Carole Mortimer Romance Collection. Carole Mortimer
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in dark suits and white shirts, but Lyon’s suit was obviously of a superior cut, his shirt silk. And that was the only similarity between the two men, Silke realised as she looked across the room at them, one being so blond, the other so dark, Lyon ten years older than the other man—and having all the assurance those years brought along with them. James had visibly started to wilt as the other man continued to look at him coldly.
‘No one has the wrong night,’ Silke said smoothly as she moved to join them near the door. ‘James was just leaving.’ She looked at him challengingly, having little sympathy for his discomfort in the face of the other man’s arrogance; he had no right to come here at all, and it was his own fault if he wasn’t exactly welcomed!
Impatient anger darkened the blue of his eyes at Silke’s obvious dismissal—reminding her all too vividly of that temper she had forgotten during the year James was out of her life, a temper she had overlooked altogether whenever she allowed herself to think of him the last year. But she remembered it all too well now, also her attempts in the past to appease that temper James had inherited from his Scottish ancestors. Well, not any more!
‘Weren’t you?’ she prompted as she held the door open pointedly.
The Cameron temper flashed again briefly in those expressive blue eyes before he quickly brought it back under control. He gave a distant nod. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ he told her evenly, not even sparing Lyon a second glance as he strode out of the flat.
Silke’s hand was shaking slightly as she closed the door behind him. My God, she had just effectively thrown James out of her flat. And her life? But he wasn’t in her life, she reminded herself forcefully; he was a married man, and of no interest to her whatsoever.
‘James?’ Lyon repeated softly, drawing her attention to him, his head tilted as he looked down at her with questioning grey eyes.
‘You’re early,’ Silke accused impatiently, having no intention of satisfying his curiosity where James was concerned.
He shook his head. ‘I arrived here at exactly seven-thirty,’ he drawled derisively.
Silke looked down at the slender watch on her wrist; it was now seven thirty-five—where had the time gone?
‘You really should learn to rotate your men in a more effective way,’ Lyon added tauntingly at her obvious surprise at the time. ‘Preferably choosing different evenings for seeing them!’
Silke’s cheeks were flushed at his open mockery. ‘James is not one of “my men”!’
‘Meaning I am?’ Lyon’s brows were raised enquiringly.
‘Of course not,’ she snapped impatiently. ‘I just meant that James was not expected here this evening at all.’ If ever!
‘James...’ Lyon repeated softly again, thoughtfully. ‘Would that be James Cameron?’ he bit out with a forcefulness that had been totally belied by his earlier mildness.
Throwing her into a false sense of security! How did he know James’s surname? She was sure she hadn’t—of course, that damned report he had on her mother; it had told him of her engagement to James. And the subsequent breaking of that engagement, she was sure. Oh, God...! Her humiliation had been bad enough at the time; she certainly didn’t need to be reminded of it by Lyon Buchanan, of all people.
Her head went back in a defiant gesture she couldn’t quite control. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and finish getting ready.’ She was still standing here in her dress and underwear and nothing else! God, no wonder he had thought— But he had no right to think anything; she wasn’t answerable to Lyon for her actions—no matter what they might be!
‘No, I won’t excuse you,’ Lyon told her firmly as he reached out and grasped her wrist in a grip that was steely. ‘You didn’t answer my question. Was that James Cameron, your ex-fiancé?’
So he did know exactly who James was! ‘And if it was?’ Her cheeks were flushed with anger, her eyes flashing deeply green as she looked up into his coldly compelling face.
‘He’s a married man,’ Lyon bit out harshly.
‘Yes.’ She still looked up at him defiantly. Why should she feel so defensive? She had done nothing wrong, and even if she had it was none of Lyon’s business.
Lyon’s eyes were icy as his gaze raked over her. ‘And that doesn’t bother you?’
‘Why should it?’ she returned dismissively. Because it did no longer bother her that James was married to someone else. For months after they had broken up she had tortured herself with thoughts of James as someone else’s husband, but tonight she had realised it simply didn’t matter any more, that she had stopped loving him a long time ago. If tonight had done nothing else, it had proved that to her.
Lyon’s grip tightened about her wrist as he pulled her up against his chest. ‘You were going to marry him once, and he married someone else,’ he cruelly reminded her.
‘We all make mistakes,’ she dismissed again. ‘Lyon, let me go!’ Her pulse was starting to race, her body to tremble, at his close proximity.
He shook his head. ‘I had started to believe I may have made a mistake about you,’ he grated. ‘But I guess not!’ His head lowered, and that cruel twist of a mouth savagely claimed hers.
It was too much, all too much. First the worry of her mother and Henry, then her earlier confrontation with Lyon, James’s unexpected visit here, and now this. It was just too much!
Lyon’s mouth was moving against hers with a determination that owed nothing to passion and everything to a contempt for her he wasn’t even trying to hide, his arms like steel bands as he moulded her body against the hardness of his, his hands running expertly up and down the curve of her spine.
Silke stood limply in his arms, offering no resistance but certainly none of the response she had known with him before either. How could she respond to what was no more than coldly clinical, a lesson in dominance that Lyon had every intention of winning? Only she wasn’t playing; she felt numb from the angry onslaught.
Finally Lyon seemed to realise she was like a rag-doll in his arms, and he raised his head to look down at her, his eyes blazing with an emotion it was difficult to define, his mouth taut with anger. ‘What is it?’ he rasped harshly, his arms still holding her firmly against him. ‘Has Cameron had all the response you’re going to give this evening?’
She wanted to snap back, to be as angry as he obviously was, but the fight had gone out of her, all her defences crashing, even anger, as she realised, looking up into Lyon’s harshly attractive face, that she was falling in love with him. With a man who had shown her nothing but anger and contempt since the moment they first met. It wasn’t just stupid, it was insane; she was insane. But a part of her yearned to know the real Lyon, the child in Lyon that had been brought up by a man who had lost the woman he loved, the young man who had grown cynical because his wealth meant more to the women he met than the man himself, this older man who obviously saw women as people to be used as he himself had been used in the past. Oh, yes, Henry had talked to her about Lyon’s childhood and his learned cynicism, but she wanted Lyon to talk to her about it, to tell her of all his pain, to... She was insane; Lyon would never talk to her of those things—because to him she was just another one of those women. Didn’t what had happened just now more than prove that?
Something of her emotions must have shown in her face, and Lyon’s expression was suddenly wary. ‘Silke?’ He frowned darkly.
‘Oh, Lyon...!’ She could have wept, for him, for herself. She was falling in love with a man who wasn’t capable of feeling love for anyone, let alone the daughter of the woman he considered a gold-digger.
‘Tears, Silke?’ His frown deepened as he looked down at her searchingly. ‘For Cameron?’
She hadn’t realised there were tears, but now she was aware of them, warm against her cheeks. For whom? Herself? Lyon? Both, probably. God, what a mess!