Читать книгу Unfinished Business: Bought: One Night, One Marriage / Always the Bridesmaid / Confessions of a Millionaire's Mistress - Robyn Grady - Страница 7

NATURALLY ‘here and now’ was the first reply to spring to mind. Naturally Cally bit her tongue and looked anywhere but at him. She cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘This weekend. You. Me. What do you want me to do for you?’ He was being deliberately provocative—surely?

She cleared her throat again. Got her larynx working. ‘This was a mistake. My friend was doing the bidding. Yes, I paid the money, but you can go. Your weekend’s free.’

‘But I’m yours this weekend.’

She tried to smile politely but knew it was an abysmal effort. ‘Look, that’s really nice. But you don’t have to take this that seriously. I just wanted to donate some money on the quiet, my friend thought it would be fun to bid. So.’ She shrugged. ‘There you go. You don’t have to do the man-power bit.’ She snuck a look at him then and immediately regretted it. Mr Tall, Dark and Determined stood over her and she was melting.

‘She said you’d do this—try to get rid of me. She said I wasn’t to let you and that if I wasn’t with you for the weekend she’d tell the organisers and the money wouldn’t go to charity.’

Cally rolled her eyes. ‘As if they’d send my cheque back—they don’t care what happens now. They have the money. That was the point.’

‘I made a promise. I always deliver on my promises.’

Why wouldn’t he go away? Why was he so insistent on doing this when it had been so apparent she’d ticked him off? But then, maybe that was why. ‘Look, if you have to do something, go and clean my friend’s car.’

‘She said she doesn’t have a car and you know it. She said it’s your car that needs a clean.’

Her irritation and discomfort started to leak through her fragile façade. ‘I’m quite sure you’ve got better things to be doing with your time this weekend.’ He’d have plenty of fish to fry—container-loads, in fact. Frustration forced her into unaccustomed rudeness—again. Without even a nod for goodbye she turned and started walking.

He didn’t block her, rather kept pace every step of the way to the door, shielding her from the audience behind him.

‘What are you doing?’ she muttered.

‘Sticking with you until you figure out my first task.’

She waited until they’d got outside and along the footpath away from the bar. ‘This is ridiculous. You can go.’

‘I never shirk my responsibilities.’ He smiled then. One of those smiles designed to garner the acquiescence of anything and anyone in its path. But she also saw steel in his eyes. It didn’t pay to look too hard into their sea-green depths. They’d have her saying yes faster than any of his other, many, draw cards. His determination to get her to say it, was palpable.

She stopped walking. Knowing she was never going to get rid of him until he’d won, she’d let him have this small victory. She opened her bag and found her pen and notebook. She wrote her address on it.

‘Fine. Be here at nine tomorrow morning. You can wash my car.’ Ultimately she’d be the winner. He could clean her car. But that was it.

He took the paper. Carefully folded it and put it in his breast pocket. His smile was small but satisfied. Genuine this time and more attractive than any he’d bestowed on the audience. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

* * *

Blake pressed the buzzer right on eight fifty-eight a.m. The door opened in less than a minute. She wore loose linen trousers and a plain shirt and looked as if she’d been up for hours. On a Saturday morning you’d have thought a woman like this would be lying in and being loved. But he was stupidly glad she wasn’t. He felt tight inside as adrenalin surged through him. Round one was about to begin. His desire to defrost this ice queen was motivation to win.

He watched her gaze skitter over him, saw pink lightly colour her pale cheeks.

She still wouldn’t quite look up into his face. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name last night.

‘Blake McKay.’

‘Pleasure to meet you, Blake. I’m sorry if I was unappreciative of your determination to see this through. My name is Cally Sinclair.’ Her automatic politeness irked him. It was so obvious she didn’t particularly want him there, and yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to say it. Ordinarily Blake preferred plain speaking. But he could play it her way for now.

‘Enchanted, Cally.’ He reached out and took her hand. The pleasure, at this point, was all his. But he was determined to have her appreciative in no time. The fact was, she fascinated him. He wanted to see her eyes go from disapproving to desirous. He wanted her to admit to the attraction that was making his heart race as he touched her.

She snatched her hand back. Not so politely. ‘I’ve put my car on the drive for you. The garage is open. You’ll find anything you need in there. Once you’re done, you can go.’

Really? He had no intention of leaving after a half-hour car polish. What this stuck-up society miss needed was a good, hard—he pulled back his flare of anger.

‘Damn expensive carwash.’

She ran another eye over his tee shirt and jeans. ‘Feel free to hose off the drive after.’

The door shut in his face. So much for the polite act.

Little minx.

