Husband-To-Be Page 5

  Grant looked at Rachel. ‘Dr Hawkins?’ he said. ‘Dr R. K. V. Hawkins?’

  Rachel sighed.

  ‘Let’s go into my office,’ Grant said grittily. ‘We have a few things to discuss.’

  He stalked into the office, holding the door for Rachel, then slammed it behind them.

  ‘How could you?’ he growled.

  ‘How could I what?’ said Rachel, trying not to think of Driscoll stranded in Reception. Something told her that Driscoll would not appreciate this chance to catch up on missed issues of Nature and National Geographic.

  ‘I don’t know where to begin,’ said Grant, pacing up and down and glaring at her. ‘Wear that wig? Take the damned thing off, will you? Entertain for even two minutes the thought of marrying that unconscionable prat? Throw away a brilliant scientific career to advise me on how many bars to have, and whether to have a vending machine for biscuits? Pretend,’ he roared, ‘that you’d never heard of R. K. V. Hawkins?’

  ‘If you weren’t so sexist you wouldn’t have assumed it was a man,’ Rachel retorted. ‘And then you’d have made the connection yourself.’

  ‘What connection?’ snapped Grant. ‘Your uncle’s last name is Bright. It didn’t occur to me—’

  ‘That my aunt might be my mother’s sister,’ Rachel completed helpfully.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Grant. ‘In fact, you’re right about everything. I should grill prospective secretaries. Then I could squeeze out of them closely guarded secrets, like their last names. Next time some scientific genius comes along professing a little knowledge of scientific terminology I won’t waste money on a clothes allowance. You must have laughed your head off.’

  ‘Of course I didn’t,’ Rachel protested, suppressing a smile. ‘Well, only a little,’ she admitted. ‘But I was so tired of fieldwork. I wanted to work in an artificially controlled environment. I thought if I told you who I was you’d make me stand in some wretched swamp,’ she concluded bitterly.

  Grant thrust his hands in his pockets. He smiled reluctantly. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘Sorry, R. K. V., but you’re definitely the man for the job.’

  ‘You told me never to wear jeans again,’ said Rachel.

  ‘You’ll have to waste some of your assets whatever you do—and no sacrifice is too great in the cause of science.’

  Rachel sighed. She leant gloomily against the side of his desk, this time an immense block of glass and black marble which was about what you’d expect of a millionaire and company director. Gloomily she crossed her ankles and stared down at the long, Lycra-clad legs so soon to be encased in muddy jeans and Wellington boots.

  ‘You still haven’t taken off your wig,’ said Grant. He came to her side and plucked it off unceremoniously. ‘I can’t believe you wanted to cover this up,’ he told her. ‘Was that for Driscoll’s benefit? It’s lovely. I can never see it without wanting to touch it.’

  He ran a finger through the short sooty hair. Rachel shivered.

  ‘And you haven’t told me how you came to be engaged to that nincompoop,’ said Grant.

  ‘He is not,’ said Rachel. ‘He’s everything you want me to be—methodical, painstaking…’

  ‘He’s a plodder,’ Grant said ruthlessly. ‘Coasting along behind a sprinter. He sounded bad enough, but now that I’ve seen him it’s out of the question. You can’t marry him.’

  ‘Why not?’ Rachel said furiously.

  ‘Because,’ said Grant, ‘he doesn’t kiss you like this.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  RAIN poured from a leaden sky, lashing the lake, whipping through the reedbeds like bullets and cascading down the willow trees which lined the shore. Her rubber-booted legs thigh-high in the water, Rachel stared morosely under the brim of a yellow sou’wester at the various areas she had marked for observation.

  It had been two months since her interview in Grant’s office. She’d tried to throw herself with grim determination into the environmental impact study; not for the first time, she was unable to concentrate, unable to think of anything but that shocking kiss.

  That was the maddening thing. It had been just a kiss, after all. What was a kiss? Nothing. A casual physical contact, soon over, soon forgotten. Or it should have been. That was why she hadn’t tried to get away—it had seemed to be making too much of a trifle.

