by Jane Linfoot
He’d made it to her work table now, and helped himself to a small patchwork box, by way of retaliation. ‘So this is what you make?’
‘Certainly is.’ She shuffled, more uncomfortable with the scrutiny than she was letting on, he guessed. ‘I specialise in collage – papering over the cracks.’ She shot him a grin. ‘At uni I did large scale pieces, but in terms of making a living it’s more commercial to do smaller items, and people love boxes. I’ve hit on an unexpected niche-market, for original pieces. Every one’s different.’
He nodded, examining the colourful surface, built up of cut and pasted images. ‘I’ve seen something like it before. Can’t remember where, though. I take it you sell them?’
‘To exclusive stores in London mostly. That one is part of a French Theme series I’m working on. I’m building up, turning my art into business, filling in with the dance thing too.’
‘Oh, the dancing.’ The dancing. Slip this in, casually, drop it and let it bounce. ‘So you’re a lap-dancer? A stripper? Let me guess – to supplement your income?’ He’d swung his head round, and was eyeballing the pole, as her loud guffaw slapped him in the face.
‘Typical man.’ She was laughing now, those lovely lips drawing back to reveal beautiful, even teeth. ‘You saw the pole, and assumed I’m a stripper? Sorry to disappoint you, but the pole’s just a great way to keep fit. I’m no way athletic enough to be a professional.’
Damn. He squeezed the disappointment out of his voice. ‘Not meaning to be nosey, but what’s with the corsets then?’
‘They’re for the dancing. I teach Burlesque.’
‘Ahhh, I see.’ He didn’t at all, but he wasn’t about to admit it.
‘Anyway, I thought you were taking me out? I haven’t got all night.’ She brushed back her hair, pushed a smile in his direction, presumably to sugar the impatience. ‘So what are we doing?’
‘A picnic!’ He took a deep breath, unsure how she was going to take it, what with her date reluctance and all that.
Thank Cassie for this one. No posh baskets and absolutely no champagne.
‘A picnic?’ She chewed her thumb, and then fixed him with those deep grey eyes until he wished she would stop. ‘That I can handle.’
***
‘So why the date?’
Millie held up her glass of bubbly, and nailed him with her stare. It was only the way she chewed on what had to be the fullest lip in the history of pouts that gave any indication that maybe she wasn’t as fearless as she made out.
This so wasn’t going how he’d planned. Not that he had an exact plan.
The rug by the river, the cava and the smoked salmon had gone down okay. But she was so much more challenging than he’d anticipated, questioning everything, screwing answers out of him. And she was jumpy as hell. No need for Cassie’s rules about sex and first dates. At this rate he’d be lucky to have scored by the last one. Memo to himself. More work needed in that department.
‘Why the date?’ Repeating the question showed he didn’t have a clue about the answer, and he didn’t. Not any answer he could give her.
‘Whatever the rights and wrongs, the blast caused your fall, and I wanted to make amends.’ He replied, aiming for plausible. ‘Aw, that’s nice.’ Her eyes crinkled into a smile, and she dipped a strawberry deep into the cream pot, and then bit into it. Showing off those delectable teeth. Again.
And that was it? Phew! An answer that wasn’t another question.
‘Yep, I’m really sorry about it.’ And this wasn’t faking, he really was.
‘I don’t think it was your fault.’ Another easy response.
Under normal circumstances this was where he’d have made a move. Slid his hand over hers, looked deep into her eyes, said ‘No hard feelings?’ and got straight in there. Hell, by now he’d more than likely have been chasing that strawberry down her throat, his hand heading up her dress, and he wouldn’t have found shorts up there either. But there was too much at stake here to move in too early and get blown off.
‘So how come you can afford jeans like those, working in a quarry? Or have you hit gold?’
And she was off again. It was hard work keeping up with her. ‘My sister’s seriously loaded husband gave me a taste for good jeans with his cast offs, and great jeans are worth the investment. Now and again.’ More ambiguity. He’d seriously underestimated how difficult he’d find the lying, and the whole pretence that he had no money. Darn careless of him to wear these particular jeans in the first place.