He knew she was attracted to him. Saw it in her eyes. But she was fighting it, denying it. Normally he couldn’t care less. But he was attracted to her too. And more importantly she needed to be taught a lesson. She thought him a gigolo? Her words had burned, and brought back the memory of the time when he’d been used. He’d had no idea of the shallowness, the synthetic structure of Paola’s world. He was quite certain Cally’s world was equally shallow and not one he intended to hang out in for long. She was clearly spoilt and whether there was anything beneath that brittle society air he didn’t know.

But he was going to find out.

He looked over her car. Blake, like many men, knew cars. And cars told a lot about their owners. This owner, he decided, was undoubtedly loaded. You’d need more than a few pennies to buy this baby. He checked the mileage—even more to buy it new as she most likely had. But it wasn’t flashy. A stylish silver bullet. Not overly large but powerful within a sensuously curved form. Not unlike the lady owner herself.

She kept it well prepared, well organised, tidy. But she was also someone who liked comfort, who liked the feel of things. The state-of-the-art stereo, soft leather seats and the faint scent of berries hinted at someone who liked to employ all the senses.

He did the interior of the car first. It needed a clean as a cat needed a dog. But Blake was a perfectionist and as always he’d do a damn good job. And she had paid for it, after all. He found polish and leather cream and worked it over methodically, comprehensively, every last inch.

Forty minutes later it was time to do the exterior. He whipped his tee shirt off over his head to let the sun heat his skin. The inside of his body was already on fire. Burning resentment, desire, curiosity. He found the wax and rubbed it on, liking having the physical activity to burn off the energy her presence coiled in him. She was a little dynamo.

He heard the door slam and turned, hose in hand, to watch as she headed towards him, her legs moving quickly. Her breath was coming short and fast, there was pink in her cheeks and her eyes sparkled.

‘Can’t you keep your shirt on?’

She fidgeted, still looking anywhere but at him. Her glance flicked to the surrounding houses. She was worried about what the neighbours would say? She looked to him finally and he’d have sworn the colour in her eyes deepened. Huge dark pupils stared up at him, surrounded by the rich dark coffee colour, and he wanted to drown in them. He blinked, broke the bond, and saw her cheeks were even pinker.

‘No, it’s hot out here.’ He held the hose low, and flicked it a little so a jet of water splashed at her feet. ‘Wanna get wet?’

Silence throbbed. For a beat or three she stared at him. Her mouth parted a fraction, then closed. Her lips pressed tight together. She turned away, her answer, when it came, more clipped than her high heels as they moved across the concrete. ‘Certainly not.’

He called after her. ‘May I get a drink?’

A pause in the staccato of the shoes. ‘Of course.’

How anyone could deliver a reply with such finishing-school politeness and yet such defiance in her face, he didn’t know. And damn if he didn’t enjoy it.

Cally marched indoors wishing she could be rude enough to suggest he drink straight from the hose. She flustered her way to the kitchen. What to get the man? She was the one who needed long, cool and refreshing, not strong, hot and amazing. She needed a shower. Just past ten in the morning and she was more breathless and bothered than if she were attempting a circuit class at the gym.

Water, juice, lemonade?

Ice. Lots of ice. She turned to go to the freezer and there was nothing but bare, bronzed chest in front of her. She stared—at the defined abs, at the brown nipples, at the dusting of hair that arrowed down into the jeans, at the wall of heat before her. Oh, my. He’d followed her into the house and was up close. Very close.

‘Like what you see?’ Dry humour laced his tone.

She said nothing.

The pause grew. ‘Want what you see?’ Less of the dry tone this time, a husky note of surprise.

Painfully wrenching her superglued eyes away, she stared at the glass in her hand and wondered what it was for.

Then she registered his questions—a good five seconds after he’d asked. Like? Want? Not able to answer honestly, she said the first thing that entered her head. ‘I’ve made soup for lunch.’

There was another pause. Then, ‘Why, thank you. I’d love some.’

Oh, hell. Had she just asked him to lunch with her?

‘But water would be great for now.’ He nodded to the empty glass in her hand.

The way she lost all thought compared to the confident way he handled himself was embarrassing. She walked round him to the fridge and challenged, ‘You’re so cool, aren’t you?’

He grinned and leaned against the centre island bench. ‘I guess. My nickname in my teens was cucumber.’

‘You were that cool even at school?’ She opened the fridge and leaned in, taking her time so the cold air might help her think straight.

‘That might have been it or …’ he answered lazily.

‘Or what?’ She poured water from the bottle, keeping the door open with her body.

‘Maybe it was something to do with size …’

Size? The penny dropped. ‘Ugh.’ She slammed the fridge shut.

His laughter was low and dry and she sent him an evil look until he raised his hands in surrender. ‘Kidding.’ His laughter rumbled again as he looked at her still-fiery expression. ‘Got you, though, haven’t I?’

