TheSmallPrint (3 page)

“Yes, thank you. You can go now.”

“Over the garage, there’s a self-contained flat with a sitting room, bedroom and bathroom.”

“Lovely.” Turner took three steps toward the house and stopped, his foot crunching on the gravel. He didn’t remember reading about a self-contained flat. George hadn’t mentioned it. An uneasy feeling slithered up Turner’s spine and he swiveled to face his unwanted tour guide.

“You live over the garage?” he asked, wondering what the hell George had been thinking.

“Oh no.”

Thank fuck for that.

“I live in the house,” she said.

Turner stared in disbelief as she mounted the steps ahead of him, opened the door, walked inside and closed it behind her.

His frozen state of incredulity lasted three-point-seven seconds before he strode after her, muttering, “No, no, no, no, no.” She hadn’t used a key. Had she left the door unlocked while she’d gone to the pub? With all his possessions inside? He wrenched at the handle and the door didn’t open. Turner came straight to the boil. He dragged the key from his pocket, unlocked the door and flung it open.

He caught up with her halfway across the stone-flagged entrance hall, his fists clenched.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he snapped. “I own this place. I bought it with vacant possession. There’s no sitting tenant.”

“I’m not a sitting tenant.” She gestured around her. “Look at the exacting level of attention to detail. Most of the windows are sliding sash units with the original shutters. There’s a wealth of ornate ceiling plasterwork and delicate cornicing along with finely crafted architraves and window surrounds. Gorgeous.” She beamed at him.

She had the bloody nerve to beam at him. Turner thought he might be steaming. He felt like a geyser waiting to blow. Then realization sank in and he snorted. George’s idea of a prank. Not funny. Not in the slightest. His assistant’s constant attempts to liven up Turner’s social life were wearing thin.

“Is this a joke?” he asked.

The smile fell off her face. She looked down as if she expected to see it lying in a crumpled heap at her feet. “No, it’s not a joke. It’s in the small print.”

Turner’s mind flicked back to George’s parting comment. Something about reading the contract?

Oh bloody hell.

What did his idiot assistant think he was doing? Turner couldn’t live in a house occupied by a stranger. It was impossible, impracticable, insane. This had to be some sort of mistake. His hand touched the phone in his pocket and then fell away.

George would be mid-Atlantic, on his way to two weeks’ immersion in the culture of the Izaruba tribe who lived somewhere in a remote desert in Chile. Turner had been astounded to learn of his valet’s deep interest in their survival techniques. Very astounded since George liked his creature comforts more than Turner.

Turner shook the thought away. The point was that although he’d wanted George away from the house, he hadn’t figured on him being out of contact.
How bloody convenient.

“How much do you want?” Turner took out his wallet.

She flinched. “I don’t want money. You won’t notice I’m here. The attic’s mine. But I have to use the doors to get in and out. I could go down the servants’ stairs if you prefer and leave by the back entrance.”

Turner gaped at her. “How can you own the attic?”

She gave a little shrug.

“Wouldn’t you rather have your own place? I keep unsocial hours.” He’d have to come up with something better than that. “I like to be alone. I…I…I wander around naked.”

“That’s fine. My hours aren’t very social either. Your wandering around naked won’t bother me at all.” She looked him up and down and grinned. “Sounds fun.”

Turner had a sudden vision of a naked Matty sliding down the banister. His cock perked up and he sighed. He had no choice. He had to use his thrall. Turner pinned her with his gaze and spoke in a calm voice. “You don’t want to stay here. You’re going to leave.”

“No I’m not.”

He looked at her in astonishment. Not that his technique worked on everyone, but it did work on most. Turner tried again. “This house is not yours. Pack a bag and leave.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Matty sighed. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

“You already have. You can’t stay here,” he said.

She backed up the stairs. “I think you’ll find I can. You better read the contract again. There are a couple of other things you might not have noticed.”

“What? A gargoyle in the cellar and a mermaid in the pool?”

