of him—at least the bits she could see. Not that she had any desire to see any more—what she was seeing was quite enough!
No doubt he’d be standing there oozing the same level of self-assurance if he had been bare all over.
Megan lowered her eyes quickly as the image that accompanied this maverick thought brought a lick of heat to her pale cheeks.
‘I’m not that sort of doctor,’ she mumbled. With thoughts like hers it was just as well—she’d have been struck off!
When she looked up a moment later he was still surveying her in unfriendly silence. The moment and the silence lasted too long for her comfort. His expression remained vaguely hostile as he brushed a hand carelessly along his chiselled jaw—God, but this man had perfect bones!—leaving a faint smudge of paint against his olive skin.
For no logical reason she could figure, she found herself wondering what he would do if she licked her finger and wiped the offending mark away from his smooth, blemish-free skin. She took a deep breath, horrified by the direction of her wilful imagination.
It was time to take control here.
CHAPTER TWO
LUC had obviously reached the same conclusion and he got in before Megan.
‘I don’t know how you got in here, Doctor, but I’d like you to go back the way you came.’
Or else—unspoken but definite, the warning hung in the air.
It wasn’t his threatening posture that bothered Megan, it was the illicit and inexplicable little shiver that traced a path up her spine. Good looks, even ones as spectacular as his, she could take in her stride. At a subconscious level she recognised it was the earthy, sensual quality that he possessed in abundance that had her standing there like some inarticulate teenager.
She blinked, determined to rectify any false impression she had given that she was a brainless bimbo. Actually she had forgotten to breathe, which might account for the dizzy sensation; she took a deep, gulping gasp and immediately felt a little better.
‘Well, unless your short-term memory is shot to hell you ought to know…you asked me in,’ she reminded him.
A flicker of something that might have been surprise flickered behind his sensational eyes for a split second before shoulders that any athlete would have envied lifted fractionally. ‘And now I’m asking you to leave.’
This was no invitation—it was an order.
Megan’s chin went up the same way it had been doing, if her mother was to be believed, for twenty-nine years whenever she had been told what to do. ‘I came to see Mr Patrick.’
The grey eyes narrowed but stayed like lasers on her focused face. The dark rings surrounding his irises highlighted the pale metallic colour of his eyes.
Did he ever blink…?
He gave another graceful shrug. ‘Well, as you can see, I’m the only one here.’ He placed the towel he had been holding on a dust-cloth covered table and picked up a bottle of mineral water. He unscrewed the top and raised it to his lips.
So she’d been dismissed…? Did he actually think she was going to leave just because he told her to…? The angry glow in her eyes became distracted as she watched the contraction of muscles in his brown neck as he swallowed, there was a faint sheen of moisture on his skin. She looked away.
‘Is Mr Patrick likely to be home soon?’
‘Are you a friend of his or just a groupie?’
Her outraged attention swung back to his mocking, handsome face. His insulting cynicism brought an angry flush to her face, or did that rise in temperature have something to do with the beads of moisture he brushed off his sensual lips…?
‘I hardly think that’s any of your business,’ she retorted haughtily. ‘Perhaps you’d like to carry on with whatever Mr Patrick is paying you to do, other than eat pizzas.’
He looked amused. ‘Even a humble painter is allowed a lunch break, Doctor. Would you like me to give the boss a message?’ he offered, casually looping the towel around his neck. The action revealed another inch of smooth, hard flesh.
Megan swallowed and lowered her gaze. ‘It’s personal.’
‘You wish.’
Pale grey eyes clashed with turbulent blue.
‘I’ll wait,’ she announced frigidly. Other than physically remove her, he couldn’t do much about it, and if he did come over heavy handed she’d stick him with a lawsuit for assault before he could blink!
‘Suit yourself,’ he drawled. ‘But then I’m sure you generally do.’ This woman had spoilt and privileged written all over her, from her smooth voice to her assured manner.
Just as Megan’s bottom made contact with the dust-sheet-covered chair there was a sudden upheaval beneath her that sent her with a startled shriek to her feet.
A bundle of spitting fury struck out at her with sharp claws as it hurtled across the room like a ginger flash of lightning.
‘Ouch!’ she yelled. ‘That thing scratched me.’ Rolling up the right leg of her jeans revealed a long, though admittedly shallow, scratch along her calf.
‘That thing is called Sybil and you did sit on her. Poor cat,’ he crooned to the cat from the flat downstairs.
Megan wasn’t surprised to see the animal respond to his velvety croon, and in lightning transformation. That voice…! She could imagine any number of women who were old enough to know better purring if he used that voice on them.
‘Is the skin broken?’
‘I’ll live,’ she replied, rolling down her trouser leg. Superficial or not, the scratch stung. ‘Do you have any idea when he’ll be back?’
‘Who?’
Megan gave an impatient grimace. ‘Mr Patrick.’
‘Oh, him…he’ll be back in the country some time next month, I understand.’
Megan, her high hopes dashed by the casual revelation, felt her face fall. ‘But he has to be back before then,’ she protested.
‘Really…?’
‘He’s spending next weekend in the country with us.’
‘Maybe it slipped his mind…?’
Megan, who had flopped disconsolately into the cat-free chair, cast him a look of scorn. ‘Or maybe Uncle Malcolm lied through his teeth,’ she muttered half to herself.
Look on the bright side, she told herself, no eligible suitor equalled not being paired off with anyone, and it always had been a long shot.
The bad news was there would be other weekends!
‘Malcolm Hall is your uncle?’
Megan
