by Maggie Cox
‘I love your home, Drake. I think it’s the most interesting house I’ve ever been in,’ Layla declared as she watched him reach up to a cabinet for a large stainless steel wok.
Setting the pan down on top of an unlit burner, he turned to face her. ‘Can I ask what you mean by “interesting”?’
His furrowed brow wore a frown, and she had the distinct feeling that her comment had perturbed him in some way. ‘I just mean that it’s not the kind of house I expected you to live in, but I really like it … and how you’ve decorated it. That’s all.’
‘You don’t think there’s something missing?’
‘Like what?’
Dropping his hands to his hips, Drake studied her intently. ‘I don’t know … warmth, perhaps? Some personal attribute that makes it feel more like a home?’
Intuiting what he was getting at, Layla felt her heart immediately go out to him. ‘Do you believe that you lack warmth, Drake?’ she asked softly.
Clearing his throat, he tunnelled his fingers restlessly through his hair. ‘I’ve lived alone for so long. Sometimes it concerns me that I’ve become a little too insular. How can I be the best architect I can be if I lose touch with what people really want in a home?’
The statement stunned her. ‘You are the best architect. Surely your considerable catalogue of work must tell you that? Isn’t that why you were commissioned to help regenerate our town?’
The tentative half-smile he gave her was definitely uneasy. ‘I don’t know why I said what I did. Put it down to me being at work since six this morning. I’m not complaining, but it’s been a hell of a long day. Anyway, I ought to crack on with cooking our meal.’
‘Is warmth what you want in a home?’ Layla ventured, her heart bumping beneath her ribs. ‘Is it something that you maybe didn’t experience as a child?’
The answering warning flash in his eyes was instant and intimidating—like burning embers from a fire that could potentially be dangerous to anyone sitting too close to the flames.
‘Remember I told you there were areas in my life where you absolutely don’t go? I’m afraid that’s one of them.’
Giving his comment her utmost consideration, Layla frowned. ‘Do you think if you never talk about those things that they’ll somehow just fade away? It’s my experience that they don’t, Drake. I’m not saying that talking alone makes them easier to deal with, but at least it’s a step in the right direction to making your peace with them.’
There was another irritated flash in his eyes, then he swallowed hard. ‘The subject is closed. Closed as in you don’t bring it up again … at least not until I indicate that you can. Is that clear?’
Mutely Layla nodded. It was definitely clear to her that now wasn’t the time to try and delve deeper or prolong the discussion. And she didn’t want to spoil their weekend together with a potentially heated argument. She would simply have to accept that she had to tread carefully round Drake until she sensed he was ready for a more intimate discourse about his past. Knowing he might never be ready for such a frank discussion, she either had to make her peace with that or walk away.
As he turned back towards the cooker she laid her hand just above his wrist, where a smattering of silken brown hair grazed the otherwise smooth flesh exposed by his rolled-up sweater sleeve. ‘Why don’t you let me cook the meal? You can pour yourself a nice glass of wine and go and relax in the living room. I’ll come and get you when the food is ready.’
‘As tempting as that sounds, you’re my guest, remember?’
She couldn’t help but grin. ‘But I’m a very amiable guest, who doesn’t mind mucking in when the situation calls for it. The fact that you’re so tired definitely warrants my assistance. Go on … pour some wine and go and relax. I’ll peer into cupboards and find out where everything is.’
Drake wrestled with her suggestion for just a couple of seconds longer, then relented. The troubled look on his face all but melted away before her eyes.
‘You’re the kind of guest that I could definitely get used to,’ he teased, tipping up her chin and dropping a warm, sexy kiss that was far too fleeting onto her lips.
Layla knew if she slipped her hand behind his head to hold him there a little longer then all further discussion about food and cooking would be put on hold for quite some considerable time …
‘Wait until you taste my food and see if you still think that.’
‘Will you be okay using the cooker?’ he checked.
‘Good question.’ She sighed, then grimaced as she scanned the large gleaming state-of-the-art hob and oven with its myriad chrome dials and knobs. ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine. It’s an intimidating-looking beast, but surely I don’t need a degree in rocket science to fry a few shrimps and cook some rice … do I?’
Her handsome host chuckled. ‘Let me turn on the hob for you.’ He flicked a switch, turned a dial, and the hob underneath its black glass shield glowed instantly red. ‘It’s as easy and as straightforward as that. No degree in rocket science required. Think you’ll be okay now?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Good. I’ll leave you to it, then. Would you like a glass of wine to enjoy while you’re cooking?’
‘As lovely as that sounds, I’d better not. I might put too much paprika or chilli in the mix, and if I get even the slightest bit intoxicated then our stir-fry will probably be inedible!’
‘Warning received.’
Helping himself to a bottle from the sculpted metal rack on the other side of the room, along with a corkscrew and a glass, Drake left Layla with an irresistible lingering smile and a promise in his eyes that—if she let it—could tempt her away from the most sublime culinary feast even if she was starving …
CHAPTER SEVEN
HE KNEW he’d had a lucky escape. But how long could he avoid talking about his past with a woman who made the walls of self-protection he’d carved round himself paper-thin every time she smiled into his eyes, let alone when he kissed her?
