Читать книгу Unfinished Business: Bought: One Night, One Marriage / Always the Bridesmaid / Confessions of a Millionaire's Mistress - Robyn Grady - Страница 10

BLAKE had surprised Cally with the where. She’d anticipated some luxury pad in the centre of the city—a penthouse apartment with all the mod cons and restaurants on the ground floor or some such. But he’d given her a beach address a short drive out of the city. As soon as she’d got the time and place from him in the bar she’d knocked back her drink and skedaddled out of there. She’d imagined, morosely, he’d probably gone on to score. She’d seen a trio of women less than subtly eyeing him up even when she’d been sitting beside him and all his attention had been on her.

She frowned, trying to analyse him as she drove to his address. What was his interest? Why was he so keen to ‘win’ her?

He had wealth of his own so he wasn’t a fortune hunter. He definitely wasn’t desperate for dates. Yet he had fixed his sights on her. Probably, she decided, because she was that challenge—she’d said no right from the start and no wasn’t an answer he liked.

She should have the strength to keep saying no—it would do him good to fail for once. But what he offered was getting way too hard to resist. She couldn’t offer anyone marriage and children, and he admitted he didn’t want either. Why not simply take advantage of a skilled lover? Have the experience she’d never had. And, as he’d pointed out, no one would ever know.

But there was that part of her that resented giving him his way. He’d had his way too much, for too long. It was evident in the arrogance stamped on him. She sighed. The least she could do was to try to keep this on her terms.

The gates were open and she drove straight up the drive and to the house at the top.

It was large. And incredibly beautiful. She breathed deeply, certain the air was fresher here than even only fifty kilometres down the road.

He opened the door even before she’d had the chance to lift her finger from the buzzer.

His eyes raked down her. Her shirt—that she’d buttoned up to the top—might as well be invisible the way he seemed to look right through it.

‘You came.’

The faint surprise in his tone surprised her. ‘Well, not yet. Isn’t that why I’m here?’

His grin glowed with delight. ‘Was that humour from you? Did you just crack a joke?’

Coolly she walked past him and into his house. She was not going to show the extent to which she had the shakes. Why did he have to look so damn irresistible in jeans and a tee? It was very difficult not to walk right up to him and pounce. So much for saying ‘no’—one glance and it was all over.

To pull back her raging lust she focused on finding out her tasks—assuming he’d thought of something.

‘Where did you want me to start? I’m good in the kitchen, as you know. Must admit I’m not so great with a mop, but I can handle a vacuum cleaner—’

‘Cally, you are not going to be doing my housework.’

‘No? No odd jobs for me to do? I can make some soup.’ She looked about as if a sign labelled ‘kitchen’ would miraculously appear. The room was light and airy. Neutrals—white, fawn. Light and clean, and the view out to the ocean was spectacular.

‘Lunch is already taken care of. I have other plans for you. You’re my entertainment for the weekend.’

‘Entertainment?’ She kept looking about, too jumpy to tackle him visually. She might tackle him literally. Somehow she wanted to work a little, just a little, dignity into this situation.

‘Yeah. Are you any good at belly dancing? I’ve a feeling you’d look wonderful in one of those costumes.’

At that she looked at him, and saw the lazy amusement. It sparked a minor rebellion. ‘Damn, I left my dress-up box behind.’

‘Shame.’ He glanced at the gauzy curtains. ‘We could always improvise.’

She bit her lip, half wanting to laugh, half wanting to put him in his place—down, down, down. She decided to change tack. Do the subservient maid thing and see how he felt about that. So she clasped her hands together demurely and let the retort fall back inside. ‘Seriously, Blake, what would you like me to do first?’

He looked at her narrowly. ‘I wasn’t joking about the entertainment.’

‘Well …’ she gave it some thought ‘… I’m not so good at dancing, actually, and I’ve been told my singing is passable but not strong. I can play the piano a little. Do you have a piano?’

He shook his head.

‘Well …’ she offered a demure smile ‘… I’m not sure what else to suggest. What do you think?’

