Baby By Accident(8)

Looking around, she spotted her clothes piled neatly on a chenille-cushioned chair. On trembling legs and arms, she crawled to them and pulled the pile down.

Shirt. Skirt. Jacket. Shoes.

No underwear.

Cursing silently, she searched behind the chair, under the bed. Nothing. With her luck, her bra was probably wrapped around his leg and her panties were clinging to his toes. Who knew where her stockings were. The thought of Vico Mattare eyeing her lacy, sexy underwear and drawing his usual sexist conclusions was enough to stain every inch of her skin in a hot, horrid blush.

Damn the man. Damn him for doing this to her.

Her conscience blasted her back. It hadn't been all him. True, he’d dragged her here, wherever here was. Yet she’d been the one to get drunk and thus give him the opportunity to sweep her into his arms.

The memory burned her hide, but she had to admit she’d put herself in the position.

Even worse, she’d been the instigator in this bed. She’d been the one to start touching. She'd said yes. Quite clearly. Quite completely. She’d known exactly what she’d been doing. The alcohol haze had been gone. No, she’d be honest enough with herself to admit it.

If only to herself.

To him? Never. Let him feel guilt when he awoke. Guilt that he’d taken advantage of a woman. If he was capable of the emotion, which she highly doubted.

Don't think about this now. Get out of here.

She dressed in seconds, the wool of her skirt scratching her skin, the linen of her blouse tight around her breasts because of the lack of her bra. Lise slipped on her pumps, grimacing as she had to push her feet in without the sleek stockings easing the way.

She took one last glance at the bed.

Unwillingly, unwanted the memory came. The dream no longer a misty fantasy. The lover no longer unreal. The feeling of his fiery taking, of the unbelievable pleasure she'd felt as he slipped inside her, were as vivid and startling as any reality she'd ever experienced.

She would never forget this.

She would never forgive him.

Tiptoeing out of the bedroom, she took a deep breath of release as his purr diminished, then disappeared. She came to a stairway, modern and chic in its design. The stairs swept her down into the foyer.

A gasp escaped her. This? This was his home?

The place wasn't him. The furniture, the décor, the impression didn't fit the image she'd developed during these last months as she’d studied her enemy.

Early morning sunlight slid through the filmy floor-length curtains, splashing a cheery light across the rooms. The flat offered a warm welcome. The open layout provided her a view of the living area and the kitchen. Copper pots hung from the kitchen walls and glass-fronted cabinets were filled with colorful china and shiny crystal. The room held a vast array of books and the walls were lined in vivid artwork. Pale pine-wood floors shone under the cover of several antique oriental rugs.

This wasn’t a bachelor pad designed to impress the ladies.

This was a home.

She'd seen enough to confuse her. Add this to the complex emotions and memories pounding in her brain, and the top of her head threatened to explode. She had no memory of coming here last night. How embarrassing. Her imagination provided a revolting picture of him holding her in his arms, laughing at her drunken state as he threw her onto his bed.

He’d taken off her clothes and looked.

Of course he had.

The heat of her blushes could power a steam engine down the tracks.

She hated him. Hated, hated, hated him.

Because she knew, as sure as she knew her own name, he'd done it to prove a point. To get one over her. Not because he truly desired her or thought well of her or wanted her. What awaited her in the office the next time she confronted him would be horrifying.

Don't think about this. Not now.

Her purse lay on a lovely antique oak table standing in the hallway. She grabbed it, jerked around, and opened the front door.

The door thudded behind her as she raced to the elevator.

Stumbling from the lift, she crossed the elegant lobby, stepped out onto the street and immediately realized where she stood. Chelsea. Bohemian and foreign and artistic and flamboyant. Also, a place for only the wealthy to live. She loved this area, came here often to shop and eat, enjoying the free-spirited crowds and funky shops and eateries. She supposed it wasn't surprising she'd found her way to this area last night after the debacle with Robert. Perhaps she’d thought the joy of the place would find a way to fix her broken heart.

The fact that Vico Mattare had picked this place to live stunned her. She’d pictured him in some high-rise penthouse overlooking the financial district. Or in one of those new estates popping up on the outskirts of the city.

Get away from here.

Right. Hugging her purse to her side, she walked in a swift gait up the street, quiet, cool, and deserted in the early March morning. She got her bearings and within minutes, she found herself on the Tube heading for home.