by Anne Oliver
‘Sorry.’ She twisted some more, the sound of plastic crinkling as she continued struggling to free herself. He didn’t try to help. Giving up the attempt for the moment, she glared down at him. ‘What were you thinking?’
Rain-spiked lashes blinked at him over those gorgeous lilac-coloured eyes. When he could breathe again, he smelled summer raspberries and her own brand of hot feminine scent. The scent a woman exudes after a healthy bout of exercise. Or sex. He took this unique opportunity to draw it in slowly.
What had she said? Something about thinking… ‘I wasn’t.’ If he’d been thinking he’d have engineered this scenario somewhere dry—on Belle’s Persian rug in front of a roaring fire, for instance. Minus the wet clothing.
‘I was reacting,’ he continued, ‘to your hare-brained idea of working outdoors in these conditions.’
‘It’s where most gardening’s done.’ She rolled a shoulder, the movement shifting her breasts against his stomach. He wasn’t sure, but he imagined he could feel two stiff nipples jutting just above his navel.
A spear of heat shot through his body, angling straight to his groin. Doing his damnedest to ignore it, he stared up at the sky again and continued with, ‘So is this your attempt to prove you’re responsible or stubborn or both?’
Her hips chafed against his as she dragged a trapped hand from between their bodies to push at her crinkled hair. ‘What’s a little rain, for heaven’s sakes?’
His gaze shifted to her face. To her eyes, irises dark with some unnamed emotion she refused to admit to. Her mouth, damp with rain and a tempting whisper from his own. He could kiss her now, drink in the freshness of raindrops and Ellie. ‘For one thing, it’s wet. And damn cold.’
She stared back at him, shook her head. ‘You indoor career types are too soft.’
He didn’t feel soft. And if she didn’t quit squirming against him like that she was going to find that out for herself.
And bingo: She went completely still, and when he looked, her eyes had widened. He watched the colour intensify, her cheeks turn a shade pinker before she scrambled up on her knees and pushed away. Up. Pieces of her now-shredded plastic poncho flapped like flags in the wind.
‘Stubborn, then,’ he muttered. He pushed up too, his jumper peeling away from the mud with a slimy sound. An instant chill cloaked his body. ‘We’d better get out of these wet clothes.’
Without looking at him she picked up her trowel. ‘You go ahead, I need to clean up here first.’
‘Leave it, I’ll come out later and tidy up.’
‘My job, I’ll do it.’
‘Fine. Catch pneumonia.’
Without looking at him, she stacked everything in the barrow, including the mangled umbrella, with infuriating slowness, then wheeled it to the garden shed. So be it. He could be as ridiculously stubborn about this as she.
He waited until she locked up, put the key in its hidey-hole, then took her sweet time walking back with her pack on her shoulder. Even from metres away he could see she was shivering, that now the blush had faded, her cheeks were pale and there were dark circles beneath her eyes.
He met her halfway across the lawn. He didn’t think about whether she’d object, just took her chilled wet hand in his. ‘Come on.’ He hustled her up the path to the verandah, pulling away the plastic remains of her poncho as they shuffled under shelter and into the laundry. ‘A hot shower will warm you up. Or a bath. Whichever you prefer.’
‘No. I’ll be all right.’
‘Ellie.’ Concerned now, he shot her a stern look. ‘You’re wet through. You’re going to take that shower if I have to put you under it myself.’ He peeled off his sodden jumper, tossed it on the floor.
Her gaze slid like a hot silk glove down his chest. He was about to make a joke of it all, but something warned him she wouldn’t see the humour right now. She gulped, then lifted panicked eyes to his. ‘I’m all muddy.’
‘That you are. I’ll find you some of Belle’s clothes.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not trailing mud and water all through the house.’
‘Take off your shoes.’ He stepped out of his, removed his socks.
Ellie did the same, then looked up at him. Not looking at that gloriously exposed chest. Oh, why had she thought working in the rain was a good idea? At the time she hadn’t given any thought to the mud factor. Nor had she counted on them wallowing in it. Together. ‘My shoes aren’t the only things covered in mud.’
