Instant Fire. Liz Fielding
bit down hard to prevent herself from screaming. Not that he ever did anything that could be grounds for complaint. Just the innuendo and the proprietorial hand to her back, whenever there was anyone to see, to give the impression that she belonged to him personally.
Jo made for a table by the fireplace, but he moved her on to a secluded corner. ‘It’ll get noisy there when the place fills up.’
She fumed while he fetched the drinks. It wasn’t as if he was interested in her, and for that at least she supposed she should be grateful. He was only interested in having the world believe that she was besotted by him.
‘Now, my dear. Tell me everything that’s happened while I’ve been away. Any problems?’
‘Nothing major.’ She smiled. ‘You should have had another week in Greece.’ The sentiment was heartfelt.
He leaned closer and placed his hand on hers. ‘I couldn’t stay away that long.’
She looked up with relief as she heard the door opening in the corner. It would be the men from the site. But it wasn’t them. Clay Thackeray stood framed in the doorway, very still, taking in the picture the two of them presented. For a moment their eyes clashed, then Clay took a step forward, his face taut with anger.
Quite deliberately Jo turned to Peter and smiled into his startled eyes. ‘I’m glad. I’ve missed you, darling.’ She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the mouth.
His reaction should have been comic. It was a moot point who jumped most visibly—Peter, leaping to his feet, or Jo, at the crash of the door rattling on its hinges.
It was late when she drove home. The truth of the matter was that she didn’t want to go back to her empty flat. At least while she was working she had something else to think about. Finally, however, the figures began to swim in front of her eyes and she was in danger of falling asleep over her desk. She parked the silver Mini in her allotted space and walked slowly up the stairs.
She was near the top when she became aware of an obstruction, and for a moment she stared uncomprehendingly at the long legs barring her way.
‘You’re very late. It’s nearly nine o’clock.’ Clay’s voice was accusing.
She glanced at her watch. Anywhere to hide her face, to hide from him the betraying leap of joy at seeing him again. ‘I’ve been working late.’
‘I saw you working, at lunchtime.’ His jaw muscles tightened. ‘Who was he?’
It was too late to regret her stupidity. She had behaved very badly indeed and had the unhappy suspicion that Peter would make her pay for that when he had got over the shock. But it wasn’t too late to retrieve a little self-respect.
‘What’s the matter, Clay? Did you change your mind?’
He stood up. ‘This is hardly the place to discuss it.’
‘This is the only place you’re going to discuss anything. Because I have.’ She turned away so that her eyes shouldn’t betray the lie.
‘Are you really so fickle?’ He descended to her level and grasped her face between his hands so that she was forced to look at him. ‘Who was he?’ For a moment she glared furiously up at him, defying him to make her speak. He leaned closer. ‘Who was he, Joanna?’ he repeated, the velvet drawl of his voice contradicting the gem-hard challenge in his eyes.
‘Peter Lloyd. He’s the project manager.’ The muscles in his jaw tightened and she closed her eyes. ‘He’s just come back from holiday.’
‘You appeared to be very pleased to see him.’
‘Did I? Maybe I was, Clay.’
‘Maybe.’ He suddenly released her and she rocked back on her feet. ‘He didn’t hang around for long, though. Or perhaps he came back tonight?’
‘You stayed to spy on me?’ Her eyes widened in surprise. Then a flash of anger sparked through them. ‘You should have stayed longer, then you’d know whether he came back.’
‘No!’ He stepped back. ‘No. I didn’t do that. I was too angry to trust myself at the wheel of a car. I sat in the car park for a while, that’s all, and I saw him leave, then a while later you all went back to the site.’
She frowned. ‘I didn’t notice the Aston in the car park.’
He shook his head. ‘It needed some work. I borrowed a car from the garage. Look, Jo, this is silly. Can’t we go inside and talk?’
She hesitated for a moment then shrugged and unlocked the door. ‘Why not? I know I’ll be safe in your company.’ She threw her bag on the sofa and turned to face him. ‘Won’t I?’
‘MAYBE.’ He seemed to fill her sitting-room. ‘Have you eaten?’
‘I’m not hungry, Clay. I’m just tired. All I want is a shower and my bed. Just say whatever it is you feel you have to and go.’
‘You have to eat.’ He turned her in the direction of the bedroom and firmly steered her towards it. ‘Have your shower. I’ll get you some food.’
She dug her heels in. ‘I don’t want anything from you, Clay.’
‘Yes, you do.’ His hands were still on her shoulders and his grip intensified. ‘So you’d better go and shower now, before I lose all semblance of self-control and remind you exactly what you want from me.’
She fled. Locking the bathroom door firmly behind her, she stood against it, her whole body trembling with the longing for him to slake the shattering need that the slightest touch of hand awoke in her. A longing that wouldn’t go away.
‘Damn you, Clay Thackeray,’ she whispered to herself. She took deep, calming breaths and gradually began to regain control of herself. Slowly she undressed, and stood under a fierce shower trying to work out what Clay wanted from her. She had already offered him everything a girl could give a man and he had rejected it in very short order. Angrily she flicked the switch to cold.
Shivering, she quickly dressed in cream cord trousers and an oversized fleecy sweatshirt. The blue was faded and the Prince of Wales feathers of Surrey Cricket Club were barely visible, but it had been her father’s and it was a comfort in her misery.
As she opened the bedroom door she heard a key in the lock. Clay appeared carrying a plastic bag. ‘I borrowed your key. Hope you don’t mind.’
‘When you said you were getting food, I had assumed you were going to cook,’ she protested. ‘I could have made an omelette or something.’
‘You said you were tired,’ he said. ‘Have you got any chopsticks?’
‘I’m afraid not. I just use knives and forks.’ Her lips imitated a smile.
He shook his head and tutted. ‘How very conventional.’
‘I’ve recently discovered that stepping outside the bounds of convention isn’t that good for my ego,’ she replied, sharply.
He smiled. ‘I promise I’ll do my best to restore it.’ With a wry smile he dumped a pile of magazines on the floor. ‘New Civil Engineer. I might as well be at home.’
‘I’m sure I can find you a copy of Vogue if it will make you feel more comfortable,’ she offered, but he ignored this and began to lay out a series of aluminum dishes on the glass-topped coffee-table.
‘Plates?’ he suggested.
‘Has anyone ever told you that you have a very managing disposition, Clay Thackeray?’ she remarked, crossly.
‘Managing is what I do best, Joanna Grant, so you’d better get used to it.’
‘Yes, sir,’