they weren’t in bad decorative order. Which one would Matthew Quinn choose?
Several of the doors stood ajar so it was a fairly easy task to peer into the rooms. Like downstairs, the empty rooms stirred wistful memories. She missed Colonel Phillips. He’d been kind to her and to Amy, and they’d been fond of him in return.
The door to the back bedroom was closed and she regarded it doubtfully for a few moments before she looked into the rest of the rooms. She guessed her employer had chosen the same room as the colonel used to occupy before his arthritis got so bad. It was probably in the best state of repair.
The door to the front bedroom stood ajar like all the rest and Fliss pushed it wide enough to peer in before moving on. The curtains weren’t drawn and she’d assumed the room was empty. But then her breath caught in her throat at the sight of Matthew Quinn sprawled across the mattress, his only covering a thin sheet that had wrapped itself tightly about his hips and thighs.
To her relief, he appeared to be sound asleep. Which was just as well, as the sheet was his only covering and it left little to her imagination. She tried to concentrate on the brown width of his shoulders and the hard muscles that defined his stomach. But her eyes were irresistibly drawn to the triangle of dark hair that arrowed down to his navel before disappearing beneath the low line of the bed linen.
The bones of his hips were clearly visible, his powerful legs relaxed now in sleep. Dragging her gaze away from what lay between his legs, Fliss let her eyes travel slowly up his body, lingering curiously on the silky strands of hair that grew beneath his outstretched arms. She wondered if the hair felt as soft as it looked. She knew a quite ridiculous urge to touch it and find out.
The trouble was, she had never seen a naked man before. When Terry Matheson had seduced her, it had just been a furtive fumble in the back of his car. She hadn’t enjoyed it, but she had to admit she didn’t know what it was like to make love with a man, to share a bed with a man. She doubted she ever would. In her opinion the whole sex thing was vastly overrated, and she fully expected to remain single for the rest of her life.
Even so, seeing Matthew Quinn like this did make her wonder what it would be like to be loved by a man like him. What would it be like to feel his hands upon her; to be kissed and caressed in places she’d never dreamed of outside of the romantic novels she borrowed from the public library? She’d always thought it was just the imagination of the author that caused the love scenes to give her such a spine tingling spasm in her stomach. The pleasurable pain she’d felt at those times had seemed almost wicked, yet she was feeling much the same sensation now, if for different reasons.
She swallowed hard. This was crazy. She shouldn’t be standing here in his bedroom doorway indulging in girlish fantasies about a man she scarcely knew. Thank God, he was asleep. She didn’t know what she’d do if—
But he wasn’t asleep. As her hand groped for the handle of the door to pull it closed behind her, her gaze strayed to his face again—and saw his eyes were open.
At once, her face suffused with colour. Oh, lord, how long had he been awake? How long had he been aware of her staring at him? And what excuse could she give? Surely nothing she said could explain her behaviour?
There was an awkward silence while Fliss struggled to regain her composure and he blinked sleepily at her, lifting a languid arm to rake his nails across his scalp. Then, as if taking pity on her, he said, ‘What time is it?’ As if he didn’t know she’d been ogling him for the last five minutes.
Fliss licked dry lips before replying. ‘It—it’s nearly half past nine,’ she said jerkily. ‘I—I tried the door downstairs and it was open.’ She paused. ‘I—wondered if you were all right.’
His dark eyes narrowed as he took in the ramifications of her statement. ‘So you decided to—what? Take the time to check the place out?’
‘No!’ Fliss was defensive. ‘When Colonel Phillips was taken ill, I was the one who found him. It occurred to me that you might be—might be—’
For the life of her, Fliss couldn’t think of a way to finish her sentence without sounding melodramatic. Matthew Quinn had levered himself up on his elbows in the interim, and was now regarding her sardonically across the sunlit room. As he moved, the sheet fell a little, and her eyes dropped automatically. She wasn’t a prude, but she couldn’t ignore his nakedness as he apparently could.
‘I’ll see you downstairs,’ she muttered, but, as if recognising her embarrassment, Matthew swiftly hauled the sheet up to his waist again.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said, not sounding sorry at all. ‘I’m not used to finding strange women in my bedroom.’
‘No, well, I’m sorry, too,’ said Fliss, backing onto the landing. ‘As I say, I’ll—um—’
‘I have been up, you know,’ he remarked, before she could escape. ‘I haven’t been sleeping all that well, and I got up around five and made some coffee.’
Fliss swallowed. ‘Coffee doesn’t seem to be a wise choice if you’re suffering from insomnia,’ she offered awkwardly, and he gave her a rueful grimace.
‘I guess not.’ He lifted a hand to massage the back of his neck, arching his back as he did so, and once again he had to rescue the slipping sheet. ‘God, what time did you say it was? Half past nine?’
‘It’s actually nearer twenty to ten.’ Fliss corrected him a little primly and he groaned out loud.
‘Dammit, that guy, Gilchrist, said the furniture would be here about ten. I’d better get dressed.’
‘Take your time,’ said Fliss hastily, half-afraid he was going to get out of bed before she had time to close the door. ‘I’ll go and make some fresh coffee.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, and she hurried away before he could say anything else.
Chapter Six
A COUPLE of hours later, Matt surveyed his newly furnished rooms with some satisfaction.
The twin hide sofas and satin-striped armchairs he’d chosen certainly gave the drawing room a little more panache, and the antique desk and leather chair he’d bought for the library would allow him to work at his laptop in comfort, if he needed to.
Of course, he realised now he had gone about things backside first. He should have had the place redecorated before he started buying furniture, but his needs were too immediate to allow him that luxury. He needed somewhere to sit, somewhere to relax. And, after all, it wasn’t as if the paper was peeling off the walls.
Except in the hall, of course. The hall and stairs would have to be tackled immediately, he acknowledged that. The impression it presently created was one of age and dilapidation.
His new housekeeper had been terrific. He had to acknowledge that, too. After providing him with toast and coffee, she’d started on the drawing room, and by the time the delivery truck arrived, albeit an hour later than he’d anticipated, both the drawing room and the library were as clean as she could make them.
She’d opened all the windows, and the pleasant smell of furniture polish mingled with the warm breeze from the garden. The windows themselves gleamed and the musty aroma of disuse that had pervaded the house had almost totally dissipated. Even the floorboards had received a coat of liquid polish and the Chinese rugs he’d bought as a temporary
