Читать книгу Enemies with Benefits - Louisa George, Louisa George - Страница 9

STAGE THREE. WITHOUT a doubt things could well get messy. After spending hours dealing with this kind of stuff at work Isaac really did not need it at home, too, but he took Poppy’s hand and pulled her up from the chair. For the second time that night she bumped against him and he steadied her, feeling the softness of her body as she leaned into him. Cute that she wore old-fashioned pyjamas to bed, but with Poppy’s slightly restrained approach to life it wasn’t surprising.

The way she felt was, though. She had curves where curves should very definitely be and right now, pressed against him, they certainly chased away the London winter chill.

Hell, she’d grown up. A lot. And even though he’d caught up with her over the years he hadn’t really looked at her. Hadn’t wanted to—and she clearly hadn’t wanted anything to do with him either. Not since the night he’d held her thick dark hair while she vomited into a rose bush and cried for a man who wasn’t him. ‘Hey, careful.’

‘Oops. Sorry.’ She looked up at him through a fringe that grazed long black eyelashes and something flashed behind her deep brown eyes. Caution. Poppy’s normal mojo. She’d trodden a safe, sensible path for the last however many years—never letting herself get out of control, always steadily working towards her career goal. But there was something else in those eyes, too—something glittering—need? Lust?

First time he’d seen her let her guard down in for ever. Amazing what a bit of wine could do.

‘Right.’ He stretched a piece of tinsel along the floor. Hell, it wasn’t his problem; she wasn’t his problem. But he had to make sure she was safe. Way he saw it, he could probably do this tinsel line straight to her bedroom and she’d hardly notice. ‘Now, walk along this line and we’ll see what stage you’re at. Then you should definitely get some shut-eye.’

‘See. I can do this, no problemo.’ Her right foot rested on top of the tinsel, scarlet-painted toes pointed as if she were perfecting a gymnastic display on the barre. Left foot. Then the right flailed in mid-air, she wobbled, fell sideways and into his outstretched arms. She grabbed on to his shoulder and he got a whiff of clean citrus, shampoo possibly or shower gel. The woman smelt good. She smiled. ‘Oops again. You’re a good catcher, Isaac. Thank you for being here. You’re very kind. Very nice actually, I think. Underneath that standoffish mask. Very nice indeed. We could be friends, you know … You know a lot about me. More than anyone—’

‘Shh. Let’s concentrate on the walking thing.’ He placed a finger over her lips. Rapidly approaching stage four—he did not want to deal with that. ‘Then I think we should get you to bed.’

‘Absolutely … Is that … is that an offer?’ The heat in her body slammed against his. Her lips parted ever so slightly as she smiled.

Then closed again as he shook his head. ‘Thanks. But, no. If we were ever to do anything in bed, Poppy … which we won’t … I’d want you to be able to remember it in the morning.’

Sleeping with Poppy? Insane idea. But the thought lingered for just too long, and he hadn’t been with a woman in a while.

Absolutely not.

He gently removed her from his arm, and within a nanosecond of that touch his body zinged with a shot of pure feral desire. Here she was offering herself to him, this attractive grown-up woman—although he’d only just awoken to that fact. He could take her to bed and ease away some of the stresses of the past week. Show her the fun she so obviously craved.

Only, this was Poppy and there were a dozen or more reasons why that would be the worst damned idea he’d had in a long time. Not least the fact she was drunk, lonely and, until she’d uttered that last sentence, he would have sworn she hated his guts. He’d been there at her lowest, her weakest and worst moment, and somehow she’d never forgiven him.

Not that he’d ever cared. Impressing women past a flirty dalliance had never been on his agenda. He’d spent enough time watching too many marriages fail to contemplate one himself, and he wasn’t about to change that any time soon.

It had been a busy few days—he was tired, was all, having put every ounce of effort into getting the Paris bar up and running. He needed sleep. On his own. ‘Come on, let’s get you to the bedroom.’

‘No! Bathroom first. Teeth. Floss. Wee.’

‘Too much information, lady.’ For some reason his hand seemed to have slipped back round her waist. She wasn’t so drunk that she’d fall over, but he thought it best he should steady her as they walked towards the bathroom. Her head rested against his shoulder and she looked sweet. Smelt great. Felt … sexy as all hell. Was it possible to be jet-lagged from a one-hour flight? Because he couldn’t think of any other reason for this strange disorientation.

He tried to keep his eyes on the bathroom decor and not on Poppy’s backside as she dipped to rinse her toothbrush. She’d done a reasonable job painting the flat in bright, light colours. The bathroom still needed a little TLC as the plumbing was cranky at best but it was clean and tiled in muted stone. A large skylight shed light from above although now all he could see were glimpses of stars in a cloudy night sky.

What gave the room colour were the multi-hued bits of lace drying on the radiator on the far wall. Still unused to sharing a house with so many women, he wondered what the correct response should be to finding flimsy underwear wherever he looked. He doubted it should be the spike of interest, and trying to match the panties to the woman. Now he tried not to imagine Poppy in the red and black number.

