Revenge is Sweet: Getting Even. Sharon Kendrick
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gave a tiny moan of submission, her hands winding themselves luxuriously around his neck as she allowed him to press her even closer, so that she could feel the thundering of his heart against the softness of her breasts.
She could feel the tips of her nipples tingling with the need to have him touch them, could feel the honeyed ache begin to tug deep at the heart of her, and she must have moved her hips restlessly against him in some silent, unconscious plea for she felt him stiffen with tension.
‘Oh, Lola,’ he breathed indistinctly against her mouth. ‘I want you. Dear God, how I want you.’
The bald words ripped into the falsely romantic little saga which Lola had been busy constructing for herself, and she forced herself to tear her lips away from his, pulling herself out of his arms and staring at him in accusation.
‘And you think that’s all it takes?’
He frowned. ‘What?’
‘You know what!’
‘I do?’
‘Yes, you do! Or rather you think you do!’ Lola glared at him. ‘You want to go to bed with me—but you start leaping on me before we’ve even eaten our main course or our pudding! Why, of all the cheap behaviour!’ she stormed, as angry with herself as she was with him. Talk about behaving like a complete walkover!
‘I think we should go and find somewhere quieter to discuss this,’ he murmured, with a swift sideways glance at the rapt diners who were still watching them. ‘Don’t you?’
‘I’ll bet you do! And let me guess where you’re about to suggest! Your bedroom? Or mine?’
He gave her a look of outraged mockery. ‘Do keep your voice down, Lola—I have my reputation to think of!’
The remark was enough to bring her crashing back to her senses. As if the whole room had suddenly shifted into sharp focus, Lola became aware of the silence in the restaurant, of the knowing smirks as people watched them.
She noted the direction of Geraint’s dark gaze as his eyes drifted to then lingered insolently on the swell of her breasts against the thin, butter-coloured silk, and she wondered whether the other diners could see the blatant thrust of her nipples as desire hardened them into painfully sensitive nubs.
She lifted her palms to her flaming cheeks for one agonised and distracted moment, then something of her normal spirit returned and she rounded on him briefly, her eyes spitting angry, cold, sapphire sparks at him.
‘Next time you ask a woman out to dinner,’ she drawled sarcastically, before lifting her hand to summon the maître d’ who had been hovering rather anxiously in the background, but who sprang forward at her command, ‘might I suggest that you consult an etiquette book first? I’m afraid that your manners are really much too brutish for modern tastes, Geraint!’
He looked mildly amused rather than seriously perturbed. ‘You think so?’ he queried softly, and the velvet whisper of his voice made Lola start having second thoughts about walking out on him.
She had to get out of here! And fast!
‘Please find me a taxi immediately!’ she said to the maitre d’ in flawless Italian as she marched with determination towards the door, her chin held high.
‘Sí, signorina,’ breathed the maitre d’, but it was Geraint’s murmured comment behind her which lingered temptingly in her ears.
‘You can run all you like, Lola, because we both know it won’t make any difference in the end. . .’
Lola didn’t answer, just ran out of the restaurant and leapt into the waiting taxi, asking the driver to go quickly to the hotel, which he did as best he could, considering that it was a Saturday evening in one of the busiest cities in the world.
She was still fuming when she reached her room, shaking from all the emotion of rowing with Geraint and then being kissed by him!
And all in public!
Lola groaned as she stripped off her silk suit and carefully hung it up, then cleaned off her make-up and dived into the shower, remembering how she had soaked him. And just where she had soaked him! What must he think of her now?
No worse than she thought of herself, quite honestly, she decided. Her body was racked by an unconscious little shudder as she lathered soap over one of her acutely aching breasts and remembered how understanding he had seemed, as though he was really interested in hearing what she had to say.
Well, more fool her! That so-called understanding had been shallow and superficial—there was only one thing that Geraint was interested in where she was concerned, and she was just going to have to make sure he didn’t get it!
But what if he came to find her? What if she let him into her room and he started exercising that irresistible sorcery of his and she ended up falling into his arms and letting him make love to her—just as Marnie had predicted earlier?
Lola drew herself up short. Was she really so weak and pathetic and untrusting of her own actions that she was afraid to risk being alone with Geraint Howell-Williams in case he kissed all her doubts away? What was she—a woman or a wimp?
Let him come, she thought with determination as she boiled the hotel kettle then added water to an ancient-looking teabag. Let him try his damndest and beat the door down.
And then let him see how strong she could be!
Feeling much more resolute, Lola felt her appetite return and she hunted around in the mini-bar. She had done nothing but pick at her green salad in the restaurant.
But a quick search revealed that Marnie had eaten just about everything there was to eat and Lola couldn’t face waiting for Room Service to arrive. So she was forced to go to bed with her stomach rumbling, having consumed nothing more than a cup of black tea of uncertain age.
Foolishly, and hating herself for doing it, Lola lay awake for ages, listening to the sounds of other hotel guests returning from their evenings out, but Geraint did not come.
Even when her eyelids began to drift down, she was aware that her senses remained half-alert to the possibility of his appearance.
But still he did not come.
Poised on the dreamy edge of sleep, Lola was immensely irritated to realise that her last waking thought was to be one of profound disappointment!
BY FOUR O’CLOCK the following afternoon, as Lola drove her zippy little yellow car through the impressive navy and golden gates of St Fiacre’s, Geraint Howell-Williams had been consigned to his proper place in her memory.
Nowhere!
OK, she wasn’t denying that there was definitely some sort of powerful sexual chemistry between the two of them—because only a fool would deny that!—but clearly there was no future for them.
They didn’t seem to actually like one another very much—and just because their bodies went into overdrive whenever they were near each other that certainly was not a secure basis on which to begin a relationship!
The yellow car turned into the driveway of Marchwood House with an exuberant little spray of gravel as Lola put her foot defiantly down on the accelerator. She had been looking forward to these days off and she was not going to let her chance meeting with an insufferable Welshman spoil her hard-earned rest!
As the car stopped Lola experienced the by now familiar little sensation of awe as she stared up at the elegant, three-storeyed white house, with its impressive porticos and the two boxed bay trees which stood on either side of the shiny black front door. She still couldn’t quite believe that she owned this magnificent pile!
After managing to unlock the front door—which was a feat comparable to breaking into Fort Knox—Lola dumped her suitcases in