a cool, impersonal feel. But she could hardly take him into the kitchen-cum-breakfast room where she and Daisy spent most of their time, could she?
He stood in the doorway, surveying the room, and Rachel gestured rather offhandedly towards the sofa. ‘Please, sit down.’
He smiled, slightly uneven white teeth adding to his sensual appeal. Rachel knew she’d never encountered a man like him before and, remembering what Daisy had said, she could quite see why Lauren might think he was ‘hot’.
She was relieved when he moved into the room and took a seat on the sofa, although he didn’t appear to relax. He sat on the edge of the cushions, legs spread, hands hanging loosely between. And, when he looked up at her with a slightly whimsical expression, Rachel knew he was perfectly aware of the effect he was having on her.
Which made it easier, somehow. If she could just convince herself that she wasn’t like all those other women who lusted after him—Lauren, for example—she could handle this.
‘Coffee?’ she asked brightly, overwhelmingly conscious of her exposed midriff and bare legs. ‘I usually make myself a cup at this time of the morning.’
‘Sounds good.’
He was easy, and Rachel offered him a smile before quickly exiting the room. Had she time to dash upstairs and put on trousers and a shirt? she wondered as she hurried into the kitchen. But no. That would just be pandering to his conceit, and if you turned up unexpectedly you should be prepared to take people as you found them.
She’d filled the container before going up to work, so all she had to do was turn on the coffee maker. Within seconds the comforting suck and slurp of the filter filled the air and, with a careless shrug, she turned to take two mugs from the wall cupboard above the counter.
‘Daisy told me you’re a writer,’ said Joe Mendez from behind her, and Rachel almost dropped the cups. Without any apparent sound, he’d left the sitting room and was now standing at the bar where she and Daisy usually ate their breakfast. He’d shed his leather jacket to reveal a tight-fitting body shirt and jeans that rode low on his lean hips, and Rachel couldn’t help a certain twinge of resentment that he’d felt relaxed enough to make himself at home.
‘Oh, only just,’ she muttered at last, setting the mugs on the counter and turning to the fridge for milk.
‘You write romantic novels, I understand,’ he said, pursuing it. He grinned. ‘Where do you get your inspiration?’
Well, not from men like you, thought Rachel, unsure how to answer him. ‘I—er—I have a good imagination.’
‘Not just that, surely?’ He grinned again. ‘Daisy’s very proud of you.’
Rachel’s smile was thin. ‘Daisy’s biased,’ she said, wondering why she felt this need to deny her success. For heaven’s sake, she was proud of her achievement. Two successful titles and her agent panting for her next manuscript—it was a would-be writer’s dream.
He shrugged then, and, turning away from the bar, he walked to the windows that overlooked the garden at the back of the house. ‘Nice view,’ he commented, taking in the smooth stretch of lawn, the small summer-house that Steve’s father had built when Daisy was a baby. ‘Have you lived here long?’
Rachel’s lips tightened. ‘Didn’t Steve tell you?’
He swung round then, hands resting low on his hips, dark eyes frankly curious. ‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘Steve didn’t tell me a lot about you. Should he have done? Am I treading on someone’s toes here?’
Rachel immediately felt dreadful. ‘No,’ she said unhappily. ‘Sorry. Don’t take any notice of me. I was just being bitchy.’
Joe arched his dark brows. ‘That still doesn’t answer my question: what is Steve supposed to have told me?’
‘Oh…’ Rachel wished she’d never started this. ‘It’s just, well, this house used to belong to Steve’s parents. They gave it to us when we got married, and…and after the divorce…’ She shrugged. ‘They wanted us—Daisy and me—to stay here.’
‘Ah.’ He seemed to understand. ‘They didn’t approve of the divorce?’
‘Something like that.’ In actual fact, Steve’s parents had been outraged when the son they’d always worshipped had proved to be less than godlike.
Joe looked thoughtful. ‘And were you wondering if your ex-husband had sent me here?’ he asked after a moment.
It had crossed her mind, but Rachel chose not to admit it. ‘I’m just wondering why you came here, Mr Mendez,’ she said steadily. Then, as the coffee finished filtering, ‘Black or with milk?’
‘Black,’ he said, as she’d guessed he would. ‘And call me Joe, please. Mr Mendez sounds like my father.’
Rachel poured the coffee without answering him. But she was thinking that perhaps she had made a mistake, after all. Perhaps this man wasn’t Steve’s boss. Perhaps his father was.
The coffee smelt delicious and Rachel, who tended to survive on caffeine during the day, pushed a mug towards Joe Mendez and then lifted her own mug to her lips. It was hot, but so refreshing that she took a generous swallow before looking at him again. ‘Shall we go back into the sitting room?’
He shrugged as if it was of little importance to him, but taking his cue from her, he followed her across the hall and into the other room. He waited until she’d seated herself in a tapestry-covered armchair before resuming his seat on the sofa, sampling his own coffee with apparent enjoyment.
‘This is good,’ he said, glancing round the room as he spoke. Then, his eyes finding hers again, ‘I hope I’m not wasting too much of your time.’
Rachel gave a wry smile. ‘My work’s not that important,’ she assured him. She grimaced. ‘Actually, I could do with the break.’
‘Not going well?’
He sounded genuinely interested and she decided to take his words at face value. ‘You could say that,’ she admitted. ‘Since—well, since Daisy’s been invited to Florida, there’s been a lot to do.’
Joe regarded her intently. ‘You don’t want her to go?’ he asked shrewdly, and Rachel couldn’t prevent the faint trace of colour that entered her cheeks at his words.
‘Oh, no. I mean, yes, I want her to go. She hasn’t seen her father for almost a year, and it’s important for them to keep in touch. It’s just…’
‘A big step for her to take on her own?’ he suggested gently, and she was amazed at his perspicacity.
It suddenly seemed as if she’d misjudged him, and with a rueful shrug she said, ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ She pulled a wry face. ‘I’ve never even crossed the Atlantic myself.’
Joe grimaced. ‘It’s not that big a deal. We Americans speak the same language, at least. Even if we don’t always understand one another.’
Rachel smiled. ‘Are you an American? I thought I detected—I don’t know—a faint accent, but I could be—’
‘My
