The air between them began to pulse, as if a soundless drum were beating.
It wasn’t until she saw the thick plume of dark smoke rising up behind him that she broke out of her trance-like state. ‘Royce! The pan!’
Royce cursed and spun on his heel. With swift efficiency he turned off the gas, swiped a dishcloth from the bench and flapped it in the air to dissipate the smoke.
Bending down, he inspected the contents of the frying pan.
Straightening, he threw her a mind-numbing smile over his shoulder. ‘It’s a good job I like my bacon crispy,’ he said, picking up a spatula and scooping the bacon on to a plate.
Shara eyed the results. ‘That’s not crispy. That’s dead.’
Royce shrugged. ‘Each to their own. I happen to like it that way.’
‘Are you sure you’re not just saying that because you’ve burnt it? It takes a man to admit when he’s wrong.’
His eyes glinted. ‘No, I’m not fibbing. This really is the way I like it.’
Shara grimaced. ‘I suppose you like your fried eggs with a runny yolk too?’
He flashed her a grin that made her go weak at the knees. ‘You bet. Is there any other way to have them?’
Shara smiled back. Then, realising what she was doing, she forced her mouth into a straight line.
This man was not her friend. He wasn’t exactly her enemy either. But he was standing between her and something she wanted—which was the right to make her own decisions. That right was something most people took for granted. It wasn’t until it was taken away from you that you realised how much you valued it.
‘I like mine cooked through,’ she muttered, and turned away.
Grabbing a chopping board, she began cutting strawberries with all the attention a surgeon would give to the most complicated and delicate operation.
They worked silently for a while. Much as she tried, Shara couldn’t stop her eyes from straying back to him.
For such a big man Royce moved with silent gracefulness, each movement precise and self-assured. Somehow she knew he’d make love the same way.
She flushed, dropping her lashes. She didn’t know where the thought had come from but she wished it would go back there.
His competency as a lover was of no interest to her.
Why should it be?
She was over men.
Shara took a seat at the breakfast table and began eating. Royce joined her a few minutes later with a plate piled high with food.
‘So, tell me about this ex of yours,’ he suggested softly, when he’d demolished half of the plate with considerable gusto.
The mention of her ex-husband almost made her choke on a strawberry. ‘He’s not my favourite topic of conversation.’
‘Perhaps not.’ He took a bite of mushroom. ‘But the more I know about him the easier it will be for me to do my job.’
Shara angled her chin into the air. ‘I don’t care. I don’t want to talk about him. Besides, I’ve already told you that I don’t want a bodyguard, so why would I want to make your job easier for you?’
She had no intention of answering personal questions.
Painful questions.
And she had no intention of helping him. She didn’t want him around, poking his nose in her business. It would be safer—for all of them—if he quit and left her alone.
His expression remained unchanged but his eyes had hardened. ‘Maybe because it’s the polite thing to do? Maybe because it would give two strangers sharing breakfast something to talk about?’
Shara stared at him over the top of her spoon. ‘Actually, I think it’s impolite to ask someone you’ve just met personal and intrusive questions. If you feel we must talk then I can think of at least a dozen more interesting topics than my ex-husband. What about the weather? Or the exorbitant price of petrol—which in my opinion has gotten way out of control?’
Royce snapped off the blackened end of a rasher of bacon, popped it in his mouth and chewed. When he’d swallowed, he said, ‘I’d much rather talk about Steve Brady.’
Shara put her spoon down on the table less than gently. ‘And I wouldn’t. Now, unless you want to talk about something else, I’m leaving.’
Royce sighed. ‘Stubborn.’
‘Yes.’
And she wasn’t about to apologise for it.
She had to protect herself.
No matter what it took.
Royce sighed again—even more heavily. ‘Will you at least tell me about how Brady is harassing you?’
Shara sat back against her seat. ‘Didn’t my father tell you?’
‘He mentioned a few phone calls and the fact that the guy has been seen hanging around outside the house.’
Shara stared back steadily, keeping her expression neutral. ‘Well, there’s nothing more to tell. Dad has summed it up nicely. Which is why hiring you is a complete and utter over-reaction.’
She’d tried telling her father that but he hadn’t listened. Maybe he sensed that things were worse than what she’d told him.
‘I’ve known Gerard for a number of years,’ Royce said. ‘He’s not the type to over-react.’
Her chin angled into the air. ‘Well, in this case he has.’
Royce stared back at her. ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’
Royce received ample evidence of Steve Brady’s harassment several hours later. He walked into the lounge room, where Shara was sitting flipping through a magazine, just as the phone rang.
He noticed the way she jumped like a scalded cat, and watched as the colour drained out of her face.
‘Leave it,’ Royce ordered as Shara reached a hand towards the phone.
‘Leave it?’ Shara asked. ‘Why?’
‘You think it’s him, don’t you?’ Royce asked. ‘Your ex?’
A frown creased the smooth skin of her forehead as she nodded her head slowly.
‘Let it ring,’ he dismissed.
‘Why?’
Royce sank down on the lounger opposite and stretched his legs out in front of him. ‘Because I said so.’
Her
