I couldn’t stop myself squirming and he pointed a finger. “You’re thinking of something. I can see it in your frown.” He nodded encouragement. “Spit it out.”
“I can’t.”
“Did you promise you wouldn’t?”
It sounded as if he’d let me off the hook, but… “No.” He waited me out until I added, “But it’s embarrassing.”
“More embarrassing than my tiny dick?” He wiggled his little finger and we both smiled.
“That wasn’t real. Tell me something real that no one else knows. And maybe then.”
“Ah.” He smiled a knowing smile. “Negotiating with me now. Your confidence is growing.” I waited him out, and at last his smiled faded. “Alright.” But it was almost a full minute of him gazing at me steadily before he said, “My father died twenty years ago. He was forty-one. A year older than I am now.”
“What did he die of?” I couldn’t help interrupting.
“Heart attack.” He waited to see if I was going to interrupt again and I tried not to squirm. “So…” he went on, “…my secret is that I never cried. I never mourned. He was quite different to your father, but all the same I was glad when he died. I still am.” He nodded to himself a few times, then he added, “Although my mother has never recovered from his passing.”
His expressive eyes had gone from warm to empty, and I couldn’t stop the ache that developed high in my chest. I put a hand over it, genuinely moved by his story, brief though it had been. “I’m so sorry.”
He looked at me for the longest time, then he said, “I’ve never told anyone that, because I wasn’t sure how they’d react, whether they’d laugh at me or tell me I was an insensitive bastard. But I knew you’d understand.” He nodded to himself again. “I knew.”
A strange stillness settled into the quiet space between us, and the intimacy in the car deepened into something warm and enveloping, something that surrounded us both, but I wasn’t scared of it. In fact, it felt…welcoming.
“How did you know?” My voice sounded breathless.
“You don’t hide anything.” He gazed at me steadily for the longest time. “You’d be a shit actress.”
“And with all that crankiness, you’d be a shit doctor. No bedside manner.” I’d meant it as a joke, but the moment the word bed was out there between us, the warmth ramped up into heat.
“I think,” he said softly, “You’ll find that my bedside manner, along with my sizable dick, will be more than adequate, when the time comes…”
I forced myself to breathe, because I was getting lost in those sexy brown eyes, forgetting everything except how much I wanted him. “And when will that be?” Before he could answer I rushed ahead with, “And while we’re on the topic, I’d like you to know that I’m careful of my sexual health and I have regular checks, so you don’t need to worry on that score.”
He tilted his head back against the window and looked at me through partly lowered lids, which was even sexier, particularly because I had no idea what he was thinking. Had my mention of having sex with other men turned him off? He was maddeningly mysterious, and that was so exciting, a pulse started throbbing inside me like a drumming of lust.
“Did you notice,” he drawled lazily, “that I just insulted your acting skills? You didn’t react to that. You’re normally sensitive to criticism, especially from men, but—”
“I don’t care about that.” I reached for my seatbelt, intent on getting free so I could kiss him, because I’d suddenly reached critical mass and couldn’t not.
But he surprised me by jerking into action. “Good idea. Let’s walk.” He was out of the car so fast you’d think he had a rocket up his ass.
It took my fumbling fingers a moment longer to release myself, then I was onto the dirt laneway, hurrying to catch up—both with him and the realization that this was not going to happen. Not today anyway. “S’up?” I called out.
He turned to face me, a mock-pained expression on his face. “You did not just say S’up. Tell me you did not.”
His affront was so comical I couldn’t help saying, “So you think you know everything about me.” I propped a hand on my hip. “I’ve got a whole gangster thing going on.” Then I tried for a few krumping moves but that only made him burst into laughter.
He pointed at my hips. “That’s not dancing. That’s…epilepsy.”
“Bastard,” I said, but I knew he was teasing, so I ended up grinning and then we were both smiling at each other. “But I like you,” I added, and nodded at his look of surprise. “I know. What would be the chances?”
