A Night of No Return Read online

  This photograph hadn’t been buried by accident, she thought numbly. It hadn’t tumbled there or been stowed away in a moment of de-cluttering. It had been hidden there intentionally by someone who couldn’t bear to look at it, but equally couldn’t bear to part with it. For some reason she didn’t yet understand, that image represented pain.

  ‘Emma?’ Lucas’s voice came from outside the bedroom and she jumped guiltily. Whether or not she would have replaced the photograph she didn’t have a chance to find out because one minute she was alone with his secrets and the next he was standing in the doorway, witnessing her trespass into a private part of his life that he’d clearly labelled ‘no admittance’.

  His eyes flickered to the frame in her hands and the change in him was instantaneous. The colour literally drained from his face, the sudden pallor emphasising the dark shadows that lurked in his eyes. And she knew immediately that what she held in her hands held the clue to the source of those shadows. Across that narrow distance she felt his agony and she wanted to offer comfort but how could she when she didn’t even know what she was offering comfort for? And how could she discuss something this personal with someone who didn’t encourage personal? The nature of their relationship would be for ever shifted.

  But it already was, she thought. Even if she said nothing, she knew now that Lucas did have a personal life. That he was so much more than the man she’d thought she knew.

  And this was worse, far worse, than seeing him naked, she realised. This was more intimate. More intrusive. And he obviously thought so too because there was no sign now of the indifference with which he’d treated her unexpected appearance in his bedroom. No trace of amusement in those cold blue eyes. His unsmiling gaze travelled from the towel tied around her head to the towel wrapped around her body and Emma lifted her hand instinctively to the knot, even though she knew it was tied firm.

  ‘I … I was just looking for something to wear. I didn’t mean to pry.’ Feeling the heat pour into her cheeks, she slid the photograph back where she’d found it. But it was too late, of course. The damage was done and it couldn’t be undone. ‘I’m sorry.’ The words left her in a stumbled rush. ‘I didn’t know it was there. You told me to help myself to clothes and that was what I did, and … maybe I shouldn’t have looked at it, but I didn’t know it was significant until I looked and—’ She broke off, waiting for him to speak, but he said nothing.

  He was as cold and inhospitable as the snow and ice clinging to the trees outside, his emotions as frozen as the moat.

  And Emma had no idea what she was supposed to do now. What to say. So in the end she just said the obvious thing. ‘You have a daughter.’ Her voice was barely audible. ‘And she looks exactly like you.’ And the moment she said it, she knew that the obvious thing had been the wrong thing.

  The silence stretched for so long she was about to mumble an apology when he finally spoke.

  ‘I had a daughter.’ This time his tone wasn’t harsh or angry. In fact it was oddly flat, as if all the emotion had drained out of him. ‘She died, four years ago tonight, and it was my fault. She died because of me.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SHE’D found the photograph. The photograph he couldn’t bear to look at.

  Lucas stood by the window of the tower with his back to the room. His chest ached. He felt raw, as if his flesh had been ripped from his bones, every last layer of protection stripped from him.

  He had no idea how to ease the pain.

  He was a man who prided himself on his control and yet right now it was nowhere within his grasp. His hand curled into a fist and he pressed it against the wall and closed his eyes, trying to pull together the torn edges of his self-control.

  From the dressing room he could hear a soft rustle as she dressed. He guessed she’d managed to find clothes but she was taking her time and it was all too easy to understand why. The expression on her face stayed with him, the impact of his raw confession a million times more shocking than the moment she’d seen him naked.

  And in a way she had.

  She’d seen a part of him he’d never shown to anyone else. A part of him he guarded fiercely. He had no issues with her having seen him without his clothes on. He had plenty with the fact she’d seen that photograph.

  And he was willing to bet she was as appalled as he was.

  It was ironic, he thought, that it had taken this to finally give him what he’d been hoping for. Solitude. Because he had no doubt that now she’d leave him alone. Given the choice of waiting out the weather in the warm bedroom downstairs or with him in his own private version of hell, he had no doubt which option she’d pick.

