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As he spoke he looked straight into her eyes, that smile making a mockery of her earlier foolish hope that perhaps he hadn’t recognised her. He was playing with her, well aware of her discomfort; he was enjoying watching her squirm.
‘Oh, Saffy isn’t a local girl,’ Owen put in cheerfully. ‘She only came to live in Kirkham a couple of years ago.’
‘That’s a pity.’ The cool grey eyes never left Saffron’s troubled brown ones. ‘I had rather hoped that you might be able to show me around.’
His tone was dangerously soft, worryingly gentle, making Saffron think uncomfortably of the cat she had compared him to earlier—the soft fur of its paws concealing the powerful, tearing claws.
‘I was sure that you were the sort of girl who knows the best places to go for a special night out.’
A special night out. This time there was no mistaking the subtle deepening of his drawling tones on those words, forcing her to recall how she had used them herself only a few hours before. And the implication behind what he had said was painfully clear too, to anyone who had seen the insultingly knowing smile on his face when he had spoken of customers and terms. She could have little doubt as to what sort of nights out were in his disgusting mind.
‘On the contrary,’ she returned sharply. ‘I’m very much a stay-at-home, Mr Forrester. Not at all a clubsand-pubs sort of woman.’
‘That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,’ he disconcerted her by saying.
‘Well, if it’s night-life you want——’ Owen put in, anxious, Saffron knew, to give a plug to the night-club he hoped to buy a half-share in.
‘Not really.’ Niall barely spared him a glance. ‘Look, Richards, is that a friend of yours?’ A nod of his dark head indicated a table on the other side of the room, where a man Saffron vaguely recognised was waving to gain Owen’s attention. ‘Hadn’t you better see what he wants?’
He didn’t even watch Owen leave, instead concentrating all his attention on Saffron, continuing the conversation as if the interruption had never happened.
‘I can assure you that I wouldn’t think of hiding you away in some smoky, dimly lit club. A beauty such as yours should be seen in the full light of day.’
Saffron’s soft mouth parted on a gasp of astonishment, both at the arrogance of his dismissal of Owen and at the outrageous compliment.
‘Are you trying to flirt with me, Mr Forrester?’
His smile was a challenge, the intent gaze of those steely eyes seeming to draw her to him like some irresistible magnet, holding her transfixed, unable to look away.
‘On the contrary—flirting is a frivolous occupation, meant only light-heartedly. I am deadly serious——’
That voice would charm the birds out of the trees, Saffron thought hazily. Low and huskily sensual, it was pitched so as to make her feel as if she was the only woman in the room—in the world—and his words were for her alone. And it was working!
In spite of her determination to resist, fired by the knowledge of the low opinion he really had of her, it seemed as if her surroundings, the buzz of conversation from the other diners, had all faded from her awareness, blending into a multi-coloured blur, so that all she was aware of was a pair of hypnotic grey eyes and a silkily seductive voice.
‘You must know that you are an exceptionally lovely woman—such dark hair and eyes, and a face like a Madonna.’
‘Oh, really!’ With an effort Saffron struggled to break free of the hypnotic hold he had on her. ‘Now you’re exaggerating!’
She felt desperately out of her depth. It was as if she had been floating lazily on a sunlit sea and had suddenly realised that the shore was much further away than she had thought, with the current growing ominously rougher. The concentration of his gaze, the intensity of that huskily seductive voice, were more suited to the intimacy of a bedroom than this public place. As her mind made the connection between the man before her and the thought of the sensual surroundings of a bedroom her thoughts reeled, the image working on them like some powerfully intoxicating cocktail.
‘I never exaggerate.’
Niall Forrester dismissed her protest with the same casual indifference he might have used to flick away a fly that had come too near his face, and the gleam that lit deep in his eyes told her that he was well aware of her struggle to break away from the hold he seemed to have on her. That hold was as delicate as a spider’s web and yet as powerful as if she were actually confined by steel cables. The rational part of her mind was screaming at her that all she had to do was look away, look at someone else, but she found it impossible to move.
‘And in your case I have no need to. Though I have to admit…’
A tiny flicker of his eyes, downwards over the simple navy dress she wore, and a slight deepening of that smile, curling his mouth up at the corners, acted as a danger signal, warning Saffron that she wouldn’t Hke what was to come.
