Passionate Fantasy. Sharon Kendrick
Читать онлайн книгу.
lightly on the wooden floor and, as the minutes ticked by, she became sorely tempted to go and explore the house for herself.
Why bother waiting for Simon to come and show her around? Why not show a little initiative? She would go and explore the kitchen in the main house, decide what to cook for the evening meal, and maybe—just maybe—catch a glimpse of where he kept his safe ...
She walked back along the perfumed path and into the main house, revelling in its cool, dim interior. The floors here were marble—she’d never seen marble floors in a private house before—and there was something so ancient and classical about them that she found herself having to resist an urge to slip her canvas shoes off, to feel the polished stone cool and smooth beneath her bare feet.
The house was also quiet.
Very quiet.
She stood still for a moment, listening, her head cocked to the side like a bird which suspected that a cat lurked near by. There was not a single sound to be heard.
Kitty made up her mind instantly, reminding herself of all the maxims learnt in childhood—about no time like the present, he who hesitates is lost ... so why waste an opportunity which might not arise again for some days? Darius was in the shower, which meant that the study was free. And the study was probably where he kept his safe ...
A number of doors led off the large main hallway and she moved lightly towards the door she thought he had said was his study, pausing as she gave the gentlest of taps, which went unanswered, so, pushing it quietly open, she stepped inside, her heart sinking with disappointment as she noted that it was a light, airy sitting-room whose doors opened on to the veranda. Not a sight of a safe to be seen ...
She retraced her steps back into the hall, her eyes scanning the doors anxiously, as if she hoped that their closed exteriors might provide her with some clue. Like a small painted notice saying ‘safe’— perhaps with a convenient arrow? she thought with a trace of humour as she knocked at a second door, her heart lifting as she walked inside and saw walls lined from ceiling to floor with books. Eureka! She saw a huge high-backed chair with its back to her which presided over a vast antique desk. His study, she thought with relief.
And then, to her absolute horror, the chair slowly swung round and, facing her, the quicksilver eyes as cold as mercury itself, the mouth unsmiling, sat Darius, his dark hair in damp tendrils, a telephone receiver cradled between neck and shoulder and— oh, horror of horrors—he was wearing nothing but a short, dark towelling robe which gave her a provocative glimpse of taut, hair-roughened thigh and an equally disturbing view of a dark, muscular torso.
‘Hello, Kitty.’ The deep voice was very quiet, a strange undertone to it which filled her with instinctive foreboding. ‘Looking for something?’
She thought, desperately, that her guilt must be written all over her frozen stance. If her intentions had been innocent, she would have been able to shrug and laugh it off, but, as it was, she didn’t like the way he was looking at her one bit.
She decided quickly to brazen it out. ‘Sorry,’ she said guilelessly. ‘I was looking for the kitchen.’
‘I pointed it out to you earlier. Remember?’ he prompted sarcastically.
‘I’d—forgotten,’ she improvised quickly.
‘But that’s precisely why I instructed Simon to give you a guided tour,’ he snapped back. ‘I thought I told you to wait for him to collect you?’
‘Er—so you did,’ she said lamely as she tried to think of a reasonable-sounding excuse, but quite honestly the sight of his body, obviously stark-naked beneath the robe, had put paid to any powers of reasoning remaining intact.
‘So why didn’t you?’ he barked out at her, as though she were some kind of imbecile.
‘Because I——’ But she didn’t have a chance to formulate an answer.
‘Listen,’ he cut across her, his voice as cold as his silver-grey eyes. ‘Did you ever stop to wonder why I took so long before I interviewed you?’
‘It had crossed my mind,’ she admitted. ‘I thought you’d probably found someone else you preferred.’
‘What an attractive idea, Kitty,’ he said softly. ‘But unfortunately, unless I employed some well-established prima donna, there was no one nearly as good as you. And the reason I took so long was that I’m very fussy about who I allow in my home— and therefore I needed to write to England for your references.’
‘But I sent you my references!’ she protested.
‘Which weren’t worth the paper they were written on,’ he ground out uncompromisingly. ‘It’s a common enough trick among people working abroad to forge their testimonials.’
Kitty’s mouth fell open. In the circumstances, what right did he have to accuse her of being a cheat?
‘I was satisfied with the information I received from England,’ he continued relentlessly. ‘As I was satisfied that you were reliable enough to carry out simple instructions. When I told you to wait, you damned well should have waited!’
Kitty set her mouth into a truculent line. ‘I was using my initiative!’ She glowered at him.
The silver eyes never left hers. ‘Well, don’t.’
And at this cursory order her vague stirrings of anger bubbled right over, even as she recalled his earlier instructions that he wasn’t to be disturbed in his study. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she snapped, tossing her red plaits back over her shoulders. ‘Is this room out of bounds or something?’
He said nothing for a moment, just allowed quicksilver eyes to travel over her face, resting for long seconds on her mouth with such intensity that she was afraid that she had some speck of dust on it or something, and her tongue snaked out to circle wetly round her lips.
‘Not necessarily,’ he said softly, his eyes still on her lips.
Oh, lord. He was so gorgeous. She suddenly forgot his high-handed and autocratic manner— forgot everything. Because, with his eyes homing in on her mouth like that, she felt as though he was actually kissing her, such was the potency of his magnetic stare. Tiny goose-pimples broke out beneath the thin blouse; she could feel her nipples begin to harden and scrape against the lace of her brassiere, and colour surged into her cheeks—because what if he noticed that? ‘Could you direct me to the kitchen—please?’ she asked breathlessly, desperate to get away from him and from this temporary insanity which had invaded her.
‘You’ll have to wait.’ He nodded to a chair directly opposite him, on the other side of the desk. ‘Sit down. I’m waiting for a call.’
She was reluctant to do as he asked, still afraid that those perceptive eyes would see the way her body was reacting to him, although the almost painful hardening of her breasts had already begun to subside. ‘Then if it’s confidential——’
‘I’d say so,’ he interrupted impatiently. ‘Sit down.’
She had no alternative other than to obey him, looking down into her lap as she laced her fingers together—wondering how she could have been so naïvely stupid as to think she could just waltz in on her first day, grab the script, then disappear. And now she had probably alerted him, had probably made him suspicious. She looked up to find his eyes on her, and she gave him a polite half-smile, which went unanswered.
She was forced to sit there in silence and wait while he conducted what was evidently a high-powered conversation with some major studio backer in Los Angeles, and she gathered, from his cool, clipped replies, that he was refusing to back down on a particular point concerning finance. Her impression of film directors as unworldly, artistic and dreamy individuals flew right out of the window—this guy could evidently juggle figures with ease, and eat bankers for breakfast!
Eventually he replaced the receiver, and directed his attention at her again. He stood up. ‘Shall we go?’ he asked in a decidedly