spicy fragrance permeated the air.
It was as if a cellar had been opened to let in the sunshine.
He slammed the door on his overactive imagination. Shaking his head at the absurdity, he strode to the kitchen. What the hell was wrong with him? He despised clutter. Didn’t tolerate disorganised people. The squalid mess of his childhood would live with him for the rest of his life.
Three weeks. For art’s sake he could manage three weeks. And what was that about compromise? She obviously had no idea of the meaning of the word…What was that odour?
He glared at the two containers as he yanked them out of themicrowave. One hot gourmet dinner and one ruined tray of greying prime fillet steak, steamed beyond redemption. Blast it.
‘What’s that smell?’ Didi appeared at the door with the cat in her arms and wrinkling her nose.
‘Charlie’s dinner. What say we eat out? My treat.’ He whisked the remaining gourmet plate to the back of the bench then, grabbing a knife, he sliced the plastic off the other tray, cut the meat into chunks, put it on a saucer.
‘Sounds good.’ Then her perky voice altered. ‘Ooh,’ she almost crooned, the sound washing through him like liquid sex, causing his hand to slip on the knife. ‘You didn’t have to go to so much trouble for Charlie. I’ve got plenty of cat food.’
He set the saucer on the floor, noticing a pair of bare feet approach as he did so. ‘I won’t be making a habit of it,’ he muttered. She had gold nail polish on her toes, he noticed, with little black snowflakes in the middle of each. Slim ankles, shapely calves—
Four white furry paws bounded into view and the feet moved away as he straightened up to clear the empty meat tray, but Didi got there first.
‘Cameron. That steak wasn’t for Charlie, was it?’ She was smoothing out the plastic wrap and checking the price sticker. ‘Come on, fess up. Even with your wealth you wouldn’t pay mega bucks for a cat’s dinner. You wouldn’t pay for a cat’s dinner at all if you had your way.’
To his chagrin he watched her lean over the counter top and check out the second container: the gourmet meal. ‘Hey, I’m guessing you took out the wrong container. So you made a mistake—no big deal.’ She grinned at him through silky gold lashes, her eyes slightly unfocused. ‘Why do you feel you need to play Mr Perfecto in your own home? There’s only you and me here.’
He was all too aware of that fact, which for some reason had every hair on his body rising, not to mention his blood pressure, and other bodily parts.
He snatched the empty container and plastic out from beneath her hands, catching a whiff of alcohol on her breath as he dumped them in the kitchen bin. Was the woman tipsy on one glass?
‘Maintain the Image, perhaps?’ she went on when he didn’t reply, waving one end of her chiffon scarf. ‘I bet you maintain that Mr Perfecto image in your sleep. All buttoned up and stiff…’
Registering the tiny hitch in her breath, he swivelled his head to see her soft cheeks suffused with instant colour. Right on the mark.
He turned away, moved to the sink to rinse the mugs left over from breakfast and said the first thing that sprang to his lips. ‘What do you feel like eating?’
‘Whatever you’re having.’ Her voice had dropped a notch, turned husky.
His fingers slipped on the mug he was drying as her words slid over him, through him. Ropes of fire snaked along his veins, tugging at his libido, stampeding his imagination into savage, steamy life. Didi riding him, her hair wild, long legs spurring him on, unbuttoning his image with quick deft hands…
He closed his eyes. Very carefully set the mug down. Unclenched his teeth. Wiped his hands on the towel and sent up a silent prayer for sanity.
No doubt about it, she was tipsy. What had he been thinking, giving her champagne on an empty stomach? That’s it, focus on practicalities. ‘You didn’t eat lunch,’ he barked. ‘I told you to
It was as if a cellar had been opened to let in the sunshine.
He slammed the door on his overactive imagination. Shaking his head at the absurdity, he strode to the kitchen. What the hell was wrong with him? He despised clutter. Didn’t tolerate disorganised people. The squalid mess of his childhood would live with him for the rest of his life.
Three weeks. For art’s sake he could manage three weeks. And what was that about compromise? She obviously had no idea of the meaning of the word…What was that odour?
He glared at the two containers as he yanked them out of themicrowave. One hot gourmet dinner and one ruined tray of greying prime fillet steak, steamed beyond redemption. Blast it.
‘What’s that smell?’ Didi appeared at the door with the cat in her arms and wrinkling her nose.
‘Charlie’s dinner. What say we eat out? My treat.’ He whisked the remaining gourmet plate to the back of the bench then, grabbing a knife, he sliced the plastic off the other tray, cut the meat into chunks, put it on a saucer.
‘Sounds good.’ Then her perky voice altered. ‘Ooh,’ she almost crooned, the sound washing through him like liquid sex, causing his hand to slip on the knife. ‘You didn’t have to go to so much trouble for Charlie. I’ve got plenty of cat food.’
He set the saucer on the floor, noticing a pair of bare feet approach as he did so. ‘I won’t be making a habit of it,’ he muttered. She had gold nail polish on her toes, he noticed, with little black snowflakes in the middle of each. Slim ankles, shapely calves—
Four white furry paws bounded into view and the feet moved away as he straightened up to clear the empty meat tray, but Didi got there first.
‘Cameron. That steak wasn’t for Charlie, was it?’ She was smoothing out the plastic wrap and checking the price sticker. ‘Come on, fess up. Even with your wealth you wouldn’t pay mega bucks for a cat’s dinner. You wouldn’t pay for a cat’s dinner at all if you had your way.’
To his chagrin he watched her lean over the counter top and check out the second container: the gourmet meal. ‘Hey, I’m guessing you took out the wrong container. So you made a mistake—no big deal.’ She grinned at him through silky gold lashes, her eyes slightly unfocused. ‘Why do you feel you need to play Mr Perfecto in your own home? There’s only you and me here.’
He was all too aware of that fact, which for some reason had every hair on his body rising, not to mention his blood pressure, and other bodily parts.
He snatched the empty container and plastic out from beneath her hands, catching a whiff of alcohol on her breath as he dumped them in the kitchen bin. Was the woman tipsy on one glass?
‘Maintain the Image, perhaps?’ she went on when he didn’t reply, waving one end of her chiffon scarf. ‘I bet you maintain that Mr Perfecto image in your sleep. All buttoned up and stiff…’
Registering the tiny hitch in her breath, he swivelled his head to see her soft cheeks suffused with instant colour. Right on the mark.
He turned away, moved to the sink to rinse the mugs left over from breakfast and said the first thing that sprang to his lips. ‘What do you feel like eating?’
‘Whatever you’re having.’ Her voice had dropped a notch, turned husky.
His fingers slipped on the mug he was drying as her words slid over him, through him. Ropes of fire snaked along his veins, tugging at his libido, stampeding his imagination into savage, steamy life. Didi riding him, her hair wild, long legs spurring him on, unbuttoning his image with quick deft hands…
He closed his eyes. Very carefully set the mug down. Unclenched his teeth. Wiped his hands on the towel and sent up a silent prayer for sanity.
No doubt about it, she was tipsy. What had he been thinking, giving her champagne on an empty stomach? That’s it, focus on practicalities. ‘You didn’t eat lunch,’ he barked. ‘I told you to
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