It Happened in Sydney: In the Australian Billionaire's Arms / Three Times A Bridesmaid... / Expecting Miracle Twins. Margaret Way
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was Ms Erickson revealed no such excitements. She was entirely in possession of herself when excitement, even joy, fitted much better. He was well advised to mistrust her. His allegiance was to Marcus.
The front door was open. He was about to call a hello when a young woman came into sight carrying a large crystal bowl filled with a profusion of beautiful flowers. He didn’t register the full array of blossoms, gerberas, lush roses, peonies, he was too busy concentrating on the young woman. She wore fitted jeans that showed off her lovely lissom figure and the length of her legs. A simple vest-type top did the same for her breasts. Her shimmering long hair, centre parted, fell down her back in thick sinuous coils.
Rapunzel.
She came to a halt, so clearly startled he might have been wearing a balaclava over his head.
“Don’t drop it,” he warned, swiftly moving towards her. The Ice Princess for some reason had totally lost her cool. “Hold on. I’ll take it. Just don’t drop it,” he repeated the warning.
A visible shiver passed through her.
At least his tone was effective. “Let me have it.”
He seemed to tower over her. “David,” she said, dismayed by the fact her normally composed voice was wavering.
His alternative name had never sounded so good, so intimate to his ears. He took the bowl from her, turning to place it on the rosewood library table that graced the entrance hall. “I startled you. I’m sorry.” They were so close, barely a foot apart. He could see every little ripple along her throat as she swallowed. “Are you okay?’ he asked. She appeared disorientated. This was a completely different Sonya from the one he had previously seen. Impossible as it seemed, she also looked frightened. Perhaps endangered was a better word?
Feeling very exposed, she tried to force herself back to attention. Her reaction had been a big mistake.
David, too, was feeling a degree of perturbation. His hand went to her sloping white shoulder. He meant only to steady her, but his fingers were bent on caressing her white skin, warm to his touch. This was no beautiful statue. This was a living breathing woman. His eyes fell to the long heavy silk lock of her hair as it slid across his hand. He wanted to grasp a handful of it, pull her to him. He wanted to lower his head to capture her beautiful mouth that was surprisingly aquiver. He wanted to pick her up in his arms and carry her off like some caveman. Within seconds temptation after temptation was playing itself out. All common sense was getting away from him. This was mania. Magic, definitely black. She obviously had sirenlike powers. Fascinating men was a form of control. She could deliberately be luring him into her territory.
He stood back from her, the barriers springing back into place. “I’m sorry if I startled you. What are you doing here?” Given how he had felt, his voice sounded unnecessarily harsh. Was it guilt for slipping momentarily from his standards of behaviour?
For a moment she said nothing, giving her own protective shields a chance to get back into place. “Marcus has given me the job of doing the flowers for the house.” She felt enormous relief some of her habitual cool composure had come back into her voice.
“I see. Where is Marcus?” he asked, looking down the spacious hallway with its beautiful parquetry floor towards the library. Marcus’s favourite room.
“He’s not here. But he should be home soon.”
The way she spoke drove home the hurt. Did she think she could take Lucy’s place? “I’ll wait.” The rush of sexual desire was replaced by hard distrust.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked, turning to lead him into the drawing room. “Coffee, something stronger?”
“I’m fine.” He sounded just short of curt. “You’re the one who looks like you could do with a stiff drink.”
“You startled me, that’s all.”
“I might have been an intruder,” he said, with more than a hint of sarcasm.
“Perhaps it was the quality of your own surprise,” she returned. “You don’t like or trust me.” There was straightforward challenge in her voice.
“It’s not a question of liking, Ms Erickson. It’s more to do with your role.”
“Back to Ms Erickson, no Sonya?” She arched her fine brows.
“Sonya is a lovely name.” He shrugged. “Tell me, is it your real name?”
“What an extraordinary question.”
She had come to stand beneath a nineteenth century Russian chandelier, one of a matched pair in the yellow, gold and Wedgwood blue drawing room. In front of the white Carrara marble fireplace he noted she had placed a huge Chinese fish bowl filled with a wealth of sweet-smelling flowers. To add to the impact the beautiful pastel colours mimicked the colours in the magnificent nineteenth century Meissen porcelain clock that took centre place on the mantelpiece beneath a very valuable landscape. Other small arrangements were placed around the large room, rivalling the treasures on display.
“And?”
“Of course it’s my real name,” she said, one hand pushing a thick lock of hair back off her shoulder.
The drawing room was all too feminine for his taste, too opulent, silks and brocades, but Sonya Erickson could have been made for it. Even in tight sexy jeans and designer vest-top she fitted in. It occurred to him with her hair worn long and loose and very little make-up she looked hardly more than a girl of nineteen or twenty.
He released a tense breath. “But what about the Erickson? Would you believe I actually knew a woman who changed her name four times? She’s in jail now for fraud. She managed to extract the life savings from God knows how many fools of men.”
“Please, don’t make me weep!” she exclaimed. “Men are fools. But it’s hardly fraudulent to change one’s name by deed poll.”
“Are you saying you have?’
She ignored his question. “Why don’t you sit down?” she invited, with an elegant gesture of her hand.
“You might be in your own house,” he answered, tightly. Lucy’s house.
“Marcus has made me very welcome here.” Her answer was equally pointed. “So you can’t find out much about me. How disappointing for you. Is this what it’s all about?”
“I came to see Marcus,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting you. Why don’t you take the sofa?” he suggested. “I’ll take the armchair. I know you’re highly intelligent so we can cut to the chase. It’s obvious my uncle has come to care deeply for you. And in a very short space of time. That presents problems, don’t you agree?”
“Problems for you? I don’t see the problem for me. Marcus is a lovely man. Was I supposed to submit my credentials to you? I might tell you Marcus has never asked anything of me. He trusts me.”
His brilliant dark eyes flashed. “That’s what I’m worried about. Who and what are you really, Sonya? What is it you want?”
“Who said I wanted anything?” she responded with an imperious lift of her brows. She took not the gold sofa, but a gilded armchair opposite him.
Sunlight was falling through the tall windows, filtered by the sheer central curtain. It illuminated her figure, making her hair and her beautiful skin radiant. “You were wearing Aunt Lucy’s diamond and emerald jewellery at the gala function,” he said, the words freighted with meaning.
A flush like pink roses on snow warmed her cheeks. “Is there anything shameful about that? You’re far too quick to place blame. Marcus wanted me to wear them. I could say insisted. He’d asked me the colour of my dress. When I said emerald green, he suggested a set of jewellery that needed an airing. I assure you the set is safely back in his safe.”
It was too