Читать книгу First Time Lucky? - Natalie Anderson - Страница 8

GABE got to work mid-afternoon, having spent the morning boxing up the few personal possessions he cared enough about and managing the shift in only two trips. Now, as he got out of his car he heard the music blaring through the speakers into the stadium. Damn, he’d hoped they’d have finished by now. He strode along the corridors to his office and shut the door. He flicked on his computer and checked his email. Excellent, the test results he’d been waiting for had landed. He settled more comfortably in his chair and started to work through them. But his door was flung open less than ten minutes later.

‘Gabe, good you’re here, I need you to take a look at one of these girls.’ Dion, the stadium CEO. Dion who had no problem watching the wannabe dancers auditioning.

‘No.’ Gabe didn’t even glance up from his computer.

‘Seriously, I need you. Bee sting. Looks like she’s allergic.’

‘Oh, you’ve got to be kidding. A bee sting?’ Gabe growled. ‘That would have to rank as the most pathetic attempt ever.’

‘But genuine. You really—’

‘Dion,’ Gabe interrupted, still staring at his screen, ‘I’ve seen sprained ankles, sore calves, strained wrists. All fake. But a bee sting is a first. Certainly more inventive … if it weren’t for the fact that there are no bees on that pitch. They’re banned from play with chemical spray.’

‘Gabe—’

‘Come on,’ Gabe sighed with weary sarcasm. ‘I don’t want to deal with another desperate-to-date dancer. Enough, okay?’

More than enough. After causing a cold war in his family for a few years over his refusal to conform to tradition, and the horror of an ex-lover psycho stalking him, Gabe had learned a couple of things. Firstly, he wasn’t limiting his life by getting married and therefore having to compromise on his own goals for the rest of his days. And to be sure of escaping that noose, he knew he had to make his intentions clear from the start, to only seek company from the equally sophisticated and never mess with a woman who had anything to do with his workplace. Especially this workplace where temptation, exacerbated by all the travel, was too much for most men anyway. He’d seen it so many times—embarrassingly short marriages, even more embarrassing scandals.

‘I should have told you I’d brought her with me.’ With a wicked grin Dion stepped further in and too late Gabe saw the smaller figure behind him. ‘And for the record, I had to drag her here. She reckons she’s fine but I don’t agree.’

Oh, great. Gabe winced. The girl had to have heard every word. Still, that was probably good—dispelling any ideas she might have had. He pushed out from behind his desk and shot the departing Dion a foul look. Dion merely winked.

Gabe looked at his new patient. Her head was bent so he couldn’t see her face. Naturally she was blonde. And naturally the blonde wasn’t natural at all. He could see the myriad colours streaked through the long length that fell in gentle curves past her shoulders. She had the long, slim limbs of the dancer. And the extremely brief attire. Then she looked up at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed but challenging. Her cheeks flushed. Her mouth full but firm. All instantly recognisable.

Good grief.

Gabe just stared, his brain fuzzy, a humming in his ears. He had to be mistaken on this. But he wasn’t. This was his under-age landlady? Sleeping Beauty from the wilderness?

‘Hello, Gabe.’ Despite the colour in her cheeks, the rest of her face was deathly pale.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘You mean you haven’t worked it out already?’ Her wildly blue eyes glittered. But not from tears. No, it was all defiance.

His gaze narrowed. No, he couldn’t believe his eyes. The mouse-brown hair was now shot through with gold. And there was so much polish. She was wearing marginally more than she had been yesterday. Actually the shorts were even shorter—micro shorts, the exact colour of her eyes. And instead of a see-through old vest-top, she had a pink leotard on. The whole outfit too skin-clinging for comfort.

‘I thought you said you were going overseas,’ he said stupidly.

‘I am.’ She looked at him through lashes perfectly—but heavily—mascaraed.

‘Then why are you trying out for the Blades?’ He swallowed. Was this high-gloss vision truly the same sodden waif he’d met less than twenty-four hours before? Helplessly he glanced down her leotard-clad torso again. Not the slim waif at all. Curves had mushroomed magically. He bit his lip to stop the smile and the comment he so badly wanted to make.

