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  `I rang wanting to ask you to join Noel's birthday celebrations tonight,' the redhead went on, flicking a bright glance in Devon's direction. 'Won't you—and your friend, of course join our party?'

  Not sure whether she wanted him to say yes or no, suddenly aware that her dress must shriek 'home-made' after all beside the elegance of the redhead's slinky outfit, Devon thought it might delay for a few hours what was before her.

  `My salutations to Noel,' she heard Grant courteously declining, 'but you'll forgive me, Vivien,' he said urbanely, 'Miss Johnston informs me she wants an early night.'

  He's furious, Devon thought, as, not introducing her to his redheaded friend, though with a charm she had never suspected him of having, he insisted quite firmly that he was taking Miss Johnston home.

  He had not one word to say to her as the car sped in the direction of The Limes. Nor did he have a word to say to her, as together they went up the steps to the house and he inserted his key in the door.

  And Devon knew then, afraid to say a word to placate him in case it had the opposite effect and angered him further, that when it would have been perhaps easier for her if he had claimed his retribution with thought for her, she didn't have a hope that that was the way it would be. It was at that point that her brain seized up.

  The hall lights had been switched on, illuminating the staircase. But, fearful that at any moment Grant Harrington was going to make a grab for her—the knowledge deep-rooted by now that she dared not make any protest if she didn't want that cable on its way to Scotland—Devon stood petrified, not knowing which way to go, or if she should move at all.

  But even so she was in no mind to thank him, when Grant, not making the grab for her she had been expecting, looked her cynically over from top to toe, then gave her direction.

  `You know where my bedroom is,' he grunted tersely, and left her standing as he strode to the sitting room,

  effectively barring her way by closing the door behind him. But still she hesitated as she looked from that door to the staircase, that to her suddenly weakened limbs looked to be a mile high.

  Her father—she had to think of her father, she thought, when in turning, her eyes caught sight of the front door and escape. She moved to the foot of the stairs clutching at the banister, needing a moment to find strength not to do what all her instincts were urging. Grant Harrington would most likely hear her if she exited from that front door—but he would make no move to come after her and haul her back—he had no need to, all the high cards were his. Slowly Devon began to ascend the stairs.

  It was impossible, she found, to keep her mind the blank she wanted it. But with the picture in front of her of her father before and after Grant Harrington's visit to him on Tuesday, she found it a help in pushing that word escape to the back of her mind as she washed, and changed into her short cotton nightdress.

  The bed, when she made herself climb into it, seemed enormous. But even so, as another flutter of panic came to swamp her, she didn't doubt that Grant Harrington would find her.

  She had felt exhausted earlier, was tired still, she admitted. But, when sleep would have been a welcome relief from her tortured thoughts, as she turned out the bedside lamp and the room went dark, her alarm was too great for sleep to be anywhere near.

  Her nerves jumpy in the darkness for any sound, having already had several false alarms, Devon had her work cut out to stay exactly where she was when this time the muffled sounds she heard, were followed by a firm tread outside the door. Then the door of the room she was in opened!

  Oh God, she prayed as she heard Grant quietly close

  the door after him, please don't let me back away. He did not put on the light, but she sensed from his quiet deliberate movements that he was still furious with her— no need for her to see his face to know that.

  Praying as hard as she could that instinct would not make her fight him when he came near, knowing he would see that as him being cheated a second time, when he would either rape her, or leave her to order her father's recall, when as morning came he would start legal proceeding, Devon began to wilt under the weight of her thoughts.

  Then she was having to fight with all she had against the instinct that would have her shooting out of bed, for a movement on the covers at the other side told her that she was about to have company.

  She had already started to tremble, and he had not touched her yet. But by the time she felt him with her beneath those covers, she was shaking so badly, he just had to feel it.

  He knew she was awake, could not help knowing, she thought, wishing she could still the dreadful shaking that had taken her. But he was wasting no time, when wordlessly he did nothing to help by stretching out one long, muscled, naked arm and drawing her to him.

  `Adding actress to your other attributes, Devon?' he asked as he pulled her trembling form yet closer. And when she couldn't answer him, curtly he told her, 'Stow it—you're going to be mine, with, or without the melodrama!'

  And as a follow-up to that, he raised himself till his naked chest was over hers. And while she was panicking— Oh, dear God, she had never seen a man naked in her life—she was now in bed with a man who, by the feel of his bare legs touching hers, had not a stitch on, he was brutally assaulting her lips with his.

  `Don't!' she objected, twisting her face from his. And she felt him tense, as he gritted in sudden fury:

  `Don't?'

  Devon knew then that this was her last chance. One wrong word or movement from her and whichever was the greater of the two evils, and she owned she wasn't thinking very coherently just then, would befall either her or her father.

  Thoughts of her father had her quickly, if stammeringly, telling him, 'I m-meant—don't—be—rough with me.'

  His harsh laugh told her he considered she was still play-acting. 'That'll be up to you,' he grunted. Then his lips were again over hers.

