One Bridegroom Required!

by Sharon Kendrick

  She couldn’t think of a thing. She felt like wrapping her arms tightly around his neck to thank him for his generosity, but the thought of how he might react to that made her feel slightly nervous. There was something about Luke Goodwin which didn’t invite affection from women. Sex, maybe, but not affection. ‘What can I say?’ she managed eventually. ‘Other than a big thank you?’

  ‘Promise me that if you can’t cope, then you’ll call on me.’

  ‘But I don’t know where you live.’

  ‘Come here,’ he said softly. He gestured for her to join him by the window, where the yellow light was fast fading like a dying match in the winter sky. He pointed. ‘See that house through the arched hedge?’

  It was difficult not to—the place was a mansion by most people’s standards! ‘That’s yours?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, it is. So if it all gets too much, or if you change your mind, then just walk on right up to the door and knock. Any time.’ Blue eyes fixed her with their piercing blaze. ‘And you’ll be quite safe there—I promise. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ Holly agreed slowly, though instinct told her that seeking help from a man like Luke might have its own particular drawbacks.

  CHAPTER THREE

  AS SOON as Luke got home, he phoned Doug Reasdale, his late uncle’s letting agent—a man he had just about been able to tolerate down the echoed lines of a long-distance phone call from Africa. He suspected that this time around he might have a little difficulty hanging onto his temper.

  ‘Doug? It’s Luke Goodwin here.’

  ‘Luke!’ oozed Doug effusively. ‘Well, what do you know? Hi, man—how’s it going? Good to have you back!’

  ‘After sixteen years away, you mean?’ observed Luke rather drily. He had met Doug once, briefly, when he had flown over for his uncle’s funeral earlier in the year. Luke and the agent were about the same age, which Doug had obviously taken as a sign of true male camaraderie since he had spent the afternoon being relentlessly chummy and drinking whisky like water.

  ‘It’s actually very good to be back,’ Luke said, realising to his surprise that he meant it.

  ‘So what can I do you for?’ quizzed Doug. ‘House okay?’

  ‘The house is fine. Beautiful, in fact.’ He paused. ‘I’m not ringing about the house.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Does the name Holly Lovelace ring a bell?’

  There was a low whistling noise down the phone.

  ‘Reddish hair and big green eyes? Legs that go on for ever? Breasts you could spend the rest of your life dreaming about? Just taken over the lease of the vacant shop?’ laughed Doug raucously. ‘Tell me about her!’

  Luke’s skin chilled and he was filled with an uncharacteristic urge to do violence. ‘Is it customary to speak about leaseholders in such an over-familiar manner?’ he asked coldly.

  Doug clearly did not have the most sensitive antennae in the world. ‘Well, no,’ he admitted breezily. ‘Not usually. But then they don’t usually look like Holly Lovelace.’ His voice deepened. ‘Mind you—not that I think she’s much of a goer—’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Luke spoke with all the iced disapproval and disbelief he could muster.

  ‘Well, she’s got that kind of wild and free look—know what I mean? Wears those floaty kind of dresses—but oddly enough she was as prim as a nun the day I took her to lunch.’

  ‘You took her out to lunch?’ Luke demanded incredulously.

  ‘Sure. Can you blame me?’

  Luke ignored the question. ‘And do you do that with all prospective leaseholders?’

  ‘Well, no, actually.’ Doug gave a nervous laugh. ‘But, like I said, she’s not someone you’d forget in a hurry.’

  Luke forced himself to concentrate on the matter in hand, and not on how much he was going to enjoy firing his land agent once he had found a suitable replacement. ‘What do you think of the current condition of the property, Doug?’

  Another nervous laugh. ‘It’s been empty for ages.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, and that doesn’t really answer my question—what do you think of the condition?’

  ‘It’s basic,’ Doug admitted. ‘But that’s why she got it so cheap—’

  ‘Basic? The place is a slum! The roof in the upstairs flat is leaking,’ he said coldly. ‘Were you aware?’