“Slim,” he said, and his smile faded. “The chances of someone genuinely liking me are almost non-existent.”
“But I do.” I shrugged.
He pulled in another slow breath, nodding to himself as he gazed deep into my eyes. “Then I’m glad.”
My instinct was to lighten the mood, to say Well somebody has to, but I didn’t. I kept my trap shut and the delicious feeling of intimacy between us deepened. It felt like hot porridge on a frosty morning, comforting and satisfying and good—so different to the way I normally felt around men.
Although, now that he had his hands in the pockets of his trousers, with his jacket pushed back and that white shirt open at the collar. I imagined I could see dark chest hairs peeking up above the top button, and that really turned me on.
“You’re barefoot,” he said quietly, but there was a gravelly note to his voice that told me he was thinking about sex too. When I looked up into his eyes I could see it, and the warmth between us morphed into something visceral, something that made my breasts tight inside my bra.
“I know,” I said. “I like to feel the earth underneath them. It’s grounding.”
“It’s sexy.” He swallowed, letting his gaze drift down over my dress to my legs and my feet with their gel pink toenails. At last he said, “I don’t want to kiss you because I won’t know how to stop—”
“Don’t.”
“And you won’t stop me.” He looked back up into my eyes. “One of us has to be sensible.”
“That won’t be me.” As if that wasn’t already self-evident. “But as an aside,” I added, “Why do we have to stop?”
“Because there’s something more going on between us than attraction.” He stared at me, almost daring me to argue, but I didn’t want to. “…and I don’t know how you normally conduct your sex life,” he said, some of the British starch back in his voice. “But I suspect that because of your father, you have an all men are bastards program running in your subconscious, which inhibits emotional intimacy. Hence, the history of one night stands.”
I simply stared at him, both of my eyebrows trying to find their way up into my hairline, because I was gobsmacked with what the fuck astonishment. “Is there some Google page that lists my ‘conquests’ or something? How do you know so much about me?”
He was a minute answering, and during that time, my arousal deflated like air out of a leaky balloon.
“The producers of the series are careful of my brand,” he said at last, almost as if he was embarrassed. “They research owners and managers to ensure I’m not endorsing a restaurant that has a crack den or a brothel out the back.”
“Charming.” It wasn’t his fault, but all the same I felt judged. Not that I was embarrassed to be promiscuous. I was single and could do whatever the hell I liked. But he was making me question why I did it, and that was uncomfortable.
A week ago I would have said I liked sex. Why else would you want it so regularly? But Rosie’s comments at the wedding and my own acknowledgement that it wasn’t always pleasurable had me questioning things, and that wasn’t how I rolled.
I did things because they felt good.
But now…
I shook my head. “Why are you psychoanalyzing me?”
“Because this…” He gestured between us, “…is light and warm and so goddamn easy I want to trust it.” He frowned as if the idea hurt him on some level. “I’v
e known you for a handful of hours, and my stupid heart is telling me to try. But that’s a ridiculous idea because out there…” He shook his head. “My world is ugly and I don’t want you dragged into that. I don’t think you can survive that. So there’s no point in starting something that will only hurt you.”
Dear God. He was thinking so much further ahead than me. “I just wanted sex,” I said simply. “Not a wedding ring.”
It was his turn to look incredulous. “I’m not someone you use to scratch an itch.” This last was said arrogantly. “You could fuck your chef Sammie if that’s all—”
“I have.” I shrugged. “He was terrible.”
He put a hand over his eyes as if he couldn’t bear to look at me, and I could hear him breathing through his nose. Clearly agitated. But I was still back at shocked, back where he’d said, I’ve known you for a handful of hours, and my stupid heart is telling me to try.
His heart.
I wanted to think it was crazy, but I couldn’t help wondering if that was the warm, intimate feeling I had—the feeling that had grown and deepened as we laughed and teased each other. Had that been my heart?