‘That that particular shade of blue you’re wearing is not perhaps the most flattering to someone of your dramatic colouring. I would have thought that something warmer—perhaps red…’
He caught the flare of apprehension in her eyes and the smile grew, becoming tauntingly triumphant as Saffron’s start of shock betrayed her awareness of the direction in which he was heading.
‘Scarlet, possibly.’ He drew the first word out so that it was a softly sensual sound on his tongue, almost a caress in itself. ‘Yes, I can see you in scarlet—something in silk——’
‘Oh, please!’ Saffron put in hastily, loading her tone with sarcasm. She’d had enough of this cat-and-mouse act; it was time to fight back. ‘You have to be joking! I only ever wore scarlet silk once—never again!’
She gave a carefully delicate shudder of distaste, dark brown eyes meeting silver, hers burning with defiance, her chin lifting challengingly.
‘It was a dreadful mistake—one I have no intention of repeating—ever.’
The deliberate emphasis on the final word was like a verbal throwing down of a gauntlet in front of Niall, an attempt to throw him off-balance, but to Saffron’s annoyance he didn’t react in the way she had anticipated. If anything, her challenge seemed to have amused rather than disconcerted him, and that smile grew in a way that she found positively hateful.
‘I can’t believe that. I can picture you in scarlet——’
The gleam in those pale eyes told her just how he was picturing her, and it took all Saffron’s self-control not to react to the almost lascivious pleasure that was so clearly stamped on the hard-boned features before her. Her fingers itched to lash out and wipe it from his face and she had to clamp them together tightly in her lap in order not to give in to the impulse.
‘And, in my opinion, it wouldn’t be any sort of a mistake at all.’
‘Really?’ Using every ounce of acting ability she possessed, Saffron injected the word with an icy hauteur. ‘Well, I’m afraid that you’re never likely to see me in any such thing.’
After this, she wouldn’t be able to bear to wear the scarlet silk underwear ever again. She would sooner die! Even just to see it would remind her unbearably of the look in his eyes, that hateful smile, his voice…
‘So, we’ll just have to agree to differ on this.’
She knew that by defying him like this she was risking his anger, possibly even the fact that he might call her bluff and tell Owen everything, but she couldn’t stop herself. She had to stand up to him, give as good as she got.
For a carefully timed moment he kept her hanging, waiting for his response, then, just at the point where she thought that she would scream if he didn’t say something, he lifted his broad shoulders in a nonchalant shrug.
‘So we will,’ he said easily, adding in a tone so soft that only she could hear, ‘For now.’
At that moment the waiter appeared with their meal, Owen returning to the table at the same time, and Saffron welcomed the interruption thankfully as a chance to gather her thoughts and try to cling on to the shattered remains of her composure. She knew exactly what Niall Forrester was up to. He had made it only too plain that he appreciated—and enjoyed—the possibilities of some rather nasty emotional blackmail, was well aware of how uncomfortable she would be at the prospect of Owen finding out about the fact that they had already met—and in what circumstances!
The problem was that he couldn’t be more wrong. In the same second that she had considered the possibility of Niall telling Owen everything, she had realised just how little it worried her. All through the evening—in fact, ever since Owen had stood her up—she had had second, and third—even fourth thoughts about their relationship, and now she knew that there no longer was a relationship to worry about. She didn’t care if Owen found out—and yet she still felt threatened. And that was what really worried her.
Earlier she had thought of Niall Forrester as a cat sitting outside a mousehole, and now she could be in no doubt as to just who was his prey. This particular sleek, dark-coated feline clearly had all the patience in the world when it came to hunting, and he wanted her to know that he was prepared to play a waiting game, showing no sign of pouncing until she put herself in a position of weakness by venturing too far outside the safety of her hiding place.
