Summary: Gin is fire… glowing, vibrant and full of life.

Harry Potter is ice… cool, distant and difficult to reach.

Harry knows that Gin is the last woman he would fall for. After all, apart from her beautiful eyes, what else does she have going for her? For her part, Gin hates the handsome man who has destroyed everything that made her happy. Then fate intervenes and Harry finds himself fathoms deep in love with the mysterious Ginevra Raven, but Ginevra seems to be the only woman who is immune to the irresistible Potter charm…

Chapter 19

Ginevra stood in front of the mirror and looked herself over. Since accepting Harry's dinner invitation, she'd typed up her report for Hermione Granger and posted it express, which had left her very little time to get ready. She had taken a quick shower and thoroughly shampooed and conditioned her hair, spending barely ten minutes on her make-up. Luckily she hadn't yet picked up many evening dresses or she might have panicked!

The dress she had chosen was of pale lilac, shot through with tiny threads of silver. It was of a light, floating material she couldn't for the life of her name, but it made the full skirt billow around he legs whenever she moved. The top of the dress consisted of two wide swathes of material that criss-crossed her breasts and tied behind her neck, leaving two, thin trailing ribbons to fall down her bare back, where the dress hugged her waist before flaring out at the skirt. With it she wore her mother's silver and amethyst bracelet on one of her bare arms, and her matching sliver and amethyst-drop earrings. She'd just managed to arrange her hair into an elegant French pleat when the doorbell rang.

On her feet were low sliver criss-cross shoes, and she picked up a matching sliver clutch bag which she quickly tucked underneath her arm. She looked good, her brain insisted. Chic. Sophisticated. If only her stomach didn't churn like a cement mixer!

The doorbell pierced the room again. Pulling herself together, she forced herself to walk serenely to the door. After all, it was going to be all right. She had an entrée into his world and life, and he was obviously taking the bait. Everything was going her way.

The moment she opened the door, he knew who she was. He found himself staring into eyes that he would never forget. The setting sun caressed her face, its orange light enhancing the echoing orange light in her eyes at last naked of concealing sunglasses.

Harry felt every muscle in his body tense, as if he'd turned a corner and found a crouching tiger right in his path. His blood began to pound in his veins, his quickening heart-beat pumping it into his arteries at a giddying speed. At the same time, everything masculine in him quivered to attention. She was so beautiful, shimmering gold, sliver and lilac in the sunlight. He had to keep blinking, just to keep his eyes focused on her.

Gin Weasley.

"What…?" even as he spoke, his brain leapt into action, stopping him from stammering out the obvious questions. Gin Weasley was at best an unknown

quantity, at worst an enemy. It could not be coincidence that they had met again, and certainly nothing like a coincidence that she had managed to secure for herself a place in his life. Aware that she was still waiting for him to speak, he cleared his throat. "What a constant surprise you're turning out to be, Miss Raven." He murmured, alone aware of the deeply painful irony of his words. Dimly, he felt his heart begin to sink, leaving him with a sickening feeling of soul-deep disappointment. What exactly was her game? He didn't know, but he was sure he wasn't going to like it. And no body, not even this woman was going to make a fool out of him.

Ginevra felt the air around her turn cold. He was looking at her in a way she'd never known before, and was it her imagination, or were his eyes like emerald green lasers of ice tonight? He was dressed in a black evening suit that was devastating with his colouring, and she felt her breath catch.

Harry was already beginning to fit the puzzling pieces of the jigsaw together, his astute mind working overtime. "I thought we'd try Charlie B's tonight – they've got some fresh squid in and a new folk singer everyone's been raving about."

Ginevra thought about squid, which, given the state of her stomach, was not the cleverest thing she'd ever done, then hastily moved on to folk singers. He was still watching her like a hawk, and she found her feet strangely reluctant to leave her doorstep. Somewhere, far in the back of her mind, a tiny voice was screaming at her to head for the hills, find herself a nice quiet spot, and bury herself there. But her eyes were locked on his – emerald-green and tiger-bright, clashing like ancient, age-old adversaries. And something else. Something more. Something heady… Ginevra took a harsh breath as, deep inside her womb, something stirred, stretching like a lazy cat after a long sleep. Fierce warmth invaded her lower body, making her knees feel weak. It travelled upwards, stiffening her nipples behind their flimsy covering, rushing up her neck, flushing her cheeks.

Harry watched, fascinated, as her nipples suddenly strained against her dress, and an answering savage kick landed in his loins. Quickly he turned away. He had to think. "Your carriage awaits." He said drolly, indicating the low sports car waiting on the road.

Pull yourself together, girl, Ginevra snapped at herself. But it was hard. He looked so dangerous tonight. His face was shuttered, his eyes blank. It was so unlike the other times they had met. Then, he'd seemed friendlier, almost teasing.