And when he’d said I couldn’t survive his world, he wasn’t saying I was weak. He was just being realistic. He’d seen me with my father. It was obvious what I could cope with and what I couldn’t. It was humbling that in such a short period of time he’d considered me worthy of more than just a casual fuck.
I wasn’t smart enough to have worked that out myself. And that made me wonder how many men I’d fucked in the last year that might have been boyfriend material. Only, I hadn’t been looking. And now, crazily, I’d met someone who was fun and sexy and who seemed to really ‘get’ me, only, he was off limits, because of his job.
“Max…” I wasn’t sure if I should ask this, but, “Is there no way of keeping it private?”
He dropped his hand, and his resigned expression gave me the answer even before he shook his head. I was disappointed by that and trying to work out what to say when he winced and one hand came down over his belly. “Oh no.”
“What?”
He didn’t answer, just started walking back to the car. “Not now.”
I scurried after him. “What’s wrong?” He was clearly in some sort of distress, so I hurried to my side of the car and jumped in.
He was already buckling up, his teeth gritted. “Bathroom” he said succinctly. “The closest one.”
Oh. My. God. Did he have food poisoning?
I swallowed down horror and said, “My house.”
“Wherever.” His eyes had glazed as if he wasn’t really listening and I guessed he must be focused on what was happening inside.
So I shut up and drove, executing a clumsy three-point-turn in the lane, then heading back out onto the main road, trying to avoid bumps because each one made him wince. Ten minutes later I was pulling up in front of my weatherboard cottage which Jill’s husband Finn had paid to have painted a pretty pale blue when Bohemian Brew opened, justifying the ‘surprise’ as a bonus.
I didn’t stop to think about whether things were neat inside, because Max was out of his door and half hunched over as he walked toward the house. I raced ahead, bounding up the handful of stairs onto the porch, my bare feet thudding on the timber before I realized the keyring I had in my hand was for the Range Rover. It didn’t contain my house key.
“Shit, fuck,” I said. Then, “Wait here.”
I always left a back window unlocked in case of emergency, so I raced around there, batting aside drooping jasmine vines and leaping over the haphazard veggie beds to swing around the side of the house and wrench the window up. Ten seconds later I was opening the front door for Max and pointing down the hallway.
“Last door on the right. I’ll be on the porch here. Call out if you need me.” I didn’t want him to have to worry about being overheard. I’d had a few Bali Belly incidents in my past and it wasn’t generally a pretty thing.
He just nodded and moved past me into the house.
I left the front door open so I could hear if he called, and went to settle myself onto the top step so I could gaze past the Range Rover to the rolling hills beyond covered in a patchwork of paddocks, many with cows or small crops.
The sun was behind the house so I was in shade, which helped cool my brain, as did the rural view. I’d need calm to face what was coming, because giving Maxwell Banks food poisoning was a major catastrophe.
A childish part of my brain was thinking, Thank goodness you didn’t eat the trout, because that must have been what did it. Impossible that my father’s visit had been good for anything, but the upset he’d left in his wake had ensured that I didn’t eat.
Small blessing.
Very small, in fact.
From behind me I heard the faint sound of the toilet flushing, and I straightened, knowing I’d have to face the music sooner or later. But he didn’t come out. Which was bad. That meant things were worse than one trip to the bathroom.
I stood, indecisively, wondering if I should have taken him to the doctor instead.
“Max?” I called.
No answer.
I frowned, but couldn’t get past the fear that he’d collapsed. Then into my brain came the memory of him saying his father had died of a heart attack at forty-one. Max had to be around that age. That was enough to push past my privacy protocols and send me padding back into the house along my Persian runner.
“Max?” I called again.
Half way down the hall I heard, “I’m fine.” Then a pause. “Well, not really.” Another long pause, then, “A cup of tea?”