‘Very cool, but I think I preferred the one’s you wore yesterday.’ She spun him a wicked grin. ‘I liked the rips.’
Predictably contrary. And how did she know the price of these jeans anyway, given how ultra-exclusive they were?
‘These chocolate pots are scrummy, by the way. Where did you find them?’
Yet another question, fired as she sucked on a fingerful of dark chocolate mousse. Maybe Cassie had a point about him making bad choices with women. The Big Challenge. He’d ended up choosing a woman who couldn’t be further from his ideal type, who not only refused point blank to date, but who was also a nightmare to handle. If he was going to have any chance of success here he was going to have to raise his game, massively.
Or he could give up on Millie, and begin again, choose someone easier, more polished, more suited to his tastes and needs. That was the obvious option, the easy option, the sensible option. But as he watched her kneeling now, all strawberry stained lips, tangled hair, and voluptuous curves, he knew wasn’t going to give up. No way. Giving up was out of the question. He was going to raise his game, work out his strategy, and go for broke. Because the woman in front of him might be unsuitable, she might be crazy, reluctant, and jumpy; she could be everything he didn’t want in a woman, but he couldn’t give up on her yet – simply because he couldn’t bear to let her go before he’d tasted her again.
***
At lunchtime next day, Millie arrived back from the Country Club to find Ed’s Land Rover parked in the yard, and Ed sitting on her doorstep. Literally. Back against the door jamb, legs bent, jeans under a lot of pressure.
She grabbed a box from the car boot, and then walked towards him, blaming her suddenly feeble legs on the weight of the parcel.
‘And where have you been?’ As usual he was looking like a dream, as usual he was sounding indignant.
‘A private lesson with my Santa Baby client.’ She refused to ask him why he was here, and refused to let herself be pleased he was. ‘At current rate of progress she will be ready to perform her Christmas Gift Dance for Christmas in eighteen months time, not six.’
‘I’ve come to see how your head is, and ask if you’ve got any ketchup?’
She blinked. Sitting on her doorstep, and making random comments? ‘Head still there, or it was last time I looked, thanks, and ketchup in the cupboard. Large bottle. Why?’ Damn. Now she’d cracked, and asked.
‘I’ve brought fish and chips for lunch.’ He sprung to his feet, jumped towards the Land Rover, and returned with two packages and a grin that flipped her insides. ‘You need a balanced diet to aid recovery. I’m taking responsibility.’
‘Since when were fish and chips balanced?’ She stifled a smile, went in and dropped the parcel on the already over-burdened sofa, then led the way through the house and out into the sun-splashed back courtyard, grabbing ketchup and cans of coke as they passed. ‘They smell delicious, let’s be wicked.’
She gave herself a hard kick for saying that, but he was already settling in at the outdoor table, rolling open the parcels of food. He pushed one towards her as she arrived.
‘Pleased to see you’re wearing your superior jeans today.’ Saying that took her mind off his broad tanned hands, and the way the jeans in question sat so tantalisingly low and tight on his hips they made her stomach drop. All but took her appetite away.
‘I’m not here to talk about jeans.’ He picked up the ketchup, and put a neat blob by the side of his fish, then held the b
ottle out to her.
She took it from him, and squirted a winding trail all over her chips, clocking his disapproving frown. ‘So? I like ketchup. It’s a free world.’ How could anyone be that judgmental about condiments? ‘What are you here to talk about then?’
‘You and this independence thing.’ He paused, chip in mid air, and studied her gravely. ‘I think you’ve got it all wrong.’
And who asked him anyway? She hated that shadowy hollows formed under his cheekbones when he looked at her like that, and the raw sensuality of his lips. The way his dark eyes melted. She scowled to cover that her insides were squelching again, and scraped at the angry prickles at the back of her neck.
‘No, don’t get cross, listen. No one’s more independent than me, but you need to understand, being independent isn’t about being alone. If you’re hoping independence will make you stronger, you’re wrong. What you have to realise, is that you can’t be strong on your own, because humans aren’t like that. People need each other. We get our strength by cooperating, by sharing talents, not from isolation.’