His elbows resting on his thighs, Drake stared blankly ahead of him at the glass of ruby-red wine he’d left languishing on the coffee table. He clasped his hands, unclasped them, then clasped them again. In a bid to divert his restlessness he got up and strode across the room to the music centre. When the familiar mournful voice of a male singer-songwriter filled the air he found himself honing in on the lyrics that echoed his own deep-rooted yearning for happiness and peace. Both those longed-for states had been way beyond his grasp ever-since he could remember.
Growing up in an atmosphere of tension and rage had very effectively seen to that. Even at the tender age of six Drake had intuitively understood why his mother had walked out on his father. He’d been a bitter, jealous, angry man who would have kept her under lock and key if he could. She’d had no life with him at all. Yet what Drake didn’t understand—and probably never would—was how she could have walked out on her defenceless son, leaving him with the brute she had married.
His hands reached up to his cheeks to scrub them roughly, as if by doing so he could delete the agonising memory from his mind and heart for ever. He couldn’t, and his anguished thoughts ran on … How much resolve, faith and sheer grit had it taken for him to overcome his broken and unsupported childhood to reach the position he found himself in now? he asked himself.
Yes, he’d reached the heights of his profession, gained money and a laudable reputation beyond his wildest dreams, yet what good was any of it if at the end of his life he was still alone without someone to share it with? He released a slow harsh breath. With despair in her voice his ex had asked him the same question, and Drake had answered angrily.
‘I’m not interested in marriage or having children. That’s not for me. If you want that then you should go and find someone else.’
Well, Kirsty had taken him at his word and broken up with him that very night. Drake had heard recently through a mutual acquaintance that she was pregnant and engaged now, and he honestly wished her well. She was a nice wom
an, but not the soulmate he’d always secretly craved … a soulmate who would accept him for exactly who he was and not try to mould him into some imaginary ideal that she hoped he might become. What he wanted was a woman of infinite understanding with a capacity for unconditional love beyond measuring. It was a tall order.
Was Layla that woman?
Groaning out loud, he shook his head. How could she be when she was already probing him with uncomfortable questions about his feelings and his past? All he wanted to do was enjoy her body and her company. He wasn’t going to speculate much more beyond that. Shutting off the music, he returned to the luxuriously upholstered couch, reaching for his glass of wine and taking a long slug of the rich burgundy before his rear even touched the seat cushions.
Had he done the right thing leaving her to her own devices in the kitchen? he wondered.
His ensuing smile was helplessly wry. Her cooking surely couldn’t be any worse than that of the incompetent housekeeper he’d recently let go. Layla worked in a café, for goodness’ sake. She was well used to preparing food and making it look presentable. God forgive him, but he very much liked the idea of having her cook for him. In fact—despite his vow that he wouldn’t speculate on the future—he very much liked the idea of having her around full-stop …
The shrimp stir-fry had worked out better than Layla had hoped, and she and Drake had finished every scrap. She had to admit that watching him tuck into a meal she’d prepared with such obvious relish had given her a real sense of satisfaction and pleasure—if only because her nervousness round him hadn’t caused her to make a complete hash of it.
Immediately after they finished, she automatically stood up to clear the table, her intention to stack the dishwasher.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
Although his grey eyes glinted with amusement, Drake’s voice had a definitely irritated undertone.
‘I was going to rinse the bowls and stack them in the dishwasher.’
‘You don’t think cooking a meal was more than enough demonstration of domesticity for one evening? Granted I need a housekeeper, but unless I’ve had a serious lapse of memory I wasn’t aware that I’d given the position to you.’
‘It’s no big deal to clear up.’
‘That’s not why I invited you home with me.’
His rough-edged tone told her exactly why he’d invited her home, and Layla couldn’t deny the same thought had been playing on her mind from the moment she’d set eyes on him back at his office … and even before that, when she’d somehow found herself packing a toothbrush and spare underwear into her tote. But she was still wary about surrendering to her physical desire for him too quickly. It was hard to shake the memory of how she’d been so badly used by her ex-boss.
‘You invited me home with you because I presented you with a fait accompli, turning up at your office like that.’ She stalled, crossing her arms over her chest. ‘You probably felt obliged.’
‘Obliged? You must be crazy.’
Abruptly getting to his feet, Drake strode round the glass-topped table. He unceremoniously pulled her against him, making her gasp. Suddenly Layla found herself on the most intimate of terms with his hard lean body, and the lust that blazed down at her from his eyes made her heart thump hard.
‘I swear to God you’ve put a spell on me, woman—because I can’t think of anything else but having you in my bed.’
‘You told me—you said that you had several guest rooms … that we didn’t have to share a room tonight.’ Her tongue was so thick she could barely get the words out.
‘I must have fooled myself into believing that I had will power, then.’
At the precise moment he stopped talking Layla knew without a doubt that she was fighting a lost cause. Heat was already pouring through her body in a torrent of libidinous need that she could scarce contain, and the idea of spending the night alone in one of Drake’s guest rooms instead of in his arms in his bed was akin to attempting to cross a burning hot desert without access to any drinking water. She simply couldn’t do it.
