The Boss's Virgin, Charlotte Lamb [reader novel .txt] 📗

pay people to do things for me. I enjoy gardening, anyway. In fact, I like doing things well; it gives me a buzz.’

He sipped his coffee. ‘I know what you mean. I suppose most of us like doing things well. And you make good coffee, by the way.’

She laughed. ‘Thanks.’

Tom shifted impatiently in his chair, irritated by this light-hearted conversation. ‘Have you talked to your solicitor yet, Pippa? About selling the cottage?’

‘I alerted him to the prospect. He didn’t seem to foresee any problems.’

‘Good. I expect you want to finalise the deal as soon as possible. I’ve put my own place on the market, but if it doesn’t sell at once the firm will help me with a temporary mortgage on the cottage.’

‘That will be helpful and should speed the deal.’

The surveyor finished his coffee and got up. ‘I’ll get on with measuring the garden and the rest of the area on which the cottage stands, then I can draw up a map to go with the deeds.’

As he walked away Tom looked at his watch. ‘Half past eleven. Nearly lunchtime. Will you have lunch with me, Pippa?’

‘Sorry, I’m too busy,’ she quickly said. The sooner she stopped seeing Tom the better, for both of them. There was no point whatever in continuing to see him. His restless impatience with the surveyor just now made it obvious that he did not see her in any simply friendly light. He hadn’t yet cut the strings that had bound them together. If he didn’t set eyes on her for months, he would finally forget they had ever been about to marry, especially as she was quite certain he was not in love with her. Theirs had been an affair of proximity. Tom had wanted to marry her because she was the sort of wife he had always meant to pick. She was competent, sensible, good with money and a home-maker—he had felt he could trust her.

Now they both knew he had been wrong. She hadn’t been the wife for him, any more than he was the man for her. Tom was possessive, but he was not passionate; that was why he had been happy to wait to sleep with her. Pippa had been forced to realise that she was very definitely passionate—she burned with desire whenever Randal touched her. She wanted to feel that way about the man she did eventually marry.

But it would not be Randal himself. He didn’t love her enough. He loved his child more, and although she admired him for his fidelity to the little boy it still hurt her feelings.

The truth was, Randal didn’t love her the way she needed to be loved. That was the root reason why she would not marry him. She wanted a man who would love her more than anyone else in his life, always put her first. The emptiness and loneliness of her childhood had left her aching. How often she had envied friends their homes, their parents, brothers and sisters—the affection and caring of those they lived with.

How often she had wished she had those things, too. She had always yearned for love, to be the centre of somebody’s world, to know she was beloved and cherished. She would never have that with Randal. Oh, she believed him when he said he loved her, she knew he desired her, but the strong, protective love she had hungered for as a child would never come to her from Randal. He gave that to his son, which was only natural.

When Tom and the surveyor had left she sat on in the sunshine, facing facts about herself. It was childish and immature, no doubt, to want to come first with Randal—she knew people would see it that way, and maybe they were right, but she couldn’t help her own instinctive reactions. She had dreamt for too long of finding someone who would love her the way she needed to be loved. She couldn’t abandon her dream now.

The following morning she was up early, having slept badly. First, she packed a light weekend case, taking the bare minimum of clothes.

Then she had a shower before getting dressed in a simple green silk tunic which cut off just above her knee. With it she wore white high-heeled sandals and carried a white shoulder bag. The impression left by her reflection in her dressing table was one of cool elegance. She was satisfied by that. The last thing she wanted was to encourage Randal to think she might be an easy target.

She forced herself to eat some fruit and a slice of toast, then filled in the time before Randal arrived by checking that the cottage was scrupulously tidy, locking all the windows and doors apart from the front door. As she finished Randal drove up in his gleaming sports car.

Pippa’s heart missed a beat, she suddenly couldn’t breathe, but somehow she managed to pick up her weekend case and go out to meet him, locking the cottage door behind her. Randal got out of his car and took her case, put it in the boot, while, legs weak under her, she walked round to the passenger door and got into the front seat.

Randal slid in beside her, stretched those long, long legs of his, and started the engine again. She glanced sidelong at his lightweight pale blue linen jacket, the even paler trousers, exquisitely tailored, the smooth dark blue leather shoes which shrieked money. Randal was a luxury item from head to foot; he looked gorgeous. She looked at the supple, powerful hands on the wheel and had a heart-stopping flash of memory; those hands touching her as they had on the couch in the cottage, stroking her breasts while his mouth moved possessively on her bare skin.

She wrenched her gaze away and stared fixedly out of the window, shuddering.

She mustn’t let herself remember. She had to get over him, stop wanting him, stop loving him.

But how did she do that when every bone in