Stranger Passing By

THERE was no doubt about it: Crystal couldn’t let Brent sleep in the car all night, so she took the only course available to her. Opening the door, she placed her hands on his shoulders and pulled. It was a miracle, but it worked: he did not resist. Instead, he moved towards her. Encouraged, she lifted his feet to the ground and managed somehow to manoeuvre him out, leaning him against the car. Diving round to lock it, she raced back, catching him as he began to slide sideways.

Lifting his arm across her shoulders and with her own arms around his waist, she urged him on beside her, he in a kind of waking sleep, she sagging a little under the weight of him. She was afraid that he might trip over the back doorstep, but he seemed to know by instinct that he should lift first one foot, then the other.

The sofa complained noisily as, hands on his hips, she guided him down. It was shabby, its springs almost flattened by years of wear, but its feather-filled cushions gave softly as she pushed them under his head, his shoulders and his calves. His height didn’t help, his feet dangling over the raised arm, but it was the best she could do in the circumstances.

Looking down at him, she hoped he wouldn’t be in too bad a shape when he awoke in the morning.

‘If only,’ she whispered, ‘you’d been able to direct me to your own home, by now you’d be tucked up in your own comfortable bed.’ There was no response, but then, she hadn’t expected any.

It came two hours later in the form of the sound of furniture crashing and an unsmothered curse. The words, ‘Where am I, for God’s sake?’ penetrated the ceiling of the living-room to her bedroom directly above.

Even if she had been sleeping heavily, which she hadn’t, being subconsciously aware all the time of the presence of a stranger—and such a stranger!—in her small, normally quiet world, she would have heard him.

Swinging out of bed and tugging on a wrap, she tiptoed barefoot down the stairs and opened the living-room door, to find Brent standing, jacketless, bewildered and angry, beside the unfortunate table that had taken the brunt of his outflung, light-switch-seeking hand.

Diving to right the table and switch on the table lamp, she straightened to meet the furious grey eyes.

‘What’s this?’ he growled, pulling at his tie as if it choked him. ‘A plot among Ornamental’s redundant employees to kidnap the chief executive with a view to working on him to change his mind and reinstate them?’

His gaze swept around, skimming over the tiny dining area, the spoof antiques, the badly worn carpet, plainly not liking very much what he saw, then tossed his discarded tie on to a bow-legged coffee-table from whose shiny surface it slipped to the floor. ‘Where the hell am I?’ he repeated.

‘In my house, Mr Akerman. And if you’d let me explain—’

‘So you—’ he looked her up and down with as much pleasure in his eyes as when, moments ago, he had inspected his surroundings ‘—you, Crystal Rose, are their self-appointed spokesman, yet again?’ His lips thinned. ‘I might have known, should have guessed. Not only that, but also, because of your qualities of leadership, your persuasiveness—’

In vain, Crystal shook her head. Didn’t he understand that that outcry on behalf of her colleagues had taken even her by surprise? That never in her life before had she sprung to her feet in the course of a meeting and addressed even the back of a person’s head, let alone the platform?

‘—they appointed you,’ he was saying, ‘kidnapper, abductor, hostage-taker in chief?’

This time her madly shaking head, the auburn lights of her mop of hair thrown around by the mock-crystal chandelier of which the cottage’s owner was so proud, brought his accusations to a halt.

‘If you’d just let me explain.’ This time he heeded the appeal in her voice.

Having heard her out, he sank back to rest against the sofa. ‘OK, I believe you,’ was his weary response. ‘This hangover is evidence enough. It was good of you to give me a lift. I see now that you had no alternative but to bring me here.’

‘Jet lag,’ she put in, ‘not hangover.’

His eyes opened slowly, his gaze mocking. ‘So many sides to the beautiful Crystal Rose. Chauffeur, minder, good Samaritan, political agitator—’

‘No!’

‘You mean, you’re not beautiful?’ Deliberately misunderstanding, Brent lifted his arms, resting his head on them. With an eyebrow arched, long legs stretched out, appreciation glinted in the faintly lustful gaze as it sketched her outline, which her thin cotton belted wrap did little to hide.

‘No—I mean, yes. What I mean is—’ An exasperated sigh came from the depths of her. ‘Will you please stop referring to my defence of my colleagues’ jobs this evening as evidence that I’m a revolutionary at heart? All I wanted was to safeguard their means of livelihood—people like Maureen Hilson, who’s got an invalid mother to look after.’

