Читать книгу In The Billionaire's Bed - SARA WOOD - Страница 10

EVEN as he followed her he knew he’d regret it. It would be far wiser to leave her to fly off in a huff and never see her again.

But of course, he argued, craning his neck to see where she’d gone, he had that bequest in the will to fulfil. And Catherine was the only person he knew who might tell him the whereabouts of the mysterious Perdita that Edith had mentioned.

Otherwise he wouldn’t be ruining a perfectly good pair of shoes by plunging through dense undergrowth in the search for a tiny scrap of a woman who seemed to have got so thoroughly under his skin that he was still tingling from head to toe in places he didn’t even know could tingle.

Wretched female! Irritably he pulled away a ferocious bramble which was trying to capture his jacket. He swore under his breath when it ripped the expensive cloth.

That was it. He’d had it up to here. She could take herself off and Perdita would have to do without the fifteen thousand pounds that Edith had left her—unless she read his advert, which he was honour bound to publish in the broadsheets.

He had work to do. Calls to make. This house was going to take up enough of his precious time, without him adding a stroppy flower child to his action list.

Fine. He’d made his decision.

And yet…he couldn’t carry it out. He, Mr Decisive himself. Something was holding him back. Curiosity, perhaps.

He grunted. Who was he kidding? Catherine was stopping him. A woman of extreme contradictions. Delicate and yet strong, sometimes laser-sharp with her eyes and tongue but with a voice so soft that it soothed his churning brain. A stubborn mouth. A smile that could melt diamonds.

Even more oddly, she was an old-fashioned sort of woman he wouldn’t have looked at twice if she’d walked past him in London. He went for the elegant type, well-groomed, high maintenance. They looked good and knew how to work a room. Catherine wouldn’t even know what that meant.

And yet his body had danced the moment he’d really looked at her. Flashes of intelligence and fire from those chocolate drop eyes had intrigued him. So had her face, seemingly fragile enough for the bones to be crushed if his hands ever cradled it. Not that they would, of course.

His mind skittered into thinking of her body. Lithe and flexible. Incredibly sensual despite its slimness…

No. This overwhelming urge to see her again was too ridiculous. He’d return to the house and…

He jumped as a chicken scuttled out of the bushes. Not an ordinary one—this was the size of a turkey and a kind of pinky buff. With a black beard, for heaven’s sake. It saw him, stopped in surprise and came up to him with an almost hopeful look on its intelligent face.

Well, OK, he amended, feeling stupid. That bright-eyed, head on one side look could have been interpreted as intelligent.

‘I suppose you’re Edith’s, too, are you?’ he muttered, and looked around furtively, suddenly embarrassed at talking to a chicken.

He sighed. The poor thing must have been living on air. Unless Catherine had been feeding it. He wouldn’t put it past her.

The chicken began to unpick his shoelace and he hurriedly moved on, heading back to the house. His steps were annoyingly reluctant, but he had far too much to do to chase after Catherine.

She’d soon go. And if she didn’t, he’d get the lawyers on to her. Any chickens would have to be sold or killed for the nearest market. Problem solved. He’d put Jane on to that one and keep her out of mischief, he thought with relief.

Once indoors, he went upstairs to find the master bedroom. He wasn’t interested in anywhere else, only where he’d sleep. There wasn’t time for aimless wandering.

Jane had hung up his suits and stored the rest of his clothes with unnerving care. He checked that he had everything he needed and settled down at the desk in the window, where she’d placed his computer.

Waiting for it to power up, he wriggled out of his jacket, slipped it over the back of the chair and happened to glance idly at the view of the garden.

He was high enough to see to the end of the island. A branch of the path ran from the bridge to the far side, though its destination was concealed by huge rhododendrons, their buds fat and ready to burst.

He froze. A man in a red T-shirt and jeans was walking along the path towards the rhododendrons. Zach’s scowl deepened. One of Catherine’s friends, no doubt.

Hopefully he’d find she’d gone and wouldn’t trespass on his land again. If he had any trouble, he’d have to put a locked gate on the bridge. This was his land, not a public park!

Angrily he punched in his password and concentrated on the day’s prices. Or tried to. Over the next hour he kept looking up, drawn by the view. Extraordinarily, the more he did, the more he felt his muscles relax.

The tension had eased from his shoulders. His muscles felt liquid instead of rock hard. And his almost permanent headache had cleared.

There must be something restful about the garden. He pursed his lips and tried to work out what it might be. Those soft, harmonising colours, perhaps? The variety of shapes—tall, conical trees and shrubs, weeping ones, fat, exuberant ones and some with feathery leaves? It was really rather attractive, he had to admit—

He held his breath, his smug serenity suddenly shattered. The intruder was on his way back, making for the bridge. On his way he passed a second man, who nodded as if they were both strangers to one another. This new arrival walked on steadily towards the rhododendrons. And, presumably, Catherine.