"I wish I could say the same. I'd rather there was someone around for the next twenty-four hours to keep an eye on you. Is there someone?"
"I'll sort it, Andrew," Wolf had cut in before she could open her mouth.
"She won't be alone."
"Right." Andrew smiled at her again before leaving the room with Wolf, and she heard the two of them talking quietly in the tiny hall before the front door opened and closed.
"I hope that sofa is comfortable." As he re-entered the room she saw he had pulled his tie loose again, and despised herself for the way the fact registered hot and warm in her lower stomach.
"What?" She stared at him bewilderedly.
"The sofa." He smiled slowly.
"If I'm going to spend the night on it I'd prefer a bit of comfort."
"You can't." The reply was instinctive, and as his face closed against her she desperately tried to take away the sharpness in her reaction.
"Please, we have to phone my mother," she gabbled quickly.
"She would never forgive me if I didn't let her know the situation.
Wolf, believe me, and she's used to sleeping over the odd night. “He couldn't sleep here, he just couldn't; the idea was somehow totally immoral.
"You don't think it would be kinder to let her have a good night's sleep and phone in the morning?" His voice was expressionless and cool, his eyes hooded.
"No." She was quite unaware of how frightened her voice sounded.
"If you could ring her and explain? I know she'd want to come over."
"The number?" His voice was curt, but softened considerably as he talked with her mother for a few moments, his tone reassuring.
"I'll stay until she arrives." She didn't want him to but didn't dare object, and as he walked over to the chair opposite her and seated himself comfortably in its depths, crossing one muscled leg over the other as he leant back and surveyed her through narrowed eyes, she felt her nerves jump painfully.
"Is it true you've never had a hang-over?" he asked suddenly, his voice quiet. He could believe it, he thought tightly. That air of shy vulnerability, the almost tangible innocence-- He caught himself abruptly.
But she wasn't, was she? There was living proof upstairs of the fact that she was a married woman who knew the facts of life, and that day in the lift.
He felt the hardening in his loins that always accompanied the memory, despite his _efforts to erase it. She had melted for him. And Mike Wilson.
Exactly how well did she know him? And was it merely coincidence that she had arrived in his office or? -- He stopped his thoughts grimly.
Hell, this wouldn't do him any good, he'd better get out of here as soon as he could. "I don't drink." She looked tired and bruised and he didn't like the way it touched him.
"I don't like the taste," she admitted quietly, her voice soft and shaky.
"You don't?" He adjusted his position in the chair and noticed the way her body tensed. He made her nervous. Or was it that she was frightened of men in general? Had this husband of hers abused her? He was surprised at the murderous rage the thought provoked. He definitely needed to get out of here. "You'd better get to bed," he said abruptly as he rose and took the two empty cups into the kitchen.
"Your mother will be here in a couple of minutes or so. I'll let her in and then disappear. Can you manage the stairs or shall I help you?" His voice was suddenly brusque and distant.
"I'll be fine," she said quietly.
"OK. Goodnight, Lydia." It was a clear dismissal.
Now what? she thought, as hurt mingled with anger. Suddenly he was the ice-man again, infinitely cold. She rose slowly and walked hesitantly to the kitchen where he was rinsing the cups under the tap.
"Thank you, Wolf."
"For what?" He turned, his big body taut and his face cool, and she shrugged helplessly, finding words difficult.