Raw Silk. Anne Mather
His fingers, lean and hard and cool, had left an indelible imprint. So much so that, for a moment, she had hardly been aware of what he was saying.
Instead, she found herself wondering how it would feel to have his hands on her body; and not just her limbs, which were already melting at the thought. But on her waist; her hips; her breasts. She caught her breath. The idea that he might also touch her intimately was a fascinating prospect, and it took Robert’s voice to arouse her from the dangerous spiral of her thoughts.
‘I see you’ve introduced yourself to my fiancée, Lynch. What have you been saying to make her look so guilty?’
The American rose in one lithe easy movement, in no way daunted by the faint edge of animosity in the Englishman’s tone. ‘Oh—we were discussing the relative merits of tea, among other things,’ he replied, not altogether untruthfully. ‘As a stranger in your country, I’m not accustomed to the—customs.’
Robert seemed to realise there was something rather ambiguous about this statement, but short of asking what he meant outright there was little he could say. ‘Well, I hope Fliss has satisfied your curiosity,’ he remarked tightly. ‘Naturally, we’ll all do what we can to make your stay as pleasant as possible.’
Oliver Lynch’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, but there was genuine warmth in his voice as he replied, ‘Your fiancée has been most charming. I hope you appreciate her.’
‘Oh, I do.’ Even if Fliss had not been thinking of getting to her feet at that moment, she felt sure the possessive hand Robert placed about her arm would have achieved it. There was anger now, as well as proprietorial ownership, in the way he drew her up beside him, sliding his arm about her waist, as if to underline his claim. ‘Fliss is my one weakness,’ he said, though there was little leniency in his voice. ‘She can wrap me round her finger any time she likes.’ And, bending his head towards her, he bestowed a prolonged kiss on her startled mouth.
If Fliss hadn’t been embarrassed before, she was now, with Oliver Lynch’s pale eyes observing their every move. If it weren’t so fanciful she’d have said he knew what she was thinking. Though not what she’d thought before, please God, she prayed with some conviction.
‘You’re a very lucky man,’ Lynch remarked now, into the vacuum that Fliss felt was as visible as it was heard. If Robert had intended to disconcert the other man, he was going to be sadly disappointed. Oliver Lynch was only amused by her fiancé’s behaviour. Amused at, and slightly contemptuous of, his attempt to display possession.
‘BUT why do we have to have separate rooms?’ asked Rose Chen impatiently. ‘It’s not as if we have to keep our relationship a secret or anything. I know you’ve always insisted on keeping your own apartment in Hong Kong, but surely this is different? We are travelling together.’
‘I’ve told you: I need my own space,’ said Oliver shortly, growing tired of the argument they had been having since they booked into the hotel.
They were staying at the Moathouse in Market Risborough, which was the nearest town to Sutton Magna. The night before, Rose had stayed with her father’s agent in Fulham, and Oliver had occupied a room in a small hotel off Piccadilly.
Rose heaved a deep breath now. ‘Have I done something wrong?’ she demanded. ‘I thought our first meeting with the Hastingses went off rather well. At least they aren’t openly hostile. It was a brilliant idea of yours to make the first move so informal. They could hardly throw us out without creating quite a fuss.’ She paused. ‘Though I did detect some undercurrents, didn’t you?’
‘Maybe.’
Oliver was non-committal. In truth, he hadn’t devoted as much attention to the reasons why they had gone to Sutton Grange as he should. From the moment he’d laid eyes on Felicity Hayton he’d been hard pressed to keep his mind on anything else. Her cool, honey-blonde beauty had done forgotten things to his nervous system. Just thinking about how her skin felt-smooth and soft beneath his fingers—still caused a definite tightening in his groin.
Which was fairly pathetic, and he knew it. Ever since the youthful marriage he had contracted in college had ended with a ‘Dear John’ letter while he was in Vietnam, he had had no use for emotional relationships. There had been women, of course—plenty of them, he acknowledged without conceit—but they had served their purpose and been forgotten. He supposed his association with Rose Chen was the closest thing to a permanent relationship he had had since his teenage years.
But it was just a job, and one which he sometimes despised himself for. He liked Rose, he admired her spirit, and sometimes he’d even felt some affection towards her. But he didn’t love her. He doubted he had ever really loved anyone.
‘Something is wrong, isn’t it?’ Rose was nothing if not persistent. ‘What did Robert say to you? He wasn’t awkward or anything, was he? I know his mother was a real pain, but I thought he kept his cool.’
Except where his fiancée was concerned, thought Oliver drily, remembering the way the other man had dragged Felicity—Fliss—up from her chair and practically savaged her. Oliver could still feel the fury he had felt when Hastings had put his hands upon her. He hadn’t cared at that moment whether the younger man had known of his father’s dealings or not. All he’d wanted to do was put his hands about the other man’s thick neck and squeeze, and squeeze, and squeeze …
‘He’s a runt,’ declared Oliver succinctly, his own feelings briefly getting the better of him. He knew it wouldn’t do to alert Rose Chen to the dislike he felt for her half-brother, but it felt good to voice his contempt just the same.
‘You think so?’
Naturally, Rose Chen was interested in his opinion, and Oliver had to quickly fabricate a reason for his remark. ‘I gathered from his mother that he doesn’t like work,’ he said dismissively. ‘If even half what she says is true, he seems to spend most of his time either at the race-track or on the golfcourse.’
‘I see.’ Rose Chen caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘That could be useful, couldn’t it? If Robert isn’t too familiar with running the business, he may not be so opposed to my taking charge.’
‘In a pig’s eye,’ said Oliver, wondering if Rose could really be as gullible as she liked to appear. Personally he didn’t believe it for a moment. She was James Hastings’ daughter; she must know what there was at stake.
Rose Chen lifted her slim shoulders now. She’d worn a cream silk suit to go to Sutton Magna, but she’d shed the jacket since she got back, and her arms were bare. Her hair was short, moulding her shapely head like a black cap. Her small breasts were taut against her silk vest, and the short skirt of the suit showed her legs to advantage. She was small and exotic and sexy, but Oliver felt no attraction as she preened before his gaze.
The trouble was, he was comparing her dainty appearance to the long-legged Englishwoman he had met on the Hastingses’ terrace. And, although Fliss didn’t possess Rose Chen’s sophistication, she was infinitely more feminine. Tall, easily five feet eight, he guessed, and not thin in the way most women these days were thin, but supple, and shapely, with breasts a man could die for. She was elegant and classy, with legs that went on forever. Not at all like the women he was used to, with her golden skin and hair …
‘Whatever,’ Rose Chen murmured carelessly, lifting her arms and cupping the back of her neck. Her oval eyes sought Oliver’s as he lounged against the writing table. ‘I think I’ll take a shower. D’you want to join me?’
Oliver straightened. ‘No, thanks,’ he said swiftly, and then tempered his refusal with a brief smile. ‘I’ve got some unpacking to do, and I thought I might call home.’ He grimaced. ‘It’s cheaper ringing from London than it is from the Far East.’
Rose Chen hid her impatience badly. ‘We will