The sports car was low, smelled of real leather and wood, and felt very small. When he got in besides her, she could feel his knee brush against hers and she quickly stretched her long legs out in front of her as far as they would go.

"Seat-belt," he said quietly, and watched as she buckled up, his eyes moving from her ringless hands to the line of the belt across her breast, and up to her face. She looked pinched and nervous, as well as she might, he thought grimly. Yes, all the pieces were fitting into place. No wonder she jumped whenever he was near her – she probably couldn't stand even to have him breathe the same air. The thought, rather than give him a rueful satisfaction, made a hot lance of pain shoot across his chest.

Ginevra heard the car growl into life, and a moment later the G-forces pressed her back against the comfortable seat as they roared away from the kerb. She couldn't help but notice the fluid way he changed gear, the movement of the muscle in his thigh as he pressed down on the pedals, and her body flamed. When he pulled up outside Charlie B's she didn't wait for him to open the door for her but stumbled out on to the pavement, gasping in a great lung-full of air.

Harry watcher her, his eyes narrowing. Was it as bas as that for her? After finding Ravenheights deserted, he'd had Dean make a few general enquiries. He'd learnt of her sister's suicide, and then, sadly, the loss of her father soon afterwards. Deeply concerned, he'd had both deaths thoroughly investigated. That he'd learned about her sister's lifestyle in London had both surprised and depressed him. Learning of Arthur Weasley's heart troubles had angered him. A man with a bad heart shouldn't have been struggling to keep a farm going in the first place. He'd have bet his last dollar that Gin Weasley had had no idea of the true state of her father's illness.

Now, looking at her struggling for control, watching her walk up to him with that slightly swaying, utterly sexy walk of hers and smiling at him so winningly, he wondered how she'd managed it. She'd obviously put herself on a killer diet. Contact lenses instead of glasses. The hair… he hadn't even seen her hair, he realised now, his eyes moving to the sophisticated French pleat the rich red colour. He didn't think she had dyed it – her arching eyebrows were the same colour and… abruptly, he dragged his thoughts to a halt. What the hell was he doing, musing about her hair, when she was obviously out for his blood? And there could be no other explanation, of that he was sure. She probably blamed him for her father's death and certainly for the loss of her home. He remembered eyes full of tears and hate and pain as she'd driven off in that ridiculous sheep truck.

The eyes watching him now were smiling.

Full of lies.

Full of deceit.

And so very beautiful.

She'd played him well, he had to admit. Even with anger threatening to choke him, he had to admit that. Suddenly he smiled. It would do her good to remember that two could play that game. "I hope your hungry," he said, taking her arm into his. Where her side pressed against his, he felt her flesh quiver, and his smile widened. "Because I am. Very hungry," he added, almost on a whisper, ducking his head so that his lips were only a scant inch away from one small ear. She trembled.

Inside the restaurant, Ginevra began to relax. She ordered her meal, and listened as he selected the wines. When the rich red Bordeaux came, he filled her glass.

"I don't drink," she demurred softly.

"Oh?" his eyebrow shot up in surprise. "I still find that very hard to believe. Women of today…" he let the suggestion trail off, his eyes as hard as diamonds as they watched her squirm. Let her get out of that one.

Ginevra flushed. Damn, she should have known the women he knew would all be first class wine aficionados. Grimly she reached for her glass and took a tentative sip. It did little for her. "It's very… strong," she ventured, and Harry smiled. There was something both cruel and slightly shame faced about it, and Ginevra sensed that something was dreadfully wrong, but what? She hadn't made any mistakes, of that she was sure. Was he growing tired and bored of her already?

Harry raised the glass to his lips and drank. What was she thinking? No doubt she was congratulating herself on being so clever, and who could blame her? He'd let her walk all over him, leading him like a bull with a ring through his nose. But no more. The first few battles of the war might have gone to her, but she'd lost the element of surprise now. A slight frown gathered over his eyes. She was no match for him. It was going to be a hard lesson for her to learn, and something warned him like a niggling toothache that it was going to be just as hard for him to teach it to her.

"Drink up." He urged abruptly, not liking the direction in which his mind was turning. "There's a particularly delicious Cabernet to come." An enemy was an enemy. Tom had taught him that. And a beautiful woman was always particularly dangerous. He'd have to remember that, too.

Ginevra reluctantly took another sip of the horrible liquid, doing her best to look as if she was enjoying it. The evening had stated off badly. It was going to get worse.

Their first course came, and Ginevra stared in dismay at Harry's plate. It was covered with… she stared at it, sure she was wrong, but she wasn't. snails. Big, huge, enormous snails. She watched as he picked up a small, sliver pick and expertly and delicately skewered a garlic scented piece of flesh out of a shell. Quickly she looked away, this time taking a sip of her wine without any trouble. Her own plate of melon, passion fruit and Chinese gooseberries went untouched.

