by Helen Brooks
She stared at him. What was he saying, that he wanted an affair with her? A no-strings-attached kind of affair? For a moment her brain wouldn’t work, and then she sidestepped the issue by saying, ‘And the women are happy with that?’
‘Of course.’ He sounded surprised she had asked. ‘When you get down to basics most women acknowledge that love might sound a pleasant concept but it just doesn’t work in the real world. Sooner or later mistrust and doubt rear their ugly heads, and if you find out your partner has been cheating on you…’ He shrugged. ‘It happens. All the time. The divorce rate is evidence of that. Sexual compatibility is something else. That’s real and honest and not reliant on trusting someone or being trusted.’
Rosalie took a deep breath. ‘Are you propositioning me, Kingsley?’ she asked expressionlessly.
‘You want me, Rosie. And I want you—from the first second I laid eyes on you I’ve been burning up with the need. You’re single, I’m single. It’s the most natural thing on earth.’
She wasn’t sure how she felt exactly, but she knew she wanted to hit him, and that didn’t seem quite fair when he was being so honest. She tried for lightness. ‘Sorry, but I don’t do affairs,’ she said pleasantly.
‘I know that.’ He pulled her closer again, his palms cupping her sides and his fingertips splaying over her lower ribs. ‘And I respect how you feel.’
She could feel his strength and warm virility flowing into her, and the lure of it made her voice husky when she said, ‘But? And don’t tell me there isn’t a but. “But” this is different. “But” we’d be so good for each other. “But” it’s not often people have the empathy we have. Am I right?’
For an answer he moved, pressing her back against the wall of the landing, holding her there with his body as he took her mouth again. His thighs were hard against hers and she could feel every inch of him as he drained her will to protest, his mouth and tongue fuelling the burning desire that had exploded the moment his lips had touched hers. She could feel his heart pounding like a sledgehammer, mirroring her pulse, and for a second the urge to give in, to open the door of her bedroom and pull him in with her was paramount.
It was enough to shock her back to reality. Her arms had been round his waist but now she brought them up to his chest and pushed, her voice shaking as she said, ‘Don’t. I don’t want this, Kingsley. Let me go.’
Kingsley had known many women over the years and thought he understood the female species pretty well, but the fear in Rosalie’s voice stunned him. He stopped instantly, taking a backwards step that removed his body from hers, but kept his arms outstretched either side of her body, holding her within the circle of his maleness. ‘What the hell did he do to you?’ he asked softly, his voice very deep. And then, at the look on her white face, he straightened. ‘Okay, okay, I know. You don’t want to talk about it.’
‘I can’t.’ It was a whisper. ‘I can’t talk about it.’
‘You don’t trust me enough.’ His expression was unreadable.
‘I don’t know you,’ she said truthfully. And yet part of her felt as though she had known him all her life, which was even more scary. Petrifying, in fact.
His brow furrowed, and she could almost see the formidably astute and intelligent brain considering the implications of what she had said. Then he nodded, his face giving nothing away as to what he was thinking. ‘I can accept that,’ he said after a moment or two. ‘So we remedy the situation.’
She stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked warily.
He smiled, his astonishing eyes as warm as cornflowers in a sun-drenched meadow. ‘We date for a while,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Nothing heavy, we can take it as slow as you want, but I’ll be there for you and you’ll be there for me.’ His American accent was very strong suddenly.
‘I don’t think—’
‘This is not a suggestion, Rosie.’ Now the blue gaze resembled cool water. ‘It’s either that or I kiss you until we end up in bed together right now. And I could do it with very little resistance from you if I put my mind to it.’
Arrogant swine. She was furious at the picture he’d painted but at the same time her innate honesty forced her to accept he had a point. Certainly she wasn’t confident enough in her powers to resist him to put it to the test, anyway. She contented herself with a glare, before she said, ‘This dating? A kiss goodnight at the end of the evening is all you’ll get, so if you’re thinking—’
‘I said we would take it as slow as you want.’ He was standing with his legs slightly apart and his powerful arms folded over his chest, and he looked big. Big and rugged and so incredibly sexy it made her mouth dry. ‘Contrary to what you so obviously believe, I can actually wine and dine a woman without expecting a pay-off at the end of the date,’ he added dryly.
