The Tycoon's Forbidden Temptation

‘Exactly what I told her,’ Slade commented dryly, watching the colour run up under Chelsea’s skin with clinical detachment.

‘Come back to the farm with us,’ Tom suggested. ‘Ma will look after you.’

It was a tempting prospect. Sandy’s hand on her forehead felt beautifully cool. Her head seemed to be stuffed with a peculiar form of cotton wool that felt as heavy as lead, and she could think of nothing better that being coddled by Mrs Little. She opened her eyes and saw that Sandy’s were focused on her with narrowed wariness. Poor girl, she was probably out of her mind with jealousy because Chelsea had been alone with Slade.

She opened her mouth to accept Tom’s offer, but instead heard Slade saying coolly, ‘Oh, there’s no need for that. I’m sure your mother already has enough on her hands, Tom. I think I’m perfectly capable of nursemaiding a ‘flu victim.’

‘Slade’s right,’ Sandy confirmed to Chelsea’s further amazement. ‘I’ve got my bag with me and there are some antibiotics in it which I can give you. They should help speed things up. If you want me you can always phone. I’m staying up at the farm to give Val and Dad a chance to have Christmas alone with the twins.’

‘If you want to drive us back I can loan you the Land Rover,’ Tom suggested to Slade. ‘It’s pretty ancient and we only use it in bad weather, but we can always manage with the Range Rover until this stuff clears. Fortunately we were all prepared for it, so we shouldn’t lose any stock.’

Slade accepted, and when the three of them had gone, Chelsea dragged herself up to her room, Sandy’s instructions ringing in her ears.

She was asleep when Slade came back, and returned to consciousness groggily to discover him standing over her bed, one cool hand against her flushed face.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Hot and aching,’ Chelsea admitted, ‘and thirsty.’

‘The last problem’s easily remedied. Mrs Little has sent you some of her homemade barley water. Apparently it works wonders. I’ll go and get you a glass.’

If he wasn’t sympathetic at least he wasn’t as cold and remote as he had been, Chelsea reflected achingly when Slade had gone. Her sheets seemed to be full of tiny gritty objects which dug into her tender skin, and her whole body seemed to ache with a nagging pain which even affected her bones.

When Slade returned she was shivering convulsively, although she tried to hide it from him. Having him towering over her while she lay in bed made her feel distinctly at a disadvantage.

‘Sit up and drink this.’

Like a small child she did as she was told, puzzled when Slade disappeared into her bathroom, only to return within seconds with her sponge and a towel.

‘Sandy said this would help you to feel cooler,’ he said dispassionately as he pushed the straps of her nightdress off her shoulders and sponged her burning skin with cool detachment. If he expected her to feel grateful to him he could think again, Chelsea decided crossly when her broderie anglaise straps were once again in place.

‘I could have done that myself,’ she snapped childishly, ‘but I suppose it gives you some sense of power to treat me like a child!’

His mouth compressed in a grim line, his eyes as unfathomable and unfeeling as jade as he retorted in a clipped voice, ‘I’m trying very hard to remind myself that you’re not well. Now, Mrs Little suggested an omelette for your supper—I know it isn’t turkey…’ Chelsea felt nauseated at the thought of any rich food, and ashamed of goading him. If it wasn’t for her Slade could have spent Christmas up at the farm with Sandy to adore him.

‘I suppose Sandy would have preferred you to stay up there,’ she said jealously.

He had turned away from her and paused, eyebrows rising. ‘Why should she—she’s got what she wants. Tom,’ he enlightened, when she looked blank. ‘Surely you must have realised that she’s in love with him?’

‘Sandy loves Tom?’

Slade’s gaze sharpened. ‘You know she does, we’ve already discussed it once.’

Chelsea mumbled an assent, unwilling to admit to him that she had believed the other girl to be in love with him. So that was why Sandy had looked so rigidly at her before, and perhaps why she had suggested that Slade should nurse her down here. She ought to have realised; no sane woman urges the man she loves to stay alone with a potential rival.

‘And Tom?’

‘Worried by the thought of losing an admirer?’ he drawled. ‘Tom was dazzled by you, but at heart he’s a man who knows sterling worth when he sees it, and old-fashioned enough to expect virtue and loyalty in his wife.’

‘Would you?’

For a long moment there was silence, and then with a sigh he straightened up to face her.

‘I hope I’m not hypocritical enough to expect an innocence in another that I no longer have any claim to myself, but yes, I would want and look for sexual fidelity for the future; and a love deep enough to match my own.’

‘Love?’ Chelsea’s voice trembled on the word, a funny little pain aching inside her. ‘You surprise me, I didn’t think you believed in such an emotion.’

‘I don’t necessarily believe in an after-life, but that doesn’t stop me from illogically hoping it’s there,’ he told her enigmatically.

CHAPTER NINE

IT was almost New Year before Chelsea was well enough to get up. Sandy came down to see her twice, and on the second occasion told her that she was now well enough to get up.

‘Have you heard that they postponed the Young Farmers’ Ball because of the bad weather?’ she asked Slade. ‘They’re holding it tomorrow now, why don’t both of you come?’

Chelsea expected Slade to demur, but to her consternation he said evenly, ‘Good idea, I think we will.’

‘I’ll tell Tom to arrange tickets,’ Sandy said gaily. ‘We can make a foursome.’

When she had gone Chelsea said shakily, ‘I’m not going to that ball, I can’t…’

‘You haven’t anything to wear,’ Slade finished mockingly for her.

It wasn’t what she had been going to say, but she coloured to the roots of her hair, remembering the scene with Tom.

‘I’m not wearing that dress,’ she said flatly, shuddering at the thought of it, ‘and nothing you can say will make me change my mind.’

‘Nothing I can say,’ Slade agreed evenly, ‘but plenty I can do. We’re going, Chelsea; and you’re going to wear that dress. You owe it to Sandy if nothing else. One look at you in that will convince Tom more than a thousand words that you simply aren’t the woman for him.’

‘No? Who am I the woman for, then?’ she challenged recklessly, tears burning the back of her throat. ‘You?’

‘Me, and any other man willing to pay the price,’ he taunted cruelly. ‘But Tom isn’t like that. He wants marriage and permanency—plus a commitment we both know that you’re incapable of giving.’

The fates all seemed to conspire against her, ably aided by Slade, Chelsea decided darkly when Tom telephoned with the information that he had been able to secure tickets for them. It was in vain for her to protest that she did not want to go; she would go if he had to drag her there, Slade informed her unkindly, adding that she could look upon it as a form of repayment to Sandy for her ministrations to her. It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that his ministrations had been far more intimate than Sandy’s and to demand what form of payment he was going to seek, but just in time she stopped herself. She had enough self-knowledge to know that if he chose to look upon her words as a sexual challenge she wouldn’t be able to resist him.