  He was so sure that would be her choice that it was a shock to hear her soft tread on the wooden floor.

  ‘So is this what you do every year?’ Her soft voice brushed over his nerve endings. ‘Shut yourself away and drink? Does that help you get through the night?’

  Because he wanted her to leave, he didn’t turn. ‘Nothing helps.’

  ‘No. I can imagine that it wouldn’t.’ He felt her sympathy and her compassion and rejected both because he knew he deserved neither.

  ‘I appreciate your dedication in bringing the file here tonight, but your job is done, Emma.’ He knew he sounded brutal but he didn’t even care. ‘Your responsibility doesn’t extend to any other part of my life. The bedroom downstairs is warm and comfortable. I’ve left a tray of food there. Eat and then get some rest.’

  ‘What about you? What will you do?’

  What he always did. Put one foot in front of the other and keep on living even though others didn’t. ‘I’ll be fine. Eat the food while it’s hot.’

  There was a brief pause. ‘Instead of getting through it on your own, you could try another way.’

  He didn’t hear her move but suddenly her hand was on his shoulder. He stiffened his muscles against that gentle touch, surprised that she couldn’t sense the violence in him. Or maybe she did and chose to ignore it. He knew she was no coward. If she were, she would have driven off the first time instead of coming back to check on him. ‘You need to leave, Emma. Now.’

  ‘If it’s about finding ways to get through a hideous, horrible night then there has to be a better way than drinking. Or at least a way that won’t have you waking up feeling even worse in the morning.’

  ‘What better way?’ He turned, slowly, the effort of fighting suddenly too much. His eyes found hers. She was wearing one of his white shirts and it fell to mid-thigh exposing a long, tempting length of leg. Part of him was clearly still functioning normally because he found himself wondering how he could possibly have missed the fact that Emma had fabulous legs and then realised that her office dress was always businesslike, never provocative. Intentional, perhaps, if this was what she was hiding under grey wool.

  The inappropriateness of his thoughts almost made him laugh.

  Was this really the only feeling of which he was capable? Surely it should be gratitude, or some other equally bland and harmless emotion. What he was feeling definitely wasn’t harmless. It was raw, dangerous and powerful and it threatened to burn up anything or anyone standing in his path.

  And she sensed it.

  He saw the exact moment she read his mood. The expression in her brown eyes shifted from warmth to something different. Her certainty seemed to falter and her hand fell from his shoulder.

  A cynical smile touched his mouth. ‘Exactly.’ He softened his voice in an attempt to snap the tension that was brewing in the air. ‘You need to be more specific when suggesting alternatives or your generosity might be misconstrued. Especially when you’re wearing nothing more than one of my shirts.’

  ‘You date women who wear nothing but designer couture. You expect me to believe that seeing your PA in one of your own shirts is going to send your libido into the danger zone? I don’t think so.’ Her tone was light but it was the sort of lightness that took effort to produce and her cheeks were streaked with pink. ‘You’re not that desperate
.’

  ‘Maybe I am.’ His voice thickened by emotion that had been simmering all day, Lucas slid his hand round the back of her head and forced her to look at him. ‘Maybe I’m so desperate I don’t care what I do tonight. Or who I do it with. And maybe that makes this the worst place you could be right now, Emma.’ He could feel her pulse galloping under his fingers. Sensed that she was afraid to breathe in case she upset the delicate balance that existed between them. She was afraid she was going to tip him over the edge and he found himself incapable of reassuring her. He’d always thought of her as sturdy and robust but the thin silk of his shirt revealed slender, flowing lines and everything fragile.

  And he wasn’t to be trusted with fragile, was he?

  He’d already proved that.

  The thought was like a shower of cold water.

  His hand dropped.

  Disgust was a bitter taste in his mouth. Was he really so desperate that he’d risk hurting one of the few genuine people in his life? ‘You should leave. Now. Go downstairs and lock your door.’ He wondered why she couldn’t sense the urgency. Or was it just that she had no sense of danger?

