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A Past To Deny
Kate Proctor
Once forgotten. Twice shy. Maggie Wallace had spent the most exciting night of her life with a man who couldn't even remember her name. And now she had to work with him all day and live in the same house as him all night. The nights were the worst… . Did Slane really not remember her?Sometimes she wasn't so sure; there was a gleam in his eye that suggested otherwise. And, judging by the way he kissed her, he still found her as attractive as he had three years ago. Whatever happened, Maggie was determined that she wouldn't make the same mistake twice!
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u69e1daf3-ecda-586f-8356-46db8fa15346)
Excerpt (#u9e331721-6329-596e-a526-988be8a0ab7d)
About the Author (#u5f7a18a0-d938-523b-87fc-0deec97dd319)
Title Page (#u791ec9ae-0542-5db7-b42d-a716401d173b)
Chapter One (#u0f17720c-86f4-5cef-8b82-e2e1fd34d587)
Chapter Two (#u16f97703-6e64-5824-9573-550c1055c738)
Chapter Three (#u5c620de6-aca8-57d4-b908-871e8379b658)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Exactly how do you feel, Maggie?”
Slane’s mouth lowered to brush softly against hers, crushing hungrily down as it met with not the slightest resistance.
It was like coming home, she thought incredulously as she lifted her arms and clung to him, her body rejoicing in the swift surge of desire it encountered in his with an abandon that brought a soft groan bursting from him.
Her impassioned reaction brought another groan—almost of pain—as he forced her away and held her at arm’s length.
“No,” he protested hoarsely. “This won’t work! We hardly know any more about one another than we did last time.”
KATE PROCTOR is part Irish and part Welsh, though she spent most of her childhood in England and several years of her adult life in Central Africa. Now divorced, she lives just outside London with her two cats, Florence and Minnie (presented to her by her two daughters who live fairly close by).
Having given up her career as a teacher on her return to England, Kate now devotes most of her time to writing. Her hobbies include crossword puzzles, bridge and, at the moment, learning Spanish.
A Past To Deny
Kate Proctor
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_f7169d5a-935a-5aac-9cea-ea8aeedf2311)
MAGGIE WALLACE sat cross-legged on the bed, haphazardly drying her hair. Cocooned in the luxury of Professor Connor Fitzpatrick’s elegant Dublin home, she gazed through the rain-splattered window into the stormy darkness beyond with cosy contentment.
It was a shame that her stay had to coincide with the Prof’s trip to America, she reflected lazily, before giving a wry grin and deciding that it was probably just as well, given their shared penchant for staying up half the night, chatting.
The smile abruptly left her attractive features as she remembered the state in which she had been when the Prof had rung her, announcing a problem that had cropped up which he’d hoped she would help him solve.
Once again, albeit unknowingly, the Prof had come to her rescue, she mused despondently, then gave an angry shake of her head. No, she didn’t need rescuing any more, she told herself firmly, leaning forward and sweeping her shoulder-length dark blonde hair up over her face. She switched the hair-dryer up a notch and dried off the damp underneath parts, but the unsettling thoughts lingered on.
All right, so it had taken far too long, she argued defensively, but she had already begun looking to the future before Peter had turned up out of the blue and momentarily knocked her tentative reawakening sideways. And the fact was that it had actually proved to be a blessing in disguise in that now she could feel the future beckoning her with added strength.
Maggie switched off the hair-dryer and groaned at the distant sound of the telephone ringing. In a house this size any normal person would have at least a couple of extensions, she grumbled to herself as she flew down the stairs to the study, but not the Prof—with his negative attitude to telephones, it was a wonder he actually had one at all.
‘Connor, I hope your ears are burning!’ she exclaimed when she heard the soft tones of the distinguished Irish academic greet her. ‘I nearly broke my neck getting down the stairs to answer this.’
‘The exercise will do you good, darling,’ he chuckled. ‘So tell me, has the lad arrived?’
