Mistress Against Her Will

‘I can’t see the necessity for it.’

‘As a matter of fact, how a person reacts to being teased tells me quite a lot about his or her character. Now sit down.’

Though he spoke quietly, his voice cracked like a whip and, against all her inclinations, she found herself obeying a will stronger than her own.

CHAPTER TWO

AS GAIL sank into the nearest armchair, her heart hammering against her ribs so loudly she felt sure it must be audible, he commented, ‘That’s better.’

Then, with exaggerated politeness, ‘How do you like your coffee, Miss North?’

Her empty stomach was churning and, about to say she didn’t want any coffee, she thought better of it and answered, ‘A little cream, no sugar, thank you.’

‘Exactly how I like mine,’ he observed. Adding provokingly, ‘Now, isn’t that strange?’

Refusing to rise to the bait, she put her bag on the floor and sat in silence while he filled two cups with the dark fragrant liquid and added a dash of cream to each of them.

Passing her a cup, he sat down opposite and looked at her with a gleam in his eye that showed he enjoyed being master of the situation.

Watching her bite her lip, he queried, ‘Do I take it you’re vexed because of a little gentle teasing?’

Without answering, she looked at him stonily.

‘OK.’ He sat back with a hint of a smile on his lips. ‘Let’s keep this strictly business—where are you from?’

Still riled, she answered quickly. ‘I was born in the northeast—’

The moment the words were out, she could have bitten her tongue. She shouldn’t have told him that. Rona had always teased her unmercilessly about her Geordie accent and it was the one thing that he might possibly remember.

She risked a quick glance at him and the little flare of satisfaction in those handsome eyes made her heart sink.

Had he guessed her identity?

No, surely not. It must be because he had managed to provoke her into speech.

His expression bland now, he asked, ‘Whereabouts in the north-east?’

‘Tyneside,’ she answered reluctantly, certain he was still mocking her.

When he nodded, clearly absorbing the information, Gail looked up at him and cautiously studied his handsome profile. She had forgotten just how devastatingly attractive his white smile was, and her heart lurched crazily.

Not that she was still attracted to him, she told herself hastily. It was just remembering the past that had affected her so strongly.

While she tried to steady herself, she made a pretence of sipping her coffee.

She was hoping that he had let the subject drop when he asked casually, ‘How long did you live in the north?’

‘We left when I was twelve.’

‘Why?’

She paused, worried about how much information to reveal but replied honestly. ‘My father died when I was ten, and two years later my mother remarried.’

Everything she had told him so far was the exact truth, but if he wanted to delve any further into her family background, rather than admit that her stepfather had been American and they had moved to the States, she would have to resort to lies.

However, to her relief, he changed tack by saying, ‘So fill me in on your personal details—full name, age, where you live, previous work experience…’

‘It’s all in my CV.’

He leaned back and crossed his ankles, perfectly at ease. ‘I dare say it is, Miss North. But I’d prefer to hear it from your own lips…’

It was so in keeping with his attitude that she should have expected it.

‘You can start by telling me your Christian name.’

‘Gail.’

‘Short for Abigail?’

‘Yes.’ She had been praying that he would take the name at face value and not make the connection.

Her parents had always called her Abbey, but after pointing out that in books Abigail was usually a servant’s name, her stepsister Rona had used her full name, apparently in an unkind attempt to belittle her.

It was one of the reasons that, when she and her mother had returned to England, she had started to call herself Gail.

‘A nice old-fashioned name,’ Zane Lorenson commented after a moment. ‘So how do you come to be called Abigail?’

‘It was my maternal grandmother’s name.’

‘Would you believe me if I told you my maternal grandmother was named Abigail?’

‘No, I wouldn’t,’ she said shortly.

He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Well, at least you’re honest. But, in this case, mistaken. It happens to be the truth.’

Her mouth went dry as he added, his tone reflective, ‘It’s quite an unusual name these days. You don’t meet many Abigails.’ His gaze held hers as if suggesting there was more meaning to his words.

So he had known who she was all along, and that was why he’d treated her the way he had.

If it had been at all possible she would have made a run for it, but her old fear of him was back in force and she was frozen into immobility, unable to either move or speak.

Quite a few seconds had passed before she appreciated that his lean, tanned face showed no sign of the anger or hostility she would have expected had he known who she was. She was being ridiculous, and she knew it. She had to keep calm.

His expression held a kind of studied patience as he waited for an answer to a question she hadn’t even heard.

‘I—I’m sorry,’ she stammered.

‘I asked how old you were.’