War of Love Read online

  Had Lyon done that deliberately? Did he know exactly how uncomfortable she felt about what had happened between them last week? She couldn't be­lieve he didn't know, not in the circumstances. Was he playing with her? If he-----

  'How's James?'

  Silke had been deeply lost in thought, her brief conversation over with the man seated to her left, but she looked up sharply at Lyon now, frowning.

  'James,' he repeated lightly. 'How is he?'

  She eyed him warily. 'James Cameron?'

  Dark brows rose over mocking grey eyes. 'Is there another one?'

  She wanted to say yes—she knew lots of men named James, but that would have been childish in the ex­treme. But what possible interest could he have in James... ? 'I believe he is very well,' she answered cautiously.

  Lyon continued to look at her with that intently steady gaze. 'Don't you know?'

  Silke managed a casually dismissive shrug. 'Why should I?'

  He sat back in his high-backed dining chair. 'He's your friend; I thought you would know.'

  'James isn't-----' She broke off her angry rebuttal, drawing in a deeply controlling breath. The last thing James was was her friend. Or anything else. As Lyon should know only too well! 'That evening at my flat was the first time I had seen James for a year,' she told him defensively.

  'You don't have to explain yourself to me, Silke,' Lyon said mockingly.

  No, of course she didn't! Then why was she? Because he had engineered the conversation that way, that was why. Damn him!

  She took several deep breaths, glad of the respite of the empty plates being cleared away to give her even more time to rebuild her defences against this man. Although if he continued to wrong-foot her in this way she didn't know how long that would last! She should never have come to this dinner party, should have found an acceptable excuse, no matter how disappointed her mother would have been. She simply wasn't ready to face Lyon yet. She didn't know if she ever would be!

  'Except when it comes to who fathers my child,' he added grimly once they were alone again. 'And it won't be Cameron,' he bit out tautly, his relaxed de­meanour gone now.

  Silke gasped, looking about them self-consciously. But once again no one seemed to be paying any undue attention to them. Thank God.

  She turned back indignantly to Lyon, undaunted by the grimness of his expression. So much for his earlier mildness; he had simply lulled her into a false sense of security!

  'I'm not pregnant, Lyon,' she hissed firmly.

  His eyes narrowed. 'You know that for certain, do you?'

  No, of course she didn't. It was too soon. But she wasn't going to be. She couldn't be!

  'I won't be,' she told him with certainty.

  Lyon gave her a pitying look. 'If you are, you'll marry me.'

  Silke stared at him, feeling the colour drain from her cheeks as she did so. He couldn't be serious! But one look at his determinedly set face and she knew he was. Very much so.

  She shook her head. 'I wouldn't marry you-----'

  'I'm not the last man on earth, Silke,' he cut in mockingly. 'And it wouldn't matter if I were,' he added grimly. 'If you're having my child, I intend being its father. And not from a distance either.'

  'This is ridiculous-----'

  'The whole situation is ridiculous,' he acknowl­edged harshly. 'Nevertheless, it exists.'

  Silke felt ill, could see by the determined look on his face that he meant exactly what he said. And she already knew him well enough to know that there would be little escaping him if she did—by some ter­rible mischance!—happen to be pregnant. Oh, God! She might have fallen in love with Lyon, but she knew he certainly didn't love her, and any marriage made on those conditions had to be doomed to failure. Would be hell on earth, in fact.

  She could feel the nausea rising up within her, knew she was seriously in danger of being sick as her next course of food was placed in front of her. One look at the beef—even beautifully presented as it was— and she knew it was no longer just a possibility, getting up hurriedly from the table to rush from the room, only just making it to the bathroom in time before losing the contents of her stomach.

  'It's OK, Silke,' soothed an all too familiar voice as she stood with her burning forehead resting against the coolness of the mirror that covered the whole of the back wall of the bathroom. 'Here.' Lyon turned her gently round, placing a coldly damp facecloth against her forehead.

  Silke just felt too ill at that moment to refuse his kindness, weak after her bout of nausea, resting limply against Lyon as he continued to hold the cool cloth against her face.

