The Boss's Virgin

‘Maybe they hire the gear out?’

‘You know the place, I suppose. You’ve been there before with your son? Do they?’

‘I’ve no idea, I’ve never asked, but if we can hire what you need do you want to ride?’

‘It could be fun—are you going to ride?’

‘I will, if you will. There’s a qualified riding instructor who can look after Johnny, if we don’t ride, but I’d like to go just to keep an eye on him.’

‘And you have got the right gear with you?’

He nodded. ‘After Johnny said he wanted to ride, I looked out some boots and jodhpurs, and I found a rather old hat which will do. There was no point in ringing you though, because the shops were shut by then, and I thought the stable might be able to find you some gear.’

‘Well, if they don’t hire clothes I’ll watch. Don’t worry about me.’ She leaned back in her seat, watching the green English countryside flash past.

As they turned a corner another car tore towards them at a dangerous speed and Randal braked to avoid a crash, skewing his car closer to the hedge, as he had that night he and Tom crashed.

The other car screeched past. Randal came to a full stop, the bonnet of the sports car mere inches from the hedge. Silence fell on them like the dust of this quiet, narrow country lane.

Pippa only then realised that she had screamed. The echo of her cry of fear went on and on inside her head, and beside her she heard Randal angrily swearing.

After a minute, he turned towards her, releasing his seat belt, his face full of concern.

‘Are you okay? I’m sorry about that. He was doing about eighty miles an hour—we’re lucky I wasn’t driving fast myself and we came out of it unscathed.’

She laughed unsteadily, tears of fear and wild humour in her green eyes. ‘Déjà vu. That was pure déjà vu. Just like the night you and Tom crashed into each other.’

He smiled wryly. ‘I suppose it was. My heart is going like a steamhammer. Feel it.’

He took her hand and carried it to his chest, laid in on his shirt above where his heart beat violently. The warmth of his body lay under her palm; she pressed down on it, wanting desperately to undo his blue shirt and feel his skin against hers.

Randal watched her face closely and must have read the leap of hunger in her eyes because he suddenly leant over, his body above hers, coming down on her, holding her down. She knew she should push him away, refuse to let him kiss her, but the shock of the near accident was still inside her; she felt reckless, abandoned. She met his mouth with passion, her lips parting. His hands caressed her, and she felt desire tear through her like a hurricane, destroying everything in its path.

If they had not been sitting in a car at that moment, heaven knew what might have happened next, but they were parked on a public road and visible to anyone driving past. They could not go too far.

Randal groaned, slowly lifting his mouth. ‘I would kill to have you now. Do you know what you do to me?’

Dazedly she lay there, eyes half closed, breathing thickly. She knew what he did to her—did he feel like this?

Her senses rioted: heart beating dangerously fast, pulses throbbing with fever, heat burning deep inside her. She hadn’t wanted him to stop, had needed him to go on, to take her, satisfy this terrible need.

‘We’d better get on or we’ll be late arriving at the school, and even later for lunch,’ Randal said, running a hand over his deeply flushed face. ‘Sit up, Pippa. Stop tempting me.’

He clipped his seat belt together, started the engine again and slowly moved off, and she closed her eyes, fighting to get back to normal.

The rest of the drive was uneventful; they didn’t talk any more. She pretended to be asleep and, indeed, did doze a little, drifting in and out of daydreams, fragments of memory, of him kissing her, touching her.

They reached the school just as many other cars were leaving, loaded with boys being taken off for the weekend by their parents. Randal parked on the wide gravel driveway, left her in her seat and walked into the school to find his son.

Pippa curiously gazed up at the building, built rather like a Scottish castle, with four storeys of stone walls draped with Virginia creeper, rows of arched windows and, at each end, turreted towers. She hoped it had central heating or it must be an icebox in winter.

A few minutes later Randal returned with his son, who was carrying in one hand a leather overnight bag. Johnny was taller than she had expected, a healthy-looking boy with his father’s dark hair and slim build, but as they came closer she saw that he had sensitive features, wide blue eyes, a fine nose and wide mouth, a mobile face that reflected his emotions as he talked to his father.

She slid out of her seat to greet him, smiling.

‘Johnny, this is Pippa,’ Randal told him, taking his overnight bag and putting it into the boot of the car, and the boy held out his hand, staring at her.

‘Hello.’