Office Scandals. Maureen Child

on the floor where it had fallen and, other than a dusty footprint, it was none the worse for wear.

      She dusted it off and once outside opened it to check the contents. She was just refastening the pretty pearl-encrusted clasp when a prickling on the back of her neck made her pause, and slowly she turned, lifting a hand to shade her eyes from the sun.

      Somehow she wasn’t surprised at all to see Roman Petrelli standing only a few feet away.

      Her heart was thudding like a sledgehammer against her ribs as she straightened her slender shoulders and lifted her chin. That fictional sword suddenly felt very real indeed!

      Her earlier glimpse of him had left her with the impression of extreme elegance and raw male power, and now she could see that he possessed both those qualities in abundance. She could also see just how breathtakingly handsome his classically cut clean-shaven features were.

      Of course, she already knew he was good-looking. That night in the bar he had been elegant, but crumpled in a dark, brooding way, his jaw shadowed and his hair worn a lot shorter then, sticking up in spiky tufts.

      Izzy had no idea what demons he had been struggling to contain, but she had seen it in his taut body language and the vulnerability she had sensed was there behind the hard reckless glow in his eyes.

      She recognised it was possible that she had been imagining something that had never been there, because she had needed an excuse for jumping into bed with him. But Izzy liked to think that she had been drawn to him, had felt that weird connection to him, because she had been fighting her own demons too.

      There was no trace of vulnerability, hidden or otherwise, in the man who stood before her now. Here was a man definitely in control, a man who did not inspire any stirrings of empathy.

      His eyes were sensuous, but cynical and hard. There was a hint of cruelty in the sculpted curve of his lips and she felt a shudder run down her spine. The only emotion this impeccably dressed, effortlessly elegant stranger inspired in Izzy was a deep unease that bordered antipathy. Her skin prickled with it.

      ‘It was a lovely wedding,’ she heard herself say inanely.

      Roman studied her, searching for signs of the forthright, bold woman who had delighted him in bed with her directness. Many women had thrown themselves at him, but she had been different, or so it had seemed to him. She had seduced him, not just with her delicious body, but with her generosity and a rare utter lack of self-consciousness.

      His jaw tightened and he realised that she could not even meet his eyes. He felt a stab of disappointment.

      ‘We have been introduced—you probably don’t remember. I’m Izzy.’ She thought of holding out her hand but changed her mind and rubbed it up and down her thigh, the friction creating a static charge that made the fabric cling. Forget touching him, just being this close to him was painfully uncomfortable and her skin tingled with awareness, the muscles in her stomach quivering like an overstrung violin. Touching … no, not a good idea!

      His sensually moulded lips thinned. How long would she continue with this little charade that they were strangers?

      ‘I remember.’

      The throaty comment was open to interpretation, but Izzy, struggling to stay in control, chose to treat it at face value. ‘I believe Rory worked for you. He really enjoyed it.’ Her jittery glance encompassed the empty churchyard; anything that meant she could legitimately not look at him was good. ‘Everyone’s made their way to the hotel.’ Good manners made her add, ‘Do you know the way? Can I help you?’

      ‘I really hope so, Izzy, or is that Isabel?’

      Her eyes flew to his face. She moistened her lips nervously with her tongue, struggling against the sensation that she was sinking beneath a wave of sexual awareness that was wrapping itself around her like an invisible straightjacket.

      Breaking contact with his sardonic glittering stare, she conjured up a smile of sorts. ‘Nobody calls me that.’ She made a show of looking around. ‘It’s Izzy. Looks like we’re the last … or are you not going to the reception?’ she asked hopefully.

      ‘Wild horses would not keep me away.’

      ‘Really … oh, well, it’s not far. Do you need a car?’

      Without meaning to she dropped her glance to his leg. She remembered the red livid scars she had seen gouged into the muscles of his thigh during their night together. She had been conscious of a slight limp when he had approached her in the bar, but had dismissed it until she had seen the cause. The scarred tissue had shocked her, causing her sensitive stomach to quiver in reaction to the obvious pain they represented.

      ‘Thank you, but I think I can make it under my own steam,’ he said. Instantly he was catapulted into the past as he remembered her gasp when she had first seen the scars that night two years ago.

      Survivor’s scars, he called them. They were not pretty now, but two years ago they had been relatively fresh; the livid purple puckered tracks gouged in his flesh had been the thing of horror movies. In his head he had anticipated her revulsion to them and had schooled himself not to care. It had only been his desire to see her that had stopped him turning off the light.

      He had offered but she’d refused. She had lain on the bed where he had left her as he had removed his clothes. She had been laughing throatily after the shoe he had flung over his shoulder had hit a mirror, cracking it in a zigzag from top to bottom.

      But when she had seen his scars she had stopped laughing and he had tensed. Pity as a reaction was even less attractive to him than repugnance.

      Holding his eyes, she had flipped sinuously over onto her stomach and grabbed his wrist. Shaking her head, she had pulled his hand away from the lamp.

      She had looked at the ugly red line that began high on his thigh and ended a few inches above his knee and asked, ‘Does it hurt?’ adding huskily when he shook his head, ‘Can I touch …?’

      ‘Touch?’

      Roman had taken an involuntary step back. He had always taken his body, the perfect symmetry of his strong limbs and his naturally athletic physique, for granted, but all that had changed overnight. His body had betrayed him and become the enemy and though not a vain man he accepted that others would be repelled by his scars. For him they were a constant reminder not to take anything for granted—ever.

      ‘Why would you want to? Morbid curiosity?’

      Her astonishment had been too spontaneous to be feigned. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

      ‘I am normally considered to be above average in the brains department.’

      Her slow wicked smile had made the lust in his belly grip hard. ‘I’m not that interested in your brains.’

      Her blouse, unbuttoned to the waist, had billowed out as she’d pulled herself up onto her knees. He had been unable to take his eyes off her, the tantalising shadows of her nipples through the lace of the bra that matched her pants, as with sinuous grace she had risen from the bed and come to stand beside him. Barefooted she had come up to his shoulder. ‘Are you hiding any more of those?’

      He had been unprepared and shocked when she had reached out again and touched him, lightly running a finger down the raised scar tissue.

      He had caught her wrist, unable to keep the bitterness from creeping into his voice as he’d asked, ‘Isn’t that enough?’

      ‘No.’ Tilting her head to look at him, she’d pulled her hand from his grip. ‘Not nearly enough. I want to touch all of you,’ she’d whispered. ‘I don’t want to miss any place out.’

      Roman felt lust clutch hard and low in his belly and was dragged back to the here and now. A faint growl worked its way upwards from his chest before he managed to push the images away.

      ‘We could always walk together.’ Of all the things they could do together, walking was not high on his list, but he was not about to let her escape.

      ‘Actually