  ‘I knew there—’

  ‘The window-frames are ill-fitting and the furniture looks like it’s been salvaged from the local dump,’ interrupted Luke savagely. ‘I want everything fixed that can be fixed, and replaced if it can’t. And I want it done yesterday!’

  ‘But that’s going to cost you money!’ objected Doug. ‘A lot of money.’

  ‘I’d managed to work that out for myself,’ drawled Luke.

  ‘And it’s going to eat into your profit margins, Luke.’

  Luke kept his voice low. ‘I don’t make profit on other people’s misery or discomfort,’ he said. ‘And I don’t want a woman staying in a flat that is cold and damp. If she gets cold or gets sick, then it isn’t going to be on my conscience. Got that?’

  ‘Er—got it,’ said Doug, and began to chew on a fingernail.

  ‘How soon can it be done?’

  Doug thought of local decorators who owed him; carpenters who would be pleased to work for the new owner of Apson House. Maybe it was time to call in a few favours. And he suspected that his job might be on the line if he didn’t come up with something sharpish. ‘I can have it fixed in under a month!’ he hazarded wildly.

  ‘Not good enough!’ Luke snapped.

  ‘But good craftsmen get booked up ages in advance,’ objected Doug.

  ‘Then pay them enough so that they’ll unbook!’

  ‘Er—right. Would a fortnight be okay?’

  ‘Is that a definite?’

  ‘I’ll make sure it is,’ promised Doug nervously.

  ‘Just do that!’ And Luke put the phone down roughly in its cradle.

  Holly washed out the two mugs she and Luke had used, put them on the drainer to dry, then set about trying to make the place halfway habitable before all the thin afternoon light faded from the sky.

  The ‘hot’ water was more tepid than hot, so she boiled up a kettle, added the water to plenty of disinfectant and cleaning solution in a bucket, and began to wipe down all the surfaces in the kitchen. Next she scrubbed the bathroom from top to bottom, until her fingers were sore and aching and she thought she’d better stop. Her hands were her livelihood and she had to look after them.

  She sat back on her heels on the scruffy linoleum floor and wondered how many kettles of water it would take to fill the bath. Too many! she thought ruefully. She had better start boiling now, and make her bed up while she was waiting.

  She gathered together clean sheets and pillowcases and took them into the bedroom, and was just about to make a start when she noticed a dark patch on the mattress and bent over to examine it. Closer inspection revealed that it was nothing more sinister than water from a tiny leak in the ceiling, but she couldn’t possibly sleep on a damp mattress—which left the floor.

  She bit her lip, trying not to feel pathetic, but she was close to tears and it was no one’s fault but her own. Not only had she stupidly rented a flat which looked like a slum, but she had brought very little in the way of entertainment with her, and even the light was too poor to sew by. The only book in her possession was some depressing prize-winner she had been given as a present before she left, and a long Sunday evening yawned ahead of her. And now she couldn’t even crash out at the earliest opportunity because the bed was uainhabitable!

  So, did she start howling her eyes out and opt for sleeping on the floor? Or did she start acting like a modern, independent woman, and take Luke Goodwin up on his offer of a bed?

  Without giving herself time to change her mind, she pulled on a sweater, bundled on a waterproof jacket, and set off to find him.

  Luke was sitting at the desk in the first-floor study, working on some of his late uncle’s p
apers, when a movement caught his attention, and he started with guilty pleasure, his eyes focussing in the gloomy light as he saw Holly walk through the leafy arch towards his house.

  He watched her closely. With her long legs striding out in blue denim, she looked the epitome of the modern, determined woman. And so at odds with the fragility of her features, the wild copper confusion of the hair which the winter wind had whipped up in a red storm around her face.

  He ran downstairs and pulled the front door open before she’d even had time to knock. He saw that she was white-faced with fatigue, and the dark smudges underneath the eyes matched the dusty marks which were painted on her cheeks like a clown. Again, that unwanted feeling of protectiveness kicked in like a mule. That and desire.