‘I’m going overseas at the end of the season,’ she said. ‘I want to dance first.’

‘The end of the season?’ He was appalled; his amusement fled. That wasn’t soon. He’d thought she was shipping out in a week or so. How was he supposed to live in that house with her a stone’s throw away for the best part of six months? Especially if she was going to be glammed up something gorgeous like this?

‘Yeah, except that stupid bee just ruined my chances. And, no, I didn’t stab myself with it just so I could get your face up close to my inner thigh.’

Oh, my. Gabe snapped his mouth shut, worked hard to bite back both the smile and the chuckle. His landlady had more fire than he’d given her credit for. He walked closer, watched even closer. Her transformation was something else, but he saw the hint of uncertainty in her expression as he deliberately breached her personal space. The girl was acting the grown-up. But some kind of madness raced in his blood when she lifted her chin and refused to break eye contact with him. Her audacious grit got to him. If she wanted to sharpen her kitten claws, well, hell, he’d play up to her—a very little. Frankly he couldn’t resist seeing how far she’d go until she melted in a flush, until she got tongue-tied and lost her cool completely. He suspected it wouldn’t be too far at all.

‘Do some of the dancers really fake injuries to come and see you?’ she asked outright.

Her obvious disbelief threw him instead. He cleared his throat, knew he’d sounded like the most arrogant a-hole ever. ‘It’s happened a couple of times.’ More than a couple. But still.

Roxie giggled, suddenly delighted as she saw her tenant steal another quick look at her outfit—at least she’d achieved one objective today. Maybe it was the bee poison running through her system, or she was intoxicated by his proximity, but she couldn’t resist baiting him—his arrogance was incredible. ‘But you’re not a rugby star. Surely the dancers have bigger fish to fry in this place? You know, all those fit young rugby players?’

He met her gaze with his dark one and a spark flickered in the depths. ‘Maybe some of them prefer my qualifications.’

Heart racing, she breathed carefully to keep her answer cool. ‘I’m sure more prefer the status and short-term income of the real stars.’

His smile was all shark. ‘Maybe I have some other factors in my favour too.’

She figured he meant his looks. Yeah, so good-looking her toes were curling. All kinds of muscles clamped down—mostly in her nether regions. As if they were trying to dampen the inferno blazing there. ‘Well, you don’t need to worry about me, you’re not my type,’ she lied, feeling sassy and amused and surprisingly in control.

‘No?’

She froze. She hadn’t expected that direct challenge—his tone as loaded with tease as hers had been. She narrowed her gaze. ‘Definitely not. You’re too arrogant.’

Way too arrogant.

He leaned closer, his smile even more wicked. ‘Lots of girls like arrogance. Confidence.’

‘Lots of girls like bad boys too. I’m not like lots of girls.’

‘That’s true.’ All of a sudden he frowned. ‘Roxanna, what are you doing here?’

‘Auditioning,’ she cooed, to maintain the tease. ‘And it’s Roxie.’

Yeah, it was fun flexing flirt muscles that had been dormant so long. Really, it was easy. Because she could see the reaction—the glint in his eyes. And she could feel that pull between them; it was out-of-this-world strong.

‘You told me Roxanna yesterday.’ He stepped that little bit closer, his voice dropping.

‘You caught me by surprise yesterday,’ she breathed softly, holding eye contact. Nerves squeezed down tighter in her lower belly.

His gaze travelled across her face—eyes, lips, then dipped to her chest. ‘So now you’re Roxie.’

‘Yes.’ She tossed her hair defiantly and lifted her chin at him. ‘I’ve always been Roxie.’ Inside she had anyway. And ‘Roxie’ was certainly having an effect on him. She wasn’t a total innocent. She’d had a boyfriend—one who had let her down in her hour of need, for sure, but she knew the look—and there was no disguising the look Gabe was giving her now. Oh, it had been worth every cent, every never-ending minute in the salon this morning. Poor Roxanna had never stood a chance, but add a little blonde, a little oomph to her assets? It was a different story. She couldn’t believe men could be so shallow. But right now she didn’t care, she was just basking in the heat in those eyes. The novelty was heady.

