‘You must be in a hurry to get back to the office.’
‘Anxious to get rid of me, are you?’
‘I wouldn’t be so rude.’
‘The impeccably mannered Miss French,’ he drawled slowly. ‘I think you’d be quite a lot of things that would surprise both of us—given favourable conditions.’
This thinly veiled reference to her recent wanton behaviour was enough to send her almost tumbling from the car in her anxiety to escape. He was almost as fast as her and much better co-ordinated; by the time she’d opened the rear door to help Charlie out, he had already scooped the uncharacteristically passive child into his arms.
‘Lead the way,’ he said cheerfully. Charlie giggled as he swung her around.
‘You’ll make her throw up.’ Rachel pursed her lips and refused to enter into the spirit of things.
She didn’t like being manipulated and she fumed quietly whilst she did as he requested—at least it had sounded like a request, but she knew an order when she heard one, no matter how sneakily it was dressed up.
She was doing it again—letting him into her home—and this time she knew exactly how dangerous he was! If she’d been the sort of young woman to indulge in misty optimism Rachel might have told herself that nothing had changed, but she had a much more realistic approach to life. She knew that walking away from that short burst of beautiful hormonal insanity back there would require good judgement and careful handling. She was pretty sure she wasn’t capable of either just now.
‘Make yourself at home, won’t you?’ she said sweetly as, much to her annoyance, he placed Charlie at one end of the sofa and claimed the other end for himself. For once Charlie seemed prepared to tolerate adult foolishness as he tickled her feet which lay in his lap.
‘Sure I’m not intruding?’
‘Would it make much difference if I said yes?’ What did a few kisses mean to him? A great big nothing—the answer was depressingly obvious.
He strolled into the kitchen a few seconds later and spoilt her efforts to regain her serenity. ‘Charlie sent me to say she would like a milkshake, preferably chocolate.’
‘I’m not at all sure I should reward her after what she’s done.’ She continued to clatter around.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Making a cup of tea.’
‘Looks to me like you’re just rearranging the cups.’
‘I don’t recall inviting you into my kitchen. It’s too small and you’re…you’re too…too big,’ she ended feebly.
What was she supposed to say? Having you this close is driving me to distraction? All I can think about is the way you tasted, the way you felt…?
‘I’m a genetic throwback to my grandfather,’ he explained apologetically. ‘He was Australian, of Italian extraction—a big man by all accounts. My sister’s the same, but Tom, my big brother, never made it past five ten. I think it’s the scent that’s heightened in an enclosed space.’ The words emerged suddenly and his eyes widened with shock as though he was as surprised as she was to hear them.
‘What?’
He wasn’t looking at her; his eyes were fixed grimly on his own hands, and that muscle beside his mouth had begun to throb again. ‘Even after you’ve left a room it lingers, but in an enclosed space like this—or the car—it drives me crazy. It’s so distinctive—not the pretty flowery stuff but that warm female smell that comes off your body.’ His words emerged in uneven staccato bursts and his fingers, as they gripped the stem of a glass he’d idly picked off the draining-board, were white. Suddenly the stem cracked with a noise like a pistol shot.
‘Sorry.’
‘You’re bleeding,’ she said hoarsely as she watched the scarlet drops land on the white counter. He was watching the flow of blood with a peculiar lack of interest. ‘Here, put it under the cold water.’ She grabbed his wrist and thrust his hand under the tap.
‘Florence Nightingale.’
‘I could hardly watch you bleed to death in my kitchen,’ she said gruffly. His forearm was covered in fine dark hairs; they felt surprisingly soft under her fingers. Stroking couldn’t be designated as first aid, she told herself firmly, stifling some very strong urges in that direction.
‘It’s only a scratch.’
‘That’s very brave and macho of you, but it looks pretty deep to me,’ she said worriedly. ‘I’ve got a first-aid kit in the bathroom; don’t go away.’
‘It’s good to be wanted.’
Wanted? If he knew the half of it…! Then again she’d not been exactly subtle so he probably did. As she rushed through the living room Charlie was engrossed in her favourite video. She ought to be concentrating on sorting out the latest disaster in her child’s life—fighting, for heaven’s sake! Instead what was she doing? Mooning over some beautiful body dangerously attached to a cunning mind.