Potent As Poison. Sharon KendrickЧитать онлайн книгу.
that she offer him some form of refreshment, at least.
‘Might I offer you some coffee?’ But the words sounded as though they were choking her.
Unmoving, he continued to subject her to that narrow-eyed irritation. ‘Thank you,’ he said, with sarcastic emphasis. ‘But no.’
‘Then in that case—Jenny.’ She gave something approaching a smile to the woman who stood in front of her, aware of the look of puzzlement in her eyes. ‘You’ve worked for long enough. I can manage here on my own now. I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Yes, Mrs Carson.’
Even Jenny’s professionalism couldn’t keep the trace of bewilderment out of her voice, thought Elizabeth—and who could blame her, with her boss behaving as though she’d had a complete brainstorm? Elizabeth saw a sardonic dark eyebrow raised in Jenny’s direction and she could have hugged her secretary for very pointedly ignoring it.
As Jenny walked out and the office door closed behind her, Elizabeth met the cool gaze head-on. ‘If you’ll just excuse me for a moment—I’d like a few moments to straighten myself out.’
He didn’t reply; he didn’t have to—the expression on his face said it all. Strange woman.
She managed to make her way into the washroom without stumbling, turning the tap on full blast as if hoping that the running water would wash everything away, leaving her the same woman as five minutes ago with no problems other than of a practical nature; problems she could deal with quite easily.
Quickly, she ran the pulse-points of her wrists under the cool water in an effort to slow the thundering of her pulses which had caused two high spots of scarlet to flush over her cheekbones, so that they stood out in startling contrast to the drained whiteness of her face. She had to stay in control. Not cowering out here. In control.
And wasn’t she over-reacting like crazy? It was obviously coincidence that had brought him here today. Just because he had forgotten that once, a lifetime ago ... And here she bit her lip.
Once, he had slept with her.
Which meant nothing. Not these days. Not to a man like that. That she at the time had chosen to misinterpret what was obviously just meant to be a very enjoyable yet simply casual dalliance was down to her, not him. And she had no right whatsoever to burden him with the repercussions of that fateful weekend.
He was a prospective client, nothing more. But already she knew for certain that she didn’t want him as a client. She had loved him, for God’s sake—there was no way she could work for him as if nothing had ever happened. And she imagined that, after what had just occurred, the feeling would be mutual. And yet, as she turned to go back into her office, some protesting voice in her head shouted, Tell him! Tell him about Peter.
He was still standing, and had his back to her, looking out of her window, but as the washroom door closed behind Elizabeth, he turned.
Tell him? she thought, but the wavering only lasted for a second as their eyes met. He really doesn’t recognise me, she thought, and an immense sadness washed over her as the last remnant of her girlish dreams crumbled and died. ‘Won’t you take a seat?’ She indicated the chair before her desk with a long, elegant hand.
He paused no longer than a second, before lowering his long-legged frame into the chair opposite her own. ‘Thank you.’ But the courtesy belied the tone of his voice; that spoke nothing but derision.
He waited until she herself had sat down, watching her closely, so closely that at any moment she expected him to say, ‘Beth!’ but of course he didn’t, and when he did speak his words were anything but friendly.
‘Are you normally so hostile towards prospective clients, Mrs Carson?’ he said coldly.
Something of her normal unflappability began to gain ascendancy. ‘I’ve been under a lot of pressure recently,’ she said. ‘And this wasn’t helped by a bad bout of flu from which I’m only just recovering,’ she returned calmly, but it fell far short of an apology and what was more, they both knew it.
She couldn’t miss the imperceptible knitting together of the dark brows, the flash of fire in the blue-green eyes as he acknowledged her rudeness.
But she had intended to be insulting. Recklessly, she neither thought nor cared about the consequences—she wanted him out of here, and quickly. Because somehow, quite without knowing it, he was playing havoc with her equilibrium. Why else would the palms of her hands be so sticky that she was having to surreptitiously use her skirt to soak up their dampness, or her heart be hammering so furiously that she feared for her health? He had turned her world upside down once before, and she would do everything in her power to make sure that he didn’t do so a second time.
The spectacular blue-green eyes continued to glitter as he registered her pugnacious expression, and she expected a snapped retort, but she was wrong, for he leaned back in the chair as if he had all the right in the world to be there.
‘Have a problem with men, do you, honey?’ He stared suggestively at her short, almost boyish haircut, and she caught his drift immediately, a dull brick-red colour flaring over her cheeks.
‘Just what are you getting at?’
He shrugged broad, broad shoulders. ‘I’m a liberated man—I can take it. You know what they say: “different strokes for different folks”.’
‘If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting,’ she spluttered furiously, ‘then I can assure you I’m not!’
‘Well, that’s something,’ he said, in a soft, almost dangerous voice. ‘Because let me tell you, Mrs Carson—I’ve heard a good deal about your particular talents’
Did his eyes briefly flick from lips to breast—the slight flare of the aristocratic nostrils an outward sign that he had responded to her physically? Or was her imagination running riot? I have to get him out of here, she thought weakly.
‘Mr Masterton!’ She could stand no more. Tension crackled in the air, like the first light to a bonfire. ‘I think it’s better if you leave now, don’t you?’
‘Leave?’ His tone was mocking, but his eyes were as hard as diamonds. ‘But I’ve only just arrived.’
Oh, those eyes. Blue-green, the colour of a sunwashed sea; how they dazzled as they mocked.
‘I’m sorry.’ Patently, she wasn’t. ‘But it’s obvious that we aren’t going to be able to work with each other.’ She pushed together an already tidy sheaf of papers in a gesture she intended to be dismissive, but to her despair he leaned even further back in the chair.
‘Oh?’ he queried. ‘And why’s that?’
She found herself wanting to shout at him, because his presence was somehow making her mind flare up with disturbing images as she found herself remembering his kiss, the exquisite perfection of his lovemaking. She found herself remembering his dark head flung back, a look of pure ecstasy on his face, caught up in the same heart-stopping release that she’d discovered with him ... For a moment she hovered on the brink of tears, but with gritty determination they were gone before there was even the hint of a shimmer in her eyes.
She drew a deep breath, managed a calm voice, even a rueful half-smile to play on her lips. She did her ‘we’re all adults here’ approach. ‘Come on, Mr Masterton—let’s not be naive. We haven’t exactly—hit it off, have we? A personality clash—whatever you like to call it. It happens.’
The eyes narrowed, and Elizabeth had the uncanny feeling that he had seen through her little show of pretence and witnessed the discomfiture which lay beneath. She also got the feeling that rejection was something he neither knew nor liked. ‘On the contrary,’ he said, in the deep American drawl. ‘There’s nothing more invigorating than a little conflict. It sharpens the mind and——’ his eyes glimmered ‘—makes such a refreshing change.’
He