Fantasy For Two

She wasn’t going to allow him to think he had got the upper hand, though. No way.

Standing opposite him, she demanded aggressively, ‘You do realise, don’t you, that this is a private road?’

She could see from his expression that she had caught him off guard. He choked briefly and started to frown, his mouth hardening as he surveyed her grimly.

‘A private road along which you were travelling too fast,’ he retaliated smoothly.

He had a voice like rich, dark chocolate, Mollie recognised weakly. Very bitter rich, dark chocolate. She had always been susceptible to voices, and his was... She gulped and swallowed. His was.,.

Stop it, she warned herself severely. He isn’t your type of man at all. You don’t like dark-haired, darkbrowed, shockingly handsome and seriously sexy men. You never have, and besides...

His lordly assumption of control plus his arrogant attitude, coupled with her own quick-to-take-fire emotions and her uncomfortable awareness that she had been driving just a bit too fast, had a predictably explosive effect on Mollie’s temper.

‘I was not driving too fast,’ she contradicted him immediately—and untruthfully—and then added with what to her was perfectly reasonable logic, ‘And besides, you were driving a Land Rover, so you must have seen me coming...’

‘I did,’ he agreed grimly, adding as though to underline his point, ‘I stopped.”

‘So did I.’

The look he gave first the nose of her small car and then her made Mollie’s face burn pink with angry colour.

‘This is a private road over private land,’ she began again. ‘I have the permission of the owner to be driving along it—’

‘You do?’ She was interrupted softly.

‘Yes, I do. I work for the Fordcaster Gazette.’

‘Oh, you do, do you...?’ he said gently, but Mollie was far too incensed to pick up on the subtle undercurrent of danger held in the softly spoken but very inflexible words.

‘Yes, I do,’ she agreed, recklessly ignoring the small warning voice trying despairingly to make itself heard, its protest drowned out by the hot, angry turmoil of her need to get the better of her foe as, tossing her head, she lied bravely, ‘And anyway, the owner of this land happens to be a personal friend of mine.’

The dark eyebrows rose, the blue eyes suddenly looking coolly amused and holding an expression that was extremely cynical.

‘I think not,’ he corrected Mollie crisply, adding before she could say anything, ‘You see, I happen to be the owner of this land, and this private road happens to be my private road.’

Mollie’s mouth opened and then closed again. For sheer effrontery she had never met anyone like him.

‘You’re lying,’ she told him fiercely once she had got her breath back. ‘This road goes to Edgehill Farm, the Lawsons’ farm.’

‘To Edgehill Farm, yes, but it does not belong to the Lawsons; it belongs to me. The Lawsons are my tenants.’

‘I—I don’t believe you,’ Mollie managed to stutter defensively.

‘You mean you don’t want to believe me,’ he corrected her with a malign and very cold smile.

‘Who are you anyway?’ Mollie challenged him.

The cold smile became even colder, cold enough to make her shiver slightly, although she fought valiantly to conceal that fact from him.

‘I,’ he told her, pausing for effect and spacing each separate word carefully and precisely, ‘am Peregrine Alexander Kavanagh Stewart Villiers, Earl of St Otel.’

Mollie gaped at him.

She had heard Bob Fleury mention his name in terms of revolting awe and admiration—to her at least; she knew he owned vast tracts of land not only locally but elsewhere in Britain as well, and that he was the holder of several ancient hereditary titles—none of which had impressed her in the least when she had heard Bob Fleury talking about him. But now...

She gulped and swallowed hard on her chagrin and the impulse to deny what he was saying and accuse him of deceiving her—something, some hitherto slumbering instinct, told her that would not be very wise.

She couldn’t allow him to think he had totally routed her, though; it would not only go against the grain but would allow him to think that she was cowed, or even worse impressed, when the truth was that if anything the discovery of who he was had made her dislike him even more.

An earl. Well, she had no time for anything like that. She only accorded other people respect when she felt they merited it, and if he thought for one moment that just because he had flaunted his precious title...

‘Well, I don’t care who you are,’ she told him defiantly, well beyond listening to any inner voice of caution or restraint. ‘And if you think for one moment that I’m going to be intimidated by having you standing there like...like some Jane Austen character threatening to exercise some kind of...of droit du seigneur...’

The dark eyebrows shot up, the blue eyes gleaming with something that Mollie did not dare to try to analyse as he interrupted her suavely to say, ‘I somehow doubt that Jane Austen ever bestowed upon her male characters any kind of rights of that nature... In fact, I suspect she would have strongly disapproved of any such suggestion.’

‘Unlike you,’ Mollie retorted dangerously.

‘That depends... But since you seem so determined to cast me in the role of villain and rake...’

Before she could guess what was happening he had closed the distance between them and Mollie found she was locked firmly against his body—a body which felt far too robustly male for her feminine susceptibilities. He smelled of fresh air and the wind, and beneath the protesting defensive hand she had put out too late to ward him off she could feel the firm thud of his heartbeat and the crisp roughness of the body hair covering his skin.

He was all man. There was no doubt about that, she acknowledged weakly.

Whilst she was trying to control her unwanted and treacherous thoughts he was busily using one hand to keep her secured against his body as the other cupped her face and turned it to just the right angle for the downward descent of his mouth. He was so skilful that her last thought before his lips touched hers was that it was a manoeuvre at which he was extremely practised.

As though he had read her mind, she felt him whispering against her lips.

‘I once had to play the villain in the village pantomime...’

‘I doubt there was much playing necessary,’ Mollie managed to mouth back through gritted teeth, before the firm pressure of his lips on hers made further speech not just difficult but downright dangerous. To even try to open her mouth now, whilst it was being caressed so...so...by his, would be to invite...to...

‘Mmm...’ Giddily Mollie breathed a soft, appreciative sound of bliss as his lips stroked hers, and her own lips, her body, her ravished senses responded hedonistically to the delicious sensual mastery.

‘Mmm...’

‘Mmm...?’

To her chagrin Mollie recognised that he was repeating her soft sound of appreciation—not in confirmation of his own corresponding enjoyment of the kiss they were now sharing, but in fact as a question.

Immediately she stopped kissing him. Not that she had actually been kissing him, she tried to reassure herself as she primly filmed her kiss-softened lips against the provocation of the warmth of his breath and the tantalisingly gentle movement of his lips on hers... No, what she had been doing had quite simply and surely excusably been making an instinctive and automatic female response to the erotic mastery of a man who quite plainly knew far more about how to coax a woman into responding to him than was good for him—or for her.

Determinedly Mollie told herself that it wasn’t disappointment that was chilling her blood as he allowed her to put some distance between them.

‘How dare...?’ she began shakily.

‘How dare you, sir? Unhand me!’ he finished for her promptly.

Mollie glared at him. Now he was quite definitely making fun of her.