He shook his head very slowly. ‘Well, Roxie, we’d better take a look at it.’

Look at what? Oh, her bee sting. She looked down at it and sighed; seemed as if the fun moment was over.

‘I want you on the bed.’

Roxie almost gasped at that instruction, until she quickly looked up and caught his too-bland expression. He was baiting her right back.

But he frowned when he glimpsed the circle of red, swollen skin on the inside of her thigh when she moved and sat up on the narrow bed against the wall. ‘You weren’t kidding.’

‘Of course not,’ she grumbled. As if she’d make up a bee sting just to get within cooee of the team doctor. He had such an inflated opinion of himself. ‘Hurts like hell.’

He bent to look more closely. ‘You can see the mark, but it looks like the actual sting is out. You’ve always been allergic?’

She nodded. ‘But I haven’t been stung in years. I thought I might have outgrown it.’

‘Shame,’ he murmured with evil intent, his breath a warm cloud brushing her thigh. ‘When you’ve gone to such effort to grow up in other ways.’

She felt a very un-grown-up urge to throw something at him and his patronising attitude.

‘Never mind, Roxie.’ His bedside manner came out more like a taunt. ‘Maybe you’ll get to dance overseas.’

‘Maybe.’ She shrugged like as if she didn’t mind, as if it wasn’t the disappointment of the year.

‘Spread your legs wider,’ he instructed casually, but with that dangerous glint back in his eye.

Externally she froze, internally she melted. ‘How wide?’ she managed to ask.

‘Wide enough for me, of course.’ His expression was now pure challenge, purely expectant of … what?

She saw the barely suppressed smirk. He was amusing himself at her expense? Well, two could play at that game. Roxie determinedly imagined diving into Antarctic waters, cool—freezing—waters. Anything to keep her blush at bay. She was not going to go all girly embarrassed here, even though she felt it. Instead, she leaned back on her hands, tossed her head so her hair flicked out of her eyes. And she—who’d never spread her legs for any man—spread them as wide as they’d go. Which, given she could do the splits three ways, was actually quite wide. ‘This okay?’ she asked huskily.

He looked. Down then back up. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed as he looked down again. ‘Just about,’ he murmured and stepped right into place—mere inches separating them.

She ignored the flush she knew just had to be covering every inch of her skin and smiled the smile of total success. ‘I didn’t know you promised to flirt with your patients when you took the Hippocratic oath.’

‘You’re not a patient.’ His gaze snapped up to her face.

‘No? Aren’t you tending to me, Mr Physician?’

‘No. Not as a medical professional. I’m just going to hand you some cream and you can rub it on that sting yourself.’

She didn’t know what had come over her, but the need to tease more was impossible to ignore. For the first time in her life she was flooded with confidence. She could say anything and not give a damn—the more provocative, the better, because his rapid response—desire mixed with defence—fuelled her wicked excitement. ‘You’re not going to rub it on for me?’ she purred.

‘No.’ He stepped back. ‘I am not.’

‘Oh.’ She looked down innocently. ‘Do you only like rubbing cream on those big rugby boys?’

‘Roxie.’ He came back close, too close, his expression goaded. He studied her silently, ensuring he had her attention, then deliberately looked down her body in a blatantly sexual appraisal. ‘Your hair isn’t the only thing about you that’s changed.’

He was looking at her chest. And, yes, he knew the truth for sure.

She lifted her chin, refusing to let embarrassment rise. ‘It’s amazing what supportive underwear can do for a girl.’

‘Quite amazing,’ he agreed drily. Suddenly he chuckled, that wholly amused sound that stirred that instinctive response in her to draw closer—and the temptation to tease further.

Yeah, she couldn’t help but giggle back, despite the tension that still threaded through her. If anything the shared amusement pulled that thread tighter. ‘You don’t think my rack’s real?’

