And then every thought vanished.
He flicked on the lights and stood in the middle of the entryway, breathing. What was that amazing smell? Inhaling again, he felt the turbulence inside his soul vanish, leaving only traces of its memory behind. He felt uplifted, energised, inventive…
The house was different, too—wasn’t it?
He went into one room after another, flicking on lights. He’d never seen that stained-glass sailing ship on the living room wall before, or that chart beside the entry to the ballroom—a print of Captain Cook’s pencilled route to Botany Bay. Funny, he had to look at them twice to notice, but now he looked there seemed to be little changes everywhere.
Even the lights weren’t the same—the lights themselves were softer, lending a gentle night radiance to every room it hadn’t had before.
What had Sylvie done to his house?
Breathing in the amazing scent, he wandered from room to room, seeing the touches so sweet and subtle he still had to look twice to find them. It was as if they’d grown here while he’d been gone. A funny little scarecrow doll sat proudly on his kitchen windowsill, bearing the legend ‘Housework Makes You Ugly’. A plain grey river stone sat on his study desk in front of his monitor, with a single word on it: Believe. Two of his stupid origami pieces sat either side of the stone, as if to say Your creations.
Dried herbs hung from the edges of curtains. There was a bright flowered tablecloth on his grandma’s dining table, a vase filled with purple flowers from his garden. Tiny pictures hung on the kitchen walls, old soap and butterscotch ads in wooden frames. A distressed wooden hanging was on the dining room wall, proudly bearing a kookaburra in military get-up, proclaiming the efficacy of Diggaburra Tea. Another faced it, this time a teddy bear saluting him, telling him to drink Teddy Beer.
Everything was scrupulously clean, polished, but it looked…He didn’t know—but after his fury of a minute before, now all he wanted was to smile. The glowing floors, the scent, the additions to his furniture made him want to laugh. Stupid clutter to him—he’d never have bought it himself—yet somehow it announced her presence in his life. I’m here, Mark.
She knew how to make an impact.
It was just so—so Sylvie, he thought grimly, trying to muster up some negative emotion and failing. Confused by all the foreign emotion churning in him—he was feeling happy when he should be mad—he stalked to the back door, jerked it open and shouted in the general direction of the cottage, ‘Sylvie!’
He refused to repeat himself. He’d yelled loud enough the first time.
Moments later a light came on in the cottage, then the door opened and a sleepy voice said softly, ‘I think knocking would be kinder to the neighbours at this time of night.’
He cursed beneath his breath. ‘Could you come inside, please?’ he asked, in as reasonable a manner as possible.
‘Answering to the boss at 2:47 a.m. wasn’t in the contract…sir.’
She was right. He was caught in the wrong again—and the fact only made him want to fight more. ‘Tomorrow at six.’
‘Technically, it’s today, sir—and it’s a Saturday. Do I have weekends off?’
The word sir got him all fidgety. It wasn’t right coming from her, after their shared past, and he suspected she only did it now to make a point. ‘Just come inside now!’
He heard a distinct sigh, but a figure emerged from the warm darkness.
Mark caught his breath. Tumbled curls, mussed with sleep, fell around her shoulders, catching the light until they looked like dark fire. Her face was rosy, her eyes big, cloudy—and she was wearing a slip nightie in a soft clear blue that showcased her pale skin like pearls in shimmering water.
She stood outside the door, dropped some slippers to the mat, and shoved her feet into them. She sent him an enquiring glance. ‘You did want me to come in now?’she asked, nodding at the door he still held.
‘What? Oh, yes.’ He moved back and she walked into the kitchen, throwing a cotton robe over her nightie.
He nearly growled in protest. She’d looked so sweet and silky, so touchable with her bare feet, and her body—the curves were small, but in the iridescent half-light she’d looked like a creature of magic and moonlight.
She rubbed her eyes and blinked. ‘Is this kind of awakening going to be a regular occurrence, sir? If so, I’ll have to go to bed earlier.’
‘Stop calling me sir,’ he snapped.
Sylvie sighed again. ‘Mr Hannaford is such a mouthful…but whatever you wish.’
‘I’ve already warned you about impertinence. I won’t tolerate it.’
She frowned and tilted her head. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not at my best this time of night. Are you saying that calling you Mr Hannaford is impertinent?’
‘I’m saying—’ He shook his head. How had they descended to this level so fast? And how could he have fallen in lust so fast with someone he’d thought of as Shirley Temple? Until he’d seen her like this, as if she’d come fresh from a lover’s bed. ‘I don’t argue with employees.’
She smiled at him, a sleepy thing of flushed beauty that made him catch his breath and his body harden with an urgency all Toni’s kisses hadn’t been able to rouse. ‘You can’t imagine how glad I am to hear that—given our…um…conversation of the past few minutes. So, to sort matters, what would you like me to call you?’
Locked into the unexpected desire that had hit him with the force of a ten-pound grenade, he said huskily, ‘Mark will do.’
The way that single crinkle between her brows grew told him what she thought of that. ‘I thought you wanted some professional distance between us?’
He shrugged, trying not to laugh. Oh, she knew how to call him on his pronouncements, and she wasn’t a bit intimidated by anything he did or said. ‘Distance seems fairly silly at the moment, given where we are and what you’re wearing—and our shared past.’
With an endearing self-consciousness she pulled her robe around her. ‘I’d feel better if you smiled.’ Her eyes were big as she stared at him with haunting uncertainty. China-doll lovely, and so tempting…
‘Please, Sylvie, call me Mark,’ he murmured—and smiled.
She swallowed and moistened her lips, her eyes still huge, unsure. ‘Thank you—Mark.’
A little half-smile lingered on her mouth. She always smiled—unless her prickly pride was touched. She seemed to have hidden laughter lurking around her, a delicious mirth he thought she might share with him if he got close enough. He took a step forward, obeying the imperative urge to imbibe her sparkling warmth, to touch—
Sylvie caught the back of her slipper on a mat as she took a hasty step back.
And he remembered at the worst possible moment what he was doing, where this was going. She was his employee, in a vulnerable position—and, much as he wanted to forget it, she was Shirley Temple. Her memory shone in his mind like starlight: for five years she’d been the girl who’d given him silent empathy when no one else had understood he didn’t want to talk, who’d been there for him when he’d felt lost and alone, cared for him when she’d had no one to care for her. She’d simply given him what he’d needed when he’d needed it, in a no cost or agenda way.
She was still doing it now—giving without taking back—and while his craving body was reminding him that she was most definitely a woman, she was only here because he’d ordered her inside. Hours after duty ended.
Her duties haven’t even begun yet, jerk. She’s barely had time to move her stuff in.
She’d