  Either way, she didn’t move. ‘There’s no way I’m leaving you like this.’

  ‘You should have left hours ago when I told you to and then we wouldn’t have found ourselves in this position.’

  ‘I’m glad I didn’t. You shouldn’t be on your own tonight.’

  ‘Because you’re worried about your job?’

  ‘No. Because I’m worried about you.’

  ‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ The violence in him was so close to the surface that he could taste it. He stepped towards her, her subtle perfume sliding over his senses and disturbing the balance of his control. ‘I should be on my own. It’s the only way that works.’ He expected her to step back but she didn’t even flinch.

  ‘It doesn’t look as if it’s working to me. Perhaps it’s time you considered a different way. Perhaps, instead of alcohol and oblivion, you might try friendship and comfort.’

  ‘Friendship?’ The word chafed against his raw feelings. ‘You think right now I have friendship on my mind?’

  ‘No. I don’t think that. I’m not stupid. But I think you are hurting so badly all you want to do is make it stop. You want a rest from the pain. And I made that pain worse by finding that photograph,’ she said quietly, ‘and I’m sorry for that.’

  ‘You have no reason to be sorry. Now go.’

  ‘No. We can find another way to do this.’

  He shouldn’t have been surprised by her stubbornness because she showed the same indomitable spirit at work. ‘There is no “we” in this, Emma. And as for friendship—’ it seemed imperative to smash her illusions about that ‘—I don’t have friends. I have people who want something from me and people who work for me.’ His harsh analysis didn’t seem to surprise her. Maybe she wasn’t as naïve as he thought she was.

  ‘You only think like that because of the company you keep. But you shouldn’t judge everyone based on the actions of Tara Flynn. She shouldn’t have left you alone tonight. That was wrong of her.’

  At another time he would have been amused that she thought Tara capable of the sort of care she was describing. ‘Perhaps she was sensible. Perhaps she realised that it wasn’t safe to stay’

  The heat of the fire had dried her hair curly and it tumbled in thick, dark waves over the snowy white of his shirt, which was proving woefully inadequate as a cover-up. The flickering light from the fire shone through the thin fabric, clearly outlining the dips and curves of her body and suddenly it was becoming harder and harder to do the right thing and send her away.

  ‘It’s true that I work for you. But it’s wrong to dismiss that relationship as a purely economic arrangement. I’ve worked closely with you for two years. I care.’ She bit her lip. ‘I was with you this time last year when you emptied a bottle of whisky and slept in your office, although I doubt you remember.’

  It came back to him instantly. The blanket. She was the one responsible for the blanket. It was a question that had bugged him on and off over the past twelve months and now he had the answer.

  Emma.

  She hesitated and then held out her hand. ‘Stop drinking, Lucas. You’ve tried that and it hasn’t worked. We’re going to find another way to get through tonight. And before you make another caustic comment involving all sorts of physical alternatives, I should point out that there are a million other options that aren’t going to make it embarrassing to bump into each other in the morning.’

  ‘What options?’ His mind had been so full of those physical alternatives that it took him a minute to focus on what she’d said.

  She pursed her lips thoughtfully. ‘We could play chess?’

  ‘Chess?’ Did she even realise that he could see through the shirt? No, presumably not or she wouldn’t have been standing there so confidently.

  ‘I’m a brilliant chess player.’ Her fingers closed over his, soft and warm, her grip surprisingly firm.

  Instead of removing his hand from hers as he should have done, Lucas found himself staring at her mouth. ‘You don’t want to challenge me to chess. It would end in tears.’

  ‘Your tears, I presume.’ A half smile tilted that mouth at the corners. ‘There’s no need to make excuses. If you’re too scared to play, I understand. There’s always Scrabble. But I should warn you that I know all the words in the Chambers dictionary containing Z and X and I’m a ruthless player. I will not hesitate to use a Q on a triple word score.’

  Ruthless? He looked down at her sweet face and almost laughed. She wouldn’t know ruthless if she passed it in the street. ‘These are your best suggestions for distraction? Chess and Scrabble?’