Hey, he was a hot-blooded man after all.

After a few moments of brushing her teeth she looked at him through the reflection in the large mirror. ‘You know it’s a medical impossibility to become a virgin again once you’re not. Right?’

‘Uh-huh. You’re the doctor, not me. But I think it’s a given that once the seal is broken it can’t exactly be unbroken. And where are you going with this, Miss Einstein?’ Grabbing the towel, she dried her mouth, then turned to him.

‘I’m a fraud. I advise women every day about their sex lives and I don’t have one. How can I talk to them about sex when I don’t even remember what it’s like? I don’t want to be an almost-virgin when I die, Isaac, but I’m headed that way.’

Like he was the right guy to be having this conversation with. Especially when he was the only person in the universe who knew why she’d given up sex. Anger started to rise from nowhere. She’d run away from any kind of relationship ever since, when she could have been happy. Happier. ‘You really do need to sleep off that wine. There’s plenty of time to get a sex life and plenty of men who, I’m sure, would be willing to help you in your … dilemma.’

‘Would you?’ Those pretty painted toes took a step towards him.

‘Would I what?’

But instead of answering in words, she pressed her mouth against his. Pressed her body against his. Made little mewling sounds that activated every hot-blooded cell in his body. And, hell, he should have pulled away, put her straight to bed and left. But she tasted so damned good …

Someone was playing bongo drums in Poppy’s head. And someone else was stomping in her stomach. Her throat hurt. Her mouth was dry. She felt like hell.

Worse than hell.

After a couple of minutes stabilising herself she twisted in the sheets about to sit up but her foot collided against something warm. Something large. In her bed. Her eyelids shot open and she managed to stifle the scream in her throat, holding her breath as she tried to make sense of it. Her heart thumped in conjunction with the annoying beat in her head as her toes gingerly tested the object.

A leg. Human. Hairy.

What. The. Hell?

She closed her eyes again until her stomach stopped churning. There was a man in her bed.

Isaac?

It took all of her strength to turn over quietly so as not to waken him up. Yes—same hair, same smell. She clamped her eyes closed again.

Isaac.

A bare leg. Two bare legs. She felt down her front … no cosy pink flannelette pyjamas, but a skimpy silk cami top? No PJ bottoms, but matching silk and lace French knickers? Lara’s expensive design—for best times only. What in hell had she done?

Please no.

Surely not?

Surely, surely not? She’d spent the night with a man. With Isaac. First time in eight long years and she couldn’t even remember it?

The vodka and Coke she’d had at the pub before she came home she easily remembered. And … ugh … the red wine gifts from her clients. Bile rose to her throat. She was never ever drinking again. Fuzzy flickering images of Isaac arriving while she was putting up the tree gradually came into focus. But how had they gone from that, to … this?

But oh, oh, God … she suddenly remembered kissing him in the bathroom. Remembered how she’d felt bold and brave and very sexy. And how he’d tasted so nice, his kiss so tender … Even now she could smell his scent, firing flashes of heat through her belly.

‘Sleeping Beauty finally wakes up.’ He turned, naked shoulders peeking out from her sheets, sat up, eyes as bright as the daylight splicing through her curtains. His hair was mussed up and he looked devastatingly hot. ‘Sleep well? Eventually?’

‘Why are you in my bed?’ Bunching the sheet around her throat, she sat up, too. No way was she getting out until he’d gone.

‘You don’t remember, Poppy? What a shame. It was a spectacular night and you don’t remember at all? I’m so disappointed.’

There was that shake of the head she knew so well. Daddy Spencer would be a proud man to see someone perfect that frown, even if it wasn’t his own flesh and blood.

‘I remember … we kissed.’ Oh, God, kill me now. ‘And then …’ She tried to force the cogs in her brain to work harder, faster, but they were stuck in fog. ‘Not a lot else.’

His hands clasped at the back of his neck showing mighty fine pectoral muscles, impressive biceps … Her mouth dried to something beyond the Sahara. Mortified she might have been, but she could still take time out to appreciate a beautiful human specimen when she saw one. She’d touched that? Lain under that? Or had she been on top? Or both? Who knew?

Aargh! Why couldn’t she remember?

He appeared to be struggling to keep a straight face. ‘You surprised even me. And I’m used to pretty much anything. Not exactly a screamer, more a gasper …’

‘A gasper? I didn’t … We didn’t …?’ A flash of him running his hand through her hair emerged through the soup in her brain. No, that had been years ago. But … the image in her head was of her current bathroom. Of safe hands stroking her back. A soft smile as he’d picked her up and carried her across the apartment and into her bedroom.

‘You kissed me.’ No way would she forget that in a London minute.

‘No, Poppy. You kissed me.’

‘You kissed me back.’

Those magnificent shoulders shrugged. ‘Glad to help out a lady in need. You said you wanted me to teach you a few things. Asked me … begged me.’

Oh, good Lord. Begged Isaac? ‘Well, that was the vodka talking.’

