War of Love Page 10

  But she forgot all about war and battles and weapons when the doorbell rang shrilly at a quarter past seven; Lyon was early! She wasn't even ready, had already laddered one pair of sheer tights and had to search frantically for another pair. Of which she had only smoothed up one leg!

  The doorbell rang again—more insistently this time? Damn him, he was fifteen minutes early; as well as not being dressed, she hadn't yet applied her make­up or even attempted to brush her hair. Had he done this on purpose, as a deliberate attempt to disconcert her before the evening even began? She wouldn't put it past him!

  She was flushed and cross by the time she reached the door after its third ring, having frantically pulled the tights off because she didn't have time to smooth them on, only succeeding in laddering that pair too as one of her nails broke in her rush. Lyon had suc­ceeded in more than disconcerting her; she was furious with him for trying to put her at a disadvantage!

  'Stop ringing the damned-----' All of Silke's anger disappeared into mind-blowing disbelief as she opened the door to find, not Lyon standing on the doorstep, but James! What on earth-----?

  'Silke,' he said quietly, looking down at her intently.

  Damn it, why did he have to be another tall man, able to look down at her with his male superiority? It was totally illogical to Silke at that moment to accept that she would be hard pushed to find any man shorter than her own five feet; also that James's height of over six feet had been one of the things that had at­tracted her to him in the first place. He had no right being here at all now, height or no height!

  She glared up at him, at the man she had once loved, intended to marry—and knew that whatever she had once felt for him was completely dead. He was just a tall, attractive man, his blond hair slightly longer than she remembered, a few more lines beside the dark blue eyes; but just a tall, attractive man, after all. Silke certainly felt no residual love for him.

  'What do you want, James?' she asked him coldly.

  'As you can see-----' she looked down pointedly at her dress '—I'm getting ready to go out.'

  James looked down at her dress too, at the way the straight style emphasised the fullness of her breasts, the narrowness of her waist, the curve of her hips— and his expression warmed as it returned to the flushed loveliness of her make-up-less face. 'You look lovely, Silke,' he told her huskily.

  She gave him a derisive look, her sigh impatient. 'I'm sure you didn't contact me again after all this time to tell me that!' she snapped.

  'My marriage to Cheryl is over-----'

  'So?' Silke frowned up at him. 'What does that have to do with me?'

  'I-----' He broke off whatever he had been about to say as the telephone began to ring shrilly in the flat behind Silke.

  Her mother! It had to be. 'I'm sorry, James.' She was becoming flustered again now. 'But, as you can see, this is hardly the right time for us to be talking— for whatever reason,' she added pointedly as he seemed about to protest. 'I have to go and take that call,' she told him agitatedly; the last thing she wanted was for her mother to ring off and then call back again when Lyon had arrived!

  She didn't wait, hurrying back into her flat to hastily snatch up the receiver. 'Mummy?' she enquired anxiously—praying that it was!

  'You sound out of breath, Silke,' her mother answered lightly. 'I didn't disturb you, did I?'

  She had been disturbed since Lyon Buchanan had arrived at the agency this afternoon with the news that her mother was secretly about to marry his uncle! 'No, you aren't disturbing me,' she assured her mother, not even glancing round to see if James had left as she had asked him to. It was sad, really, that she had nothing to say to the man she had once intended marrying, but she really did have much more urgent things on her mind at the moment; namely Lyon's imminent arrival. 'Now what-----?'

  'One of us is here on the wrong evening,' remarked a smoothly arrogant voice across the room behind her. 'And I can assure you it isn't me!'

  Silke closed her eyes, inwardly groaning, knowing exactly what she was going to see when she turned and looked across the room.

  And she wasn't disappointed! James hadn't left at all, had moved inside the doorway of the flat, and standing beside him, looking arrogantly down his nose at the other man—he was several inches taller than James, Silke noticed inconsequentially—was Lyon Buchanan!

  This was even worse than the nightmare at the agency this afternoon!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The two men were eyeing each other up and down like two stags after the same doe, Lyon's face set in arrogantly forbidding lines as he looked at the other man with narrowed grey eyes, James frowning across at him with open dislike.

