But what? she asked herself helplessly. You are overreacting to a lot of things! Overreacting to a consultation with a doctor which was, in reality, the most common sense thing to have done in the circumstances. Overreacting to a kiss that shouldn’t have happened but did and you enjoyed it! Then you overreact to the prospect of meeting someone you should know but don’t and, to top it all off, you really overreact to a name you do know but cannot work out why!
‘Bressingham,’ she said huskily. ‘What is the Bressingham?’
‘Why?’ He sounded about as uncooperative now as she knew she had been sounding since he’d stridden back into her life.
‘Because I recognise it from somewhere but I can’t remember where.’
‘Story of your life.’
The lift stopped, the doors sliding open to allow two people to come in, stalling Samantha’s desire to retaliate to that one.
So they smiled politely at the polite smiles they received, then stood stiffly beside each other while the lift continued on its way up. And the tension in the small confines of the lift was fraught—so fraught the other couple kept glancing warily at each other. And by the time the lift ejected the intruders on the next floor Samantha was beginning to wonder if her throat would ever open up again.
The doors closed and up they went again, with the same taut silence accompanying them. Another stop, and this time he stretched his arm out to hold back the doors in an indication that they had reached their floor.
Reluc
tantly Samantha limped forward. As she went to go by him, he stopped her with a clipped, tart, ‘You don’t hate me, Samantha. You just wish that you did.’
For some reason—she didn’t know why—her hand snaked out and caught him a stinging slap across his face.
For what felt like a full minute afterwards, both just stood there staring at the other, her with a pain and hurt and anger she just could not comprehend, he with a black fury that said he was having to stand stock still like that or retaliate in some way.
Having just enough sense left to err on the side of caution, she turned and walked away. But once again she found herself having to wait for him to open the suite door for her, and she was trembling by the time that he did so.
Once again she took the direct route to her bedroom the moment she got inside, and once again André watched her make her escape while telling himself to just to let it go—while the feel of her fingers still stung his cheek.
Only this time he found he just couldn’t leave it. This time he refused to be shut out by a closed door. Anger, pride, stupidity, you name it, he found he wasn’t going to give himself time to think about his next action as he strode grimly after her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SAMANTHA was standing in the middle of the room, desperately trying to justify what she had just done, when the door suddenly shot open.
Her heart began to thump somewhere in the region of her stomach. He was angry and she didn’t blame him. Her fingermarks were still lying like an accusation against the side of his face. Remorse pushed her into speech.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said immediately. ‘I didn’t mean to do it. I don’t know what came over me.’
He didn’t even acknowledge the apology. The door closed with the help of his foot. The room was suddenly filled with the scent of danger. His eyes were black and his mouth hard. A warning chill went slinking down her spine. I’ve managed to set the devil loose, she realised uneasily, and decided that this could well be a good time to faint.
But she didn’t feel in the least bit faint. In fact she felt disturbingly—
‘N-no,’ she stammered out, lifting up a trembling hand meant to ward him off as he began striding towards her. ‘Stay there. Let me try and explain…’
He just kept on coming. It was like being stalked by an angry predator. Fear and an unexpected excitement began to war in her blood. He came to a stop a hair’s breadth from her outstretched, trembling fingers. She saw it as a reprieve and rushed back into speech again. ‘It-It’s been a d-difficult twenty-four hours for me,’ she explained unsteadily. ‘I w-was overwrought, n-not thinking straight. I just—snapped. I didn’t want to, but—’
‘Well, guess who else has snapped?’ he posed, caught the outstretched hand and used it to pull her towards him.
The softness of her breasts made impact with solid, male muscle. It was like making contact with pure electricity; a static charge lit up nerve ends so fiercely that she could actually hear them crackle. She tried to pull away but it was already too late; his other arm had snaked around her waist to hold her firmly against him. Even as she released a protesting gasp, his dark head was lowering.
Oh, she tried to fight him. She twisted and turned and went through a series of denying groans and quivers—and kissed him back as if she couldn’t get enough of him. It was awful. She was appalled at herself, yet her mouth clung hungrily and her body writhed closer to the uncompromising hardness of his.
Because she wanted this. Wanted what she knew was going to happen with the need of a woman who had been waiting for this moment for much too long.
Too long…she repeated, and knew it was the truth. Too long hurting, too long wanting, and too long waiting for this man to come to her.
It was a knowledge which had another sob clutching at her throat. He felt it and lifted his head to look down at her. He was still angry. She could see it glinting in his eyes. She could see the passion too, the flame of desire that, angry or not, he couldn’t manage to hide. ‘You’ve vented your filthy temper on me many times, cara,’ he told her thinly. ‘But you’ve never raised your hand to me before.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, but it was a different kind of sorry. It was low and soft and unbelievably sensual—and spoken as she was twisting her fingers free from his so she could gently lay them against the marks she had placed on his face.