  'Well, this wasn't quite the reaction I expected the first time I proposed marriage,' he murmured self-derisively. 'No,' he told her firmly, his arms tight­ening about her as she started to retch again. 'You-----'

  'Silke! Darling, what is it?' Her concerned mother entered the room, coming anxiously to Silke's side. 'Silke... ?' She smoothed the damp blonde hair from Silke's now pale face.

  'Probably a prawn,' Lyon dismissed arrogantly before Silke could answer her mother. 'Don't worry about it, Tina, I'll take care of her.'

  'Of course I'm worried about her,' her mother told him sharply before turning concernedly back to Silke. 'Darling, do you want to lie down for a while? Perhaps that-----'

  'I'll take her home,' Lyon cut in firmly, still holding Silke at his side.

  'But-----'

  'You have your guests to attend to, Tina,' Lyon re­minded challengingly. Lyon might have been pre­sented with a fait accompli when Henry married his 'Satin', but it was obvious that he still didn't accept Tina Jordan as a suitable member of his family, and he wasn't hesitating now to remind her of her social manners; Silke may be ill, but as hostess of this dinner party her mother wasn't expected to abandon her guests in this way. A fact Lyon was reminding her of all too forcefully!

  And he was right. The fact that Silke felt the way she did couldn't be allowed to interfere with her mother's first big social occasion as Henry's wife; Silke wouldn't allow that either.

  'I'll be all right, Mummy,' she assured her mother weakly—feeling anything but all right. 'Please go back to the dinner party,' she added pleadingly as she could see her mother was about to protest further.

  'I'll see that Silke gets home safely,' Lyon repeated firmly.

  Silke could see her mother was still hesitating, and in truth Lyon was the last person she wanted to take her home—the last person she wanted to be with at all! He was the one who had made her ill in the first place!

  'It's OK, Mummy.' Silke attempted to smile, knowing it hadn't quite come off, but it was the best she could do in the circumstances. 'As Lyon says, he'll see me home. Don't let this spoil your dinner party,' she encouraged with a lightness she was far from feeling. 'It must have just been something I've eaten,' she added dismissively.

  'Not the prawns, I hope.' Her mother looked worried now. 'Can you imagine how awful it will be if all our guests come down with food poisoning?' She frowned. 'Not that it isn't dreadful enough if it's just you, Silke,' she continued hastily as she saw Lyon's mocking glance. 'It's just that-----'

  'I understand completely, Mummy,' Silke said drily, also having seen Lyon's mockery. 'And it happened too fast for it possibly to have been the prawns.' She gave Lyon a censorious look for having even suggested it could be that; he knew damn well how nervous her mother was about the success of this dinner party!

  'Make our excuses, Tina.' Lyon took a firm hold of Silke's arm. 'I'll drive Silke home now. And stay with her until I think she's OK to be left,' he added challengingly.

  It was a challenge Silke had no intention of taking up in front of her mother. But once the two of them were on their own it would be a different matter— Lyon wasn't staying at her flat with her for even a few minutes, let alone until she felt better. In fact, she doubted she could feel better until he was well away from her!

  'Well, if you're sure... ?' Her mother was looking at her closely, well aware of Silke's aversion to bei
ng in Lyon's company for any length of time. Even if she wasn't aware of the exact reason for it!

  'Of course, Mummy.' Silke squeezed her hand re­assuringly. 'I'm just sorry to have been so silly.' She gave a self-derisive grimace.

  'You weren't being silly,' Lyon told her quietly as they left the house a few minutes later, a bright moon shining in the darkness outside. 'You were terrified,' he added with some amusement. 'Do you think I'll make that much of a despot of a husband?'

  'You aren't going to be my husband!' Silke snapped, recovering some of her usual spirit, her initial shock over now, and the nausea having receded too.

  Lyon raised dark brows as he unlocked the pass­enger door of his car for her. 'I didn't necessarily mean as a husband to you, I mean as a husband to any woman,' he drawled mockingly.

