one with the tiny camisole underneath, perhaps? Or the silky one with the little collar and the fine embroidery?
Lacy, she decided, and that dictated the bra and pants set, because of the colour combination. She’d only bought one pair of trousers, but they fitted her so well she was delighted with them, and she put them on to complete the outfit, stood back to look at herself, and blinked.
Wow. That was a bit different.
Gone were the jeans with the slightly grubby knees from spending her life on the floor with the babies, and the jumper with a little stain on the front from some tomato-and-pasta baby food that didn’t seem to want to wash out.
Gone, too, the dark rims round her eyes and the tired, straggly hair.
Instead she looked feminine, elegant and—yes—pretty. And it made her feel a million dollars.
In a fit of wickedness, she squirted scent into the air and walked through it, then slipped on her high heels and went downstairs.
He was sitting at the table flicking through a magazine, and he looked up and his jaw sagged.
‘Wow,’ he breathed, and, standing up, he put the magazine on one side and walked over to her, his eyes never leaving her. ‘Turn round,’ he instructed, with an edge in his voice, and she turned, slowly, and then came back to face him and met his eyes. His smouldering, fire-blue eyes. How could blue ever be a cold colour? Not on Max. Oh, no.
‘Will I do?’ she asked a little self-consciously, and his mouth twitched into a lopsided grin.
‘Oh, I think you’ll do,’ he said, his voice slightly gruff and gravelly, the way it was when he was aroused, and the words stroked through her like fire, sensitising every spot they touched. He stood there for another few seconds, studying her, then with another crooked smile he stepped back and held out a chair for her. ‘Would you care to take a seat, madam?’
‘Thank you.’
She smiled up at him, laughing when he flicked a napkin across her lap with a flourish. It would have had more impact if it hadn’t been a tea towel, but his mouth just twitched and he went over to the stove, set the griddle on it and watched it until it was smoking, then dropped two dark steaks on it.
She sniffed the air. Tuna? Her stomach rumbled, and she looked for the plates. Ah. There they were, just coming out of the bottom oven with a bowl of new potatoes. He put a knob of butter on the potatoes, sprinkled them with chopped chives and set them on the table, dished up the tuna steaks and set her plate in front of her with another of those flourishes which she realised were becoming part of the meal.
‘Salad, madam?’
‘Thank you. Murphy, in your bed, this isn’t for you. Max, sit down.’
‘I’m not sure that doesn’t put me in the same category as the dog,’ he said with irony, and she chuckled.
‘Of course not. Good boy.’
Giving a little snort, he sat opposite her, and then got up, lit the candle in the middle of the table and turned down the lights. ‘Better,’ he said, and handed her the potatoes. ‘No garlic, please note.’
‘Chilli?’
He shrugged. ‘Just a touch—sweet chilli and lime marinade. It shouldn’t be hot.’
It wasn’t. It was delicious, cooked to perfection and utterly gorgeous, and she was more than ready for it. The wine was a delicate rosé, not so chilled that the flavour was lost, and he followed it with little individual chocolate pots, ready made but wickedness itself, decorated with fresh strawberries and served with a dark, rich Cabernet that was the perfect complement.
‘Wow, Max, that was fabulous,’ she said, pushing her plate away and smiling at him in amazement.
To her surprise, he coloured slightly and gave a wry, selfconscious grin. ‘Thank you. I just—read the instructions.’
‘No, you did much more than that. You went to a lot of trouble to make it right, and it was wonderful. Thank you.’
His smile was warm and did funny things to her insides. ‘It’s a pleasure,’ he said, and she could tell he meant it. ‘Coffee in the sitting room?’
‘That would be lovely.’
‘Go on, then, go and sit down.’
‘What about this lot?’
He shrugged. ‘What about it? It won’t come to any harm. Come on, out of here. I’ll stack the dishwasher while the kettle boils, if that’ll make you happier. Now, shoo.’
She shooed, going into the sitting room with Murphy and putting another log on the fire, then sitting down on the sofa to wait for him. Murphy was sniffing the table, and she pushed him gently out of the way with her foot and looked at the little dish he’d been investigating.
Truffles? Yum. She had one, just to pass the time, and then Max arrived with the tray and gave Murphy a chew to eat by the fire. ‘I thought it might keep him out of the chocolates.’
‘It will. But only till he’s eaten it.’
‘Well, we’ll have to finish them first,’ he said, taking the seat beside her and handing her her coffee. ‘Here—open wide.’
And he put one of the wicked little truffles into her mouth.
‘Mmm. They’re gorgeous,’ she said. Well, she meant to say. It came out a little more garbled than that, and she got the giggles, and he shook his head and slung his arm casually around the back of the sofa behind her and grinned.
‘Oh, dear. Did you have two whole glasses of wine?’ he teased.
‘No, I did not,’ she retorted, recovering her composure and poking him in the ribs. ‘Cheeky.’
‘Two halves, anyway. What did you think of them?’
‘Lovely. They were really nice. I bet they didn’t come from the bargain bucket.’
He chuckled. ‘Not exactly. But I felt it was worth it.’ He trailed a finger down her cheek, and smiled a little wryly. ‘You know, I thought you looked gorgeous this morning, but now…’
His finger dipped, trailing round the neckline of her top, following the edge down towards her cleavage, and she felt the air jam in her lungs.
‘Max.’
His hand dropped away and he straightened up, lounging back in his corner of the sofa and reaching for his coffee. She leant over and picked up a chocolate, and he said, ‘My turn,’ and opened his mouth. Just slightly, just enough so that, when she put the truffle in between his teeth, his lips brushed her fingers, the slightly moist surface catching her skin so that when she took her hand away his lips clung softly to her fingertips.
Her eyes flew up to his, hot and dark and dangerous, and she felt need flow like molten lava through her veins.
His hand came up and caught hold of hers, easing it from his mouth and placing it against his heart, and she could feel the pounding beat beneath her palm, the taut muscles, the coiled tension in him.
And she wanted him.
Now. Tonight.
‘Max?’ she whispered.
He was staring at her mouth, his eyes slightly glazed, and she could see the pulse beating in his throat. His eyes flicked up to hers and locked.
‘Take me to bed.’
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