She regretted those words instantly. She felt the heat in his gaze as it travelled over the rest of her and wondered why her clothes weren’t steaming.
‘Same here.’ If anything, he was in a worse state than her. The entire length of him was iced in shiny brown mud. He unsnapped his sodden jeans.
Ah… ‘What are you doing?’
‘Someone has to do something if we’re going to find clean dry clothes,’ he said, being entirely too practical.
It took a moment for him to ease his jeans over his hips and step out of them. Involuntarily—that’s what she told herself—her eyes followed his fingers down the length of his strongly muscled thighs and over his knees to the hairy calves and long knobbly toes as he shucked the denim off.
And, oh… My goodness. Except for a pair of navy boxers which rode low on his lean hips, he was stark-staring naked. She sucked in a breath.
Imagine him naked.
But the perfection of his golden-toned body was even better than her imagination had been able to conjure up. She could smell his skin. Two steps closer and she’d be able to reach out and touch. Another step and she’d be able to taste.
No. If she let him close again, she was going to fall for him; she just knew it. And it would be a much harder landing than that soft mudslide a few moments ago. Safer to keep her distance. And the only way to keep that distance was to not give him any encouragement.
If he’d noticed her indulging in her little fantasy, he didn’t show it. He was all matter of fact and purpose, rescuing his clothes from the floor and dumping them in the laundry trough.
Ellie remained where she was. Did he expect her to follow his lead? She could take off her overalls and still be no more exposed than she would in her bikini…but that wasn’t going to happen. Not with Matt McGregor watching on.
‘Use this,’ he said, handing her a sheet which he pulled from a nearby cupboard. ‘You can slip out of your things and wrap it around you. When you’re ready, meet me in the kitchen.’
Moments later, down to her underwear, and clutching the sheet around her, Ellie followed Matt through a formal lounge and dining room. If she could just keep her sex-starved eyes off his broad-shouldered, near-naked body along the way… She bit back a sigh at the way the light played over the muscles beneath that healthy olive-toned skin and his hairy masculine thighs before making a conscious effort to avert her gaze.
She’d never been upstairs, but as she followed Matt, it was clear Belle paid the same loving attention to detail throughout the grand old house. She passed a pretty feminine bedroom, then a bedroom with a huge four-poster bed and a mountain of maroon quilt. A pair of shiny black men’s shoes were placed neatly on the floor at the foot of the bed. A perfectly pressed snowy shirt hung on a hanger on the wardrobe door.
Matt slept in this room.
Her blood thickened and, without realising, she slowed, hoping for a glimpse of something that told her more about the man beyond the obvious fact that he was tidy. She shook it away, reminding herself she knew all she needed to know. She wasn’t here for a tour. She was here to get clean.
‘This is the guest room,’ Matt said, opening a door further down. ‘The en suite’s through there.’ He gestured to another door on the far side of the room. ‘You should find everything you need. Meanwhile I’ll rustle up some clothes and leave them on the bed for you. When you’re done, can you find your way back to the kitchen?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘Take your time.’
She didn’t reply,
just waited until he left before relaxing enough to take it all in. Beautiful in shades of green and white and gold. Big double bed, snow-white quilt. Elegant pictures of a bygone era on the walls. A view over the rose garden, dark spikes now, in the dead of winter.
In the bathroom, light spilled through a skylight, bathing a froth of fernery in one corner. She flicked a switch and an instant flood of heat rolled over her shoulders. Absolute decadence.
There was a double-headed shower and a bath big enough for three. The bath won. When it was full she sank in and let frangipani-scented bubbles soak away the grime.
Not so easy to soak away thoughts of Matt and the way their bodies had clashed out there in the muddy garden plot. It put another spin on getting down and dirty.
He’d been turned on.
At the memory of that hard, hot masculine wedge beneath her a bolt of heat shot to her core. Had he been turned on before or after she’d wiggled? And she’d reacted to that subtle prod like a frightened virgin.