"Hummm…" Harry drawled his eyes half-closed with pleasure. "Escargots. French cuisine will always be the best, don't you agree Ginevra?" he asked softly, his eyes glinting wickedly as they watched every nuance of expression crossing her face.

"Oh, yes, of course," she agreed hastily.

"You must try this. It's delicious," Harry carried on, his voice soft and tender as he speared a piece of dark meat onto his sliver stick. Ginevra watched, horrified, as he leaned over the table with it, his eyes half-closed in pleasure, offering her the morsel with an indulgent smile.

It should have made her heart sting. The candlelight was romantic, their little corner table even more so. Most touching of all, he was feeding her from his own plate, just like in the movies. It was just what she had hoped for. But when she glanced at the silver stick and its grisly offering, her stomach did a double somersault.

Harry watched her predicament with a loving smile. She'd obviously gone to so much trouble to become a sophisticated woman of the world. The accent had been toned down, the walk, the clothes, the make-up, all pointed to a complete change in her lifestyle. It was the least he could do, he thought savagely, to continue her education. And a lesson in fine cuisine would surely help her new persona no end.

She didn't notice the ice-gleam in his eyes as she slowly, reluctantly, leaned across the table. Nor did she see him catch his breath as she slowly opened her lips and felt the moist morsel slip into her mouth. She bit down, quickly, once, twice, three times and swallowed the whole procedure over wit in a second. She shuddered graphically and quickly reached for her wine glass and took a good, hefty, gulp.

For an agonised moment she waited, sure she was going to do something totally ignominious like be sick, right there and then. But her stomach was made of stern stuff. She sighed in relief and opened her eyes. Quickly Harry looked down at his own plate, unable to keep the smile off his face.

He indicated to a waiter they'd finished and drained his wine glass. His strong fingers held the delicate stem with such finesse that she wondered if his fingers would be so adept on her body. Instantly, her whole being went into shock. Where had that thought come from? She could almost see, in the deepest, darkest part of her mind, his hands on her breasts, his fingers touching, stroking…

The wine waiter bought another bottle of fine vintage, and the next course came. Her own was whole trout with crab sauce. His was a dish of white, slippery, disgusting-looking squid. Ginevra almost got up and fled there and then. Only stubbornness and pride kept her seated.

"So, Ginevra. What part of Yorkshire do you come from?" he asked annoyed that the touch of her gaze alone was enough to make him break out in a fine sweat.

"Leeds." She lied abruptly.

He smiled and nodded. "Ahh. Leeds." If she'd visited that city more than three times, he'd eat her dress. The thought of chewing that lilac concoction right off her body made his loins surge with heat. He breathed in deeply, glad that their long tablecloth his reaction from her.

The lying, conniving, bloodthirsty little witch. God, she was beautiful.

He picked up his fork with an angry jerking movement and tasted the excellent squid. He glanced at her quickly, noting how she spread a delicate morsel of pale pink trout and quickly ate it. No doubt to chase away the taste of snails. He quickly hid his savage grin of satisfaction, and carefully speared a white piece of flesh onto his fork. "If you liked escargot" he murmured, and watched her head shoot up like a wary deer, such patent dismay crossing her lovely face that he had to fight hard not to laugh out loud, "you're going to adore what they do with squid here," he finished lovingly.

Ginevra fought a brief but savage urge to tell him exactly what she'd like him to do with his precious squid, and bit her lip. Hard. Again he leaned across the table, his expression one of indulgence and smouldering sexuality, as if they were already lovers. She longed to smash his face in with the nearest blunt object, but instead she opened her mouth obediently, and felt the seafood slither on to her tongue.

At least it wasn't octopus. The thought slipped into her mind before she could stop it, and she mad a small, desperate sound. Quickly she sat back, the movement forcing the squid to the back of her throat, and reflex took over. She swallowed it. Whole. As it went down, so it a gigantic shudder. Harry watched, fascinated, as the spectacular ripple of muscular reaction made her wonderful breasts moving beneath the clingy lilac chiffon. Quickly he looked down at his plate as she shot him a look which would have slain him on the spot, had he been foolish enough to meet it. He took a sip of wine, his lips pulling into a wide grin as he did so.

Ginevra felt a ridiculous urge to burst into tears come and slowly go. Angrily she reached for her glass of new wine and took a hearty swig. This wine went down better than the first. It felt warm and honey-like in her throat, but exploded like gelignite in her stomach.

"How much do you know about the real estate game Ginevra?" Harry asked quietly, and she looked at him sharply. Her eyes looked a little glazed now, but underneath the hardness was still there, he noticed angrily. Someone really had to take her in hand… The thought of taking her in his hands made his loins tighter even further.