No doubt because his dates in the past had been panting to get him in the hay! She cleared her throat. It was only fair to put him in the picture. ‘Look, since…since Miles I haven’t dated,’ she said flatly, dropping her eyes from his and staring at the carpet because it made it easier to say what she needed to say. ‘And I don’t want to get into another relationship again, not ever. I have my work and my home and—’
‘And you are perfectly happy to coast the rest of your life; no highs, no lows, just flat, calm water endlessly in view?’ he drawled softly. ‘I don’t think so, Rosie.’
‘How would you know?’ she shot back indignantly, her eyes shooting up to meet the slightly taunting gaze. ‘You don’t know me.’
‘We seem to have completed a full circle.’ He studied her face, the confusion she was trying to hide apparent in the dusky darkness of her eyes. ‘And I suspect every avenue of argument would come back to the same thing. So…we date. No discussion, no debate about it, we do it. All right?’
And with that he turned, reaching out for the handle of his door and opening it without another word before he stepped into the room and closed the door quietly behind him.
She didn’t believe this! Rosalie stood for a few moments more, glancing almost pleadingly about the cool, gracious landing as though it were going to provide an answer to her bemusement. Kingsley Ward was as male as you could get—aggressive, strong, ruthless and possessed of a sexual magnetism that was as powerful as it was formidable. He was the last man on earth she should date. So how come she found herself in a position where she was doing just that?
She shook her head at herself, going back in her mind over their conversation to see where she had slipped up.
‘Oh, to heck with it.’ She glared one last time at his closed door, hoping it would penetrate the wood and pin him where he stood, and shrugged her shoulders. She could refuse the dates when they occurred—or at least a number of them—once this crazy weekend was over. Give him the cold shoulder. Freeze him out.
It was scant comfort. Possibly because she didn’t believe it. To date, trying to freeze Kingsley out had been about as successful as a snowball surviving in hell.
Whatever, she’d cope. She squared her shoulders, entering her own room and determining to ignore the fact that Kingsley was right next door, possibly getting undressed, or perhaps even naked in the shower? Enough. She banished the erotic images before they had a chance to take hold.
Yes, she would cope. She had survived Miles Stuart, hadn’t she? Not only survived him, but gone on to make something of herself and carve out her own life on her own terms. So she could hold her own with Kingsley. She wasn’t a trusting, nervous little eighteen-year-old now, bowled over by the fact that the most gorgeous boy she had ever seen said he wanted to love her and take care of her.
Take care of her… She flopped down onto the bed, dropping the crutches on the floor. Miles had taken care of her all right, taken care that she came close to a nervous breakdown, damn it.
But Kingsley was right about one thing—Miles was the past. She nodded to herself, the churning in her stomach the stark memories always caused making itself known. But if Kingsley thought he had take
n out a contract for an affair when he’d signed her up to work for him, he was wrong. Her eyes narrowed and she looked resolutely ahead, her gaze inward-looking. Boy, was he ever wrong…
CHAPTER SIX
THE next day Rosalie was awoken at seven in the morning by a distraught Beth. The dean at their youngest son’s university had rung. He had been careful what he’d said, but it had transpired one of the students in Jeff’s block had been diagnosed with meningitis and was now in isolation at the local hospital. All the other students had been put on antibiotics as a precautionary measure, but three of them—of whom Jeff was one—were unwell. There was no need to panic, the dean had assured Beth, but to be on the safe side they had also been taken to the hospital and some tests were being run.
‘We’re going straight to Cambridge now.’ Beth was all but pulling her hair out. ‘Will you and Kingsley be all right? There’s plenty of food in the fridge and freezer, but could you possibly feed the cats at six tonight? Tuna in sunflower oil, it’s in the right-hand kitchen cupboard over the sink. And they like full cream milk and will only eat and drink off their china saucers. They’ll be turning up wanting milk soon, no doubt.’
