Savage Obsession

'And you can stop looking like a petrified virgin, my dear. I have no lustful intentions, believe me. I don't want you coming down with pneumonia, that's all.' He reached over to the back and hauled up a car blanket. 'You can placate your modesty with this.' His mouth was cruel as he lashed, 'I've seen your naked body before, remember? And right now I'm not in the mood to feel remotely interested.'

That should have reassured her, but it didn't. How could it when those narrowed, steel-grey eyes watched her every movement as she undid buttons and wriggled out of the clinging wet fabric, fastening on the betraying peaks of her breasts as they flau

nted their shaming arousal through the delicate lace of her bra?

And when she made a shaky grab for the rug, to hide herself and the all-too obvious signs of her arousal, he held it back, his voice raw as he com­manded roughly, 'And the rest.' But she couldn't move. How could she when her whole body was turning to boneless, aching receptivity, burning for his hands and mouth to touch her as his eyes were doing?

She made a small mew of distress, her pulses going into overdrive. She didn't know which was worse, her self-disgust or knowing that he had to be fully aware of how much she still wanted him. And he made an impatient sound, low in his throat, and swiftly dealt with the front fastening of her bra, his knuckles brushing against the hard, rosy velvet of her nipples before his hands slid to her rounded hips, dragging the matching lacy briefs down the length of her slender legs, his burning eyes resting for one tormenting moment on the riot of darkness that covered her throbbing womanhood before he tossed the rug over her.

'Cover yourself.' His voice was abrasive. And she whimpered, doing just that, shrinking into the soft fabric, hating herself for the way he made her feel, for the way he could so easily make her betray herself. Hating him, too, when he started the engine and asked, almost academically, 'Did you turn on so easily for Templeton? Was that the way you got him begging you to marry him?'

A hard lump of anger pushed against the inside of her chest and she could have wept, but she didn't. Instead, as the headlights of the powerful car cut a glittering swath through the darkness, she told him forcefully, hating him at that moment more than she'd ever hated anyone or anything before, 'You disgust me! You know nothing about my re­lationship with William. You know nothing! Do you hear me?'

'Oh, I hear you,' he countered rawly, swinging the big car on to the wet surface of the meandering lane. 'And getting to know all about your re­lationship with Templeton—among other things—is exactly what I have in mind. And where we are going, we'll have all the time it takes. And there won't be another man in miles for you to practise your seductive wiles on. Except me.'

And that was a promise she could do without.

CHAPTER SIX

'What is this place?'

They had been driving for about an hour, the last quarter of which had been spent negotiating a roughly made forest track, straight as a die and probably a firebreak, and now the headlights re­vealed a small building huddled at the centre of a clearing, the tall trees crowding on every side.

'A shack,' he told her drily. 'Rented and basic it may be, but you may look on it as your temporary home.'

The dim green light from the dash made his face look unearthly, carved from some alien lunar stone and, to counter the terrifying feeling that she no longer knew him at all, had never truly known him or realised just what he was capable of, she snipped back sarcastically, 'Gee—thanks! What have I done to deserve such a treat?' ending tartly, 'Where are Zanna and Harry?' Not here, for sure. Charles might have proved himself willing to do anything for the woman he loved, go to the ends of the earth, but the sophisticated Zanna wouldn't spend a moment under the roof of a hovel in the heart of a forest, miles from anywhere.

'Where the hell do you think?' he bit back tersely, the underbrow look he shot her saying he thought her mad, or despicable. Or both.

Beth shrugged, huddling deeper into the rug. His reply told her nothing, of course. He hadn't meant it to. But she could guess. Living the life of Riley in some top international hotel in the south while Zanna waited for him to complete any unfinished business he had with his wife.

She shuddered then, beginning to panic as she wondered what that business would be. Everything could have been dealt with in a civilised way, through solicitors. Why his need to drag her here, subject her to the torment of being near him?

And the panic became almost uncontrollable as he cut the engine and headlights. The darkness was thick, impenetrable, the only sound the pattering of her heartbeats. She was sure he must be able to hear it, able, too, to read the chaos and confusion of her thoughts. But he pocketed the ignition key and told her, 'Stay where you are while I open the place up,' and she was able to breathe more easily as his dark form disappeared into the enveloping blackness. And by the time she saw the orange glow of light shining out from one of the tiny windows she had herself more or less under control.

If she'd been working for a woman, or if Charles hadn't seen what she'd been too blinkered to notice regarding the way William was beginning to feel about her, then he wouldn't have gone to these lengths in order to discuss their pending divorce. She would never have believed his possessiveness to be so deeply ingrained that it extended to the wife he no longer wanted if she hadn't borne the brunt of it.

Having sorted that out, she felt less confused, more able to face the coming twenty-four hours. Whatever it was Charles wanted to discuss with her personally couldn't take longer than that and he would be anxious to rejoin Zanna and their son. And the only way to handle what was to come was to behave with dignity, use her common sense and try to hide the way she was hurting.

Beginning right now.

Clutching the rug tightly around her, she opened the car door and slid out her long, naked legs. Thankfully, it had stopped raining, but she could still hear the storm grumbling away in the distance, a dark counterpoint to the steady drip-drip of rain­drops from the eaves of the forest, and she had only gone two slithery paces towards the little light from the cottage when Charles appeared as if out of nowhere, his tall shadowy figure forbidding.

'Where the hell do you think you're going?'

His sudden, silent appearance had shocked the breath out of her lungs, making her doubt her ability to handle this at all, but pride came to her rescue again, had her hauling herself together, helping her to inject a note of sarcasm as she flung back witheringly, 'Out on the town, where else?' and made to walk past him, heading for that square of orange light, but he muttered a harsh expletive and scooped her up into his arms and she pum­melled furiously against the hard bones of his shoulders, yelping,

'Put me down. I am capable of walking a few yards!' Being held so very close to him was seriously undermining her mental stability, she told herself, cursing the fragility of her resolve where he was concerned. This close she could easily find herself melting against him, all liquid invitation, begging him to allow her to try, once again, to teach him to love her.

'Suit yourself. If you want to wade through ankle-deep mud, so be it,' he snapped out, then slid her down the length of his body which, she decided in miserable confusion, rated even higher in erotic stimulation than being carried in his arms.

Biting her lip, she watched him stride ahead of her, sure-footed as a cat. What did she have to do to turn the tide of her emotions? How could she stop loving him, wanting him, and begin the long haul back to the peace of mind she craved?

Unable to find the answer, fearing she never would, she began to follow, ignoring the drag of mud, intent only on staying on her feet now, keeping the rug tightly wrapped around her body.

'The power's out,' he informed her curtly as she stepped over the threshold and closed the thick plank door behind her. And, rather than look at him, meet those clever, steely eyes, she peered about her.

It was a small room, the stone tiles beneath her feet cracked and uneven with age, the walls roughly plastered, painted white, the furniture mostly pine, cottage antiques. There were logs laid in the open hearth ready for firing, and the two oil-lamps he had lit cast a warm, intimate glow. A narrow wooden staircase led up from one corner of the room and he must have been following the di­rection of the assessment she had tried to make appear cool and only vaguely interested because he told her acidly,