  For a split second he felt the strongest urge to just shut the door in her face, telling himself that he was perfectly within his rights to do so. That he owed her nothing. But then her dark lashes shuddered down over the slanting emerald eyes and he found himself stepping back like a footman

  ‘Changed your mind about staying?’ he asked softly, though he noticed that she carried no overnight bag.

  ‘I had it changed for me,’ she told him unsteadily. ‘And you’re right—it is a dump! There’s no hot water, there’s a big patch of damp on the mattress and springs sticking through it! And before you point anything else out, I admit I should have checked it out better—insisted it be cleaned out before my arrival, or something. And I came ill prepared. No radio, no television, and the only book I brought with me is buried at the bottom of a suitcase I daren’t unpack because there’s nowhere to put anything! Just don’t make fun of me, Luke, not tonight—because I don’t think I can cope with it.’

  He heard the slight quaver in her voice and saw the way her mouth buckled into a purely instinctive little pout. He thought how irresistible she was, with her powerful brand of vulnerability coupled with that lazy-eyed sensuality. ‘Come in,’ he growled quietly, and held the door open for her. ‘I have no intention of making fun of you. I’d much rather you came here than have you suffering in silence.’

  ‘Would you? Honestly?’

  ‘Yes,’ he lied, as he felt his pulse drumming heavily against the thin skin around his temple. Irresistibly, he let his eyes drift over her. ‘You look like you could use a hot tub—or maybe you’d prefer a drink first?’

  “That’s real fairy-godmother language.’ She smiled at him, thankful that he hadn’t seen fit to deliver another lecture. ‘I’d like the hottest, deepest bath on offer!’

  ‘A bath it is, then. Come upstairs with me.’ His eyes glinted with humour. ‘God—I do sound like Bluebeard, don’t I?’

  ‘Who is this Bluebeard?’ she quizzed mischievously, her eyes sparking as she followed him upstairs, automatically running a slow finger along the gleaming bannister. ‘Nice staircase.’

  Nice house in general. It soon became obvious that no money had been spared in modernising the place. The paintwork was clean and sparkling and the floorboards had been polished to within an inch of their lives.

  He led her to the biggest bathroom Holly had ever seen, with an elegant free-standing bath painted a deep cobalt blue, and enough bottles of scent and bath essence to start a parfumerie. He pulled open the door to an airing cupboard where soft piles of snowy towels lay stacked on shelves.

  Holly looked round her with pleasure, feeling like Cinderella ‘Mmm! Sybaritic!’

  ‘Did you bring anything to change into?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘You mean—like pyjamas?’

  He found that he couldn’t look her in the eye; the thought of her in pyjamas—or, even worse, not in pyjamas—was distracting to say the least. Bizarrely, he felt the hot hardening of an erection begin to stir, and he forced himself to channel the desire into something less threatening—like irritation. ‘I meant some different clothes—the ones you have on are filthy.’

  Holly heard the undisguised disapproval in his voice and stared down at herself, at the dusty jeans and spattered sweater, the dirt beneath her broken fingernails. He was right—she looked like a tramp. She shook her head and damp tendrils snaked exotically around her face. ‘No, I didn’t.’ She gave him a rueful look. ‘It might have looked a little pushy if I’d turned up on your doorstep with a suitcase!’

  It certainly wouldn’t have been very beneficial to his blood pressure. ‘I can loan you a dressing gown,’ he told her evenly. ‘And put everything else in the washing machine. It’ll be clean and dry in a couple of hours. Leave it outside the door and I’ll see to it. You can fetch your other clothes in the morning.’

  ‘You’re very kind,’ said Holly, meaning it.

  ‘Am I?’ His voice was mocking, but then ‘kind’ wasn’t an adjective he usually associated with himself. Certainly not where women were concerned. He watched as she shrugged out of her oilskin jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. ‘It’s all yours,’ he told her, and decided to absent himself as quickly as possible—his mind was already working overtime as he imagined her wriggling her jeans off and sliding her panties down over those long, long legs. Always presuming she was wearing any... ‘Take as long as you like.’

  ‘I will,’ she smiled, and shut the door behind him.