‘Actually I’m still keen on the belly dancing.’ He wasn’t smiling. Then he offered his hand. ‘Come, let’s go out to the deck.’

She looked at the outstretched hand. Slowly put hers in it. As soon as their palms touched his fingers curled, trapping her own. And she knew there was no going back.

He led the way through the large open-plan living area and out the bi-folding doors and she pretended her gasp was over the view, not the currents of electricity surging up her arm. Outside in the blazing sun there was a magnificent deck that flowed down to a large infinity pool, which gave the illusion of the water reaching right out and merging with that of the ocean.

‘Wow.’ The plants in the pots lining one end of the pool were perfectly maintained, the water crystal-clear, the deck free of debris and clutter. The effect was soothing, relaxing and magical.

‘Did you do all this?’

He half snorted. ‘I pay.’ He looked at it and she could see in his face the pleasure he took from it. ‘I oversaw the design.’

‘It’s beautiful.’

‘Thanks.’

She could imagine him swimming length after length; no wonder his body was so tanned, lean and strong. Right now she felt hotter than a cactus in Death Valley in the midday sun and that expanse of water looked incredibly inviting. She turned her back on it to look up at the house.

‘You live here alone?’

He nodded.

‘It’s not too big?’

‘I like the peace.’ He nodded to the table, with the comfortable-looking chairs around it. A tall pitcher of fresh juice was the centrepiece. They sat, with him angling his chair so he faced her rather than the spectacular pool, and then he poured them each a drink.

She sat bolt upright in her chair, feeling as if she were about to be interviewed for a job she didn’t know that she was going to be able to do, but that she really wanted.

Amusement coloured his features. ‘Relax, Cally. I’m not going to eat you.’ He took a sip from his glass. ‘At least, not yet.’

She crossed her legs a little tighter and reached for her own glass. ‘I think you’ll find there’s something else on the menu.’

With a sly smile he set his drink down. ‘Tell me about your business.’

‘Why?’

His shoulders lifted carelessly. ‘It’s a big part of your life. I want to understand it better, understand why it’s so important to you.’

‘OK.’ That she could do. She started at the beginning again—her experiments in the kitchen that were motivated by the impudent desire to subvert her mother’s diet regimes, then her study in food science and the decision to go into business herself. She didn’t go into the decision to have the company donate half its profits to charity—he didn’t need to know all that.

But as she talked she relaxed, telling him some of the jokes between her and Mel. The crazy times when they’d worked through the night to prepare enough when the big orders had started rolling in, the crazier times now she had more staff to manage and more customers to satisfy.

‘It really is everything to you.’

‘It’s my baby.’ She laughed, hiding the secret stab that came with the knowledge her business ventures were the only babies she’d ever have. ‘It keeps me up all night—teething trouble, the works.’ She glanced out to where the vivid blue of the pool seemed to meld into the wide blue of the sea. ‘Actually, to be honest, it’s not so much a baby now as an unruly teenager who I’m thinking of turfing out of the family home.’

‘Really?’ He laughed.

She nodded, joined in his warm, melodious mirth with a chuckle of her own. ‘It’s eating up all my resources.’

‘Raiding the fridge?’

‘And how!’ She sighed and her laughter died. ‘I think I need a manager. I went into it because I wanted to do the fun bits, you know—the creative stuff, the recipe prep. Let me tell you, management and paperwork is not fun. But the way the business is growing that’s what I’m having to do more and more of.’

‘But if you gave it up what would you do?’

She grinned. ‘I have lots of ideas.’

‘I bet you do.’

He nodded and they talked more—business, contracts, supply and demand. Somehow almost an hour passed.

‘Are you hungry?’

She was, but not for what he was offering. Why wasn’t he offering what she wanted? Had she read this weekend all wrong? Here she’d been thinking they were in for some seriously naughty fun and, while she’d wanted to keep him in his place, she was disappointed that all he was interested in was showing her his house, chatting about work and now feeding her.

‘A little.’

As she followed him to his kitchen she realised she was actually a lot hungry. There were some seriously yummy smells wafting in the warm air.