‘We both know it’s not.’

Yeah, they did both know that. She angled her head down but peeped back up at him, batting her lashes to totally ham it up. ‘But you have to admit, if you didn’t know better, you’d be completely fooled.’

He took a moment to study her again, slow, deliberate consideration. ‘Completely.’

She decided to push for more. ‘And even though you know the truth, you like the effect anyway?’

The deep breath he drew in seemed to be painful, because he grimaced at the same time. Then he shook his head. ‘It’s false advertising. What happens if you pull one of those rugby boys—how you going to cope when he finds out the truth? Or are you going to offer to cook the chicken fillets for supper after?’

She wrinkled her nose but appreciated the attempt to shoot her down. ‘Not chicken fillets. They’d stink something awful.’

‘What’s in there, then, cotton wool?’

‘Gel pads. Much more comfortable. Natural feeling.’

‘They feel natural?’

She shot a look into the deep, dark eyes that were only a few inches from her own. ‘You want to find out for yourself?’

Oh, the challenge was out now. She could see him thinking, deciding …

‘Roxie …’ He cleared his throat and turned away quickly, went to a cupboard and pushed packets around in it with fierce concentration.

Disappointment burst her fantasy bubble. She looked down at her leg, suddenly the pain that had been muted screamed. She saw how the red was spreading, the swelling thickening.

‘The reaction is getting worse,’ she muttered, biting her lip because her thigh was hot, itchy and sore.

‘It certainly is,’ he answered abruptly, returning from the cupboard, still not looking at her directly. He pierced the seal on the small tube, squeezed some of the white cream onto the tips of his fingers. ‘I’ll give you a couple of antihistamine tablets as well. Have them when you get home—they might make you drowsy.’

She nodded, not able to speak any more. He’d gently spread her legs wider again and with fingers was smoothing the cream across the hot, tight skin. Seemed he’d forgotten he was going to make her do that herself. She looked at him as he watched what he was doing. Now she knew exactly why all those dancers faked injuries to get him to tend them—he was fun. And he truly was gorgeous with his perfect features and height. So very male. So very close. Touching her in a way that suggested other kinds of touch might be even more moving. Her lashes lowered as the tips of his fingers circled carefully, narrowing in on the sting site. She shouldn’t be feeling it so sensually, but she was. She shouldn’t be imagining those fingers gliding higher, but she was. She shouldn’t be heating, melting, wanting—but she was. And she couldn’t help the small shudder as he stroked in that smooth, regular rhythm.

He looked up; his eyes bored into hers. All tease gone and nothing but banked fire in the black eyes. ‘You need to do this yourself.’ Honest, raw—faint sheen sparkled on his skin as if he too felt a fever.

Her throat tightened, rendering her mute. So she nodded. But even that took effort. It was as if he’d some spell cast over her. Her heart wasn’t racing, it was thumping so slowly, and every beat was so huge it hurt. She thought her eardrums were going to burst with the pressure. Both his hands rested on her now, no longer rubbing the cream, but holding her thigh. He could tighten his grip any moment.

If he wanted.

His gaze dropped a couple of inches south of her eyes. She knew what he was thinking about. She was thinking about it too. Wanted it. Her lips tingled, dried, she was desperately trying not to lick them. Suddenly he was closer, so close that—

‘Hey, Gabe, how’s our new girl?’

Gabe moved so fast Roxie didn’t have time to blink before he was at the sink, running taps and scrubbing his hands.

‘You mean me?’ Roxie stared at the vivacious blonder than blonde who’d just burst into the room. Chelsea, the leader of the dance troupe.

‘Yeah, are you okay?’ Chelsea came up close to look at Roxie’s leg. ‘Looks ouch.’

‘It’s okay.’ Seriously, she’d forgotten it in that overpowering moment with his hands on her. ‘Really, I’m … just fine.’ Just breathless.

‘Great. Because up to the bee thing, you blew us away. We want you in.’

