Lean on Me (The Mackay Sisters) by Angela Verdenius Page B

split second, but it was
undeniable.  Shame.  Shame had been in her eyes.
    That shame was enough to push down
his rising lust, to make him realise there was more going on with her than just
a knee-jerk reaction to their closeness.
    It all happened so fast that
anyone watching would have thought nothing of it, but he knew.  He felt the
tension in her, knew she’d move away from him as soon as she could, but he
wasn’t about to let her retreat, not of her own accord.  Not yet.
    He wasn’t about to release her.
    But he didn’t want her to panic,
didn’t want to push the issue if there was an issue to push.  And that was the
whole problem, he didn’t quite know what to think of her reactions, he needed
to be alone to sort them out in his mind, to mull over the puzzle of Lori
Mackay.
    But first things first, regardless
of her reactions he wanted her to know he cared, so he did it in a way that she
couldn’t very well refuse unless she openly fought him, which he strongly
doubted.
    “Come on, love,” he said crisply. 
“I’ll help you back to your room.”
    Her eyes flashed to his.  “What?”
    Moving smoothly, he slid his arm around
her waist once more.  “Lean on me and I’ll help you back to bed.”
    Flustered, she began the protests
he expected.  “Matt, no, I can do this myself, I-”
    With ease he just moved her
forward, steering her through the doorway so that all she could do was limp
along beside him, protesting all the way.
    “Which room is yours?” he queried
as they entered the hall.
    “Matt, I-”
    “Lori, I’m not leaving you to limp
around with a twisted ankle.  Now which room?”
    “I really don’t think this is
appropriate.”  Her cheeks were their usual red colour.
    “I’m an ambo, love.  I’ve been in
more bedrooms and seen more states of undress than you can imagine.  Now, your
room?”
    She opened her mouth, closed it,
and finally mumbled, “Last room on the right.”
    It was only a short distance but
he enjoyed every step.  He’d be a liar not to admit that to at least himself. 
The soap she’d used that morning was drifting up off her, making him want to
lean down and bury his nose against her neck and inhale deeply of the combined
scent of warm Lori and fresh soap.
    One day , he promised
himself silently.  One day soon .
    Meanwhile, he had to keep control
of his expressions and actions and see her tucked into bed.  Almost immediately
he had to slam a mental door on the image that thought produced in his
mind.  Dirty, dirty thoughts that certainly had no place right now.
    Her bedroom was larger than he’d
thought it would be, holding an old world charm.  The double bed had the doona
over it but he could see the rumpled area that Lori had thrown back and redrawn
up after she’d gotten out.  The pillow held the indent of her head.  The
curtains at the window matched the bedspread, little pink roses on a white
background.  The furniture was old, no doubt from her grandmother, and there
was even a deep armchair in the corner, a white doily on the back of it and a
small blanket folded on the seat.  A painting of a basket of daisies on one
wall, another of a garden scene from a window on the other wall.  An
old-fashioned Tiffany lamp on the bedside table, a paperback lying beside it. 
The carpet was soft grey.  The dressing table was old, dark, the mirror
reflecting the room.  On the top stood several perfume bottles and a small silver
tray holding a few pieces of jewellery.  A small vase held a single rosebud.
    It was an old-fashioned room that
suited Lori, soft and feminine.  He could just imagine her sitting on the end
of the big bed, a silky nightgown half off her shapely shoulders as she
reclined back on the bed, the gauzy material not hiding her rounded limbs one
little bit, her breasts pushing against that bodice as she arched back, that
brown hair sliding over her shoulders and her eyes half shut as she regarded
him from beneath those thick