Robyn Donald - Surrender To Seduction

And she discovered that the accidental brush of his hand against her breasts sent a primitive, charged thrill storming through her with flagrant, shattering force.

‘Poor little scrap!’ she said in a voice too even to be natural, when the child was once more in her arms. Turning away, she fought for some composure. ‘I wonder why her mother abandoned her. The usual reason, I suppose.’

‘Is there a usual reason?’ His voice was level and condemnatory. ‘How would you know? The mothers in these cases aren’t discovered very often.’

‘I’ve always assumed it’s because they come from homes where being an unmarried mother is considered wicked, and they’re terrified of being found out.’

‘Or perhaps because the child is a nuisance,’ he said.

Gerry gave him a startled look. Hard green eyes met hers, limpid, emotionless. Looking down, she thought, He’s far too old for Cara! before her usual common sense reasserted itself.

‘This is a newborn baby,’ she said crisply. ‘Her mother won’t be thinking too clearly, and could quite possibly be badly affected mentally by the birth. Even so, she left her where she was certain to be noticed and wrapped her warmly. She didn’t intend her to die.’

‘Really?’ He waited a moment—making sure, she wondered with irritation, that she knew how to hold the baby?—before stepping back.

Cuddling the child, Gerry sat down on the opposite sofa, saying with brazen nerve, ‘You seem very accustomed to children. Do you have any of your own?’

‘No,’ he said, his smile a thin line edged with mockery. ‘Like you, I have friends with families, and I can claim a couple of godchildren too.’

Although he hadn’t answered her unspoken question, he knew what she’d been asking. If she wanted to find out she was going to have to demand straight out, Are you married?

And she couldn’t do that; Cara’s love life was her own business. However, Gerry wondered whether it might be a good idea to drop a few comments to her about the messiness of relationships with married men.

Apart from anything else, it made for bad publicity, just the sort Cara couldn’t afford at the beginning of her career.

She was glad when the sudden movement of the baby in her arms gave her an excuse to look away. ‘All right, little love,’ she soothed, rocking the child until she settled back into deep sleep.

He said, ‘Your coffee’s finished percolating. Can I pour it for you?’

‘Thank you,’ she said woodenly.

‘My pleasure.’ He got to his feet.

Lord, she thought wildly, he towers! From her perch on the sofa the powerful shoulders and long, lean legs made him a formidable, intimidating figure. Although a good height for a model, Cara had looked tiny beside him.

‘Are you sure you don’t want one?’

‘Quite sure, thanks. Will you be able to drink it while you’re holding the baby?’

What on earth had she been thinking of? ‘I hadn’t—no, I’d better not,’ she said, wondering what was happening to her normally efficient brain.

‘I’ll pour it, anyway. If it’s left too long on a hotplate it stews. I can take the baby back while you drink.’ He spoke pleasantly.

Gerry tried not to watch as he moved easily around her kitchen, but it was impossible to ignore him because he had so much presence, dominating the room. Even when she looked out of the window at the grey and grumpy dawn doing its ineffectual best to banish the darkness, she was acutely aware of Bryn Falconer behind her, his presence overshadowing her thoughts.

‘There.’ He put the coffee mug down on the table before her, lean, strong hands almost a dramatic contrast to its blue and gold and white stripes. ‘Do you take sugar or milk?’

‘Milk, thank you.’

He straightened, looking down at her with gleaming, enigmatic eyes. ‘I’m surprised,’ he said, his voice deliberate yet disturbing. ‘I thought you’d probably drink it black.’

She gave him the smile her cousins called ‘Gerry’s offensive weapon’. Slow, almost sleepy, it sizzled through men’s defences, one of her more excitable friends had told her, like maple syrup melting into pancakes.

Bryn Falconer withstood it without blinking, although his eyes darkened as the pupils dilated. Savagely she thought, So you’re not as unaffected as you pretend to be, and then realised that she was playing with fire—dangerous, frightening, peculiarly fascinating fire.

In a crisp, frosty voice, she said, ‘Stereotyping people can get you into trouble.’

He looked amused and cynical. ‘I must remember that.’

Gerry repressed a flare of anger and said in a languid social tone, ‘I presume you were at the Hendersons’ party last night?’ And was appalled to hear herself; she sounded like a nosy busybody. He’d be quite within his rights to snub her.

He poured milk into her coffee. Gerry drew in a deep, silent breath. It was a cliché to wonder just how hands would feel on your skin, and yet it always happened when you were attracted to someone. How unfair, the advantage a graceful man had over a clumsy one.

And although graceful seemed an odd word to use for a man as big as Bryn Falconer she couldn’t think of a better one. He moved with a precise, assured litheness that pleased the eye and satisfied some inner need for harmony.

‘I met Cara there,’ he said indifferently.

Feeling foolish, because it was none of her business and she knew it, Gerry ploughed on, ‘Cara’s very young.’

‘You sound almost maternal,’ he said, his expression inflexible, ‘but you can’t be more than a few years older than she is.’

‘Nine, actually,’ Gerry returned. ‘And Cara has lived in the country all her life; any sophistication comes from her years at boarding school. Not exactly a good preparation for real life.’

‘She seems mature enough.’

For what? Gerry wondered waspishly. A flaming affair? Hardly; it would take a woman of considerable worldly experience to have an affair with Bryn Falconer and emerge unscathed.

He looked down at the baby, still sleeping peacefully, and asked, ‘Do you want me to take her while you drink your coffee?’

The coffee could go cold and curdle for all she cared; Gerry had no intention of getting close to him again. It was ridiculous to be so strongly aware of a man who not only indulged in one-night stands, but liked women twelve or so years younger than he was. ‘She’ll be all right on the sofa,’ she said, and laid her down, keeping a light hand on the child as she picked up the mug and held it carefully well away from her.

Sitting down opposite them, he leaned back and surveyed Gerry, his wide, hard mouth curled in a taunting little smile.

I don’t like you at all, Bryn Falconer, Gerry thought, sipping her coffee with feigned composure. The bite of the caffeine gave her the impetus to ask sweetly, ‘What sort of things do you import, Mr Falconer?’

‘Anything I can earn a penny on, Ms Dacre,’ he said, mockery shading his dark, equivocal voice. ‘Clothing, machinery, computers.’

‘How interesting.’

One brow went up. ‘I suppose you have great difficulty understanding computers.’

‘What’s to understand?’ she said in her most come-hither tone. ‘I know how to use them, and that’s all that matters.’

‘You did warn me about the disadvantages of stereotyping,’ he murmured, green gaze raking her face. ‘Perhaps I should take more notice of what you say. The face of an angel and a mind like a steel trap. How odd to find you the owner of a model agency.’

‘Part-owner. I have a partner,’ she purred. ‘I like pretty things, and I enjoy pretty people.’ She didn’t intend to tell him that she was already bored with running the agency. She’d enjoyed it enormously while she and Honor McKenzie were setting it up and working desperately to make it a success, but now that they’d made a good name for themselves, and an excellent income, the business had lost its appeal.