Which was best all-round, she decided, diverting her concentration to scrubbing her skin until it tingled. It would give him yet another reason to think she wasn’t interested in him and leave her alone.
Admit it, Ellie. You want him. You want him bad.
As her sex slave, she told herself. That was all. That was all?
Yes, she decided, swirling the bubbles through her fingers, turn the social tables on him. So…if he was in here with her… She flopped back against the bath’s edge. She’d command him to start with her back. Keeping the best bits for last. Keeping the delicious anticipation to the max.
She have him kneel behind her, so close that she’d hear his heart beating, feel his breath against her hair. He’d lave beneath her ear, move on to her neck, her collarbone. Then he’d soap up those long, tanned fingers and drag them over her shoulders, down her breasts, stopping to massage her nipples, draw them out. Slowly…
She sneezed, an unwelcome explosion, dragging her out of the moment and back to reality.
And that reality appeared to be that she was, indeed, coming down with a bug. She could not afford to get sick. She needed as much work as she could get. Which reminded her she was in her employer’s bathroom, using Belle’s lotions and potions and fantasising about her nephew. For goodness’ sake.
She yanked out the plug and snatched one of the thick jade towels off the rack. Damn Matt. For making her want things she had no business wanting. Her employer’s nephew. A man way out of her league.
Impossible.
CHAPTER FIVE
MATT knocked at the partially open bedroom door. When there was no answer, he entered carefully. He’d found one of Belle’s jumpers, a pair of soft jersey sweatpants and thick socks. As for underwear… She’d have to go commando for now.
And wouldn’t that be something to think about over steak and salad? He should have put the items on the bed and left, but the sweet floral scent seeping from beneath the door was too tempting to resist.
It had been a long time since his own bathroom had smelled like this. Feminine. Alluring. Inviting…
When he and Angela had shared an apartment. His jaw clenched. Those times were over. These days when he took a lover, it was his way or the highway. They used her place. He rarely slept the night. Sleeping implied a degree of intimacy he simply didn’t have. Didn’t want. Didn’t need.
He breathed the scent in again, deeply. What did he know of the girl on the other side of that door? By her own admission, she was a drifter. How long before she up and left? Where did she go and what did she do, and who did she do it with while she was there?
Still… Until then, he didn’t see a problem with them sharing something a little more personal when the gardening tools were packed away for the evening. And he could keep his word to Belle at the same time.
Unfortunately it couldn’t be tonight. He’d organised a meeting with the construction manager on one of his latest Melbournian projects but Cole had been tied up elsewhere until this evening. They’d arranged to meet over a beer later.
He didn’t intend to start something with Ellie tonight and not be able to finish it. When he got her naked, he wanted everything right. He wanted to take it slow, enjoy—
The sound of the bathroom door opening warned him to leave but it was already too late. Ellie wafted out on a cloud of scented steam and he waged a quick tug of war within himself. Her stifled yelp and the way she stood clutching her towel and damp underwear almost had a grin tugging at his mouth.
Until he got a better look at what she held in her hand. Fire-engine-red G-string, matching satin and lace bra. Surprise. Who’d have thought that beneath those ugly overalls…?
Remember Saturday night?
This was that same woman, and his pulse quickened, his mood sobering to something darker as the primitive side of him stirred to life. Her skin glowed a delicate peach. He imagined it was as soft and luscious as it looked. It took all his will not to stride right over there and sample it. Her legs, bared to her upper thigh, were perfection and she reminded him of a long-stemmed rose on a foggy day.
He couldn’t seem to look away. Couldn’t move. Felt as if his body had turned to stone. Inside his skin was another matter. His mouth was dry and his blood was surging south. Somehow he remembered why he was there, cleared his throat and lifted the bundle of clothes in his hands. ‘I’ll just put these on the bed…. I’ve put the rest of your clothes in the washing machine. Would you like me to add those?’ He gestured to her bundle.