‘And I—I don’t want to spend the night alone in one of your spare rooms, Drake.’
‘Then come with me,’ he husked.
Somehow, her hand held firmly in his, she found herself climbing another glass-lined staircase that led to an upper floor. Barely registering the lush oil paintings that hung here and there on the ivory-coloured walls, or the black velvet sky she glimpsed through the various windows they passed, now she was the one who felt as though she was under a spell. When they reached his bedroom she saw that it was an undoubtedly masculine retreat, with clean, uncluttered surfaces and an original restored oakwood floor without so much as a single rug covering even the smallest square of it. The only less than pristine note was the rumpled burgundy silk counterpane on the large king-size bed. It looked as though its owner had attempted to straighten it in a hurry, thought better of it, then irritably decided to just let it be.
Layla refused to entertain the idea that maybe it was rumpled because he’d spent the night in it with a lover. Such a possibility would ruin everything for her.
Briefly letting go of her hand, Drake touched his fingers to a dimmer switch on the wall next to the door and glowing lamps gently filled the room with softly intimate light. Then he closed the door behind them and, turning back, hungrily fastened his hands either side of her hips.
‘Let me love you,’ he breathed. ‘No more talking or making promises we’re afraid to keep in case they don’t work out. Just let it be you and me alone together in this room … in this bed.’
He touched his lips to hers and the seductive spell already cast became a sensual magical dream that Layla never wanted to wake up from.
The hot thrust of his tongue into her mouth ignited a trail of fire straight to her core, causing her knees to buckle helplessly and making her sag as though drunk against the hard muscular wall of his chest. His arms immediately encircled her waist to hold her upright. Then she was effortlessly lifted up and transported across the room to the rumpled bed.
The moment she was lowered down onto the silken counterpane Layla knew it was imperative to get something off her chest before they went any further. ‘I don’t know what you’ve imagined, but I’m not—I’m not very experienced at this. The last occasion when I was intimate with someone was with my boss, and that was the most horrible mistake. Since then …’ She screwed up her face. ‘Since then I haven’t even wanted to get close to a man like this.’
His grey eyes glinting with gentle amusement, Drake touched his palm to her cheek. ‘I’m not interested in your past, Layla. The only thing I’ve imagined is you and me here and now, in this bed, writing a new page to both our histories.’
‘I want that too, Drake … But, on the subject of histories, I need to ask has there—has there been anyone that’s shared your bed lately?’
The astute grey eyes that seemed to be gifted with the unsettling ability to read her thoughts glinted with ironic disbelief, and perhaps some annoyance too. Layla sensed her cheeks redden helplessly. ‘I haven’t been intimate with anyone since my ex-girlfriend, and it’s been six months since we broke up,’ he confided.
‘You didn’t live together?’
‘No. We did not.’
Easing out a relieved sigh, she ventured an apologetic smile. ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you, but I had to know.’
‘I understand.’
The steady, deeply assessing gaze he returned let her know he did indeed understand.
‘Now that we know where we both stand, how about we go back to where we were?’
Feeling suddenly daring, and perhaps a little reckless too, Layla reached up to Drake to cup her hands round his iron jaw and pull his face down to hers. The lower half of his visage was already shaded with bristles, and they inevitably abraded her softer feminine skin as she seductively kissed him, inviting his equally seductive response. Their open-mouthed ravenous kissing quickly and inevitably built
into another conflagration, and the passion and fervour that pulsed through Layla’s veins secretly frightened her—because whatever came of this hot, wild attraction of theirs she already knew this man had ruined her for anyone else …
Tearing his mouth away from hers and breathing hard, Drake put out a hand and gently pushed her so that she found herself on her back. His silvery gaze searing her like a white-hot laser, he reached down and ripped the two sides of her cotton shirt apart so that the row of tiny buttons that fastened it flew off like confetti.
‘I’ll buy you a new one,’ he murmured.
Before he could apply the same treatment to her front-fastening white lace bra, her heart thundering like a sprinter’s as he raced for the finishing line, Layla deftly released the catch herself, so that her bared breasts were suddenly exposed to the silky night air and to her would-be lover’s appreciative aroused glance.
‘My God … you’re even more beautiful than I imagined,’ he declared, gravel-voiced.
Hurriedly assisting her to dispose of her torn shirt and bra, seconds later, with his well-developed jeans-clad thighs straddling her, Drake gave her the most intimately seductive smile she’d ever experienced. Then he bent his head to capture one of her tight aching nipples in the scalding cavern of his mouth. She almost hit the roof. The pleasure-pain as his teeth caught the tender flesh and lightly bit was like a lightning strike going straight to her womb. Moving his lips, he gave the same erotic treatment to its twin and, softly whimpering, Layla drove her fingers mindlessly through the silken strands of his hair to hold him to her.
Seconds later he came up for air and sat back on his heels. His hot, slumbrous gaze was filled with unashamed erotic intent, and slowly he unbuckled his leather belt, freed the button at the top of his jeans and unzipped his fly. ‘You do the same,’ he instructed huskily, at the same time reaching into his back pocket for a foil packet that he expertly ripped open.