  ‘Unless you’re up for an all-nighter, in which case I’m a whizz at Monopoly.’

  ‘You think it’s wise to play Monopoly with an architect?’

  ‘Why not? If you’re trying to scare me you won’t succeed. If you were a building contractor, perhaps I’d be nervous of your capacity to build large hotels on your property, but an architect like yourself who is capable of nothing more impressive than pretty drawings—’ she shrugged ‘—no challenge. So—which is it to be? Chess, Scrabble or Monopoly? Do you want to play?’

  Yes, he wanted to play.

  But none of the games she was suggesting. The game he wanted to play was far, far more dangerous. He wanted to play with fire. He wanted to kiss that mouth, strip off that shirt that barely covered her and seek oblivion in the most basic way known to man. And he wanted to do it again and again until his mind was wiped of everything except her. Until he forgot. Until the pain was drowned out by other sensations.

  Why not? Nothing else had worked. Nothing else had helped.

  And then he remembered that this was Emma.

  And that she was absolutely and completely off-limits.

  He forced himself to extract his hand from hers. ‘I’ve never met anyone who could beat me at chess,’ he said coldly, ‘and I can’t think of anything worse than property development with toy money. I put a bowl of soup in your room. If it isn’t enough then help yourself to anything you find in the kitchen.’ He turned his back to her and waited to hear the outraged tap tap of her footsteps retreating towards the stairs as she responded to his rude rejection.

  Instead he felt her arms come round his waist. ‘I don’t know what happened,’ she said hesitantly, ‘but I know it couldn’t have been your fault. I know that. She didn’t die because of you.’

  Something inside him snapped. ‘You don’t know anything.’ His voice savage, he turned so violently that her hands dropped. ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about and you have to leave this alone. You have to leave me alone.’ Somehow his head was close to hers, his stance so threatening that she should have instantly backed off but she didn’t move.

  ‘I won’t leave you alone.’

  ‘No? Then maybe this will change your mind. There is only one other form of distr
action I’m willing to try. Are you willing to play that game, Emma?’ Somehow his hands had buried themselves in her hair, the softness of it engulfing his fingers and flowing over his wrists. Without pause or hesitation he took her mouth, his kiss rough and demanding, hard against soft, bitter against sweet. He was driven not just by lust, but by desperation. By some deep, primitive need to try and drive out the agony that possessed him. He was drawn to her warmth, as if being close to her might somehow melt the thick layer of ice inside him. As if something in her might be able to heal that damaged part of him even though everything else had failed. He took greedily, selfishly, ruled by his feelings, by the pain, by the need to seek oblivion wherever it was offered. He could feel her shivering against him and he had no idea if she was cold or whether some other more complicated emotion was responsible for the tremors. His thinking wasn’t clear enough to make sense of it. All he knew was that he wanted this and he wanted it right now and, unless she stopped him, he wasn’t stopping.

  His mouth still on hers, one hand still in her hair, he used his free hand to untie his robe. Still kissing her, he shrugged it off and when her arms came round his neck he scooped her off her feet and lowered her to the rug in front of the fire. Part of him, a small distant part that had virtually no voice in the madness that engulfed him, told him to slow down, to take his time, to think of her—but there was only him and the madness inside him. He didn’t want to think of her. He didn’t want to think of anything.

  He wasn’t interested in a slow seduction.

  With hands that shook, he ripped the shirt from neck to hem, exposing her completely. Somewhere in the depths of the madness that streaked through him he heard her gasp but he blocked that out as he parted her thighs.

  ‘Lucas—’ She whispered his name and he lifted his head, his vision hazy as he tried to focus on her.

  The warmth of the fire had given her cheeks a rosy glow, or perhaps she was embarrassed by the intimacy with which he touched her. Either way, her body offered up a sinuous, sensual invitation, an erotic escape from his own painful brand of reality. But even in forgetting, there was one thing he remembered, and that was to grope in his robe for the contraception that had never once been out of his reach for the past five years.