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As if he were taking her seriously.
‘So no, Mr Voronov, my husband has no idea what I’m doing nowadays—but I do. I wish I hadn’t tried to hit you. I can’t take that back. But you don’t get to say things like that to me. I don’t deserve your contempt, or do you just have a problem with women in general? I suspect you do.’
Sybella had no idea where all those words had come from or her ability to say them or even if they were true. But nothing had just ‘happened’ here tonight. It had been building since he’d held her in his arms outside in the snow and all the sensuality latent in her body had woken up.
She resented it, and she resented him. But none of that was his fault.
‘I suspect I have a problem with you, Mrs Parminter,’ he said slowly. ‘But I am sorry for what I said.’
‘You should be.’ She held his gaze. She could see her words had affected him and she could also see some grudging respect in his eyes and that gave her the grace to say, ‘I’m sorry too.’
She forced the apology out, because as wrong as her actions were she couldn’t yet let go of them, or the feelings that had provoked them. None of this had made her feel better; she felt worse. She wrapped arms around her waist as best she could in her ridiculous parka.
He was looking at her as if she deserved some compassion. He was wrong. She deserved a good talking-to for all the mistakes she’d made in dealing with this house.
‘You’re cold,’ he said. ‘You need to take off your wet things.’
‘I don’t—’
‘You can dry them in front of the fire, or I can have them laundered.’
‘Please don’t bother.’ She passed a hand over her face. ‘I’m going to take them back to Climb and Ski tomorrow for a full refund.’
‘Are you all right?’
She blinked, taking her hand away from her face to find him watching her as if she might keel over. ‘I guess so.’
Which was when her eyes filled with tears. Oh, blast.
Tired, wet, in some serious trouble over her activities in this house, and yet troublingly aware of Nik Voronov as a man and her own deficiencies in that area, Sybella wanted nothing more than to wriggle out of her wet things and cast herself down in front of the fire and sleep for a hundred years.
But she didn’t get the fairy-tale option. She should be practising a better apology.
There was a rattle and clatter as Gordon, who ran the household, entered from a side door, wheeling the drinks trolley.
Saved by the man with the alcohol!
A long-time bachelor, Gordon was her ally in the house, having worked here for almost thirty years under the previous owner. He gave her a guarded look of surprise but didn’t say anything. He was too good at his job.
Her host meanwhile had signalled to Gordon he could deal with the drinks.
Sybella wondered if she could just slip out with the trolley. But the fire lured her and she turned away to deal with her wet things, surreptitiously sniffing and wiping at her eyes with her wrist. She stripped off her parka and then her cords, feeling self-conscious in her tights but not exposed. They were of a durable denier and thick enough to act as leggings. Frankly, it was a relief to be able to move her body freely again.
She laid out her jeans before the fire and had just straightened up when a towel dropped over her head.
She gave a start but with a gruff, ‘Hold still,’ her host began to vigorously but not roughly rub dry her damp hair.
After an initial protest of, ‘I can do this,’ she gave in, because really he was impossible to argue with.
But this was her role. For five years she’d been the caregiver. It was disconcerting to find herself the one being cared for. And as his strokes became more rhythmic Sybella found herself going quiescent, some of the tension of the crazy evening leaving her.
It had been so long since her needs were seen to by someone else. She’d forgotten it could be like this. Even when Simon had been alive he’d been so busy with his new veterinary practice in the few months they were married they had seemed only to bump into each other at night in bed, and Sybella could feel her skin suffusing with heat because another man’s hands were on her, if only drying her hair. But when she looked up and clashed with his grey eyes she was shocked into feelings so raw and insistent she barely recognised them as the gentle, awkward finding their way she’d had with Simon...
‘That’s enough,’ she said, her voice a little rough with the sudden upsurge of feeling beating around in her.
He paused but then continued to dry her even more vigorously.
‘If you collapse from pneumonia in a few days’ time—’ he said gruffly.
‘You don’t want it on your conscience?’
‘I don’t want a lawsuit.’
Sybella snorted, she couldn’t help it, and she felt rather than saw him smile.
‘I’m not a lawyer,’ she said, ‘and I don’t have the money for a lawyer.’
‘What do you do,’ he asked, removing the towel so that her head came back and she could see him, ‘besides haunt this house?’
She didn’t miss a beat. ‘I could give you a list?’
A slow grudging smile curled up his mouth, taking Sybella’s entire attention with it. ‘Why don’t you do that?’
As if he had all the time in the world to listen to her life story. As if like before she’d spill her guts.
Instead she asked, ‘Why don’t you visit your grandfather more often?’ It was the one thing that really bothered her, and it was more important than anything to do with the open house and how much trouble she would be in.
He reached out and gently smoothed the drying ringlets back from her face.
‘I would have visited earlier,’ he said, ‘if I’d had any idea something so beautiful was here.’
Then his gaze dropped to her mouth.
She relived that moment in the snow and realised it hadn’t been her imagination. There was a very strong attraction between them.
Only she didn’t do things like this.
Given the last man to kiss her existed now only in her memory of him.
She wasn’t even sure what she would do if he...
His mouth covered hers. He gave her no opportunity to back out, or overthink it, he just made it happen. One hand sliding around the back of her head to cradle her, the other at the small of her back. His hand was so broad he could span her waist from behind.
In a flurry of sense impressions, Sybella had never felt so delicate, so utterly aware she was a feeling, sensate woman and, as exciting and dangerous as this was, she felt completely safe in his arms.
