She was intensely aware of the sheer physical force of his presence. Once, before passion had played her false, she had responded to it fiercely: so fiercely that in disillusion she’d turned away from desire, fearing it as a traitor. She’d fought it, killed it. Or so she’d thought.

But now it was there again, not dead but only sleeping, waiting to be awoken by a certain note in a man’s voice. Not this man! she swore furiously to herself. But even as she made the vow she became conscious of his body, how lean and hard it was, how long his legs with their heavy thigh muscles just perceptible beneath the conservative suit. The touch of his fingers was light, but force seemed to stream through them so that she could think of nothing else but that, and what a man’s strength might mean to a woman in bed. Power in his hands, in his arms, in his loins…

She tried to blot out such thoughts but his will was stronger than hers. He seemed to have taken over her mind, giving her no choice but to see what he wanted her to see, and to reflect back that consciousness to him.

‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘Yes.’

As though in a trance, she murmured. ‘Never.’

‘Then he was not passionate?’

‘Who?’ she whispered.

‘Your husband.’

Her husband. Yes, of course, they had been discussing her husband. The world, which had vanished for a heated moment, seemed to settle back into place.

‘I won’t discuss him with you,’ she said, echoing words she’d spoken before because her mind was too confused to think of new ones.