No Place For Love. SUSANNE MCCARTHY
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we do,’ he ground out, taking the key from her. ‘As you may be aware, the newspapers have discovered your relationship with my stepfather.’
‘I told you last night, I don’t have a relationship with your... Look out!’
He didn’t heed her warning, and as he pushed the door open he found himself mobbed by an overexcited bundle of fur, not sure whether to attack him or try to lick his face.
‘Khan—down!’ Lacey instructed sharply, afraid that if her dog ran to meet her he would cut his paws on the broken glass. She hurriedly shooed him back inside, catching her open umbrella on the door and muttering more impatient curses.
Jon calmly took it from her, shaking off the raindrops and closing it down as he followed her into the passage. ‘Sit,’ he instructed Khan imperiously.
To Lacey’s absolute astonishment, the delinquent hound immediately responded by plopping his back end down on the floor, his front paws neatly together, his whole expression conveying smug pride in his own uncharacteristic obedience.
‘Good lord—how on earth did you get him to do that?’ she queried, forgetting all her wariness in her surprise.
Just for a moment; a smile flickered at the corners of his hard mouth, and Lacey felt her heart give an odd little flutter; that smile was quite startlingly attractive. But she couldn’t afford to let herself think like that, she reminded herself sharply.
‘Well, you’d better come in,’ she remarked, the inflection of sarcasm in her voice acknowledging that he had already done so.
‘Thank you.’ He closed the front door behind him. Khan, evidently deciding he was a friend, was fawning at his feet, his rump in the air, his curly tail wagging wildly. ‘What exactly is this?’ he enquired, restraining the exuberant hound as he reared up to seal their relationship with his floppy pink tongue.
‘He’s an Afghan hound,’ she informed him, dumping the dog food on the kitchen table.
‘Is that a fact?’ He followed her into the kitchen. ‘I’d have taken him for a mobile hearthrug.’
Lacey had to suppress ruthlessly the inclination to feel that anyone who could win Khan’s adoration so swiftly couldn’t be all bad—she could hardly rely on that brainless mutt as a judge of character, she reminded herself with a flash of wry humour.
She slanted him a wary glance from beneath her lashes. The memory of last night was still all too vivid in her mind, and although nothing in his manner now suggested that he was planning a repetition, she wasn’t at all sure she should have let him across the threshold. She was going to have to handle the situation very carefully, avoid doing anything that he might take as further confirmation of the conclusion he had leapt to so readily last night; at least having her own clothes on should give her a little more confidence.
‘Take a seat,’ she invited stiffly.
‘No, thank you,’ he responded in clipped tones. ‘I won’t be staying more than a few moments.’
Biting back a sharp retort, she shrugged her slender shoulders in a gesture of pure indifference. ‘Suit yourself,’ she returned breezily. ‘But first I’m going to have to go and clear up that mess outside, before someone hurts themselves.’
Without waiting for him to answer, she took the dustpan and brush from the cupboard under the sink and, stepping briskly past him, went out to the step to sweep up the broken glass. The rain had already washed the milk away, and it was running down into the gutter in a long white stream. She was going to have to go out and get another bottle now, or there wouldn’t be enough for breakfast—thanks to that damned man.
But at least those few minutes had given her some valuable time to compose herself. When she went back inside, he was sitting at the kitchen table, and although she tried to ignore him she was conscious of those dark eyes following her as she carefully tipped the shards of glass into an empty cornflake packet so that the sharp edges wouldn’t be dangerous, before stowing them neatly in the dustbin, and putting the dustpan and brush away.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she offered, shrugging off her outdoor coat and tossing it across a chair.
He shook his head. ‘No, thank you.’
‘I could make you coffee instead?’ If he was going to be churlish, she would retaliate with an excess of good manners.
His eyes flickered with something that could almost have been amusement, and he conceded a terse nod. ‘Black, no sugar.’
She smiled sweetly, reflecting that he was fortunate she had no arsenic to put in it. She took her time about making the drinks, forcing herself to maintain that façade of cool indifference to his presence. It wasn’t easy; she was quite used to having the kitchen filled with handsome hunks of male—Hugo’s friends from the polytechnic, or the others in his all-male dance troupe. But there was something distinctly different about this man; he seemed to dominate his surroundings without any conscious effort.
The kettle boiled, and she made the drinks, bringing them over to the kitchen table, and sitting down opposite him. ‘So—what was it you wanted to talk about?’ she enquired, regarding him levelly across the table.
‘Have you spoken to any reporters from the Sunday Beacon?’ he demanded without preamble.
‘They’ve been here,’ she responded cautiously.
‘I see.’ His expression was grim. ‘And did you give them an interview?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
He eyed her with frank scepticism. ‘Did they offer you money?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact they did,’ she informed him loftily. ‘And I turned it down.’
That hard mouth curved into a faint sneer. ‘Not quite enough for you, was it?’ he taunted.
Her violet-blue eyes flashed with anger. ‘Just what do you think gives you the right to come round here insulting me?’ she exploded hotly. ‘Just because I’m not rich and powerful like you, that doesn’t mean you can treat me like a piece of dirt.’
‘You placed yourself in that position when you chose to begin an affair with my stepfather,’ he countered scathingly. ‘You can hardly expect me to treat you like a lady.’
She felt a sudden urgent desire to throw her hot tea in his face, and had to force herself to put down her cup, her hand shaking slightly. ‘Have you asked Clive about this so-called affair?’ she asked, her voice very controlled.
‘Naturally—and, like you, he denied it. Unfortunately, my stepfather’s denials tend to have a rather hollow ring after all these years. And if I had had any remaining trace of doubt,’ he added, letting his eyes drift down to the firm, round swell of her breasts and linger there with deliberate insolence, ‘it would have been very thoroughly eliminated last night.’
Lacey could feel her heart beating faster, and was uncomfortably aware that beneath her pale blue sweater her tender nipples were ripening to hard nubs, as if in some kind of instinctive response to his dominating male presence. ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference what I’d done,’ she countered defensively. ‘You’d already made up your mind about me before you even came to the theatre.’
‘True,’ he conceded, a cynical twist to his mouth. ‘I’d already heard a great deal about you from Ted Gardiner’s wife—she happens to be my cousin. You really don’t care what sort of harm you do, so long as you get what you want, do you? I have to admit, you’re a very tempting baggage. But if you had any ideas of adding me to your list of conquests, I’m afraid you’re in for a disappointment—the thought of touching you after Clive’s had his paws on you is rather more than I can stomach.’
‘Oh? You didn’t give that impression last night,’ she threw at him in ragged desperation.
He laughed without humour. ‘Put that down to... curiosity,’ he conceded.