Читать книгу Craving the Forbidden - India Grey - Страница 8

SOPHIE came to with a start, and a horrible sense that something was wrong.

She sat up, blinking beneath the bright lights as she tried to get her bearings. The seat opposite was empty. The man with the silver eyes must have got off while she was sleeping, and she was just asking herself why on earth she should feel disappointed about that when she saw him.

He was standing up, his back towards her as he lifted an expensive-looking leather bag down from the luggage rack, giving her an excellent view of his extremely broad shoulders and narrow hips encased in beautifully tailored black trousers.

Mmm … That was why, she thought drowsily. Because physical perfection like that wasn’t something you came across every day. And although it might come in a package with industrial-strength arrogance, it certainly was nice to look at.

‘I’m sorry—could you tell me where we are, please?’

Damn—she’d forgotten about the posh accent, and after being asleep for so long she sounded more like a barmaid with a sixty-a-day habit than a wholesome society girl. Not that it really mattered now, since she’d never see him again.

He shrugged on the kind of expensive reefer jacket men wore in moody black and white adverts in glossy magazines. ‘Alnburgh.’

The word delivered a jolt of shock to Sophie’s sleepy brain. With an abrupt curse she leapt to her feet, groping frantically for her things, but at that moment the train juddered to an abrupt halt. She lost her balance, falling straight into his arms.

At least that was how it would have happened in any one of the romantic films she’d ever worked on. In reality she didn’t so much fall into his waiting, welcoming arms as against the unyielding, rock-hard wall of his chest. He caught hold of her in the second before she ricocheted off him, one arm circling her waist like a band of steel. Rushing to steady herself, Sophie automatically put the flat of her hand against his chest.

Sexual recognition leapt into life inside her, like an alarm going off in her pelvis. He might look lean, but there was no mistaking the hard, sculpted muscle beneath the Savile Row shirt.

Wide-eyed with shock, she looked up at him, opening her mouth in an attempt to form some sort of apology. But somehow there were blank spaces in her head where the words should be and the only coherent thought in her head was how astonishing his eyes were, close up; the silvery luminescence of the irises ringed with a darker grey …

‘I have to get off—now,’ she croaked.

It wasn’t exactly a line from the romantic epics. He let her go abruptly, turning his head away.

‘It’s OK. We’re not in the station yet.’

As he spoke the train began to move forwards with another jolt that threatened to unbalance her again. As if she weren’t unbalanced enough already, she thought shakily, trying to pull down her bulging bag from where it was wedged in the luggage rack. Glancing anxiously out of the window, she saw the lights of cars waiting at a level crossing slide past the window, a little square signal box, cosily lit inside, with a sign saying ‘Alnburgh’ half covered in snow. She gave another futile tug and heard an impatient sound from behind her.

‘Here, let me.’

In one lithe movement he leaned over her and grasped the handle of her bag.

‘No, wait—the zip—’ Sophie yelped, but it was too late. There was a ripping sound as the cheap zip, already under too much pressure from the sheer volume of stuff bundled up inside, gave way and Sophie watched in frozen horror as a tangle of dresses and tights and shoes tumbled out.

And underwear, of course.

It was terrible. Awful. Like the moment in a nightmare just before you wake up. But it was also pretty funny. Clamping a hand over her open mouth, Sophie couldn’t stop a bubble of hysterical laughter escaping her.

‘You might want to take that back to the shop,’ the man remarked sardonically, reaching up to unhook an emerald-green satin balcony bra that had got stuck on the edge of the luggage rack. ‘I believe Gucci luggage carries a lifetime guarantee?’

Sophie dropped to her knees to retrieve the rest of her things. Possibly it did, but cheap designer fakes certainly didn’t, as he no doubt knew very well. Getting up again, she couldn’t help but be aware of the length of his legs, and had to stop herself from reaching out and grabbing hold of them to steady herself as the train finally came to a shuddering halt in the station.

‘Thanks for your help,’ she said with as much haughtiness as she could muster when her arms were full of knickers and tights. ‘Please, don’t let me hold you up any more.’

‘I wouldn’t, except you’re blocking the way to the door.’

Sophie felt her face turn fiery. Pressing herself as hard as she could against the table, she tried to make enough space for him to pass. But he didn’t. Instead he took hold of the broken bag and lifted it easily, raising one sardonic eyebrow.

‘After you—if you’ve got everything?’