  At least, that was what she’d told herself at the time, though now she was beginning to wonder. She didn’t know who she was angrier with, herself or Grant. No, she did know, she decided, her blue eyes smouldering as she remembered some of the things Grant had said. He was absolutely insufferable! Worst of all, and most unfairly, he had also made her—well, not exactly angry, but annoyed with Driscoll.

  Rachel scowled at the rainswept lake. The problem was that Grant was right. Driscoll had all kinds of sterling qualities that Grant did not, though just at the moment she was having trouble remembering them, but a kiss from Driscoll was not an event. It was something you might do if you’d nothing better to do—and Driscoll usually thought she did have something better to do, like writing up research; it was something to get out of the way before going on to do something more interesting; it was completely unmemorable. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time Driscoll had kissed her. Whereas even two months later she could remember every single sizzling second… Rachel closed her eyes. She could almost feel it even now…

  He gripped her arms at the shoulders, not gently, holding her pinned against the desk, and for a split second he stood looking down into her face. She could have ducked, or twisted away, but instead she stared, mesmerised, into those brilliant blue eyes, their colour as deep and clear as a Greek sea—something so spectacular you thought it had to have been touched up in the travel posters until you saw the real thing—and somehow the sheer intensity of his gaze seemed to deepen the impossible colour even further.

  She thought she might have been able to push aside the steely-eyed magnate of her imagination, but his was a kind of power against which she seemed to have no defence. The thick black lashes fringing his eyes, the black hooks of his eyebrows were now implacably level across his forehead; the lock of burnished hair which had fallen forward into his face… Seen so close, the sheer masculine beauty had a potency which was intoxicating. And in that split second she realised something she’d tried to ignore ever since she’d seen him in the antique shop, ever since she’d seen his face bent to Olivia’s—that she’d wondered what it would be like to be kissed by someone of such overwhelming physical magnetism.

  And then his mouth was on hers.

  She didn’t know what she’d expected—maybe the ruthless kiss of a granite-jawed tycoon, the kind of kiss that would make you want to land a punch on the granite jaw as soon as it was over. It wasn’t like that at all. It was much, much worse. Or better.

  The touch of his lips seemed to scorch hers, as if just that simple contact was a match that sent flame licking along the edge of a sheet of paper. His mouth was insistent, demanding—but it was the startling, unbearable sweetness of that first contact which forced her mouth open, as if, having so much—so little—she had to have more. She opened her mouth hungrily, and her knees weakened—she’d never realised a man could taste so good. In fact he tasted the way he looked—unbelievably good. Driscoll’s kisses were wet, but she couldn’t remember their tasting of anything—it was as if she’d been eating wet cardboard all her life.

  She shouldn’t be thinking about that. She shouldn’t think about Driscoll when Grant was kissing her. In fact she couldn’t really think of anything at all except, in a little corner of her mind, that Grant had obviously spent a lot of time improving on his natural advantages. Whatever you might think of his morals—and she’d have a lot to say about them at some stage—his technique was out of this world. His tongue was exploring her mouth, at first tracing, with a delicacy that made her shudder involuntarily, the line of her own tongue—then playing with it, tantalising her—then plunging deep within.

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nbsp; He wasn’t holding her, at this stage, with even one hand. Then he raised one hand to cradle her head, the fingers grazing the short silky hair with a touch so light that it was barely perceptible, yet so sensuous that it made her scalp prickle with sudden awareness. His other hand cupped her jaw, the strong thumb lightly stroking the delicate skin. And still his mouth was on hers, demanding, giving…and instead of taking advantage of this opening to punch him, or stamp on his feet, or kick his shins, if only out of common loyalty to Driscoll, she realised that she had always wanted to touch that gleaming hair, she raised one hand to his head and buried her fingers in it.

