hooded eyes, narrow cheekbones, a thin, almost cruel mouth should not hold such power over her. Yet she knew her control was as fragile as gossamer. If he touched her, her resistance would shatter like a mirror.

      ‘Why can’t we?’ he countered, permitting her to prevent his hand from exploring farther, but not giving up. He bent towards her, the edges of his shirt parting to reveal the brown column of his throat, and caught her earlobe between his teeth. He bit her, hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to do any real damage. ‘I want to touch you, Maggie. Don’t you want to touch me?’

      Did she?

      Maggie quivered. ‘I am touching you,’ she said, gripping his hand in her lap still tighter. ‘But I think I ought to go to bed. I—I’ve got to be up early in the morning.’

      ‘Well, I agree about going to bed,’ murmured Neil, transferring his attention to the curve of her neck. She felt his tongue making sensuous circles against her flesh, and wondered how much more of this she could take without giving in. ‘Mmm, you smell nice. I guess you’re still using the same perfume. Do you still cover all your pulse-points like you used to? Well, most of them,’ he amended, loosening the buttons at the neckline of the skinny-rib sweater. There are certain points I wouldn’t want to contaminate with artificial scents.’

      ‘Neil!’

      ‘What?’ His face was only inches from hers now, and she could see the raw sexuality in his gaze. That. and something else she didn’t recognise, and which she was too distraught to worry about at that moment.

      ‘Don’t do this,’ she wailed, but he had never obeyed her.

      ‘Do what?’ he breathed. ‘Do this—?’ He brushed her lips with his tongue. ‘Or this—?’ He cupped her nape and tipped her face up to his. ‘Or do you mean this?’ he asked, with sudden harshness, and his lips covered her protesting mouth.

      Maggie’s resistance snapped. Desire, hot and strong, swept through her veins, quickening her pulse and thickening her blood. She could hear it pounding in her head, could feel the hammering beat of her heart in her chest. The sound was thundering in her ears, deafening her to any voice of caution. It had been so long since Neil had held her in his arms, so long since she had felt anything but bitter regret.