‘You do?’ Roxie gaped. ‘Really?’ She’d thought she’d blown it with the whole allergic-reaction-and-screams-of-agony routine.

‘Yeah, you’re classically trained, right?’

‘It was obvious?’ She was stunned; she hadn’t been to a ballet class since she was sixteen.

‘Not in a bad way, but I thought I could spot that underlying technique a couple of times. Your freestyle was amazing and I totally want to raid your moves. I’ve not seen a girl break the way you do. We need some edge and you definitely have it.’

Wow. No one had ever said she had ‘edge’ before. Then again, no one had seen her dance in years. She’d gone into that all but empty stadium today and just given it everything. And she’d done it.

Elation added to the excitement that had already been flooding her. She couldn’t resist glancing at the tall, dark torment now standing a few paces behind Chelsea. But in the split second she looked, she saw the naked emotion on his face.

Anger.

His thunderous expression momentarily crushed her mood. Why did he look so bothered?

‘I’ll leave these pills for you here.’ He brushed past Chelsea and brusquely put a small pill pack on the edge of the table. He left the room faster than a streaker ran the length of the pitch in an international match.

‘Hottest thing on two legs, isn’t he?’ said Chelsea a few seconds after he’d shut the door one decibel short of a slam.

‘I’m sorry?’ Roxie blinked, still absorbing his massive mood swing.

‘Gabe,’ Chelsea explained. ‘Hotter than any of those players. Fit plus brains plus wads of old money.’

‘Really?’ Roxie hoped her suddenly ravenous curiosity wasn’t too obvious.

‘Yeah but don’t bother looking. See how he shot out of here the second he could?’

Roxie just nodded.

Chelsea sighed almost sadly. ‘He used to be so outrageous, dated a different woman every night. Absolute slayer.’

Roxie carefully picked up the tube of cream he’d left on the narrow bed beside her and concentrated extra hard on screwing the cap back on. ‘What changed that?’

‘His ex Diana went crazy for him. Literally crazy.’ Chelsea stepped nearer, her bubbly voice dropping conspiratorially. ‘She was a dancer here, they didn’t even date all that long but she tried to move in on him. I mean, she really did move in one weekend when he was away. It almost got to restraining-order point, but she had a breakdown and her family got her some help.’ Chelsea looked awkward about sharing the info, but she talked on anyway. ‘It wasn’t his fault, she was delusional. Everyone knows he’s never going to put one of these on a girl’s finger.’ Chelsea waggled the fingers of her left hand, and the flash of her massive diamond engagement ring temporarily blinded Roxie. ‘Gabe’s a playboy to the grave. Or he was. Now he’s a repressed playboy.’ Chelsea frowned and fixed Roxie in place with a searching look. ‘When he smiles—too rare these days—all females instantly melt. There’s not a woman in the world who wouldn’t fancy him.’

Roxie knew denial would be too revealing and Chelsea was looking as if she could see straight through her anyway. ‘Well, he is very attractive.’

‘Yeah, but he’s unattainable,’ Chelsea warned. ‘Which makes him all the more attractive to so many women.’ She half laughed and then instantly sobered. ‘But don’t waste your time. He’s signed off from the game. Look, I’ve been with my man so long the others call me matron, but I still know how it works in this place—you get a bunch of fit guys together with a bunch of fit girls and it’s all going to happen. There are twenty-odd gorgeous young things on that team who’d love to play. So if you want, go for it with one of them, just be sure to play safe.’

Roxie swallowed and stood up from the bed, letting her hair fall forward so the blush in her cheeks wouldn’t be so obvious. Now probably wasn’t the time to admit she’d never played at all—well, not all the way through a game. And she hadn’t looked twice at any of the players—but their doctor? She stepped to get the pills so Chelsea couldn’t see her face as she asked, ‘Why did that girl go so crazy for Gabe?’

‘You’ve got eyes, right?’

‘Yeah, but sometimes good-lookers don’t think they have to make any effort.’ She’d read that in a magazine. She turned to get Chelsea’s answer.

