The Tycoon's Forbidden Temptation

Chelsea stared at him, unable to believe her ears. Was he seriously suggesting that Tom should marry Sandy when it was perfectly obvious that the poor girl was in love with Slade? No doubt he didn’t want to be accused of callously disregarding the feelings of a local girl, Chelsea thought bitterly. Her parents were obviously his friends and he was cynical enough to believe in the maxim that it was always wiser to play away from home.

There was simply nothing she could say to him to convey the depth of her contempt.

As she swept out of the study only she knew that her senses had betrayed her by relaying a detailed awareness of the lean bulk of Slade’s body clothed in close-fitting black jeans and a matching shirt open at the throat. For a moment her eyes rested incautiously on the buckle fastening the belt encircling tautly male hips, and then she was through the door, her heart pounding against her chest, a tight unbearable pain squeezing tears into her eyes and locking her throat.

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘YOU realise you’ll be alone here over Christmas?’

‘Yes.’ Chelsea made the monosyllabic reply and then concentrated on her breakfast coffee. For two days she had studiously avoided Slade as best she could. Two days when she had constantly been tempted to pick up the phone and ring Tom to explain the truth and had always at the last moment quailed. Perhaps in some ways it was better that he thought the worst of her, she admitted tiredly. There could after all have been no future for them, but Slade’s extraordinary behaviour still left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth and she could hardly bear to bring herself to speak to him.

‘Mrs Rudge will be away,’ Slade reminded her, ‘and this house is remote. More snow is forecast.’

Chelsea glanced out of the window at the white landscape. It had started snowing the previous day and she hadn’t been able to suppress a tiny thrill at the magical quality of the fluffy whiteness drifting down to cover the earth. A white Christmas; the embodiment of all her childhood dreams, hut this year she would be spending it alone.

Mrs Rudge was leaving after breakfast to spend Christmas with her sister, and Slade was going in the afternoon. It would be a relief to be alone in many ways, Chelsea admitted; at least then she could abandon the constant struggle to conceal how she felt from Slade. His behaviour by rights ought to have killed what she felt for him, but it hadn’t, a fact which only increased her fear.

She risked an upwards glance and wished she hadn’t when she saw the open mockery in the dark green eyes. Thank God he would soon be gone, and there would be no more mornings like this to undermine her shaky self-control.

He was dressed casually, a checked shirt open at the throat revealing enough of his chest to remind her of how the dark hairs shadowing it had scraped erotically against her own skin. Faded jeans hugged his hips, reminding her that he was no callow boy but an intensely sensual and experienced man. Her blood seemed to pound against her veins, her stomach muscles contracting in vain desire. Her eyes clung to his tanned forearms. He glanced absently at his watch and she looked hurriedly away. He had showered before coming down for breakfast and the clean male scent of his skin seemed to reach out and envelop her. His hair was still damp, and curled slightly against his nape, and she longed to reach up and touch it; to have the freedom to slide her hands inside his shirt and feel the warmth of his body, pulsating as urgently as her own.

She pushed her coffee away unfinished and stumbled to her feet, her face pale, stunned by the awareness of how quickly everything but Slade had lost any meaning for her. At least with Darren she had retained some sanity, some sense of what was right and wrong, some pride. Her skin seemed to burn with strange tension as though she were about to come down with a fever and in an illuminating and bitter moment of self-knowledge she knew that if he were to touch her now there was simply no way she would be able to stop herself from responding, from begging him to make love to her.

She was dimly aware of him getting to his feet and saying something to her, but it seemed to reach her from a distance, muffled and indecipherable above the roaring sound that reminded her of that heard from a seashell held against the ear.

She took a step forward and stumbled blindly, halted by the swiftly cruel grasp of his hands on her waist. Her whole body shook violently with reaction, her teeth chattering even though she felt quite hot.

‘Chelsea!’ This time his voice reached her, its crisply angered tone penetrating her fog of fear. ‘What’s the matter? Are you ill?’