  It was thick, and soft, like the fur of some beautiful animal. She stroked it, and he drew in his breath sharply. She realised that she had always wanted to run a hand along the smooth skin of his jaw, and suddenly nothing was simpler than to raise her other hand to his face. He leant into her hand for a moment, as if in spontaneous delight at her touch; somehow his evident pleasure in the taste of her mouth, in the touch of her hand made her own pleasure even more acute—as if she was learning from him how much pleasure it was possible to take.

  And it was at this moment that Rachel made a discovery: she shouldn’t have let Grant kiss her when she was engaged to Driscoll, she should have fought him off, but, since she had and she hadn’t, the only thing she wanted was for it to go on as long as possible. There were lots of things in life more important than sex, and she and Driscoll had all of them in common. No responsible adult would sacrifice all those things just because she couldn’t expect kisses like strong, straight liquor. And since she was never going to kiss anyone like this again she might as well make the most of it.

  Leaving one hand buried in his hair, the better to force his head back down if he should for some reason try to raise it, Rachel put her other arm around his waist, holding him close to her. She had just an instant to appreciate the hard muscle under her hand, so different from the layer of flab on the average academic; then his arms were around her, gripping her tightly. For one white-hot moment they seemed to devour each other—and then he dropped his arms and shook himself loose.

  Rachel stared up at him. He was breathing hard, and staring at her with an odd expression. She was in no condition to analyse it but it did not seem much like the look of someone about to say, Told you so. If anything, he looked appalled. Strange, when he’d certainly enjoyed it every bit as much as she had—but then she wasn’t really in a condition to think very clearly; she was, she knew, staring up at him with naked longing.

  His eyes were as blue as sapphires; his mouth was still moist. Involuntarily she ran her tongue over her lips. He seemed to move involuntarily towards her, then catch himself. His mouth tightened.

  ‘You’re so—beautiful.’ said Rachel, staring at him.

  ‘I think that’s my line,’ said Grant. He thrust his hands in his pockets as if they might start something if he didn’t put them out of the way. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘you see what I mean. You can’t marry him.’

  Rachel sighed, and drifted slowly back down to earth. ‘Of course I can,’ she said firmly. ‘There’s more to life than sex, Grant. There are more important things, like intellectual compatibility, and shared interests, and—and mutual respect.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A good marriage needs a solid foundation, which is exactly what I have in my relationship with Driscoll. You have to be adult about these things, Grant; you can’t expect life to be ideal; you have to be prepared to compromise. You can’t just throw away the things that really matter, just because someone happens to be physically attractive—’

  ‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this,’ said Grant. He ran his hands exasperatedly back through his hair, completing the general chaos begun there by Rachel. ‘Of course intellectual compatibility matters. I’m not saying you should marry someone without it. But if that’s all you’ve got, why get married? Why not just collaborate on a paper, or swap offprints? What does it take to make you see that?’

  ‘It would take a lot more than one little kiss,’ she snapped.

  ‘Really?’ He raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘Is that a proposition? How far do you want to go?’

  ‘Of all the arrogant, self-satisfied, sex-obsessed idiots,’ said Rachel, ‘you take the cake. I suppose you think I should go to bed with you just for the sake of comparison.’

  ‘Not at all. You’ve never slept with him, so you’d have nothing to compare with.’

  Rachel gritted her teeth. ‘What makes you say that?’ ‘It’s obvious. You couldn’t even think of marrying him if you had. In fact I’m beginning to think you can’t have slept with anyone.’

  Rachel could feel blood rushing to her cheeks. ‘I have so,’ she said furiously. His sceptical look infuriated her even more; it might not actually be true, but he could at least have the decency to take her word for it. ‘I’ve had lots of lovers,’ she added extravagantly.

  ‘Intellectually compatible incompetents to a man, by the looks of it,’ he said drily. ‘No, don’t.’ He cut off before she could manufacture marvels of prowess for these figments of the imagination. He spread his hands wide in a sudden gesture of appeal. ‘Look, I’ve said—done—this all wrong. You don’t have to prove anything to me. All I’m saying is that you seem to be deliberately turning your back on one of the most wonderful things in the world, and all out of some bone-headed idea of maturity.’