‘Caring as well as compassionate. I must look out your private file and make sure all these attributes are noted down.’

‘What use will that be, Mr Akerman, when in a few weeks, along with all the others, I’ll be an ex-employee of yours?’

‘Mm.’ Those dark eyes sketched a more intimate outline, shading in the curves and inlets like an artist sketching a particularly attractive piece of coastline. ‘Play your cards right, Miss Rose, and—’

‘Goodnight, Mr Akerman.’ She swung to the door. ‘Better luck with sleeping for the time that’s left.’

He was on his feet and grabbing her before she had finished the sentence, and she hit the sofa beside him with a bump.

‘I’m a stranger in a strange land, Miss Rose,’ he declared softly. ‘I’m shy.’ His eyes held as many glints as the chandelier. ‘I need reassurance—yours, as my hostess.’ Laughter lurked as he whispered against her ear, making it tingle unbearably, ‘I need my hand held, Crystal Rose.’

He took hers in a caressing hold, but loosely, so that all her hand needed to do was slip away from his. But it didn’t. Perversely it stayed right there, liking so much the feel of his palm against its back, the strength of the long fingers that pushed their way between its own.

He then proceeded to unfasten his shirt buttons, placing her hand against his chest.

‘Feel the way my heart’s fluttering, Miss Rose,’ he said huskily, ‘it’s jumping with sheer nerves at finding itself in the middle of the night in a stranger’s house.’

There was the roughness of chest hair softening the hard breadth and sinew of him, but no sign of a quivering beat, only the vigorous hammering of the healthy heart of a jungle hunter in hot pursuit of its prey. The intimate contact of her hand against his flesh was electric, making her own heart flutter and dance in the most disconcerting way.

Her eyes collided with his, and to her consternation they could not tear themselves free. Laughter persisted in that grey gaze, mixed in with a predatory gleam, and a hint of very masculine desire. Not a sign of the shyness he professed to feel, but how could she have even begun to believe his outrageous statement?

‘If I really believed you meant what you said about being shy, Mr Akerman,’ she commented, ‘I’d believe anything.’

She had meant it to come out with scorn laced with sarcasm, but she heard the catch in her throat, the quick intake of her own breath. He was having the same mind-blowing effect on her as he’d had from the moment she had set eyes on him.

Holding her gaze, he slid his hands to her shoulders, and before she was aware of his intention he had pulled her round and into his arms. Every particle of her knew she shouldn’t be there, but her cheek had ignored all the warning signals and had taken the liberty of nestling cosily against the wall of his chest.

His arms held her loosely, but Crystal was certain that if she tried to escape they would clamp her to him without mercy.

‘That’s better, Miss Rose,’ he sighed against her hair, ‘much better. You’re doing a great job of reassuring this timid guest of yours that his hostess won’t bite him.’

Crystal laughed, then pulled back her head and searched his face. His mouth twitched and, flushing deeply, she disentangled herself from him. Yes, she had been right about the intended double meaning.

‘That’s not my way, Mr Akerman,’ she declared, winding her wrap more closely around her.

He closed his eyes, legs outstretched, arms folded. Crystal gathered up the scattered cushions and placed them in a pile.

A shiver caught up with her, telling her how cool a night it was. She switched on the imitation coal fire that stood in the grate, then crept out to find a blanket, gently spreading it over him. Crouching down, she eyed his shoes. Dared she unlace them and ease them off? With her hand light as a butterfly on his knee, she scanned his features, and her heart turned over at the intensely unhappy expression on his handsome face.

She wanted to throw her arms round him to comfort him, easing the pain he was undoubtedly feeling. She wanted to offer him sympathy, ease away his sadness, soothe him with her warmth, her love...

Horrified by her thoughts, she made to rise, when a hand rested on hers on his knee. Mortified that he had known all along that her hand was there, she began to snatch hers away, when his hold tightened and he pulled her round and on to the sofa again.

His arm settled around her, and although she knew she should move away not a single nerve or bone in her body tensed to follow her mind’s instructions.

His fingers tipped her chin and the glow from the electric fire lit her features, while his, to her chagrin, remained in shadow.

‘When you looked at me, what were your thoughts?’ he queried huskily.

So he’d seen her looking at him! And she had thought the light was so subdued and his eyes closed so tightly that her scrutiny of his face would have been a total secret.

‘You looked so unhappy, Mr Akerman,’ she answered softly, straining without success to read his expression, ‘that I—’