  She swallowed hard. He was right, she had been terrified at the thought of marrying this man, but the thought of him as someone else's husband...! She suddenly felt sick again.

  'Get in the car, Silke,' Lyon told her wearily as he saw her expression of abject misery—and completely misread it. 'Maybe you have eaten something that's disagreed with you, after all. You certainly look as if you're about to be ill again!'

  She felt ill again. She couldn't marry Lyon, because he didn't love her, but the thought of him marrying someone else actually caused her a physical pain in her chest. Oh, God, this was a hopeless situation. How could she have fallen in love with someone so un­suitable, someone who couldn't possibly return her love?

  She shook her head. 'I'll drive my own car.'

  'Get in, Silke,' he told her in a voice that brooked no argument.

  She glanced down at the leather seats. 'What if I'm sick again?'

  "Then I'll have the car cleaned,' he dismissed with his usual arrogance. 'Oh, for God's sake get in, Silke,' he said impatiently. 'Otherwise we'll have your mother or Henry out here in a moment wanting to know what's going on!' He looked pointedly towards the house, the lights from the dining-room glowing out into the driveway, the people seated around the table perfectly visible to them—as they must be to them!

  Silke got into the car, too tired now to argue any more. That was probably half the reason she had reacted as she had earlier and actually been physically sick; she hadn't slept at all well this last week, couldn't seem to stop thinking about her time in Lyon's arms. And its possible consequences!

  'I can collect my car in the morning,' she told Lyon distractedly as he got into the car beside her.

  'That's right, keep your independence to the last,' he bit out hardly, turning on the ignition, his face appearing to be chiselled out of granite in the eerie light coming up from the dashboard. 'If you're feeling better you can collect your car in the morning; other­wise-----'

  'Lyon-----'

  'Silke?' he returned in hard challenge.

  She glared at him. 'I only agreed to letting you drive me home at all because I didn't want to upset my mother and Henry, I certainly have no intention of letting you tell me what I can or can't do now that we've left. I-----'

  'I'm well aware of the reason you agreed to my driving you home,' he cut in drily. 'And quite frankly I don't give a damn what made you agree; I would have carried you out of there kicking and screaming in protest if that's what it would have taken!'

  He would have, too, Silke could tell that by his de­termined expression. God, how had she let herself become entangled with this man? How could she have let herself fall in love with him?

  'At last,' he murmured several minutes later.

  Silke looked at him wearily. 'Sorry?'

  'I've rendered you speechless at last,' he softly taunted.

  'Not exactly,' she snapped. 'And I haven't exactly noticed you're ever at a loss for words either!' She glared at him in the semi-darkness.

  Lyon smiled. He actually smiled! A genuinely amused smile, without mockery, or any of those other cynical emotions Silke had come to associate with him. And in her already weakened state she could only wish he hadn't; he looked more attractive than ever grinning at her like that. And she didn't want to find him attractive, wanted to stay angry with him; it was her only defence at the moment.

  'You would be surprised,' he finally murmured.

  And just exactly what did he mean by that? Silke frowned. Certainly not that she had ever rendered him speechless. She couldn't think of a single occasion when he had been at a loss for... She gave a gasp in the darkness as she remembered all too well the one occasion when she had definitely rendered him speechless!

  'Exactly,' he acknowledged softly beside her. 'That night was very special, Silke,' he added with husky gentleness.

  She eyed him warily. It had been special for her, of course it had, but in what way could it possibly be special for him? 'Don't tell me,' she bit out angrily. 'I'm the first virgin you've ever taken to bed!'

  'Silke-----'

  'Don't "Silke" me.' She was so upset now she was almost shouting in her agitation. 'You-----'

  'I didn't "take you to bed"; we made love to each other,' he cut in harshly. 'There's a distinct difference.'

  'You should know!' she snapped forcefully. God, this was awful; she didn't want actually to talk about that night; she just wanted to try and forget it had ever happened. If she could. She certainly didn't want Lyon to tell her that night had been 'special' to him too!

  How could it be 'special' to him? He was thirty-five years old, very attractive, must have made love to lots of women in the past.