‘No.’
Her fingers tightened into a fist around it and he got that she was thinking of his hands on her G-string.
He almost groaned aloud. Way bad timing. A fleeting thought that he could ring Cole and postpone darted through his mind, but their meeting was important and he was a professional first and foremost. Business took priority.
‘Okay.’ He swallowed, then continued with, ‘If the trousers are too long you can roll the legs up or whatever….’ He thought it wiser not to mention underwear again.
‘Thanks.’ She didn’t move. ‘Was there something else?’
‘I’m fixing us a bite to eat when you’re ready. How do you like your steak?’
‘Steak?’
‘You’re not vegetarian, are you?’
‘No, rare, and why are we having this conversation right here, right now?’
‘Rare. Okay.’ He made himself step back. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’
The instant he’d gone, Ellie rushed to the door and locked it before the man decided to come back to ask her wine preferences. He was fixing steak? For her? For them?
Dropping the towel, she hauled on the clothes he’d provided her with. In front of the mirror, she ran a comb through her unruly hair, then, with no hair straighteners in sight, gave it up as a lost cause. And what did it matter? She didn’t care what Matt McGregor thought. Nor was she going to be impressed— or swayed—by his cooking prowess. She stuffed her damp undies in her backpack and started down the hallway, following the aroma of frying onions.
When she entered the kitchen Matt already had the steaks on the grill and was chopping tomatoes into a salad bowl. His freshly shampooed hair gleamed under the light and he wore another of those soft-looking jumpers.
She looked around for something to do. ‘You want me to finish that?’
‘All under control.’ He inclined his head towards a jug of juice topped with mint leaves and ice. ‘Help yourself.’
‘Thank you.’ She noted he already had one at his elbow and poured herself a glass. She felt dumb standing around without a task so she hefted herself onto a breakfast stool. ‘Do you cook often?’
‘Not as often as I like. Too busy. This week’s going to give me a good opportunity. You?’
‘Hate it.’ She sipped the juice. Freshly juiced orange, pineapple and passionfruit. ‘This is nice.’
‘Juicing it at home’s a vast improvement over supermarket brands. So…Ellie.’ Multi-tasking Matt gave the o
nions a stir, flipped the steaks, reached for the cucumber. ‘You mentioned you lived around here as a child. Do your parents still live in Melbourne?’
‘No.’ She didn’t want to talk about her parents. It reminded her of how alone she was. But in the ensuing silence she knew courtesy demanded an elaboration of sorts. ‘Mum and my grandparents died in a car accident more than eighteen years ago.’
His knife paused midslice, a measured compassion in his dark eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Ellie. That must’ve been tough. How old were you?’
‘Six.’ A misty image of her mother singing a lullaby stole through her mind and her heart twisted. Even after all this time, the pain would shoot back at the most unexpected times.
‘After, it was just my father and me for a couple of years travelling country Victoria and South Australia while he took the odd job….’ Then played the odd game of chance and lost what he’d earned. She didn’t tell him her father had only come back into her life when Mum had died.
Before Matt could ask, she said, ‘In the end I held him back.’
He looked up sharply. ‘What do you mean, you “held him back”? He was your father.’
‘He couldn’t look for work and care for me.’ But deep down that nine-year-old inside her still cried. He could have if he’d wanted to.
Matt turned to slide the steaks onto two plates, muttering something she was probably better off not hearing. Because then she’d want to defend her father and tell Matt she’d forgive him in a moment if he ever came back. She was that weak.
She often wondered if that’s why she felt compelled to move around the country. Was she hoping to find him? Or was she running from him? Running from any involvement that might tear open those childhood wounds that had never quite healed.
She turned the focus to him, or rather, away from her. ‘What about your parents?’
His lips tightened as he set the sizzling plates on the breakfast bar. ‘It’s just me and Belle.’
Old pain. She heard it in his voice. Tight and angry. Saw it in his avoidance of eye contact. Recognised it because she lived with it herself, every day.