The problem was that she didn’t know quite what she was hiding from. It wasn’t any threat of exposure to Owen, however embarrassing that might be, instead it was something much more specific to Niall himself. Simply by existing, by awakening this unwilling, unwelcome response in her, he seemed to threaten her security, her peace of mind. It was as if she were one of the fireworks produced in Owen’s factory, and someone had placed a lighted match to her own personal fuse. That fuse was burning worryingly swiftly, and she had the frightening feeling that in a very short space of time something was going to blow up right in her face.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_12cf2a1c-069e-5bf0-8c4f-1c78edd57662)
‘SAFFRON is an unusual name—though I suspect that you’re more than tired of people commenting on it.’
‘Oh, well, it was my aunt who suggested it. It came from a favourite song of hers.’ Saffron was determined not to let him see how exactly he had bit upon the truth. ‘And by the time they’d named five other daughters my parents had run out of names that they liked.’
To his credit, Niall didn’t even blink, which was surprising. Many people were so accustomed to the idea of small families that the thought of six children—and all of the same sex—had them reeling back in astonishment. Owen had almost had to pick himself up off the floor when she had told him.
‘Saffy’s the youngest of this ridiculously huge family.’ Owen had grown tired of being kept out of the conversation. ‘Seven women! It’s no wonder her father buried himself in his books.’ Reaching for the wine-bottle, he refilled his glass.
‘Don’t you think you’d better go easy?’ Saffron put in hastily, and was subjected to a look of such withering scorn that the protest died on her lips.
‘Lighten up, Saff! No one likes a killjoy.’
Owen’s retort was accompanied by a swift, expressive glance in Niall Forrester’s direction. It was a look of pure conspiracy, man to man, of banding together in the face of female constraint in a way that made her prickle with irritation.
‘But you’re driving me home.’
‘I’ll be fine——’
And her concern was dismissed, so that unless she persisted, creating a nasty little scene in front of the interestedly watchful Niall, she had no option but to remain uncomfortably silent.
Perhaps in the past she might have shrugged off Owen’s behaviour, possibly even telling herself that she might have over-reacted. But tonight she found that his rudeness had her boiling inside, anger searing through her like a red-hot tide so that she had to bite her lip hard in order not to tell him exactly what she thought of him. In fact, looking at his smiling self-absorbed face as he returned once more to his favourite subject of the proposed takeover, she was forced to wonder what she had ever seen in him.
Could she really have ever considered sleeping with this man? But hadn’t that been exactly what she had planned on doing—last night, at least? Barely twenty-four hours ago, she realised, surreptitiously consulting the slim gold watch on her wrist, she had been so sure about everything. Now, she no longer knew what she felt. It all seemed to have happened since Niall Forrester had come into her life.
‘I’m sorry——’ Niall’s sharp eyes had caught the tiny movement as she checked the time. ‘We’re boring you.’
‘Not at all.’ She hoped that her cool tones would communicate that nothing he could do would trouble her in the least. ‘I appreciate that you have plenty to talk to Owen about. After all, it’s his company that you’re going to buy.’
‘Possibly.’ The single word held a suggestion of doubt, a reminder that all was not yet certain. ‘If I decide I want it…’
Because she was already on edge, that, ‘If…I want it’ seemed to catch of Saffron’s raw nerves.
‘Is that really what life’s about—getting what you want?’
‘Isn’t it?’ He questioned coolly. ‘I think if you asked the majority of people they’d say that most of their days are spent dreaming of something they want—trying to obtain it. I’m not unusual in that—only in that perhaps I know more clearly than most what I do want, and that when I see what I want, I go for it. I make sure nothing stands in the way of my getting it.’
The way he looked straight into her eyes as he spoke, a curl at the corner of his mouth, made Saffron think uncomfortably of his words that morning. ‘You’re exactly what I’ve been looking for——’
‘And what if, when you’ve got your hands on whatever it is, it turns out not to be so desirable after all?’
His smile mocked her indignation, almost as if he knew the thoughts that were in her mind. ‘Oh, then I’d just turn and walk away.’
‘No backward glances?’
‘Looking back is just a waste of time. If you want to make any progress, the only way is forward.’
She wished he would look away from her, turn the silvery force of those pale eyes on someone else. They might have started out talking about Owen’s company and, ostensibly, to anyone not in the know, it might appear that they were still discussing just that, but Saffron was hypersensitive to the dangerous undercurrents in the atmosphere around her, uncomfortably aware of the other possible interpretation of Niall’s words.
