Playboys. Lynne Graham
bargain with her brain, because she was entrapped by the most indescribably powerful anticipation of what he might do next. Just another few seconds … because she was curious to see what it would be like if he touched her, she reasoned dizzily, just plain ordinary curious …
Then he kissed her and the scientific approach of testing him took a hike. That one kiss was ten, a hundred, times more powerful a temptation than any she had withstood before. She trembled as his sensual mouth played with hers. Her temperature rocketed up the scale. She was imprisoned by new sensation. Breath feathering in her lungs, she shifted closer of her own volition. He closed one hand in her hair and held her to his lean, hard body, squashing her breasts, curving her up against his long, hard thighs. Naked excitement whooshed up through her like a firework heading for the heavens. He probed the sensitive interior of her mouth with his tongue and she shuddered with delight. He tasted like the richest and most decadent chocolate, sinful and sexy and forbidden and like any chocoholic she couldn’t get enough of the flavour.
His breathing fractured enough to be audible, Lysander tore himself free. His bronze eyes were molten gold with hunger. He was stunned to register that he was already aroused to the point of pain; his only thought was to alleviate it. ‘Come home with me for lunch,’ he urged in a roughened undertone.
Shame grabbed Ophelia by the throat and tortured her thenand there on the spot. ‘You’re not talking about lunch, are you?’ she mumbled unevenly.
Lysander hauled her back up against him with confident hands, scorching eyes raking her hectically flushed and confused face with masculine satisfaction. ‘Theos. I want you in my bed and under me first.’
The heat inside Ophelia, the wicked pulse of driving, overwhelming desire that had momentarily controlled her, turned colder than yesterday’s dinner. He wanted to bed her as no doubt he had bedded countless women. It was lust, nothing more basic, nothing less complimentary. No, he wasn’t that particular, but she had always believed that she was. Now she had learned differently and the power of what she had felt—the sheer blood-rushing, glorious charge of excitement—had taken her by storm. Her surrender had been terrifyingly immediate.
‘No, I don’t want this … I’m sorry.’ Ophelia forced out that admission in a state of extreme embarrassment.
With the striking animal grace that laced all his movements, Lysander released her. While her sudden rejection astonished him, it also brought a chilling glint of cynical derision to his metallic gaze. He had met many women who calculated that waiting would make him all the more eager for their bodies and all the more generous in the aftermath. Cunning feminine tricks turned him off big time because he had been targeted by innumerable stratagems over the years.
‘It’s not a problem. The timing is bad,’ Lysander murmured. ‘I have just one more point to make.’
Ophelia was disconcerted by the ease with which he dismissed that moment of intimacy and moved on. Still all of a quiver inside, she could not bring herself to meet his gaze. Initially relieved by his casual attitude, she could not help feeling insulted a moment later when she found herselfthinking that her apparent attraction had proved to be very short-lived. Suddenly, and purely thanks to him, she was at war with herself on every level.
‘And that point is?’ she prompted, reaching down to relocate her handbag and move in the general direction of the door.
‘You need an image makeover.’
Bemused by that assurance, Ophelia turned to study him. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Dressed like that, you won’t convince anyone that you’re involved with me on any level,’ Lysander spelt out.
Ophelia was affronted. She was clean, tidy and presentable. As far as she was concerned, that should be more than sufficient to satisfy. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my appearance—’
‘You require a new wardrobe and better grooming to take on the role. My staff will organise it—’
‘But I don’t want a new wardrobe—’
‘Of course you do.’ Arrogant conviction was stamped in every angle of Lysander’s lean, darkly handsome face. ‘All women love fashion and designer clothes.’
‘I don’t,’ Ophelia told him flatly, wishing she were in a position to tell him what he could do with his talk of image makeovers. But she was intelligent enough to recognise the problem: she was dealing with a guy accustomed to infinitely more decorative women who were always perfectly groomed and exquisitely dressed in the latest fashion. That kind of absorption in her looks wasn’t her style and never would be. For the first time she was being forced to appreciate how much control she would be relinquishing over her own life. It was the price, she recognised heavily, of having compromised her principles. He expected her to comply with his every demand.
‘Have we a deal?’ Lysander asked as though she hadn’t spoken.
The silence rushed and surged in Ophelia’s ears. Her fingers bit into her palms and she thought about the letter she would receive on her wedding day. Slowly but surely, the almost overwhelming desire to tell Lysander Metaxis where to get off receded. For over eight years Gladys Stewart had stubbornly denied any knowledge of Molly’s whereabouts. But what else could be in that letter but information about Molly? A makeover? No, Ophelia was determined not to let pride come between her and her wits.
‘Yes, we have a deal,’ she said stiffly.
CHAPTER FOUR
COSMETICS had wrought a subtle alteration to Ophelia’s face by adding definition and colouring. But to her frowning gaze her eyes and her lips looked uncomfortably prominent. Nor was there any way to hide her hourglass curves in the clinging fabric of the white silk designer confection that she had to wear for the wedding. Leaving her slim shoulders bare, the gown clung like an unwelcome second skin from bosom to knee before flaring out into a frivolous fishtail hem.
‘It’s so tight I can’t sit down,’ Ophelia complained thinly.
‘Brides aren’t supposed to sit down and please don’t tell me again that you’re not an ordinary bride. Go with the flow,’ Pamela urged. ‘Remember that when you walk out of the church all your financial worries will be at an end.’
Ophelia tried and failed to smile. ‘You should go home now. Thanks for helping out.’
‘Shouldn’t you be leaving for the church?’
‘I’m not in any hurry.’
‘Well, if you’re sure you don’t need me.’ Her friend stood up. ‘You look totally gorgeous. It’s such a shame it’s not for real.’
When Pamela had gone, the minutes ticked slowly past while Ophelia paced the floor of the drawing room. The chauffeur, who was waiting for her to come out, knockedtwice on the door to tell her worriedly that time was moving on, but she still didn’t emerge.
Although only ten days had passed since she had seen Lysander in London, the run-up to the wedding had proved incredibly stressful. Madrigal Court had been awash with strangers who’d conducted surveys, moving furniture and wandering around tapping walls and lifting floorboards. Change had been everywhere she’d looked, but not once had she been asked for her opinion. Two firms had already embarked on emergency repairs and the noisy hum of power tools had put paid to all peace. However, Ophelia had enjoyed the quiet of the walled garden, which she had found unlocked in the evening after she returned from London. Then she had mused rather bitterly that not having slapped his face when he’d kissed her had paid dividends.
Lysander’s staff—and he seemed to have an endless supply of them—had toured the house to select virtually all the principal rooms for their employer’s occasional use. After agonising over the lack of luxury on offer and the wintry indoor temperatures, they had shipped in several lorry-loads of furniture, lighting, rugs, curtains and bedding in compensation and evidently intended to light an awful lot of fires. Cleaners had arrived to turn the manor house inside out, while a snooty foreign chef and