snort, and raised his hand to add a knock, but before his knuckle made contact, the door flew open.
Bang. Hot sweet woman. His head reeled as her scent hit him full on.
‘Absolutely ready Brando! Or I will be in two minutes … ’
So he was right. Of course she wasn’t ready!
He leaned on the doorframe, and drummed his fingers idly, as she spun back into the room. Took in a shapely little black dress. No sleeves. A brave choice at Edgerton, in late October. High, high heels. And black lace stockings that made the backs of her calves look delectable as she walked away from him, then propelled his libido into the stratosphere as she knelt down in front of the fireplace. Yanking his lust firmly into line, he noticed that whatever the fire in his groin was doing, the fire in the grate wasn’t blazing.
‘I’d better help with that. Much as you need to learn about the rigors of life in a stately home, I’d hate you to be cold tonight.’ As he strode over, he caught the chestnut glint in her swept-up hair, then the exposed nape of her neck, as she bent over the hearth.
White and vulnerable. His gut gave a twist of guilt at the thought of using and dispatching her. Except she’d walked into this, dammit, and hell, he knew better than to be taken in by downy napes of necks. This woman was here to play for high stakes. A swift dispatch was nothing less than she deserved, and if a tumble in the manorial bed was what was needed to achieve that, he was more than willing to go down that road, but the more he saw of those curves, the hotter that end game was shaping up to be.
As he knelt down next to her by the fire, he let his thigh bump lightly against hers. She jerked away from him, and the poker she was holding clattered onto the hearth.
Jumpy or what?
Picking up the poker, he riddled the embers back to life energetically. He knew Mrs McCaul always checked the fires, but what the heck? It was worth it, for the tease – and the insanely sexy blast of lace stretched taut across Shea’s knees. Perhaps his judgement hadn’t been so clouded after all. The promise of what was to come was looking sweeter by the second.
‘Thanks for helping with that! I’m not used to coal fires. I’ll just get my phone.’ She stood up, and the grateful smile she flashed down at him as she unfolded those glorious legs sent his stomach into a crazy freefall for the second time that day. He regularly threw his body through corkscrew twists and flips, but hauling Shea Summers into the house earlier that day had sent his insides spinning like never before. And now it had happened again, dammit.
‘Forget your phone. There’s no signal at all here. Another of the wonders of Edgerton! Are you coming then?’ he snapped, before he jumped up, marched through the doorway, and strode off down the landing.
No way was he looking back. The floorboards, creaking under her uneven high-heeled lurches, told him she was following closely behind, and he only slowed as he reached the dining room door. As he threw it open, stepping back to let her pass, a freezing gale slammed him in the face. Ha! Just as he’d expected. Despite the roaring fire, the lofty room was bitterly cold and inhospitable. Miss Shea made-in-a-day Summers was about to experience the full glory of the west dining room.
‘Come on in! I see you lost the glasses then!’
He’d noticed in her bedroom, but the full effect floored him now, as he saw her head-on. High cheekbones, gently turned-up nose, and the fullest lips. Disarmingly pretty. Very different without the big frames. He’d had her down as pushing thirty, but now, despite the confident jut of her chin, he doubted she was even twenty five.
She skimmed past him into the room, and he heard her gasp as the cold hit her, saw pale goosebumps springing out on her arms as he moved to pull out a heavy mahogany chair for her. Across the white damask tablecloth the candle flames stuttered in the draught, and suddenly, showing her the uncomfortable reality of life in a stately pile was starting to feel like poor judgement. Arriving opposite her, he got the full effect of her ample chest complete with erect nipples, sticking prominently through the thin fabric of her dress, no doubt whipped to attention by the chill.
Double jeopardy.
Definitely a bad call. He felt his blood surge south. Damn. He was in for an uncomfortable evening all round.
‘If you don’t mind, I think I’ll just go and get something warmer … ’ She’d gone before he had time to reply, and when she returned she had added a sharp tailored jacket. Marks out of ten for passion killers? He’d give an eleven. At least that sorted the immediate too-exciting nipple problem.
‘Desperate times call for desperate measures, and all that!’ She flashed violet eyes at him, and something in their mocking glint told Brando she was ahead of his game. ‘Sorry about the style clash, but I haven’t brought my arctic gear with me. I’d have taken the time to put jeans on, but we wouldn’t want dinner to get cold, would we?’
Back in the room, and looking like someone from a head office boardroom, complete with an identity name-tag hanging from her lapel.
‘You really haven’t brought anything warmer with you?’ He watched in disbelief as she shook her head. What kind of numbskull would rock up to a draughty hole like Edgerton without so much as a sweater?
‘Nope. Sorry. I’m a central heating girl, and I wasn’t expecting glacial, so you’re stuck with me in my O 4 Organise work gear.’
‘I’ll go and find you something more … ’ He left the room before bothering to finish.
Suitable, hot, sexy? Warm maybe?
Any of the above – he wasn’t fussy. Sure, he didn’t want her here, and yes, he did suspect her motives, but hell, he wasn’t completely heartless. He’d meant for her to understand that country houses weren’t always luxurious, not for her to catch pneumonia. As for what the whole O-4 thing was all about, he was still praying she wasn’t some high powered dominatrix when he came back moments later, and dropped two cashmere sweaters in her lap.
‘There you go, Madame Chairman, they’re mine, but they’re warmer than anything else you’ve got here. Put them on, and tell me what the heck O 4 Organise is.’ He watched intently as she peeled away her jacket, and pulled on his own jumpers. How could she look so sexy wearing two men’s sweaters?
‘Thanks, that’s much better.’ She was rolling the sleeves back now, pushing dislodged pins back into her hair. ‘O 4 Organise is the exclusive personal organising company I work for. I run the Manchester end. I thought I was going to be able to put my expertise to good use here, but to be honest it all looks a lot less chaotic than the shots I saw on the programme.’
He had a vague memory of the TV crew deliberately trashing the annexe to get the shots they needed, when views of endless rooms under dust sheets had failed to excite them.
‘Never believe what you see on TV.’ He spat the words out with a rueful shake of his head.
‘But Bryony said … ’
He jumped in and cut her short. ‘Rule One when dealing with Bryony: Never believe what she says.’ Then he kicked himself for not waiting to hear exactly what Bryony had said. No doubt it would make for interesting listening, and he may well have asked, but just then, Mrs McCaul arrived with dinner.
Brando dug into the steaming beef stew and dumplings with gusto, hoping to mask his unease. He usually ate on the hoof, snatching a sandwich in the office, or grabbing a takeaway in front of the TV. Formal meals didn’t figure on his agenda, and he never ate with women. Strawberries and liquid chocolate consumed from a platter of bare flesh aside, if he was with a woman it was for sex, not food. So the double assault on his system, of Mrs McCaul’s substantial supper and a hot woman eating opposite him, was throwing him off. Between forkfuls he tried to decide if Shea was mentally undressing him with those scathing looks of hers, or simply trying to peer into his soul.
It was some time, and a lot of stew later, when she finally struck up meaningful conversation. ‘So where in Scotland are we exactly?’