  It was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Farcical, in fact. But it was happening right in front of Silke's eyes.

  'Silke?' Her mother sounded puzzled by her sudden silence. 'Are you still there, darling?'

  'No,' she answered dully, still watching the two men. 'And I have a feeling I won't be for some time,' she added heavily. 'Can you call back tomorrow?'

  'No, darling, I can't,' her mother protested. 'I— Lyon isn't there again, is he?' she added disbeliev-ingly as the idea obviously occurred to her—and she wondered what on earth he was doing at Silke's flat.

  'Afraid so,' Silke answered drily. 'Just get back to me when you can. And good luck,' she added before putting the receiver down. No doubt her mother would be deeply puzzled by Lyon's presence here, but there was no way at this moment that Silke could even try to explain it!

  The two men were dressed similarly, in dark suits and white shirts, but Lyon's suit was obviously of a superior cut, his shirt silk. And that was the only similarity between the two men, Silke realised as she looked across the room at them, one being so blond, the other so dark, Lyon ten years older than the other man—and having all the assurance those years brought along with them. James had visibly started to wilt as the other man continued to look at him coldly.

  'No one has the wrong night,' Silke said smoothly as she moved to join them near the door. 'James was just leaving.' She looked at him challengingly, having little sympathy for his discomfort in the face of the other man's arrogance; he had no right to come here at all, and it was his own fault if he wasn't exactly welcomed!

  Impatient anger darkened the blue of his eyes at Silke's obvious dismissal—reminding her all too vividly of that temper she had forgotten during the year James was out of her life, a temper she had over­looked altogether whenever she allowed herself to think of him the last year. But she remembered it all too well now, also her attempts in the past to appease that temper James had inherited from his Scottish ancestors. Well, not any more!

  'Weren't you?' she prompted as she held the door open pointedly.

  The Cameron temper flashed again briefly in those expressive blue eyes before he quickly brought it back under control. He gave a distant nod. 'I'll call you tomorrow,' he told her evenly, not even sparing Lyon a second glance as he strode out of the flat.

  Silke's hand was shaking slightly as she closed the door behind him. My God, she had just effectively thrown James out of her flat. And her life? But he wasn't in her life, she reminded herself forcefully; he was a married man, and of no interest to her whatsoever.

  'James?' Lyon repeated softly, drawing her at­tention to him, his head tilted as he looked down at her with questioning grey eyes.

  'You're early,' Silke accused impatiently, having no intention of satisfying his curiosity where James was concerned.

  He shook his head. 'I arrived here at exactly seven-thirty,' he drawled derisively.

  Silke looked down at the slender watch on her wrist; it was now seven thirty-five—where had the time gone?

  'You really should learn to rotate your men in a more effective way,' Lyon added tauntingly at her ob­vious surprise at the time. 'Preferably choosing dif­ferent evenings for seeing them!'

  Silke's cheeks were flushed at his open mockery. 'James is not one of "my men"!'

  'Meanin
g I am?' Lyon's brows were raised enquiringly.

  'Of course not,' she snapped impatiently. 'I just meant that James was not expected here this evening at all.' If ever!

  'James...' Lyon repeated softly again, thought­fully. 'Would that be James Cameron?' he bit out with a forcefulness that had been totally belied by his earlier mildness.

  Throwing her into a false sense of security! How did he know James's surname? She was sure she hadn't—of course, that damned report he had on her mother; it had told him of her engagement to James. And the subsequent breaking of that engagement, she was sure. Oh, God...! Her humiliation had been bad enough at the time; she certainly didn't need to be reminded of it by Lyon Buchanan, of all people.

  Her head went back in a defiant gesture she couldn't quite control. 'If you'll excuse me, I'll go and finish getting ready.' She was still standing here in her dress and underwear and nothing else! God, no wonder he had thought-----But he had no right to think any­thing; she wasn't answerable to Lyon for her ac­tions—no matter what they might be!

