by Anne Mather
His hands were hard around her narrow biceps, strong hands that caught her and held her without obvious effort on his part.
His swift reaction brought her unceremoniously against him. With her breasts crushed against his chest, she was sure he must be able to feel the pounding of her heart.
It was so unexpected. The whole incident left her breathless. Her hands were trapped between them, one thigh wedged intimately in the junction of his parted legs.
Jack expelled a sharp breath.
Dammit, this was so not meant to happen. Okay, he couldn’t have let her fall on her butt. But he’d never intended her to fall into his arms. Or that he wouldn’t want to let her go.
Pressed against him as she was, she seemed endearingly vulnerable. But that was crazy. It was only the shock she’d had that was stopping her from dragging herself away.
Nevertheless, with her curly hair brushing his chin and the faint flowery fragrance of her perfume assaulting his senses, she was utterly feminine. And he suspected the heated scent he could smell was the sudden warmth that skimmed her skin.
His mouth dried as he acknowledged that his racing pulse wasn’t just the result of his exertion.
Grace tried to gather her scattered thoughts. Jack’s breath was warm as it fanned her cheek and smelled not unpleasantly of coffee.
His body—now why was she thinking about his body?—felt lean and hard and disturbingly hot. When her hands fanned against his midriff, she could feel the heat of his skin through the fabric of his shirt.
And knew she should put some space between them.
She tilted her head and looked up into his dark compelling face and their eyes met.
And clung.
Jack’s exclamation was harsh, but unmistakeably passionate. And when his hands tightened on her arms, she felt all the bones in her legs turn to water.
‘We—we have to go,’ she said, but her voice was thready and barely audible.
Jack nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he said hoarsely, but then he bent his head and covered her lips with his and she fairly melted against him.
Which was so wrong. But just at that moment it felt so incredibly right.
Jack thought his body might go up in flames. The yielding softness of her mouth beneath his was that devastating.
Her lips were moist, sensuous; igniting a flame inside him that was damn near irresistible. His hands slid down her arms and linked with hers. And it was the most natural thing in the world to wind her hands behind her back and urge her even closer against him.
Grace, meanwhile, could feel her senses slipping. What little resistance she had left was drifting away. And when Jack’s tongue parted her lips and thrust hungrily into her mouth, she couldn’t prevent her nails from digging urgently into his palms.
She was wearing a lemon silk shell beneath the jacket of her suit, a low-necked item that was so thin Jack could see the lacy curve of her demi-bra through it. He could also see the rounded swells of her breasts rising above it, the swollen nipples pressing against the lace.
Dammit, he wanted to touch her; to touch them. To slip his hand up under her top and caress skin that he guessed would be as dewy soft as her mouth.
But that was only part of it, he acknowledged grimly. What he really wanted to do was shove her up against the peeling plaster of this ugly room. To slide that sexy little skirt up her hips and bury the hard-on her hot little body had incited in that wet haven he knew he’d find between her legs.
He blew out a breath.
That wasn’t going to happen.
Not in this lifetime; no way.
And the sooner he put a stop to this, the sooner he’d remember who he was; who she was.
Sean’s girlfriend!
He had to kill these feelings that were so—unwanted?
Right.
With a determination that was enforced by the belief that Grace would blame him for this, Jack reluctantly released her hands and stepped away from her.
Not far, because the window was at his back. But far enough for her to realise what he was doing.
‘Like you said,’ he declared, his voice a little rough. He cleared his throat before continuing, ‘We should go.’
It took a few moments for Grace to get her head round what was happening. She still felt dazed; disorientated. Half convinced she’d imagined the whole thing.
But as she looked about her she knew it was no illusion. It was real. Jack was real. And the tingling in her lips and—uncomfortably—between her legs brought the whole disturbing scene into sharp focus.
‘I— Yes,’ she said, her hand going automatically to her hair.
She could feel the knot she’d made that morning had come loose and fiery strands were tumbling about her shoulders.