“You
did
read it.” She raised her eyebrows.

A choked groan erupted from his throat and she laughed.

Turner’s shoulders slumped and he stared as she ascended the stairs.
Oh God, that beautiful backside. Those pants are so tight.
Now his pants felt tight too. He couldn’t think when he’d been more agitated. Even the news about Gabriel and Dava being released from prison hadn’t put him in a state like this. His life was ordered and balanced. Far from an ordinary existence, but Turner had learned to deal with the vagaries of his unusual lifestyle, George was paid to cope with it, and Miss Matty Frogspawn was not going to get the chance to find out about it.

He straightened his shoulders. All he had to do was unearth the contract. He suspected it contained some peculiar clause relating to her, but that didn’t mean the thing would be binding. It had to be illegal to sell houses with people living in the attic. It had to be particularly illegal for an estate agent to sell a house when
she
lived in that house’s attic. A definite conflict of interest. He’d send George to sort—well, Turner would call the lawyers and the estate agents and arrange meetings. Only who were the lawyers? Where had George put the paperwork?

The door on the right opened onto an elegant sitting room with powder blue walls. The classical color calmed Turner until he noticed his furniture haphazardly piled in one corner, boxes heaped in another, though the boxes were numbered. Great—except where was the sheet of paper detailing what was in each numbered box? Turner groaned. He’d never let George take a vacation again.

* * * * *

Matty closed the door to her attic room and leaned back against it. Turner was so intense he made her feel as though he were on the edge of…doing something scary. His e
yes were sharp with no twinkle, he didn’t smile yet sexual energy poured off him in waves, and now Matty floundered in water deep enough to drown. She wanted and didn’t want because
she
had to make the move and wasn’t sure she could.

Face it. I’m crap at seduction.
She pulled off her old-fashioned fluffy top and threw it on a chair. It slithered to the floor and she left it where it lay, looking like an albino porcupine. She’d been relieved when she found the box of clothes in storage but was tired of wearing the same old things. No way could Matty buy anything new, she had to conserve the little money she had until she sorted out her life one way or the other.

She slumped on the bed and wondered what Turner would say when he read the details in the contract. Matty had told George it wouldn’t work, that the lawyers would freak out and no way would Turner sign, but to her amazement the lawyers had said nothing and Turner
had
signed. Now that Matty had him here, she couldn’t let him get away, she
had
to make it work. If what George said was true, it had to work for Turner’s sake as much as hers. Only, what reason did she have to believe George? Matty chewed her lip. One big reason. As soon as George walked into the house and smiled at her, she knew he was the answer to her prayers.

So if Matty wanted to dig her way out of this hole, she had no choice. She had to be persistent, but a likeable pest whom Turner would see he couldn’t manage without because
she
couldn’t manage without
him
.

No skulking in the attic. She had to
do
something, starting with going back downstairs.

Turner clattered around in the library, so she headed for the kitchen. When she opened the fridge, Matty blinked at the stacked shelves. Her purchases had been moved to the bottom and every layer above held identical opaque bags of liquid. She pulled one out and read the label. Plasmix. Sounded medical.
Oh God, is he sick?
A rush of anxiety churned her stomach. When George said Turner needed her, she hoped he didn’t mean as a nurse. Matty was never ill and wasn’t good with sick people. If they threw up, she did too.

She took out the items she needed and put them on the table. She’d shopped for fresh bread, tomatoes and cheese—not ham in case he was a vegetarian—and picked up a few other things as well. Matty popped the green foil seal on the jar of instant coffee, inhaled the fragrance with a low groan and made him a drink. Turner came into the kitchen as she was piling everything onto a tray.

“Oh, you use
my
kitchen too and the contents of
my
fridge?” he snapped. “Do I pay for your electricity, your water, your heating? Of course I do. In the small print, is it?”

Matty was beginning to wonder if he was ever anything other than angry. His face was full of fire and passion, his dark eyes flashing, his lovely lips narrowed into a not unattractive snarl. When he wasn’t pissed off, he looked sort of bored and arrogant.

