by Kris Pearson
“I’m only rushing because you are. Go slower. Have some sense.”
“I just want to get away from you. I said I didn’t need you to see me safely along the path.” She felt her way down, trying to shake his hold on her arm, annoyed he seemed determined to keep her in his grasp.
They rounded the house together and entered the deep darkness of her rose-scented basement porch.
“You need a security light on that path. Anyone could jump you.”
“There’s one on the top corner of the house. The bulb blew a couple of days ago. Mrs. Ferris is getting her son to replace it. And no-one’s ever jumped me yet.”
“They’d only have to do this,” he said, spinning her around with strong hands and pushing her shoulders gently back against the door. His hips sank against hers, anchoring her there.
“Let me go, Rafe,” she gasped, struggling against his daunting strength.
“Wouldn’t want anyone else doing this to you.” His long fingers cupped her face and angled her mouth up to his. His kiss was hot and dangerous. In seconds her body responded with surges of deep wet wanting, and the only sounds she could make were soft gasps of appreciation and need.
Her fingers threaded into his hair, pulling him down. Her hips tilted up. The heat went everywhere. Singeing, smoking, sparking. And her tongue slid over his as she lost herself in his taste and smell and power again.
She had no idea how long they stood there, mindless with sensation, drowning in each other. Finally Rafe wound his hands into her long hair and trapped her head against the door while he drew back, breathless.
“Remember that while I’m gone,” he growled. “Open the door, Sophie. Go inside so I know you’re safe.”
His grip on her hair relaxed.
“Gone? Where are you going?”
“The San Diego boatyard, too damned early tomorrow morning. Get inside before I do something really stupid.”
“When are you back?”
“Next Wednesday. I’ll be in touch.”
He waited.
She fumbled for her keys with trembling fingers, unlocked the door, found the light-switch. The sudden shaft of hard light showed his chest rising and falling fast under the thin white T-shirt, his fists clenched at his sides, his eyes huge and black.
“Night, Soph,” he said before the darkness swallowed him up.
She dashed straight to the bedroom mirror and stared. She looked every bit as desperate as he had. Her breasts heaved, her nipples peaked, her face was patchy with abrasions from his rough stubble, and her lips were plumply swollen.
She huffed out a huge sigh and crossed to the window, wondering if he was still out there keeping watch over her.
Just in case, she blew a kiss into the darkness before drawing the curtains closed.
At last she could get out of her too-tight jeans and let some cool air flow over her heated skin. She peeled them down, hung them in the wardrobe and flopped onto her bed.
To hell with it, the T-shirt stifled her as well. She sprang to her feet again, hauled it over her head and threw it hard at the clothes hamper in the corner. It bounced back off the wall and landed on the floor. She marched across and dropped it in with the rest of the waiting laundry.
And the bra. And the panties. She removed them both, still feeling hot and bothered.
She scuttled out to the kitchen, bending low until she’d tweaked the blind closed. Water. Cold water and ice-cubes would help. It was a warm humid night. She knew she should dilute the effects of the champagne and get herself better hydrated.
She ran the water until it was really cold, filled a big tumbler almost to the brim and plunked in a couple of ice-cubes.
Gasped as cold water splashed out over her bare belly.
Swiped at it with the kitchen towel.
Caught the tumbler with the tail of the towel and up-ended the lot into the sink. The two ice-cubes skated around in a mad race as she glared down at them.
It was his fault. No doubt about it. She was never un-coordinated like this.
She scooped up the ice-cubes, ran more water and prowled her little kitchen alcove, sipping and fuming. Then she heard the ring-tone of her mobile.
It had to be him. No-one else knew she was still up and awake. Unless it was her mother and there was an emergency with Camille of course. She scrambled for her phone, heart galloping, checked the caller ID, and relaxed.
“Not asleep then?” His husky drawl slid into her ear like the softest breeze, stirring her skin all over as tiny hairs rose in reaction to him.