  It was possibly the best bath of Holly’s life. She squirted jasmine and tuberose into the water and, when the bubbles had nearly reached the top, she climbed in and closed her eyes and tried to relax. She couldn’t do anything about a damp mattress right now—so the most sensible thing would be to put it out of her mind altogether.

  She had been in there for the best part of an hour, dreaming up a frothy white bridal petticoat inspired by the fragrant bubble bath, when there was a rapping on the door and she heard Luke’s deep voice outside.

  ‘You haven’t fallen asleep, have you?’

  She stirred in the water. Her flesh had deepened to rose-pink in the warmth, and the buds of her nipples instantly began tightening to the velvet caress of his voice. ‘N-not yet, I haven’t!’ Shakily, she turned the tap on and flicked some cold water onto her burning skin.

  ‘Then come and have something to drink. I’ve left you a robe outside.’

  It was pure heaven to slide the soft white towelling robe on and knot it tightly around her narrow waist. She brushed her hair and left it, still damp and flapping around her shoulders, as she went in search of Luke.

  He was sitting on the floor by a roaring fire in the first-floor drawing room, a tray of tea in front of him, half-read newspapers at his side. He watched as she came in, noticing how the pure white of the robe emphasised the firelight-red of her hair, while the soft fluffy material accentuated the carved delicacy of her bone structure. She looked a creature of contrasts, midway between angel and imp.

  A pulse flickered at his temple and he felt the blood begin to pound in his head, but he had been the one who had invited her here. Was he crazy, or what? ‘Would you like some tea?’ he said evenly.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘How do you like it?’

  ‘Just milk—no sugar.’ She took the cup he handed her and sat in front of the fire, folding her long legs up beneath her and then carefully tucking the robe closely around her thighs until she saw him watching her, and stopped. She had meant to cover her legs, not draw attention to them.

  Luke watched the flicker of amber and copper as the firelight danced across her face and wondered why he felt this random longing for her. Because of the apparent contradiction of her looks? Those sensual movements of the born siren—made all the more potent by that startled look of wide-eyed innocence she must have spent years perfecting?

  His voice was a growl. ‘Why don’t you bring your tea through to the kitchen—I’m just about to make something to eat. I’m starving,’ he lied. ‘And you must be, too. Unless you brought provisions with you, which, judging by your general standards of preparation, I doubt.’

  Holly felt too flustered by the way he had been looking at her to even bother acknowledging the critici
sm. Food was the very last thing on her mind, even though it had been hours since breakfast, when she’d eaten a banana on the run. But food would be a distraction, and Holly sorely needed something to distract her from those amazing blue eyes, and from the underlying tension which was crackling through the air like sparks from a newly lit bonfire. And besides, if they didn’t eat, there was one hell of a long evening to get through...

  ‘Starving,’ she echoed dutifully. ‘But surely there’s no food if you arrived in the middle of the night?’

  ‘I wasn’t proposing anything fancy,’ he drawled. ‘But the freezer was filled in any case,’ he explained. ‘In time for my arrival.’

  ‘How luxurious.’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied shortly.

  Caroline again, of course, smooth and efficient. ‘I know a company who will fill it for you,’ she had told him briskly. ‘With enough of the kind of food you like to see you through until I arrive.’ She had playfully tapped the end of his nose with one of her professionally manicured nails. Caroline had smooth and beautiful hands, white and soft and unlined. ‘Because we can’t have you starving, can we, my darling?’

  Luke found himself sneaking a glance at Holly’s hands, as if to reassure himself of their unsuitability. Her nails were short, two were broken, two looked bitten and there were calluses on her palms.

  The kitchen was downstairs, in the basement, and it looked as if it had been lifted from an illustration in a lifestyle magazine. It had been, as was the trend, ‘sympathetically modernised’. There were light, carved wooden cupboards, and marble surfaces for chopping things, which even Holly—who could barely tell one end of a leek from another—could see were about as upmarket as you could get. At the far end of the room was a fireplace piled with apple-wood logs, which glowed like amber, with two squashy-looking chairs on either side.