Tycoon's Choice: Kept by the Tycoon / Taken by the Tycoon / The Tycoon's Proposal. Kathryn Ross
like champagne.
‘What are you doing here?’ As he took her arm and drew her towards the car, she added lightly, ‘And why the shades?’
‘This is an abduction, doll,’ he said in the accent of an American film gangster.
‘Good gracious! Didn’t I ought to scream?’
‘If I was following the script, I should say menacingly, “Not if you know what’s good for you”.’
‘Oh.’
‘On the other hand, it would give me an excuse to kiss you,’ he drawled laconically.
Lifting her face, she asked demurely, ‘Do you need an excuse?’
‘An invitation’s better. Not that I really need either.’ Bending his dark head, he kissed her with a hungry passion that showed how much he’d missed her.
Then, as though his lips couldn’t bring themselves to part from hers, he murmured between soft, baby kisses, ‘I can’t wait to make love to you. I’ve thought about nothing else while I’ve been away.
‘This afternoon, in Paris, I brought an important boardmeeting to an early close because I couldn’t concentrate. I kept imagining I was undressing you, touching you, feeling your response…I couldn’t wait to get back, to make it all happen…’
A little breathlessly, she asked, ‘So what are we doing standing here?’
‘That’s a good question.’
He hurried her into the car and, sliding in beside her, started the engine.
When they turned down an unfamiliar road, she queried, ‘Where are we going?’
Sounding happy and carefree, he told her, ‘To a little inn called the Woolpack. It’s right off the beaten track and no one will care if we stay in bed for the entire weekend.’
‘Oh, but I…’
He glanced at her sharply. ‘I hope you’re not going to tell me you have other commitments?’
Judging from his tone, if she said yes it would precipitate a showdown, and she wasn’t prepared.
Brushing guilt aside, she decided that just for once she could miss her usual weekend visits to the nursing home.
Never easy at telling lies, she swallowed and said, ‘I was going to say I haven’t got a toothbrush or any clean undies.’
She felt him relax.
‘That’s all been taken care of,’ he told her. ‘I paid a visit to your flat and picked up what I thought you might need.’
Giving her a wicked sidelong glance, he added, ‘I didn’t bother to pack a nightie.’
The carefree mood was back, and with a little sigh, she rested her head lightly against his arm for a moment. ‘I’ve missed you.’
He gave her knee a brief squeeze. ‘Next time I have to go to Paris I’d like you with me.’
By the time they arrived at the Woolpack, a blue dusk was spreading gauzy veils over the countryside and bats were flittering about.
The lamplit inn, a lopsided, half-timbered black and white building with overhanging eaves and tall, crooked chimneys, looked as if it belonged in some Charles Dickens novel.
They were greeted by a plump and smiling landlady who showed them up to a small room under the eaves with a tiny en suite bathroom and black oak floorboards that creaked at every step.
The ceiling sloped steeply, and the low casement windows were thrown open to the balmy night air. A high, old-fashioned double bed, with a goose-feather mattress and sheets that smelled of lavender, took up most of the space.
A tray with a bottle of champagne and a plate of hors d’oeuvres was waiting by the bedside.
When they had thanked the landlady she wished them a cheerful, ‘Goodnight,’ and bustled away.
Rafe dropped their bags on a low chest and helped Madeleine out of her light jacket, before shedding his own. Then, glancing at the tray, he queried, ‘Hungry?’
‘Yes. But not for food.’
He gave a low growl and, sweeping her into his arms, carried her over to the bed.
Even though his need was every bit as urgent as hers, he didn’t hurry as he stripped off first her clothes and then his own and joined her.
Her arms went round his neck while his hands shaped and moulded her, clasping her hips to pull her firmly against his lower body, before making love to her with an unleashed passion that sent her up in flames.
When the heated rapture settled into a contented glow they lay in bed, kissing occasionally and feeding each other delicacies between sips of champagne.
It was lovely and romantic, and Madeleine had never been happier.
Afterwards, as though they couldn’t get enough of one another, they had made love again, and again, and, reliving that night, all the pleasure and warmth, she found herself trapped in a sensual haze.
Only when the haze cleared and she realised she was alone was the warmth replaced by such bleak desolation that she felt like crying.
Though what good would crying do? It was over. All in the past. She must forget Rafe. Forget the way he had made her feel. Forget the happiness he had brought her. Dismiss him from her thoughts and not look back.
But that was easier said than done.
After a restless night spent tossing and turning, she woke next morning heavy-eyed and unrefreshed, still feeling cold inside.
Jumping out of bed, she headed for the bathroom. But, while a hot shower heated her skin, it failed to cure that inner chill of loss.
When her aunt and uncle returned from church and asked her to join them for lunch, she broke the news that she had refused Alan’s proposal and was returning to England.
Though they were sorry to lose her, they accepted her decision without attempting to change her mind…Grateful to them both, she kissed them and thanked them sincerely for all they’d done.
Then, after writing and posting a short, difficult letter to Alan, she tidied her room and packed her few belongings.
Her cases zipped and ready, she made herself a pot of tea and was just reaching for the phone to call Eve, when it rang, making her jump.
Wondering if it might be Alan, she answered cautiously, ‘Hello?’
‘Maddy?’
‘Eve! I was just going to ring you. I presume you got the message I left?’
‘Yes, I did. Now, that’s what I call getting a move-on. How did Alan react when you told him you couldn’t marry him? You have told him, I presume?’
‘Yes, I told him last night. He refused to take no for an answer.’ Madeleine sighed.
‘In that case you’re doing the right thing. You need to get out of there as quickly as possible for both your sakes. How did your aunt and uncle take it?’
‘Better than I’d expected. They’re disappointed, of course, but they didn’t try to put pressure on me.’
‘Thank the lord for small mercies. Now for my news. As soon as I got to the clinic I checked through the requests for physiotherapy. There was nothing that seemed up your street. Quite disappointing really.
‘Then just before I was due to go home I had a phone call from a Mrs Rampling, who desperately needs help. Her husband had a stroke some three months ago, and at the same time fractured his hip. She’s worried that he’s making very little progress. It seems he’s a difficult man who hates hospitals and clinics, but he’s agreed to have a physiotherapist treat him at home.
‘She