Sharon Kendrick Collection. Sharon Kendrick

don’t need to be,’ he said simply. ‘They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, don’t they? And yours are telling me everything I need to know right now, sweetheart.’

      ‘Which is?’

      ‘That you want me as much as I want you—’

      Triss clapped her palms against her flaming cheeks. ‘Cormack!’ she protested. ‘Don’t!‘

      ‘Don’t what? Don’t speak the truth?’ he mused. ‘But why ever not? Why stifle emotion with convention?’

      Intrigued, she asked, ‘And is that what I’m doing?’

      ‘Sure it is. You want me to take you to bed, but now you’re having second thoughts—thinking that we haven’t known each other for very long. Or not knowing whether my intentions are...’

      ‘Honourable?’ she supplied, midway between laughter and indignation.

      Humour danced in the bright blue eyes. ‘Well, of course, I can’t promise you marriage at this stage—’

      ‘That wasn’t what I meant!’ she raged, wondering if she was not protesting a little too much.

      ‘No? Then what did you mean?’

      ‘Why don’t you tell me?’ she snapped, aware that she was sounding more and more petulant, but annoyingly unable to stop herself. ‘Since you seem to be the self-appointed expert.’

      ‘Oh, I am,’ he murmured. ‘I am indeed.’ And all conversation ceased when he leaned forward and kissed her.

      Triss had never believed the fictional kisses of books and films, which could have a woman swooning helplessly in a man’s arms after just one touch of lip upon lip, but now she became the most fervent convert.

      It was magic—like no other kiss she had ever had. So much so that she almost found herself wondering whether Cormack had slipped some powerful aphrodisiac into her drink at luchtime—except that instinct told her he would have neither the need nor the inclination to do something as crass as that.

      She felt giddy with the joy and the promise of that kiss—it felt as though little bubbles of happiness were exploding and fizzing around her veins. She felt abandonment wash over her like a tidal wave, and she began to moan against his mouth—and heard his own answering moan, which was tinged with more than a little desperation.

      And when the kiss was finally over, and they had managed to tear their lips apart in order to drag some air into their tortured lungs, Triss found that his hand was beneath her thin white dress and nesting proprietorially at the top of her naked thigh, stroking it beautifully.

      And somehow her own hands had slipped luxuriatingly beneath the silk of his shirt and were splayed with equal possession over the velvety smoothness of his back.

      His eyes looked as black as coal shipped directly from hell, and through his ragged breath he said something which must have been in Gaelic, for it was like no language she had heard before.

      With what seemed a monumental effort, he took his hand away from the soft, silky skin of her inner thigh and levered himself as far away from her as possible—which was not easy, given the rather cramped intimacy of the Aston Martin.

      ‘That wasn’t fair,’ he said, more to himself than to her. ‘Shall I take you home now?’

      It was like being woken up in the middle of the most delicious dream, and Triss stared at him with a look of exasperation on her face. ‘No!’ she responded, so indignantly that Cormack was unable to stop himself from smiling. ‘I thought we were going to bed together.’

      ‘Are you a virgin?’ he demanded suddenly, his Irish accent sounding very distinctive.

      She wondered how he had guessed. Had she kissed like an amateur? It did not occur to her to deny it. ‘Y-yes,’ she answered tentatively.

      He smiled again, only this time it was like the sun coming out on Midsummer Day—bright and blinding—making every other smile seem hopelessly insignificant.

      He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it gently, his eyes never leaving her face as he did so. ‘Do you know something, Triss?’ he murmured. ‘I’ve never been a man for prayers, but I think you just answered mine in any case! Now, quick and decide. Am I taking you back home, or are you staying here? Either way I’m having breakfast with you tomorrow. And lunch. Supper too. So what do you say?’

      Triss was hooked.

      ‘Sounds like I’m staying,’ she whispered, and let him lead her into his house.

      First, for propriety’s sake, he took her into a state-of-the-art kitchen where he made her scented jasmine tea. Then into his white bedroom—bare save for a simple futon on which he slept. The floorboards were made of pale, honey-coloured wood which gave off the softest sheen. White muslin covered the futon, and it billowed gauzily in the gentle breeze which blew in through the open window.

      There was not even a single painting on any of the stark white walls, for art would have detracted from the living art which was right outside—a picture window filled with all the different blues thrown up by the sea and the sky.

      ‘Now come here,’ he whispered softly.

      He took for ever to undress her, so by the time she lay naked in his arms all her shyness had flown and she was as eager for him as he was for her—indeed, of the two of them, he seemed capable of showing the most restraint.

      And when it was over she cried because he had made it just perfect. He kissed her tears away and asked her to move in with him, and naturally she said yes.

      Triss was due a long holiday, and so she took it straight away, and Cormack postponed his new film script so that they could spend some time together.

      For the first few months it was the relationship she had always dreamed of. And more.

      They had time and money on their hands, but most of all they had each other. They were living in a fairy-tale bubble which kept the rest of the world out, and Triss found herself wondering just how long it could last.

      The bubble burst when Cormack reluctantly told her in bed one morning that he really did have to go into the studio to discuss his screenplay of a novel by an up-and-coming writer.

      As he spoke, Triss felt enormously grateful for the acting skills which her modelling career had instilled in her.

      She put on her brightest smile, then let her mouth drift slowly down his chest to the indentation of his belly, and he gave that helpless groan of surrender she so loved to hear.

      For a while Triss played the dutiful housewife, aware that most of her day seemed to be spent waiting for Cormack to turn up. She had never been much of a cook, and she wasn’t really inclined to learn. Why bother cooking something for Cormack which would invariably be spoiled because he never seemed to get home when he said he would?

      When he did get home, he wanted to take her out—to restaurants and parties and films—which at first Triss enjoyed. But then she began to grow jealous of the attention which other people—especially women—gave him.

      She found that she wanted to stay in their love-nest—to go back to the early days when they had only needed each other—safe from the temptations and distractions of the outside world.

      But Cormack became restless with this stay-at-home life, particularly after one of the increasingly frequent visits from Brad Parfitt. Brad was his powerful and rather ruthless agent, who seemed afraid that the threat of domesticity would make Cormack’s creativity shrivel up and die.

      ‘I need to go out, sweetheart!’ Cormack told her passionately. ‘I need to see other people and the world. I’m a writer, Triss—and I need something to write about!’

      She realised that she was now in a subservient role to Cormack. He refused to let her contribute to the household expenses while she was not working, so, in effect, she was living off him—and in that