Carole Mortimer - Shadowed Stranger

‘Here you are,’ she held out the box towards him.

‘My father had a little trouble with his delivery van.’

He made no effort to take the box from her, opening the kitchen door wider for her to enter, which she did, reluctantly, shooting him a suspicious glance as he closed the door behind her.

‘I’m not staying,’ she told him stiffly, once again unnerved by him.

His eyes were narrowed to grey slits. ‘Why aren’t you?’

‘I wouldn’t want to be accused of snooping again.’

His mouth twisted. ‘So you hold grudges, do you?’

‘Certainly not!’ Her eyes flashed her indignation. ‘I just didn’t think you liked company.’

‘I don’t,’ he acknowledged abruptly. ‘Or at least, I didn’t.’

Her eyes widened, some of her resentment leaving her. ‘Are you saying you don’t mind my being here?’

‘Exactly.’ He threw the half eaten apple in the bin, holding up the steak and kidney pie. ‘What do I do with this?’

Robyn took it out of his hand, flicking the switch on the cooker and putting the pie inside. ‘I know what I’d like to do with it,’ she said vehemently. ‘And it isn’t anything pleasant.’

‘I didn’t think it would be,’ Rick Howarth said dryly.

‘Well, I can’t believe you’re so helpless.’ She peeled a couple of potatoes from the box and put them on to cook. ‘You look so—so—well, capable,’ she finished lamely.

‘Oh, I am,’ he leant back against the sink unit, ‘at some things. Cooking isn’t one of them.’

‘Neither is ironing, by the look of you,’ she grimaced at his clean but creased shirt.

He looked down at it too. ‘They turn out this way from the launderette.’

‘That’s because they should be ironed afterwards,’ she sighed. ‘They look expensive shirts too.’

‘Do they?’ his tone was distant. ‘It never occurred to me.’

Once again he had clammed up when she had got too personal. ‘Well, they do,’ she persisted stubbornly, wondering at her own nerve. This man had shown her more than once that he didn’t like any sort of interference from her, any reference of a personal nature. ‘You should iron them before wearing them,’ she added.

‘Are these ready yet?’ He lifted up the lid of the saucepan to look at the potatoes.

‘No!’ She angrily replaced the lid. ‘What on earth do you do here all day on your own?’ she asked with exasperation.

His expression became remote, his eyes cold. ‘This and that,’ he evaded tautly.

Robyn sighed. ‘Why are you so secretive?’

‘Why are you so nosey?’ he rasped.

She drew in a ragged breath, looking very young and vulnerable in a fitted light blue tee-shirt—one that definitely showed her curves!—and a navy blue and white cotton-print skirt, her short blonde hair newly washed, her face bare of make-up.

Rick Howarth was obviously aware of her youth too, his eyes narrowing ominously. ‘I must be insane,’ he muttered. ‘Or desperate,’ he added disgustedly.

‘Why?’ she asked in a puzzled voice, realising his mood had changed yet again. He certainly was a moody person!

‘Wasting my time talking to an eighteen-year-old,’ he answered bluntly.

Robyn gasped, paling at his intended insult, her hands shaking as she clenched them at her side. ‘You’re not only rude,’ she quavered, ‘you’re deliberately hurtful too!’ She ran to the door, intending to make her escape before she made a fool of herself.

‘Robyn—–’

She swung round, her bottom lip trembling precariously. ‘It’s all right, Mr Howarth,’ she choked, her look defiant. ‘I’ll leave and save you the trouble of wasting any more time.’

‘Robyn …’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I’m thirty-six. Do you know what that means?’

‘That you’re old!’ she retorted childishly.

His mouth quirked with humour. ‘I think I deserved that. Being thirty-six doesn’t necessarily mean I’m too old, it just means you’re too young.’

She frowned. ‘For what?’

He sighed his exasperation. ‘For—for this!’ His head lowered and he caught up her lips with his, moving them slowly against her in a slow, drugging kiss.

It was so unexpected that Robyn just froze, accepting the kiss although not exactly responding to it. She had been kissed in the past, although never by an expert as this man obviously was. His hands rested possessively on her hips, holding her to him, the pressure of his mouth increasing now, becoming more demanding. And she wasn’t able to meet that demand; her inexperience held her back.

Rick sensed her lack of response, raising his head to move savagely away from her. ‘I told you I was insane,’ he ground out. ‘Now I’ve just proved it.’

She blinked hard to clear her head. ‘How did you do that?’ she asked huskily.

‘Use your head, Robyn,’ he snapped, running his hand through his already untidy hair. ‘What I just did was totally out of character—–’

‘Kissing me?’

‘Kissing the child you still are,’ he corrected harshly. ‘God, I have to get back to civilisation!’

She swallowed hard. ‘But—–’

‘Would you leave?’ He turned his back on her, his shoulders rigid.

‘Rick—–’

‘ Now , Robyn!’

‘But your supper—–’ she said dazedly.

‘I can see to that myself. Will you just go!’ He raised his voice enough to make his point forcefully.

She went. What had happened in there? One minute they had been arguing as usual, the next Rick had been kissing her with a hunger that had made escape impossible. Not that she had really wanted to. That kiss had been devastating to her peace of mind, in fact she was still trembling from the contact of his hard body, his muscular thighs bruising against hers.

But he was hiding something, or from someone. Whichever it was he wasn’t the ideal man to be attracted to. And she was attracted, had been since the moment she first saw him, blazing anger and all. The harshness, the bitterness, shielded the natural sensuality of his nature—that much had been obvious from the way he had kissed her just now. That he rarely gave in to that sensuality was also obvious.

She would be curious to know what work he had done before coming here, what sort of life he had led. Whatever it was it had been vastly different from the way he was living now.

‘You’re looking a little flushed, love,’ her mother said worriedly when she arrived home a few minutes later.

Robyn blushed even more. ‘It’s just from the walk, Mum.’

Billy looked up from doing his homework on the dining-room table. ‘Sure it isn’t a case of loveitis?’

She frowned. ‘A touch of—–? No, it isn’t!’, she snapped angrily, blushing bright red after the intensity of the kiss Rick Howarth had just given her.

‘I bet it is,’ her brother taunted, sitting back in his chair to eye her mockingly. ‘What have you been doing over at Mr Howarth’s place all this time?’

‘Mind your own business!’ Robyn said tautly.

Billy’s interest quickened. ‘Why are you so defensive if he didn’t—–’

‘Shut up!’ she ordered shrilly, still in a state of confusion, remembering firm lips on hers, the warmth of Rick Howarth’s tongue as it ran tantalisingly over the sensitivity of her lower lip. The memory of that was too private to share with anyone, especially her tormenting little brother.

‘Robyn!’ her mother reprimanded.

She bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry, Mum. But he goaded me,’ she glared at Billy.

‘Boys will be boys,’ her mother sighed.

And men would be men! And at the moment Rick Howarth was a man seriously in need of a woman. His impatience with her inexperience had been evidence enough that it wasn’t really her he had been kissing, just a presentable female with a passable body. If he was married, as she suspected he was, then he would be used to—to a certain physical relationship, and that he was missing that relationship was obvious.