Читать книгу Her Outback Rescuer - Marion Lennox, Marion Lennox - Страница 9

TO SAY she was shocked would be an understatement. To say she was thrown into a dimension she hadn’t known existed would still be an understatement.

One minute Amy was figuring out how she could face a livid train conductor with her illegal dog. The next… Hugo Thurston’s mouth was on hers.

There was no permission asked or granted. His hands were hard on her shoulders and he was kissing her whether she wanted to be kissed or not. His mouth was claiming hers. He was drawing her into him and he was possessing her with power and heat and sheer magnetic lust.

She was being kissed by Hugo Thurston?

How had this happened? She had no idea. She should struggle—but that’d mean somehow she had to figure out what was going on, and right now all she could think of was this kiss.

The heat. The power. The sheer magnetic pull.

She was melting into a man she’d met only hours ago. He was kissing her as if she was the most desirable woman… and she was responding?

Of course she was responding. How could she fail to respond? From the moment his mouth touched hers, from the moment his arms tugged her close, through shock she felt herself melt.

It was as if every nerve in her body was short circuiting. The heat from her lips was arcing out, up, down, around her body, causing every nerve-ending to cease functioning.

No. They were still functioning, she thought, dazed beyond belief. It was just that they were totally centred, totally focused, totally fused on this mouth that was claiming hers.

Such a kiss…

She’d been kissed before—of course she had—but never by a great weathered warrior of a man, a guy who oozed testosterone, whose strength was like an aura around him. A man whose eyes had gleamed once at her as he lowered his head, his gleam a dare, a challenge shooting from those blue, blue eyes.

She wasn’t thinking straight. How could she think straight? His mouth was plundering hers. His tongue was searching for entry and discovering a response in her that almost overwhelmed her.

She felt herself arch a little, her body automatically demanding to be nearer. Instinctively, involuntarily, her hands reached and found the thick thatch of his sun-bleached hair and she felt herself glorying in the silkiness, the strength. As if she was another woman, someone she didn’t recognise, couldn’t recognise, she felt herself deepen the kiss, and she felt a low burn start in her body. The flicker flared and built.

And then the contact broke, just like that.

He put her away from him, the gleam still in his eyes. He was laughing at her, she thought. Laughing!

His hand went to his belt buckle and twisted it undone—and then he turned to the door.

As he tugged it open he was fastening his belt again. He was glancing around at her, as if checking she was… respectable?

She wasn’t respectable. He’d set the scene, she thought, stunned beyond belief. He’d made it look like…

She knew what it looked like. He was re-fastening his belt clumsily. She was sprawled, stunned, in the armchair, her pyjamas only just decent. She was flushed and dazed and her mouth felt bruised.

She felt—and she looked, she suspected—thoroughly, totally kissed.

She couldn’t help it. She raised her hand to her lips and Hugo’s smile deepened. He winked—the toe-rag winked!—before turning back to the men at the door.

It was Henry and the conductor from her carriage.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, urbane and polite. But his annoyance was unmistakable for all that. ‘How can I help?’

The scene was being played out to a nicety, Amy thought, unable to move. No one could doubt what had been happening in this room. No one could doubt why it had taken Hugo so long to answer the door.

‘I’m so sorry…’ Henry started, but the conductor behind him was made of sterner stuff. Maybe he wasn’t quite as intimidated by the Thurston billions.

‘The girl you’re with,’ he growled, and pointed to Amy. ‘That woman. We have reason to believe she’s carrying a dog.’

‘A dog?’ If they’d announced life on Mars, Hugo could hardly have sounded more stunned. ‘Amy has a dog?’

‘Miss Cotton,’ the conductor snapped. ‘She’s budget class.’

Hugo froze.

Once upon a time Amy had seen a frail, elderly Sir James Thurston escort his wife through a crowd of post-ballet revellers. A photographer had suddenly emerged from the throng and shoved his camera so close to Dame Maud that she’d spilled her drink.

Frail, elderly Sir James had suddenly been frail and elderly no longer. If there was ever any proof needed about the power needed to make the billions, it was there in that moment, when one blustering photographer was reduced to a whimpering puddle of humiliation.

And here it was again: the Thurston power. The stance of the man. The single glance, cold as flint.

‘Budget class,’ Hugo repeated, and the two words could have cut glass.

‘That’s… that’s where she’s from,’ the conductor managed. ‘I’ve searched her compartment and when I couldn’t find the dog…’

‘You searched my Amy’s compartment?’

My Amy. She should be pleased, Amy thought. Here he was, her hero, defending her. Instead… My Amy. She felt like standing up and saying Oi!

But now was not a time for feminist principles. Somehow she managed to subside. Her job was to sit and look kissed.

That wasn’t hard. She was kissed.

‘She’s brought the dog here,’ the conductor said, but instead of sounding sure, he was now sounding sulky and defensive. Henry the butler was glancing at him as if he suspected he’d lost his mind.

Woman coming to billionaire’s bedroom at dead of night—understandable. Woman smuggling dog to billionaire’s bed… Not so much.

But the conductor knew his job and was intent on carrying it out. ‘It’s in there,’ he said, and pointed straight at Amy’s purse. He darted forward—and then he hesitated. ‘Does it bite?’

‘Does what bite?’ Hugo demanded, still at his autocratic coldest.

‘The dog.’

‘You’re saying a dog’s in Miss Cotton’s purse.’

‘Yes.’

Hugo closed his eyes. He visibly counted to ten, and then he opened them again.

He looked at Henry and hauteur gave way to sympathy. ‘Are you okay with this?’

‘Please…’ said the miserable Henry. ‘If you could just open the purse we could all just go back to…’ he glanced at Amy ‘…to whatever we were doing.’

Indulge the lunatic and you’ll be left alone, his tone said, and Hugo sighed and nodded.

‘Okay. Let’s do this. No, it won’t bite,’ he assured the conductor, and a commander approaching a shell-shocked soldier couldn’t have achieved a more sympathetic tone. ‘But let’s make absolutely sure. Miss Cotton, would you open your purse for us?’

But Amy didn’t move, or not instantly. Things were happening too fast—and she wasn’t helped at all when, instead of handing her the purse, Hugo stooped and kissed her again, hard, fast, on the mouth.