Satan's Contract

‘Oh... Yes, of course—I...suppose you’ll be moving back to England now?’

‘Naturally. I’ve also inherited a very nice house.’ His eyes were glinting with that hard, mocking humour as he deliberately taunted her. ‘It’ll make a pleasant change from a tenth-floor condo in Parkdale—though I do have a pretty decent view of the lake. I guess I might want to make a few changes, of course. Does the place have central heating?’

She clenched her jaw, her regrets already forgotten. ‘Some parts of it do,’ she returned caustically. ‘But please don’t hesitate to rip out the floors and the panelling to put it in the rest.’

‘Thank you. Your permission, of course, was essential.’

The most annoying thing about him, Pippa reflected acidly, was the way he always seemed able to return her poison barbs with interest. And the way he always seemed to be laughing at her. And the way he looked at her, with a kind of calculated insolence that reminded her all too uncomfortably of that first moment of meeting him, when her blouse had been all agape from her tumble into the hedge.

The memory of that incident was still vividly alive in her brain, a constant source of embarrassment. Maybe that was why she always felt so vulnerable when she was around him... You know it isn’t that, a small voice was whispering inside her head. It was something in the strange alchemy he wove—something in the glint of humour in those hazel-brown eyes, the lazy mockery of that soft drawling voice.

He was holding her very close, his hand resting intimately over the base of her spine, his cheek against her hair. Dancing in his arms, she felt as if this was where she had always belonged. She was floating, outside of time and space, all her anger at his insults forgotten, all her defences crumbling to dust. She closed her eyes again, wishing this moment would never end...

‘Hey, Pippa!’ Jeremy had spotted her from his vantage-point on the table and had remembered with sudden indignation that she had come in with him. He handed the champagne bottle to Peter, and jumped heavily down, scattering several dancers out of his way. ‘Who the devil’s this?’ he demanded, snatching at her arm and glowering at Shaun in drunken belligerence.

‘Jeremy,’ she begged in an anxious whisper, ‘there’s no need to make a scene.’

‘Oh, isn’t there?’ He pushed Shaun rudely on the shoulder with his hand. ‘Get away from her,’ he ordered, very much on his high horse. ‘Who do you think you are, dancing with my girl?’

For one awful moment, Pippa feared that there was going to be a fight. It would have been a very uneven contest; Shaun had several inches’ advantage in both height and breadth—and besides, Jeremy was far too drunk. But clearly Shaun had come to the same conclusion, and his look was one of mocking contempt.

‘She’s all yours,’ he drawled, releasing her from his arms. ‘I wish you well of her—you seem pretty well matched.’

Jeremy, dimly suspecting that they had both been insulted, stood with his mouth hanging rather stupidly open as Shaun turned and walked away. ‘Well, of all the bloody cheek!’ he protested. ‘I’ve a good mind to teach him a lesson. Who the hell does he think he is?’

‘No, don’t,’ pleaded Pippa, rather exasperated with him. ‘Leave it alone.’

‘Well, but...’ He conceded the point with a show of reluctance, but he wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t know he was likely to receive the worst of any physical confrontation—Pippa’s restraining hand had provided him with the excuse he needed to allow him to back down without losing face. ‘Who is he, anyway?’ he queried. ‘Do you know him?’