BTW: I Love You (Mills & Boon M&B) (One Hot Fling - Book 1) (3 page)

R
YE
refused to feel guilty as he snapped the hall light back off and listened to the rain storm attack the house.

He hadn’t asked her to come. He didn’t want her help. And he wanted her damn pity even less. Maybe a good soaking would teach her to stop sticking her nose in where it wasn’t wanted.

But, as he made his way back down the corridor, even the ache in his lame leg couldn’t stop the stab of guilt, the image forming in his mind of those mossy-green eyes, the long lashes sprinkled with raindrops, peering up at him as the soft downy skin of her cheek connected with his bare chest.

He stopped and braced his open palm against the wall, stared at the cold marble flooring beneath his feet. A stab of conscience sliced neatly through the temper that had sustained him for months and hit the raw nerve he’d been busy ignoring beneath.

‘Blast!’

When had he turned into someone he couldn’t stand? Someone like his grandfather?

Self-pity was an understandable indulgence, but letting the accident turn him into the same moody, humourless misery
guts who had greeted him all those years ago when he’d first arrived at Trewan Manor, a grief-stricken child, was not.

He shook his head and peered at the door, wincing as the rain pelted the small stained glass window above it.

Damn, if all the women he’d seduced and enjoyed over the years—from Clara Biggs, the Truro barmaid he’d charmed into bed the day after his sixteenth birthday, right up to Marta on the morning before his fateful trip along the A30—could have heard the mean-spirited way he’d snapped at that girl, they would never have recognised him.

Hell, he wasn’t even sure he recognised himself.

He’d once adored the company of women. Their soft, scented bodies, the graceful way they moved, their endless talk about nothing, their passion for dumb things like fashion and skincare. He had even enjoyed their flashfire tempers and the hours they spent in the bathroom, or the way they made leaving the toilet seat up a national emergency.

Sex had never been the only reason he’d liked spending time with women. They’d once fascinated him.

They didn’t fascinate him any more and he had no desire to spend time with them now—why torture himself?—but that didn’t excuse the way he’d treated the girl.

Maybe she was a busybody, but he’d seen genuine concern in those sultry eyes. And if she had felt any pity towards him, she’d got over it pretty damn quick.

He stomped back towards the door. He’d never be the reckless, easy-going charmer he’d once been, but he could at least offer the girl shelter from the storm. He could stand her company for a half hour or so, and be civil to her. She’d pulled him out of the water. He would return the favour.

His lips formed into a tight smile. And offering to help would have the added benefit of making them quits. He hated to be indebted to anyone.

He thought of her parting comment and frowned.

If she didn’t want to be saved, that was her hard luck.

He heard the sharp rap on the door as his fingers closed on the knob.

She looked cute and wet and cold, like a half-drowned Little Orphan Annie. Her teeth chattered as water dripped off her clothes and splashed into a puddle on the doorstep. He noticed the ancient bike lying in a heap as she wrestled off her waterproof and flung it on the floor.

Green fire flashed in those sexy, sultry eyes as they met his and her chin jutted out.

Okay, maybe that should be Little Terminator Annie. Looked as if her earlier strop had gone ballistic. But then his gaze snagged on the outline of her nipples through the wet fabric of her T-shirt and suddenly he wasn’t thinking of Annie any more, orphaned or otherwise.

‘If you say I told you so,’ she snarled, ‘I’ll kill you myself.’

He jerked his eyes off her breasts, felt the pulse of heat in his groin and coughed, an unfamiliar tickle in his throat.

‘Come in,’ he said, trying for stern but not quite getting there, thanks to the tickle.

He pushed the door wide and stepped back silently to let her in.

She dripped into the hallway, stiff and forlorn, then muttered something that sounded like, ‘I hate you, Miss Fixit.’

He cleared his throat, the tickle getting worse. Then the heat pulsed harder as he took in the trim curve of her backside in the clinging denims.

She swept her hair back from her face sprinkling him with droplets, and said something about her bike, but the words were drowned out by the wild buzzing in his ears and the glorious swell of heat blossoming in his abdomen.

She shot an annoyed look over her shoulder. ‘Don’t hold back on my account. Say it. You know you want to.’

The scowl made her look even cuter. Like a pixie having a temper tantrum. His eyes snagged on her breasts again. Make that a very sexy pixie having a temper tantrum.

