A Passionate Affair: The Passionate Husband / The Italian's Passion / A Latin Passion

She had been labelled withdrawn and difficult, and was no longer a cute little girl, but a gawky youngster approaching teenage years with braces on her teeth and spots on her chin.

By the time the ugly duckling had turned into a diffident and shy swan she had learnt she could rely on no one but herself. If she didn’t expect anything of anyone she wouldn’t be disappointed, and if she didn’t let anyone get near they wouldn’t be able to hurt her. Simple.

Only it hadn’t worked that way with Taylor. From the second she had seen him she had wanted him; it had been as clear and unequivocal as that. Not that she hadn’t known it was madness.

She turned off the shower, wrapping a towel round her and walking through into the main room. Sunlight was already slanting golden shafts into the room and the day promised to be another warm one.

Yes, she’d known it was madness, she reiterated as she dried her hair. Deep inside she’d continually asked herself how serious he was about relinquishing his love ’em and leave ’em lifestyle. Did he want her for a lifetime? Did he need her as she needed him? Could she handle the complex being that was Taylor Kane? Would he grow bored with marriage or, worse, her? Those questions had plagued her from day one.

‘Who fed your insecurities with the very thing you most feared?’ Taylor’s words came back to her with piercing suddenness, causing her hand to still before she threw the hairdryer on to the sofa.

He had insisted on his innocence that night eighteen months ago and he was still insisting on it. Had he sent her a letter giving the telephone number of this stranger who had allowed him to share his room in Germany? It was easy for him to say so now, when so much time had elapsed, and surely it was more than a little farfetched to think the letter had got lost in the post?

The ring of the telephone right at her elbow made her jump a mile, and she put a hand to her racing heart before glancing at her watch. Six-thirty. Who on earth was calling her at six-thirty?

She refused to admit she was expecting it to be Taylor, but the minute she lifted the receiver and heard his voice her heart galloped even faster. He had spoken only her name, his voice even, and she couldn’t tell what sort of mood he was in.

‘Hello, Taylor.’ She was pleased to hear her voice betrayed nothing of what she was feeling.

‘Did I wake you?’

Prevarication seemed the best response. She wasn’t about to let him know she had been up with the birds because he had invaded her dreams as well as every waking moment. ‘It is six-thirty in the morning,’ she said coolly. ‘I don’t normally rise before seven.’ Which was true.

‘I couldn’t sleep.’ His voice was warm and soft and did the craziest things to her nerve-endings.

Marsha breathed out very slowly. ‘Most people reach for a book rather than the phone in that situation.’

‘I’m not most people.’

Now, that was definitely the truest thing he had ever said! She stared at the painted wall some feet away, trying to work out where he was coming from. He didn’t sound mad, but he had always been able to conceal anger very well. ‘What do you want?’ she asked carefully.

‘You.’ It was immediate. ‘But I’ll settle for breakfast.’

In his dreams! She forced a sarcastic laugh. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘Oh, well, I guess I can throw stones at Mrs Tate-Collins’s window and see if she’s in the mood for warm croissants. Say what you like, but I think I might be in with a chance there.’

She stared at the receiver as she tried to assimilate the implication of what he had just said. ‘Where are you, exactly?’ she said flatly.

‘Exactly?’ The pause was deliberate. ‘Well, if we’re talking exactly, I’m on the second paving slab to the left of the steps which lead up to the front door of your building.’

He was outside? For a second she was tempted to tell him to go ahead and wake Mrs Tate-Collins, but knowing he would almost certainly call her bluff restrained her. She didn’t want him sitting in the basement telling Mrs Tate-Collins all the ins and outs of this ridiculous situation, as he knew full well.

She tried one last time. ‘Go home, Taylor.’

‘No chance.’

She dipped her head, shaking it irritably before she said, ‘Doesn’t what I want count for anything?’

‘Absolutely not. We’ve done it your way over the last months and what have we got? No nearer to sorting anything out and even more tangles in the web.’

‘I could get a restraining order. That way you wouldn’t be able to keep harassing me.’

‘You could try.’ It was mordant. ‘But I doubt if any court in the land would agree that offering you dinner, giving you a helping hand when you were sick and then calling by with breakfast constitutes harassment.’

She took a deep breath to combat the anger his supremely confident voice had aroused. He took the biscuit for sheer arrogance. ‘I’ll open the front door.’

‘Thanks.’

Sixty seconds later a light knock announced his arrival. She had just had time to pull on a pair of cream cotton combat trousers and a sleeveless top, but with her newly washed hair shining like raw silk and her skin fresh and clean from the shower she felt more than able to hold her own. She didn’t rush to answer the door, waiting for a moment or two before she pulled it open.

Taylor was standing with a box in his arms, his smile lazy and his amber eyes reflecting the golden sunlight from the landing window. ‘Good morning.’ He waited for an invitation to enter.

She inclined her head, refusing to let him see what his presence did to her. He was wearing black jeans and an open-necked black denim shirt and he looked magnificent. ‘Come in,’ she said grudgingly.

He quirked a brow at her tone but said nothing, walking past her and then standing just inside the room. ‘This is great.’ He couldn’t quite disguise his surprise.

‘I like it.’ She had opened the balcony windows first thing, and now he walked across the room, after depositing the box on the breakfast bar, standing and looking out over the rooftops for a moment or two.

Turning, he said, ‘Did you have to do much when you first moved in?’

‘Quite a bit.’ It felt very strange, having him stand in her little home, and to cover her agitation she began to unpack the box of food he had brought as she detailed her additions and alterations to the bedsit.

He had brought warm croissants, as he had said, along with a selection of preserves in tiny individual jars, and cold cooked meats, cheese, hard-boiled eggs and potato salad. Melon, kiwi, grapefruit, mango and other fruits—all ready prepared and sliced in containers—along with a variety of cereals and fresh orange juice made up the box, at the top of which lay a deep red rose, its petals still damp with the morning dew.

Marsha made no comment about the rose, placing it to one side. It seemed safer.

‘Do you really mind me bringing breakfast round?’

He had come up behind her, his breath warm on the back of her neck. She was not fooled by the gentle persuasive tone. He was using the Kane charm, and it could be lethal on occasion. ‘Actually, yes.’ She used the excuse of fetching plates and bowls to put a few feet between them.

‘Why?’

She turned, her hands full, and found herself facing his chest. He had moved as lightly and swiftly as a cat. ‘Because this is my home and I prefer to invite callers.’ As he made a move to take the crockery from her she said, ‘I can manage, thank you.’

‘I’m sure you can.’ He took it, nevertheless, setting it down on the breakfast bar and then perching on one of the stools which he had pulled out further into the room. ‘But there’s more to life than managing, surely?’

She warned herself not to get drawn into this. ‘You know what I meant.’

‘And you know what I meant. I’ve existed, not lived, the last eighteen months. Tell me you haven’t done the same.’ He raked back his hair as he spoke and the simple action created a surge of sexual need inside her she couldn’t believe.

‘I’ve been fine. I am fine.’ She stared straight at him, refusing to blink as she lied.

‘You’re getting better at lying, but you’ll never really master the art,’ he said comfortably.