She probably looked as loose as she felt, she thought painfully, struggling to restore her hair to some semblance of order. But her hands weren’t quite steady and the pins refused to stay in place.
‘Yes,’ she said again, abandoning her efforts in favour of bending to pick up her handbag from the floor. She didn’t know exactly when she’d dropped it, but she obviously had, and she imagined it was probably as worse for wear as she was.
She licked her lips, unconsciously provocative in spite of herself. ‘I expect you’ve seen enough.’
Jack wondered if that was a serious comment.
‘I think so,’ he replied civilly, glad to feel his erection subsiding. Even as his own personal demon reminded him, rather mockingly, that there was a hell of a lot more he’d wanted to see.
They went down the stairs, Jack leading the way this time.
If it was a belated attempt to salvage his self-respect, he had few doubts that it was appreciated. And as soon as Grace had had the time to reconsider the events of the past half hour, he wouldn’t get off so lightly.
Perhaps she’d even come to the conclusion that Mr Grafton wasn’t so bad, after all.
* * *
‘Was he interested?’
Elizabeth Fleming was waiting for her when she got back to the agency and Grace managed a tight smile.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said, although in all honesty she had no idea what Jack had thought of the properties.
They’d walked back to their respective transport without speaking, and Grace had been only too happy to get behind the wheel of her car and drive away.
She’d been aware of him following her to the outskirts of town. But then, thankfully, he’d turned off, and she’d been so relieved to see him go that she hadn’t considered the questions she might have to face when she got back to the agency.
In fact, as soon as his car had disappeared, she’d found a place to park and restored her hair to some semblance of order. It had been so much simpler to do that without him watching her, although her hands still trembled a little.
Her face hadn’t been so easy to deal with. It wasn’t difficult to spread a little hydrating make-up, or to add a trace of lip colour to her bare mouth.
But she couldn’t disguise all the marks Jack’s beard had left on her skin, or hide the swollen fullness of her lips.
‘Are you all right?’
Clearly Elizabeth had noticed that she was avoiding her eyes, but there was no way Grace could confide in her. Dear God, she couldn’t confide in anybody. And she was so angry with herself for behaving as she had.
Hadn’t the experience she’d had with Sean been enough?
‘I’m fine,’ she said now, heading purposefully for her desk. ‘But I’ve got to get in touch with Mrs Naughton. The window frames in those cottages are downright dangerous.’
‘Are they?’
Elizabeth followed her to her desk, evidently waiting for an explanation.
Grace bent to stow her handbag in a drawer before str
aightening and saying briskly, ‘You know the frames are rotten, don’t you?’
‘Well, I can imagine—’ Elizabeth broke off abruptly, gesturing towards Grace’s jacket. ‘Heavens, how did you do that?’
‘Oh—’
Belatedly Grace remembered the stain she’d all but forgotten in her haste to restore other aspects of her appearance.
She smoothed a hand over her lapels. ‘It was an accident.’ She paused, and then, realising something more was needed, ‘The gate stuck. I leant on it and voila! Instant ruin!’
‘Dear me!’ Elizabeth frowned. ‘You must get the agency to pay your cleaning bill. If it will clean, of course.’
‘I’m sure I can handle it,’ averred Grace, not wanting any written reminder of that morning’s fiasco.
In actual fact, she was thinking of dropping it into the next charity bag that came through the door. Anything to put the whole humiliating incident behind her.
‘I suppose that’s why you looked a bit upset when you came back,’ remarked Elizabeth sympathetically, and to Grace’s relief she turned away.
But then, almost immediately, she turned back again. ‘Anyway, what were you saying about the cottage windows?’
‘Oh—’ Grace had hoped their conversation was over. But with the agency empty of any other clients at this moment, she was obliged to tell the other woman what Jack had said.
‘I see.’ Elizabeth nodded. ‘Yes, that could be a problem. You’d better ring Mrs Naughton and explain.’ She grimaced. ‘It’s just possible it might persuade her to accept Grafton’s offer, after all. She’s an old woman. The last thing she needs is a potential lawsuit on her hands.’
