Penny Jordan - Rescue Operation

‘Living room’s through there,’ Slade told her, opening another door.

It was decorated in varying shades of pale blue and grey; with expensive silk-covered settees, and a thick pile carpet, and Chelsea wondered if it was merely her imagination which made her think that despite its luxury this wasn’t a happy place.

‘I’ll take your coat. Make yourself at home while I get us both a drink.’

This was the moment when she should tell him that she wanted neither a drink nor his company, but he was gone before she could speak. She would tell him when he came back, she decided. Fortunately they weren’t very far from her own flat, and if he refused to take her home, she could always walk. She was studying a painting when he returned, and her first intimation that she was no longer alone came when she felt his hands on her shoulders, turning her round to face him, his expression hidden from her as he bent his head and touched his lips to the soft flesh swelling above the top of her dress, following the line of gold glitter.

‘Opium,’ he murmured appreciatively against her skin. ‘Tell me, is all of you as deliciously scented as this bit?’

‘Let me go!’

The persona she had assumed fell from her like a borrowed cloak, her eyes darkening with anger and fear as she pushed ineffectively at his hard shoulders.

‘Don’t you think it’s a little late to play hard to get?’ he laughed sardonically. ‘You should be honoured. I don’t normally fall for such obvious ploys, but there’s something about you …’

‘I asked you to give me a lift home, not … not maul me!’ she managed on a choked whisper.

‘Maul?’ His expression was ugly as he raised his head and looked at her. ‘Believe me, if I really wanted to I could make what I’m doing now pale into insignificance—and don’t bother starting to cry rape. There’s not a court in the land that would uphold such an accusation after the way you’ve been putting yourself about tonight—in front of witnesses too!’

Sickness crawled through the pit of Chelsea’s stomach. Dear God, what was she going to do?

‘Look,’ she began desperately, ‘there’s been a mistake …’

‘Indeed there has,’ Slade agreed softly. ‘I don’t know what your game is—but I can make a pretty shrewd guess. However, this time you aren’t getting away with it. I’m no pigeon for the plucking, and perhaps it’s time that someone made you come up with the goods you’re so good at offering—and then withdrawing.’

Panic clawed at her. She wanted to scream at him that he didn’t understand; that she wasn’t what he thought but she knew with complete certainty that he wouldn’t believe her.

Impulsively she turned on her heel heading for the door, but she had barely moved a yard before she was stopped and lifted up bodily.

‘Oh no,’ Slade told her slowly. ‘Tonight there’s no running out on your obligations.’

He kicked open a door without bothering to switch on the light, and all Chelsea could see was the generous proportions of the king-size bed. She was dropped on to it without ceremony, her attempts to struggle upright suddenly ceasing as Slade closed the door and slowly started to remove his shirt. A fury she had not expected seemed to possess him.

Trapped in the sardonic gleam of his eyes, she could neither move nor think. One part of her mind registered the smooth tanned flesh of his shoulders, and the dark finely curling hair matting his chest; the play of sleek muscles as he moved and the male grace of a torso that tapered from broad shoulders into a narrow waist; while the other screamed in silent protest at the monstrosity of what was happening to her.

‘What’s wrong?’ The soft goading words brought the colour flooding to her face. ‘Don’t tell me you’re opting for maidenly modesty at this late stage in the game and you want me to do your undressing for you?’

Her control broke then, deep shudders wracking her body as she tried to tear her eyes from his body and failed. His hands were on his belt when she finally managed to drag her gaze away, and as he came towards her Chelsea shrank back.

She heard him swear, and then his hands were on her body, not roughly as she had anticipated, but dangerously skilful as they traced the bones of her shoulders, their path followed by his lips as he explored the vulnerability of her skin.

She started to protest, but the words were cut off by the sensual pressure of his mouth as it explored the shape of her own. Sensations she had never experienced before flooded over her. Of their own volition her lips seemed to soften and part, the sudden invasion of his mouth shocking her with conflicting emotions. One part of her longed to repudiate him; while another, hitherto unsuspected instinct urged her to yield to the sensuous pleasure he was invoking. His fingers were in her hair, freeing it from its chignon, and weaving themselves into it while he held her, making a leisurely inspection of her face with lips that teased and tantalised from her feelings she had never suspected she possessed.

Not even with Darren had she felt this dangerously seductive desire to abandon herself completely to a man’s possession. Her mind was a jumble of confused thoughts as she told herself that she had been celibate for too long; that what she was experiencing was the result of repressed emotions. She gave a small moan of protest, and Slade’s mouth returned immediately to hers, probing her half parted lips.

She was so engrossed in trying to rationalise the feelings she was experiencing that it was several seconds before she realised that Slade had released the zipper of her dress and was easing it slowly from her body. The knowledge froze her into shocked stillness, her instinctive impulse to conceal her bared breasts from him as the blue dress rustled to the floor, and shame washed over her as she remembered the brevity of her underwear, the sheer silk stockings and the perfume with which she had scented every inch of her skin.

Slade’s, ‘You certainly believe in dressing for the part, don’t you?’ held an unexpected contemptuous anger that burned into her, reinforced by his mocking laughter when he saw the way she had crossed her arms over her breasts.

‘What the hells’s that for?’ he demanded grittily. ‘Enticement? Don’t overplay your hand; believe me, that dress you were wearing was enticement enough!’

When she didn’t move but lay staring up at him in frozen horror his mockery gave way to anger, his fingers biting into her wrists as he grasped them, dragging them away from her body, no mercy in the eyes that scrutinised every centimetre of exposed flesh.

Unable to stop herself, Chelsea cringed, hating him for making her so vulnerable; for confusing her by kissing her the way he had; and now for destroying her pride and self-respect. She shuddered to think that by the time the evening was over he would know her body more intimately than she did herself, and although she had always told herself that her virginity was more accident than design, now when she was on the verge of losing it she knew that some tiny corner of her heart had never entirely given up the hope that she would give it to a man who loved her as she loved him.

‘You really know all the tricks, don’t you?’ Slade breathed savagely. ‘But feigning reluctance won’t work with me. I’m not some gullible fool easily bewitched by a pair of dark blue eyes and a vulnerable mouth. But in one respect at least I’m just like any other man.’ He glanced down at her body, and Chelsea felt the tension in him.

‘I want you,’ he said thickly, and as he raised his head she thought she saw bitter anger in the eyes which were already beginning to glaze with desire.

His hands left her wrists to cup her breasts, his eyes holding hers as his thumbs moved arousingly against the pink flesh of her nipples.