‘Got me what?’

‘Curious.’

She walked towards him. Deny, deny, deny—the heat in her body, the attraction to him. Maybe it was time she tipped the glass of ice and water over his way-too-hot body. It was like having a million-kilowatt heater in the room.

Eyes narrow and penetrating, he reached out and took the glass from her with a firm, steady hand. ‘Careful.’

She raised her brows at him, not trusting her voice.

‘If my jeans got that wet I’d have to take them off.’ He took a long sip. ‘And I’m not sure you’re ready for me to take my jeans off yet.’

In that instant she knew she had to back off, right away. He was only fooling around but every word had her getting way too excited. He was so undeniably gorgeous, so cheekily charming, so not for her. No more mistakes.

But she was in her kitchen and he was in front of her face and there was nowhere for her to go. She tried to stand and stare him out—pretty hard when he had all the confidence, when he oozed the promise of satisfaction and she was overcome by the desire to test it out.

There was silence in the still kitchen. The teasing glint in his eye had gone and she watched the kaleidoscope of grey-green in his eyes, the widening of his pupils so that the colour was merely a thin outer ring and the centre was serious intensity.

It was a look that had her wanting all kinds of things—all of them involving getting closer. Instead she gave herself a mental kick in the butt. This was his stock in trade. He knew exactly what he was doing to her with his pattern of bold, daring comments, the laughter and cheeky half-apologetic grin and then the intense, searing stare. No way could any woman hold immune to it. She was drawn like the proverbial moth to the flame, and Cally still had scars from the last time she got singed.

But it was Blake who stepped away, breaking the stare, the burning light fading. Cally looked down to the bench. She fully regretted the soup invite, but good manners dictated she couldn’t backtrack now. ‘I’ll call you when lunch is ready.’

‘Sure.’ She could feel his easy grin. ‘I’ll go finish out there.’

You do that, buster. She was going to keep her distance from now on. Cally focused on the chopping board as he turned to leave, but couldn’t stop lifting her head again to appreciate the view as he exited the room. She could look, couldn’t she? Especially when he wasn’t watching. Especially at his butt.

When she called him back in Cally was initially relieved to note his shirt was back on. Unfortunately it was wet in patches and clung a little too tightly to his fit frame. She gripped the knife a little firmer.

‘I’m done out there. You want to come and inspect?’

‘No, I’m sure you’ve done a great job.’

She bent back to her task of chopping the herb garnish. He made himself right at home in her kitchen. Sending her a slight smile, he moved to inspect the pots simmering gently on the hob. He lifted the lid on one and sniffed.

‘So this is the stuff you sell?’

She hid the surprise. So he’d done some homework between the auction and now. ‘Sure. Gourmet soup. Made with the freshest and the best of ingredients, blended to perfection.’

‘Smells good.’ He turned the wooden spoon in another. ‘And you make it all?’

‘Why sound so surprised? You think I can’t actually cook? You think I just add my name to someone else’s recipe?’ She’d done a degree in food science. She knew what was nutritionally valuable and what wasn’t. And she loved experimenting with flavours and tastes. She’d taken the comfort eating thing and turned it into something positive. With a mother like Alicia, what choice did she have? She’d been put on that many diets.

He raised his brows. ‘Did I say all that? Did I even suggest it?’

She felt faint warmth in her cheeks. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time someone implied that I’ve only used my connections to make a success of my business.’

‘Well, I didn’t imply anything of the sort. And from what I see here I can guess you make a success of your business all by yourself.’

She sent him a quick look of suspicion, but he didn’t seem to be teasing so she gave him the humorous history that she didn’t usually share. ‘When I was a teen my mother decided a cabbage-soup diet would be the one to finally shed my puppy-fat.’

‘Cabbage soup?’

She could hear his disgust and once she’d have totally agreed. She’d never hated her mother more than when she’d told her to detox for three days with nothing but some vile broth made from only onions and cabbages. She’d never felt so sick in her life. And so she’d gone into the kitchen, starving, and made her own soup. Then when her mother had grilled her on what she’d eaten that day she had been able to answer honestly—‘just some soup’.

‘I took to making it myself—played with the ingredients.’ She’d added cheeses, meats, spices and flavouring to soup and turned something spartan and simple into something succulent and calorifically sinful. Her products had intense flavour, were highly sought after, and sold as soup for the connoisseur.

She moved to stand next to him at the hob, stirred the other pot and grinned at the recollections. ‘Now my cabbage soup is one of my biggest sellers.’ She looked up, forgetting that eye contact with him was dangerous to her mental agility. ‘It has a full cup of cream in every pack.’

