of Melanie’s voice.
Carissa stood beside her, flicking one hand against her thigh and looking aggrieved. He saw her throat bob as she swallowed, then she nodded. ‘Okay, you can take a look.’
‘So, how did you two meet?’ Ben heard Melanie ask.
Carissa swallowed again. ‘The piano bar. We had a drink…’
Knowing eyes met his, deep ocean-blue, and he had a mental flashback of that long, slender body laid out and arching beneath him. ‘Which reminds me.’ He dug into his pocket. ‘I have something of yours.’
‘Oh, no…don’t…I…’ She did a quick embarrassed shuffle.
He took his time, watching the way her eyes darkened, heated, pleaded, then chilled. ‘You must’ve dropped this.’
‘Oh…my—Thank God.’ Pink and flustered again now, she made no move to take the gold chain he held in front of her eyes.
He cocked a brow. ‘You sound surprised. Have you lost something else?’
Her eyes skittered to Mel, then away, and she seemed to fight a little war within herself before the glare was back, the chin up. Ignoring his last question, she opened her hand, palm out. ‘It was my grandmother’s. I only discovered I wasn’t wearing it this morning.’
His fingers grazed hers as he poured it into her hand. He lingered over them a second before she snatched them away.
‘The room’s this way, Mr Jamieson,’ she said, all business as she turned and headed down the passage. ‘The upkeep of the room is the tenant’s responsibility. There’s no room service here.’
‘Carrie,’ Melanie scolded, bringing up the rear. She cast an apologetic glance at Ben. ‘She’s not been herself all morning. I don’t know what’s gotten into her.’
He almost smiled. Was this the same woman who’d melted—burned—in his arms last night? That fragrance, her cool blue water scent that had enveloped him like a misty morning, was tantalising him again, reminding him of the passion he’d woken in her. Only him. The thought persisted a little longer than he’d have liked.
It was an airy house with only the basics, and echoes of a time when it had looked different. They passed a couple of empty rooms, then entered a spacious area that must have been used for entertaining. A piano filled the space by a huge bay window. Sheet music was scattered over the lid; some lay in a cardboard box. A tatty sofa, a couple of sagging chairs and a coffee-table were the only furniture.
He wished she’d stop, wished Melanie would get lost so he and Carissa could talk, but she strode on, long legs flashing beneath those skimpy shorts.
‘Careful,’ she warned at the kitchen door. ‘Sink’s blocked.’
Which explained the black knees. They trod carefully over the slippery floor. ‘You called the plumber?’
Melanie let out a hoot, which earned her a black look from Carissa.
‘I’ll take a look—’ he began.
Carissa waved him off. ‘Got it covered.’ A phone rang. ‘Can you answer that, Mel, please, and tell whoever I’ll call back?’ She pushed at a door. ‘These are the rooms. Not up to your usual standard, I’m sure, so—’
‘I’ll take it,’ he said, without bothering to look. He preferred watching the conflicting emotions play over her face. ‘Hold still,’ he murmured, flicking the drop from her cheek with his thumb. ‘A spot of drain dew. Gunk,’ he clarified when she just stared at him.
She touched her cheek. ‘This is not happening.’
He cocked a brow. ‘Think of it as a coincidence.’
‘I believe in signs, not coincidences, Mr Jamieson.’
‘A sign, then.’ Of what, he wasn’t sure. Stretching a lazy arm across the doorframe, he foiled her getaway. ‘What’s with the Mr Jamieson? We’ve seen each other naked. Shouldn’t we be informal?’ He watched her colour flare and gentled his voice. ‘We need to talk, Carissa.’
‘If you’re referring to last night, there’s nothing to talk about. Anything else is purely business, Mr Jamieson.’ Her voice was crisp and edgy. She started to push past, then stopped, obviously unwilling to touch him.
He saved her the trouble, curling his fingers loosely around her arm. The faintest tremor ran through her. ‘I think there is. I’m making you uncomfortable. If we’re going to be living together we need—’
‘I haven’t decided yet whether or not to take you on. And if I do, we will not be living together.’
‘Okay,’ he conceded. ‘If you decide I’m the right man for the job, we’re inevitably going to be in each other’s space. I don’t want you uncomfortable in your own home.’
He was all too aware of the smooth skin beneath his palm. He was trying to reassure, but it was too tempting to remember her flesh sliding against his. Damn, but he wanted that feeling again.
‘I’m a good bet, Carissa. You don’t want someone you know nothing about coming into your house.’
‘And I know you?’ she said wryly. She chewed her lips a moment. ‘Okay, we’ll give it a go, but I’m not making any long-term deals.’
‘I’m not looking for long term.’ He cruised his hand up that slender neck, felt the rapid pulse, the shallow breathing. His gaze dropped to that full mouth and he watched it tremble before it firmed. Proud and defensive. He liked that in a woman. ‘Carissa…’
‘A one-night stand, that’s all,’ she whispered, her eyes pleading with his.
Ironic that he’d echoed those same sentiments until it was second nature to him. ‘Seems fate has other ideas.’
‘No.’ She swung away, stubbing her toes on a chair in her haste. ‘Ouch!’ Her face turned waxy pale.
‘Ouch,’ he echoed with feeling.
Clutching her foot, she staggered to the nearest available surface, a sofa with a bright hand-quilted throw-over. ‘Fudge, fudge, fudge!’
Ready to render first aid whether she needed it or not, he crossed the room and knelt in front of her. ‘Let’s take a look.’
‘It’s fine. Great. No, really.’
Her foot jerked, but he grasped her heel before she could pull away. It was smudged with dirt, the toenails painted silver. One nail was broken and bleeding. He whipped out a handkerchief and wiped away the blood, but his thumb slid back and forth over her cool, smooth instep of its own volition.
The urge to slide his hand on up that firm calf muscle, and higher, beat through his blood. His body hardened. Living under her roof might be more difficult than he’d anticipated. He looked up at her. Her teeth were worrying her lip again, a provocative sight if he ever saw one. He could press his advantage, or act like a gentleman, which he wasn’t.
But he let her go. ‘Okay, Cinderella, I think you’ll live.’ Shoving his handkerchief in his pocket, he walked to the window, willing his inconvenient erection to subside.
This bed-cum-sitting room was better furnished than what he’d seen of the rest of the house, with a view overlooking the rear grounds, grounds being the operative word.
Filmy white curtains moved in the breeze, another handmade quilt in maroon and cream covered a single bed. The rug on the floor was new, the pine floor freshly lacquered. He could still smell polish, disinfectant and sunshine on the fabrics.
‘There’s no air-conditioning, but you’ve a fan,’ she said, still hugging her foot. ‘Bathroom’s through there.’
He took the opportunity while inspecting the sixties-style green and black room to moisten a dainty embroidered towel. ‘This is a beautiful old house,’ he said,