Passionate Retribution

'How will you feel if Gavin marries her?'

'Don't skirt around the issue, as if you're worried about my feelings; just get straight to the point,' she responded with tight-lipped irony, her brown eyes suffused with outrage at this insensitive question. 'I expect you hover around accidents waiting for the ambulance, revelling in all that pain and gore.'

'Society does have a certain morbid fascination with disaster,' he agreed calmly. 'I expect I'm as guilty as most; it's difficult to know where empathy ends and thrill-seeking begins. But in this case there can be no cause for error. I have no sympathy for you, Emily; in fact I think it's fortunate that fate has stepped in to stop you living out the cosy little family fantasy you've constructed.'

She caught her breath and counted very slowly to ten. 'How silly of me. Until you pointed it out I hadn't quite appreciated my good fortune.'

'Any time,' he said, throwing a provoking grin over his shoulder before pulling out on to the dual carriageway.

Emily didn't trust herself to speak—his smugness was almost intolerable. Sleep crept over her swiftly and she wasn't conscious of Luke stopping the car and easing her limp body into a more comfortable position.

She hovered in the grey area between consciousness and repose, unwilling to make the transition. A loud roar and a sudden flash of lights snapped her awake. 'What…?'

'Motorbikes heading for the local orthopaedic ward, if I'm not mistaken.'

Emily stifled a yawn and stretched her limbs, stiff from being too long in one position. She looked out of the window. The motorway was anonymous and surprisingly quiet. 'Have I been asleep long?' She felt appalling—dry, stale mouth and incipient throbbing headache.

'Four hours.'

She stiffened, and her eyes swivelled in the direction she'd so far avoided. Luke didn't take his eyes from the clear stretch of carriageway in front of him. 'Pardon?' She quelled the spasm of panic—she must have misheard him. From Charlcot to Luke's warehouse conversion in London would have taken an hour and a half, and that estimate was generous.

'Four hours, Emily, accompanied by the sweet music of your snores.'

'I don't snore,' she responded automatically.

'Is that what Gavin told you, infant?'

Emily frowned and threw off the last remnants of sleep. She wasn't in the mood to be side-tracked. 'You said four hours.'

'This conversation is taking a somewhat circular route, Emmy. I don't expect sparkling wit, but—'

'Don't try being smart with me,' she snapped. 'Where the hell are we? We're not going to your flat.'

He shot her a sideways glance of infuriating complacence. 'I didn't say we were.'

She felt the heat travel up her neck and spill into her cheeks. If he hadn't been driving, she'd have…'You did,' she contradicted from between clamped teeth. 'Spend the night at your place, your London flat, you said. Where are you taking me?' she demanded.

'My place,' he agreed blandly. 'I didn't specify which place. I hate to sound boastful, but I have a farmhouse in Tuscany, no running water and a view to die for—'

'I wish you would,' she snarled.

He clicked his tongue. 'As I was saying, the place in Tuscany, a modest but upwardly mobile apartment in New York, and my Scottish retreat.'

'I don't believe you.' He wasn't doing this! She stared at him with wild-eyed horror; not even Luke would pull a stunt like this.

He threw her a look of injured innocence. 'Would I lie?'

'You're taking me to Scotland.'

'Would you have preferred New York?' he asked with a note of sympathy. 'Maybe one day, if you mend your manners.'

She let out a groan of sheer frustration and rage. 'I'd prefer you to stop this car instantly!'

He winced and rubbed his ear. 'The word fishwife immediately springs to mind.'

'The words dangerous lunatic follow closely.'

He laughed then, sounding so relaxed and at ease that only a sense of self-preservation stopped her hitting out at him physically. A car smash would be the end to a perfect day!

'Aren't you over-reacting just a mite?' he observed, moving into the outside lane to overtake a monstrous articulated lorry.

'Over-reacting?' she squeaked. 'I can see it's most unreasonable of me, but I tend to get overwrought…'

'And emotional…'

She examined his perfect profile with loathing. '…And emotional,' she agreed with irony, 'when kidnapped.'

'A strong word,' he said in a tone which still suggested he was treating the whole affair with a flippancy that made her want to scream.

'An accurate word.'

'I said my place and you made no protests,' he reminded her.

'Your place being London, not some god-forsaken spot north of the border. I made it perfectly clear that I had no intention of going to Scotland.'

'You don't care for the country?'

'I don't care for you.' For a split-second his eyes met hers; the intensity of the colour of the iris was always a surprise. The expression that flickered into the dense, drowning blue was elusive but violently intense. It washed over her like some insidious drug and the words of protest stilled in her throat. 'Keep your eyes on the road,' she managed hoarsely. She endured another few excruciating seconds before he obliged her. She slumped back in the seat feeling drained and furious.