but she made the mistake of lifting her head to look at him. And then found herself mesmerised by the intimate image of her boss fresh from the bath. His hair was damp and ruffled, and he carried with him the faint tang of her ginger and lemon gel.
Isobel swallowed. ‘Bath okay?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘You didn’t bother telling me that you don’t have a shower.’
‘I guessed you find out soon enough.’
‘So I did,’ he growled. ‘It’s the most ancient bathroom I’ve used in years—and the water was tepid.’
‘Don’t they say that tepid baths are healthier?’
‘Do they?’ He looked around. ‘Where’s your TV?’
‘I don’t have one.’
‘You don’t have a TV?’
Isobel shot him a defensive look. ‘It isn’t mandatory, you know. There’s a whole wall of books over there. Help yourself to one of those.’
‘You mean
read?
’
‘That
is
what people usually do with books.’
With a short sigh of impatience, Tariq wandered over to examine the neat rows of titles which lined an entire wall of her sitting room.
The only things he ever read were financial papers or contracts, or business-related articles he caught up with when he was travelling. Occasionally his attention would be caught by some glossy car magazine, which would lure him into changing his latest model for something even more powerful. But he never read books. He had neither the time nor the inclination to lose himself in the world of fiction. He remembered that stupid story he’d read at school—about some animal which had been abandoned. He remembered the tears which had welled up in his eyes when its mother had been shot and the way he’d slammed the volume shut. Books made you
feel
things—and the only thing he wanted to feel right now were the tantalising curves of Izzy’s body.
But that was a
bad
idea. And he needed something to occupy his thoughts other than musing about what kind of underwear a woman like that would wear beneath her rather frumpy clothes.
In the end he forced himself to read a thriller—gratefulfor the novel’s rapid pace, which somehow seemed to suck him into an entirely believable story of a one-time lap dancer successfully nailing a high-profile banker for fraud. He was so engrossed in the tale that Izzy’s voice startled him, and he looked up to find her standing over him, her face all pink and shiny.
‘Mmm?’ he questioned, thinking how soft and kissable her lips looked.
‘Supper’s ready.’
‘Supper?’
‘You
do
eat supper?’
Actually he usually ate
dinner
—an elegant feast of a meal—rather than a large spoonful of glossy rice slapped on the centre of an earthy-looking plate. But to Tariq’s surprise he realised that he was hungry—and he enjoyed it more than he had expected. Afterwards Izzy heaped more logs on the fire, and they sat there in companionable silence while he picked up his novel and began to race through it again.
For Tariq, the days which followed his accident were unique. He’d been brought up in a closeted world of palaces and privilege, but now he found himself catapulted into an existence which seemed far more bizarre. His nights were spent alone, in an old and lumpy bed, yet he found he was sleeping late—something he rarely did, not even when he was jet-lagged. And the lack of a shower meant that he’d lie daydreaming in the bath in the mornings. In the cooling water of the rather cramped tub he would stretch out his long frame and listen to the sounds of birds singing outside the window. So that by the time he wandered downstairs it was to find his Titian-haired assistant bustling around with milk jugsand muesli, or asking him if he wanted to try the eggs from the local farm.
For the first time in a long time he felt
relaxed
—even if Izzy seemed so busy that she never seemed to stop. She was always doing
something
—cooking or cleaning or dealing with the e-mails which flooded in from the office, shielding him from all but the most
Isobel swallowed. ‘Bath okay?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘You didn’t bother telling me that you don’t have a shower.’
‘I guessed you find out soon enough.’
‘So I did,’ he growled. ‘It’s the most ancient bathroom I’ve used in years—and the water was tepid.’
‘Don’t they say that tepid baths are healthier?’
‘Do they?’ He looked around. ‘Where’s your TV?’
‘I don’t have one.’
‘You don’t have a TV?’
Isobel shot him a defensive look. ‘It isn’t mandatory, you know. There’s a whole wall of books over there. Help yourself to one of those.’
‘You mean
read?
’
‘That
is
what people usually do with books.’
With a short sigh of impatience, Tariq wandered over to examine the neat rows of titles which lined an entire wall of her sitting room.
The only things he ever read were financial papers or contracts, or business-related articles he caught up with when he was travelling. Occasionally his attention would be caught by some glossy car magazine, which would lure him into changing his latest model for something even more powerful. But he never read books. He had neither the time nor the inclination to lose himself in the world of fiction. He remembered that stupid story he’d read at school—about some animal which had been abandoned. He remembered the tears which had welled up in his eyes when its mother had been shot and the way he’d slammed the volume shut. Books made you
feel
things—and the only thing he wanted to feel right now were the tantalising curves of Izzy’s body.
But that was a
bad
idea. And he needed something to occupy his thoughts other than musing about what kind of underwear a woman like that would wear beneath her rather frumpy clothes.
In the end he forced himself to read a thriller—gratefulfor the novel’s rapid pace, which somehow seemed to suck him into an entirely believable story of a one-time lap dancer successfully nailing a high-profile banker for fraud. He was so engrossed in the tale that Izzy’s voice startled him, and he looked up to find her standing over him, her face all pink and shiny.
‘Mmm?’ he questioned, thinking how soft and kissable her lips looked.
‘Supper’s ready.’
‘Supper?’
‘You
do
eat supper?’
Actually he usually ate
dinner
—an elegant feast of a meal—rather than a large spoonful of glossy rice slapped on the centre of an earthy-looking plate. But to Tariq’s surprise he realised that he was hungry—and he enjoyed it more than he had expected. Afterwards Izzy heaped more logs on the fire, and they sat there in companionable silence while he picked up his novel and began to race through it again.
For Tariq, the days which followed his accident were unique. He’d been brought up in a closeted world of palaces and privilege, but now he found himself catapulted into an existence which seemed far more bizarre. His nights were spent alone, in an old and lumpy bed, yet he found he was sleeping late—something he rarely did, not even when he was jet-lagged. And the lack of a shower meant that he’d lie daydreaming in the bath in the mornings. In the cooling water of the rather cramped tub he would stretch out his long frame and listen to the sounds of birds singing outside the window. So that by the time he wandered downstairs it was to find his Titian-haired assistant bustling around with milk jugsand muesli, or asking him if he wanted to try the eggs from the local farm.
For the first time in a long time he felt
relaxed
—even if Izzy seemed so busy that she never seemed to stop. She was always doing
something
—cooking or cleaning or dealing with the e-mails which flooded in from the office, shielding him from all but the most