through his shirt and sweater. Then, by God, she’d had to go and drop the damn thing. Not drop exactly, more of a slide, like a gloved hand over porcelain.
But unlike any normal healthy male who hadn’t had a woman in a while, he didn’t watch. Nope. He didn’t notice the way her breasts with their wine-dark nipples swayed in time with the music as she moved. He didn’t see the tiny birthmark on her left buttock. He knew nothing about the way her hands moved over satin-smooth skin.
Hell.
He fisted his hands inside the pockets of his tailor-made woollen trousers and glared up at the sky, letting the rain pelt his face. Anything to cool the beat of his blood and block the image that continued to dance behind his eyes.
He could hardly knock now and alert Melanie to the fact that he’d seen her naked and—he did a quick check—yep, she still was.
Never mind that he’d been standing here for five minutes hammering on the door before she’d appeared—a futile effort over that rock concert going on in there. And that he was probably going to catch pneumonia.
His hopes for a home-cooked meal and quiet evening of solitude going over his father’s business accounts—well, it wasn’t going to happen. Not after the temperature-elevating sight he’d witnessed. He scowled into the trees. Why had he let Adam talk him into this? Because a week ago he hadn’t known Melanie was his flatmate, that was why.
He shouldn’t have sent the limo away before he’d got inside. He should’ve brought an umbrella. And a spare pair of trousers. He should not have come an hour early.
Progress, he noted, glancing back over his shoulder. Finally. He breathed only marginally easier when he saw her reaching for her underwear. Her purple barely there underwear. The sight as she slid those panties up her thighs only added fuel to the fire in his blood.
When he looked again she was dressed and preparing something at the kitchen workbench, her hair a flow of ebony gleaming under the down-lights. For the first time he noticed the aromatic scent of something hot and spicy—red meat, onions, a hint of garlic.
He shook the water from his hair, sluiced it from his face with a hand and picked up his bag. Time to let her in on the surprise.
* * *
Melanie frowned at the door. Was that a knock? It was possible with the wind and music that she hadn’t heard the limo pull up, but no lights had beamed through the windows, no doors had slammed shut. It looked dark and lonely and wild out there.
There it was again. A definite knock. More insistent. And no wonder—it was pouring.
She turned off the stereo on her way, slicked her hair over her shoulder and, keeping the security chain on, she cracked open the door. The light shone on the figure of a big man glistening with water.
‘Good evening.’ Luke’s voice.
Luke’s face.
Luke’s eyes fixed on hers, and looking…hot.
For a stunned second she couldn’t move. Some part of her brain registered that he wasn’t damp—he was soaked, and that there was no limo in sight. Desperation had her hoping for a reasonable explanation that didn’t include him winning her prize.
But no. Shock waves of chills and heat chased through her body while he produced a card with a water-smudged number twenty-seven and held it out to her. ‘Seems I won this retreat for the evening.’
Adam, I’m going to kill you. ‘How did you get here?’ A tight, breathless moan rose up her throat.
He jerked a thumb at the track. ‘I let the ride go. Ah…I was… I’m a little early. Sorry.’
Which meant… Her whole body quivered with that implication as her eyes darted to his. ‘How much too early?’
His eyes glistened with arousal…but it could have been a trick of the firelight or water dripping from his lashes, carving waterfalls in the creases bracketing his nose and mouth. Couldn’t it?
Fat chance. She’d been caught out.
Oh, cripes, just let the man in. Her numb fingers slipped on the metal, rattling the chain as she slid it off and pulled the door wide.
She stood aside, wincing as his shoes made squelchy noises on the floor. Their gazes remained locked as he toed them off. His expression was too carefully schooled to be anything but contrived. He’d obviously been stumbling around in the dark for the past…how long? On further consideration she decided she didn’t want to know.
Her eyes left his to take a slow and thorough inventory of the damage. ‘You need to get out of those wet things. You do have a change of clothes…don’t you?’ In that slim business case? He’d brought a business case to a romantic rendezvous? Except that he’d come alone, a fact that was only now seeping through the brain fog.
‘I’m afraid not.’ Grim-faced, he raked a hand through his hair, scattering droplets.
‘There’s a clothes dryer, they’ll be dry in no—’
‘Forget it, it’s wool and an old favourite.’
When she looked up he’d already hauled the steel blue jumper and shirt over his head, leaving his chest gleaming in the foyer’s down-lights. Rugged, bronzed, slick with water.
She glanced behind her. ‘There’s a towel around here somewhere…’ Anything to cover that glorious nakedness.
‘Got it.’
On the floor behind the couch, out of sight and right where she’d left it. Of course, he already knew that. Her face burned anew. Not that she had any hang-ups about nudity, but remembering the little fantasy she’d been playing in her mind and knowing the object of that fantasy had been watching…
‘And the trousers?’ She let her gaze move over the dark fabric, and imagined how it would feel, how he would feel beneath her hand now, five years on. Tried not to think about other times when she’d done just that.
‘Wool too. Dry-clean only.’
His voice, thick and strained, brought her eyes back to his. It could have been because he was wet and cold and wishing he were somewhere else, but—dear heaven—she’d seen more than enough down there.
‘The bathroom.’ She pointed the way. ‘There are a couple of robes behind the door, then bring your wet clothes back here and put them in front of the fire.’
Her pulse roared like thunder in her ears. No, not her pulse, she realised, when she saw him glance outside on his way to the bathroom. An approaching storm front.
‘Great,’ she muttered as unease added to the volatile mix of emotions churning through her. Driving home in this weather on an unfamiliar road—track, she amended—was going to be an adventure she wasn’t looking forward to.
But she had a job to finish before she could escape. Stir the casserole, butter the rolls, get a grip.
The sound of the water running in the shower had her hands pausing on the expensive bottle of wine she’d uncorked. She would not think