‘Lad?’ queried Maggie. ‘If you mean the Fitzpatrick Consolidated chemist, he hasn’t contacted me yet.’
‘No—Slane. I could wring that young devil’s neck,’ complained Connor. ‘The one time I’m in his part of the world he takes off for Dublin.’
‘Slane? I take it we’re talking the Yankee Fitzpatrick Slane?’ Maggie drew the receiver back from her ear as a roar of laughter assaulted it from across the Atlantic.
‘The very one,’ chortled the professor. ‘My late cousin James’s boy, and not simply one of that filthy capitalist lot from the other side of the Atlantic I keep telling you about, but the numero uno Yankee Fitzpatrick.’
‘It would serve you right if they cut you off without a penny, the way you talk about them,’ laughed Maggie. Back when they had first met, and for no reason that she could really explain, she had been surprised to discover just how closely related the professor was to the powerful American family that owned Fitzpatrick Consolidated—one of the wealthiest and most commercially ruthless of the big American corporations.
‘Stop sidetracking me, girl,’ grumbled the professor, his aversion to the telephone beginning to assert itself. ‘The point is there’s been a change of plan—it’s Cousin Slane you’ll be assistant to for the tests and—’
‘Connor, I hope you’re joking!’ exclaimed Maggie, her alarm sensors shrieking into overdrive. ‘You told me this would be an opportunity for me to take a couple of weeks to brush up on my rusty lab technique, not that I’d be involved in something so important that the big boss of Fitzpatrick Con—’
‘Maggie, you’ll be dissecting a few plants, damn it,’ cut in Connor. Then he added with a sigh, ‘I suppose, now that I think on it, I’m not at all surprised young Slane’s decided to get involved…And there’s also the fact that it gives him an excuse to return to Ireland, which—’
‘Why would he need an excuse?’
‘He hasn’t been to Dublin since Marjorie’s funeral,’ he said, his voice catching at the mention of his beloved wife, ‘and, believe me, he worshipped her…Damn it, this will be a doubly hellish trip for him—and here I am stuck on the Yankee side of the Atlantic.’
‘Hellish?’ exclaimed Maggie, wondering what on earth she was about to be let in for.
‘Pay no heed to me, darling,’ he responded, discomfiture ringing in his tone. ‘You might not remember, but James died just six months before Marjorie. Anyway, forget these old man’s ramblings of mine and just rest assured that Slane possesses one of the finest scientific minds there is.
‘Come to think of it, I should be giving thanks he’ll be putting it to its rightful use for a while, even if it is on something this elementary, instead of squandering it on running that damned company.’
‘Are you sure he hasn’t deliberately picked a time to return when you’ll not be here?’ teased Maggie, only too willing to follow his lead in lightening the subject. ‘Excuse me a moment—I thought I heard something.’
It was the sound of a car drawing away, followed by muffled movement in the area of the porticoed porch. ‘I’ve a feeling your illustrious cousin has just arrived. I’d better let him in.’
‘Connor, you old devil, where are you?’ bellowed an American-accented voice from the hallway.
‘Too late—he’s already in, and bellowing for you.’
‘Damn it, I’ll never get off this wretched contraption,’ grumbled Connor. ‘I’d better have a word with him.’
‘Mr Fitzpatrick,’ called Maggie, putting down the receiver and running over to the study door. ‘The professor’s on the phone and would like a word with you.’
It all happened in a blur—the tall, dark-coated figure striding past her to pick up the receiver she had placed on the desktop and the sensation of her world crashing to pieces around her.
It was a trick of the light, a voice inside her shrieked from amidst the chaos breaking out within her—the room was in virtual darkness save for the small desk lamp angled uselessly across the blotter…Then he spoke, not in the raised tones that had issued from the hall and struck no chord in her, but in softly exasperated tones that were her complete undoing.
‘That’s great, Connor—me here and you there… No, I haven’t seen Mom; I just got back in from Australia a couple of days ago and…OK, OK… Right, I am listening.’
