Sweet Surrender with the Millionaire. Helen Brooks

I…I feel so stupid. You must all think I haven’t got the sense I was born with.’

      Kitty, who had been airing her views on the ineptitude of ‘city’ dwellers to her husband for the last twenty minutes, clicked her tongue. ‘Not a bit of it, lass. How were you to know the chimney needed sweeping? I blame the estate agent—they should point out these things as part of their job. Quick enough to take their cut, aren’t they? But that’s typical of today’s generation. There’s no pride in a job well done any more, more’s the pity. People do as much as they can get away with.’

      ‘I hope you’re not including me in that statement.’

      As the dark smoky voice preceded Morgan strolling into the bedroom through the door Kitty had left open Willow’s hands tightened instinctively round the bath sheet. For a moment she had the mad impulse to step back and shut the bathroom door but she controlled it—just. Her eyes wide, she stared at him.

      Morgan had changed into a fresh shirt and jeans and his damp hair was slicked back from his face. The five o’clock shadow she had noticed earlier was gone too. Ridiculously the thought of him shaving to have dinner with her caused her stomach to tighten, even as she told herself he probably always shaved twice a day. His open-necked grey shirt showed the springy black hair of his chest and his black jeans were tight across the hips. Every nerve in her body was sensitised, much to her aggravation.

      He seemed faintly surprised to see her still wrapped in a bath towel, his voice soft as he drawled, ‘Not ready yet, then.’

      ‘No, I—No. No, not yet.’ Oh, for goodness’ sake, pull yourself together, girl, she told herself angrily, annoyed at her stammering. You’re perfectly decent. Only the look in his eyes hadn’t made her feel that way. Even more alarming, she had liked the warm approval turning the blue of his eyes to deep indigo. For the first time in a long while she’d felt…womanly.

      ‘We’d better leave you to get ready.’ Kitty took charge, her voice suddenly brisk. ‘Dinner’s at eight, dear. All right? And there’s a hairdryer in the top drawer of the dressing table.’

      As the little woman bustled off Morgan smiled a lazy smile. ‘Red or white?’ he asked softly, the words almost a caress.

      ‘Sorry?’ She hoped she didn’t look as vacant as she sounded.

      ‘The wine with our meal. Red or white?’

      Her hair was dripping over her face and all she wanted was to end this conversation and put a door between them. ‘Red, please.’ Actually she didn’t mind but she wasn’t going to say that.

      One eyebrow lifted. ‘Funny. I’d got you down as a white-wine girl,’ he said easily.

      In spite of herself she couldn’t resist asking, ‘Oh, yes? Why?’ even as she mentally kicked herself for giving him the opportunity for more mockery. As if he needed an opportunity!

      He shrugged. ‘Girls of a certain age seem to go for white wine.’ He smiled charmingly. ‘Or that’s what I’ve found.’

      Did they indeed? And of course a man like Morgan Wright would know. The green eyes he’d spoke about narrowed. ‘What age is that?’ she asked evenly, determined to show no reaction.

      ‘Twenty, twenty-one.’

      Willow didn’t know whether to feel pleased or insulted. If he was judging her age purely on her appearance, then that was fine, but if this was another way of saying she was silly and immature…Warily, she said, ‘It’s my twenty-ninth birthday in a few weeks.’ And make of that what you will.

      ‘You’re joking.’ He let his gaze travel over her body, top to toes. ‘It’s obviously a gene thing.’

      It was actually. Beth looked years younger than she was and their mother had often been taken as their older sister. She nodded. ‘Advantage as one gets older but definitely irritating when you’re asked for ID at a nightclub,’ she said as coolly as she could considering her face had decided to explode with colour again.

      He didn’t seem to notice her discomfiture. ‘Never had that problem myself,’ he said with a crooked smile. ‘I think I was born looking twenty-one.’

      Willow could believe it. Morgan Wright was one of those men who made it impossible to imagine him as a child. The flagrant masculinity was so raw, so tough and virile she couldn’t envisage him as a vulnerable little boy. She shivered although she wasn’t cold.

      ‘Sorry, this is undoing all the good work the hot bath’s done. You get dressed and I’ll see you downstairs. The sitting room is to your right once you’re in the hall, incidentally. ’ He had turned as he spoke, and, having reached the bedroom door, shut it quietly behind him.

      Willow stared after him for a few moments before she pulled herself together. She found the hairdryer Kitty had spoken of and dried her hair so it fell in a sleek curtain framing her face. She was lucky with her hair. Thick and silky, it was no trouble as long as she had a good cut.

      Grimacing, she dressed in her grubby jeans and jumper, although thanks to Kitty’s ministrations they were more presentable than when she’d arrived. Fishing out the odd bits of make-up she always kept in her handbag for an emergency, she applied eyeshadow and mascara before finishing with lip gloss. The result wasn’t spectacular but better, and better was good considering this man always seemed to see her when she looked as if she’d been pulled through a hedge backwards.

      She stopped titivating and stared into the green eyes in the mirror. He must think she was some kind of nutcase and she hadn’t done much to convince him otherwise. Perhaps she was a nutcase, at that. At uni she’d always been one of the more restrained ones, looking on with a mixture of embarrassment and envy when some of her more wild friends had gone skinny-dipping on a day out by the river or related their antics at the latest wild party they’d attended. But now they were all lawyers or doctors or ‘something’ in the fashion industry, and a few had successful marriages to boot. Whereas she…

      This train of thought was too depressing to follow, besides which it was two minutes to eight. Taking a deep breath, Willow smoothed her jeans over her hips, trying to ignore the sooty smell, and smiled at the face in the mirror. ‘You’re going to be fine. He’s a man, just a man, and this is one night out of the rest of your life. It isn’t a big deal so don’t make it one.’

      And talking to yourself was the first sign of madness.