‘They’ll be fine, we’ll look after them.’ Rosalie thought it was just like Beth to worry about the cats rather than her guests at a time like this. Beth was primarily concerned with the needy and vulnerable, which was one of the reasons Rosalie loved her so much, but she had always thought that her aunt’s anxiety over the cats—two enormously fat, amber-eyed females with filthy tempers—was misplaced. If ever anything could look after itself, those two could.
‘We’ll probably stay in a hotel somewhere overnight and see how things are tomorrow, but I’ll ring you.’ Beth gazed at her with tragic eyes. ‘Oh, Lee, I’m so worried.’
‘Jeff will be fine, I’m sure of it. Now you go and Kingsley and I will look after things here.’
Rosalie tried to be encouraging as she saw Beth off, and she had just made her way into the kitchen to make a cup of tea when she became aware of a presence behind her. She turned sharply, almost losing her balance as her plaster foot slid on the terracotta tiles, and Kingsley smiled at her from his vantage point in the doorway. ‘Hi.’
‘Hello.’ She instantly became aware of the fact that she hadn’t even brushed her hair in the mad scramble to get her aunt out of the house before Beth completely went to pieces, and the nightie and thin robe she was wearing were not her prettiest ones.
Kingsley, on the other hand, had obviously recently showered as his damp hair bore witness to, but he hadn’t shaved. His stubble was dynamite. As were the midnight-blue silk robe and matching pyjama bottoms, which emphasised every line and contour of the hard, powerful body in a way that should be illegal. The robe was pulled loosely together, the casually tied belt allowing a tantalising glimpse of his thickly muscled torso and the silky black hair on his chest, and his whole demeanour was one of contented ease. He was a man very much at ease with his own body, that much was for sure, but the overwhelming maleness was such that Rosalie found her throat was dry and her hands were damp.
‘Tea?’ It was a squeak and she heard it with annoyance.
‘Coffee, if that’s okay.’
Of course, she should have known.
‘The instant variety will do,’ he offered helpfully as she made a move towards Beth’s coffee percolator. ‘As long as it’s hot and strong first thing in the morning I’m not fussy.’ He strolled fully into the kitchen as he spoke, and her senses went into hyperdrive. Beth’s kitchen wasn’t small, in fact it was the sort of oak-beamed old country kitchen that would accommodate a whole London flat in its cavernous depths, but suddenly it had shrunk alarmingly.
She hastily explained about Beth and George’s sudden departure, opening one of the big windows as she talked and letting in the cats, who had been prowling up and down the windowsill for a few moments. They trod delicately over the draining-board and jumped neatly onto the floor—obviously an old and practised route into the house—and then both of them began to wind themselves round Kingsley’s legs, purring loudly.
The air was clean and fresh as it poured into the room, the sun already warm, and the cheerful twittering of the birds in the surrounding trees and bushes almost drowned out the sound of the boiling kettle.
‘They like you.’ She gestured to the cats, who had continued their elegant homage even though Kingsley was now perched on the edge of the massive old kitchen table, his long legs ensuring his feet still touched the floor. ‘They aren’t normally so friendly’.
‘Perhaps you should take a leaf out of their book,’ he suggested in a lightly mocking tone. And then as her foot slipped again he said firmly, ‘Sit down, I’ll do it.’
She sat down, mainly because the pure male sensuality was a little unnerving at just after seven in the morning when she hadn’t quite got her armour in place.
‘Toast? Cereal?’ He placed a cup of tea in front of her as he spoke, his tall, lean frame lending itself surprisingly easily to the domestic scene. ‘Or eggs done the Ward way?’
She eyed him suspiciously. ‘Which is?’
‘Nothing more alarming than scrambled with butter and onion, and served on toasted bread with a slice of bacon or ham. Delicious, even if I do say so myself.’