His dark-lashed blue eyes rose as he listened and alighted on Maggie, standing immobile a few steps from the doorway.
‘Damn it, Connor, you must have a pretty good idea why I’m here!’ he exploded suddenly, and turned slightly, lowering his voice. ‘And I’m not about to act as surrogate instructor to some student you’ve taken under your wing.’
Although Maggie was no longer able to see his face, her mind’s eye took over and she was able to conjure up every last detail: the blue-blackness of his hair, tousled almost to curliness; eyebrows arching in elegant symmetry above heavy-lidded, lushly lashed eyes; the nose, fine-boned and patrician, in perfect proportion to the rest of those faultless features; the mouth, wide and dramatically defined in its intriguing blend of harshness and sensuality…The face of the stranger whose body, one night long ago, had time after impossible time possessed her own in a mindless frenzy of rapture.
‘OK, Connor, you have me convinced,’ he said, his tone softening with affection. ‘No problem—it’s just that right now I’m jet-lagged and dead on my feet… Yeah, all I need is some of Mrs Morrison’s food in me to restore me—that and a bed to fall into.’
Maggie felt herself sway. Bed…cool linen sheets slipping from glistening, passion-driven bodies to lie rumpled on the floor.
‘Perhaps you should tell her that for yourself.’ The laugher-filled words cut across the madness of Maggie’s wandering thoughts. ‘OK, OK, I’ll do that…And you have yourself a good time—and give Mom my love when you see her…No, she doesn’t know anything about this; I’ll tell her when I get back.’
He put the phone down, then dragged his hands wearily across his face before turning his attention to Maggie, who still stood where he had passed her, her body rooted to the spot by a petrifying mixture of horror and incredulity.
‘Hi, Maggie—I’m Slane. I guess that’s about the only place for us to start,’ he muttered, tiredness hoarsening his voice.
No, thought Maggie dazedly, the deal had been no names…complete anonymity. She wanted to protest, but remained frozen as everything slurred into slow motion and he began walking towards her, his hand outstretched.
She was too busy steeling herself for the impact of his belated recognition to have any consciousness of how her hand came to be briefly enfolded in the cool clasp of his. It was beyond her comprehension that she might have given it freely.
‘Look, whatever you heard me say to Connor,’ he said, the familiarity of his voice washing over her like an intimate caress, seeking out and threatening to expose those secrets whose very existence made her feel that she could more easily die than acknowledge them, ‘ignore it—apart from the fact that I’m dog-tired and jet-lagged.’
A state, in fact, in which his memory would be functioning well below par, reasoned Maggie—the idea that he actually might not have recognised her suddenly proving almost as impossible to accept as that of seeing him again—especially with regard to a woman he had met only once almost three years ago.
‘I can see we need to talk,’ he murmured, his eyes for a split second catching hers, their look momentarily confounding her with the certainty that he had recognised her. ‘I’ve plainly upset you.’
‘And what makes you think that?’ The coolness of that utterance astounded her; there was no way she could accept that it had emerged from her own traumatised person.
‘Come on now, Maggie—even aside from the fact that it’s written all over you, you hadn’t been able to bring yourself to utter a word to me until just now.’
‘I’d have looked a bit of an idiot trying to strike up a conversation wtih you, given that you’ve been on the phone to Connor ever since you walked in here.’ She was about to disintegrate into a gibbering wreck, she thought dazedly, yet once again she had managed to sound the epitome of cool composure. ‘But you’re right about one thing—we need to talk.’
‘Have you any objection to our doing that over coffee?’ he asked, tiredness once more hoarsening his tone.
‘No, of course not!’ she exclaimed, her momentary certainty evaporating. ‘I’ll make some…and I suppose we should do something about finding a room for you, though I’m afraid I haven’t a clue where the Prof keeps bedlinen and things.’
