finite end to the journey?’ Kingsley could see her face even when he was concentrating on the road ahead, and he’d noticed the tight set to her mouth. He had known from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her at that damn dinner party that she spelt trouble, he told himself moodily. It was in the touch-me-not restraint of the slim, elegant body, the wary coolness in those magnificent eyes.
‘If you could drop me at the office, I’ll be fine.’
And who in hell had grey eyes anyway? He acknowledged her voice with irritation. Why not brown or blue or green? Those colours were good enough for most of the population, so why not Rosalie Milburn? ‘I’ll take you home.’ It was a statement that did not invite argument.
‘There’s things I need to do.’
‘Perhaps, but they’ll keep till tomorrow. Those pain-killers are not to be messed with,’ he said evenly. Why had she hovered on his consciousness from that first evening? He wasn’t short of female company—the thought carried no pleasure, merely irritation—so what made this woman different? But then she wasn’t, not really. She just played the game differently, that was all. Nevertheless, she stirred his blood until he couldn’t think straight.
He ran his hand through his hair, more than a little annoyed with himself. He was too realistic and too cynical to pretend he believed in anything other than animal attraction between the sexes, he reassured himself in the next moment, but this woman had the plus factor in a way he hadn’t come across in a long, long time. Which made it more strange she wasn’t with anyone.
On the perimeter of his vision he saw Rosalie shift her injured foot, wincing as she did so, and the action emphasised to him how stubborn she was in asking to be taken to the office. She needed a hot meal and some more pain-killers and sleep, in that order, he thought flatly. Crazy woman.
‘So, do I get an address or do we just drive round London all night?’ His thoughts had made his voice abrupt, for which he offered no apology. She rattled him, he admitted it.
Rosalie glanced at him, her nostrils flaring at the tone. ‘I live quite close to the office in Kensington,’ she said shortly. ‘I’ll direct you when we get nearer.’
‘Thank you.’ It was sarcastic.
‘You’re welcome.’ Why did he have to make everything into a confrontation?
The rest of the journey was conducted in silence until they reached Kensington, whereupon Rosalie duly directed him to the crowded terraced street where she lived. Number twenty was identical to its neighbours, and as Kingsley drew up outside the house he glanced at the five steps leading from the pavement to the front door. His expression said it all.
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