days previously when his curiosity had been piqued because he had known that playing the waiting game was going to be a better bet.
He’d already gleaned one very important piece of information. She needed money. And while she might carry the banner of money can’t buy you happiness and the good things in life are free, Art knew that reality had very sharp teeth.
The house was falling down around her and whilst she did get some money from the tenants, enough to cover the essentials, from what she had told him in dribs and drabs she simply didn’t earn enough to keep things going.
And houses in this part of the world weren’t cheap. He knew because he’d strolled through the village, taking in all the great little details that made it such a perfect place for an upmarket housing development.
He wondered whether he could offer her something tantalising to call off the protest. He might have to dump the fellow protestor guise and reveal his true identity or he could simply contrive to act as a middleman to broker a deal. At any rate, he played with the idea of contributing something towards the community, something close to her heart that would make her think twice about continuing a line of action that was never going to pay dividends. Harold had been right when he’d painted his doomsday picture of a close-knit, hostile community determined to fend off the rich intruders with their giant four-wheel drive wagons and their sense of entitlement. They’d be wrong but since when did right and wrong enter into the picture when emotions were running high?
And Art needed peace. He needed the community onside. He needed to get past this first stage of development to reach the important second stage. When he thought of the benefits of the equestrian and craft centre he hoped to develop, for his stepbrother and the small intake of similar adults like his stepbrother, he knew just how vital it was for him to win this war with the backing of the people waving the placards. If he barrelled through their protest with marching boots they would turn on him and all his long-term plans would lie in ruins.
He’d met all the people who were protesting and the majority of them had kids who attended the local school.
He could appeal to them directly, imply that the heartless developers might be forced to build a new school.
His role, he had made sure to establish, was a fluid one. He had gone from protestor in situ to keen observer of human nature and general do-gooder who cared about the environment. He’d been vague about his actual background but had somehow managed to imply that he was more than just a drifter out to attach himself to a worthwhile cause. He’d used his imagination and he knew that a lot of the protestors were beginning to turn to him to answer some of their questions.
It irked him that even as he tried to find a solution to the situation and even as he mentally worked out the cost of digging into his pocket to effectively buy them off when there was, technically, no need for him to do so, he was still managing to feel bloody guilty at his charade.
He’d had no idea his conscience was so hyperactive and it got on his nerves.
Although...he had to admit a certain desire to impress the woman he was sharing a house with—fistfuls of cash would mean she could do the improvements she needed. He was cynical enough to suspect that if sufficient hard cash was put on the table she would not be able to resist because she was human and humans were all, without exception, susceptible to the lure of money.
Trouble was, he had to content himself with the painting job she had delegated to him.
‘You don’t have to,’ she had said two days previously, when she had led him to a part of the house that looked as though the cobwebs had set up camp the day after the final brick in the house had been laid. ‘You pay rent and, believe me, that’s sufficient help.’
But Art had felt obliged to make good on his vague assurances that he was capable of helping out.
Besides, painting the room was proving to be a valuable way of avoiding her because the more contact he had with her, the more interested he became in digging deeper, past the polite conversation they shared, usually in the company of a million other people. After that first night she had shared nothing more about herself. They had had no time alone together. Her house was apparently a magnet for every person in the village who had nothing better to do than drop by for a chat.
The night before, someone she had bumped into several weeks previously had shown up for an informal chat about a problem he was having with his new employer, who had taken over the company and was trying to get rid of all the old retainers by fair means or foul.
To Art’s amazement, Rose had been happy to feed the guy and give him free advice. Little wonder she didn’t have much money going spare when she failed to charge for most of her services.
Her absolute lack of interest in making money should have been anathema to him but the opposite appeared to be the case. The more she invited the world into her house, the more he wanted her to slam the front door so that he could have her all to himself.
Nothing to do with the reason he was here.
Just because...he wanted to have her all to himself.
He’d managed to find a couple of hours during which he’d touched base with several of his clients and answered a couple of urgent emails and then he’d done some painting.
Now, at a little after six-thirty, he stood back to inspect his efforts and was quietly pleased with what he had managed. The mucus shade of green was slowly being replaced by something off-white and bland. Big improvement.
Still in paint-spattered clothes, Art went downstairs, fully expecting to find a few more waifs and strays in the kitchen, but instead there was just Rose sitting at the kitchen table, poring over a file.
From the doorway, he stood and looked, giving in to the steady pulse of desire rippling through him like a forbidden drumbeat. She was frowning, her slender hands cupping her face as she peered down at the stack of papers in front of her. She reached to absently remove the clasp from her hair and he sucked in a sharp breath as it fell around her shoulders in a tumble of uncontrolled curls. Deep chestnut brown...shades of dark auburn...paler strands of toffee...a riot of vibrant colour that took his breath away.
For once she wasn’t wearing something long and shapeless but instead a pair of faded blue jeans and an old grey cropped tee shirt and, from the way she was hunched over the table, he was afforded a tantalising glimpse of her cleavage.
She looked up, caught his eye and sat back.
She stretched and half yawned and the forbidden drumbeat surged into a tidal wave of primal desire.
No bra.
He could see the jut of her nipples against the soft cotton and the caution he had been meticulously cultivating over the past few days disappeared in a puff of smoke.
His erection was as solid as a shaft of steel and he had to look away to gather himself for a few vital seconds or else risk losing the plot altogether.
‘Took the afternoon off.’ Rose smiled and stood up. ‘Hence the casual gear. Drink? Tea? Coffee? Something stronger? I’ve actually gone out and bought some wine.’
‘The rent I pay doesn’t cover food. It’s Friday. Allow me to take you out for a meal.’
* * *
Rose hesitated. She hadn’t been out for a meal with a man for ages.