  'No, I won't excuse you,' Lyon told her firmly as he reached out and grasped her wrist in a grip that was steely. 'You didn't answer my question. Was that James Cameron, your ex-fiance"?'

  So he did know exactly who James was! 'And if it was?' Her cheeks were flushed with anger, her eyes flashing deeply green as she looked up into his coldly compelling face.

  'He's a married man,' Lyon bit out harshly.

  'Yes.' She still looked up at him defiantly. Why should she feel so defensive? She had done nothing wrong, and even if she had it was none of Lyon's business.

  Lyon's eyes were icy as his gaze raked over her. 'And that doesn't bother you?'

  'Why should it?' she returned dismissively. Because it did no longer bother her that James was married to someone else. For months after they had broken up she had tortured herself with thoughts of James as someone else's husband, but tonight she had realised it simply didn't matter any more, that she had stopped loving him a long time ago. If tonight had done nothing else, it had proved that to her.

  Lyon's grip tightened about her wrist as he pulled her up against his chest. 'You were going to marry him once, and he married someone else,' he cruelly reminded her.

  'We all make mistakes,' she dismissed again. 'Lyon, let me go!' Her pulse was starting to race, her body to tremble, at his close proximity.

  He shook his head. 'I had started to believe I may have made a mistake about you,' he grated. 'But I guess not!' His head lowered, and that cruel twist of a mouth savagely claimed hers.

  It was too much, all too much. First the worry of her mother and Henry, then her earlier confrontation with Lyon, James's unexpected visit here, and now this. It was just too much!

  Lyon's mouth was moving against hers with a de­termination that owed nothing to passion and every­thing to a contempt for her he wasn't even trying to hide, his arms like steel bands as he moulded her body against the hardness of his, his hands running ex­pertly up and down the curve of her spine.

  Silke stood limply in his arms, offering no re­sistance but certainly none of the response she had known with him before either. How could she re­spond to what was no more than coldly clinical, a lesson in dominance that Lyon had every intention of winning? Only she wasn't playing; she felt numb from the angry onslaught.

  Finally Lyon seemed to realise she was like a rag-doll in his arms, and he raised his head to look down at her, his eyes blazing with an emotion it was dif­ficult to define, his mouth taut with anger. 'What is it?' he rasped harshly, his arms still holding her firmly against him. 'Has Cameron had all the response you're going to give this evening?'

  She wanted to snap back, to be as angry as he ob­viously was, but the fight had gone out of her, all her defences crashing, even anger, as she realised, looking up into Lyon's harshly attractive face, that she was falling in love with him. With a man who had shown her nothing but anger and contempt since the moment they first met. It wasn't just stupid, it was insane; she was insane. But a part of her yearned to know the real Lyon, the child in Lyon that had been brought up by a man who had lost the woman he loved, the young man who had grown cynical because his wealth meant more to the women he met than the man himself, this older man who obviously saw women as people to be used as he himself had been used in the past. Oh, yes, Henry had talked to her about Lyon's childhood and his learned cynicism, but she wanted Lyon to talk to her about it, to tell her of all his pain, to... She was insane; Lyon would never talk to her of those things—because to him she was just another one of those women. Didn't what had happened just now more than prove that?

  Something of her emotions must have shown in her face, and Lyon's expression was suddenly wary. 'Silke?' He frowned darkly.

  'Oh, Lyon...!' She could have wept, for him, for herself. She was falling in love with a man who wasn't capable of feeling love for anyone, let alone the daughter of the woman he considered a gold-digger.

  'Tears, Silke?' His frown deepened as he looked down at her searchingly. 'For Cameron?'

  She hadn't realised there were tears, but now she was aware of them, warm against her cheeks. For whom? Herself? Lyon? Both, probably. God, what a mess!

  'Answer me, Silke!' Lyon gripped the tops of her arms now, shaking her slightly. 'You still love him, is that it?'

  'No,' she answered without hesitation, knowing that she didn't. How could she possibly love James when Lyon overshadowed him in every way? She had known that when she'd looked at the two men together earlier. Thank God she had never married James; and she had never thought she would ever say that!

