Читать книгу Running From the Storm - Lee Wilkinson, Lee Wilkinson - Страница 8

HAVING filled a percolator and put it on the electric hob, he took a first-aid box from a cupboard and squatted on the hearthrug at her feet.

‘While that heats, suppose I take a look at your ankle?’

Watching her wince as he ran assessing fingers over her ankle and slender foot, he said, ‘I think some more spray and another bandage wouldn’t go amiss.’

The cold spray was soothing—his nearness anything but—and she quivered inwardly at the thought of those strong, long-fingered hands touching her while she slept.

Her pulse rate going up alarmingly, she did her best to ignore how his stone-coloured trousers pulled tight over his lean hips and muscular thighs. Her stomach clenched and a sweet, languorous heat began to spread through her.

Glancing up at her as she sat to all intents and purposes calm and composed, he felt a sudden desire, a strong urge to pull her into his arms, to kiss her and go on kissing her until he had brought an end to that composure.

In short, he wanted her to be aware, as aroused as he was.

Almost from the start he had known that this woman had a powerful, quite unprecedented effect on him. What he didn’t know for certain was how she felt about him.

And he badly wanted to.

As he stared at her, he noticed the pulse in her throat was beating visibly, and realized with a surge of triumph that despite her calm appearance she was feeling the excitement he was feeling too.

It was a heady thought.

With an effort, he leashed his libido. It was too soon, he warned himself. This was neither the time nor the place to make love to her, and anticipation would only increase the pleasure.

The air was still thick with sexual tension, but his impulses were once more firmly under control. His voice was even as he asked, ‘Not too tight, I hope?’

Looking down into his lean, tanned face and noticing how his long, thick lashes curled, she assured him huskily, ‘No … No, it’s perfectly all right, thank you.’

When he had fastened the bandage securely, he replaced her sandal and rose to his feet in one lithe movement. ‘Now for some coffee.’

He filled two earthenware mugs and handed her one before taking a seat opposite and stretching out his long legs.

The coffee was hot, strong and fragrant, and Caris sipped it gratefully.

When it was gone, he queried, ‘More coffee?’

‘Please.’

Having refilled her mug, he said, ‘While you drink that, decide what you’d like for brunch.’

Still feeling that sensual heat, and terrified of giving herself away, she tried for the prosaic. ‘Who does the cooking when your housekeeper’s away?’

‘I do.’

Remembering her time at university—when most of her male friends had admitted to living on tinned food, takeaway pizzas and being helpless in the kitchen—she asked, ‘Really? Can you cook?’

‘Can I cook!’

Noting the gleam in his eye, she demanded, ‘Well, can you?’

‘Of course I can.’

‘Honestly?’

‘Oh ye of little faith.’

‘Sorry.’

‘I should think so.’

‘What kind of thing can you cook?’

‘I make a mean omelette.’

‘In that case, an omelette would be great.’

With a fresh pot of coffee keeping hot, he quickly set the table before taking a pack of bacon and a bowl of brown eggs from the fridge.

While the bacon grilled, he made a large omelette, golden and puffy. Folding it neatly, he garnished it with rolls of crisp bacon before dividing it between two warm plates.

They ate their meal in a companionable silence, and when her plate was empty Caris thanked him, adding, ‘I really enjoyed that.’

‘Good. Ready for more coffee?’

Reluctant to tear herself away but afraid of outstaying her welcome, she shook her head. ‘I really ought to be going.’

‘Why? What’s the hurry?’

Trying to put conviction into her voice, she told him, ‘I’d really like to get home.’

A glint in his eye, he asked, ‘Now, why don’t I believe that?’

Vexed that he’d seen through her pretence, she asked tartly, ‘Why don’t you?’

‘You have a very expressive face.’

A little disturbed by that remark—wondering what else she might have inadvertently given away—she felt the colour rise in her cheeks.

With a slight grimace, he said, ‘Now I’ve embarrassed you.’

‘Not really,’ she denied, sticking to her guns. ‘But I really ought to be going.’

‘If you’re determined, I’ll get the car out and drive you back.’

‘You’re sure I won’t be interrupting your work?’

‘I’ve done all I need to do for the moment. I’m now planning to enjoy myself.’

That made her smile. ‘I can’t believe chauffeuring a strange woman around counts as enjoyment.’

‘Surely that depends on the woman?’

She could think of nothing to say to that.

When she stayed mute, he pointed out teasingly, ‘That was meant to be a compliment.’

As lightly as possible she said, ‘In that case, what can I say but, thank you.’

He pretended to consider. ‘You could possibly add, “you’re very gallant”.’

‘I’ll be happy to, especially if you were to offer to bring my things downstairs.’

With a grin, he saluted her spirited answer.

Then, his face growing serious, he asked, ‘If you go back to Albany, what will you do with yourself?’

‘Well, I …’

‘Do you really want to hurry home just to sit in an empty flat all weekend?’

Caught on the raw—because that was precisely what she almost certainly would be doing—she said a shade crossly, ‘Well, what would you suggest I do?’

‘You could always stay here.’

Hurriedly she said, ‘Thank you, but I really couldn’t.’

‘Still not sure you can trust me?’

‘It’s nothing like that,’ she denied.

‘Then why can’t you stay?’

‘I couldn’t put on you.’

‘A quaint phrase, that, and if it means what I imagine it means—i.e. to impose—then my answer is if I’d thought you were putting on me I wouldn’t have offered.’

‘You might have felt obliged to.’

‘Well, I didn’t,’ he replied shortly. ‘And when you get to know me better you’ll realize that I don’t do anything I don’t want to do.’

He smiled at her suddenly, lightening the tension. ‘Now, if that’s set your mind at rest and you have no other serious objections, please stay. I could use the company.’