The Boss's Virgin

But she still felt the probe of the other man’s grey eyes and her heart beat like a metronome.

‘I’ll get you home as soon as I can, darling,’ Tom murmured, brushing a strand of her rich chestnut hair back from her forehead.

He turned towards the other driver, proffering the documents he held. The two of them used the bonnet of Tom’s car to write down the information e

ach needed. Still keeping her eyes almost closed, Pippa watched through her lashes, breathing unsteadily, hearing the deep, cool voice talking, hoping he wouldn’t ask for her address or demand she speak to him.

If she could only get away, escape; she felt doom threaten her, a fate she was not strong enough to withstand. Hurry up, Tom, she thought. Don’t stand there talking.

She knew that soothing voice he was using; he was trying to calm the other driver, placate him, talk him round. It was a technique Tom used in business every day; he was an expert at persuading people to do what he wanted.

They worked for an insurance company in central London. Tom was one of the executives who dealt with large claims. He needed all his tact, diplomacy, cool patience, to negotiate with claimants and lawyers. He was doing that now.

Stop talking, Tom, she thought desperately. Get back in the car and let’s drive away. Take me home. Take me safely home.

The two men shook hands—a typically polite English gesture. They had come to an agreement.

‘Goodnight, Mr Harding. I’ll be in touch.’

The other murmured a reply, less clearly, shot another look into the car. Pippa tensed in dread, but he turned to walk away and she could relax a little, letting out her held breath. He was going.

Tom got back into the car beside her, groaning.

‘Well, that was bad luck. My own stupid fault, driving too fast.’ He started the engine; it flared, raced, while he listened to it anxiously. ‘Let’s hope there isn’t too much damage.’

‘Did you notice much?’

‘One wing has crumpled, that will have to be replaced, and my door is badly scratched, but it could have been worse.’

‘We could have been killed,’ she agreed, her eyes fixed on the man sliding his long legs back into the red sports car. The night wind lifted his thick, silky black hair, winnowing it like caressing fingers.

Yes, it could have been much worse; it could have been disastrous. Her entire body was limp, as if she had barely escaped with her life. All the adrenalin had drained out of her. She yearned to be alone, in her cottage, to think, to recover from this.

Tom parked outside her cottage a few moments later and turned to kiss her. ‘Goodnight, darling. I’m sorry about the accident.’ He looked down at her, frowning. ‘You’re very quiet—are you angry with me?’

‘No, of course not. I’m very tired, that’s all.’

‘And having an accident didn’t help,’ he wryly said, grimacing. ‘Sleep well, anyway. I’ll see you on Monday.’

She got out of the car, waved to him as he drove off, and let herself into her cottage, switching on the light. Before she could shut the door again a furry black shape brushed past her and ran gracefully through the hall into the kitchen.

Groaning, she closed the door and followed. ‘You’re a nuisance, you stupid cat. I want to go to bed, not hang around here feeding you.’

Samson ignored her, nose in the air, his elegant black body seated pointedly beside the fridge. He knew there were the remains of a chicken in there, left over from the dinner she had cooked for Tom last night, and although he would eat tinned cat food if nothing else was available his favourite food was roast chicken.

Pippa knew she would get no peace until she had given in, so she got out the chicken and sliced some into Samson’s bowl, added crushed biscuit, poured fresh water into another bowl, and put them down. The cat immediately started eating.

Pippa left the kitchen, turning off the light, and went upstairs, stripped, put on a brief green cotton nightdress. In the bathroom she cleaned off her make-up and washed. In the mirror her face was oddly grey, her eyes dilated, black pupils glowing like strange fruit.

Shock, she thought, looking away hurriedly. Returning to her bedroom, she got between the sheets and switched off the light.

The cottage only had two bedrooms and a bathroom; downstairs there was a comfortable sitting room and the kitchen, with its small dining nook at one end. Her firm had helped her with the purchase; the price had been very low because the place had needed so much work. It had been occupied for years by an eccentric old man.

He had left the cottage more or less as it had been when he’d inherited it from his father forty years earlier, she’d been told by the estate agent. He had done no repairs, no redecoration. By the time he died himself, the place had been in a parlous state. But—the agent had beamed—it wouldn’t take much trouble to modernise.

She should never have believed him. Even though the price had been low, the mortgage was more than she would have wished to pay. She had very little left over once she had paid it each month. Despite that, she loved this little house; it was the first real home she had ever had.

In her childhood she had passed from one “family” to another. Some foster mothers had only liked small children and hadn’t been able to cope with older girls. Once her foster family had split up in divorce and she had been parcelled off to another one. She had yearned for stability, for a sense of belonging, a real home—and at last she had one. No price could be too high for that.