  His next words confirmed that. 'I'm ten years older than you, Silke,' he said almost gently. 'I'm certainly no innocent,' he acknowledged grimly. 'But neither do I take lightly what happened between the two of us last week.'

  She stared straight ahead, her hands tightly gripping her small evening-bag. 'You've already made your feelings of responsibility perfectly plain,' she bit out tautly.

  'Is that what you think it is?' He frowned.

  'Of course,' she dismissed scathingly.

  'I don't-----'

  'Look, Lyon, could we just drop this subject?' she said wearily. 'I have a headache now too, and I really don't want to think about this any more. I'll have enough explaining to do to my mother in the morning, without this!' she added resentfully.

  The silence that followed this outburst wasn't exactly comfortable—but it was certainly preferable to their conversation! She had known she shouldn't have gone to the dinner party, had guessed it would be a disaster as far as she was concerned—she just hadn't realised how much of one it would be! She just wanted to go to bed now, go to sleep, and hope this whole situation—and Lyon!—would go away.

  There didn't seem much chance of Lyon proving co-operative to her wish once they reached her flat, as he insisted on coming in with her, to make sure she was 'all right' before he left. She wasn't going to be OK until he had had left!

  'I'll make you a hot drink,' he offered once they were inside her flat, looking around him for the kitchen. 'You go and get into bed and I'll bring it into you.'

  He wouldn't have any trouble finding the bedroom, knew all too well where that was!

  'I'm not an invalid, Lyon,' she snapped—although in truth she wanted nothing better than to crawl into bed and go to sleep; she still felt awful. 'I have no intention of going to bed.' Not until after he had left, anyway!

  Lyon looked at her with a steady grey gaze. 'Tea or coffee?' he asked quietly.

  Just go, she wanted to scream at him. 'I told you-----'

  'Tea or coffee?' he repeated firmly, challenge in his expression now.

  She gave a frustrated sigh. 'Whatever,' she said wearily, shaking her head. Arrogant, arrogant man. 'The kitchen is through there,' she pointed to the door on their left.

  He nodded abruptly, not showing by so much as a twitch of the eyebrow his satisfaction at once again achieving his own way. Which was just as well—Silke would probably have hit him if he had looked in the least triumphant. But then he probably knew that too!

  'Go and get into bed,
' he told her again, walking with long strides towards the kitchen.

  Silke's frustration with the situation increased as she stood in the middle of her lounge listening to the sounds of him going through the cupboards, looking for the makings of the tea. If she didn't soon sit or lie down she had a feeling she was going to fall down, but the thought of Lyon bringing her a cup of tea in bed-----! Oh, damn it, what did it matter? They

  weren't likely to leap on each other just because she was in bed. In fact, they weren't likely to leap on each other at all!

  One glance in the bathroom mirror at the paleness of her face, the dark shadows under her eyes more visible against that pallor, and Silke knew she had nothing to worry about; she looked ghastly, not in the least alluring!

  She bathed her face in cold water before getting herself ready for bed, already safely under the covers by the time Lyon came into the bedroom with the tray of tea things. And two cups, she noticed as he put the tray down on the bedside table.

  'I had trouble finding the sugar,' he explained the length of time it had taken him to make the tea.

  Silke was still eyeing those two cups on the tray. 'I don't take sugar,' she told him distractedly.

  'But I do, in tea,' he said arrogantly, pouring the tea into the two cups before adding a liberal amount of sugar to one of them.

  Silke watched him over the top of the bedclothes. He looked slightly incongruous standing there with the teapot in his hand, pouring tea into two delicate china cups; Silke couldn't help wondering if he had ever done anything like this in his life before.

  Dark brows rose over quizzical grey eyes as he turned to look at her. 'What are you smiling at?'

  She hadn't realised she was smiling, but she could feel the grin on her lips now, straightening her ex­pression with effort. 'You do like sugar in tea,' she dismissed lightly, having no intention of telling him what she had actually been grinning at; he had ac­tually looked quite endearing carrying out the mundane task of pouring tea for them both! Lyon— endearing; the two just didn't go together!