boxes brimming with colour. A fresh spicy fragrance permeated the air.
It was as if a cellar had been opened to let in the sunshine.
He slammed the door on his overactive imagination. Shaking his head at the absurdity, he strode to the kitchen. What the hell was wrong with him? He despised clutter. Didn’t tolerate disorganised people. The squalid mess of his childhood would live with him for the rest of his life.
Three weeks. For art’s sake he could manage three weeks. And what was that about compromise? She obviously had no idea of the meaning of the word … What was that odour?
He glared at the two containers as he yanked them out of the microwave. One hot gourmet dinner and one ruined tray of greying prime fillet steak, steamed beyond redemption. Blast it.
‘What’s that smell?’ Didi appeared at the door with the cat in her arms and wrinkling her nose.
‘Charlie’s dinner. What say we eat out? My treat.’ He whisked the remaining gourmet plate to the back of the bench then, grabbing a knife, he sliced the plastic off the other tray, cut the meat into chunks, put it on a saucer.
‘Sounds good.’ Then her perky voice altered. ‘Ooh,’ she almost crooned, the sound washing through him like liquid sex, causing his hand to slip on the knife. ‘You didn’t have to go to so much trouble for Charlie. I’ve got plenty of cat food.’
He set the saucer on the floor, noticing a pair of bare feet approach as he did so. ‘I won’t be making a habit of it,’ he muttered. She had gold nail polish on her toes, he noticed, with little black snowflakes in the middle of each. Slim ankles, shapely calves—
Four white furry paws bounded into view and the feet moved away as he straightened up to clear the empty meat tray, but Didi got there first.
‘Cameron. That steak wasn’t for Charlie, was it?’ She was smoothing out the plastic wrap and checking the price sticker. ‘Come on, fess up. Even with your wealth you wouldn’t pay mega bucks for a cat’s dinner. You wouldn’t pay for a cat’s dinner at all if you had your way.’
To his chagrin he watched her lean over the counter top and check out the second container: the gourmet meal. ‘Hey, I’m guessing you took out the wrong container. So you made a mistake—no big deal.’ She grinned at him through silky gold lashes, her eyes slightly unfocused. ‘Why do you feel you need to play Mr Perfecto in your own home? There’s only you and me here.’
He was all too aware of that fact, which for some reason had every hair on his body rising, not to mention his blood pressure, and other bodily parts.
He snatched the empty container and plastic out from beneath her hands, catching a whiff of alcohol on her breath as he dumped them in the kitchen bin. Was the woman tipsy on one glass?
‘Maintain the Image, perhaps?’ she went on when he didn’t reply, waving one end of her chiffon scarf. ‘I bet you maintain that Mr Perfecto image in your sleep. All buttoned up and stiff …’
Registering the tiny hitch in her breath, he swivelled his head to see her soft cheeks suffused with instant colour. Right on the mark.
He turned away, moved to the sink to rinse the mugs left over from breakfast and said the first thing that sprang to his lips. ‘What do you feel like eating?’
‘Whatever you’re having.’ Her voice had dropped a notch, turned husky.
His fingers slipped on the mug he was drying as her words slid over him, through him. Ropes of fire snaked along his veins, tugging at his libido, stampeding his imagination into savage, steamy life. Didi riding him, her hair wild, long legs spurring him on, unbuttoning his image with quick deft hands …
He closed his eyes. Very carefully set the mug down. Unclenched his teeth. Wiped his hands on the towel and sent up a silent prayer for sanity.
No doubt about it, she was tipsy. What had he been thinking, giving her champagne on an empty stomach? That’s it, focus on practicalities. ‘You didn’t eat lunch,’ he barked. ‘I told you to help yourself.’
‘I forgot.’
Next he knew she’d planted her butt on the bench beside him. He didn’t know how she’d got there—one moment she was standing behind him safely out of his line of vision, the next moment she was on the counter top. Perhaps she flew.
He made the mistake of looking at her. Astute silver eyes stared back at him. She wasn’t worried about losing her commission or her accommodation, he realised—as he’d already said, he needed her. And they both knew it.
Leaning one elbow alongside her on the counter top, he forced himself to hold her gaze. Ignore the normal red-blooded male’s reaction. The one still racking his system.
But he was a normal red-blooded male. And the warmth of her skin, fair and fresh and fragrant, teased him, tempting him to reach out and touch. He curled his fingers, confining the urge, shooting temptation straight to his already tormented lower body.
Plump rosy lips curved ever so slightly, hinted at a sense of fun. He hadn’t experienced anything remotely funny in a long time. When was the last time he’d laughed? Did he even have a sense of humour any more? he wondered. He had the feeling Didi would be the type to breathe life back into it.
Breathe. He could hear the soft sound of her steady exhalations. Breasts rising, falling … He wanted to look down and see for himself. His fingers itched again to test the weight of her womanly flesh and feel her nipples rise in anticipation against his palms.
A good reason to focus on her face. The eyes brimming with hidden thoughts, the high cheekbones, the neat flat ear lobes—’You’re wearing two different earrings.’
She tipped her head to one side, setting the left one tinkling. ‘It’s The Look.’
‘The look?’
‘Asymmetric. Like your Sheila Dodd. Like your tie.’ Her eyes dipped and she studied his throat through long silky lashes.
He swallowed over the lump that had suddenly mushroomed from nowhere. ‘My tie’s asymmetric?’
Wiggling her bottom along the bench until she was within reach, she slotted her fingers behind it, loosening the knot and yanking the silk sideways in one swift movement. ‘It is now.’ Grinning, she smoothed it all the way down his chest, her eyes following the path of her fingers, every part of his body responding to the touch. ‘That’s better. It looked like it was strangling you.’
Perceptive girl. Or maybe it was blazingly obvious, he thought, reaching up now to undo the top button of his shirt. He’d never thought this apartment overly warm. Until this woman had turned the heat up.
‘Okay. I made a mistake. I intended to impress you with my gourmet dinners specially imported from the Six Spice Deli around the corner.’
Now it was he who manoeuvred along the counter top so Didi was directly in front of him, her knees bumping his waist. So he could rest his hands on her hips. So he could look directly into her eyes and say, ‘And I’m probably about to make another one,’ as he laid his lips on hers.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE
