Gypsy. Кэрол МортимерЧитать онлайн книгу.
But surely the request was taking the bounds of politeness too far? Besides, she hadn’t heard it was a quality he was known for!
His mouth twisted derisively. ‘Or what passes for dancing out there right now,’ he drawled.
She had seen for herself the erotic movements of the few couples that were bothering to dance; it had been one of the reasons she had escaped to the adjoining room. She certainly couldn’t imagine herself dancing with Lyon Falconer in that way! ‘I don’t think so,’ she grimaced.
‘No, possibly not,’ he agreed dryly. ‘A drink, then?’
‘I don’t drink.’ She shook her head.
‘Food?’
‘I’m not hungry.’
He shrugged broad shoulders beneath the expensively tailored suit, its chocolate-brown colour making his hair look a light tawny colour. ‘That would seem to take care of that.’ He turned to leave.
Panic rose up within Shay at the thought of his going. So she didn’t drink alcohol, and she wasn’t hungry, she could have pretended, damn it! ‘Mr Falconer!’ Her frantic call stopped him and he turned back to her with mockingly raised brows. It was then that she realised he had been playing with her, that he knew all the time she wanted to be with him, to spend time with him. He knew exactly what effect he had on her, on all women! She moistened her lips. ‘I just wanted to wish you a “Merry Christmas”,’ she lied, knowing she had been about to tell him she had changed her mind about the drink. But it was the fact that he knew it, that he had expected it, that made her contrarily change her mind.
He looked taken aback. ‘Merry Christmas?’ he repeated incredulously.
‘Yes,’ Shay confirmed brightly. ‘You see, I have to be leaving now.’
He frowned, totally disconcerted. ‘You have—someone, to go home to?’
She wasn’t leaving for Ireland until the following day, but she still had her packing to complete. Besides, she didn’t like to admit to this man how alone she was, somehow felt as if that were asking for his company. ‘I’m going away tomorrow,’ she smiled. ‘I have some last-minute things to do.’
A shadow seemed to pass over Lyon Falconer’s ruggedly handsome face. ‘I’m going away for the holiday period myself,’ he revealed abruptly.
Shay could imagine him on the ski-slopes of some exclusive resort, or possibly lazing on the beach of a South Sea island, or perhaps sailing the calm seas on a leisurely cruise. ‘I doubt if your idea of going away for Christmas is the same as mine,’ she drawled, her eyes aglow with humour.
His eyes narrowed, his mouth tightening at her derision. ‘I’m going to Bermuda.’
She smiled at her second guess being the closest. ‘And I’m going back to my grandfather’s home in Ireland, a small cottage, a real fire instead of an electric one, and a tree that sheds its pine-needles all over the carpet!’ It wasn’t until she began talking about it that she realised how much she had missed her home this last year, and how much she was looking forward to seeing it again.
‘You’re homesick,’ Lyon Falconer stated abruptly.
‘Yes,’ Shay confirmed huskily.
‘If you miss it so much what are you doing in London?’ he frowned.
‘My grandfather didn’t want me to marry Devlin Murphy,’ she recalled with a smile.
‘Devlin Murphy?’ the man across the room from her repeated sharply.
She nodded. ‘He lives next door to my grandfather.’
‘And you were in love with him?’
‘No.’ She laughed at the idea. ‘But my grandfather was afraid that I might be if I didn’t get away and see something of the world other than Ireland.’
‘And now that you’ve seen it?’
Her laughter faded, a sad look in deep purple eyes. ‘Now I know that although I love the place I could never settle for a small cottage in Ireland for the rest of my life, even it if does have a real fire,’ she admitted with a sigh of regret.
‘Nice to visit but you don’t want to live there,’ Lyon Falconer derided.
She became conscious of exactly who it was she was revealing her inner feelings to, stiffening slightly. ‘You’re very cynical,’ she told him without thinking, blushing fiery red when she did so.
‘But correct,’ he mocked.
‘Yes,’ she bit out. ‘I hope you have a nice time in Bermuda.’ Shay moved to brush past him as he still stood near the door.
He grasped her arm. ‘Come for a drive with me,’ he invited huskily.
‘A—a drive?’ She swallowed hard, his closeness unnerving her.
‘Yes.’ His gaze held hers, purple captivated by yellow cat’s eyes. ‘You don’t want to dance, you aren’t hungry, and you don’t drink, that only leaves going for a drive,’ he drawled.
‘But it’s late …’
‘Does that matter?’ he encouraged throatily.
Of course it didn’t matter! ‘Where will we go?’ asked Shay breathlessly.
‘Wherever fate decides to take us,’ he answered with surprising intensity. ‘Shay …?’
‘Yes?’ He was so close now their thighs were almost touching.
‘Do you believe in fate?’
After tonight she believed in anything! ‘I think so,’ she nodded.
He gave a sudden grin, looking younger, his hand sliding down her wrist to capture hers. ‘Then let’s see what it holds in store for us!’ He seemed to be challenging that fate, daring it to deny him something he wanted very much—and that something was Shay.
Shay should have known then not to become involved with a man who challenged life itself, who lived his life as if each moment were his last, should have run from him before he had the chance to hurt her. But she hadn’t run, had allowed him to pull her through the crowded adjoining room, into the lift and out to his waiting car, filling her with the same recklessness that had possessed him.
They hadn’t spoken as they drove, but there was none of the awkward silence between them that should have existed, the smiles Lyon sent her way filling her with a quiet glow of expectation.
He stopped the car near Regent Street, taking her hand to walk at her side down the dazzling street, the famous Christmas lights filling them both with a childish sense of the ridiculous, each picking out the unlikeliest items in the illuminated shop windows that they would like under their tree Christmas morning.
‘But what I’d really like,’ Lyon suddenly turned to growl, ‘is an Irish pixie with purple eyes.’
Colour flooded her cheeks as he held her intimately against him, making no secret of his stirring arousal as he moved his thighs against hers. ‘I’m too tall to be a pixie,’ Shay told him awkwardly.
‘One of the “little people" then,’ Lyon mocked her.
‘It’s the same thing,’ she said crossly. ‘And on Christmas morning I intend being under my own tree in Ireland, opening my own presents!’
‘Pity,’ he drawled, swinging her away from him. ‘What shall we do now?’
She pulled a face at the lateness of the hour. ‘I’m usually in bed at two o’clock in the—’ She broke off as she realised exactly what she was inviting with her thoughtlessly spoken words.
‘What an excellent idea,’ Lyon mocked. ‘Your bed or mine?’ He quirked dark blond brows.
‘Neither,’ Shay gasped. ‘I may have impulsively