A Passionate Proposition. Susan Napier
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Anya backed away. “I think it’s time I was in bed—”
“You’re right, of course,” Scott agreed smoothly, putting out a hand to cover hers as she grasped the first door handle. “Wrong room,” he purred in her ear, drawing her back against his naked chest.
“I—it’s very late,” she tried.
“Yes, it is…far too late for either of us to back out.” He nuzzled the side of her neck. “I’ve been thinking about this all night…and so have you.”
Her head fell back against his shoulder. “I don’t think I’m cut out for this kind of affair—”
“How do you know what kind of affair it’s going to be until you give it a chance?” he asked. “Give me a chance to make love to you and you might find out that our affair is exactly what you need.”
SUSAN NAPIER was born on St. Valentine’s Day, so it’s not surprising she has developed an enduring love of romantic stories. She started her writing career as a journalist in Auckland, New Zealand, trying her hand at romance fiction only after she had married her handsome boss! Numerous books later she still lives with her most enduring hero, two future heroes—her sons!—two cats and a computer. When she’s not writing she likes to read and cook, often simultaneously!
A Passionate Proposition
Susan Napier
MILLS & BOON
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER ONE
TO THE nervous girl hovering in the darkened doorway, the woman sitting at the long, scuffed dining table looked discouragingly absorbed, her slender body propped over a lecture pad as her pen danced across the ruled page. An untidy array of loose-leaf pages and open books fanned across the table-top in front of her and a half-drunk cup of tea sat forgotten at her elbow. The standard lamp which she had dragged over from the corner of the room to supplement the feeble naked bulb dangling from the ceiling poured yellow light down onto her bent head, refining the neat knot of fine, straight hair at the nape of her neck from its usual dishwater-blonde to burnished gold. Even in a boxy white shirt and fawn cargo pants she still managed to look enviously feminine.
Miss Adams had always seemed kind and approachable; she’d never shouted, or played favourites or picked on kids for things about themselves that they couldn’t help, as some of the other teachers at Eastbrook did. Right now, however, her delicately etched features looked aloof in their intentness and the girl’s misgivings overwhelmed her dwindling store of courage.
After all, Miss Adams was no longer teaching at Eastbrook Academy for Girls. She had left at the end of the previous year and moved out to the sticks to teach history at Hunua College, the local state high school. The fact that she was helping out on this special fifth-formers’ camp during the holiday break between the first and second terms didn’t mean she was ever coming back to Eastbrook. She was only here because Old Bag Carmichael had got sick and none of the other teachers from school were available to come and take her place. Miss Marshall would have had to cancel the rest of the camp if she hadn’t remembered that her friend and former colleague lived in the nearby town of Riverview. Luckily Miss Adams had been free to donate a few days of her time, but she certainly wasn’t going to be around to help cope with any fallout from tonight’s escapade—and there was bound to be heaps of aggro back at school if the other girls found out who had tattled, no matter that it had been out of worry rather than malice.
Clutching her loose pyjamas against her hollow stomach, the girl began to edge backwards into the gloom of the hallway, but it was too late.
As Anya turned her head to look up another reference she caught sight of a pale flutter out of the corner of her eye and was wrenched from her absorption, her heart pumping in alarm at the prospect of an intruder.
She didn’t usually jump at shadows, but Anya was conscious that the regional park’s accommodation was sited in a relatively isolated part of the shoreline reserve, and that she was currently the sole protector of four teenage girls. Cathy Marshall, the camp’s supervising teacher, had taken the rest of the girls out with the park ranger to count and record the number of nocturnal bird-calls in the surrounding bush, part of an ongoing park survey on behalf of the Conservation Department.
Her pulse slowed in relief as she recognised the tall, gawky figure of one of her temporary charges.
‘Hello, Jessica, what are you doing up?’
Glancing at her slim gold watch, Anya saw that it was well past midnight. She had been taking advantage of the quiet to catch up on some of the research which she had planned to do during these holidays and the time had passed more swiftly than she had realised.
‘I…uh…’ Jessica swallowed audibly, shifting her weight from one pyjama-clad leg to the other.
‘Can’t you sleep?’ Anya asked, pitching her cool, clear voice low in deference to the night. ‘Is your stomach hurting again?’
Jessica and her bunkmate had suffered a mild case of the collywobbles after gorging themselves on guava berries which they had picked off a bush hanging over a roadside fence.
Jessica blinked rapidly. ‘No…uh…I just came down to…to…’ She trailed off, gnawing her lower lip as her dark eyes skated around the room, searching for inspiration, ‘…to get a drink of water,’ she finished lamely.
Anya decided to overlook the rather obvious invention.
‘I see. Well, what are you waiting for?’ She tilted her head towards the open kitchen door behind her. ‘Help yourself.’
Returning her attention to her books, she listened as the kitchen light clicked on, and after an extended pause there came the squeak of a cupboard door, a clink of china and a gush of water. There was another long silence before the light snapped off and Jessica trailed slowly back, to linger once more in the doorway.
Anya raised her eyebrows above abstracted grey eyes, set wide apart in her delicate face. ‘Was there something else?’ she murmured, her mind still half on the open page in front of her.
Her impatience caused an agonised pinkening of Jessica’s freckled complexion as she hurriedly shook her curly head, but her fingers continued to anxiously twist and tug at the hem of her pyjama jacket.
Anya suppressed an inward sigh and put her pen down.
‘Are you sure?’ she coaxed, her mouth curving in a sympathetic smile that banished the former impression of cool reserve. ‘If you can’t sleep, maybe you’d like to stay down here and chat for a while?’