‘What, and risk death and dismemberment?’ he said dryly. ‘No, thanks.’

Her eyes widened and the scowl deepened. ‘So Grumpy has a sense of humour.’ She slapped a hand on one slim but shapely hip and looked even sexier. ‘What a surprise it’s at my expense.’

The heat surged and the tickle returned with a vengeance. He coughed, struggled to focus, as something light and airy and inexplicable bubbled up inside his chest. ‘Exactly who’s calling who Grumpy?’ The quip came out on a strangled groan as the tickle became a tidal wave of pressure, building under his breastbone and making his ribs ache.

She drilled a finger into his chest, wet curls flopping over her brow. ‘Don’t you dare laugh at me.’ Her foot stamped and the sopping trainer squelched. ‘Or you’ll really have something to be grumpy about.’

He wasn’t sure if it was the preposterous threat that did it, delivered with total conviction as only an angry pixie could, or the outraged colour tinting her cheeks and making her emerald eyes sparkle with fury. But the dam cracked and then broke. A sound he barely recognised rattled out—and then wouldn’t stop, reverberating against the cold empty walls. He gulped in air, clutching his sides, his ribs hurting as the unfamiliar sound got richer and deeper and more out of control, filling him with a warmth he hadn’t felt in months.

Maddy gaped, her outrage replaced by utter astonishment.

Her grumpy Adonis had tears in his eyes he was laughing so hard. The sound had been rusty at first, almost painful, but he was practically bent double now, his hand braced on the wall to keep him upright. His arctic eyes were alive with mischief
as the barrage of laughs finally subsided to a rumbling chuckle.

She would have been less amazed if the man had started tap dancing.

She took her hand off her hip, unable to stop the answering grin tugging at her lips. She ought to be even madder at him—given she was the butt of this particular joke—but she couldn’t find her anger or her indignation anywhere.

A giggle popped out and she gave his shoulder a soft shove. ‘You sod.’ She smiled as his eyes met hers. He grinned, twin dimples appearing as if by magic in those chiselled cheeks.

‘It’s not funny,’ she moaned. ‘I’m soaked through.’

One last chuckle choked out. ‘I noticed.’

Maddy dragged in an unsteady breath. With his face relaxed and that chilly cobalt glittering with amusement, the man’s brooding male beauty became spellbinding. She crossed her arms over her chest, painfully aware of what a fright she must look.

‘You must be freezing.’ The grin turned to an affectionate smile. ‘You want to get changed?’

His gaze dipped and she shivered, not feeling remotely cold any more.

She nodded, having somehow lost the power of speech.

He indicated the way down the hall. ‘Spare bedroom’s third on the left. Some of my old sweats are in the chest of drawers.’ His gaze flicked down her frame. ‘None of them are going to fit, but at least they’re dry.’

‘Thanks,’ she murmured, finding her voice at last. ‘I really appreciate it.’

‘There’s an en suite with towels and …’ His deep voice trailed off and for a second she wondered if he felt as awkward as she did. His dimples, she noticed, had disappeared.

‘Help yourself.’ He paused again, cleared his throat. ‘I’ll
be in the kitchen when you’re ready, it’s at the end of the corridor.’

‘Okay.’ She nodded again. Then thrust out her hand. Having threatened him with physical violence—twice—her granny, Maud, would have expected her to introduce herself.

He glanced down at her palm, but didn’t take it.

‘I’m Madeleine Westmore.’ The words sounded deafening in the pregnant silence. She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘But my mates call me Maddy.’

He’s not your mate, you ninny.

‘Just in case you were wondering,’ she added, her hand still hanging out there.

He brushed his palm on the towelling. ‘Hello, Maddy,’ he said, as long strong fingers folded over hers at last. ‘Ryan King. But Rye will do.’

The heat of his palm—rough with calluses—had a jolt of electricity shimmering through her bloodstream and making her pulse dance.

She let go and stuffed tingling fingers under her arm. ‘Nice to meet you, Rye,’ she murmured, although
nice
didn’t quite cover it.

His smile spread and her hormones joined the party.

‘You have no idea, Maddy,’ he said cryptically.

She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. ‘I should probably head to the spare room before I flood your hallway.’

Or that super sexy grin gives me a heart attack.

He chuckled, the sound low and easy this time. ‘Yeah. You probably should.’

She shuffled off in the direction he’d indicated, all her nerve-endings two-stepping in time to the deep relaxed rumble of laughter that followed her down the hall.

