For One Night. PENNY JORDAN
Now he was well into his thirties, and cynical enough about both himself and the female sex to know that love had nothing to do with sexual enjoyment. It had been a long time since he had slept with a woman; too long perhaps, he thought grimly, remembering his instinctive masculine reaction to the perfumed femininity of his host’s wife at dinner.
It had been a long, hard winter, and there had been no time for extracurricular activities of any kind; but tonight, with an exotic feminine perfume tantalizing his senses, his awareness of the delicious femininity of his host’s wife, accentuated by the silky slither of her dress over her breasts and hips, he had suddenly felt an urgent need for the soft warmth of a woman in his bed.
But not a woman he had to pay, he thought disgustedly, as he pressed for the lift and then stepped into it. Ironically, he knew that there were any number of women among his friends and acquaintances who would be more than pleased to have sex with him. Unfortunately, they were not here in this hotel.
He had long ago made a rule not to involve himself sexually with the wives or girlfriends of his friends; and one of his longest-standing relationships had been with an attractive divorcee. But she had wanted a second marriage, and so they had amicably agreed to part. Sandra’s greed had made him wary of any form of commitment; and the farm took so much of his time that there was precious little left to spend searching for a wife.
The lift stopped and he got out. Dim lighting illuminated the corridor. He walked along it, checking the door numbers until he found his own. He slid the key in the lock and waited until the panel lit up to show that the door was unlocked.
The sight of the shuttered curtains threw him for a moment. He couldn’t remember closing them, but then he reflected that it had probably been done by the maids when they came to turn down the bed. He fumbled for the light switch and depressed it. Harsh yellow light flooded the room.
Someone was lying on his bed! His eyes narrowed as he studied the toweling-wrapped figure. All he could see was one set of pale pink polished toenails and a cloud of amber-colored hair.
The figure on the bed stirred, and he waited with impassively folded arms, leaning back against the closed door.
Diana’s throat was dreadfully dry, and her eyes hurt. She opened and then closed them again rapidly as the too bright light stunned her.
God, where was she? She felt totally disorientated. She moved, rolling over, and tried to pierce the drug-induced mists befuddling her.
She opened her eyes again, more slowly this time, and then they widened in shock, the mists dispersing rapidly as she saw the man watching her. Instantly she was pierced with fear. She scrambled to sit up, clutching the robe to her, as she looked frantically for the telephone. It was on the opposite side of the bed, and he was closer to it than she was.
Who on earth was he, and how had he got into her room? Was he some kind of maniac? He didn’t look like it, logic pointed out to her.
Summoning her voice, she demanded huskily, “Who … who are you and what are you doing in my room?”
There was a moment’s silence and then he said dryly, “Odd, but I thought that was my line.”
It took several minutes for the meaning of what he was saying to sink in, but once it had a surge of relief flooded over her.
He wasn’t an intruder at all, but someone who had strayed into the wrong room by mistake. She smiled at him, completely unaware of the effect her golden-eyed sleepy warmth was having on him.
Whoever she was, she had style, Marcus thought grimly. This was no ordinary lady of the night, that was for sure. How had she got into his room? Perhaps she had some arrangement with one of the staff—it wasn’t entirely unknown, or perhaps she had just got the wrong man ….
“This can’t be your room,” Diana told him. “I booked it myself this afternoon. Look.” She got off the bed, and picked up her handbag, showing him her registration card.
For a moment he was almost convinced, but then he remembered something. Walking over to the built-in cupboards, he opened one of them and showed her the clothes hanging up inside.
“If this is your room, how come you didn’t notice my stuff hanging here when you unpacked?”
Too late, Diana recalled the used glass, and the opened minibar. She should have guessed then, but she had been too wrought up to do anything other than seek the oblivion of sleep just as soon as she could. Even now her head still felt woolly, and her thoughts were confused.
“By the way … where is your stuff …?”
“I didn’t bring any luggage.” She could feel the color rising up under her skin as he looked at her, his thoughts quite plain to read in his mocking gray eyes.
Dear God, he thought she was a prostitute!
“Look, it isn’t what you think. I … I … booked in on impulse.” She turned her head away from his and said huskily, “Today … today I lost someone I loved very much. After … after the funeral I couldn’t go back to our flat, so I booked in here instead ….”
She was speaking the truth, he could see it in her face, hear it in her voice, and he was shocked by his own sudden surge of disappointment. For Christ’s sake; had he wanted her to be available? She wasn’t even his type. He liked small, curvaceous brunettes, not thin leggy creatures with clouds of amber hair and tiger eyes.
She had lost someone she loved, she had said. Her lover, no doubt. He was surprised by the fierce thrust of jealousy that pierced through him. It must be some sort of hang-up from what he had felt over dinner. It wasn’t her he wanted, it was just a woman … any woman, he told himself derisively.
“Look, lady,” he told her tersely. “This is my room, and right now I want to go to bed.”
Diana stared at him, nonplussed, and then remembered the desk clerk telling her that she was lucky to get their last empty room.
“Look, you’ve obviously got a home you can go to,” Marcus pointed out. “I haven’t—at least not locally, so why don’t I call you a taxi …?”
Spend the night alone in the flat? Diana shivered. No, she couldn’t, not this night.
“No, please … I …”
Please. His eyes had darkened over her whimpered plea, and he was looking at her with an expression she had no difficulty in interpreting. He wanted her. This tall, dark-haired man, a complete stranger, wanted her.
This was the point where she normally turned on her heel, and ran. She was used to male desire, and at twenty-five had had more than her fair share of potential lovers, but after discovering how callous and cruel men could be, she had rebuffed them all, keeping them at a distance. So why was her body turning all soft and molten inside, simply because this man was mentally stripping the toweling robe from her body, and caressing it with his eyes? Why did she feel this almost savage urge to go to him and lose herself in the maelstrom of desire?
She felt an uncontrollable need to experience the resurgence of life that only sexual communion could bring, she did want it, she realized fatalistically, she wanted … no, needed that communion, that renewal of life; she needed it if only to prove to herself that death can be conquered, that life does ultimately triumph.
In this stranger’s arms, she could forget the trauma of these last weeks; she could celebrate the reality of life; she could renew herself and feel really alive again for the first time in months.
At any other time Diana would have been shocked by her own thoughts, but now they seemed natural and normal.
The way she was staring at him made him feel almost as though she was looking through him, Marcus thought. He looked at her mouth, her lips half parted and quivering slightly. The bathrobe concealed the shape of her body and he suddenly longed to wrench it from her and take all the feminine sweetness of her in his arms.
He fought to