She couldn’t speak. Her throat seemed to have closed up and she felt perilously close to tears. She longed to beg him to set her free. Her skin felt scorched with heat where he touched it. Like him, she was wearing jeans, her boots already on preparatory to the walk to Darkwater which she felt was safer than risking the car in present weather conditions. Overnight the snow had frozen, and more was forecast, as evidenced by the leaden sky, with its ominously pink tinge. The hills seemed closer, sharply outlined in white against the dove grey sky, and she wondered absently if all Tom’s sheep were safe.

Tom! Guilt nagged at her. She ought to ring him up and explain, but she knew she wouldn’t.

‘Chelsea! Damn you, don’t faint on me!’ she heard Slade mutter, raising his voice to call the housekeeper. ‘Chelsea, what’s wrong?’ He was shaking her, and she hated herself for the way her body exulted in even his briefest touch.

The dining room door swung open and Mrs Rudge came in. Chelsea watched her expression change from hauteur to dismay as she took in the scene.

‘Lord save us, she’s not ill, is she?’ she heard her asking Slade. ‘Well I can’t stay to look out to her. Made my arrangements I have.’

‘I can look after myself,’ Chelsea managed to croak, her speech mercifully restored to her. ‘I just felt a little light-headed. It’s nothing—just something I’ve always been prone to,’ she lied.

‘I’ll go and make you a nice cup of tea, that will do the trick,’ Mrs Rudge pronounced, darting a disapproving glare at Slade as she left.

‘I’m fine now,’ Chelsea told him, praying that he would release her. His hands still gripped her waist and he was close enough for her to be able to see the small flecks of yellow which gave his eyes their golden greenness.

‘I don’t like leaving you here alone,’ he told her abruptly. ‘This place is too remote. Are you sure you’re all right? You’re stubborn enough to pretend you are when you aren’t.’

‘Stubborn?’ Chelsea laughed weakly, pushing back the weight of her hair as it swung forward. Her movements faltered as she saw the way Slade was watching her. There was no mistaking or disguising the naked hunger flaring to life in his eyes, and just for a second she contemplated throwing all caution to the winds and taking the tiny step which was all that would be needed to carry her into his arms.

Between one heartbeat and the next she realised the supreme folly of what she had so nearly done, and more to punish herself than Slade she lashed out bitterly.

‘Quite a wasted opportunity as far as you’re concerned, isn’t it? If you weren’t going to New York you’d have me completely at your mercy, wouldn’t you, and ample opportunity to carry out your threats.’

Slade’s gritted, ‘Don’t tempt me,’ brought her back to shocked sanity, and her eyes dilated with fear as he added gratingly, ‘You owe me this if nothing else.’

She wasn’t given the chance to evade the brutal strength of the arms that bound her to him, curving her body against his, and forcing her neck back until she thought it would snap under the pressure. Her vulnerability only seemed to fuel his anger. There was no mercy in the mouth that closed hotly over her own, forcing her lips to yield and part, and she was forced into the ignominious position of having to cling helplessly to his shoulders, totally unable to defend herself from the humiliation he was inflicting.

As though he suddenly sensed that hurting her would not achieve the result he desired, Chelsea felt the pressure of his hands lessen, one slowly massaging the tense bones of her spine before grasping

a handful of her hair and forcing her head up to meet the savage scrutiny of his eyes. Dull dark colour lay along the sharp angles of his cheekbones, a raw passion smouldering in the tense green depths of the eyes fastened on her.

For a moment time seemed to stand still before hurtling her dizzyingly along a path she knew instinctively could only lead to pain.

‘Damn you, Chelsea,’ Slade swore softly, ‘but you will respond to me.’

He bent his head and she shivered in mindless pleasure as his lips moved delicately along the pure exposed line of her throat where he had pushed aside her hair. His tongue traced the shape of her ear while his thumb stroked the vulnerable hollow behind it. His lips were moving softly over her face, constricting her breathing. Panic flared up inside her as she recognised her overwhelming need to reach out and touch him, to melt and be devoured by the heated passion he was fuelling.