T
HE
spare bedroom turned out to be a large, ornately furnished mausoleum dominated by a gigantic bay window that looked onto the cliffs.

The storm raged outside, wind and rain buffeting the glass and making the room even more funereal. Maddy trembled, the draught from the window penetrating her damp clothes. Skirting a four-poster bed covered with an antique satin bedspread, she made a beeline for the bathroom.

White ceramic tiles, an elegant claw-foot tub and an inbuilt gas wall heater marked this room as another refugee from the Victorian era. Luckily, the heat spread quickly as soon as she lit the fire, making the bathroom considerably more welcoming than the bedroom next door. A couple of fluffy towels, an unopened bar of soap and a bottle of men’s shampoo lay on top of a wicker laundry basket. Maddy sneezed as she stripped off her muddy clothes and stepped into the tub.

Great—nothing like a snotty nose to put the finishing touches to her uber-sexy drowned rat look.

The minute the thought entered her head, embarrassment scorched Maddy’s cheeks and her hormones started two-stepping
again. She blew out a breath and whipped the frayed shower curtain into place.

Oh, for goodness’ sake. Get real.

Ryan King wasn’t interested in her. A man that good-looking probably only dated supermodels. She hadn’t turned him on—she’d made him almost crack a rib laughing. There was a difference.

And, anyway, she wasn’t really interested in him, either. Except in a purely physical sense. Which was simply due to her sex-starved hormones going AWOL after a year of disuse.

However delicious Rye King might be to look at, she wasn’t dumb enough to have a wild fling with a sexy stranger just to scratch an itch. Whatever her hormones might want. Especially as this particular sexy stranger had an attitude problem.

A seductive smile, a few seconds of charm and chest muscles to die for hardly made up for his Rottweiler routine beforehand.

She cranked the vintage brass shower control and listened to the plumbing gurgle and hiss. Then sighed with pleasure as the water went from frigid to steaming in a matter of seconds.

She stepped under the needle sharp spray, let it massage abused muscles—and made a pact with herself not to give Ryan King’s sexy grin or phenomenal pecs another thought.

And promptly broke her pact a second later.

After the luxury of a ten-minute shower, Maddy searched the old oak chest of drawers in the bedroom for something dry to wear. In the end she had to settle for a worn LA Surf Academy sweatshirt, a pair of thick wool socks and her still slightly damp knickers. All the sweatpants were far too big to wear. Luckily, the sweatshirt fell to mid-thigh. Maddy assessed her appearance in the wardrobe mirror. As long as she didn’t bend over in front of him, she could preserve her modesty.

She stared at her pale legs and the shapeless lump of her torso. If only she hadn’t been wearing the full-body wetsuit all summer she’d at least have a tan. Not that there had been enough sun for her tan resistant skin to get much colour. She puffed out a disappointed breath and sucked in the scent of pine soap. The sudden reminder of being nestled against Ryan King’s magnificent chest had her body aching with need and her heart crashing against her ribcage.

The pact. Remember the stupid pact.

Agitated and annoyed with herself, Maddy finger-combed her shaggy curls. She sighed as they fell back into an unruly bob.

Fabulous. She was about to spend an evening with the best-looking man she’d ever set eyes on—and she looked like an undead tomboy playing dress up. If Ryan King even noticed she was female it would be a miracle.

She frowned. Which was a good thing, of course, because she didn’t want him to notice her.

Do not forget the pact.

As she made her way down the darkened corridor towards the back of the house, she tried to picture Ryan King wearing his Rottweiler look to help her keep the pact front and centre. But in the picture he looked all sexy and intense, his blue eyes gleaming with …

Face it, the pact’s history.

She let out a breath as she stepped into the kitchen. He wasn’t there. Good, it would give her time to stop hyperventilating and think of a more doable pact. Maybe.

She took several slow breaths and tried to ignore her throbbing breasts as she studied his kitchen. The pitter-patter of rain against the large window above the stove added yet more eerie atmosphere to the cavernous space. Even in the dingy light, the window offered another spectacular view of
the cliffs. If she pushed onto tiptoe, she could see Wildwater Beach below.

