All at once she was having trouble with her breathing; her heart was hammering so insistently against her chest, it seemed impossible that he wouldn't hear. And standing so close, so close that she was aware of the heat emanating from his body, she was forced to press her fingernails into the palms of her hands to stop them from reaching out. The desire was so strong, near irresistible, and... the lift was stopping.
'But...' There was more than a hint of desperation in her manner as her eyes searched the control panel. 'But we're not at ground level.'
'No, this is my floor. I can pick up an umbrella.' As if nature was on his side a sudden gust swirled about the building; she could have sworn it moved, but... 'I can even lend you a raincoat, if that would help.'
Her will was shot to pieces, which would explain why she followed him along the corridor, watched him slip the key into the lock then stand aside for her to go first, which she did meekly.
How warm and peaceful it felt-and safe. Thick carpets cushioned their feet, table-lamps with pink shades cast a soft glow; she had an impression of a few water-colours on the walls and there was even music, faint, disturbing, sensuous and utterly distracting-Rachmaninov, brushing at her nerve-endings as raw silk might till she felt... She couldn't even have explained what she felt, except that her blood was afire, and she was thinking he had the most beautiful mouth ever seen on...
'Leigh.' It was the merest sigh in her ears; she would not even have said he had spoken, though her eyes, wide and luminous, searched his face, then, not answering, she swayed towards him.
There was this soft, susurrant sound in her throat, pain mixed with pleasure, and her eyelids drifted closed, allowing her imagination to run riot. She was drowning in the remembered sensation of fingertips moving over warm, smooth skin. It hadn't died, that first intoxicating wonder that anything so frankly male should be so smooth, so...so utterly beguiling. And then a flicker of shadowy eyelids and she could confirm that this was no dream. If she wanted, all she had to do was reach out, stroke...
'Leigh.' Now there was no doubt. Who else had ever used her name with that throbbing, wondering intensity? Who else? She shivered a little as the hands traversed the length of her arms, circled the delicate wrists, raised her palms, kissed each in turn. Then-and how often they had exclaimed at the perfection of this-he inclined her body into the accommodating curve of his.
And his mouth... An aching sob escaped her lips as his brushed them once or twice, then she tried briefly, hopelessly, to snatch at her emotions, which were spiralling out of control. Then, failing, she surrendered completely, caught his head between her palms, stopping the unbearable teasing movements, holding him there as slowly, slowly, she allowed her lips to part, offering the access which it was now impossible to refuse.
'Leigh?' Now his breathing was fast, exciting, and the dark eyes repeated the question so apparent in the way he spoke her name. And there was a tiny frown, a faint pulling together of eyebrows, a fierce intensity about him, as if he was determined to brand her image on to his psyche.
And she, light-years from her carefully nurtured discretion, replied with one word-his name, uttered on a note of sighing longing, her violet eyes hazy and signalling the total submission which was all that was in her mind. 'Patrick.' And she laid her head against his chest.
A split-second passed, as if time had been arrested, then, with no risk of misunderstanding, he swept her up and strode towards one of the doors, which was shouldered open. Only as they reached the bedside did he begin to release her, allowing her feet almost to touch the floor, suspended in intimate contact with his body.
'You're sure?' He spoke with exquisite concern and tenderness but she couldn't reply, not with one hand brushing down her cheek, the other circling her throat-but then there was no need. All that was needed she did, reaching out with trembling impatient fingers to unfasten the buttons of his shirt, to trail through that scatter of curling black hair, to pick up in the sensitive tips the throbbing of his pulses which seemed such an echo of her own. Then, at last, she leaned forward to press the softness of her cheek against the warm flesh, to explore its contours with her mouth.
His hands travelled the length of her spine, fingers dealing swiftly with awkward clips and fastenings, and she felt herself succumbing completely to a blur of pleasure as the delicate blouse was eased from her shoulders. She moaned as their bodies moved together in a contact which was building up her fevered excitement. She had forgotten... Eyes half closed, she tried for a split-second to be detached. She had forgotten, or more likely she had deliberately banished from her memory, the sheer magic of this activity with this man. Even the most abandoned dream could never begin to reach the peak of pure sensation she was experiencing now. All she wanted was for him to... 'Patrick.' The sigh was a blatant entreaty.
'Leigh.' His reply was a promise as the last restrictive garments fell to the floor and he lifted her up, placing her on the bed, gazing down for a moment before joining her there. 'You can have no idea...'
But words faded, the world faded; all senses were drifting, drowning on a tide of sheer delight, while the notes of the romantic Russian prelude were being branded on two souls.
CHAPTER FOUR
WHEN she woke in the dimness of the strange bedroom, stark naked and barely covered with a sheet, Leigh's mind went blank, eyes moving with feverish panic about the walls as she tried to identify the room. Then, as signals in her brain began to click, she drew in one sudden fearful breath, lay perfectly still for a moment, before slowly turning her head on the pillow, biting back a cry of denial directed towards the powerful predator. Just then Patrick stirred, one dark hand reaching out towards her before falling back, fingers curving within inches of her arm.
Scarcely breathing, she lay there, watching the even rise and fall of the broad chest, a potent surge low in her stomach reminding her of the delicious sensation of touch, how it had given him such pleasure. His throaty sounds of delight were still echoing in her brain, and a scalding heat on her skin emphasised her admission that the reverse was equally true. Each time his fingers had skimmed, touched, tantalised, she had cried aloud at the intensity of it, arching against him in a shameless search for fulfilment.
And that was what she had attained. He had made sure of it for her, though that had been unnecessary the first time-that fierce instantaneous joining had left no time for the coaxing languorous wonder which had come later, taking her to such peaks of glorious moaning delight. Even thinking of it now in the chill light of dawn made her feel weak and shivery, and she brought one hand up in a slow, exploratory sweep of her body in a desire to capture those elusive sensations.
Anger stabbed unexpectedly. Not that it should have happened, and she would never be able to explain why it had. Such behaviour was so entirely out of character. Leaving the security of Holly's flat upstairs, she had been totally in control of her actions; she might even have felt slightly irritated that she had been in some clever way coerced into a situation which would involve her yet again with the man she was so anxious to avoid, slightly resentful of the matchmaking plans she suspected her friend had been brewing.
But quite apart from that she'd had no suspicion of how vulnerable she was. She had been perfectly confident of walking into his hall to pick up an umbrella, walking out and along to the taxi-rank and back to the company flat. But, instead, a touch of his hand and she had been swept into the powerful whirlpool of emotions that he had always been able to produce... A quizzically raised eyebrow, a finger-touch on her inner wrist or at the nape of her neck and...
She was mortified, filled with self-disgust. So many years of abstinence-what on earth could have possessed her? She brushed angrily at a tear. Probably the music; she had always been a sucker for that particular piece of Rachmaninov... Possibly... her brain was whirling... the sensual assault had lowered her resistance and...
It was all so contrived. That conclusion came to her in a rush. It was so sordid. He must have known she was to be the guest at Holly's last night-they must have mentioned her name, or even a few hints would have been enough for him to reach the right answer. So the scene had been carefully set, the trap baited, and she... she had fallen in. Ugh.