LITMIR.BIZ

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viewing the thickly cushioned twin sofas with their chintz covers which flanked the fireplace.

      There was a small round dining table in one corner, and a bookcase crammed with a tempting selection of paperbacks.

      The walls were hung with watercolours of local scenes, and there were bowls of fresh flowers everywhere. Old fashioned French windows offered access to the gardens beyond. Or would when it wasn’t lashing with rain, Cory amended, with another shiver. Which reminded her what she was there for.

      She eased her feet out of her shoes and peeled off her sodden tights, then padded across to the bathroom.

      As she ran hot water into the tub, adding a sachet of freesia bath oil for good measure, she realised the friendly porter hadn’t exaggerated. The pretty basket of toiletries even had toothbrushes and paste.

      The main bedroom was attractively decorated in blue, the faint severity of the tailored bedspread and plain drapes offset by a cream carpet lavishly patterned in forget-me-nots.

      Was that a subtle hint? Corey wondered, as she stripped off her wet clothes and put on the smaller of the two cream towelling robes from the wardrobe. If so, it was unnecessary.

      Eventually, she hoped—she prayed—she would be able to put the events of these few enigmatic days behind her. But not yet.

      She put her discarded garments in the linen laundry bag she found in a drawer, but decided she would rinse out her own undies and dry them quickly on a radiator.

      The robe was a perfectly discreet cover-up, but she’d feel awkward and self-conscious being so nearly naked in front of Rome.

      For her own peace of mind, she needed more than one layer, she thought, her mouth twisting.

      She took the other robe into the sitting room and draped it over the arm of the sofa, where he would see it, and placed the laundry bag beside it.

      Then she went to have her bath, carefully turning the little brass bolt on the door first.

      She lay half submerged in the scented bubbles like a mermaid on a rock. Except she felt that she was the one being lured to her doom, she thought, letting the water lap softly over her breasts and gasping a little at the sensation.

      She had never been so aware of her own body before, nor of its unexpected capacity for pleasure.

      But then, she had never before felt such overwhelming physical desire for a man as she did for Rome.

      Not even Rob, whom she’d believed she loved, had been able to arouse such a fierce, unbridled need in her.

      Perhaps if he had things would have been different between them, she thought, biting her lip.

      But all that dizzying, aching passion for Rome had to be counterbalanced by the questions about him that remained unanswered.

      It troubled her that she still knew so little about him. It genuinely shocked her that she’d been on the point of giving herself to a man who was still virtually a stranger to her. And who—one day, one night—would walk away, back to his own life. Leaving her bereft.

      So the wise thing was to step back herself before she was tempted again. Before any real harm was done.

      One of the nuns at her convent school had lectured the girls regularly on avoiding ‘occasions of sin’. And Sister Benedict would have placed Rome in that category without a second thought.

      He was the occasion, the sin itself, and the ultimate need for repentance all united in one lethal package.

      She knew the right thing was never to see him again, even if the anguish of it made her want to moan out loud.

      But she wouldn’t sit at home brooding about what might have been. She would stop being so selective—so reclusive. She would do as her grandfather wanted. She’d go out and meet people, and somehow, sooner or later, she would find someone who would make this deep, aching hollow inside her disappear.

      It was just a matter of time.

      She shampooed her hair, rinsed out her camisole, briefs and tights, and folded them in a towel over her arm.

      She combed her wet hair back from her face, and took a long objective look at herself. The sleeked back hair left her no defences at all, and she was all eyes and cheekbones, and soft vulnerable mouth.

      But she couldn’t stay in here, as if she was clinging to sanctuary. Somehow she had to endure the next few hours—survive them. And to do that she had to confront the man in the next room, whether angel or demon. And she had to do it now.

      She took a deep breath, then opened the bathroom door and went into the sitting room.

      Rome was standing by the French windows, staring into the gathering darkness. He was bare-legged, and the sleeves of the robe were folded back, exposing muscular forearms. His skin looked very dark against the pale fabric.

      He turned slowly and looked at her, his expression watchful, almost wary. She had the sense of strong emotion rigorously controlled. Of a battle that had been fought and won during her absence.

      She had to resist an impulse to tighten the sash of her robe—to draw its lapels closer together.

      Behave calmly, she adjured herself silently. Treat the situation as if it was normal. As if it’s not a problem.

      She said, ‘I’m sorry I took so long.’ Then, shyly, ‘This—this is a lovely place. Log fires and tea on demand.’

      He smiled faintly. ‘Give me ten minutes, then order some.’ He paused. ‘Our clothes will be a couple of hours, so I had them bring us a dinner menu. We can eat here.’

      ‘Oh.’ She couldn’t keep the note of dismay out of her voice, and his brows lifted mockingly.

      ‘The restaurant demands smart casual dress, cara,’ he drawled. ‘I doubt we would qualify. Also, we might be a little conspicuous.’

      She said, ‘I was hoping we’d be on our way back to London before dinner.’

      ‘How eager you are to be off,’ Rome commented caustically. ‘You have a date tonight, perhaps?’

      Cory did not meet his gaze. ‘No—just a life to get back to.’

      He said softly, ‘Ah, yes, of course.’

      He walked across the room, heading for the bathroom. As he passed Cory he bent, so that his mouth was almost brushing the delicate curve where her neck joined her shoulder, and inhaled with frank appreciation.

      He said, ‘You smell—exquisite, mia bella. Like some rare flower.’

      Her body stiffened with almost unbearable tension. She kept her voice level with an effort. ‘Thank you.’

      She remained where she was until she heard the click of the bathroom door signal that she was alone.

      Then she moved, like an automaton, to one of the sofas, and sank onto the edge of it, staring at the flames that were leaping round the logs. Consuming them. Burning them out.

      Knowing that this could happen to her, too.

      She thought, Oh, God, I have to be careful—so careful.

      And found herself wondering if it was not already too late…

CHAPTER EIGHT

      ROME tossed the disposable razor into the waste basket and rinsed his face. As he reached for a towel he paused, staring at himself in the mirror above the basin, his eyes bleak with self-condemnation.

      Yet he couldn’t blame himself totally for the present situation, he argued. He wasn’t responsible for the weather which had stranded them here.

      And although he’d been desperate to get away from London and out of his grandfather’s aegis, he hadn’t planned to take Cory

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