‘Rumour has it his technique is even better than his body. I don’t know the truth of that myself but I’d believe it.’ Chelsea looked worried. ‘Look, so many girls have tried it with him and failed in the last few months since Diana. Save yourself the humiliation—I’ve seen them fall but he rejects harshly and then they resign. I don’t want to lose another dancer, especially one as interesting as you, so please don’t go after him.’

Roxie laughed—she’d never gone after a guy in her life; she wouldn’t know where to start. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’

And she didn’t want to jeopardise her spot on the Blades—she’d wanted that for too long. But a part deep inside her flamed because Gabe had wanted to kiss her. She might not be all that experienced but she’d known that. Which meant he wasn’t entirely unattainable. Oh, yes, temptation whispered—tantalising her with the fantasy. She wanted that experience—to finally take a lover and a damn good one. If Gabe was that great, couldn’t he be the one to do it all with? Clearly he didn’t want commitment—none of that lovelorn, clinging stuff. But nor did she. She had no intention of being pulled into a relationship. Her freedom had been a long time in coming and she wasn’t giving it up for anyone.

Hours later, as he drove to his new home Gabe rationalised. It didn’t matter, the Blades only rehearsed on site once a week and he was well used to avoiding them at that time anyway. She’d be there during the games, but he was busy with the boys for all that time. He didn’t attend the after-match functions at the home stadium as a rule now. So while he might glimpse her every now and then, that would be it. He could live with that for just this season. Sure he could.

But when he got to the Treehouse he couldn’t help looking at the window above the garage. The curtain wasn’t drawn; there was no sign of life. The garage was locked but a wall of boxes blocked the back window so he couldn’t see if a car was parked in there. He had no way of knowing whether she was home or not. Unless he knocked on her door.

The tablets he’d given her could cause drowsiness. He sighed. So what? That was no reason to bother. She’d be fine. Only there were probably druggies and vagrants in that park in the dark of the night. And she was on the edge of it, alone. In a room above a rickety garage that had to be the size of a postage stamp. Yeah, the niggle turned into a nag and then into a frankly disturbing level of worry. The only way to get rid of it was to see her for himself and thus be sure she was okay. And that was the only reason he wanted to see her. Medical—a professional capacity. But he wasn’t her doctor or anything. He was determined not to be that. A concerned acquaintance?

Oh, bugger it. He thumped up the stairs, hoping to make enough noise to ensure she’d hear his arrival. He rapped hard on the door. Rapped harder. Shouted out her name. It was at the point when he was considering smashing the lock that he heard a grumbling response.

Finally the door swung open.

At first all he saw was the tee shirt. Less than a second later realised that all she wore was the tee shirt. Cute, cotton, white thing. Maybe there were knickers, but maybe not. His tongue gummed to the roof of his mouth.

‘Is everything okay?’ Drowsily she tucked her hair back behind her ears.

‘That’s what I was coming to ask you,’ he muttered, barely more intelligible than a grunting Neanderthal. Even sleepy her eyes sparkled. He then made the massive mistake of glancing down. Thighs, calves, ankles. Her long, tanned legs that were slender but also hinted at strength. Yeah, supple muscles were shown off under the gorgeous stretch of golden skin and he wanted to reach out and run his fingers down their warm length. Wanted them to spread again for him.

‘I think it’s okay,’ she said huskily. ‘It doesn’t seem to be any worse.’

He flinched. He’d totally forgotten about the sting, he’d just been checking her out and wondering about the undies. And now she held her leg slightly outstretched meaning he caught the glimpse of lace-edged silk covering her crotch. His tongue actually tingled as the urge to drop to his knees hit him. He wanted to lick her there. Oh, hell, everywhere.

Cotton tee shirt. He frowned, forced himself to think on the cotton. Not the lace knickers. Sweet not sexy. Not sophisticated. Not appropriate. She was his landlady. This would be mess-up central if he followed the path his body was determinedly dragging him towards. He swallowed, furious with his rapid descent into peeping Tom territory. ‘Make sure you reapply the cream.’ He snapped more than he meant to.

