Force of Feeling

He was dangling them from the tip of one strong, long finger, and a feeling of weakness and disbelief filled Campion as she stared at him.

‘And so you decided to come down here yourself…but why?’

‘Do you remember any of what I said to you this morning?’ he asked her softly.

Did she remember? How could she forget?

‘Yes.’ Her terse answer made him smile slightly, and for one mad moment she had to stop herself from responding to that strange little smile.

‘Then you’ll remember that I told you I’d given the publishers my word that your manuscript would be on their desk on time…’

‘Yes,’ she agreed woodenly, remembering, too, that she had told him it was impossible. That was when they had had their argument about her having a secretary.

‘I even offered you the services of a secretary to help you,’ he added gently.

Campion’s chest swelled with indignation and fury.

‘I don’t want a secretary!’ she told him through bared teeth. ‘I don’t work that way. I don’t need any help with this book, Guy.’

‘Oh, yes, you do,’ he told her unequivocably. ‘But you’re right, you don’t need a secretary; at least, not the kind I had in mind.’

He was looking at her in a way that made danger signals race from one nerve-ending to another, and a tiny prickle of awareness of him touched her skin. He was standing too close to her, and she instinctively took a step back from him. He smiled when he saw her betraying movement, but there was no humour in his smile.

‘Tell me something,’ he encouraged softly. ‘Your heroines, Campion, do they have much of you in them? Or to put it another way—do you imagine yourself to be them when you’re writing?’

A hot wave of colour scalded her skin before she could hold it back.

&nbs

p; ‘No,’ she told him forcefully. ‘No, I don’t. Why do you ask?’

‘All in good time.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s going on for two, and I, for one, am tired. I think we’ll both be in a better frame of mind to discuss things in the morning. I’ve taken the smaller bedroom. Women always seem to need more room.’

The smaller bedroom? Campion gaped at him.

‘You’re…you’re not staying here?’

His eyebrows rose. ‘Of course I am! Where else would I be staying?’

‘But—you can’t.’

‘Can’t?’ He smiled grimly at her.

‘All right, so you can stay,’ Campion amended, ‘but I’m not staying with you.’ She headed for the door, determined to walk over him to get it open, if she had to. But she was brought to an abrupt halt as he virtually swung her off her feet, and deposited her down on the floor again with such force that her teeth actually rattled.

‘Now, let’s get one thing straight,’ he told her savagely, all pretence of calm good humour stripped from him now. ‘I’ve given my word, both professionally and personally, that your manuscript will be delivered on time. I’ve laid myself out on the line for you and your damn book, Campion, and no matter what it takes, you are going to deliver…’

No matter what it takes…’

His eyes seemed to bore into her skull, and she found she was too petrified to even open her mouth. All she could do was to stare at him with mesmerised astonishment.

‘It’s been one hell of a long day already, needlessly complicated by your unwarranted feminine tantrum and melodramatic flight. All right, so you’re having problems with the book, we both know that…’

Suddenly, Campion got her senses back. Gathering herself up to her full height, she raised her head and said angrily, ‘I’m not staying her listening to any more of this…’

‘Oh, yes, you are… You’re staying here until this damn book is finished, and to my satisfaction. We’re both staying her until it’s finished,’ he added.

‘You…you can’t make me do that…’