The Tempestuous Flame. Carole MortimerЧитать онлайн книгу.
telephone told her he had rung off.
Well! So that was the famous Greg Fortnum. A bit abrupt perhaps, but definitely an attractive voice, sort of sexy. In the right mood and setting it could probably be downright seductive. She wondered if the body fitted the voice—probably, if his reputation was anything to go by. But then she didn’t want to marry a rake, no matter how attractive he was.
Determinedly she picked up her suitcase again and walked hurriedly out of the apartment before she changed her mind, she felt a burning sense of curiosity to meet the man at the other end of that telephone conversation. But what good would it do her? If he practised the charm on her that the voice pointed to him possessing she wouldn’t stand a chance, and before she knew what was happening she would have found herself married to him. And she didn’t intend marrying anyone just so they could have an accomplished hostess to grace their home. No, she wanted to be the most important thing in the life of the man she married, not just another asset.
It was already dark by the time she pulled the car up outside the cottage, and pulling open the double garage doors she parked the car inside out of the rain. She had stopped on the way for supplies, and taking these and her case she walked over to the cottage. The key to the door was under the mat as usual and letting herself in she instantly felt the coolness of the cottage. She rubbed her already cold hands together. Thank goodness there were some dry logs beside the fireplace, it wouldn’t take long for her to warm the place up and then she could get herself some soup to warm her.
She brought the sheets down from upstairs to air them in front of the glowing fire. A good night’s sleep and she would feel better. At the moment everything seemed creepy, and though not normally a nervous girl she wished she hadn’t come here now.
Her bedroom was quite warm from the fire she had burning in the small fireplace, but still she couldn’t sleep. She had been here on her own before, but usually it had been in the summer months when the nights were lighter. She shivered as she heard yet another strange noise outside.
It was no good, she would never get to sleep. She sat up suddenly. There was that noise again, and it sounded like a car door slamming. What was a car doing here? This was the only cottage in the area, which could only mean that whoever was in that car was coming here. Could it be burglars? But there was nothing here to steal. But they didn’t know that!
She crept quietly out of bed, peeping out of the curtains to the driveway below. Sure enough, parked there was a strange car, its sleek lines clearly visible in the moonlight. Her attention was caught and held by the shadowy figure walking around the car and delving into the boot. She ducked back behind the curtains as the sleek head looked up at the cottage. Had he seen her? She chanced another quick look between the curtains. The intruder seemed intent on the contents of the boot again. Well, it was no good cowering here, the telephone was downstairs, she would have to try and call for help.
The stairs creaked noisily as she crept down their winding length. Funny, she had never noticed they did that before. She only hoped the man outside hadn’t heard it too.
She was half way across the hallway to the telephone when the door was flung open and the light switched on. Caroline blinked dazedly at this sudden light, wrapping her almost transparent nightdress around her slender body. The man standing silhouetted in the doorway didn’t look at all pleased to see her either; his tanned arrogant face was creased in disapproving lines.
Caroline felt herself bridling with anger even in the face of danger. Who was this man to look down his haughty nose at her as if she were the intruder? She pulled herself up to her full height, looking coldly at the stranger.
The man moved forward into the light, his black hair shining like a raven’s wing, and the green eyes set like twin emeralds in his mahogany tanned face appraised her from head to toe. He was a tall man, well over six foot, and although he had a lean frame Caroline could see it was pure ripcord muscle. The trousers he wore clung to the length of his thighs, and the thick creamy sweater disguised none of the power beneath.
‘Well?’ he queried softly. ‘The maid, I presume?’
Caroline glared angrily at his sardonic face, resenting his scrutiny. ‘Certainly not!’ she said coldly. ‘Who are you?’ He didn’t look like a burglar, that was for sure.
He put down the case he had been carrying, casually taking out a gold cigarette case and lighting the cigarette he had extracted with a matching gold lighter. ‘Who I am isn’t really important. It’s who you are that matters, although from the way you’re acting I would say you’re one of the snooty daughter’s friends. Am I right?’
‘Snooty daughter?’ she repeated sharply. ‘What snooty daughter?’
The man came even further into the room, closing the door and moving with a cat-like grace to stand before the now dying fire in the lounge. ‘Matt’s snooty daughter. Cynthia, Catherine, whatever her name is.’
‘Oh,’ Caroline said dully. Snooty? Was she really? ‘Yes, I suppose you could call me a friend of hers. But who are you?’
He continued to smoke his cigarette, his eyes narrowed. ‘Much as I like the sight of your near-naked body I think you should go put some more clothes on if we’re to continue this conversation. It may not bother you to be seen like that, but I don’t usually carry out conversations with half-naked females.’
‘Really?’ Caroline said tartly, resenting his criticism of her. ‘You surprise me.’
Those green eyes mocked her. ‘Only females of my own choice,’ he amended. ‘And you certainly aren’t that.’
She gave him a flinty look before turning on her heel and marching furiously out of the room. What an insulting man! And who was he, he hadn’t told her that yet. Obviously an acquaintance of her father’s, but who, that was the question? And how dared he call her snooty when he didn’t even know her right name! Cynthia or Catherine! What a cheek! Well, she certainly wasn’t going to tell him who she was, not after that description of her.
When she came downstairs again five minutes later, dressed in levi’s and a thick green sweater, it was to find a steaming mug of coffee waiting for her.
‘Help yourself to sugar,’ he invited, drinking his own coffee with obvious pleasure. He put down the half-empty mug. ‘Now, would you mind telling me what you’re doing here?’
‘Would I?’ she demanded. ‘What about you?’
‘I happen to have been given permission to come here,’ he informed her haughtily. ‘And you?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? My—my friend gave me permission to use this cottage too. It has a studio, you see.’
‘A studio? What sort of studio?’
‘The type you paint in,’ she told him sarcastically.
‘Oh, I see.’ The contempt couldn’t be missed in his voice and her resentment towards him grew.
‘Who are you?’ she asked angrily.
He showed his dislike of her tone by the faint lift of his arrogant eyebrows. ‘My name is André—André Gregory.’
‘André? You don’t look French. It is French, isn’t it?’
‘Mmm. And I’m half French, on my mother’s side. And your name?’
‘Caroline…’ she hesitated. ‘Caroline Rawlings.’ Why had she lied? It would serve him right if he felt uncomfortable when she told him her name, although she had the feeling it wouldn’t bother him one way or the other. He seemed equally unconcerned that they had both come to stay here on the same night. He was the type of man that would be in control whatever the situation. She looked up to find him also looking at her, his face becoming a shuttered mask under her questioning gaze.
‘So, Miss Rawlings,’ he drawled her name, ‘it appears that we both have the intention of staying here for the night. I could of course be a gentleman and say that I’ll leave, but as good manners have never