‘Don’t worry, I do,’ he murmured, his mouth quirking with humour. ‘And I still have my own room here, even though it’s a good while since I’ve used it’
Maggie’s legs were shaking beneath her as she led the way to the kitchen and her mind had also started playing horrifying tricks on her which she was ruthlessly suppressing.
‘My God, nothing’s changed,’ he muttered to himself, pausing to gaze around the large, comfortable kitchen before slumping down on one of the chairs, still huddled in his coat.
‘How do you like your coffee?’ asked Maggie, still thrown by how remarkably well her mind was working, seemingly independently of herself.
‘Exactly twice as strong as Connor drinks his,’ he replied, with a chuckle that slid over Maggie like warm silk and made her lose control of the thoughts she had been so frantically suppressing. ‘But you don’t have to wait on me,’ he added, rising. ‘I can make it myself.’
‘You stay where you are—you look exhausted,’ said Maggie. ‘I’ll hang up your coat if you like; you must be sweltering in it.’
It horrified her that she should even have mentioned his taking anything off, given the images she was battling to banish from her mind—of a body, golden and stark naked and as awesomely perfect as that of a Greek god—the body of this man as she had once seen it and now kept seeing it…because her deranged mind kept stripping it of the clothing adorning it.
‘I’ll keep it on a while,’ he muttered. ‘I guess my body’s as out of sync as my head is—I feel a bit cold.’
‘Perhaps you should have a bath,’ she said, sympathy creeping into her voice as she handed him a large mug of coffee. ‘Would you like milk and sugar?’
‘No, this is fine, thank you.’
Maggie poured her own coffee and went to the fridge for milk, her movements slow as she played for time to search for reason amongst the chaos of her thoughts. The sympathy in her tone had irritated her, but really there were no grounds for her to feel antagonism towards him…apart, perhaps, from those of wounded pride. After a night such as they had shared, how could he possibly not remember?
She took her mug and sat down opposite him. ‘We might as well get straight to the point,’ she said. ‘It’s obvious I’m not the right person for the work that—’
‘Connor says you are,’ he cut in coolly. ‘And you must have agreed, otherwise why are you here?’
‘I’m here because the research student Connor had originally lined up had to drop out at the very last moment. Look, I don’t know what Connor said to you, but the truth is I haven’t been anywhere near a lab since I left university, so I’m hardly the person to be assisting someone in your position.’
‘My position? Hell, all we’re talking about here is dissecting a few plants, not who or what I am. And how come you felt able to assist a guy employed by the company I run, but not me?’
‘Forgive me for sounding naïve,’ snapped Maggie, ‘but, if that’s all it is, how is it that the managing director—or whatever it is you are—of a concern as vast as Fitzpatrick Consolidated is dealing with it personally?’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve never given in to a whim, Maggie.’
Instead of rounding on him in fury as her every instinct demanded, Maggie raised her mug to her lips. His words had been loaded to the hilt…Yet, on the other hand, his expression had been utterly blank. She took several sips of her coffee as confusion seeped its way into every pore of her being.
‘Well, I didn’t happen to come here on a whim,’ she eventually responded stiffly. ‘I came here because the Prof persuaded me I’d be helping him out of a fix, and that I’d also benefit from the experience.’
‘And you’re happy to help Connor out of a fix but not me—is that what you’re saying?’
‘No, of course not! I…look, I—I don’t care wh-what either you or Connor say,’ stammered Maggie, ‘the mere fact that someone like you would involve himself in the donkey work tells me that this project is a million miles away from anything run-of-the-mill.’
He dragged his hands wearily across his face. ‘I guess a bus ride could be described as pretty run-of-the-mill,’ he sighed. ‘There again, the reason for it being taken could make it anything but.’
Maggie heard his words, but it was the faint hint of Irish brogue that had momentarily slipped into them which caught her attention, striking a chord in her that sent her thoughts careering off at a tangent She hadn’t noticed it at first, all those years ago, and even when she had later it hadn’t consciously struck her as being Irish—that soft lilt interwoven into his husky words of passion…