“No,” she grouched, un-nerved he could affect her like that with just three words, spoken miles away. “I’m in the kitchen, drinking water.”
“What are you wearing?”
She considered her answer for a couple of seconds. She felt braver now he wasn’t right there beside her, pinning her to the door, tall and furious and acting all protective.
“Not much.”
“Tell me.”
No way in the world.
“Tell me what you’d like me to be wearing,” she hedged, knowing she should manage some semblance of politeness. He was a client, after all...
“A smile?”
A smile? She could hear that he was smiling. His voice sounded warm. And his warmth seemed to be flowing through the phone to her, undoing all the good work the chilled water had done.
“Uh-huh, I’m smiling.” She tipped her head back and stretched her shoulders to relax the sudden tension there.
“And what else?”
“My earrings.”
And now I can feel you nipping my ear.
“And...?”
“My watch. Goodness, look at the time. I should be in bed by now, Mr Severino. And you shouldn’t be on the phone if you’re driving.”
She heard his soft chuckle.
“And...?” he repeated.
Oh, what will it matter!
“No, can’t see anything else.” Surely this was what he’d rung for? A bit of silly late-night teasing to pass the time on his way home? If he was trying to wind her up, she could turn the tables on him just like that.
His groan of frustration transformed her smile into a grin of utmost satisfaction.
“The reason I rang...”
“Mmmm?” Had she judged things wrongly? Was this going to be a business query after all? Her blood ran cold at the thought.
“...was to thank you for that little kiss you blew me. It’ll keep me company right across the Pacific tomorrow. See you next Wednesday for dinner.”
And he was gone before she could disagree.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘So that’s Monday and Tuesday out of the way,’ Sophie thought as she slipped into bed at last. She’d certainly had an eventful start to the week.
She was now dead tired and totally wide-awake. Her body felt weary but her brain sparked with energy, nowhere near switching off. Rafe knifed through her memory no matter what else she tried to think about.
Rafe at the studio, hanging her fabrics, long lean body stretched up her ladder.
Rafe at the unfinished house, promising her his huge contract and suggesting they’d be good together.
She now had no doubts about that!
But...she wanted the work, she didn’t want the complications, and she certainly didn’t want him finding out about Camille—which would surely put paid to the work in any case.
Her thoughts churned around and around.
Rafe at lunch yesterday, slipping his hand under the tablecloth and bringing her whole body awake with the delicious danger of his illicit touch.
Rafe as barman, with his generous gift of champagne.
Rafe building chairs on the big deck tonight before they sat in the moonlight talking together for hours.
No, he did the talking and I told him nothing. How could I tell him anything after what he told me?
Rafe picking her up as though she weighed nothing, wrapping her around him and creating havoc with her senses
all over again.
Rafe turning protective when he drove her home. And then telling her he’d be gone for the next eight days as though it didn’t matter a damn.
Eight days. She’d already worked it out. Eight long days before he’d be annoying her again. Or possibly trying to seduce her.
She shuffled over to the other side of the bed, feverishly hot and annoyed and restless and missing Camille. And mad at him. She’d had plenty of daytime excitement without having her nights disrupted as well.
The big green numbers on the bedside clock-radio read 12.43. Then 1.49. Then 2.17. Then, wonderfully, 6.02.
Outside, in Mrs. Ferris’s trees, birds welcomed the new day with cascades of song. Sophie stretched and yawned before easing out of bed, pulling on her soft old white robe and heading for the kitchen.
As the water heated for coffee she glanced about her tiny apartment. What a contrast to Rafe’s incredible home.
She itched to bring his house to life. Today she’d chase up Casa Fiori and see how advanced the kitchen was. Or maybe nothing had happened with Faye off the scene? For sure Rafe would be stuck with his small ground floor kitchen for a while to come.