Where he had been so rough with her out in the snow he was now showing due care and acknowledgement of her as a female, which put to bed his remark about mistaking her for a man and engendered a fluttery feeling inside her. It bloomed high in her chest and a swirling warmth gathered down below.
He brought her in close to his body and she felt the full hard, muscular strength of him and it was enough.
She gave way, her mouth softening under his, the entire lost art of kissing returning to her with some subtle but much appreciated changes.
His tongue touched, grazed, tasted, seduced and the feel of him was so completely male and so overwhelming in the certainty of his approach Sybella took what he gave her instinctively and with an utter disregard to where this might be leading.
Until all her doubts came rushing back in and she ducked her head.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked gruffly.
Apart from he was a stranger, and they didn’t know one another, and she suspected given her activities in his house only trouble could come from this?
‘I don’t know.’ She did know—she was feeling a bit too much and it had been so long and she no longer had any certainty in her ability to meet him as a sexually confident woman. But had she ever?
She wasn’t ready for this.
Meg would say whatever sense of herself as a desirable woman had been shoved into the back of her wardrobe in a box along with her preserved wedding bouquet and all the plans she and Simon had made for the future. But it had happened before that. It had happened when Simon had briefly dated another girl and slept with her.
It was a little disconcerting to say the least to discover, gazing up at this intense, beautiful man, she had no idea where to go from here with him. But she did know one thing. She had to let him know what was going on in his house.
‘I have to tell you something,’ she blurted out. ‘Edbury Hall is open to the public on weekends.’
* * *
Nik didn’t immediately let her go. His hand was still curled around her sweet waist gloved in soft cashmere wool that made the most of her glorious curves above and below.
He could pinpoint the moment he’d stopped thinking clearly. It was when he’d seen her bending down by the fire, the most female-looking woman. She was the proverbial hourglass, and if there was a little more sand than was standard in that glass his libido didn’t make that distinction. She had ample breasts and long, shapely legs, deliciously plump around her thighs and bottom, and in his arms she’d felt like both comfort and sin.
Which explained why his brain took a little longer to catch up, because his body was happy where it was, Sybella’s curves giving him a full body press.
‘Why is the house open to the public?’ He forced himself to set her back. ‘On whose authorisation?’
‘Mr Voronov senior’s, and—and yours.’ Sybella’s voice gave out, so the ‘yours’ wasn’t much more than a whisper.
‘Mine?’ he growled, any trace of the man who had begun to kiss her and rouse such passionate feelings in her evaporating like the last patch of sunshine on a cold winter’s day.
‘You were sent the paperwork. I didn’t just go ahead only on your grandfather’s say-so,’ she protested.
‘I received no paperwork.’
No. She gnawed on the inside of her lip. Now she would have to explain about the letters. But she didn’t want to be responsible for a further breach between grandfather and grandson. Family was important.
No one understood that better than someone who for a long time didn’t have any.
No, it would be better if his grandfather confessed.
And what if Nik Voronov decided to blame her anyway?
Blood was blood, and old Mr Voronov might easily side with his grandson.
Sybella knew she had nobody to blame but herself and for a spinning moment she just started babbling. ‘I don’t see who has been hurt by any of this. Mr Voronov is a lonely man and he enjoys having people into the house...’
‘And you have taken advantage of that.’
‘No!’ Sybella closed her eyes and took a breath. Arguing with him wasn’t going to accomplish anything. ‘I understand you don’t know me,’ she said, keeping her voice as steady as she could, given the escalating tension, ‘and you say you’re worried about your grandfather—’
‘I am worried about him.’
‘Well, I don’t see any evidence of that given you’re never here!’
Oh, she should have kept that to herself. And now he was looking down at her without a shred of give in him.
‘I suspect you’ve taken my grandfather for a ride, and, if I find out that’s the case, you really don’t want me for an enemy Mrs Parminter.’
It was difficult not to take a step back.
She swallowed hard. ‘Do you go through life mistrusting people?’
‘When it comes to my family I don’t allow anything past the keeper.’
Those words took the indignant air out of her because she guarded her little family too. His grandfather had become of late an honorary member of that family and for a moment she wondered if she’d got it wrong. Nik Voronov might genuinely care about his grandfather. If the shoe were on the other foot she would be suspicious too.
She tried again. ‘Honestly, Nik, it’s not what you think.’
‘I think we can probably go back to Mr Voronov.’
He was making her feel as if she’d done something wrong.
Which was when she noticed he was getting out his phone.
‘Are you calling the police again?’ She tried not to sound despairing because, really, what were they going to arrest her on? Impersonating a married lady? Kissing a man she’d just met?
‘I’m arranging a car for you. I take it you live in the village?’
It was no more than a ten-minute walk if she took the lane, but Sybella didn’t intend to argue with him about the lift.
‘If this is your organisation’s way of drumming up support you can let them know that honey traps went out in the nineteen seventies.’
Honey trap?
He turned away and spoke rapidly into his phone in Russian.
Sybella wondered if being shaken about like a child’s toy earlier had affected her hearing. It had certainly loosened some of her native intelligence.
What did he think, she was Mata Hari kissing men for state secrets?
Oh, boy, she definitely needed to get out of here.
Cursing her own stupidity, she pulled on her damp jeans and then bent down to reattach her boots. Everything was cold and unpleasant and would chafe but there was no helping that.
‘I want you back here nice and early, let’s say eight o’clock for breakfast,’ he said from behind her. ‘You have some explaining to do, and it will be in the presence of my grandfather.’
