In August he was gone for two weeks again, and to her horror Robyn found she was missing him more than words could express. A small posy of flowers was delivered each day for the whole of the fortnight, and Clay phoned her most evenings. She shivered when she heard his voice, aching for him with a fierce longing that petrified her when she thought about it.
Once he was back in England again they had an evening out with Cass and Guy at Topeka’s—Clay’s treat—and had a whale of a time, in spite of Cass being as smug as the proverbial cat with the cream.
Robyn tried twice to convince her elder sibling that she and Clay were not an item in the way Cass was assuming, but she might as well have saved her breath, she realised at last, admitting defeat. Cass had a distinctly satisfied matchmaking gleam in her eyes and was determined to take credit for finding Robyn the love of her life—which was pretty ironic in the circumstances, Robyn reflected drily.
Nevertheless, Robyn found she couldn’t quite bring herself to tell Cass the full facts of her relationship with Clay, which would have put pay to Cass’s ideas, and decided she had to let her sister think what she liked in the end. Cass was too close to it all somehow, too linked with Clay, whereas Drew was different. Uncomplicated. And totally on her side.
And after the evening at the nightclub Robyn found she wasn’t in a hurry to repeat another foursome with Cass and Guy. She couldn’t have explained even to herself how that night had affected her, but being part of two couples had felt so good, so right, so wonderfully permanent, that the whole episode had been a bitter-sweet experience which had seen her crying until dawn once she was alone.
Robyn glanced across at Clay now. He was lying next to her on a sunlounger in the grounds of his home, and they were in the shade of a massive weeping-willow tree, the day having been a scorcher. The evening air was thick and sultry, and even the birds seemed exhausted by the heat and unusually silent, only the steady drone of insects coming and going on the following bushes nearby disturbing the summer evening.
‘Another glass of wine?’ he asked lazily.
He didn’t open his eyes as he spoke but somehow she knew he was aware she was looking at him. They had brought a bottle of wine and two glasses down to the little grassy dell beneath the tree some minutes earlier, Mrs Jones having arranged to call them once dinner was ready, and now Robyn took a sip of the rich, fruity red liquid before she said, her voice light, ‘No, thanks, I’ve hardly touched this one.’
The perfume scenting the air from the flowers and bushes was heady, the humid warmth of the evening having brought it out to its fullest and, as Clay opened his eyes and then sat up, his silver eyes scanning her face, Robyn was aware that this was one of those moments she would remember for the rest of her life.
The beautiful garden, the scents in the air, the warmth on her skin and the rich blackcurranty taste of the wine on her tongue, was all a background to the lean dark man at her side. She never looked at him without a thrill flickering down her spine, and tonight, his having picked her up straight from work, he was dressed in beautifully cut trousers and a pale blue silk shirt which was open at the neck and had the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, muscular arms, his tie and jacket long since discarded. He was magnificent.
‘You never truly relax, do you?’ It was softy and deep, and more of a statement than a question.
Robyn looked at him, startled. ‘Of course I do.’ Her response was immediate and defensive. ‘That’s silly.’
His eyes were narrowed in the pale hazy light, his face still, and then his mouth unexpectedly twisted in a smile that was self-deprecating. ‘Not with me,’ he qualified quietly. ‘And I don’t know why. I have done everything you asked, have I not? But I am still the enemy.’
Those silver-blue eyes saw far too much. Robyn stared at him, not sure how to play down the sudden confrontation. ‘That’s silly too,’ she said carefully. ‘Of course you aren’t an enemy.’
‘The enemy, Robyn,’ he clarified softly. ‘As in the male sex. What on earth did this guy do to you to make you so wary? He didn’t abuse you? Physically I mean?’ he asked grimly.
She was utterly shocked and it showed. ‘Of course not!’
‘But mentally, emotionally, you have scars,’ Clay murmured. ‘Maybe sexually too.’
She really didn’t know if she could handle this. She sat up with a tenseness that was tangible, her voice very controlled as she said, ‘This is crazy, Clay. I don’t know what you’re thinking but you seem to have let your imagination run away with you.’
‘You don’t want to want me but you do.’ The soft voice was relentless. ‘You’re as hungry as I am, but you don’t trust me, not even now after all these weeks. And I’m not going to take you into my bed until you do. I promised you I wouldn’t rush you, that I could wait until you’re ready, but even more importantly I promised myself because I know once I really start to make love to you there will
be no turning back for either of us. And I want no regrets, Robyn. No lies, no, “I was swept away by the moment.” It will be a conscious decision for you, because you need and want me more than anything else and there’ll be no self-reproach in the morning.’
The male ego again! The incredible, conquering-hero syndrome. Robyn took a big gulp of wine and swallowed before she said, her voice brittle, ‘Don’t you ever consider the possibility that one day you might not actually get exactly what you want?’
He smiled again but this time it was merely a twitch of the hard firm lips. ‘Where you are concerned?’ he asked huskily. ‘Never. Because if I did I might forget my promises and take you into my arms and start to ravish you until we go to heaven and back.’
Robyn felt a shuddering excitement even as she warned herself not to betray anything to the metallic eyes that seemed able to cut through all the layers of her defences. ‘How do you know we would be sexually compatible?’ she said offhandedly, forcing her voice to sound even and unconcerned. ‘Lots of people aren’t, even if they fancy each other like mad initially.’
‘The voice of experience?’ He was mocking her now, and even though the teasing was gentle it caught her on the raw.
‘Oh, I don’t doubt for a minute every woman you’ve ever wanted has just fallen into your arms,’ she said cuttingly, draining the last of her wine. ‘One hundred per cent success rate for Clay Lincoln.’
If she had been looking at him, rather than staring angrily into the dusky night, she would have noticed the hard male face had tightened, his mouth straightening, but his voice was very quiet when he said, ‘One hundred per cent is a little high for anyone, don’t you think?’
‘Oh, come on!’ She didn’t know why she was so rattled. ‘Do you mean to tell me there’s a woman out there somewhere who’s said no?’
‘I wasn’t aware of telling you anything.’
It was his complete stillness rather than the tone of his voice that brought her eyes flashing back to his face, but what she read there froze any response she might have made. She stared at him, her eyes wide and dark, and wondered who had caused the depth of pain scoring his face. Because it had to be a person, a woman. His wife? He had never talked about losing his wife, but then this hadn’t been a conversation about the pain of loss but something quite different. She didn’t understand this.
‘I’m sorry, Clay.’ It was a whisper. ‘I wasn’t trying to open old wounds.’