  Unresponsive, willing herself not to pull away, Devon lay still while he kissed her again, his mouth trailing to her throat. She tensed when she felt his hands come to caress her shoulders. And she was swallowing great gulps of air when just before his mouth returned to hers, she felt his hands, warm on her waist, begin a caressing movement upwards.

  So far her hands had not touched him, but when she felt them at her breasts, so the need swamped her to hang on to something. And she was panicking as never before when his hands caressed and seemed to be quite happy to linger over the peaks that ended her swollen roundness.

  For a moment as again he claimed her mouth her hands shot up to clutch at him. But when an awareness came that she was touching the naked skin of his back, so her hands fell away.

  A fresh shaking possessed her when as his lips did a sortie to her chest, he must have felt frustration that the neck of her nightdress prevented him from more intimate access to her bosom. For before she could know what he was about, he had found the hem of her nightdress, and

  with experienced movements, he had pulled it over her head with the dry comment of, 'You won't be needing this,' and she discovered that she was naked.

  It was instinct alone that was her mentor then, as without being aware that she had moved, she had edged away from him as if trying to escape. But Grant had quickly hauled her back, the time gone when he had left the choice to go or to stay with her.

  She felt his hair-roughened chest over her, and quite simply, she froze. Something, inside her was trying to get through to tell her that it would be far better for her if she could reciprocate. But she was too numbed for any such intelligence to get through.

  Grant's kisses were becoming of a more passionate nature, his hands on her frightening her to death as they touched her flat belly before going to her waist. And then both his hands and his lips were caressing her naked breasts, fiercely, as though he was being goaded by her lack of response.

  Then suddenly he was pulling away, his voice angry as he growled, 'Respond, damn you! I want to make love to a woman, not a piece of wood!'

  m—
sorry,' she said chokily, tears near to the surface. And fear was there still, as she told him, 'I am—trying.'

  Whether he thought she was still acting, she had no way of knowing. But suddenly, the next time he kissed her, his kiss was different. There was none of the experience he had in that gentle kiss as, his hands nowhere near her now, he tenderly pressed on her mouth a giving kiss that sought nothing. And, as gently his mouth lay over hers, all at once Devon knew confusion.

  When he kissed her again in much the same way, though his kiss was longer this time, there seemed something in it that magically had her trembling vanishing. And when, for a third time, gently he kissed her, so she

  discovered that one of her hands had strayed up to the side of his face in a kind of supplication.

  His mouth was still over hers when with unhurried movements, very tenderly his hands moved to caress her midriff.

  `Your skin is like satin,' he murmured softly, the aggression she had feared far from him now.

  And strangely, she found herself glad that he thought her skin like satin, as his whispered caresses became more intimate and her breasts were gently moulded until the tips turned hard in his hands.

  Again his hands caressed over her, as again his lips met hers. And when a different sort of trembling began to make itself felt in her, Devon was in a quagmire of confusion—for that trembling had not come from fear.

  Though she was to know fear again, when with another softly breathed comment about the satinness of her skin, Grant turned her until she was on her side. And she was once more beset by nerves to feel her body moved as he pulled her closer, so that for the first time in her life she was lying skin to naked skin against a warm, vibrant male.

  Her reaction was swift, scared, and immediate. `Oh!' she cried, as rapidly she backed from him.

  She heard his raw breath, and as hard hands gripped at her, she knew she had messed it up. Had she continued to respond in the way she had been, she suddenly realised that if that was what she wanted, then Grant would have taken her gently.

  But his male aggression was soaring, because it looked as though she had responded so far but only to lead him on, and that she was playing some teasing game—and it was then his patience disappeared.

  Aggression riding him, he was no longer paying heed to gentleness, tenderness, or any other consideration he had

  shown her. And it was with a rough movement that he yanked her back against him.

  'Her hip was not up to being jerked so suddenly, and a small cry of pain left her as it let her know about it. And it was a moan of pain Grant heard, as with his hand still on her hip, and sounding as though he wasn't going to believe her if this was some ruse, he asked in the darkness:

  `What was that about?'

  `I—did—did ask you—not to be rough with me,' she choked, as his hand began a not so absent backward and forward movement over her hip where, had he not been so incensed, he would have felt that the skin was far from satiny.

  Devon felt his face close to hers once more. And she knew she would soon be on the receiving end of one of his earlier, experienced kisses.

  But then, all at once, his head was pulling back. And it was just as if the word she had used, that word 'rough' had just got through to him. For suddenly he had stilled, his only movement the fingers of his left hand as they found the line of her recent scar. Devon felt him tense, and then with agonising slowness, as if he couldn't believe what he was feeling, deliberately, he-traced from top to bottom the long, long outline of her scar.

  He stilled again when he had finished, then, 'What in hell . . .' she heard him mutter.

  Then in the next second he had jerked to suddenly sit upright, and light was flooding the bed area as he flicked on the bedside lamp. And regardless, as he threw the covers from her naked form, that she was going all shades of pink, ending with a livid scarlet, Grant stared hard and long at the three scars that came over her right hip and ended some way down her thigh.

  `Good God almighty!' she heard him breathe, as still he stared as though not believing his eyes.