‘And you are going where with this exactly?’
‘Well, as I see it, your take on independence doesn’t make you strong. Ultimately it makes you weak. And lonely too.’ He was watching her carefully now, scrutinising her reactions.
Without thinking she dragged her hair back from her face, twisted it, and caught it on top of her head with a scrunchie from her wrist, so she could concentrate better. Her eyes locked on the lines of his mouth. Yesterday, at the picnic, she’d had a sudden, overwhelming sense he was going to kiss her, and all evening, her skin had been tingling, her treacherous body aching in anticipation. So wrong, so not what she wanted. But he was making her shiver again now, and once more she doubted her body’s ulterior motives. No one as amazing as him would go for anyone like her. Would they? ‘Look, take me with my barn conversion. If I tried to do it on my own it wouldn’t get done at all. I have the builders to help, and that makes it happen. The skill is to choose builders who are reliable.’
‘And your point is?’ Not meaning to be rude, but …
‘That you’ll only be truly strong and independent when you learn to accept help. You need people around you trust, who you can rely on.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Been there, done that thanks. With Rat-of-the-decade-Josh, who ran out the second she tried to lean on him. Her chest tight as a drum even as she thought about it now. She suppressed a shudder, but it took hold and leap-frogged down her spine.
‘I’ll give it some thought. Thanks for that.’ Not.
She tried to sound firm enough to close the subject, and it worked. He went back to his lunch, eating with scary efficiency, and then rolled up the chip papers neatly as he finished, and stood up abruptly. ‘Better be off then.’
Whatever. Millie stood up too, gave up all hope of ever getting where he was coming from, and followed him back towards the house. As he reached the doorway he paused, his large body barring her path, and grinned down at her. She hung on to her racing pulse rate, remembered to breath as his eyes, drilled into her.
‘Don’t suppose you’d give me a twirl on the pole?’
The guy was unbelievable. She shook her head, rapped out a good excuse, to hide her shock. ‘After fish and chips? No way. If you wanted twirls you should have brought salad.’
He rubbed a thumb over his jaw, deep in thought. Narrowed his eyes. ‘So twirls on the pole aren’t hundred percent ruled out?’
What? Cheeky and persistent? And why the hell was she lapping it up?
‘Get back to work before I kick your ass!’ He’d dislodged himself from the doorway, got as far as the sofa, and stopped in front of the package she’d brought in earlier. ‘So what’s in the parcel then?’
She chewed her lip hard to cut her smile. He’d asked for this.
‘If you must know, leopard-skin hand-cuffs, whips, long black gloves, under-bust corsets, over bust corsets, feather fans, suspender clips, and top hats. All times twenty.’
She was rewarded by his jaw on the floor, and his eyebrows on the ceiling.
‘You are joking?’
‘Nope.’ She allowed herself a full-blown grin now. ‘Supplies for a Hen Party I’m booked for – a Burlesque Workshop. Theme of Fifty Shades mean anything?’
He raised his eyebrows, gave a slow nod, and a knowing smirk, as he headed towards the door.
‘I’ll be back to tie you up later then.’ His growl sent an avalanche of ice chips sliding down her back. ‘I’ll call in on my way home, to check you’re okay. Maybe teach you more about this independence game. And don’t forget, I’ll be expecting that twirl!’
CHAPTER FOUR
LATER that afternoon, back in the sun-baked courtyard, working on her collages and her tan, Mille mulled over what Ed had said, as she concentrated on her French theme, and arranged a mix of roses, lace and tri-colours onto a box. Okay, the guy could lay on a scrummy picnic, and maybe fish and chips for lunch was a welcome change, but overall Ed was a complete pain in the butt, especially with the way he kept appearing. But he maybe had a point about fierce independence making you weaker, not stronger. It was good to hear a different viewpoint. She’d missed that since she moved here, yet another drawback of the isolation. It had become too easy to shut herself away, driving herself towards her goals. Maybe it was good to have some company, even if the company in question annoyed the hell out of her at times. Her life-plan was about taking responsibility for herself, her decisions, and her actions. Independence was what she’d become obsessed with as a means to achieve those aims, but what he’d said reminded her she needed to make sure she didn’t lose sight of the bigger picture.