She flicked the light switch, illuminating beautifully carved teak cabinets, a butler sink with an authentic wooden draining platform and what looked like an original Aga cooking range. The room felt warm and inviting, thanks to the roaring fire raging in the grate. Her feet padded against the checkerboard tiles as she walked towards the heat and dumped her wet clothes in an old wicker basket under the sink. She did a three hundred and sixty degree turn but could see no sign of a washing machine or dryer or even a dishwasher.

It also occurred to her that, apart from a bowl and cup drying on the draining board, the room was spotlessly clean and completely bare and impersonal, just like the spare room. She rubbed her hands together, chilled despite the heat.

The quaint antique decor had to date back to the eighteen hundreds and suited the gloriously Gothic old house perfectly, but when she thought of the sleek black sports car she’d passed in the driveway and her host’s overpowering physique and appearance, she realised the house and its furnishings didn’t suit its resident at all. It seemed strange he hadn’t made any effort to personalise the space. If she’d had to guess, she would have placed him in some ultra-modern city bachelor pad filled with state-of-the-art boy toys.

Maybe he’d moved in recently? Although there were no boxes or suitcases or any of the other moving paraphernalia that had lingered for months after she’d set up home in her granny’s cottage last summer. Could the house be a holiday rental? But why would he choose to rent such a huge place all to himself?

She chewed on her lip, the questions buzzing round in her head like busy little bees.

Maybe he didn’t live here alone? The thought made her
heartbeat stutter. Not that it mattered to her whether he lived alone or not …

She shook her head. She needed a distraction before her hormones started working overtime again. Having filled the old-fashioned steel kettle and set it on the stove’s hotplate, she perched on tiptoe and began to search the overhead cabinets. With the rain still pounding against the windowpanes, it looked as if she was going to have to endure her host’s company for a while longer. A hot cup of tea would help soothe jumpy nerves—and, hopefully, her overactive imagination. She hummed an old soul tune as she rifled through the tinned groceries in search of tea bags.

Rye swallowed a groan and stopped dead in the kitchen doorway. An off-key rendition of Percy Sledge’s
When a Man Loves a Woman
was accompanied by the sight of his house guest, clad in one of his old sweatshirts, her firm, beautifully rounded little bottom showcased in hot pink panties as she stretched up to reach the kitchen cabinets.

His mouth went bone dry as the heat, which he had assured himself while getting dressed was a fluke and didn’t signify a thing, shot straight back into his crotch.

Having found what she was looking for, the girl turned slightly and bounced down. Her breasts jiggled beneath the sweatshirt and his heart slammed into his throat.

Sweet heaven. No bra. I’m a dead man.

The mouth-watering hot pink bum disappeared under the sweatshirt but, as Rye devoured slender legs, smooth muscled calves and the glimpse of her profile revealed from behind the curtain of wild reddish-brown curls, he imagined plump naked breasts, the nipples hard and swollen, swaying into his open palms, and painful arousal marched through his system like an army charging into battle.

He bent his head, stared down at the enormous tent in his
fly and had to resist the urge to throw back his head, beat his chest and howl with joy.

He was harder than granite, for the first time in six long months. He felt mightier than Superman. Ready to leap Everest in a single …

The shrill whistle of the kettle curbed the superhero fantasy. But only a little. She jumped, her breasts jiggled again, and granite became tungsten.

He watched her reach for the kettle in a daze of euphoria. Then her fingers closed over the handle and his mind engaged.

‘No, don’t touch …’

Too late. She yelped and snatched her hand back.

‘Damn.’ He crossed the room, grasped her wrist. ‘Did you burn yourself?’

The shimmer of tears made her eyes glitter. ‘What a twit,’ she said, spots of colour hitting her cheeks. ‘I can’t believe I did that.’

She trembled, and small white teeth dug into her full bottom lip. He forced his gaze away, so desperate to taste her he thought he might explode.

A scarlet line marred the soft flesh at the base of her thumb. ‘Ouch,’ he murmured.

Get your head out of your pants, King. She’s hurt.

He thrust her hand over the sink, the punches of her pulse under his thumb making him light-headed. Leaning over her to turn on the cold water tap, he strained to keep their bodies apart. She flinched and he caught a lungful of her scent. His own shampoo layered with something spicy and unbearably erotic. Sweat popped out on his brow—and the irony of the situation struck him. After six months of nothing, he finally had lift off, poised to launch into orbit at the most inappropriate moment imaginable.

The tap gurgled and the water gushed out. She jumped as it splashed onto her palm, jerked back instinctively. And her bottom pressed straight into the colossal erection.