‘Vodka? No, a couple of bottles of Aussie Shiraz by the looks of it.’

Her stomach lurched with just the thought of it. She swallowed hard. ‘Vodka with colleagues in the pub before the wine on my own.’ Could it get any worse? He’d kissed her because she’d asked him to help her. Begged him. Not because he’d fancied her. Not because he’d wanted her. He’d kissed her out of pity.

She’d begged him?

‘I have to say you are an almost textbook drunk.’

‘Good to know.’ That’d be right. Usually Poppy did everything by the book, because not doing so caused too much harm and mayhem. And she never wanted to go there again.

‘But what is it about me, Popsicle?’ His use of her childhood nickname made her cringe, and he damn well knew it, making her pull the sheets more tightly round her cleavage as he spoke. ‘Is it something I do? Is it the way I smell? Every time we get a moment alone we end up with your head down, bum up. Gasping. Stage five implemented to perfection. You are a champion upchucker.’

No. Not again. ‘I was sick?’

‘Yes. Spectacularly.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ No wonder her stomach hurt.

‘Not pretty.’

‘So we didn’t, er, you know.’

He shrugged. ‘Hey, you know me, I never give away our secrets.’

She’d begged him not to before and he’d been true to his word. She threw him a glance—his grin widened and she wasn’t sure if he was referring to back then or last night. But he was clearly not going to enlighten her. Irritating.

Over the ensuing years that evening had hovered between them like an ominous dark cloud—would he ever confront her? Would he put her in a situation where she’d have to confess to everyone what she’d done and show who the real Poppy Spencer was?

So far he’d kept schtum on the whole thing—but then she’d never allowed herself to be in any kind of situation where she owed him anything more. And ever since then the all-new shiny reformed Poppy Spencer hadn’t put a foot wrong.

But still—he knew. And for that reason alone she kept him at a distance.

Fast forward to the second most mortifying moment of her life—if they’d actually done the deed surely she’d know? She’d feel different—her body would feel less nauseated and more … excited. Surely? No, they hadn’t had sex, she was pretty certain. Relief flooded through her. ‘So why are you in my bed now? Why am I in different clothes? Where are my pyjamas?’

His head shook. Disappointedly. ‘Don’t panic, I put a quick stop to the kiss and you’re still an almost-virgin.’

‘A what?’

‘Never mind. Just something you said last night. Amongst a whole lot of other stuff.’ His voice rose a couple of octaves. ‘“Please don’t leave me, there’s a mouse on the run. I’m scared. Too cold. Too hot. I need a drink. Headache. I’m going to be sick again. Please, don’t leave me, Isaac, I’m scared.” Eventually your demands exhausted me and I fell asleep right here. You are one hell of a snorer, by the way. I hope for your sake it was just because of the alcohol.’ He smiled his slow, lazy smile. ‘And now you’re wearing the only things I could lay my hands on in the dark at four-thirty this morning during the too-hot phase. Very, very nice, too.’

His eyebrows rose as his fingers plucked the blush-pink lacy straps of her cami. At his touch her body reacted in a very un-Poppy-like way—with a frenzied surge of what she could only describe as lust. And he knew it, too, judging by the glittering in his eyes. ‘Must have cost a fair bit.’

She slapped his hand away from her straps, not least because of the effect his skin was having on her skin. ‘They did, even with mate’s rates. And did you look … did you see …?’ She’d learnt to be forthright with her patients; why couldn’t she be forthright with him? She needed to know the extent of her absolute mortification. She took a deep breath, not wanting to hear the answer to her question. ‘Okay, so who undressed me? Did you help with that or did I manage it all by myself?’

‘Don’t worry, I closed my eyes.’ He leaned forward and whispered against her neck, making her shiver and shudder and hot and cold at the same time. ‘Most of the time.’

‘What? No!’

Then he winked. ‘All I can say is that someone’s going to be a very lucky man one day.’ But he clearly wasn’t referring to himself because with that he threw the sheet back, revealing a pair of extremely well-toned legs, thigh-hugging black boxers with the outlined shape of something she only allowed herself a moment’s glance at before she was totally and utterly lost for words … Wow … just wow. And a body that she could have sworn she saw advertising aftershave in a glossy yesterday. ‘Got to get to work, Popsicle. I’ll make sure I get a mousetrap on the way back. Thanks for a very entertaining evening.’

Then he was gone.

‘Damn. Damn. Damn.’ She leaned back against the pillows and breathed out a huge sigh, unsure of what to make of it all. Because, despite the Macarena in her stomach, she could have sworn she should be feeling a whole lot different from the way she felt right now. She should definitely not be feeling turned on. Her breasts should not be tingly, her heart should not be pounding, her lady bits should definitely not be wide awake and singing hallelujah at the mere hint of Isaac’s presence. Or at the thought of him seeing her naked. No. She should not be feeling like this at all. Especially when the startling, belittling, humiliating truth of it all was that, without any thought of consequences, she’d got drunk, accosted him and he’d kissed her back out of pity.