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‘I’m sure they do. It’s you that’s the problem.’ Taking a jagged breath, she shook her head. ‘But you’re not my problem.’ He had never been her anything, nor did she want him to be. Twisting her wrist, she tapped her watch. ‘And you’ve had your five minutes. So I suggest you call up your trustees and tell them you made a mistake. That you spoke rashly. I’m sure they’ll have no trouble believing you. You can see yourself out, can’t you?’
Spinning away from him, she walked over to the far side of the room and flicked through one of the fabric books that Samantha had left behind. There was silence and she felt rather than saw him move. Her chest tightened with both relief and misery that he could find it so easy to walk away, but then he’d had practice.
She heard a rustling sound and, frowning, she turned and felt her stomach drop. Trip was lounging on the sofa, flicking through a magazine, his long legs stretched in front of him. Glancing up at her, he held it open.
‘There was a good turnout that night, wasn’t there? It’s a nice photo too.’
For a moment she didn’t respond, couldn’t respond. She was too fazed by the picture. It had been taken the night of the auction when she had opened her tablet only to find that she hadn’t uploaded her speech.
The same night that she and Trip had sex for the first time.
They were standing together, not touching, but she could remember how it had felt standing so close to him, his height, the curve of his muscles, the lightning snap of his eyes and that energy fizzing off his skin.
Her eyes fixed on the photograph. He looked like he always did. A masterclass in symmetry and flawless masculinity. Cool, confident, at ease with the cameras, whereas she...
Throat tightening, her gaze shifted to her own face.
She looked stiff and dazed. Partly because she was still reeling from the shock of Trip stepping up and giving a speech without any planning or preparation, but also because growing up with train-track braces had left her horribly self-conscious about smiling.
‘It’s just a photo.’
He was shaking his head. ‘It’s a story. The start of a fairy tale in New York.’ His eyes on hers were as soft and intimate as a caress. ‘A man and a woman who grew up in the same city, paths never quite crossing until, one day, fate pushes them together and they become lovers.’
Lovers. The word fizzed in her mouth and she felt heat break out on her skin. Trip wasn’t the first man she’d had sex with, but he was her first lover.
Before him, she had understood the mechanics of sex and it had always been pleasant enough, only she hadn’t been able to see why everyone made it into such a big deal.
Trip had made her see.
It had been revelatory. Sex with him had been wild, frantic. It had snatched her breath away. Left her reeling and hollowed out with a need she had never felt before. The more they’d touched and kissed and caressed, the more she’d wanted, and, like an addict, she’d lost touch with reality so that for the first time in her entire life she had felt beautiful, special.
But then he’d ended it.
Out of the blue. Just turned up, twitching with an anger she hadn’t understood, still didn’t understand, and he had ended it with her.
Folding her arms protectively in front of her body, she said coolly, ‘Have you forgotten which way the door is?’
He let the magazine drop open onto the coffee table. ‘Nice swerve, but I know you remember what we had. We could build on that.’ His voice was a lazy drawl that played havoc with her nerve endings.
She gave him an icy glare. ‘What I remember is you telling me that it had all gone on a little longer than you planned.’ She could hear the bitterness in her voice, but she didn’t care. All the pent-up confusion and anger and fear of the last few weeks seemed to have coalesced into one accusatory stream. ‘What I remember is you standing in this room, itching to be gone.’
‘And now I’m back.’
He got to his feet and she felt her body tense and soften at the same time as he walked towards her. She took a defensive step away from him, but he kept moving. Pressing the soles of her shoes into the rug, she held up a hand.
‘Don’t come any closer—’
‘Because you don’t trust yourself.’ His teasing, dangerously sensuous mouth pulled into a smile that made her breath go shallow.
‘Because you will regret it if you do,’ she said stiffly.
The gleam in his eyes got more intense, and he took an infinitesimal step towards her.
‘Why? Are you going to smother me with some swatches?’
He jerked the fabric in her hand and she should have just let go, but she didn’t and he pulled her closer, drawing her in so hard and fast she had to push her hand against his chest to stop him. It was like fireworks exploding, sparking out from that point of contact, making her skin burn and heat race through her and she wanted to jerk her hand away, only that would make obvious the effect he was having on her, and she would rather set fire to herself than do that.
‘Back off, Trip, or so help me I will call Security.’