“Sure,” I called back, and headed to the kitchen. I wasn’t sure if he’d said that to keep me busy, or because he genuinely wanted one, but it gave me something to do besides worry. And I had to admit I was relieved that he wasn’t furious at me. Food poisoning, after all, wasn’t the best—
“Sammie,” I whispered. Shit.
I snatched the phone off the vintage laminated countertop and dialed the shop. Luckily Desiree answered. “Cut the trout,” I told her. “I think it’s bad.”
“What? As in, off?”
“Yes. Get into the kitchen and tell Sammie to stop cooking it. Has anyone reacted to it?”
“No. Have you?”
I paused, thinking about my response, belatedly realizing that Max might not want this publicized—not for my sake, but because being a food critic with food poisoning wasn’t a good look. Eventually I said, “I’m queasy.” Which wasn’t a lie. “It might just be nerves, so I don’t want Sammie or anyone else freaking out. Do this quietly.”
“Sure.” Her matter-of-fact response calmed me immensely. “Are you coming back?”
“Not sure,” I replied. “I want to give Mr. Banks whatever he needs to get our best shot at the feature.”
That would be the feature that was now a thing of the past.
“Okay. I’m here all day. Don’t rush back.”
“Thanks.” I ended the call and put the kettle on. By the time Max came into the kitchen ten minutes later he was pale and sweating profusely but I had a pot of Banchee Tea brewing. It was my signature blend, and excellent at soothing the stomach, so I was confident it would help.
“Smells terrible.” He pulled a wooden chair away from my scrubbed timber table and leant over it. “What the hell is it?”
“Banchee Tea.” I pulled cracked teacups out of the ancient pantry cupboard I’d converted into a shabby chic dresser. “You’ll love it.”
“Fuck.” He leant on the back of the chair, breathing slowly, then he pulled his phone out of his jacket and handed it to me. “Call Traci. Get her here with a doctor, and tell her to bring me a change of clothes.” He wrestled his way out of the jacket and draped it over the back of the chair, then he turned back to the bathroom.
“Max, I’m sorry…”
But he was gone.
I am in such deep shit.
I swiped his phone open and found an icon for Tr
aci with an image of her face on his welcome screen. A tiny spurt of acid burnt deep in my gut, and I forced myself to remember what he’d said, I’m just a job to her. Why would he lie, about anything?
I dialed the number, told her what had happened, gave her my address and suggested she speak to Dr Roshin at the local clinic. Todd was young, but he was smart as hell, and if I was sick, I’d want him fixing me up.
I expected an ear-bashing about the bad trout, but she said nothing, simply told me to make him comfortable and that she’d be there in half an hour. I was thinking about the fact that I didn’t have a spare bed when he appeared in the doorway.
“I need to lie down.”
My couch wasn’t long enough for a six foot something man to lie on, so I said, “My room.”
He nodded and followed me, breathing shallowly. But as I pulled back the colorful mandala quilt on my big wrought-iron bed, he said, “This isn’t what I was fantasizing about, just so you know.”
Clearly, he wasn’t going to die if he was making jokes. And he’d said nothing about blaming me for his discomfort, which was beyond gracious, so some of my anxiety settled. Enough for me to realize I didn’t want him to worry about anything, so I said, “Clean sheets,” in case he was wondering what he was about to lie in. “I don’t fuck men at my house.”
“Good to know.” He grunted softly as he sat on the side of the bed. Then he tried to lean forward to get to his shoes, but it was clearly uncomfortable so I crouched in front of him.
“Let me.” I untied the laces and pulled both beautiful Italian leather shoes off his feet.
“Thank you,” he breathed, then he rolled gingerly sideways into the mattress.
I pulled up the quilt and fussed with it for a moment, feeling…something in my chest.
In my heart.
Which was ridiculous. Still, the thought made me press my lips together and completely unexpectedly, my eyes prickled with tears. Unfortunately for me, he was watching.
“What?”
Husband Rollover (Husband Series Book 4) Page 7