She sobbed helplessly, trying to smother the sound, and knew it was too late when she saw the wild elation gleaming in his eyes and felt the hungry urgency of his mouth as it skilfully drew from hers the response she had tried to deny him.

Caution and common sense faded into nothing. There was only the wild surging of her blood and her instinctive response to Slade’s urgent possession of her mouth. Her arms were round his neck, her fingers buried in the thick softness of his hair. Slade’s hands slid down to her hips, holding her against him and deliberately making her aware of his desire for her.

Drugged and bemused by the sensations he was arousing, Chelsea knew how completely her barriers were down; how she would ache for him when he was gone and desperately recall these moments.

When Slade heard Mrs Rudge returning he released her smoothly, triumph glittering in his eyes.

‘Think about me when I’m gone,’ he mocked her as the door opened.

Colour flared in Chelsea’s pale face. She had given him the response he desired and he had every reason to feel triumphant. Released from his arms, she hated herself for giving way to her love for him, and was only thankful that she would be long gone from Blackwater when he eventually returned. She had told herself long ago, after the débâcle with Darren, that she would never give herself to anyone without a mutually shared love, and only she knew just how close she had come to abandoning that fiercely held principle.

To her dismay Slade insisted on driving her down to the house when she had drunk her tea. She was trembling with nervous dread when he brought the car to a halt outside, but to her inward chagrin, he simply opened her door for her and allowed her to alight without making any move to touch her, his knowing, ‘Disappointed?’ bringing a dark flush of colour to her skin as she turned her back on him and struggled through the snow which had drifted by the doors.

As she worked her thoughts returned to him, time and time again distracting her to the point where she had to stop working or risk making mistakes.

Somehow today the old house felt lonelier than it had ever done in the past, and although she told herself that her response was merely psychological because she knew that she was alone, Chelsea could not banish the melancholy feelings that engulfed her. As she worked on the tapestry her thoughts kept straying to Slade. At two in the afternoon she wondered if he had yet reached the airport at Newcastle and what time his flight took off. Her skin burned with heat when she remembered her total response to his kiss, and her hands shook so much that it was almost impossible for her to hold her needle.

By three it had gone so dark that she was forced to switch on the powerful light she used for working, and the oil-filled radiator she used to heat her working space no longer seemed to generate enough heat to keep her warm. When she went to fill the electric kettle she used to make hot drinks with she realised that it was snowing again, and she shivered in anticipation of the long walk back to the house.

By three-thirty she was so cold that she decided it was pointless working on any longer, and she wished she had brought the car, then she could have put the tapestry in it and taken it back to the Dower House to work on in greater comfort. With the house empty she could have used the dining room table to spread the tapestry out on, but it was too late to regret not bringing the car now.

Perhaps if the snow stopped she could return later, she promised herself, trying not to feel guilty at stopping work so early in the afternoon.

Although she had removed her boots and placed them by the radiator on her arrival they were still damp from the snow she had trudged through in the morning, and now too late she wished she had had the forethought to buy herself a pair of Wellingtons.

An icy wind knifed through her when she stepped outside, completely nullifying the protection of her cream jacket. This snow had none of the pretty softness of yesterday’s, she reflected as she hunched forward, head down against the driving white onslaught of the blizzard.

Normally it took half an hour to cover the distance between the two houses, and Chelsea was overwhelmingly grateful for the familiar rows of elms lining the drive as she trudged through the quickly deepening snow, otherwise she was sure she would have lost her way in the white wilderness the world had become. Tiny particles of snow stung her cheeks and nose, despite her boots and gloves her feet and hands were frozen, her leg muscles aching from the effort of trudging through the wind-drifted snow.

At last, to her relief, the Dower House appeared, like an illustration on a Christmas card.

She opened the door thankfully, and reached down to pull off her boots, but her hands were far too cold to enable her to do so. Brushing off as much of the snow as she could, she trudged wearily upstairs. She would just try and get warm and then she would take them off. Walking through the snow seemed to have drained away all her energy and she felt curiously tired.

