Whisper Of Scandal

‘Well, I’m not easily charmed.’ Sabrina smiled. ‘Now, will you go to Nice tomorrow and see your wife?’

He shook his head. ‘I will be seeing you tomorrow. Ten o’clock sharp.’ He moved away then before she had time to argue the point further.

She watched him go with a mixture of impatience and affection. He had to be the most pigheaded, stubborn man that she had ever come across. He had probably accepted Marc’s offer to run her home just so that she didn’t get the chance to try and change his mind.

She watched him stop and talk with his stepson on the way out of the door. She had always thought that Garth was a powerfully built man, yet next to Marc Kingsley’s lean, broad-shouldered frame he looked almost small.

For a moment she racked her brain to remember any information that Garth had given her on his stepson.

He was a successful man, a wealthy industrialist who spent most of his time in Paris but also had a home in Surrey. She knew that his mother Nadine was French and that his father had been English. They were the only facts that she could call to mind. With a sigh she got to her feet and went over to join them. Somehow she had the feeling that she needed to know much more about Marc Kingsley in order to step very warily around him.

Did he have to watch her like that? she wondered angrily as she moved nearer to them. His eyes were raking over her slim figure in the pencil-straight skirt and jade blouse as if he were assessing how much she would fetch on the open market.

‘Ready?’ he asked abruptly as she reached his side.

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. It was very strange, but this man seemed capable of stirring up her temper without even saying anything. Just one look from those eyes seemed to increase her temperature rapidly.

The darkness outside was a relief. It was a few minutes’ respite from Marc Kingsley’s probing eyes, a few minutes to compose herself. A bright red Porsche drew up beside them and the car-park attendant got out and handed Marc the keys.

Her eyes ran disdainfully over the sleek lines of the red Porsche. Nothing subdued for Mr Kingsley, she thought wryly. His taste in women was probably the same as his taste in cars. He would like them flashy and elegant.

He surprised her by opening the passenger door for her before going around to the other side. At least the man had some manners.

She frowned. What on earth was the matter with her? It wasn’t like her to be so aggressive, especially towards a perfect stranger. The man was doing her a favour by taking her home and here she was tearing him to shreds. In fact ever since he had first looked down at her she had been on the defensive—it was most unlike her.

She watched him as he secured his seatbelt and then started the powerful engine. His face was lit for a moment by the street-light as he turned towards her. It looked all planes and angles in the half-light, emphasising just how ruggedly attractive he was. For a crazy second her heart seemed to dip downwards and thud like a sledgehammer against her chest.

‘Aren’t you going to put on your seatbelt?’ he enquired lazily.

‘Oh... yes.’ For some reason her fingers felt like thumbs as she struggled awkwardly with the belt.

‘Here, let me do it.’ He leaned across and took it from her hands with a brisk impatient movement. Inadvertently his fingers brushed against the silk of her blouse as he pulled it across her, the soft touch sending a million sensory nerve-endings throbbing into life.

‘There.’ The belt slotted firmly into place and he was swinging the car out into the stream of traffic, the large hands looking strong and capable on the wheel.

Sabrina swallowed hard and looked away from him out through the window. She felt confused and angry with herself. She was twenty-five years of age and had been out with plenty of men in the past, but none of them had made her body respond the way it had done just now from a mere casual contact. Marc Kingsley was having a very strange effect on her. She was undeniably attracted to him, just as every woman who ever came into contact with him would probably be. But there was something else. He inflamed her senses. Angered her, excited her, frightened her. She couldn’t understand how a total stranger could arouse such emotions.

She tried to switch her thoughts away from him as they drove down busy roads through the heart of London. It was a magical city at night, she thought idly, with all the beautiful buildings illuminated by a warm orange glow against the velvet darkness of the sky.

Marc was pulling up outside her apartment in Kensington before she realised that he had driven her straight to her door without having to ask where she lived.

She turned to him with a frown. ‘How did you know my address?’

‘Garth told me before he left.’

‘Oh, I see.’

Marc turned off the engine and the sudden silence seemed heavy and oppressive. The only sound that filled Sabrina’s ears was the wild thud of her heartbeats.

‘Well, thank you for the lift home,’ she said a trifle breathlessly, reaching for the door-handle.

‘Aren’t you going to invite me in for coffee?’ he asked silkily.

She hesitated, taken back by the request. ‘Well, I...yes—yes, of course.’ Hell, she was babbling like a teenager. What on earth was wrong with her?

He stood behind her as she opened her front door and she was annoyed to find that her hand shook as she tried to get the key in the lock.

‘Do you need some help?’

His drily amused voice flustered her even more.

‘No, thank you.’ Thankfully the door swung open and Sabrina led the way into the elegant hallway.

The apartment was very large and decorated in a stylishly modern way. Crystal lights illuminated warm peach walls and highlighted the thick beige carpet that ran through each room.

‘Nice apartment,’ Marc remarked as his eyes moved over the lounge with its large cream leather suite and the modern pictures that lent vibrant splashes of colour to the room. ‘Working for Garth must pay well.’

Sabrina’s eyebrow lifted at such a remark. Really, who did the man think he was? It was none of his business where her money came from.

She decided not to answer such a remark but instead waved him towards the settee. ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ she said stiffly. ‘I’ll just put the kettle on.’

Instead of going into the lounge, however, he followed her into the kitchen.

She flicked a disgruntled glance at him as he leaned nonchalantly against the marble worktops to watch her fill the kettle.

‘The view’s better in here,’ he drawled lazily as he caught her eye, and then his gaze moved slowly from her neat ankles up over her long legs and curving body.

She felt her body heat start to rise at that look, and she turned away impatiently to open the cupboards and get out some china cups and saucers. Why did he keep looking at her like that?

‘So why did you give up working for my stepfather, Sabrina?’ he asked casually.

Her fingers slipped on the bone-china cup she had been reaching for and she watched in horror as it fell with a crashing sound on to the tiled floor. ‘Damn!’ Her dismayed voice sounded loud in the silence.

He bent to help her pick up the pieces. ‘Shame,’ he murmured as he turned the end of the cup over. ‘Royal Doulton as well—a very expensive piece.’

She glared at him. ‘What are you anyway, a tax inspector?’ she asked stiffly. ‘You’ve done nothing but make references to how expensive things are.’

He looked at her with raised eyebrows. ‘Have I? I’m sorry... things of beauty just fascinate me.’ As he spoke his eyes moved over her face searchingly.

She bit down heavily on her lower lip and her blue eyes clouded with tears. ‘No...I’m sorry.’ She got up quickly and went to wrap the slivers of china in paper before putting them in the bin. ‘I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. It’s just... well, that tea service had sentimental memories. It was my mother’s.’ She didn’t turn to face him as she spoke—she was desperately trying to collect her emotions. It was so silly to be upset about something as small as a teacup, but it had brought thoughts of her mother vividly to her mind.

‘You’ll have to forgive me.’ She forced a smile to her lips and turned to face him. ‘My mother died a couple of months ago and I’m not fully myself yet.’

‘That’s understandable.’ His voice was surprisingly gentle, his eyes sympathetic now as they lingered on her bright, shimmering eyes. ‘Why don’t I make the coffee?’ he suggested with a smile. ‘You sit down for a moment.’

‘No... really.’ She tried to protest but he had already drawn out one of the kitchen chairs for her and was busy getting more cups out of the cupboard. It seemed futile to argue so she sat and watched him.

It seemed very strange to have such an attractive man in her kitchen making her coffee. He looked very out of place in the pretty kitchen. He was so suave and debonair in the immaculately cut suit, and yet so very masculine. Marc Kingsley just seemed to ooze sex appeal.