Passionate Awakening Read online

  Passionate Awakening

  By

  Diana Hamilton

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  Infuriatingly, Luke chuckled. 'Cut the haughty act, Annie.' And he moved closer, crowding her. 'You are a beautiful woman, but you lack that vibrancy, the glow that marks a woman in love.' His next words, softly spoken but impregnated with deadly meaning, shocked her into total immobility. 'You're far more sexually aware of me than you are of him. And don't deny it,' he warned silkily, 'or I might be tempted to prove it.'

  Then he smiled, very slowly, very sure of himself. 'There's a pretty potent brand of chemistry between us— immediate and undeniable. And you know it. I saw the recognition in your eyes the first time we met. You panicked then and you're panicking now.'

  Another book you will enjoy

  by

  DIANA HAMILTON

  BETRAYAL OF LOVE

  At eighteen Fliss had been totally unable to cope with her experienced, worldly-wise new husband, and so she had been manipulated on all sides. But it was four years later now, and although Leon Draker might have the upper hand, Fliss certainly wasn't going to let him get the better of her for long…

  First published in Great Britain 1990

  by Mills & Boon Limited

  © Diana Hamilton 1990

  Australian copyright 1990

  Philippine copyright 1990

  This edition 1990

  ISBN 0 263 76711 6

  CHAPTER ONE

  She had never seen him before in her life and she didn't think she wanted to see him again.

  He looked dangerous, Annie Ross thought sharply, instinctively stepping aside to avoid a collision as the dark-haired stranger closed the ancient, silvery oak door in the garden wall.

  As she stood there, her feet planted wide on the broad pavement, staring at him with an unwilling gaze, she decided hazily that her velvety brown eyes must have registered something of her wild inner apprehension, because the slow, sexually assessing smile that had warmed the stranger's startling blue eyes and quirked the austere lines of his mouth gave way to a kind of laid-back query. And then he turned with a slight inclination of his head, his long, easy stride taking him to the gun-metal Ferrari parked in the quiet, tree-lined street.

  Only when the roar of the exhaust shattered the warm afternoon silence did Annie release her pent-up breath. For some reason she was shaking.

  But, stiffening her spine, she mentally dismissed the man she had almost collided with, dismissed his immediate and uncomfortable effect on her. Dangerous, indeed! she nagged at herself. She was being fanciful, and that wasn't like her. She pushed the door open, the sun-bleached wood warm and grainy beneath her fingers, and then rooted briskly in her soft leather shoulder-bag for the house key, her generous mouth twisting wryly. The key was on permanent loan from Chris Howard, Seabourne's only estate agent, and he had told Norman, 'You might as well give in gracefully, old chap. Annie's obviously set her heart on Monk's Hall, so you might as well start packing now.' And the three of them had laughed, knowing Chris was joking because Norman was set in his ways; he didn't like change.

  But Annie hoped to alter all that. Surely she could be allowed some say in the matter of where she and Norman lived after their marriage? Her mouth, above a small rounded chin, took on the determined line that reflected her character, her eyes lifting to sweep over the elegantly proportioned Queen Anne house.

  As always, when she closed the garden door behind her, there came the familiar feeling that she was coming home, entering a world within a world, an enclosed and secret place found only when one passed through the silvery oak door in the high garden wall. All around her the garden was wild and lush, hints of early autumn colour showing in leaves just turning gold and bronze.

  'That you, Annie?' The male voice startled her, intruding as it did in this enchanted place, and she paused on the mossy path, pushing her tanned fingers through her stylishly layered, rich, Titian hair, a half-smile beginning to soften her coral-tinted mouth as she saw Chris Howard pocket his keys and advance slowly down the path towards her.

  Chris was one of Norman's closest friends and had been the first to know of their engagement two months ago, and now he grinned. 'I might have known you couldn't keep away from the place!'

  Annie thought that his grin looked strained today and she said, almost accusingly, 'You've been showing someone around,' which was childish of her because, after all, it was part of his job.

  'That's right.' His light blue eyes avoided hers. 'The auction's only a week away—interest is bound to escalate sharply.'

  From time to time she had encountered others who had been viewing the property. Some had been merely curious, others interested but apprehensive about the price the house could command at auction. The stranger she had seen coming through the garden gate would not be a time-waster, nor would a little thing like the possibly high price of a desirable property worry him. If she hadn't known that instinctively, then the car he drove, the clothes he wore, the easy aura of supreme self-confidence that clung to him like a second skin would have told her that much. He would be a man who knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it. And the wretch had taken up residence inside her head, spoiling her day.

  She was about to ask 'Who is he?' then decided she didn't want to know and remarked instead, 'I'm going to have to twist Norman's arm over this.'

  She was only half joking because, when they'd decided to marry, Norman had said, 'We'll live here. There's no point in moving when we have a ready-made home.' He and his first wife had moved into The Laurels on their marriage, and after her untimely death Norman had stayed on, employing a housekeeper, Joan, who was with him still.

  'What is it about this place, for you?' Chris asked earnestly, sitting down on one of the stone benches that flanked the main door. 'You've been haunting the place ever since old Miss Jennings moved out and put it in my hands.'