The door to Slade’s bedroom stood open and as she walked past it she was overwhelmed by a desire to go in. What was she? an inner voice demanded in self-mockery; an infatuation-crazed adolescent yearning for just the merest glimpse of where her idol laid his weary head?

Clothes lay discarded on the old-fashioned half-tester bed, and Chelsea dimly recognised the jeans and shirt Slade had been wearing that morning. Like someone in a trance she walked towards the bed and picked up the checked shirt, holding it against her cheek. The male scent of Slade’s body still clung to the fabric and her senses responded immediately to it, desire shuddering through her as she tried not to give in to her need for him.

She was still clutching the shirt, her eyes shadowed with desire, when the door to the ensuite bathroom was abruptly thrust open and Slade emerged, his hair damp, a towel knotted carelessly over his hips.

He was the first to recover himself, stretching out a long arm to recover his shirt, his expression unreadable as he said softly, ‘Turns you on, does it? Try imagining how I felt with nothing but that damned dress of yours and a raging sense of frustration.’

‘You’re still here.’ Stupidly it was all she could think of to say.

‘So I am,’ Slade agreed evenly, ‘and aren’t you the lucky one—I’m staying here, and so tonight instead of going to bed with my shirt you can go to bed with me. I’m tired of playing games, Chelsea,’ he told her brutally. ‘I want you and if you had a single shred of honesty you’d admit that you want me too, but that isn’t how you like things to be, is it? You don’t normally want your victims, do you? When was the last time you went to bed with a man you genuinely wanted physically?’ he asked her softly. ‘Or can’t you even remember?’

He was reaching for her, droplets of moisture clinging sleekly to his skin, and Chelsea knew with a terrible sense of finality that this time there would be no escape. The knowledge galvanised her into action. With a small tormented cry she pushed past him, almost running downstairs as she ignored his angry command to her to stop.

The front door yielded to her touch, flurries of snow blinding her as she darted instinctively towards the tall line of elms, everything but the need to escape the ultimate humiliation of having Slade discover her love for him drive

n from her mind.

How long she had been running heedlessly before she realised that she had lost sight of the elms lining the drive, Chelsea didn’t know, but when she spun round despairingly looking for these landmarks the landscape had turned into a blinding white wilderness filled only by the tiny ice-sharp slivers of snow tormenting her skin. She turned awkwardly and wrenched her foot so painfully that it hurt to put any weight upon it, and she started to shiver in the realisation of her folly. She had no idea how far she had come or where she was. Her body was colder than she could ever remember it being before, only her fingers and toes relieved of the stinging pain which afflicted the rest of her. The wind sliced through her jacket, driving the snow into her face. Everywhere she turned there was only snow and more snow. She took a tentative step, felt her ankle give way and fell waist-deep into a massive drift. Fear overwhelmed her. She was lost in a raging blizzard with no hope of finding her way back to the house. Too late she recalled macabre tales of people wandering round in circles until they dropped dead of fatigue and cold. She couldn’t have come very far, she told herself. All she had to do was to retrace her footsteps, but when she turned the snow had already obliterated them. Silently she prayed for the wind to drop so that she could see through the blinding snowstorm, but her prayers went unheeeded.

How could she have been so stupid as to run so heedlessly out of the house? Now with her life at stake her earlier fears seemed trivial, and there was nowhere she would rather have been than wrapped in the secure warmth of Slade’s arms.

Secure! She smothered a half-hysterical laugh. There was no security for her with Slade Ashford. But there was life, she thought yearningly, and a depth of passion that promised to hold a special magic of its own.

She shivered again, cold to the bone, and pulled off a glove to wipe the snow out of her eyes. Her fingers looked oddly white and felt curiously lifeless. Fear lurched in her stomach as she recalled reading about the dangers of frostbite. But this was England, she reminded herself. She couldn’t die less than fifteen miles from civilisation—it just wasn’t possible.