‘You cook?’ She almost added ‘too?’ and stopped herself just in time. His ego was already jumbo size; she didn’t need to add to it. No doubt plenty of women did that already.
‘Of course.’ He grinned at her. ‘As long as you want eggs the Ward way, that is.’
‘For breakfast, dinner and tea?’ she guessed dryly.
‘You’ve got it.’ Blue eyes laughed and she had to join in.
Oh, help, why did he have to be so drop-dead gorgeous? It was first thing in the morning and he looked good enough to eat, whereas she probably resembled something that had been pulled through a hedge backwards. Perhaps he’d go off the idea of them dating now he’d seen her in all her morning glory? Funny, but the thought wasn’t comforting.
However, Kingsley didn’t seem put off by the gargoyle at the table as he lifted a strand of hair from her face, letting it run through his fingers as he said almost absently, ‘Raw silk, and such beautiful colours when the sun catches it. Who do you get your colouring from?’
‘My father. He had grey eyes too.’
There was a tightness to her voice that hadn’t been there moments before but he didn’t comment on it, merely letting his fingertips rest against the smooth skin before he turned abruptly. ‘Four eggs for me. How many for you?’
‘Two would be heaps.’
She watched him as he found and prepared the onions first, cutting them expertly under a little water before drying them and adding them to the fat sizzling in the frying-pan. ‘Now whilst they’re browning it’s time for the toast.’
He turned as he spoke, smiling at her, and she was aware her breathing became quick and shallow. This was too nice, too delicious. Forget the food, she could feast for ever just looking at his body as he moved with an animal grace that was pure magic.
‘As you’re in charge of the food, the cats want breakfast,’ she said dryly, hiding her trembling under a veneer of nonchalance.
‘Of course. Are they boys or girls?’ he said lazily.
‘With names like Meg and Polly, girls, I hope. Either that or they’re very confused felines.’
‘Then I know just the thing.’ He dived into the back of Beth’s enormous fridge and came out with a carton of cream. He poured a little into an earthenware dish before she could tell him about the china saucers, but wouldn’t you just know it, she thought helplessly, the darn cats lapped it up nevertheless.
‘Don’t know a woman in the world who can resist cream,’ he said, turning to the onions and moving them around the pan with a wooden spoon.
‘And of course you know most of them,’ she said sweetly.
‘Miaow.’ He glanced at her for just a second, the blue eyes glittering. ‘Meg and
Polly are ashamed of you, you’re giving cats a bad name.’
She stuck out her tongue at him and he grinned again, adding the beaten eggs to the onion and putting the lid on the frying pan whilst he buttered the toast, and cut several slices of ham from a joint he had found in the fridge. ‘This is delicious.’ Some of the ham had found its way into his mouth. ‘Beth’s rolled it in brown sugar, by the look of it, and perhaps a touch of mustard. I could get used to living here, given half a chance.’
She took a big gulp of her tea. As a hard businessman and entrepreneur he had been pretty devastating, and the side of him she’d seen the evening before had knocked her for six, but this morning the domestic Kingsley, clothed in the silk robe and pyjama bottoms, was every maiden’s prayer. How could anyone make cooking so sexy? she asked herself breathlessly. He could knock all those TV chefs off the face of the planet.
By the time he placed a heaped plate in front of her, along with a glass of ice-cold orange juice, she had expended enough nervous energy to be absolutely starving. ‘This is wonderful.’ There was a note of surprise in her voice.
‘Thanks.’ It was very dry.
‘No, I mean—’ She stopped abruptly.
‘Don’t try to explain,’ he said, his voice so flat she knew it was hiding amusement. ‘It will either make you sound like one of those women who are convinced only the female race can do things like cooking and cleaning and—’
She threw a napkin at him, hitting him square in the face.
He placed it carefully at the side of him, continuing with barely a pause, ‘Or plain jealous at my expertise.’ He eyed her thoughtfully. ‘I rather suspect the latter.’