‘Anyone home?’
Millie jumped as she heard Ed’s voice reverberate through the house. What the heck was he doing rocking up in the middle of the afternoon, and her in her skimpiest bikini?
‘I knocked, but you obviously didn’t hear, so I let myself in.’
And then he was there, sauntering through from the house, talking to her, but not looking at her face. Eyes all over everywhere else. Devouring.
‘Who finishes work at three thirty?’
Not that she wasn’t completely at ease with her body – she was. Just not at ease with the way her skin sizzled under his scrutiny. She rubbed her nose with the back of a gluey hand, playing for time as she worked out her next move. Diving into the house to grab a vest would be preferable.
But how to get past him? He was leaning languidly across the doorway, all tanned brooding strength, eyes sootier than ever behind those amazing lashes, and uncannily silent. She saw his jaw clench imperceptibly, his broad shoulders shift.
A guy with a habit of getting stuck in doorways. Again.
‘If you’ll excuse me?’ She took one firm step towards him.
He didn’t move. Simply stared. And swallowed.
‘Can I pass please?’ She ignored the banging whack of her heart against her ribs, dragged her eyes away from the unmistakable blue shadow of an erection, forging against the denim of his jeans.
‘Of course.’ His eyes narrowed. Then he went sideways, back still grazing the wall, to make room, and his lips slid into the laziest of smiles. ‘Any time.’
She hauled in a breath, hesitated, hardly trusting herself to pass him so close, hating that her body was betraying her, fizzing with excitement.
She needed to man up. What the heck was happening here? It was only one man, and one doorway she needed to get through. What could be so difficult?
Fixing her eyes firmly on the island unit in the kitchen, she set off.
Easy as. Except just after she’d made it past him, he snagged her. Not hard, not fiercely, hardly at all in fact, just the slightest graze of her forearm, then his fingers gently locking around her wrist.
Enough to make her heart-beat crash to a standstill, as her legs turned to hot syrup.
She stopped, turned a fraction, and the unbearable scent of him knocked her off her guard. As s
he rolled her eyes to meet his, she registered smoldering heat in their dark chocolate depths.
And the thought that any moment his mouth was going to come crashing down on hers.
‘Millie..?’ His voice was hoarse, gravelly.
Frozen as the goose-bumps raced up her arm, nipples like … ‘What?’
He let her wrist drop, and he cleared his throat. ‘I brought cakes. Any chance you could make some tea? ’
And then there was nothing, except her hand, limp at her side.
As if she’d imagined it, as if it hadn’t happened at all.
‘Actually I’m just about to go out.’ And then she was in the kitchen, grabbing a t-shirt from a kitchen stool and grappling her way into it.
A gut reaction. There was plenty of time for tea, so why was she pretending there wasn’t? Lashing out because she was disappointed? Or saving herself from looking like a total fool when her over-active imagination made her think he wanted her? Hearing his voice advancing as he came in from the courtyard, she blurted out a hurried excuse.
‘Sorry, I have classes this evening. I need to get ready. I should have said before.’ She shrugged, diffidently. ‘Some other time perhaps?’
‘When are you back?’ His eyes narrowed, more calculating now than smoldering.
Despite the blasts of hot air wafting from the courtyard, she shivered. ‘Nine.’
Suddenly she wasn’t sure she trusted herself to be around him any more. The more infuriating she found him in real life, the more she ached for a piece of him. She hated her body for playing tricks on her. No way could she be interested in any man right now, without de-railing her life-plan. She needed to get a grip on reality, she was a million miles away from ready for another guy. She had her priorities, and more to the point, she had her self-preservation instinct firmly in place. No guy, no matter how much animal magnetism he exuded, would be allowed to distract her and make her drop her guard.
‘Catch you later then.’ He was sauntering towards the door as airily as he had sauntered in. One cheery wave, one disgusting, tummy flipping, laid-back smile, and he was out of her hair. Easy peasy. But something about the set of his jaw made it sound like a threat not a promise.