"I know enough Mr Potter," she said, her voice hard. "And what I don't, I can learn very quickly."

"We agreed you would call me Harry, remember?" he reminded her softly, running his forefinger gently across the back of her hand. He saw her instinctive movement to pull her hand away, and then saw her change her mind. His lips pulled briefly into a tight, thin line. She just didn't know when to quit, did she? Then he was smiling again and Ginevra blinked helplessly. She had the distressing feeling that things were running away from her. With an effort she gathered her battered self-confidence together.

"I'm sure you are a quick learner, Ginevra," he said softly, just a hint of savage beneath the smooth-as-honey words. "You're also very beautiful. But then, you know that, don't you?" he added gruffly.

Ginevra's flush turned into a fully fledged blush. "Th- thank you," she said, and wondered where the stutter had come from. Lord, she was going to make a mess out of this. Quickly she reached for her wine glass and took another sip. "This ish very good," she said, and blinked. Had she just slurred a word? "So let's talk about Coldstream farm," she said, bravely trying to get back on track. "I take it you're prepared to make me an offer?"

Harry nodded. "I am." His voice was low and intimate. "But there's plenty of time to talk about boring old business." He promised, his smile utterly charming. His forefinger moved from her hand to slip under and stroke the delicate contours of her wrist. She shivered as ting tingles shot up her arm. Against her dress, her sensitised nipples rubbed against the dress material every time she breathed. She tried to stop breathing, but it didn't work. "You're a very sensual woman Ginevra," he said softly, wondering just how drunk she was. She looked up at him quickly, her eyes widening, reminding him of a myopic owl. She looked bewildered, almost stunned. A voice told him he should be ashamed of himself, taking advantage of her this way. Another, harder voice insisted she was getting everything that was coming to her. If she wanted to play in the big league, with the big boys…

"Me?" she laughed. Gin Weasley sensual. "No."

Harry tensed, touched by something deeply sad in her voice. "But you are." He insisted, taking her hand. This was what she wanted wasn't it? To get her beautiful sharp little hooks into him. Well let her think she had succeeded. And hadn't she? A small, laughing little voice piped up somewhere and was ruthlessly crushed.

But far from looking satisfied she looked stricken. Ginevra felt the touch of his lips on the inside of her palm, and everything changed. She knew it, but fought against it like a wild thing. "Don't." she said, her voice choked with hatred and self-loathing. "I…I… cant."

Harry tensed, sensing her confusion. "You can't what?" he urged softly, all the savage anger in him draining away.

Ginevra shook her head. "I… I… lord, I think I'm drunk. Will you take me home pleash… please?"

For a second Harry wanted to shake her. Why didn't she give it up? "Yes, I think its time we called it a night." He agreed brusquely.

Once outside in the cold night air, she nearly took a nosedive down the steps. Only the quick, strong hand that Harry slipped under her elbow stopped her from landing in the gutter. "I'm sorry." She said her voice as tiny as that of a field mouse. "I don't usually… act like this." In the moonlight he could see tears glistening in her eyes.

His jaw tight, he guided her to the car and drove her home, a small, tiny tic fluttering in his cheek. He wanted her so badly it actually made his whole body ache. He helped her out, holding onto her as she swayed slightly. At the front entrance, he reached for her bag, extracted the key and pushed open the door. "Goodnight Ginevra." He said, his voice carefully devoid of all emotion and she looked at him blankly, desperately trying to concentrate. Wasn't he supposed to kiss her?

"Goodnight Harry." She said and leaned forward, putting one steadying hand on to his chest and lifting her lips obediently for his touch.

"Ginevra." He said warningly, but she was too quick. Clumsily she aimed her mouth at his, crossed her fingers, and sucked. Her lips, whether guided by destiny, instinct or subconscious design, landed squarely on his own. Without thinking, his arms came around her, holding her against him, her tall length a perfect match for his height, her generous breast pressed against his chest. Urgently he opened her lips beneath his and their tongues met. She made a brief surprised sound, half-pulled away, and then thrust against him again. His fingers splayed out over her bare back and his eyes shut, closing out the world. For a long, long moment they kissed, each oblivious to the reality that awaited them.

Ginevra found the taste of his lips and kiss more heady than any wine. Her heartbeat roared in her ears, but she clung to him, unable to pull away, unable to even think a single coherent thought. Suddenly, Harry thrust her aside. She felt the cold rush of air hit her like a battering ram and her eyes flew open. Sanity, sobriety and reality returned. For a long, long second their eyes remained locked together, hers appalled and bewildered, his hard and troubled.

"Goodnight Ginevra." He said again, his voice unmistakably husky. It was only when he'd got back in the car and was heading for the hotel that he wondered why he had not said goodbye instead.