Tangled Destinies. SARA WOOD
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of Napoleon’s favourite bits of porcelain,’ he said drily.
‘His what?’ she scoffed. ‘Stop this endless make-believe! You can’t possibly know anything about the contents of this building! You’ve only been here…how long is it now?’
‘Long enough to know my way around,’ he answered, dodging her sly question. ‘Hope I haven’t broken anything in your cases.’ He lifted them and jiggled them around a little. ‘Chastity belt, is it?’ he asked wickedly, at a rattling sound. ‘Dear, oh, dear! What are you going to do if it’s broken?’ And he sauntered on up the stairs, leaving her steaming at his outrageous behaviour.
Since he had her luggage and the key to her room, and—she sighed—since it was up to her to get rid of him somehow she had no alternative but to follow. With the distinct impression that she was dancing to every tune he called, she stomped up the stairs so fast that she managed to draw level with him before he reached the top landing.
‘I’ve got Lisa’s present in there!’ she said angrily. ‘If you’ve ruined it, you can get a replacement. It cost——’ She bit her lip. Far too much, more than she could afford, but she was so thrilled for John and her dear friend. Distressed by his carelessness, she felt crosser than ever. ‘You’re like a hurricane!’ she bit. ‘Blasting your way through people’s lives, destroying anything in your path. You ruin everything you lay your hands on——’
‘I’ve lain hands on you a few times, heaving you out of the danger you got yourself into, and you look OK,’ he observed, giving her a rather insulting once-over. A shiver curled, unbidden, right the way through her body at the smouldering in his dark, bottomless eyes. ‘You’re all in one piece,’ he said in a soft, husky growl, ‘all the appropriate bumps in the right places——’
‘István!’ she protested, knowing she must be pillar-box red by now. Her blushes had even heated through to her loins and that had never happened before. But then no other man had ever shaken her out of her comfortable, ordered world. ‘Don’t talk like that!’ she said crossly.
‘I’m trying to wake you up to the truth as gently as possible,’ he said mildly.
‘No,’ she said stubbornly. ‘You’ve got to be my brother. Stop tormenting me like this——’
They turned down the long landing and István put an arm around her shoulders. As she shrugged it off irritably, she saw a flutter of a guest’s white skirt as a door ahead shut abruptly.
‘You’re looking a little flushed,’ he crooned.
‘I’m angry,’ she seethed.
‘Anger, is it? I thought I might have reached some…soft centre, some responsive core of that gorgeous body.’
She gasped. ‘Stop it!’ she grated.
‘When I do,’ he said softly, ‘you’ll wish I were still talking.’
She stumbled. The evidence was increasingly stacked against the fact that István was her brother. ‘Don’t touch me!’ she snapped, when his warm hand steadied her. Her pulses had started a riot all of their own. Some of them had decided to throb in her throat, where he could see them. So she clenched her jaw together and tried desperately not to think of István’s beautiful, wicked mouth.
‘You’ll grind down to the gums if you don’t give your feelings some release,’ he murmured.
Her almond eyes slanted viciously at his laughing face and away again, hastily. He was too darn handsome! Too arrogant. Too…impossible! ‘I don’t think so,’ she said frostily, determined to stop him trying to dent her armour with sly insinuations and outrageous teasing. ‘For your information, there’s a core of steel all the way through me.’
‘Malleable stuff, steel,’ he ruminated, nodding towards a medieval breast-plate on the tapestry-hung wall to illustrate his words. ‘It’s strong and cold to the touch, of course. But build up a fire hot enough underneath it, and when it reaches melting point…’ His eyes glimmered. ‘Now there’s a thought!’ he exclaimed. ‘Some man could come along and mould you to any shape he wants!’
Irritated by the way he twisted things to his own purpose, she gave a derisive laugh. ‘I’m well aware that’s what you’re trying to do to all of us,’ she snapped. ‘But this time we’re wise to you. If you’ve come——’
‘Maybe I’m a reformed character, come to make my peace,’ he said quietly, with a sideways glance at her grim profile.
Her astonished glance caught his and was momentarily trapped before she summoned up enough willpower to look.away, unable to withstand the alarmingly intense message of warmth there.
She gave her head a little shake, frantic to dispel the terrible thoughts that crowded her head. Her eyes skimmed the dauntingly broad shoulders, the swell of his chest with its bunched muscles, the narrow hips
‘I ride,’ he said suddenly.
Tanya jumped, startled. ‘Should I be interested?’ she retorted guiltily.
‘You were staring at my body,’ he said, deceptively as mild as milk. ‘I thought you were wondering how I kept fit. Am I mistaken? Were you staring because you feel attracted to me?’ he suggested wickedly.
‘Of course not!’ she cried, hot and bothered by the mere idea. Questions hovered on her lips—were almost blurted out. But a fear held her back. She was afraid to learn that her parents had lived a lie, that her father in particular had betrayed his strict adherence to truth and honesty.
‘Well, then.’ He smiled and paused, still smiling. If he were a woman, she thought in exasperation, she’d call it a full Mona Lisa effort. An ‘I have plans for you’ smile. ‘As my clothes aren’t special enough to fascinate you for the prolonged assessment you were giving me, and since you strenuously deny a sexual interest, your…intent scrutiny,’ he said insolently, ‘must be because you’re wondering if I’m a fitness freak. The answer is that I indulge myself in almost every sport I can,’ he told her in a conversational tone. ‘I like to keep supple because I need strength and stamina. Perhaps I’d better not tell you what for.’
‘No. I’d rather you didn’t,’ she agreed with enough frost injected in her voice to burn peach-blossom.
Strength, suppleness, stamina. She thought of the ease with which he’d lifted her when they’d met outside the castle and then more wistfully of the occasions in the past when he’d tossed her in the air to banish her tears. He’d barely tolerated her following him on his lonely walks like a devoted puppy. Yet if ever she got stuck in a bog on the moorland or fell into the river he’d always be there, whisking her up, tending to her injuries and heaving her on his shoulder with a half-irritated, half-amused sigh and bearing her back to where her sisters played together, oblivious to her adventures.
But she’d been younger then and it was before his domination of the Evans family had begun in earnest. Which reminded her.
‘Are you here to make trouble?’ she persisted, while he jiggled a heavy iron key in the brass lock of a room labelled ‘Madách’.
‘Of course!’ he said airily, as if that went without saying. ‘Ring a few bells, expose old wounds to the air——’
‘Break a heart or two,’ she ventured apprehensively.
He paused and thought for a moment. ‘Break into one, perhaps,’ he acknowledged slowly and she felt her spine become a pillar of ice at the thought of the vulnerable Lisa and her dear, lovesick brother. ‘You’re honoured. I have a feeling this is one of the best rooms in the hotel,’ István went on in a conversational tone and opening the door, ‘because it’s named after a famous writer——’
‘Whose heart?’ she said huskily, not interested in a lecture on Hungarian notables.
There was a brief silence while he appeared to be considering his words. In placing her cases