‘What do you want to do? See the plans first and then eat, or…?’
She thought frantically and then realised that if she looked at the plans first she would be able to tell him that she didn’t have time to stay for dinner and would be able to leave.
‘Er—the plans first, I think.’
She cursed inwardly, wishing she could make her voice sound more forceful, more professional. As it was, it had all the uncertain, husky resonance of an adolescent trying not to betray herself to the object of her adoring crush.
She really had to pull herself together, she told herself severely, and yet, despite the fact that the kitchen was a good size and that they were virtually separated by the full width of it, she was still acutely conscious of Ben as a man.
‘Right, then,’ he agreed cheerfully. ‘The plans it is.’
The sitting-room was, as he had said, far less aggressively modernised than the kitchen, but it was also rather over-full of furniture, which meant that, once he had unrolled the plans and spread them on the table, in order to be able to see them Miranda had to stand so close to him that their bodies were practically touching.
Thank goodness the town gossips could not see them now, she reflected idly as Ben leaned forward and started to point out details of the plan to her.
‘And you can see how we intend to retain all the existing period features,’ he was saying to her.
Unwisely she made the mistake of turning her head to look at him. Unlike most men she knew, he didn’t seem to favour the use of cologne or aftershave, but there was still a clean tangy scent clinging to his skin, a potent male scent that made her feel faintly dizzy and light-headed. Her gaze slid helplessly to his mouth. He was still speaking to her, but she no longer heard the words. Her heart had started to beat far too fast as she remembered her dream and how he had kissed her.
Her mouth had gone very dry, her body felt hot, her skin somehow extra sensitive, so that when he breathed out and she felt the warmth of that exhaled breath it immediately raised a rash of goose-pimples against her flesh and made her shudder slightly as the sensation of his breath against her skin set off a chain of lightning reaction throughout her body.
When she felt her nipples actually stiffen and start to swell, she was so shocked that she actually started to glance down at her own flesh, as though unable to believe the message it was giving her.
To her chagrin she could see quite clearly against the crisp outline of her shirt the unmistakable arousal of her body, and dark flags of mortification flamed in her face as she stood there praying that Ben hadn’t noticed and wishing there was some way she could turn her back on him.
When she heard him saying, ‘It’s rather cold in here. I ought to have lit the fire,’ her embarrassment increased. Did he really think she was cold, or was he just trying to be polite? Or had he, please God, not even noticed the betraying evidence of those twin flaunting witnesses to her physical awareness of him? If only she hadn’t left her jacket in her car… but it was too late to regret that now; the only thing she could do was to pick up the cue he had given her and agree unevenly that, yes, it was rather chilly.
‘If you can hold on for a couple of minutes I’ll get the fire going. It is laid,’ he told her, smiling at her.
In other circumstances she would have been grateful to him for his circumspection and for the tactful way he avoided even giving the briefest glance in the direction of her body, but, as it was, all his tact did was to increase her own feeling of humiliation. It was all her own fault. If she hadn’t started thinking about that damned dream.
Miserably she pretended to be studying the plans while Ben crossed over to the fire. He had removed his jacket when they came inside, and now, out of the corner of her eye, she was aware of him rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. His forearms were tautly muscled, the skin smooth and firm.
An odd yearning, yielding sensation started to spread through her body, making her feel weak and shaky. As Ben put a match to the ready-laid fire, the flames flared up, their light glinting on the dark hairs coating his arms.
His arms… Her heart was pounding frantically, she discovered, a feverish flush of heat burning her skin. She suffered an almost uncontrollable desire to walk over to him and to touch his hard flesh. His skin would feel warm, not clammily so, but with the texture of expensive satin. The dark hairs would be crisp beneath her sensitive fingertips, and when she touched her lips to the inner curve of his elbow his whole body would tense in response to her caress. He would reach for her then, holding her so that they were kneeling body to body, and he would kiss her as he had done in her dream, sliding his hand into her hair, his fingers trembling silently against her scalp, his mouth gentle at first and then hungry—demanding. And as he kissed her he would draw her closer to him, so close that her breasts were pressed flat against his chest, the stimulation of his body moving against her own, causing her nipples to stiffen and ache.