She pushed the tray across the table. “I made this for you. A late supper. I thought you might be hungry after your, um…difficult journey.”

The scowl faded for a moment and he pushed the tray back. “Not hungry. You eat it.”

Matty gave the sandwich a look of longing. “I’m not hungry either. I’ll cover it in cling film and put it in the fridge in case you change your mind. Have the coffee. There’s milk if you want.”

“I don’t drink coffee.”

Damn.
“Sorry. I didn’t get any tea.”

“I don’t drink tea.”

“Are you ill?” she whispered. “I saw the stuff in the fridge.”

His face tensed and then relaxed. “Yes. That’s my medicine. Don’t touch it. Good night.”

He walked out of the room and she stumbled after him. “Are you very sick? Is there anything I can do?”

Turner kept walking. “Yes, very sick. Yes, you can leave me alone.”

Very sick?
Matty’s anxiety soared. “Is what you have catching? Should I worry I’m going to come out in spots or foam at the mouth or develop a hemorrhagic fever?”

He stopped and turned to look at her. “That’s not going to happen.”

“Good. Well, not that I think I
would
catch anything. I’ve never even had chicken pox or flu. I’m really healthy.”
That’s not helping.
“Sorry. You’re not…dying or anything?” She crossed her fingers behind her back.

“No. I’m not dying.”

“Sure?”

He snorted. “Positive.”

“Oh good.” Matty breathed a noisy sigh of relief. “So have you looked around? What do you think? It’s a lovely house, isn’t it? I watched them unload your furniture. It’s going to look beautiful when it’s arranged properly. I could help—”

“No, thank you.”

She stared at his broad shoulders as he stalked away. Now he’d removed his dark gray coat she could see what a great body he had—tall, slim, long-legged and narrow-hipped. His backside was…wow…taut, tight, perfect. He was much too good for her. All the guys she’d ever liked had been too good for her. Still, most of them had been ones she’d never met, like movie stars and singers. The thought trailed away.

Matty knew before the pain hit that it was coming and tensed. Her lungs locked and her heart cramped as though her ribs had tightened around it and squeezed. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.

Hurts, hurts, hurts.

Her legs trembled and her head swam. The feeling would pass in a moment. It always did. She could almost feel hands soothing her, voices reassuring. Air rushed back into her lungs and a sensation of lethargy spread through her veins like warm oil smoothed onto muscles. The pain faded. Matty opened her eyes to see Turner staring at her, his brow furrowed. She forced a smile to her lips and stood upright. “Want to go for a swim?”

“I
want
my privacy.”

“I can keep out of your way,” she muttered.

“You think I won’t notice you in
my
pool?” He quirked an eyebrow.

“You really won’t notice I’m here.”

“That’s right because you won’t be. I want you out by tomorrow evening.”

Matty shoulders slumped. What the hell was she doing? This would never work. The man disliked her. What if the thought of her hanging around stressed him so much he became sicker? If by some miracle she aroused his interest—so what? It didn’t mean her life would miraculously return to normal, whatever normal was. George had said Turner would rock her world, but he was wrong.

Or maybe he wasn’t. He might rock it in the wrong way.

Tears sprang up behind her eyes, and before Turner noticed—not that he’d care—Matty ran upstairs to the attic. She slammed the door and threw herself on the mattress. This would have to be her world for a little longer. Maybe a lot longer.

Matty lived in one tiny part of the roof space of the house, converted years ago into a teenager’s retreat. There was a small shower room and tiny non-functioning kitchen, and underfoot a tatty gray carpet striped with primary colors. Not much furniture, just the single mattress on the floor, her mother’s rocking chair and an old stripped pine chest of drawers. On top of that were all the keepsakes and ornaments that meant the most to her. Pictures of her parents, a clay model of her mother Matty made when she was seven, a few pieces of jewelry.