  He looked at her steadily. ‘I thought you were pretty spectacular even when I thought you were just an overqualified secretary with a sideline in tarantula-taming. Now it turns out you’ve a brilliant mind as well. You could have any man you want. I can’t stand the thought of someone so beautiful and alive burying it all because she doesn’t know what she’s missing. I didn’t mean to be arrogant; I just thought I could show you—I thought I had shown you—a side of yourself that you seemed to be ignoring. I’m sorry it’s made you so angry; I just wanted to spare you a lifetime of frustration.’

  Rachel had no time to digest the fact that Grant Mallett, of all people, thought she could have any man she wanted; she was too furious. ‘Are you sure you weren’t reminding yourself of a side of yourself you’d been overlooking?’ she asked acidly. ‘Maybe you’re the one who’s frustrated. Your fiancée doesn’t seem exactly responsive.’

  ‘We’ll leave Olivia out of this.’

  ‘So you haven’t made any compromises. You’re madly in love and blissfully happy and you just go around kissing other women out of pure altruism,’ Rachel said sarcastically.

  ‘I wouldn’t say “pure” exactly,’ he said with a reluctant smile. There was a glimmer of amusement in the brilliant blue eyes, though his expression was still sombre. ‘Why do I feel as if I were some insect population under analysis? Let’s just forget about it, R. K. V. There’s got to be some cliché to cover the situation. You were breathtakingly beautiful, I had an irresistible urge and lost my head, you’re too sensible to organise your life around irresistible urges—over to you, Dr Hawkins.’

  Rachel glared at him; how dared he call an end to the fight just when she was beginning to land a few punches?

  ‘I’ve got your new contract and details of the parts of the environmental impact assessment that will be your responsibility. I think the only thing we need to worry about is the southwest corner—there are some pretty extensive reedbeds which might need to be handled with care—but obviously you’ll need to make up your own mind.’

  He reached over to the desk, picked up a large brown envelope and placed it in her hands. ‘I’ve put Steve Phillips in charge of the non-ecological side: he’s had a lot of experience with social impact assessments, which was what was mainly at issue when we got planning permission for the conference centre. You should talk to him in the next week or so. Other than that, you’ve got a free hand in putting together your own team.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘I realise you can’t be expected to be an expert in every relevant aspect of the ecology, so you’ll probably need support
from specialists outside your own field. Since your friend’s work overlaps so closely with yours, though, I’d be surprised if the project required his professional services.’

  Rachel was so demoralised that even the word ‘reedbed’ didn’t make her flinch.

  A crack of lightning split the sky. The rain began to come down with less violence, but in a steady downpour which could obviously go on for hours. The wind howled. It was not going to be possible to carry out her weekly observation of the sector when she couldn’t see anything more than three inches from her nose.

  Rachel sighed. The Department of the Environment guidelines said optimistically that most environmental assessments should require no new scientific research. Rachel herself had never worked on a project where everyone hadn’t started out assuming that no new research would need to be done. After all, a wealth of information was available from organisations ranging from the water authorities to the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds.

  It was only after you’d spent a few months going through all that information that you realised that some of it was out of date, or that the observers had used such different survey methods that the data couldn’t be correlated and that you would need to carry out further research.

  She had gone through the same routine this time. To do Grant justice, she hadn’t spent the whole of the last two months in an aquatic environment. Apart from a few meetings with Grant and her new colleague, Phillips, Rachel had spent most of the time working sixteen-hour days seven days a week, going through sheafs and sheafs of reports and statistics on the ecology of the area.

  The problem was that if new research had to be done, the period between May and September was crucial for making observations. At the end of the day, of course, she’d discovered that the reedbeds had grown up in the last ten or fifteen or twenty years—it wasn’t always easy to tell from the reports, which focused on different things—that they had never been systematically studied, and that she was going to have to spend a significant amount of time more or less submerged.