Her sleepy blue eyes widened. ‘Why are you so grumpy?’

He glowered. ‘I’m not.’

‘Oh, you so are.’ She grinned, undaunted. ‘But I think it’s still there, buried beneath the frown.’

‘What’s still there?’ He couldn’t resist asking.

‘The ability to have fun.’

The tiny tot was back at flirting? ‘Oh, I have fun,’ he said deliberately slowly. ‘But I’m selective about who I have fun with.’

‘That’s very wise.’ She nodded guilelessly. ‘I’m very selective myself.’

Oh, really? His muscles sharpened. ‘How much fun have you had?’

Her lashes drooped; she almost pouted. ‘Not enough.’

He determinedly looked past her so he wouldn’t be tempted to touch those full lips. ‘Looks like you’ve been having a bit.’ He nodded towards the empty bottle in the middle of the dining table.

She turned to see what he meant. ‘Oh, that …’ she swung back, her smile impish ‘… was good.’

He took the opportunity of her movement to step past her into the room. And was dead unimpressed with what he could see. Furniture from one corner to the other. Furniture on top of furniture, boxes above and below. A tiny single stretcher crammed under the window was her bed? He winced at its obvious discomfort—hard and definitely too short for him. How could she stand it?

‘You can’t be serious about living here,’ he said, all grump again.

‘Why not?’ she answered coldly.

‘There’s no room.’ There wasn’t an inch of spare floor space. A half metre square in which to get in from the door and then, bam, stuff.

‘There’s more than enough room for me.’

He looked down at her—too close—in the too small space. Quickly he looked back to the table, anything to stop himself taking rampant advantage of the lack of space. He noticed an ‘H’ written in permanent marker in the top corner of the wine label. ‘What’s the H for?’

She glanced at the table and her expression turned guilty.

Why? ‘Got any more?’ he couldn’t help teasing.

He glanced round; behind him was a fridge. He shot her a look and reached out a hand. It was literally a bar fridge—and, yes, filled with alcohol. He hadn’t actually expected that. The only other item was an oversized container of hummus. ‘How many bottles you got in here?’ He held the door open, amazed.

‘Five,’ she said defensively. ‘And they’re only half bottles.’

He drew one out, saw the single capital letter on the label, bent and saw they each had different letters. ‘What do they stand for?’

Roxie folded her arms, never going to admit that she’d blown his rent advance on getting her hair done, some new underwear and half a dozen half-bottles of champagne. ‘None of your business.’

‘No, go on, they obviously mean something.’ Relentlessly he waited.

‘All right, H was for getting my hair done.’ She defiantly ran her fingers through her hair, flicking it so it fell over her shoulder, almost long enough to cover her breast. Almost. ‘I’d waited ages for that.’ And she’d drunk it early—to celebrate getting her tenant and the money for the haircut. She watched him drag his gaze from the ends of her hair back to the bottles in the fridge.

‘What about the P?’ he asked.

‘For my first public performance.’ She stepped forward, quickly trying to explain them all so he’d leave. Trying to think up something for the one whose purpose was flashing neon-sign style in her head. ‘T is for when I book my ticket overseas. D is for when I get my driver’s licence.’ She winced when she said that one—now he’d really think she was a kid. ‘A was for the audition—getting through to the Blades. I’m going to have it later.’

‘Who are you going to have it with?’ he asked.

You? Roxie slammed her mouth shut on the instant-response answer and took a half-second to come up with something sassier. ‘It’s only a half-bottle. I’m going to have it all by myself.’

His brows lifted. ‘Did you have the first all by yourself?’

‘Absolutely.’ She smiled, pleased with her ability to keep talking in the face of his gorgeousness.

‘Didn’t it have a bit of a kick?’

‘Fantastic.’ She nodded.

He finally grinned back. ‘No headache?’

‘That’s why I got the good stuff.’ And she was feeling far more of a kick from the way he was smiling. She was positively giddy and she certainly hadn’t been giddy from the champagne last night.

