necessary requests.
‘Why don’t you loosen up a little?’ he questioned one morning, glancing up from his latest thriller to see her cleaning out the grate, a fine cloud of coal dust billowing around her.
Izzy pushed a stray strand of hair from out of her eyes with her elbow. Because action distracted her from obsessing about his general gorgeousness, that was why. And because she was afraid that if she allowed herself to stop then she might never get going again.
What did he expect her to do all day? Sit staring as he sprawled over her sofa, subjecting her to a closer-than-was comfortable view of his muscular body? Watch as he shifted one powerful thigh onto the other, thus drawing attention to the mysterious bulge at the crotch of his jeans? A place she knew she shouldn’t be looking—which, of course, made it all the more difficult not to. She felt guilty and ashamed at the wayward path of her thoughts, and began to wonder if he had cast some kind of spell on her. Suddenly the clingy behaviour of some of his ex-lovers became a little more understandable.
Her nights weren’t much better. How could they be when she knew that Tariq was lying in bed in the room next door? Hadn’t she already experienced the disturbing episode of him wandering out of the bathroom onemorning with nothing but a small towel strung low around his hips?
Tiny droplets of water had clung to his hard, olive-skinned torso, and Isobel’s heart had thumped like a piston as she’d surveyed his perfect physique. She’d briefly thought of suggesting that perhaps he ought to be using a bigger towel. But wouldn’t that have sounded awfully presumptuous? In the end, she had just mumbled, ‘Good morning …’ and hurried past him, terrified that he would see the telltale flush of desire in her cheeks.
Almost overnight the cool neutrality she’d felt towards her boss had been replaced with new and scary sensations. She felt almost molten with longing whenever she looked at him—yet at the same time she resented these disturbing new feelings. Why couldn’t she have felt this sharp sense of desire with other men? Decent, reliable men? The kind of men she usually dated and who inevitably left her completely cold? Why the hell did it have to be
him?
‘Izzy?’ His deep voice broke into her disturbed thoughts. ‘Why don’t you sit down and relax?’
‘Oh, I’m happier when I’m working,’ she hedged, as she swept more dust out of the fireplace. ‘Anyway, we’re going back to London tomorrow.’
‘We are?’ He put his book down and frowned. ‘Has it really been a week?’
‘Well, five days, actually—but you certainly seem better.’
‘I feel better,’ he said, acknowledging that this was something of an understatement. He hadn’t felt like this in years—as if every one of his senses had been retuned and polished. He was looking forward to getting back to London and hitting the ground running.
But his last night in Izzy’s little cottage was restless, and the sound sleep he’d previously enjoyed seemed to elude him. Inexplicably, he found himself experiencing a kind of regret that he wouldn’t ever sleep in this old-fashioned bed again, beneath the flower-sprigged linen. He lay awake, wondering if he was imagining the sound of Izzy moving in her sleep next door, her slim, pale limbs tossing and turning. Maybe he was—but he certainly wasn’t imagining his reaction to those thoughts.
With a small groan he turned onto his side, and then onto his stomach—feeling the rising heat of yet another erection pressing against the mattress. It had been like this for most of the week, and it had been hell. Night after night he’d imagined parting Izzy’s pale thighs and sliding his hot, hard heat into her exquisite warmth. He swallowed as the tightness increased. Was his body so starved of physical pleasure that he should become fixated on a woman simply because she happened to be
around?
Yet what other explanation could
‘Why don’t you loosen up a little?’ he questioned one morning, glancing up from his latest thriller to see her cleaning out the grate, a fine cloud of coal dust billowing around her.
Izzy pushed a stray strand of hair from out of her eyes with her elbow. Because action distracted her from obsessing about his general gorgeousness, that was why. And because she was afraid that if she allowed herself to stop then she might never get going again.
What did he expect her to do all day? Sit staring as he sprawled over her sofa, subjecting her to a closer-than-was comfortable view of his muscular body? Watch as he shifted one powerful thigh onto the other, thus drawing attention to the mysterious bulge at the crotch of his jeans? A place she knew she shouldn’t be looking—which, of course, made it all the more difficult not to. She felt guilty and ashamed at the wayward path of her thoughts, and began to wonder if he had cast some kind of spell on her. Suddenly the clingy behaviour of some of his ex-lovers became a little more understandable.
Her nights weren’t much better. How could they be when she knew that Tariq was lying in bed in the room next door? Hadn’t she already experienced the disturbing episode of him wandering out of the bathroom onemorning with nothing but a small towel strung low around his hips?
Tiny droplets of water had clung to his hard, olive-skinned torso, and Isobel’s heart had thumped like a piston as she’d surveyed his perfect physique. She’d briefly thought of suggesting that perhaps he ought to be using a bigger towel. But wouldn’t that have sounded awfully presumptuous? In the end, she had just mumbled, ‘Good morning …’ and hurried past him, terrified that he would see the telltale flush of desire in her cheeks.
Almost overnight the cool neutrality she’d felt towards her boss had been replaced with new and scary sensations. She felt almost molten with longing whenever she looked at him—yet at the same time she resented these disturbing new feelings. Why couldn’t she have felt this sharp sense of desire with other men? Decent, reliable men? The kind of men she usually dated and who inevitably left her completely cold? Why the hell did it have to be
him?
‘Izzy?’ His deep voice broke into her disturbed thoughts. ‘Why don’t you sit down and relax?’
‘Oh, I’m happier when I’m working,’ she hedged, as she swept more dust out of the fireplace. ‘Anyway, we’re going back to London tomorrow.’
‘We are?’ He put his book down and frowned. ‘Has it really been a week?’
‘Well, five days, actually—but you certainly seem better.’
‘I feel better,’ he said, acknowledging that this was something of an understatement. He hadn’t felt like this in years—as if every one of his senses had been retuned and polished. He was looking forward to getting back to London and hitting the ground running.
But his last night in Izzy’s little cottage was restless, and the sound sleep he’d previously enjoyed seemed to elude him. Inexplicably, he found himself experiencing a kind of regret that he wouldn’t ever sleep in this old-fashioned bed again, beneath the flower-sprigged linen. He lay awake, wondering if he was imagining the sound of Izzy moving in her sleep next door, her slim, pale limbs tossing and turning. Maybe he was—but he certainly wasn’t imagining his reaction to those thoughts.
With a small groan he turned onto his side, and then onto his stomach—feeling the rising heat of yet another erection pressing against the mattress. It had been like this for most of the week, and it had been hell. Night after night he’d imagined parting Izzy’s pale thighs and sliding his hot, hard heat into her exquisite warmth. He swallowed as the tightness increased. Was his body so starved of physical pleasure that he should become fixated on a woman simply because she happened to be
around?
Yet what other explanation could
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