The Billionaire Affair by Diana Hamilton Page A

wearing.
    â€˜Something I ate at dinner. Indigestion,’ she lied, desperately trying to ignore the quivers of sexual response that were careering right through her. She didn’t want this to happen to her, to feel anything for him other than utter contempt.
    And, the pity of it was, no other man had ever had this effect on her. She’d dated, of course she had; she hadn’t turned into a man-hater. But no one hadever come near to invoking the intense emotions, the devastating physical needs Ben had awoken within her.
    The notebook she was holding shook in her hands. She made herself open it, remove the pen that was clipped inside the spiral of metal that bound it together, and said, ‘As I couldn’t get to sleep I thought I might as well do some work. I hadn’t meant to disturb you.’
    â€˜Meant or not, you did. And do,’ he responded drily. ‘And did you? Work?’
    Wildly, she cast her eyes round the room that was now so different from how she remembered it, gathered her scattered mental resources and said, ‘There used to be a serving table. Father probably sold it, unless you’ve moved it somewhere else.’
    â€˜Nope.’
    She wasn’t looking at him but she had the distinct impression he’d moved closer. Much closer. Her skin prickled. She said, her voice thickening deplorably, ‘The dresser’s still here. Georgian. Valuable. Hang onto it if you’re looking for an investment.’
    â€˜At the moment all I’m looking at is you.’
    Caroline gulped, her breath fluttering in her throat. What he’d said was true. She could feel his eyes on her, burning her flesh. She wanted out of here. Now. But her legs wouldn’t move. Then she felt his hand on her waist, searing through the fine layers of silk, sending flickers of fire to her pulse points, each and every one of them. Don’t, she wanted to say. Don’ttouch me. But her tongue was cleaving to the roof of her mouth.
    â€˜You’re cold; the central heating’s turned down to the minimum. Let’s go. Warm milk should settle your—indigestion.’
    The pressure of his hand increased, she could feel the exact placement of every fingertip. Now was the time to tell him she didn’t want his hot milk, or his manufactured concern, to take herself back to her room. But she didn’t. She simply went where he led, appalling herself by her mindless regression to that summer all those years ago when she would have followed him to purgatory and back if he’d asked her to.
    â€˜You haven’t asked why I found it impossible to sleep,’ he said as they entered the warmth of the kitchen. ‘Don’t you think that would be the correct response in the course of polite conversation?’
    The dark rub of irony in his voice touched a raw nerve. What lay between them precluded normal polite conversation. But then, she remembered, he’d always had beautiful manners, despite his wild ways, always seemingly highly tuned into the feelings of others.
    Seemingly.
    She said nothing, just hovered, her slender body as taut as a bowstring, watching as he poured milk into a pan and reached for two mugs, a bottle of brandy. She knew she should walk out of the room, break this strangely prickly intimacy but some dark compulsion kept her where she was, just as much inthrall to his male vitality, his smouldering sexuality as she had ever been.
    â€˜Then, I’ll tell you, since you don’t seem inclined to ask.’
    The mere sound of his voice made her catch her breath, her teeth sinking into the soft flesh of her lower lip. If she’d had her wits about her she would have said, Don’t bother, I’m not interested. But her wits had gone on holiday, along with her common sense.
    And he told her, ‘Thinking of you, sleeping under the same roof, wasn’t conducive to a peaceful night’s rest. I needed something to read to take my mind off