By the time he returned from San Diego she wanted to have tile samples and carpet samples to show him. And a kitchen progress report. Wall color suggestions. Possible rug and sofa designs for the main living floor. Curtain fabric for the master suite. That should be plenty for starters.
She made coffee and took her mug to the door. The morning was magic, filled with the scent of roses and without a hint of breeze.
She remembered the half-dead flowers on the sideboard and replaced them with several stems of fresh pink roses from the porch trellis while her coffee cooled to drinking temperature.
‘The Rose Queen’ she remembered, once again feeling Rafe’s fingers brushing the petals from her long hair. That had been less that thirty-six hours ago, and now seemed like weeks.
She stood leaning against the doorframe, sipping her drink, thinking carpets and colors. What would he like? Something deep and velvety? Something short and nubby, maybe with a slight fleck? One of the new textured mini-geometric weaves? That’d be a better choice if children were to run and play on it. Not sisal—too hard on their tender skin if they toppled over. New Zealand wool, for sure.
He’d said ‘relaxed and informal’ when they first talked. But he’d said ‘soft and thick and warm, so I can spread you out and ravish you on the floor’ last night!
Her pulse kicked up as she thought about that.
How serious was he about blue-grey tiles? Perhaps she could influence him towards some that were less like cold stone and more like sunny wind-blown sand—ideal for the house in her opinion.
She ambled barefoot to the dining table, set her almost-empty mug down, grabbed her pencil and started to make notes on the big sketch-pad which lived there ready for the times when inspiration struck.
The sun had begun to filter through the trees and across the table-top before she glanced at her watch again. Somehow it had become nearly seven-thirty; she needed to shower and get to the studio.
She pushed the sketch-pad aside, then pulled it back again and stared in disbelief.
Yes, there were notes. There was also Rafe, lounging against the glass surrounding his big deck. She’d drawn him half-lit by moonlight, all long lithe lines and masculine power. A super-rich, super-yacht-builder in barely-there shorts and battered boots. One hip hitched up a little to tug the muscles of his thigh taut. His darkly shadowed eyes stared straight at her.
“Get out of my brain,” she yelped, ripping the page away—only to reveal a different Rafe, face-down on a striped bed-cover and minus his shorts and boots.
She gazed, horrified, at her tall dark pursuer. At his long back bisected by the shaded groove of his spine. At his even longer legs with their pure male strength. And at the two tight creamy cheeks of his butt.
Her pencil had apparently raced over the paper with a life of its own, shading much of his skin to bronze but leaving that tempting backside handsomely highlighted.
She scrunched her eyes closed but his likeness remained burned into the back of her eyelids.
Fearfully she peeked at the page underneath. Oh please God she hadn’t flipped him over and drawn the full-frontal version! But to her immense relief no superbly-built super-yacht builder lay staring up at her.
“So where did you meet him?” Fran demanded as she wheeled the stroller into the studio on the dot of ten.
“Loooooonnnngggg story.”
“Give it up or no hot chocolate.” She produced a holder with two cups from the tray under the stroller. “I texted you two or three times last night. Where were you?”
“With a very big new client. Sorry, didn’t want any distractions.”
Fran narrowed her eyes and plunked herself down on the sofa. “You’re looking very bouncy for someone who worked late?”
Sophie picked up her sign-board and took it outside. Fran narrowed her eyes further until they were slits of icy blue suspicion.
“Okay,” Sophie said as she stepped back in and claimed her drink. “That’s how I met him. I was carrying out my sidewalk sign on Monday and the wind caught it. Just about blew me over. I ended up dropping it and it broke apart and one half hit his car and smashed a light. He’d just stopped.”
Fran’s eyes lost very little of their disbelieving glint. “I’ll bet,” she muttered.
