'Nice cat,' Randal said, scratching behind Samson's ear. 'I like the way your kitchen is laid out; the colour scheme is very cheerful. It must be a pleasure to come in here on winter mornings.'
'You aren't planning to make me an offer for the place, are you?' she tartly enquired, and he gave her a teasing grin.
'I'm just curious about how you live. I'm trying to imagine you here. Are you always alone, or does the fiancé spend some nights here with you?'
Hot blood ran up her face. 'I told you, I'm not discussing Tom or our relationship with you!'
His grey eyes probed her face. 'You don't sleep with him, do you?' He sounded cool enough, yet something in the way he stood, body tense and alert, made her nervous. She wished she knew what he was thinking, what he was planning.
'None of your business!'
He took a step towards her and suddenly she was terrified. Turning on her heel, she ran out, up the stairs, into her bedroom and bolted the door. Sinking down on her bed, she listened; would he come up here or leave?
There wasn't a sound. No footsteps on the stairs, no movement in the passage outside the door.
He must still be downstairs. Or he could have gone, let himself out of the front door soundlessly.
She swivelled to pick up a hairbrush from her dressing table and brushed her gleaming chestnut hair; it was in disarray after the drive, with the wind blowing through the open window. Getting up, she looked in her wardrobe for something to change into when she had had her shower and chose a pale green tunic dress which ended at the knees. Simple but stylish, it was one of Tom's favourites among her clothes.
She opened drawers, found clean lingerie, laid it all on her bedside cabinet, then went to the door and listened with her ear against the panel.
Still silence. She carefully opened the door and froze in shock, finding Randal leaning there; in a second he was halfway into the room and she fell back, breathless.
'Go away!'
His gaze ran round the room, absorbing the delicate pastel colours of the walls, the pretty curtains which matched exactly the cover over her bed, the pink carpet and the white and gilt furniture.
'Charming. Did you say you decorated it all yourself?'
'Go away,' she repeated, her heart in her mouth. 'I don't want you here.' He was taller than she remembered, his head towering over her in this little room, the masculine force of his physical presence disturbing.
'Why did you come upstairs, if you didn't want me to follow you? You knew I would.'
She gave him an icy, resentful look. 'I was hoping you would take the hint and leave my house.'
'You aren't a very convincing liar, Pippa,' he mocked, coming nearer, his grey eyes wandering possessively over her. 'Were you going to take your clothes off? Don't let me stop you.' Leaning over, he picked up a filmy white slip from the cabinet 'I can't wait to see you wearing this.'
'No,' she whispered, shuddering at the way he was looking at her.
'Yes,' he silkily said, dropping the slip and reaching for her at the same moment.
She couldn't breathe, her throat painful, making a sound somewhere between a sob and a groan. She wanted him and at the same time was afraid of him. Inside her desire and fear fought, but desire was winning and she knew it.
'Don't,' she begged, her legs giving way under her, and he picked her up bodily and carried her to the bed.
Her eyes closed, she arched helplessly towards him as he kissed her with sensuous insistence, his hands exploring, caressing. She lost all consciousness of what he was doing, her own instincts driving her. She needed to touch him, open his shirt and discover the power of his naked flesh and muscle, clasp his nape and stroke his hair. She had dreamt of doing this, over and over again, and now she was doing it.
Above her she felt the ragged beating of his heart, his skin on hers.
Confusion flooded her mind-how could she feel his skin on hers? Opening her eyes, she looked down and realised he had undressed her somehow; she was naked, her slip, her bra and panties all gone. While she had been preoccupied with touching him he had been stripping her.
'Pippa,' he moaned, burying his head between her breasts, kissing the deep cleft.
He was naked, too, she realised in shock. He must have taken off his own clothes as well as hers-how had he done that without her knowing what was happening?
Or hadn't she wanted to know?
His mouth closed over her breast, drawing a nipple inside the warm wetness, sucking softly.