‘Naughty Cally.’

She batted her lashes. ‘What can I say? Subversive is sometimes the only way.’

‘Subversive,’ he echoed softly. ‘I must bear that in mind.’

Staring up at him, she felt the heat from his gaze far more than the heat from the element that was threatening to burn the soup. Then, of all the ridiculous things, she shivered. Immediately his eyes darkened, and she sensed rather than saw his tiny movement closer and her own minuscule advance in response.

The rattle of the pot lid pulled her back. She turned the gas off quickly, lifted the pot and stepped away from his stifling nearness. Went back to mundane conversation. ‘I make my own stock from scratch. I love the whole process.’

He watched her retreat with that teasing glint now back in his eyes. She knew damn well he knew how he affected her. He must be so used to it. But, man, it was humiliating. She told her backbone to lose the invisibility cloak. Couldn’t she at least try to dish it out as well as him? Couldn’t she tease him in the way he teased her? Meaningless, playful banter?

He stirred the soup in the other pot left on the hob with suspicion. ‘Don’t you ever eat anything else?’

She turned in surprise, then stopped to actually think about it. ‘Not often, no.’

‘You just live on soup?’

‘Well, I have a smoothie for breakfast, then, yeah, soup for lunch and dinner. I’m usually in a hurry and just grab some from the shop. It’s good to taste it—now that it’s produced on a bigger scale I need to make sure none of the quality is lost.’

‘Don’t you ever want to chew on something? You don’t get bored?’

‘No.’

‘Hmm.’ He seemed to ponder for a moment. ‘You know, I like something I can really get hold of. Something with some texture, some bite.’ He looked back at her with wicked eyes again. She knew he was flirting, dangerously close to being bold. Well, she could handle that—couldn’t she?

‘Is that so?’ She sent him a look from under her lashes, laughing inside at her pathetic attempt to inject cool into her voice. Then she turned to the fridge and opened the vegetable drawer that was always bursting with fresh produce.

The cucumber was thick and long and she weighed it with her hand, fingers curling tight around its girth as she turned back to him. She saw the sparkle in his eye and she gave him a bland smile back. The she picked up the biggest knife in her collection—not one she’d usually use on a hapless vegetable, but, in this instance, a point needed to be made. With quick, precise movements, she stripped its skin. She glanced back up to him. He’d stepped to the other side of her bench and was watching, the corners of his mouth twitching. She looked back down, slightly disconcerted, and got on with her dissection. Mr Cucumber could get a load of this.

For a few minutes the only sound was the bang, bang, bang as the blade hit the board. She worked swiftly, efficiently, until there was only a pile of pulp.

‘So, let’s see, you’ve skinned, deseeded and sliced that cucumber till it’s barely recognisable.’

‘Sure.’ She had the cool tone down pat this time. ‘I think we can safely say it’s dead. Now it’s ready to be eaten.’

‘Only now that you’ve stripped it of its life force?’

‘That’s right.’ She went back to the fridge and got the container of thick yoghurt. Spooned some into a dish, mixed it in with the cucumber and added seasonings.

‘There are a couple to choose from, but I think you should try the spicy sausage.’ She spoke over her shoulder as she spooned the steaming soup into a bowl. ‘I think you’ll find it has plenty of texture and bite. You may even need some of the yoghurt dip to take the edge off.’

‘The one with the cucumber? Because, let’s face it, without the cucumber, that dip would be nothing.’ He grinned then. It widened into a full-blown smile and laughter followed. Warm, rich, irresistible laughter. Suddenly, effortlessly, Cally found laughter bubbling out too.

‘You’re not all you seem, Cally,’ he teased as their humour dimmed.

‘In what way?’

‘There’s a little more to you than I expected.’

‘What did you expect?’

‘As little as you expected from me, I think.’

She looked up quickly, only to be caught again by his gaze.

‘Not just a pretty face,’ he murmured.

She got back to fussing with the bowls pronto. He wasn’t talking about her. She wasn’t a pretty face at all; she was plain and ordinary. And his face wasn’t pretty either; it was beautiful. ‘Never go out with a man who is better looking than you’—that was her motto. She just had to remember to stick to it.

‘You mind eating in here? The formal dining room doesn’t get the sun at this time of day and it seems a shame not to make the most of it.’ She set the bowls at the stretch of bench along the window.

‘No problem. This looks great.’

He waited politely until she’d placed her own bowl and was seated alongside him. She gestured to the condiments, and the fresh chopped herbs. ‘Please.’

‘Thank you.’

They dipped their spoons together and she watched as he lifted his to his mouth. She barely tasted her own soup as she was so focused on seeing his reaction.

He took a moment, then smiled. ‘It’s good.’