He would kiss her jaw and her throat, sliding away her shirt, unfastening its buttons until he had revealed the soft curves of her breasts. He would gaze at her then, his breath caught in his throat, his hands tender as they touched her body. He would bend his head and slowly caress her naked breasts and when he did she would bury her fingers in his hair, holding him prisoner against her as she arched her body in flagrant enticement.
‘Are you all right?’
The question cut across her thoughts, wrenching her back to reality. She could feel her face burning as she tried to focus on what he was saying. She had been so lost in her thoughts, in her fantasy, that she hadn’t even realised he had moved away from the fire and was coming towards her; instinctively she bent her head over the plans, letting her hair swing forward, hoping, praying that what she had been thinking hadn’t been visible in her expression.
‘I’m fine,’ she managed to tell him huskily as he joined her at the table.
‘Well, the room should warm up pretty soon now,’ he told her, and went on. ‘The architect believes that originally the staircase would have been open to the roof, not sealed off on each floor as it is now. The new contractors agree with him, and they’ve suggested doing some investigative work to see if he’s correct. If so, it might be worthwhile trying to restore the staircase to what it was originally. Look, here’s their sketch for how the house would look if we reverted to that plan.’
Miranda focused desperately on the plans. Her mind and body were in total chaos. She felt as though she were undergoing some kind of breakdown, she reflected dazedly as she tried to focus on where Ben was indicating. She couldn’t believe what was happening to her; that she had actually stood there and imagined… Her mouth had gone dry again and her heart was pounding.
‘No, you’re looking in the wrong place,’ Ben was saying to her. ‘Perhaps if I stand here.’
To her consternation, she felt him move behind her and come to stand so close to her that she could feel the warmth coming off his body, and knew without turning round that all she had to do was to move an inch or so to come into physical contact with him. He stretched out his left arm as he leaned forward, placing his hand flat on the desk so that she was virtually imprisoned by his body. ‘Look, here is the sketch,’ he was saying to her, indicating with his right hand where she was to look.
Hesitantly she did so. She felt almost sick with tension and shock. She had never once in her life envisaged that she could feel like this… react like this. To imagine such intimacies with a man she barely knew… to want such intimacies to the extent…
She flicked her tongue nervously against her dry lips.
Against her ear, she heard Ben saying teasingly, ‘It might help if we tucked this out of the way, so,’ and unbelievably his hand stroked through the fine softness of her hair, tucking it behind her ear.
It was something she herself did a hundred times a day, a gesture so automatic and taken for granted that, if anyone had ever told her that to have it performed by someone else would prove so sensual and dist
urbing an experience that she would literally be shaking with the effort of controlling her reaction, she would have laughed at them, or accused them of indulging in a bout of over-imagination. But she would have been wrong. Just that light brush of Ben’s fingers against her skin, a movement so casual, so clinical almost, so devoid of anything even remotely lover-like, had still been enough to set off such an explosive chain of sensation within her body that she felt physically exhausted by the intensity of them.
She couldn’t endure any more. If she had to stay here much longer…
‘The plans are marvellous, Ben,’ she started to gabble. ‘I take back everything I said. I’m afraid I really must leave, though.’
‘Leave? But what about dinner?’
Dinner. Dinner? Did he honestly expect her to sit down and calmly pretend… She gave a small shudder, and fibbed frantically, ‘I’m sorry. I’d forgotten, but I’ve already arranged to see an old friend this evening. Her husband’s away on business and she’s all on her own. It had completely slipped my mind until you were showing me the plans.’
‘I see.’
She suspected that he didn’t believe her. There was a coldness in his eyes and his voice as he stepped back from her that warned her that he had probably guessed she was lying. But just so long as he hadn’t guessed why she was lying.
He insisted on accompanying her to her car and, opening the door for her as she got in, he leaned down towards her and said, ‘Thanks once again for warning me about Charlesworth.’
‘One good turn deserves another,’ Miranda quipped shakily. ‘After all, you did save me from him at the golf club do.’
‘Mm, I did, didn’t I?’
He was, she realised, looking at her mouth, causing a nervous fluttery sensation to run riot through her body.