Craving Her Boss's Touch

Several days’ frost had turned the earth to iron, a pale lemon sun struggling through the layers of dove grey cloud. The air was very still, the countryside held fast in the grip of an early winter.

What was he thinking? Storm wondered, darting a look at her companion. His profile told her nothing, his lean hands controlling the car, with much the same ease that they controlled her, she thought unhappily, and yet she knew that she ached to feel them upon her again, and that if he were to stop the car now and turn to her, she would be powerless to deny him whatever he wanted. And even that was an understatement. There was nothing passive about the way she felt about him. He changed gear, the movement tautening the muscles of his thighs, and she longed to reach out and touch him. Heated colour burned along her cheekbones and she dragged her eyes away, forcing herself to focus on the scenery outside the car instead of the man within.

The country club was a low Cotswold stone building set in gardens which in summer were a blaze of colour. They were shown to a table in a window alcove, the head waiter flourishing a menu the moment they were sitting down.

Storm was sure she wouldn’t be able to eat a thing, but a delicious fresh Florida cocktail restored her appetite for the duck which the head water had recommended, and the wine which Jago had chosen helped her tensed muscles to relax. In point of fact, she felt amost lightheaded. During their first course she had drunk her wine quite quickly, trying to dispel her nervousness, and the waiter had insisted on topping up her glass, so that she had consumed far more than she usually drank.

Jago refused a sweet in favour of cheese and biscuits, and Storm allowed herself to be persuaded into a rich chocolate and whipped cream confection, which she pushed round her plate, unable to lift her eyes from Jago’s hands as he cut a wedge of cheese.

A cup of coffee helped to reduce the cottonwoolly feeling which had engulfed her, but she made no demur when Jago slid his arm along her shoulders as they left the club.

Outside the clouds had obliterated the sun, and it was cold, the afternoon, already fading to an early dusk. Storm shivered, despite her fur jacket, and Jago pulled her against him, her senses immediately taking fire from the brief contact.

‘I’ll come and collect you tonight,’ he told her as he opened the car door. ‘About eight?’

‘I can walk,’ Storm demurred, but he shook his head, sliding into his own seat and switching on the engine.

‘It’s too far.’

‘Will Tony and Valeria be there?’

He nodded. ‘Mm. Tony was quite taken with you, but I’ve told him you’re all mine.’ He laughed softly when he saw her expression. ‘As far as employment goes, of course. You’re contracted to Wyechester, and I don’t intend to let him entice you away with promises of fame and fortune in television.’

‘You don’t have a very high opinion of female loyalty, do you?’ Storm asked him. ‘I heard you lecture once, and you were very scathing about women in the media.’

She felt him turn to look at her, and could not meet his narrowed scrutiny.

‘Is that what all the defiance was about? Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. It was plain from the moment I walked into the studios that you had it in for me. I thought it was purely on account of Winters…’

‘I didn’t like your attitude towards women in radio,’ Storm admitted, ‘Nor the implication that they were merely using it as a stepping stone to television. We aren’t all blinded by the glamour of the small screen. Personally I find radio work far less restricting, with much greater scope…’

‘I was generalising,’ Jago told her. ‘And in general terms my comments still hold good. Lots of girls do join local radio stations with their eyes on television channels.’

‘Will there be many people from City Radio there tonight?’ Storm asked curiously. So far Jago seemed to be keeping the two sides of his life in completely separate compartments, and she wondered if this was by design.

‘One or two,’ he replied unhelpfully, as he turned off the main road and down a narrow country lane which Storm knew led to his own house.

’I want to go straight home,’ she protested.

Jago laughed. ‘Relax, I don’t intend to exact payment for your lunch, if that’s what’s worrying you.’ His mouth twisted slightly. ‘Who are you fighting, Storm, me—or yourself?’

Before she could answer they had come to rest in front of the house. Storm had never been inside it before, and glanced around her with interest.

‘Does it have your approval?’ Jago mocked. They were standing in a large square hallway with a polished wooden floor, rising up one side to an overhanging balcony. The room had an air of space and light and the decor was cool and simple.

Jago pushed open a door and Storm stepped inside a huge lounge furnished with two large settees covered in off-wh

ite fabric, her feet sinking into a deep pile carpet in a soft shade of green. Green and cream curtains with a hint of peach hung against the windows, and deep rust-coloured lamps echoed the colour scheme. It was very luxurious and no doubt very expensive, and just the sort of room she would have expected in such a modern house.

‘It was decorated like this when I bought it,’ Jago told her indifferently, motioning her to one of the settees. ‘It suits me for the moment.’

In view of his lack of interest in the decor Storm wondered why he had bought such a large house, when he would have had an apartment in Wyechester itself, which would surely have been more convenient. She stole a look at his face, wondering if the house represented some subconscious childhood urge for a family home. The subject was too personal for her to broach and instead she studied one of the modern abstracts hanging on the wall, wondering what the rest of the house was like.

‘Would you like something to drink?’ Jago asked her abruptly. She shook her head. She had a feeling that she had already had too much. That wine with her lunch had been a mistake.

‘Stay here a minute,’ he told her, disappearing and leaving her alone. Why had he brought her here? To exact the admission he had told her she would eventually give?

She didn’t hear him come back; the thick carpet muffled his footsteps, and when his fingers grasped her chin, she started nervously, her tongue wetting her upper lip, a startled gasp escaping her as Jago’s hands slid into her hair, tilting her head back, his own tongue stroking her lips with a sensual expertise that had her shuddering achingly against him, as his mouth closed on hers.