The Determined Virgin. Daphne Clair
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bring this along for you.’
With no real choice, she mounted the steps, conscious of his footsteps behind her.
When he’d stowed the box in the back of her station wagon he asked, ‘Anything else I can do for you?’
‘No. Thank you, you’ve done enough.’
‘Ow!’ he said softly.
‘I didn’t mean…’
He laughed, and Rhiannon said quickly, ‘It was kind of you and I appreciate it.’
‘That’s generous, since I caused you to get hurt.’
‘No, it wasn’t your fault.’ Considering his spectacular good looks, any other woman would surely have gracefully accepted his initial offer of help. Instead of falling over her feet in an effort to get away.
‘Is there someone to help you unload them?’ he asked her, indicating the tiles.
‘Yes.’ Not giving any more information, she opened the driver’s door and climbed in.
His expression rueful, he closed the door for her, raised a casual hand and stepped back.
Glancing in the rear-vision mirror as she entered the ramp to the lower level, she saw he was still watching.
As the station wagon disappeared down the ramp, Gabriel Hudson shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked briefly on his heels.
Nice one, Hudson. Not up to your usual style.
Not that he was in the habit of picking up females in car parks, but he’d seldom been brushed off so unequivocally. Even before he’d bought out a failing business for a song, changed its name and built it up to the rank of one of New Zealand’s top private companies, he’d been spoiled for choice as far as female companionship was concerned. His looks were both an asset and an occasional embarrassment. They didn’t usually scare women off.
The instant he’d stepped into the lift this one had scurried into a corner without making eye contact, allowing him to study her for a moment or two before she looked up and caught him.
She’d seemed startled then—large green eyes, slightly almond-shaped but enormous and wary as a cat’s, fixed on him for a long second, unpainted lips parting on a quickly indrawn breath. Tempting lips—their outlines very feminine and well-defined, the tender flesh blush-pink.
Shining mahogany hair cut in a deceptively simple style kissed petal-smooth skin with a faint dusky-rose bloom that had disappeared alarmingly into a deathly pallor when she hurt herself. The box she’d carried had partly hidden her figure, but her plain skirt had been just short enough to reveal nicely shaped legs.
She’d looked away again immediately, the soft lips firmly pressing together, and he’d seen the taut line of her throat ripple as she swallowed, her eyes fixing on the lighted floor numbers as if she could will them to change faster.
He’d felt a throb of desire, surprising himself with the adolescent reaction to a passing stranger. His impulse to help carry the heavy box wasn’t entirely altruistic. He hadn’t planned seduction on the staircase, but he’d had an odd reluctance to just let her walk away. That single glance in the elevator had intrigued him.
He shouldn’t have touched her. That was what had made her jump like a startled fawn and trip on the stair.
Remembering her white face, the green eyes darkened with shock, the lovely mouth pale and tight, he swore under his breath.
He’d blown his chances there, for sure. Making a woman almost pass out with pain wasn’t exactly calculated to endear a man to her.
After that there had been little he could do but see her safely to her car and forget about the disastrous encounter.
Rhiannon drove carefully, aware that her rapidly stiffening arm wouldn’t stand too much strain. Her shoulder muscles were tense, and when a traffic light stopped the car she snatched the chance to practise a deep-breathing exercise, and deliberately loosened her grip on the steering wheel, flexing her fingers.
Curling them again about the vinyl, she had a clear memory of the stranger’s hand on hers, strong yet not threatening. And of his eyes, that seemed to change disconcertingly from glittering silver-grey to the blue of a winter morning sky, promising warmth to come. When she’d first caught him looking at her they’d been idly appreciative, then apologetic and concerned, but later uncomfortably curious and perceptive.
The lights changed and she put her foot down, charging across the intersection before she thought to ease back on the accelerator.
She was…unsettled. On edge. A strange fluttering sensation attacked her midriff, and at her throat a pulse beat erratically. She felt warm all over and oddly weakened.
The fall, of course, had shaken her up. It would take a little while to get over it.
At the old villa in Mount Albert that she shared with another young woman, she removed a few tiles at a time from the box and carried them to the high-ceilinged former bedroom she’d converted to a home studio.
In future she’d be able to do some of her smaller artwork at her new gallery in the heart of the city, but her current commission was for a fairly large triptych. The mesh backing was laid out on the bare wooden floor, the design already partly filled in.
After stowing the tiles, she inspected her elbow and pressed a cold compress to the obvious swelling. Later her housemate, a nurse in a private hospital, insisted on prodding the arm gently and moving it about. ‘Nothing broken, probably,’ Janette agreed cheerfully, ‘but maybe you should get it checked out.’
Rhiannon shook her head. ‘If it doesn’t get better,’ she promised.
After dinner she wrapped the tiles in newspaper and smashed them with a hammer, left-handed, quelling a familiar inner pang at the destruction. As she’d told the stranger in the car park, most of them were already damaged, scavenged with permission from the demolition team knocking down a city building.
Fitting some of the pieces into the triptych, she soon found regret disappearing in the satisfaction of creation.
The following Friday she was entering the ground floor of the parking building when a man’s deep, leisurely voice sent a tingle of recognition up her spine. The Greek god.
‘Hello again.’ Catching up with her, he slanted her a smile. ‘How’s the arm?’ He looked down at it, revealed by the short-sleeved, easy-fitting beige cotton dress she wore.
‘All right, thanks,’ she answered warily, before remembering to return the smile.
‘You still have a bruise.’ It had passed the worst stage but a purple shadow remained. A long masculine finger briefly brushed the faint mark, making her flinch as a curious sensation feathered over her skin.
‘Sorry!’ he said, surprised grey-blue eyes meeting hers. ‘Is it that tender?’
‘No.’ Rhiannon shied sideways, creating a space between them as he walked beside her.
He sent her a quizzical look. ‘Then—I apologise for taking liberties.’
‘It’s all right,’ she said coolly. Such a fleeting, scarcely felt touch couldn’t be construed as an assault, or even an advance of any kind. Many people touched casually, naturally, with no suggestion of intimacy.
She headed for the stairs, and he commented, ‘Not taking the lift?’
Rhiannon shook her head. Rather than admit to a phobia, she gave her usual excuse. ‘Climbing stairs helps to keep me fit.’
He swerved to accompany her. ‘It obviously works.’ He cast a glinting glance over her.
Every nerve screamed. Rhiannon looked away and didn’t answer.
‘Another apology?’ he inquired softly, climbing at her side.
She