He took oven mitts and lifted a tray out of the oven. She watched, mouth watering as he put the bread on a cooling rack.

‘Did you bake this?’

He nodded.

‘It’s not one of those take-and-bake jobs from the supermarket?’

‘Never,’ he declared. ‘Ever had one of them smell as good as this?’

She poked at it. ‘How did you get the crust so.’

‘Crusty?’ He laughed.

She nodded. ‘Not even the French bother baking a French stick in their homes. They go to the baker. You can’t get the same crust in a home oven.’

‘I don’t have a home oven. I have an industrial oven.’ She turned and had a good look at the machine fixed into the wall. Industrial was right. You could feed an army cooking with that thing. ‘Why? You’re some sort of glorified banker, aren’t you? Why on earth do you need an oven like this?’

He’d torn some strips of bread and offered her one. ‘I like bread. I like baking. I like baking bread.’

‘Can you cook anything else?’ She munched on the warm loaf.

‘Maybe. If I wanted to. I don’t want to.’

‘Why not have a bread maker?’

He stopped just before taking another bite. ‘Why not go to the shop and buy a loaf?’

‘But it takes hours. You have to leave it to prove. All that kneading.’

He grinned. ‘Exactly. The reward isn’t all in the result. The reward is also in the process. Taking the time. Each step along the way. There is nothing like kneading the dough. Rolling it, pushing it, over and over. Then you know it’ll rise well, the taste will be superior. It has to be done slowly. It has to be done by hand.’

Her cheeks flushed, trying not to think about the images his words were bringing into her brain. And he knew. She knew he knew. They weren’t just talking about bread.

‘Like all good things. It takes time.’

‘So who taught you to bake bread?’ She tried to get a grip. ‘Your mother?’

‘I taught myself. Mum was at work. I had to eat. The good thing about bread is that you don’t need a lot in the way of ingredients. And the ingredients themselves are cheap. I’d bake bread—big, heavy loaves. And then I’d make toast or sandwiches. I can make anything into a sandwich.’

Cally processed the info. Understood. He’d been hungry as a kid. ‘It was just you and your mother?’

He nodded. ‘And you?’

She didn’t want to talk personal much any more. Didn’t want this to progress beyond anything much more than it was—a dare, a one-weekend-only special. She didn’t want to develop feelings for him other than lust, which, hopefully, would soon be sated. It would be all too easy to like him—a lot. Aside from the obvious physical factor, he was interesting, funny. He stood so easy in his own skin. He knew his body and he’d be as comfortable working his way around her body too. He made it all seem so simple.

So she nodded assent and then turned the conversation back. ‘You bake often?’

‘Fairly. It relaxes me.’

‘You don’t seem like you’d need relaxing. You seem pretty laid-back. Assured.’

‘You think? I get uptight. I certainly get frustrated.’ Another innocent smile. ‘What do you do to relax, Cally?’

‘Same as you. I cook.’

‘Aren’t we a good combination? I make the bread, you make the soup. Complementary.’

It was too hot in the kitchen. She wanted to get back into the lounge or, even better, the deck. Uptight didn’t even begin to describe how she was feeling. She focused on the bread again, studying the thickness of the crust, the texture.

He looked thoughtful. ‘You know, the best way to make you understand isn’t to tell you, but to show you.’

‘Show me what?’

He grinned, as if knowing she wasn’t thinking quite along the lines he was. ‘How to bake bread.’

Oh. Right. By the time she’d told herself she really wasn’t disappointed he’d pulled out a bin of flour from the walk-in pantry.

‘You’re serious?’

‘Absolutely.’

Fascinated she watched as within minutes he had ingredients lined up on the bench and the scales out. A big old-fashioned earthenware bowl sat centre-stage.

‘Don’t you use an electric mixer?’

‘I do everything by hand.’ He gestured for her to come beside him. ‘Only today, you do everything by hand.’

He ran the taps and washed his hands; she followed. Amused and fascinated she watched; she hadn’t baked in years. He measured the flour, took yeast from the fridge, mixed in a little sugar, a little salt, water. Eventually he ditched the wooden spoon to work with his hands and then dumped the dough from the bowl to the bench.