  But it was not many seconds before he was getting to grips with his shock. And his voice had gone hard, his jaw jutting grimly, as tersely he instructed:

  `Sit up—and start talking!'

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SENSING that the shock he had received had banished his desire for the moment, Devon struggled to sit up as Grant had ordered.

  She saw his steady look go from her scars and over skin which was more satiny. But she was relieved that he had no objection to make when she took hold of the bedclothes and covered part of him and the front of her. That he was unashamed of his nudity helped her to come to terms with seeing his broad uncovered chest not a yard away.

  `One of those scars is recent,' he said sharply, when she took too long to start talking.

  `I—told you all about it,' she reminded him.

  `How recent?' he persisted. And she saw, while there was nothing the matter with his memory, she was convinced of that, that he wanted it all, chapter and verse again.

  `I had a—tricky hip,' she said flatly. ' was operated on in Sweden two months ago.'

  She dared a look at him and was pierced, hypnotised by dark frowning eyes. That stunned look had left him, she saw, and she just knew, when he continued to frown as he kept his eyes on her, that he was backtracking over everything she had ever told him.

  `I was telling you the truth,' she said in a sudden rush, feeling hot when his eyes went from her face to her shoulder that peeped out from the covers.

  She thought she read desire spurting to his eyes. And she had the knowledge then that he still wanted her, the

  knowledge that, for whatever reason her father had taken that money, Grant Harrington still wanted his retribution.

  Her throat went dry and she looked away from him as his hand came out, instinct making her grab at the sheet when it fell away. She recaptured the sheet, but his hand came over her and stayed her movement, his hand still over hers as it rested on her breast.

  Feeling shaky, her heart going like a trip hammer, Devon reached the end of her tether at last. Her father was in danger still, she wanted it all over and done with.

  `I'm willing to—co-operate,' she said huskily, bravely raising her eyes to his. Her colour was warm as his hand burned over hers, the flame in his eyes scorching her as she rushed on in nervous speech. `I'm sorry about—about just now. I—I didn't meant to back away—only—only—well . . . And I wouldn't have cried out, only . .

  She took a deep breath; trying for control, knowing she was gabbling on and that it wasn't words he wanted from her, but action.

  `K-kiss me, Grant,' she said and nearly died with

  embarrassment at the brazenness of her request, when for a moment it looked, as his head came nearer, as though he would do exactly that. But he did not kiss her, choosing instead to pull abruptly back, his eyes still showing the heat of his desire for her, as his other hand came up to crush her shoulder as he growled:

  `Why did you cry out?'

  She saw no point in prevarication—they had come too far for that. 'I felt a bit of a niggle in my hip when you . .

  `When I got tough and didn't care much for you backing off?' he questioned, his eyes narrowing.

  `It was only a niggle,' she repeated, and, nervous still, `I—haven't rested much t-today.'

  Sharply he looked at her, his jaw jutting as he remembered, and sounding accusing, he said, 'You were limping earlier. Were you in pain then?'

  `It was only from sudden movement,' she replied. `I'm . .

  `You once told me your doctor had told you not to overstrain—what? Your hip?'

  Having gone through numerous emotions that night, Devon was suddenly starting to grow fed up that, now she had conditioned herself to accept what she could not escape, Grant Harrington was going to dissect every word she had ever said to him.

  `What does it matter?' she asked.

  And she knew then, as he looked at
her as though he did not care for her tone, that he thought she was right, that they were wasting time, and that nothing mattered but that his desire for her body should be eased.

  `So--co-operate,' he said harshly. Then he hauled her up against him, moving her before she was ready. Devon did not cry out this time when her hip protested, but the way she suddenly clutched on to him said it all.

  Grant Harrington looked as fed up as she had previously felt, when with a frustrated grunt he threw her away from him, and with a muttered but clear pronouncement of, 'This is bloody ridiculous!' that revealed all his frustration, careless that she had full view of his long lean-limbed nakedness as he turned his back on her, he got up from the bed.

  She looked away, but saw when he strode angrily to the door that he had shrugged into a robe. Though she had to know, if the way the door slammed after him was anything to go by, that either he was violently angry with himself for having deprived himself when she had offered herself to him on a plate, or he was furious with her that by revealing

  her pain, she had stirred a sensitivity in him he did not want to feel.

  For an age after he had gone, Devon lay there wondering if he would have second thoughts and come back. She wasn't at all sure how she felt about that. For having got round to thinking about how she had felt inside when he had gently begun to make love to her, she wasn't sure she was not just a little disgusted with herself. For how could it be that a man she had such loathing for should be capable of making her feel sensuous pleasure?

  As more minutes ticked by and she was uninterrupted in the big bed, so she began to relax. Exhaustion crept in, weariness taking over. She was on the point of discounting that Grant Harrington had any sensitivity at all, when she fell asleep.

  It was broad daylight when she awakened, and for a moment she did not know where she was. Then as she sat up and looked around and saw that she still had the big bed all to herself, so everything that had taken place rushed in.

  My God! she thought, uppermost in her mind the memory that she had actually felt the first stirrings of desire in her, when that hateful man had put himself out to gently woo her.