  'Then what is it?' He frowned. 'Did I hurt you?' He touched her lips with gentle fingertips, lips that were slightly swollen from his earlier kisses. 'God, I did,' he groaned in realisation of the damage his sav­agery had done. 'I never meant to hurt you, Silke.' He shook his head.

  He was going to hurt her in a way he didn't even realise, couldn't be allowed to realise. 'It doesn't matter, Lyon,' she told him huskily, shaken by the gentleness of his touch against her mouth. God, don't let him be gentle now, not when she was already feeling so vulnerable towards him.

  His expression darkened. 'Of course it damn well-----' He broke off, drawing in a ragged breath, both hands cupping each side of her face now as he wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumb-tips. 'I've never made a woman cry before,' he said gruffly.

  Not to his knowledge, perhaps, but Silke was sure that not all the women that had entered and then left his life had done so with their heart intact. She couldn't be the only one who had wanted to know, and love, the man behind the cynical mask.

  It was madness. This was Lyon Buchanan, the man totally opposed to her mother marrying his uncle, a man who had only contempt for her too, and not only as 'Satin's' daughter. But as she looked up at him all she could see was Lyon, the man she was falling in love with. The man she so wanted to kiss her again, but this time not with anger...

  'Never,' he repeated huskily, a perplexed look on his face.

  Silke was powerless to move as his head lowered, his mouth claiming hers, not roughly this time, but with the same gentleness as his fingertips had touched only seconds earlier. And Silkewas lost...

  The kiss of searching gentleness went on and on, never-ending to Silke, her hands first clinging to the broadness of his shoulders, and then moving caress­ingly across his back before becoming entangled in the curling thickness of the hair at his nape. Lyon groaned deep in his throat at the intimacy as Silke's fingertips brushed against the sensitive skin there as she held him to her.

  His mouth instantly became more demanding, the tip of his tongue moving lightly against her inner lip. Silke's mouth tingled from the caress, pressing more closely against him as that tongue invaded her mouth, invaded her, engaging in a duel with hers, a duel only one of them could win. And as Lyon lightly cupped one of her breasts with his hand Silke knew which one of them it was going to be...

  His thumb moved lightly over the fabric of
her dress, finding the nipple that pouted there, sensations warming the whole of her body as he began a rhythmic caress that made her ache with need.

  And still his mouth possessed hers, his tongue telling her of his own need, the hardness of his thighs pressed against her, the muscles rippling across his back as her hands moved beneath his jacket to caress him through the silk of his shirt.

  His mouth was against her neck now, kissing the pulsing column down to the sensitive hollow at the base of her throat, his breath hot against her burning flesh. And still he continued to caress her breast. Silke arched against him, totally lost to all reason, all sense but Lyon's touch and the feel of his hands against her body.

  'God, I want you!' he suddenly groaned raggedly. 'I want you more than I've ever wanted anyone or anything in my life before!' He raised his head to look down at her with eyes dark with passion. 'Silke... ?'

  She knew what he was asking—and he didn't need to; her own need of him must be so obvious to him! But they were who they were, and-----

  'No,' he bit out firmly as he saw the hesitation in her eyes. 'We knew this would happen from the moment we first met. We both knew it.'

  Had she? She had been very aware of him then, but as a man filled with anger, not-----

  'Silke...!' he groaned again, his mouth nibbling at hers now, barely touching, asking, cajoling, tempting...!

  She couldn't think any more, didn't want to, only wanted this man, and the pleasure his caresses and kisses promised, wanted that with a hunger she hadn't known existed within her.

  'Yes, Lyon,' she breathed against his mouth. 'God, yes!'

  He swung her up in his arms as if she weighed nothing at all—which to him she probably didn't!— carrying her through the open doorway of her bedroom, laying her tenderly down on the bed, re­moving her clothes with the gentleness she had found so surprising in him after his initial savagery, until Silke lay naked before him, unashamedly so, the creamy softness of her body smooth and unblem­ished, breasts pert, her stomach slenderly lovely, hips curved and inviting.