  'I know,' Annie agreed, a reluctant smile pulling at her mouth as she sank resignedly on to the sun-warmed stone beside him. She didn't like people digging into her motives—not even those as well known and well liked as Chris. But putting her feelings for Monk's Hall into words might make it easier for her to understand them herself.

  'Just instinct, I suppose,' she began with a wry shrug of slender shoulders. She elaborated slowly, 'In the whole of my life I've never had a proper, settled home. Mother and I were always moving around.' Idly, she traced a pattern on the mossy path with the toe of one leather walking shoe, her deep brown eyes reflective. 'When I was a little girl I used to dream about having a real home, a beautiful house with my own room, a place where I could keep all my treasured possessions—the sort of things that give a child security and identity, the sort of things I was never allowed to keep for long because we were always moving on.'

  'Were you an insecure, lonely child?' Chris questioned softly, and Annie gave a quick bright smile.

  'Not at all. I was using general terms.' She had never lacked for material things. Her childhood had been one many an outsider would have envied. And there had always been plenty of people around.

  'And Monk's Hall became an embodiment of those childhood dreams?'

  'I suppose it must have done.' Annie's eyes were sparkling now. 'Three years ago, when I first set eyes on the house, I fell in love with it. It was shortly after I'd come here to work for Norman. I knew it was the type of house I'd always wanted. I knew I could live happily here for the rest of my life.
'

  'But not at The Laurels,' Chris stated, and Annie shrugged, not knowing, her eyes fixed on her hands as they lay curled together in her lap. The glint of the diamond Norman had given her made her feel like a traitor.

  At thirty-nine Norman Welling was an historian of some repute, and when she had gone to work for him as his research assistant and secretary she had moved into The Laurels with him and his housekeeper. She had been invited to do so and it had seemed the sensible thing to do. And Annie was nothing if not sensible.

  But she had disliked the unimaginative bungalow on sight, whereas the old Queen Anne house, overlooking the coast, had stolen her heart. And lately, each time she had come to wander through the achingly beautiful empty house, she had felt as if she were coming home.

  But Chris said warningly, 'I wouldn't set my heart on it, if I were you. For one thing, it would take a bomb to get Norman to agree to move out of The Laurels, and for another—' he spread his hands '—there could be other bidders, just as keen as you.'

  Meaning, Annie supposed acidly, the self-confident bastard she'd seen at the garden door.

  'We'll see.' She gathered herself together, standing up in an unconsciously graceful, fluid movement. And, as Chris took his leave and she watched him walk away, she vowed to make one final, concerted effort to get Norman to agree to make the move.

  With that unexpected legacy from a father she couldn't remember she could make an untoppable bid for Monk's Hall. She would willingly pay well over the odds. All Norman had to do was agree to leave The Laurels. It was as simple—and as dif—as that.

  Not that she would make a serious issue of it, though, she decided sensibly. Monk's Hall was the first thing they had ever even mildly disagreed about, and surely a house wasn't worth quarrelling over? On the other hand, she'd never made demands in all the time she'd known him, and Monk's Hall wasn't a shell of bricks and mortar. It could be the home she'd always longed for.

  Quickly, she pushed aside that unbidden, half-angry thought and moved towards the main door. But the anticipation of again wandering through the house, planning how she would like to see it decorated, furnished, failed, for the first time ever, to give her the usual uplift of intense excitement. The dark stranger and his unwanted interest in the house still occupied her mind, haunting it almost. The indefinable and quite probably fanciful aura of danger she had detected around him had imprinted itself on her mind. Just thinking of him made her skin sprout goosebumps! It was a stupid reaction, she told herself. But very real…

  She was hot and out of sorts by the time she'd walked the two miles to the opposite side of town, to the quiet, modern suburb where she lived and worked with Norman. Her beige designer jeans and oyster cotton shirt were sticking to her and that made her feel uncomfortable.

  Seabourne was an old fishing town, the small stone houses clinging like limpets to the sides of a shallow ravine, the narrow streets winding, steep in places.

  The first time she'd seen Norman's home had been when she'd come for the job interview. She hadn't liked the large, functional bungalow then, and she didn't like it now. It was too neat, too lacking in character; it said nothing to her. And as far as Norman was concerned, he didn't seem to mind where he lived so long as he was comfortable, she thought, her straight, elegant nose wrinkling affectionately. Atmosphere didn't matter to him, but he disliked change. But if she could make him understand how she longed to own Monk's Hall, how easily she could make it a comfortable home, a home to be proud of, then surely he would agree to the move—for her sake?

  Turning from the wide pavement to pass between The Laurels' gateposts, the hot autumn wind buffeting her, making her hair fly about her face, she stepped on to the short gravel drive and stopped dead in her tracks.

  The gun-metal Ferrari parked directly in front of Norman's front door was unmistakable. Her stomach churned and, for a moment, she forgot to breathe. She couldn't imagine what that lean, dark stranger was doing here. The thought of him on her home territory made her hackles rise.