Grace tended to agree, but the idea that William Grafton might get the cottages was still a tough pill to swallow.
Unfortunately, she was unable to get hold of Mrs Naughton that day. She’d speak to her the following day, even if it meant driving out to Mrs Naughton’s house further along the coast. In fact, she thought she would enjoy that.
And it would get her out of the agency, just in case Jack decided to pay them another visit.
CHAPTER SIX
JACK WAS STILL in bed when his doorbell rang.
Muttering an oath, he buried his head under his pillow, trying to shut out the intrusive sound. He wasn’t in the mood for visitors, and the uneasy suspicion that it could be Sean, come to seek retribution, wasn’t something he wanted to deal with right now.
The doorbell rang again. More aggressively this time. The chimes echoed around the house like the peals of hell and he groaned before flinging back the covers and sliding his legs out of bed.
Then, uncaring that he was stark naked, he went to the window and peered out.
A car was parked at his gate. An unfamiliar car, whose long bonnet and angular lines spoke of another era. It was vintage, there was no doubt about that.
But who did it belong to?
Scowling, he turned back into the bedroom. The jeans he’d worn the night before were lying on a chair at the foot of his bed. Without bothering with any underwear, he pulled them on, snatching up a black tee as he opened the bedroom door.
By the time he’d negotiated the stairs, he was fairly decently dressed. Though his hair was probably sticking up in all directions and his feet were bare.
However, a burly individual, dressed in a double-breasted serge coat, stood on the path outside. The man, who was in his middle sixties, Jack guessed, was also wearing black breeches pushed into knee-high black boots, and for a moment Jack wondered if he’d stepped into an alternative universe.
The man started to introduce himself, but before he could do so an elderly lady emerged from the back of the vehicle.
‘It’s all right, James,’ she said as he hurried to assist her. ‘I can manage.’ Beady brown eyes sought Jack’s face as she brushed down the skirt of her fur-collared coat. ‘Wait in the car, will you?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
James was evidently used to taking orders but he waited until his employer had reached the open doorway before getting back behind the wheel of the elderly limousine.
‘Mr Connolly, I presume,’ the woman said, looking up at Jack. ‘I assume you’re going to invite me in.’
Jack blew out a breath. ‘Mrs Naughton?’
Who else could it be? From what he’d heard, the old lady lived in some style.
‘I am.’ She lifted artificially dark brows that had been expertly plucked to form a perfect arch. ‘Well—may I come in?’
‘Oh—yeah, sure.’ Jack stepped back automatically, wincing at the chill of the hall floor beneath his feet. ‘Come in.’ He closed the door and gestured towards the living room. ‘Can I get you some coffee?’
‘Coffee!’ The woman’s voice was scornful as she crossed the hall and entered the living room. ‘That’s all you young people drink, isn’t it? Don’t you have any tea?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Jack found himself copying James’s formality. ‘I’ll go and put the kettle on.’
Mrs Naughton glanced back at him. ‘Don’t you have a housekeeper, Mr Connolly?’
‘Not today, ma’am.’ Jack grimaced, aware that little in the room would escape her notice. ‘Make yourself at home.’
In true ‘watched pot’ fashion, the kettle took for ever to boil. And by the time Jack had made a pot of tea for her and a mug of coffee for himself, fifteen minutes had passed.
He half expected Mrs Naughton to be examining the contents of his cupboards in his absence. But, in fact, she had seated herself in his favourite position by the window, apparently enjoying the view.
Jack set the tray on the low table beside her.
Then, seating himself on the wide windowsill, he said, ‘Will you pour or shall I?’
If she was aware of the faint trace of mockery in his voice, she didn’t show it.
‘I’m not senile,’ she said, pulling a face at his excuse for a milk jug. She viewed the milk residing in the small glass vase with a jaundiced eye. ‘I trust this is clean.’
