Wild and Wanton by Dorothy Vernon

out!’ she said.,
    The flicker of surprise that pierced his eyes verged on anger. Few people dared to give Nick Farraday his marching orders. Lindsay’s own surprise was thus no less than his; but hers was tinged with apprehension.
    â€˜That’s not a very sociable attitude to take,’ he said, looking round for the nearest seat, by chance her prized armchair, and lowering himself into it. ‘I take my coffee black.’
    â€˜I must be getting absentminded. I can’t remember offering you any.’
    Lindsay knew that, before she had so rudely told him to go, he’d been on the point of departing. Now she had gotten his back up; the stubborn set of his jaw was an annoying indication that only he would determine when to leave, and she was left to make the best of it.
    He looked too comfortable in her big, overstuffed arm-chair. It flickered across her mind that he even looked right there, a chilling image. The chair accommodated his long frame, providing adequate resting places for his square, larger-than-average hands. She hadn’t bought the chair with a male occupancy in mind, at least not consciously, although she had a strong suspicion that if her subconscious had a voice it might have something different to say. But when she was brought home by a date, the chair had been a big factor in whether or not he was asked in. The picture her mind had flashed back each time had meant that not one of the stalwart hopefuls had ever been allowed through her door. So why did that chair now look hand-picked for Nick Farraday?
    She stormed into the kitchen. Hating her own helplessness at not being able to evict him, she spooned coffee into the percolator and broodingly set two mugs on the table.
    A sensation feathered the back of her neck. She looked round to see him standing at the kitchen door.
    His regard was thoughtful. ‘I don’t understand.’
    â€˜That makes two of us. I don’t know why you picked me.’
    â€˜At the risk of sounding repetitious, I’ve already explained that I’m not looking for the most beautiful woman in the world, nor the most sophisticated, but someone with a certain quality—which you
do
possess. Something rare and elusive that almost defies definition. But that’s not what mystifies me. Rather, I’m puzzled by your attitude. The aversion is so thick I could cut it with the daggers your eyes keep throwing in my direction.’
    Gulping with relief that he’d only noticed her aversion, she said, ‘You’re not harking back to that again, are you?’
    â€˜Yes. I don’t like mysteries, and I’ll keep at this one until it’s unravelled.’
    â€˜I . . .’ She looked away. ‘I just don’t like being hounded.’
    A square finger came out to touch her chin, tilting it upward. ‘Does it seem as if I’m hounding you? If I am, I wasn’t aware of it. I don’t like being thwarted, so perhaps what’s driving me could be called hounding you. So, sorry to disbelieve you, but I’ve no other option. I know that you’re reacting to something else entirely. I’ve never encountered such deep anger in anyone before, not without my doing something to earn it.’
    Why didn’t she tell him and watch him squirm? What exactly held her back she would never know, but a strange self-protective instinct was advising her not to. Her hand sought a lock of her hair, tugging it as if self-induced pain would atone for the lie. ‘I’ve already told you, you’re imagining things. I have no feelings about you either way. I neither like nor dislike you.’
    That response didn’t erase the bafflement from his face. ‘It isn’t as if I’ve made a pass at you. I’ve never laid a finger on you in that way.’
    He was surveying her in a searching manner, his disturbingly handsome countenance etched by grim thought. She wouldn’t have believed that an