Required To Wear The Tycoon's Ring. Maggie Cox
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you going to move in here soon?’
‘I haven’t decided.’
‘Oh. Well, I’m ready to go when you are, then.’
She swept back her silky brown hair and pulled the collar of her coat more snugly round her neck...not that it would give her much added protection against the wind that was howling outside. It sounded as if it was brewing up a cyclone!
They hurried out to his car. When they were ensconced in the sumptuous leather of Seth’s comfortable sedan, he turned to her and said, ‘Where to?’
As soon as Imogen gave him the directions he nodded in acknowledgement. ‘I know exactly where you mean.’ His expression failed to tell her whether the knowledge pleased him or not.
Leaving the impressive Gothic building behind them, they headed out through the tree-lined lanes towards the centre of the town. During the journey they were both silent. Imogen didn’t feel quite brave enough to question him again, and she wanted to respect his need for what must be quiet reflection.
Just twenty minutes later they arrived, and Seth negotiated the roads that took them to her address. As instructed, he pulled up in front of a neat black door with a gilt number one on it. It was dusk, and a lone street lamp helpfully illuminated the small row of terraced houses. Apart from the ethereal soughing of the wind, all was quiet. Most of the town’s workforce had departed for home.
Turning towards her companion, Imogen breathed out a sigh. Seth’s expression was as implacable as ever, but his strong, lean hands gripped the leather-clad steering wheel as though it was a much-needed anchor.
She was sorry they hadn’t had more time to talk. But, clutching at yet another straw, she said quickly, ‘Can I offer you a drink...in payment for the ride home, I mean?’
‘You think the age-old remedy of a cup of tea might help to set things right?’
The tone of his voice registered his scorn.
Pushing his fingers agitatedly through his hair, he continued, ‘I don’t want payment, but if you’re going to offer me a drink, then I’d prefer something stronger than tea.’
She sensed her cheeks flush heatedly as his intense blue eyes roamed her face. It made it doubly hard to form a reply. ‘I—I have some brandy that a friend bought me for my birthday. Will that do?’
‘Yes, it will—but only if you agree to join me. I won’t be making any more revelations, if that’s what you’re thinking, but a companionable silence might be welcome.’
Flushing again, Imogen nodded. ‘All right, then. Why don’t you park the car and come in? I’ll leave the front door open. My flat is on the ground floor.’ The words were out before she could stop them.
After unlocking the door, she entered the house. The small apartment she rented was easily accessible and the door opened onto a cosy, compact living room. She was putting a match to the tinder in the wood burner when she sensed Seth coming in behind her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his interested gaze scan the room.
As was her habit, she’d left everything tidy that morning. The task helped her to get clear about the day ahead. But strangely the ability seemed to elude her now, as her glance collided with Seth’s. Suddenly she didn’t feel clear about very much at all. And ever since she’d laid her hand on his shoulder to comfort him the oddly intimate sensation of warmth and strength hadn’t left her. It didn’t help that she still sensed his agitation. The note she’d found had clearly been a great shock to him.
‘Why don’t you sit down?’ she invited. ‘I’ll get you that drink.’
‘Sure...’ he murmured, shrugging off his coat.
He draped it over the arm of a nearby easy chair as though it was nothing, but she glimpsed the Italian designer label attached to the silk lining. The garment was both exclusive and expensive, and it said much about the taste of its owner.
She watched thoughtfully as he dropped down onto the battered brown leather couch that had serviced several other tenants before Imogen. Even though she’d personalised it with the flowing red-and-gold Indian shawl that she’d draped over the back, it was still more ‘shabby chic’ than smart. Positioned next to the couch was a pile of hardback books on a maple-wood coffee table, and he picked up the top one to examine it.
‘Interesting,’ he murmured, reading the flyleaf. ‘I can see that you like a mystery.’
‘Thrillers aren’t really my thing, but a friend lent it to me,’ she explained. ‘She said the story was terrific.’
‘Would that be the same friend who gave you the bottle of brandy?’
‘Yes, it was, as a matter of fact...though I rarely drink that stuff at all. She was hoping I’d let my hair down and celebrate for once.’
Imogen stared at the fire and felt her cheeks heat. Why had she told him that?
‘And did you?’
‘I did—but not with brandy. I stuck to orange juice that night.’
Checking that the flame had taken hold in the wood burner, she straightened and dusted her hands down her jeans.
Her companion was studying her intently and, feeling strangely as if she’d been put under a spotlight, she said, ‘Give me a minute and I’ll go and get you that drink.’
The tiny kitchen was adjacent to the living room. It wasn’t particularly well-appointed, but it had a fairly new gas stove, an original butler’s sink that was still in good order, a plum-coloured granite worktop and a couple of sturdy pine shelves on which she’d stacked some blue-and-white crockery. The bottle of brandy was located next to the stoneware bread crock.
Pouring a proper drink for a man wasn’t something she was remotely used to. Her ex-fiancé, Greg, had been teetotal. That was until she’d found out that he wasn’t. It had been another lie amongst the many that he’d told her. But dwelling on the thought was apt to remind her of his shocking betrayal and make her mood plummet. She was determined not to let that happen. After all, she’d vowed to make a fresh start, hadn’t she? From now on she wanted to believe that good things did and could happen, despite the evidence to the contrary. How else was she going to turn her life around?
But her hand visibly trembled as she reached for the bottle of brandy and she had to take a couple of deep breaths to steady herself. Seth Broden was the first man she’d ever invited back to the flat and she shouldn’t forget that he was neither a friend nor a colleague. He was practically a stranger. And such was the contrast between the awe-inspiring mansion he owned and the modest flat she rented that it was bound to make her conscious of the difference between her life and his.
She reached up to the overhead shelf and retrieved a couple of glass tumblers and, taking the bottle of brandy with her, returned to the living room. Handing one of the glasses to Seth, she set the brandy down on the table beside him.
‘Please help yourself. I’m just going to hang up my coat. Want me to do the same for yours?’
He quirked what looked to be an amused eyebrow and said, ‘Thanks.’
When Imogen returned from hanging the garments on the coat stand the fire in the burner was nicely warming the room and, having helped himself to brandy, Seth had set down the book he’d been perusing. He’d also settled himself more comfortably on the couch. His hard-muscled legs were noticeably long in the smart black chinos he wore, she saw, and the width of his shoulders was impressive.
She would have had to be blind not to notice that fact. His girlfriend must have loved the sense of strength he exuded. No doubt it had made her feel protected.
‘I’ve poured you a drink,’ he said as she sat down in the chintz-covered armchair. ‘Perhaps you’ll make an exception tonight and join me?’
‘Sure.’ Taking a tentative sip, she felt the slow burn of alcohol register