‘As a whistle,’ said Jack drily. ‘You’ll have to forgive my lack of tableware. I’m still discovering things I’m short of.’
Mrs Naughton snorted. ‘And yet you want to take on more responsibilities,’ she commented, lifting the teapot and filling her cup. ‘Hmm, well, at least you make a decent pot of tea.’
Jack rubbed a hand over the stubble on his jaw. ‘Even at nine o’clock in the morning,’ he agreed drily.
Jack picked up his mug of coffee and swallowed a mouthful gratefully. Then, holding the cup between his palms, he said, ‘So to what do I owe the honour of this visit?’
Mrs Naughton’s brows arched again. ‘You want to buy the cottages at Culworth, don’t you?’
Jack’s eyes widened now. ‘Well, yes,’ he said. Although he hadn’t been into the agency again, he had spoken to the manager on the phone. ‘But I understood from Mr Hughes that Mr Grafton had improved his offer.’
‘He has. Marginally.’ Mrs Naughton took a sip of her tea. ‘But Grafton thinks he has me over a barrel because the cottages are in danger of collapsing.’ She raised her cup again, regarding him shrewdly over the rim. ‘I don’t like being threatened, Mr Connolly.’
Jack frowned. ‘The cottages are not in danger of collapsing,’ he exclaimed impatiently. ‘The insides need gutting, sure, but the walls seem solid enough.’
‘That’s what I said,’ declared the old lady staunchly. ‘I told Grant Hughes I’d had a surveyor take a look at them, and he was of the opinion that they were of no immediate danger to anyone.’
‘Well, the window frames are crumbling,’ offered Jack honestly.
He had no wish to bolster Grafton’s claim, but it sounded as if Mrs Naughton’s surveyor was saying what she wanted to hear.
‘It lo
oked as if there’d been kids squatting in one of the bedrooms,’ he went on ruefully, despising himself for the sudden quickening of his pulse that that memory rekindled. ‘The broken glass in the windows is a danger, too. But it shouldn’t affect the value of the cottages themselves.’
‘My sentiments exactly,’ crowed the old lady, setting down her cup and watching Jack with triumphant eyes. ‘That’s why I’ve decided to give you the chance to make an offer. I’ve seen what you’ve done to this old place and I like the way you work.’
Jack shook his head, pushing all thoughts of Grace aside as he said, ‘How did you know I was interested in the cottages?’ There was no way Grace would have told her. ‘Aren’t you employing the agency to handle the sale for you?’
‘I am.’ Mrs Naughton was unperturbed. ‘But Grant Hughes knows which way his bread’s buttered, and I’ve put a lot of work the agency’s way in recent years.’
Jack stared at her. ‘So?’
‘So—I asked him who it was looking around the cottages last week. He tried to put me off by saying that Ms Spencer didn’t always consult him before showing a client round a piece of property, but he soon came round when I put a flea in his ear.’
Jack’s lips twitched. The old lady was quite a character. But he’d already heard that from Grant Hughes himself.
‘Anyway, I understand you were interested in the cottages, before Hughes stuck his oar in,’ Mrs Naughton continued unabashed. ‘And when I found out it was you, I thought I’d come and see for myself.’
Jack wasn’t deceived. ‘You’d like to see the house, wouldn’t you?’ he said flatly. ‘Tell me, if you like what you see, do I get what I want?’
‘Ah, I suppose that depends what you do want, Mr Connolly,’ she replied cheerfully. ‘I’ve checked up on you, you know, and it seems you’re not short of a pound or two.’
Jack was amused. ‘Do you vet all your prospective buyers?’
‘No.’ Mrs Naughton got to her feet to look down at him with critical eyes. ‘But I’d hazard a guess that your interest was sparked by that foxy little lady who showed you round my property.’ She laughed infectiously. ‘Oh, yes, I have my spies, Mr Connolly. The church caretaker—who’s retired now, of course—saw you pass his cottage. That’s how I knew someone had been there.’