looked like she’d just climbed out of bed looking like a goddess, an effect that must take considerable effort. A diaphanous dress clung to her slender form, revealing long, graceful legs that ended in pointy ankle boots.
Annie resisted the urge to look down at herself. She was not in competition with these women. She was not even on the same playing field as them, and no one expected her to be. But then, why did her usual “uniform” of preppy classics feel dowdy and frumpier than ever?
She hid in the kitchen after the door closed behind them. If Sinclair wanted to talk to her he could come find her. And he did.
“I didn’t hear you,” she stammered, when she saw him standing, tall and serious, in the narrow doorway. The old colonial kitchen had been remodeled with the most extravagant chefs’ appliances, but that didn’t change the low ceiling and old-fashioned proportions that made Sinclair look like a giant, standing next to the hand-carved spice racks.
His hair was wet, slicked back but with a long tendril falling over his forehead. He wore a pale gray polo shirt and well-worn khakis, and she noticed with a start that his feet were bare. How could he manage to look so elegant and breathtakingly handsome in such casual clothing?
“Listen, Annie …”
Like she had any choice?
“About the other day.” He frowned. “I don’t know how to explain—”
“Me either,” she cut in. “It was very unexpected.”
He looked relieved. Somehow that hurt. Still, at least he wasn’t trying to act as if nothing happened.
“I think we should both forget that it ever happened.”
His mocking echo of her thoughts cut her to the quick. “Of course.” The words flew from her mouth, a desperate attempt to save face.
He could have left right then, the pact between them safely sealed, but he didn’t. He stood in the doorway, blocking her view of the hallway and—now that she thought of it—her only escape route. “You’re a nice girl, Annie.”
Oh no, here it came. The “don’t be too hurt that I’m not at all interested in you, some other schlub will be” speech. If only she could run from the room and spare herself his pity.
“You’re nice, too.” She cringed. It sounded like something a preschooler would come up with. No wonder he had no enduring interest in her—she sounded like someone who had the intellect of a turnip.
“Not really.” He rubbed at his chest with a tense hand, and she could remember the thick, taut muscle hidden beneath his gray shirt. She’d rested her cheek on his chest and sighed with sheer pleasure. Now his dark eyes looked pained.
He was probably thinking of his ex-wives. The last one had said all kinds of nasty things about him in the press after she realized she hadn’t been married long enough to get alimony. “I know you didn’t want to … do that.” She couldn’t even say it. What had they done? It wasn’t “making love” or “sleeping together.” Having sex. Pretty simple, really, but she still couldn’t voice the words. “I know you didn’t plan it and that you regret it.” She swallowed. What had possibly been the most perfectly blissful hour of her life was an embarrassing footnote in his.
“Exactly.”
His words sank through her like a stone. Why could she not shake the pathetic hope that all those kisses and so much passion had meant something to him? It seemed so strange that his breathless moans could be nothing more than a gut physical reaction.
“I don’t know what came over me, either.” Except for the fact that I’ve adored you from afar for far too long. “But I’ll make sure not to try one of those dresses on again.” She managed a shaky smile.
One side of Sinclair’s mouth lifted, revealing a devastating dimple. “You looked breathtaking in that dress, Annie.”
The sound of her name coming from his mouth, right after the compliment, made her heart jump.
“Oh, I think it was the dress that looked breathtaking. They’re all so beautifully made. I haven’t looked at them since I hung them in the closet but they don’t seem to have ever been worn.”
“Except that one, now.”
“And that wasn’t worn for long.” She let out a breath. Being in such close quarters with Sinclair played havoc with her sanity. She could smell the familiar scent of that old-fashioned soap he used. She had a close-up view of the lines at the corners of his eyes, which showed how often he smiled, despite all rumors to the contrary. “Maybe there’s a reason those clothes ended up in a trunk in the attic and were never worn.”
“A curse?” He lifted a dark brow. Humor danced in his eyes. She could tell he didn’t believe a word of the superstitions that so excited his mom.
“A spell, perhaps.” She played along. “To turn even a sensible woman into a wanton.”
“That was a very effective spell.” His eyes darkened and held her gaze for a moment until her breath was coming in tiny gasps. “Not that you were a wanton, of course, but …”
“I think we both know what you meant.” She shoved a lock off her forehead. She was sweating. If only he knew that the slightest touch from him might accidentally turn her into a wanton at a moment’s notice.
Had she imagined it, or did he just sneak a glance at her body? Her breasts tingled slightly under her yellow shirt, and her thighs trembled beneath her khakis. She could almost swear his dark gaze had swept over them and right back up to her face.
But she had no proof and right now that seemed like idle fantasy. Or maybe he was wondering what the heck came over him to find himself in a compromising position with such a frump. He was hardly the type to risk legal trouble with an employee for a quick roll in the hay. The whole incident was truly bizarre.
And totally unforgettable.
Great. Now she just had to spend the rest of her life comparing other men to Sinclair Drummond.
He walked across the kitchen and took a glass from one of the cabinets. She should have asked him if he wanted something, but it was too late now. His biceps flexed, tightening the cuff of his polo shirt as he reached to close the cabinet. She watched the muscles of his back extend and contract beneath the soft fabric, which pulled slightly from the top of his khakis. Just enough for her to remember sliding her fingers into his waistband and …
She turned and headed for the dishwasher. This line of thought was not at all productive. “Can I get you some iced tea?”
“No, thanks, Annie. I’ll help myself to some water.” He pushed the glass into the dispenser on the front of the fridge.
She’d have to find another job. This was way too awkward. How was she supposed to wait hand and foot on a man while remembering how his body felt pressed against hers?
There was no way she’d find a job that paid as well as this one, where she’d get to live—free of charge—in a beautiful house near the beach and be her own boss 95 percent of the time. She didn’t have a college degree. She hadn’t even finished high school properly. This job had allowed her to pile up savings in the bank, and she was about to fulfill