‘And does that apply to emotional matters as well as business deals?’
She felt she didn’t need to ask the question, already anticipating what the answer would be.
‘So far I’ve never encountered anything that I couldn’t resist or leave behind with no regrets.’
‘Anything or anyone?’
Niall’s only response was a slight inclination of his dark head, but a worrying gleam in those silvery eyes made her decide that it would be much safer to move the talk back on to the original topic.
‘And do you think you’ll want Richards’ Rockets?’
As she had hoped, the question brought Owen back into the conversation and she was able to withdraw, sit back and watch as once more the two men became absorbed in their discussion.
The problem was that she didn’t experience the relief she had hoped for. Only moments before she had wanted Niall Forrester to turn his attention elsewhere and leave her in peace, but now that he had, perversely, she felt irritated by the ease with which he seemed able to dismiss her from his thoughts. The chocolate torte which the waiter had brought her, together with another bottle of wine, now seemed much too rich for her taste, and she laid her spoon down, painfully aware of the fact that there was really nothing wrong with the sweet, only with her mood.
She couldn’t stop her gaze from lingering on the man opposite, on the sculpted planes of his face, shadowed softly in the flickering candlelight, on the jet darkness of his hair, the unexpected softness of his mouth. Her eyes followed every gesture of his hands as he ate, talked, poured the wine. Those pale grey eyes of his were turned away from her now, but in her mind she could see them in all the changeable moods that, even after such a short acquaintance, she could recognise—the cold, steely glitter that could turn so swiftly to the warm glow of polished silver, or darken with something she couldn’t—or didn’t dare—put a name to.
‘Is there something wrong with your food?’
‘What?’
Niall’s voice had been soft and low, but even so the sound of it jolted Saffron from the sensual trance that had held her. It was as if the gentle warmth of the candleflames had spread throughout the room, growing in intensity, heating the blood in her veins so that she felt as if she was adrift on a golden, glowing tide, the sight and sounds of the other diners fading to a blur on the edges of her consciousness, every nerve, every sense centring on Niall Forrester, like a compass needle drawn irresistibly to the North.
‘I’ll send it back if it’s not right——’
Oh, no—no, it’s fine.’
I’ll send it back, she noted resentfully. Niall Forrester had well and truly taken over the evening.
‘It’s just—that I haven’t as much appetite as I thought.’
For food only, a rogue part of her mind commented. Other appetites were not so easily appeased. In fact, with those silvery eyes on her once more, the way he was leaning towards her bringing him so close that she caught the scent of some musky cologne he wore, she felt as if every inch of her skin was newly sensitised, and a previously unknown sensation was uncoiling in the pit of her stomach, as if some sensuous snake-like creature had been sleeping heavily but was now starting to awake…
‘Eyes too big for my stomach!’ she managed on a shaky laugh.
‘Then perhaps we should think about leaving.’
Was she being unduly sensitive? Saffron wondered. Or was it just his physical position, the concentration of his attention on her, that seemed to make that ‘we’ exclude Owen, who, having tackled a large portion of his favourite Black Forest gateau, was now draining the last of his wine?
‘Yes,’ he said on a sigh of satisfaction. ‘Better be going. Waiter!’
‘Let me——’ Once more Niall took charge, catching
the waiter’s eye with an ease that made the other man’s waving hand look gauche and unsophisticated. In fact, it was rather over the top, even for Owen, Saffron reflected, her attention caught suddenly.
‘Most gracious of you——’
It was the first couple of words, with the hint of slurring, that alerted her, making her turn a concerned frown on him, to see his flushed face and overbright eyes. Her fears were confirmed as Owen got to his feet unsteadily, swaying and clutching at the table for support.
‘Owen—you’re drunk!’
‘Not at all!’ He gave a foolish grin. ‘Just a bit mellow.’
‘But you’re not fit to drive!’ She thought despairingly of the long journey home, the lack of buses, the prohibitive cost of a taxi.
‘Perhaps I could help?’
Did this man have ears like a bat? Her conversation with Owen had been conducted in a furious whisper, while he was occupied with the waiter and his credit card, but he was still very much aware of what was happening.