‘Have enough of it and you’ll still get a hangover.’ He actually laughed then. ‘You should share them with someone.’ His voice dropped.

‘Never,’ she dismissed him instantly. Dismissing the outrageous invite on the tip of her tongue too. ‘Do you know the price of each one of those bottles? It’s mine, all mine.’

He chuckled and looked back at the fridge. ‘And V, what’s that one for?’

Damn, she’d hoped he might have forgotten about that last one. She swallowed, wished her addled brain would come up with something—anything to get her out of this embarrassment.

‘Victory?’ he asked.

‘Yeah.’ She nodded enthusiastically. So not going to admit to this guy that the last bottle of Bollinger was for when she finally lost the virginity she’d been dragging round for far too long. ‘For when the Knights win the trophy.’

‘You drink champagne all the time?’

Uh, try never before last night. ‘On special occasions.’

He closed the fridge and eyed her, looking serious now. ‘Mind if I ask you a personal question?’

‘Go right ahead.’ She waited, wondered.

‘How old are you?’

She hadn’t expected that. ‘Twenty-two.’

His mouth thinned.

‘That surprises you?’ Unpleasantly? Why was he looking so unimpressed?

‘I thought you were younger.’ He swallowed.

Uh-huh. ‘How young?’

‘Eighteen or so.’

At the most, she reckoned. What was with the putting her in a child’s box? ‘Well, how old are you?’

‘Thirty-one.’

‘There’s less than a decade between us,’ she pointed out with extreme pleasure.

‘I’m still a lot older than you.’ He seemed determined to labour that one.

‘Yeah, but you’re hardly old enough to be my father. Unless, of course, you were very advanced for your age,’ she taunted softy, pleased to see him wince in horror.

‘I was very advanced for my age in some areas,’ he said, quickly reverting back to his blunt arrogance. ‘But, no, I was nice and normal and didn’t start fooling around ‘til my teens.’

She gritted her teeth. A nice, normal teen life. She hadn’t had that. She didn’t resent the reasons why she hadn’t, she had loved caring for her grandparents, but it was time now for her to have the freedom and fun she’d missed out on as an eighteen-year-old. Not to mention the fooling around. Better late than never and she was damn well determined it wouldn’t be never. Maybe it could be soon. ‘Well, as you now know, I’m more than old enough to be living on my own, in any way I like, drinking whatever I want.’ And she’d do whatever she wanted too.

There was a moment’s silence. He glanced at the fridge again. ‘Do you eat anything?’

She knew he’d noticed the lack of oven. But there was the microwave and a single gas ring. Okay, she was pretty much camping. But it wasn’t for ever and it was worth it. ‘I usually make a salad or something.’

‘From the garden big enough to feed a small island nation?’ He turned away, his smile twisting. ‘Well, make sure you eat a load tonight and don’t have the champagne, given you’ve had those pills.’

She followed him to the door and leaned against the jamb, well aware that as she lifted her hand her tee shirt rose higher. Sure enough, she saw his eyes dart down. Her thighs burned, not because of the bee. She brushed her hair back from her face with her other hand and watched his gaze flicker first to her hair, then to her chest where her tee shirt had tightened across her braless breasts. Emboldened she answered him softly, full of feminine taunt. ‘Gabe, I thought we’d just established that I’m not a child.’

His gaze shot to her eyes, intensified—the black pupils expanding to obliterate any hint of the molten colour. The muscles in his jaw were delineated as he clamped his mouth shut. Then he suddenly drew breath. ‘You might not be a child, Roxie, but you are a bit too much of a babe for comfort.’

Roxie froze, her body so hot she was on the brink of incineration.

His gaze swept over her one last time before he turned away. ‘So I think it’s best we steer clear of each other.’

She watched him take the stairs three at a time as if he was escaping some terrible threat. She went back into her studio and smiled. In so many ways Gabe Hollingsworth was a challenge. And Roxie, for all her inexperience, had never backed down from a challenge.

Not even the most impossible.