“Absolutely true. He recognized me from Faye’s place, and I think he was checking to see if she was opening up in another location.” She heaved a deep sigh. “It was just about the last straw. I thought I’d have to pay for it. He was stroppy to start with but then, amazingly, he offered to fix the hinges. Hang on a moment.” She hefted up two bricks from behind the door and returned to the sidewalk to push them into a sling between the two sides of the sign. “Insurance,” she explained. “Rafe’s invention to stop it blowing over again.”
Fran retrieved the pink rabbit Lucy had just hurled out of the stroller. “Do we believe that, Luce?”
Lucy pitched the rabbit out again.
“You need that on a piece of elastic. I did that with a couple of Camille’s favorite toys.”
“Need you on elastic. Come on—back to the story.”
Sophie took a sip of hot chocolate, enjoying Fran’s impatience.
“Well, as I said, he offered to fix the sign, and he asked about Faye. I didn’t know they’d split up. Some months ago, it seems. She kept it very quiet.”
“And?”
“And he went out to his car and got his tools but the screws were too short.”
“Short screws—story of my life, too,” Fran said naughtily.
“So,” Sophie continued, trying not to laugh, “He said he’d get some longer ones off the builders at his house. And he asked if I was interested in seeing it and pitching for the business.”
“No!”
“Truly. Just like that. I locked up here and went with him of course. The place is huge.”
“I’ve read a bit about it. Halfway up a cliff?”
“That’s the one. It’s going to be fantastic.”
“Best of luck with getting the job then. Or even some of it if the place is so big.”
Sophie tried to keep a straight face but finally gave in and squealed, “I’ve got the lot!”
Fran’s eyes shot super-wide-open and her pretty mouth followed.
“Can you believe it?” Sophie knew her smile must be just about splitting her face in half. “I don’t think I do yet.” She set her cup down, hopped up and did a little jig of joy.
“It’s definitely on?”
“He seems serious. I guess the Moet was to seal the deal.” She reached over to remove a very gooey biscuit from Lucy’s waving fist before it landed on the most expensive of the sofa-throws, then sat and retrieved her drink. “So you know what that means don’t you? I can get Camille to Wellington in time for the start of her first year at school. And b
y the way, you’re sworn to secrecy there. He thinks he’s got an ambitious go-ahead designer, not a frazzled single mum, so not a whisper about Camille if you meet him again.”
Fran dug a replacement biscuit out of the baby-bag and handed it over to placate Lucy. “So that’s why you got rid of me so fast on Monday night? She’s a big secret to keep.”
“He’s a client, Fran. He doesn’t need to know.”
“The way he was looking at you, he wouldn’t mind being more than a client.”
There was the smallest query in Fran’s voice. Sophie decided to ignore it.
“The Severino Residence. That’s going to look so good on my CV. And hopefully I can get some photos of the finished job on my boards.” She glanced around the studio, wanting so much for it to be true.
“Are you seeing him tonight?” Fran persisted. “It was him you saw last night, I assume?
“He’s gone to San Diego for a while. Has another big boat-yard there. So no, I won’t be seeing him. And it was business last night because he was going away early today, so don’t read anything more into it, okay?”
The ‘ding’ of an arriving email saved her from further questions.
“There’s your next client.”
Sophie set her cup down again and headed for the computer.
“Well, maybe,” she said as she skimmed through the message. “Hopefully...oh good.”
“Someone from Monday’s drinks?”
“Someone from Monday’s lunch. City Councilor Ian Duncan. Looks like his apartment sale has gone through, but he only wants the bedrooms quoted for starters.”
“Monday’s lunch?”
“A business thing.” Sophie saw the question in Fran’s eyes and quickly added, “What are you doing for the rest of the morning? Is there a chance you could look after the studio for an hour or two? Or else this afternoon? I don’t mind which, but I need to get out to the Severino site and pop off some more photos for reference. It was getting a bit dark last night.”
“Only if you show them to me so I can see his house.”
“That would be a breach of client privacy,” Sophie said in a mock-officious tone. “But seeing he’s met you, I might be able to overlook it. What time’s best for you?”