  Hurrying now, which perhaps accounted for her breathlessness, she skirted the building and let herself in by the kitchen door. Joan was slicing bread, her smooth round face red and flustered, and the kettle was boiling its head off.

  Annie unplugged it and tried to read Joan's mood. She had been Norman's housekeeper since his wife had died. In her late thirties, she could have been attractive if she had bothered about what she wore, how she did her hair. And until Norman had put the diamond ring on Annie's engagement finger she and Joan had rubbed along well. But recently Joan's moods had been unpredictable, to say the least, and Annie said lightly, 'There's a Ferrari parked outside. Visitors?' not voicing her real thoughts, which were, What the hell is that man doing here? Who is he? What's his game?

  Joan would never have understood if she'd told her that something about the stranger's body chemistry had sparked off a bristling gut reaction deep inside her. No one would have understood it. She didn't even understand it herself.

  'Some sort of distant cousin, I'm told.' Joan slapped butter on bread. 'Requiring tea and sandwiches.'

  'Can I help?'

  Annie didn't know if the extra chore was the cause of the housekeeper's ill humour or not. She was difficult to read these days, and Annie didn't know whether or not she was relieved when Joan said drily, 'No. Norman's been fussing because you're late. I suppose he wants to introduce you to this Luke Derringer. He'll be the first of the family to meet the prospective Mrs Welling.'

  It was acidly said, but Annie had too much pride to let herself react. Her back straight, she walked out of the kitchen door and closed it gently behind her. Joan had been acting out of character ever since the engagement had been announced. Joan probably thought Annie wasn't good enough for their distinguished joint employer.

  Mentally shelving the problem, Annie walked the length of the L-shaped corridor to the neat oblong bedroom that had been hers since she had come to work for Norman.

  Reluctant to meet Luke Derringer face to face for the second time that day, she didn't hurry over making herself look more presentable. Norman hadn't many relatives, just a few distant cousins, and a spiteful fate had decreed that the Derringer man was one of them! She tucked a rust-coloured tailored silk shirt into the waistband of a classically styled, cream worsted skirt and wondered why the mere thought of him set her teeth on edge.

  It could have nothing to do with the man personally, she informed herself with grim logic. It must be because she had instantly and instinctively recognised him as an achiever, a man who coolly and deliberately set out to get what he wanted. And if he wanted Monk's Hall he would do his damnedest to get it. Chris had as good as warned her of that, hadn't he? And that had to be the reason she had felt threatened when their eyes had met and held outside the garden door. Anything else was unthinkable.

  Feeling unaccountably hot, Annie stared at herself in the mirror, wondering if the unusual inner turbulence showed through the cool outer veneer. She was tall and slim, self-possessed, her silky Titian hair skilfully layered around her oval, even-featured face. She had had years of practice in presenting the world with a face that kept its secrets, years of schooling her emotions. Ever since she could remember she had been trying to be as unlike her over-excitable mother as it was possible to be.

  Satisfied that she presented her normal, poised image, she fished the car keys out of the pocket of her discarded jeans and went to find Norman.

  'Sweetheart—you took your time!' There, was reproof in Norman's voice, but only mild, and he was smiling as he got up from his chair behind the big leather-topped desk where he always worked.

  A burly man, he would be forty next birthday, but his pale hair and stocky frame made him look older by much more than the six or seven years that must separate him from the tall, whippy stranger who was leaning against the broad windowsill, half sitting.

  'I know.' Annie faced him, holding his eyes, her smile very cool, her voice light. Deliberately, she did not look D
erringer's way. She was aware of him, though, terribly aware. And there was safety in the known; the respect and companionship she and Norman had built up over the years was comfortable, like an old, soft glove.

  She put the keys she had been holding down on the desk.

  'After I delivered the car for servicing I dropped by Monk's Hall,' she explained, cueing him into the conversation that would come later, when they were alone, and he grinned suddenly, his blunt, good-looking features looking almost boyish.

  'That old place again!' His eyes twinkled, looking beyond Annie to the dark, silent man near the window. 'My fiancée's got a fixation lodged inside her pretty head—Annie, sweetheart, meet Luke Derringer—a kind of cousin, umpteen times removed.'

  'We met earlier, outside Monk's Hall.' The deeply drawled statement set her teeth on edge, and Norman chuckled, his broad hands resting on Annie's slender shoulders, turning her round to face the stranger.

  'That figures!' Norman's hands stayed on Annie's shoulders, holding her close, his fingers gently kneading the fine bones beneath the silk. Annie might have wondered at this unprecedented public display of affection had her mind not been on other things.

  She was looking at Luke Derringer now, and he was looking at her, and the effect of those vivid blue eyes was catastrophic. He seemed to be asking silent questions—coming up with the answers, too—and when derision stared out at her from between thick black lashes she turned her head quickly, only just resisting the impulse to bury her face in Norman's comforting, sweater-clad chest.

  Norman's arms tightened around her, almost as if he knew she needed protection, and as he questioned his cousin there was a strangely apologetic note in his voice which she sensed was for her benefit.

  'Are you here for the auction, or just passing through?'