Alnburgh station consisted of a single Victorian building that had once been rather beautiful but which now had its boarded up windows covered with posters advertising family days out at the seaside. It was snowing again as she stepped off the train, and the air felt as if it had swept straight in from Siberia. Oh, dear, she really should have got changed. Not only was her current ensemble hideously unsuitable for meeting Jasper’s family, it was also likely to lead to hypothermia.

‘There.’

Sophie had no choice but to turn and face him. Pulling her collar up around her neck, she aimed for a sort of Julie-Christie-in-Doctor-Zhivago look—determination mixed with dignity.

‘You’ll be OK from here?’

‘Y-yes. Thank you.’ Standing there with the snow settling on his shoulders and in his dark hair he looked more brooding and sexy than Omar Shariff had ever done in the film. ‘And thank you for …’

Jeepers, what was the matter with her? Julie Christie would never have let her lines dry up like that.

‘For what?’

‘Oh, you know, carrying my bag, picking up my … things.’

‘My pleasure.’

His eyes met hers and for a second their gazes held. In spite of the cold stinging her cheeks, Sophie felt a tide of heat rise up inside her.

And then the moment was over and he was turning away, his feet crunching on the gritted paving stones, sliding his hands into the pockets of his coat just as the guard blew the whistle for the train to move out of the station again.

That was what reminded her, like a bolt of lightning in her brain. Clamping her hand to her mouth, she felt horror tingle down her spine at the realisation that she hadn’t bought a ticket. Letting out a yelp of horror, followed by the kind of word Julie Christie would never use, Sophie dashed forwards towards the guard, whose head was sticking out of the window of his van.

‘No—wait. Please! I didn’t—’

But it was too late. The train was gathering pace and her voice was lost beneath the rumble of the engine and the squealing of the metal wheels on the track. As she watched the lights of the train melt back into the winter darkness Sophie’s heart was beating hard, anguish knotting inside her at what she’d inadvertently done.

Stolen something. That was what it amounted to, didn’t it? Travelling on the train without buying a ticket was, in effect, committing a criminal act, as well as a dishonest one.

An act of theft.

And that was one thing she would never, ever do.

The clatter of the train died in the distance and Sophie was aware of the silence folding all around her. Slowly she turned to walk back to pick up her forlorn-looking bag.

‘Is there a problem?’

Her stomach flipped, and then sank like a stone. Great. Captain Disapproval must have heard her shout and come back, thinking she was talking to him. The station light cast dark shadows beneath his cheekbones and made him look more remote than ever. Which was quite something.

‘No, no, not at all,’ she said stiffly. ‘Although before you go perhaps you could tell me where I could find a taxi.’

Kit couldn’t quite stop himself from letting out a bark of laughter. It wasn’t kind, but the idea of a taxi waiting at Alnburgh station was amusingly preposterous.

‘You’re not in London now.’ He glanced down the platform to where the Bentley waited, Jensen sitting impassively behind the wheel. For some reason he felt responsible—touched almost—by this girl in her outrageous clothing with the snowflakes catching in her bright hair. ‘Look, you’d better come with me.’

Her chin shot up half an inch. Her eyes flashed in the station light—the dark green of the stained glass in the Fitzroy family chapel, with the light shining through it.

‘No, thanks,’ she said with brittle courtesy. ‘I think I’d rather walk.’

That really was funny. ‘In those boots?’

‘Yes,’ she said haughtily, setting off quickly, if a little unsteadily, along the icy platform. She looked around, pulling her long army overcoat more tightly across her body.

Catching up with her, Kit arched an eyebrow. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he drawled. ‘You’re going to join your regiment.’

‘No,’ she snapped. ‘I’m going to stay with my boyfriend, who lives at Alnburgh Castle. So if you could just point me in the right direction …’

Kit stopped. The laughter of a moment ago evaporated in the arctic air, like the plumes of their breaths. In the distance a sheep bleated mournfully.

‘And what is the name of your … boyfriend?’

Something in the tone of his voice made her stop too, the metallic echo of her stiletto heels fading into silence. When she turned to face him her eyes were wide and black-centred.

‘Jasper.’ Her voice was shaky but defiant. ‘Jasper Fitzroy, although I don’t know what it has to do with you.’

Kit smiled again, but this time it had nothing to do with amusement.

‘Well, since Jasper Fitzroy is my brother, I’d say quite a lot,’ he said with sinister softness. ‘You’d better get in the car.’