Lee Wilkinson - Ryan's Revenge

When, her soft lips tightening, she said nothing, he goaded, ‘Tell me, Virginia, where does he usually make love to you? In the kitchen? Lying in front of the fire? On the stairs?’

‘Stop it!’ she cried.

‘After what you told me earlier, you can’t blame me for being curious.’

Wishing fervently that she’d kept her mouth shut, she said, ‘I want you to go. Now! Before Charles gets home. He won’t be long.’

Ryan shook his head. ‘It’s no use, Virginia, my sweet, I know perfectly well that he won’t be in until much later…’

How did he know?

‘And, even if that wasn’t the case, do you seriously think the prospect of Raynor coming home would scare me into leaving?’

No, she didn’t. Lifting her chin, she threatened, ‘I could always call the police.’

‘You could,’ he agreed, ‘but somehow I don’t think you will. After all, the police have a lot more to concern themselves about than what they would undoubtedly class as a trivial domestic problem.’

In past skirmishes he had proved to be quicker witted than she was, and in any battle of words he almost invariably won. But she couldn’t allow him to win this time.

‘It isn’t “a trivial domestic problem,”’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘It’s an illegal entry into someone else’s home.’

‘How can it be an “illegal entry” when you opened the door to me yourself?’

‘I thought it was my takeaway.’

Eyeing the purse she was still holding, he said, ‘I see. Well, if you have a meal ordered, perhaps you’ll invite me to stay and share it?’

Her agitation increasing, she cried, ‘No, I don’t want you to stay. I don’t know why you came in the first place.’

‘For one thing, we hadn’t finished our conversation—’

‘There’s nothing further to say. I’ll never come back to you, so you’re just wasting your time.’

As though she hadn’t interrupted, he went on, his voice quietly lethal, ‘And for another, I’m not prepared to let you keep running out on me.’

For the first time she realised he was furiously angry, and she quailed inwardly.

He stepped towards her, dwarfing her five feet seven inches, and with a hand beneath her chin, he forced it up. His eyes were focussed on her mouth, his dark face sharp and intent.

Guessing his intention, she begged, ‘No! Oh, please, Ryan, don’t…’

But his hand slid round to her nape, tangling in her silky hair, and his mouth swooped down on hers, taking possession, stifling any further protests.

The purse she had been clutching like a lifeline thudded to the floor and, despite all her efforts to hold aloof, the blood began to pound in her ears and the world tilted on its axis.

Head spinning, she was engulfed, gathered up and swept away on a tide of conflicting emotions, while every nerve ending in her body zinged into life.

At first his kiss was hard, punitive, a way of venting his anger, the arm clamping her to him like an iron band.

But when, scarcely able to stand, she made no attempt to break free, his arm loosened its hold slightly and, instead of being a punishment, his kiss became passionate, his skilful tongue sending shivers of excitement and pleasure running through her.

Leaving her nape, his hand slid inside the lapels of her robe, following her collarbone, moving down to find and fondle the soft curve of her breast.

He seemed to be deliberately avoiding the tip and, desperate for his touch, her whole being was poised in an agony of waiting.

When, finally, his experienced fingers began to lightly tease the sensitive nipple, causing sensations so exquisite they were almost pain, her stomach clenched and a core of liquid heat began to form in her abdomen.

Now he was making her feel all that he wanted her to feel, and he took her little gasps and whimpers into his mouth like the conqueror he was.

Lost and mindless, she was hardly aware when his free hand undid the belt and eased the robe from her shoulders, allowing it to fall at her feet.

His mouth had moved away from hers to rove over the smooth flesh he had exposed, when, shockingly, the doorbell rang.

Ryan’s recovery was light years ahead of Virginia’s. Stooping, he gathered up the robe and, wrapping it around her, gently hustled her across the hall and into the kitchen.

Pulling on the robe with shaking hands, she belted it tightly and, sinking down in the nearest chair, groaned aloud.

So much for holding out against him.

Oh, dear Lord, what had she been thinking of? If it hadn’t been for the interruption, Ryan could have taken her right there on the hall carpet and she would have allowed it.

No, more than allowed it, welcomed it.

Oh, you fool! she berated herself. She had planned to freeze him off, to make it clear that she was no longer under his spell.

Instead her abject surrender must have boosted his confidence, made him even more certain that he could win…

Only he mustn’t. Much as she wanted him—and she did still want him, maybe she always would—she mustn’t let him win.

Through her tumult of mind she was aware of the front door opening and Ryan’s voice saying, ‘Thanks. How much do I owe you?’

By the time he came through to the kitchen carrying a brightly coloured cardboard box with a handle, she had gathered the remnants of her dignity around her like a tattered cloak.

Standing up, she faced him squarely. ‘I want you to leave, now, this minute.’

Unpacking the various foil containers onto the pine table, he said mildly, ‘I like Chinese food and, as you appear to have ordered enough for two, it would be a shame to waste it.’

Looking dazedly at the number of containers, she realised that her repeat of the order had caused confusion and had resulted in them delivering far too much food.

Watching her face, he asked ironically, ‘Was it a Freudian slip? Did you subconsciously want or expect me to be here?’

‘No, I certainly didn’t. If I wanted anyone here, it would be Charles.’

She could tell by the way Ryan’s mouth tightened that her answer had annoyed him, but all he said was, ‘Do you have any bowls and chopsticks?’

‘In the cupboard,’ she answered shortly. He might insist on staying, but that didn’t mean she was prepared to make him welcome.

Slipping out of his jacket, he hung it over the back of a chair before opening the cupboard door.

Along with the bowls was a small electric hotplate. Infuriatingly at home, he took it out and, having plugged it in, arranged the foil containers on it.

Loosening the lids, he suggested, ‘Why don’t you sit down and tell me what you’d like to start with?’

Still standing, she said curtly, ‘I don’t want anything to eat. I’ve lost my appetite.’

He raised dark level brows. ‘That’s a pity. Still if you’re quite sure you don’t want to eat, we could always start a precedent.’

Alarmed by the silky menace in his tone, the glint in his eye, she demanded, ‘What do you mean, start a precedent?’

‘Don’t you think it would be a nice change to be carried upstairs and made love to in bed?’

All the fight going out of her, she sat down abruptly.

White teeth gleamed as he laughed. ‘No? Oh, well…’ Taking a seat opposite, he queried, ‘So what’s it to be? The sesame prawn toast looks good.’ Leaning towards her, he offered her a piece.

His dark silk shirt was open at the neck, exposing the strong column of his throat. Remembering how she had sometimes buried her face against it when he’d made love to her, her mouth went dry.

Lifting her eyes, she met his ironic gaze, and felt the colour flood into her cheeks.

‘You look warm,’ he observed innocently. ‘Do you have any nice cool wine?’