‘Now knead.’

He stood aside, and she stepped up to his bench, painfully aware of him behind her, watching over her shoulder. She felt stupid, self-conscious, and with a sigh started pushing at the dough. He watched in silence for a few minutes and she knew he wasn’t impressed.

‘You need to put your heart into it, Cally,’ he chided. ‘If you want anything to be any good you have to give it everything. Just let go and get into it.’

Right. With the most gorgeous man ever to walk the planet at her back making her feel as if she were under a microscope. She heard a muffled grouch and then his arms encircled hers, and he put his hands on her own. Slowly he guided her, showing how to work the dough—the way he worked it.

‘If you take your time you can feel it growing more pliant.’ His voice was almost a whisper.

All she could feel was his length all the way down her back. As she bent forward over the dough it brought her bottom into contact with his groin. She heard his sharp intake of breath and fought the urge to grind back against him, wanting to rotate her hips against his. Instead she pressed back towards the bench, away from him. His hands left hers and he put a fraction more space between them.

She took the frustration out on the dough, rolling it over and over and squishing it and moulding it, pushing her energy into it until it was as smooth and supple and as ready as she already was.

Sweat formed on her forehead and she lost herself in the rhythm of the work.

He didn’t move away. She could feel him right there, watching, but she didn’t mind as she lost herself in a kind of sensual trance, the energy flowing from her core to her limbs out from her fingers to the bread.

She didn’t know how long she worked. But suddenly his arms came around her again, his hands grasping hers.

‘Enough.’ His voice rasped in her ear.

She stopped instantly. Realised she was panting. For a long moment they stood, him clasping her. Her heart rate didn’t slow, instead it started a less-than-steady increase. ‘What now?’

There was a silence before he answered. ‘We let it rest. Then do it again.’ He let go of her and she sensed him step back.

For a split second she felt relief and then she just felt cold. It took every ounce of inner strength not to turn around and fling herself in his arms like some desperate, clinging female.

Instead she inhaled deeply and turned, trying once more for cool confidence. But then she saw he’d only stepped a little bit away. Now he blocked her path and his eyes were burning. She didn’t know what to do or say, but the intense look was slowly killing her.

‘Let’s go back to the deck,’ he muttered, but not moving.

‘Are you going to let me past?’

‘Maybe. For a price.’ The reply dragged from him was so low she had to step closer to hear.

‘How much?’ She was willing to pay an awful lot.

‘A kiss.’

‘Just one?’ Not brave enough to admit to what she wanted the answer to be.

‘For now.’

The intensity didn’t lighten at all and there was no smile as he stepped forward. She almost stepped back but his hands went to her shoulders, stopping her flight.

Finally.

Seven long days since they’d touched and it was all she’d been able to think about in that time. At last she was going to get it again—and more. She lifted her face, lips parted, eyelids lowered to half-mast. He slid his hands down her arms, pinning them to her sides, not letting her put them round his neck the way she ached to. Encapsulating her fists in his own, he lowered his head, slowly, staring into her eyes, dropping his attention to lips that she knew would look red—every cell and nerve ending in them was begging for him.

There was no sweet exploration this time. It was straight into plunder territory, with her demanding as much from him.

She felt his grip tighten, felt him take that small step closer. She ached to press right against him. But just as she was about to sway forward he lifted his head with a groan. She blinked, opened her eyes and saw the slight uncertainty in his.

She leaned forward for more, but he gently pushed her back from him. ‘Just one, remember?’

He didn’t quite meet her eye, didn’t smile, just moved her to the side, and stepped forward to the bench. He picked up the ball of dough and placed it back into the bowl, brushed it with oil, covering it carefully with a clean cloth with all the focus and deliberation of a neurosurgeon performing the most complex procedure.

Ridiculously, she felt jealous of the time he took over it. She wanted all that care and attention for herself. He could still think about a loaf of bread after a kiss like that? Something had stopped him. What? And why?

Hell, maybe she could add premature menopause to her list of women’s problems. All this hot and cold business was sending her crazy.