fought back a frown. He’d have sworn she wasn’t the kind of woman who’d ever dye her hair like that. Evidently he’d misjudged her.
But then he had form for misjudging women.
He glanced at her again.
And tried to ease the knots in his shoulders. Her hair looked great—really great. He hoped it’d given her some solace.
He dragged his gaze from her hair to her face. She was staring at his chest as if hypnotised. ‘Ms Gilmour?’
She didn’t move.
‘Ms Gilmour,’ he repeated, a little louder.
She gave a violent start before pressing her finger to her lips. ‘Shh.’
She looked as jet-lagged as he felt. A frown built through him. ‘How much sleep did you get last night?’
She held up two fingers.
He stiffened, but managed to keep his voice low. ‘Two hours?’ No wonder she looked so wrecked. For a crazy moment he had to fight an impulse to pull her into his arms and hug her, tell her to rest. He didn’t, of course. It was a crazy notion. She’d probably slap him. And he’d deserve it. ‘And the night before?’
Two fingers again.
He planted his hands on his hips. ‘And the same the night before that?’
She nodded. ‘Baby Jemima is a creature of the night. A demon. We—as in you and I—are not going to talk as we walk through the living room, because talking wakes her. We’re not even going to look at her, because looking at her wakes her. You’re going to follow me through to the kitchen and you’re going to keep your eyes firmly forward the whole time. Got it?’
‘Got it.’
Unfortunately eyes straight ahead meant his gaze was firmly fixed on her. Hips shouldn’t move with such a provocative sway when encased in such ridiculously baggy garments. But apparently they could...and they did.
A pulse started up deep inside him and spread out until he throbbed with it. He wanted to dismiss it as jet lag, but he knew what it was—desire. And it had no place in his relationship with this woman. None whatsoever.
She gestured for him to take a seat at a small kitchen table, collapsing into the one opposite. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, ‘but I can’t offer you coffee. The coffee machine is too loud. Apparently the kettle is too loud too, so I can’t even offer you instant.’
He was dying for a coffee, aching for it. He now rued his decision to skip it at the airport to make his way here as quickly as he could instead. He wanted to sleep for a week, and yet he’d managed more sleep on the plane than she’d had in three days! ‘I don’t need coffee.’
‘I do.’ The words left her on a whimper. ‘It’s unfortunate on several counts. The primary one being that I don’t function as a halfway decent person in the morning until after a shower and a mug of strong coffee.’
She dropped her head to her folded arms, every line of her etched in exhaustion. An answering exhaustion rose through him. He tried to smother a yawn. ‘How much longer will the baby sleep for?’
She lifted her head to stare blearily at the clock on the wall. ‘Probably another two hours...but it’s one of those toss-a-coin things.’
Another yawn took him off guard. ‘Maybe we should take advantage of that? Follow suit?’
She stared at him. ‘Wow, you must be really tired.’
‘Really tired,’ he agreed. ‘Spent.’ But what he wanted was for her to jump back into bed and sleep until the lines around her eyes eased. ‘Why don’t you go back to bed and I’ll stretch out on your sofa?’
‘Reverse that and you have yourself a deal.’ She shook her head when he went to argue. ‘This is a one-bedroom flat. I can’t offer you a spare bed, and I don’t want to think what Jemima’s reaction will be if the first thing she sees when she opens her eyes is a strange man.’
Ah. Right.
He insisted she take her duvet. He stretched out on top of her covers. He only meant to lie there for a minute—just to help straighten out the kinks in his spine—before checking his emails. While he caught up on his emails he could try and think of a practicable way forward where Jemima was concerned.
What on earth was he going to do with her? He closed his eyes and Ms Gilmour’s autumn-hued hair filled his mind. A glorious fall of hair shaded in horizontal bands from a deep, dark auburn through to gorgeous oranges and finally a pale blonde. Shaded dark to light, from root to tip.
Gorgeous.
SEBASTIAN WOKE TO the scent of coffee. His nose told him it was seriously good coffee too. He sat up gingerly, stretched... All the kinks were gone. His back didn’t hurt, his shoulders didn’t hurt, his head didn’t hurt.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up feeling so rested!
Obviously a nap was exactly what he’d needed. A couple of hours to—
His jaw dropped when he caught sight of the bedside clock. It was after one-thirty in the afternoon. He’d been asleep for over seven hours?
Dear God! What would Ms Gilmour think? He’d left her holding the baby...again!
He shot out of the bedroom and came to a halt. His office manager turned from pouring out two steaming mugs of coffee to send him a smile that momentarily dazzled him. She looked utterly together. She looked like his efficient office manager again. Except rather than a black pencil skirt and business jacket she wore jeans and a jumper, and that magical autumn hair. And the smile.
‘Come and have a coffee.’
He forced himself forward. He was careful not to look into the living room as he went past, even though he was sure the ‘don’t look at the baby’ embargo had been lifted.
Critical eyes roamed over his face and she gave a satisfied nod. ‘You look much better.’
He collapsed into a seat and pulled a mug of coffee closer. ‘So do you. You managed to get more sleep?’
‘A blissful three hours.’
She poured milk into her coffee. Whenever he visited the London office she drank it black—like him. But...she preferred it with milk? She did know she was free to order milk in for her coffee, didn’t she? Where the Tyrell Foundation was concerned he’d accept the charge of penny pinching, but he could stretch to milk for his office manager’s coffee.
‘You should’ve woken me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we have things to sort out.’
‘People make better decisions when they’re well-rested.’
She