Pleasure overwhelmed her, her arms went round him, holding him closer; she stroked his long, naked back and felt his knees nudging her thighs apart, his body sliding between them.
'I want you badly,' Randal groaned, and at that instant she heard a muffled sound from the door.
Stiffening, she raised herself to look past Randal. He turned his head, too.
Tom stood in the open doorway, face rigid, grey, staring.
CHAPTER FOUR
The silence seemed endless. Pippa wished she would fall through the floor; she couldn't meet Tom's eyes. She was icy cold, shivering and sick in spite of the warmth of Randal's body lying on top of her, hiding much of her nakedness.
What could she say to him?
Even worse, what was Tom going to say to her?
In fact, he said nothing, simply turned on his heel and walked out without a word, although his body language was very vocal: the stiffness of his back, the way his head was carried, the way his arms were held, his hands clenched at his sides.
Randal whistled softly. 'Oh, dear. I suppose he has a key? And let himself in? If he'd had the good manners to ring the bell first we'd have had time to get our clothes on again before he walked in here. He didn't even call out, just came upstairs without warning, so he only has himself to blame for what he saw.'
Rage and resentment filled her. 'Don't you dare try to shift the blame to him! I've no doubt Tom was trying to be thoughtful. He'd been told I was ill-he didn't want to force me to get out of bed and come downstairs to let him in!'
She roughly pushed him off and scrambled out of bed, pulled on her clothes with hands that trembled while Randal watched her lazily, lying on his side, the afternoon sun gleaming on his smooth, naked shoulders, his lids half lowered.
She tried to ignore him but even now her stupid body went on reacting to his, her mouth dry, her pulses hammering. Why was it that she never felt like this about Tom? Tom was physically attractive, he was a wonderful companion, she liked him-but she couldn't pretend he made her as aware as Randal could just by being there in the same room.
'At least you won't have to work out how to tell him!' he drawled.
It didn't help that he was right She snapped back, 'There's nothing to tell!'
'Oh, come on, Pippa! It's time to stop lying-to him or yourself. He'll expect some sort of explanation! After all, as far as he knows you and I have never met. You hadn't told him about me, had you? He didn't react to my name when I gave it to him that night so I knew you hadn't told him about me. Yet when he walked in here five minutes ago he caught us making love! How are you going to talk your way out of that?'
She had no idea. 'I hate you!' she whispered before hurrying out of the room and running downstairs.
She found Tom on the point of going, his back to her, the front door wide open.
'Don't just go, Tom,' she said shakily. 'We must talk. I'm very sorry. I know how angry you must be, but … '
He turned to stare at her as if he had never seen her before. 'Angry?' he repeated in a low voice. 'Shattered, Pippa. I'm absolutely shattered. You, of all people, behaving like … like that.' His mouth writhed in distaste. 'I'd have taken an oath on it that you weren't capable of being promiscuous. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes I'd never have believed it.'
She bit down on her lower lip, said in a smothered sob, 'I know, I'm sorry.'
Tom looked down at the floor, face tense, then walked past her into the sitting room. Pippa closed the front door and followed him. As she appeared he turned on her and grated, 'Who is he?'
She was startled-hadn't he recognised Randal? She had been certain he must have done, but of course Tom had only seen him briefly, in the dark, and he had been in shock, himself, after the accident.
'Randal Harding,' she prompted, but Tom's face remained blank.
Then he said slowly, 'I've heard that name before somewhere. Does he work at the office?'
She shook her head, 'No. The car crash the other night, remember?
Tom stared, eyes widening. 'The car crash? My God, yes, you're right-feat was the name of the fellow whose car hit ours.' He brushed his pale hair back, forehead creased, visibly thinking back. 'But … I don't understand … You didn't even speak to him that night; you stayed in the car. Don't tell me he came here today and talked his way in?' His voice deepened. 'Did he attack you? Is that what was happening just now? Was he trying to … ? Pippa, what did he do to you?'