Sharon Kendrick Collection. Sharon Kendrick

wanted you, Triss...’

      She closed her eyes in despair as she recognised that despite everything which had happened between them she still wanted him too. So badly.

      Cormack had risen noiselessly to his feet and had moved behind her, so close that all Triss could hear was the hushed sound of his breathing.

      ‘You’re all tense, Beatrice,’ he observed quietly, but there was a husky note which deepened his voice into pure allure. ‘Aren’t you?’

      She knew that tone—knew what it meant. Cormack wanted her; she could tell from the barely contained edge of hunger shivering in his voice. But then, he always had been the kind of man who could go from normality to desire within seconds...

      ‘No,’ she answered firmly, aware that she should move away from him. But she couldn’t. Couldn’t. ‘I’m not tense at all’

      ‘Oh, yes, you are, sweetheart—you’re stretched as tightly as the string of a violin.’ Now he sounded cajoling, using the kind of voice she imagined people must use when they were gentling horses.

      ’N-no.’ Then, with a hint of desperation in her voice, she said, ‘Stop it, Cormack. Please stop it right now.’ But although her words sounded tough enough she still could not bear to turn round, to be confronted by the hot blue dazzle of lust in his eyes. For if she faced that—then would she not just give in and fall eagerly into his arms?

      Cormack did not answer her immediately, just ran his finger very deliberately down the entire length of her long neck, and the effect of his touch on her skin was electric. ‘Just like a swan, that neck,’ he mused quietly. ‘With its pure, clean lines. A thoroughbred.’ He stroked sensually at the soft skin. ‘That’s what you are, Triss. A thoroughbred.’

      She shivered at that first contact and felt the memories flooding back—wonderful, unwanted memories that she had tried to erase from her mind for longer than she cared to remember.

      Like the first time they had made love.

      She remembered shyly telling him that he was the first man for her, thrilled beyond belief to see the look of dark pleasure on his face. In the back of her mind, however, she had been expecting some kind of pain or discomfort—the stuff they always warned you about in all the books she had ever read on the subject.

      But Cormack had been so gentle in his passion, such a slow, sure tutor, that she had experienced nothing but the most perfect kind of fulfillment. She had wept in his arms afterwards, her head cradled on his chest. And he had stroked her dark red hair thoughtfully, but had been remarkably quiet for once.

      And she remembered the time when he had given her a key to his Malibu beach home, recalling how she had burst out laughing at the tragi-comic expression on his face and how he had then started laughing too, telling her that he was mourning his lost freedom. And with that shared laughter nothing in the world had seemed to matter outside themselves.

      Triss felt rooted to the spot now, in that cramped and overcrowded sitting room, with Cormack gently stroking the back of her neck, aware that every second which passed was weakening what little resolve she had left.

      ‘Come,’ he urged softly, and turned her round to face him. ‘Come here to me, Triss, sweetheart.’

      And Triss felt her breath catch painfully at the back of her throat as she stared at him.

      She had seen Cormack in many guises—in jeans and scruffy when he was working flatout on a script, in exquisitely cut chinos and shirts of softest lawn when he was taking her out to lunch, or reluctantly tuxedoed for an obligatory awards night. And yet she could never remember him looking more gorgeous or more desirable than he did right now.

      But it was more than the striking vision he made, with his dark, tousled hair and the faintly sinister appeal of the black leather he wore. It was the realisation that Simon was going to grow up to be the spitting image of his father.

      So tell him, she thought. Tell him! That’s why you brought him here today, isn’t it?

      She stared into his blue eyes, appalled when she read the answering glint there.

      “Don’t look so horrified,’ he murmured. ”There’s nothing wrong with wanting me to kiss you...’

      ‘I don’t—’ she started, but it was too late, because he had pulled her into his arms with an urgency she was not used to. Cormack had always taken great pleasure in his ability to control the pace of their lovemaking. He had always seen the delay of his own sexual gratification as something which gave him immense satisfaction. But this kiss was something else—she had never seen Cormack look so rapt and so absorbed and so hungry.

      He brought his lips down hard and powerfully against hers, crushing her in his arms so that she could feel his heart beating against her breast—the rapid thundering seeming to symbolise life itself—and Triss found that she was shaking quite violently.

      Cormack lifted his head and frowned. ‘Why, you’re trembling, Triss,’ he observed, his own voice sounding slightly unsteady.

      ‘I know. Silly, isn’t it?’ She rested her head against his shoulder and it felt as though all the troubled times which had passed between them had never occurred. And she was aware that once she told him about Simon she would not have the opportunity to do this again.

      ‘Why?’ he questioned softly. ‘Why are you trembling?’

      Tricky, this one. If she told the truth would she not be revealing her vulnerability where he was concerned? And if she was vulnerable he would be able to hurt her even more than he already had done.

      ‘Triss?’ he prompted gently.

      ‘Because it’s been so long,’ she admitted reluctantly, closing her eyes quickly.

      ‘Since?’

      ‘Since I’ve...been intimate with anyone.’

      ‘How long?’ he questioned sharply.

      ‘Since—that night.’ The night when their son had been conceived.

      There was a long, telling silence, and when he spoke his voice sounded unaccustomedly heavy. ‘Me too.’

      It should have made her burst with joy, but it had the opposite effect—for it made what she had to do even harder.

      He bent his mouth to hers once more, and even as she found her lips opening beneath the persistent coaxing of his she wondered when she might gather together enough courage to tell him about Simon.

       CHAPTER THREE

      TRISS came up for air, though it wasn’t easy when all she wanted was for Cormack to carry on kissing her like that. In that mad, passionate way—as though he had just discovered kissing for the very first time. ‘Cormack!’ she gasped.

      ‘Not now!’ he growled, and lowered his head again.

      And oh, the sweet power of that kiss threatened to submerge her in its tantalisingly sensual waters. Triss struggled back to reality with difficulty. ‘Cormack, please—’

      ‘You don’t have to beg me, Triss, sweetheart,’ he murmured, with a trace of that hateful irony. ‘The pleasure is all mine, I can assure you.’

      ‘But...’ Oh, it was hopeless! Hopeless! Triss found her head tipping back, giving Cormack greater access to her neck, which he was now covering with tiny, tiny butterfly kisses so exquisitely delicate that they made her shudder with frustrated longing.

      ‘Triss,’ he groaned, and shaped the palms of his hands voluptuously down the sides of her body, as if he were a sculptor creating and forming her out of pliant clay. ‘Beautiful, beautiful Triss. God, but you feel good. So good that I want to eat you up.’

      Triss fought feelings of intense desire and intense frustration, frantically sucking in air through her