grinned, quite unabashed at having caught her in such disarray. Damn.
‘Seems I wasn’t needed there.’
You’re not needed here, she nearly retorted, scrambling to her feet and clutching the sides of her dressing gown together. The only good thing about it was that he couldn’t see the flaming colour in her cheeks under the crumbling face pack.
‘Give me a minute,’ she muttered, and felt a chunk of the vile green mud flake and fall off. She fled for the sanctuary of her bathroom, trailed by a masculine chuckle that did nothing for her temper—or her equilibrium.
Ruthlessly she crumbled the face pack and scrubbed it off with warm water, slapped on some moisturiser that made her go all shiny as well as pink, and dragged on her shorts and T-shirt. Hmm. She looked about sixteen—which, come to think of it, had to be an improvement on thirty-one.
She shoved her feet into sandals, wriggling into them as she walked, and found him sprawled on her sun lounger, face tipped up to the sun, eyes shut, utterly at ease.
‘Coffee?’ she snapped, and he opened one eye and squinted at her in the sunlight.
‘If you’re sure it’s no trouble.’
‘It’s no trouble,’ she said ungraciously, and flounced back into the cabin. Fancy catching her like that! She’d looked a total fright! He might have warned her he was coming! She banged around in the little open-plan kitchen area, smacking mugs down on the worktop, popping the seal on the instant coffee and tapping her foot while the kettle slowly came to the boil.
‘You’re mad with me.’
Her head jerked up and she glared at him over the kettle. ‘Why should I be mad with you?’
He smiled understandingly. ‘Because I caught you looking like a refugee from a frog pond?’
She stifled the smile. ‘You have such a way with words.’
He laughed, propping his arms on the half-wall that surrounded the kitchen area and leaning over towards her with that engaging grin of his. ‘Am I supposed to say you looked ravishing?’
‘And add lying to your sins?’
‘Maybe it’s not a lie.’
‘And maybe you’re a frog. That would explain a lot.’
He smiled. ‘You could always kiss me and see if I turn into a prince.’
Her heart unaccountably thumped. ‘In your dreams,’ she shot back, refusing to smile.
‘Grouch.’
‘You’d better believe it. I’m not my sunny best when I’m caught like that.’
He straightened up, his mouth twitching. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any point in telling you you’d look wonderful covered in mud from head to foot?’
She arched a brow. ‘Hardly. I’d only think you had a kink about women mud-wrestlers—either that or you really are a frog.’
His eyes sparkled with humour and he let the smile out, drawing her attention to the firm fullness of his lips and the hard angle of his beautifully-sculpted jaw. Perhaps she ought to kiss him and find out—?
‘Penny for them.’
She laughed then. ‘No way. Black or white?’
‘Black—strong, no sugar.’
How had she known that? She handed him the mug over the little wall, and scooping up her own she went out into the little sun-trap patio at the back of the cabin. Like his, it looked out over the lake and was open to anyone who chose to walk past it—the last place she should have sat with her face pack on.
She’d thought she was safe, though, because there hadn’t seemed to be anyone about. It was just her luck that he’d come looking for her and found her like that! She sat on one of the chairs at the picnic table, tucking her legs up under the chair and chasing a little pine-needle round the table top.
He sat down on her right, looking out over the lake, his legs stretched out under the table and crossed at the ankle. She hitched hers a little tighter under her, out of reach. No way was she playing footsie with him with the cabin just behind them and not a child in sight to protect her from his abundant charms!
‘Gorgeous morning.’ He stretched his arms over his head, locking his fingers behind his neck and yawning hugely. His T-shirt drew taut over the muscles on his chest, and she had to drag her eyes away before she disgraced herself.
She stared at the lake, counting ducks until her heart-rate was back under control.
‘So, how come you weren’t needed?’ she asked to fill the silence—and when she could trust herself to speak.
‘They had enough helpers, and Nicky seemed quite happy. She’d got to know one of them yesterday doing finger painting, apparently.’
‘So you thought you’d come and persecute me?’ she asked with a smile to take away the offence. Actually, she was quite pleased he had, despite the face pack. He was fun, and it seemed like years since she’d had fun—even if she didn’t intend to play footsie.
‘Something like that,’ he replied with a smile, and his eyes were warm and kind and crinkly at the corners, as if he did it often. It made her go all gooey inside—which was ridiculous, considering he couldn’t possibly be really interested in her. He was just passing the time. Idle flirting. Most men did it, like breathing, without even noticing.
He drank his coffee, then peered into the bottom of the mug and set it down with transparent and very obvious regret.
‘More?’ she offered automatically.
The smile was lazy and sexy and satisfied. ‘I will if you will.’
For a moment she wondered what he was talking about, but then collected her scattered wits. ‘I’m fine—I usually only have one.’
He sat up, the smile fading, searching her face. ‘I’ll go if you want to get back to your vegetative state.’
She laughed and stood up, scooping up his mug. ‘No, I’ve vegged enough. Black again?’
‘Please.’
She made the coffee and took it out, setting it down in front of him. ‘There was some research done a while ago that linked strong black coffee with sterility, but I guess if you’ve got four children that rather blows their research away,’ she said with a grin.
Something changed in his eyes, and he gave a short, humourless grunt of laughter. ‘We may never know,’ he said quietly. ‘They’re not my kids.’
‘Not—?’ Molly swallowed and dragged in a lungful of air. There she went again, she thought, jumping in with both feet.
‘Not yours?’ she finished, still on autopilot, wondering all sorts of things. Like, if not his, then whose? Was he their uncle? Godfather? Guardian? Friend? Stepfather, maybe. They called him Jack. And where were their real parents?
