by Liz Fielding
Sugarlips? Oh, cripes…
‘I could arrange that for you,’ she offered, doing her best not to think about what had made him pick on that particular endearment. She should definitely not think about him sucking the tip of his thumb. She could still taste him, smell him on her… ‘I have a first-class honours degree in estate management.’
‘Well, bully for you. Call the National Trust; maybe they’ll give you a job.’
‘They did,’ she said. ‘I turned it down.’
There was a brief silence which told her that she’d finally managed to surprise him, then he said, ‘I’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow morning.’
‘You?’
‘I’m the only responsible adult available at short notice.’
‘Oh…’ Her heart, already going like the clappers, hit warp speed.
‘Of course you could wait for Brian Ramsey to find some free time in his diary but he isn’t particularly happy with my choice of sales agent so he won’t be in any hurry.’
‘No, thanks. I talked to Brian Ramsey about cleaning up the house. He was barely polite when I was representing an agency he had engaged.’
‘Then I’ll see you tomorrow. You can bring lunch.’
‘Blokes do windows, women do food?’
‘You could take me to the pub if you’d prefer, but I was thinking of your budget.’
‘A picnic it is. Any allergies?’ she asked. ‘Anything you won’t eat?’
‘Just save the wussy lemon cake for your legions of admirers. You know what I like.’
He disconnected before she could reply and Tash had to fight the insane urge to run back to the studio and write her address in lipstick on his sketch pad. On his chest. Across his stomach…
‘Are you all right, dear?’ A woman waiting for the bus was looking up at her with concern.
‘Um… Yes… Thank you.’ She sat down on the bench beside her, flapped her shirt collar to create a bit of breeze around her face. ‘I’ve just, um… It’s a bit warm, isn’t it?’
*
Darius was at the door on the dot of eight and despite a sleepless night—or maybe because of it—Tash was waiting for him. No short skirt, no dangerous buttons with a mind of their own, no sexy high heels. Today she was kitted out in a pair of comfortable jeans, a baggy T-shirt and a pair of running shoes, bought when she’d decided to get a grip on her weight and decided to go running with Toby. Once had been enough and any wear on the soles was down to the occasional dash to the corner shop for emergency baking supplies.
Her laptop bag was ready for business, lunch was packed; she hadn’t left herself with a single excuse to delay so that she would have to invite him up while she gathered her stuff. No excuse to offer him coffee, or invite him to try the spiced cookies she’d been baking at three that morning.
There was work to do, her career to save, Hadley Chase to sell and when he buzzed from the front entrance she was ready to go.
Strictly business.
She ran down the stairs, swung through the door…
Oh, good grief.
He didn’t say anything when she skidded to a stop on the pavement and the casual hi that she’d been mentally rehearsing died on her lips at the sight of him leaning back against the door of an elderly Land Rover.
If the vehicle was well past its prime, Darius, in a black polo shirt and faded denims that clung to his thighs, was looking like every kind of sin she’d ever wanted to commit.
He was just so damned beautiful that every one of her nerve endings sent out a ‘touch me’ tingle and she was seriously wishing she’d gone for a shirt with unreliable buttons and a bra that pushed her boobs up to her chin. He might keep a poker face when he was looking down her cleavage but she knew exactly what he was thinking. Right now she hadn’t a clue.
She’d run through this moment over and over as she was taking a shower, picking out what to wear for exploring a dusty old house, cutting sandwiches. Imagining what he’d say, what he’d do. Rehearsing every possible combination of responses.
Would it be a curt let’s-forget-what-happened nod? Eminently sensible…
Her heart had skipped a little beat at the prospect of a let’s-think-about-this kiss on the cheek. Sensible but with possibilities…
Or please, please, please, a let’s-do-it kiss that would buckle her knees and have her melting on the pavement.
None of the above.
He kept his distance, one eyebrow slightly raised as he took in her passion-damping clothes, her hair fastened in a single plait that was held together with nothing sexier than an elastic band. Then, just when she thought it was safe to breathe, he reached out, ran his thumb over her mouth and said, ‘Good morning, Sugarlips.’
His low, sexy voice vibrated against her breastbone and the carrier containing their lunch slipped through her fingers and hit the pavement.
An annoying little smile lifted the corner of his mouth as he straightened and opened the passenger door. ‘I hope there was nothing breakable in there.’
‘The flask is well padded, but I don’t suppose it will have done the cake much good,’ she replied before, blushing like an idiot, she scrambled up into the passenger seat, leaving him to pick it up.
She concentrated on fastening her seat belt as he climbed in beside her, filling the space with his presence, his earthy scent mingling with the smell of hot oil.
Her fingers were shaking so much that he took her hand, unpeeled her fingers from it and clicked it home.
‘It was a bit stiff…’
‘I know how it feels.’
She tried not to look, but was unable to help herself. Oh, cripes…
‘I’m sorry the transport doesn’t meet your usual standard of comfort,’ he said, leaning forward to start the engine, ignoring the tension twanging the air between them; presumably a man who spent his life around naked women posing on a pedestal would have had plenty of practice.
She made an effort to focus her thoughts elsewhere. On the house with the puce living room that had been on the market for months and the owner’s outrage when she’d suggested that a quick coat of magnolia might help…
Her breathing slowed, the pulse pounding in her throat became a gentle thud.
Better.
‘No problem,’ she said. ‘As you pointed out, I’m working this job economy class.’
‘You’ve got it,’ he said, a wry smile creating a crease in his cheek and undoing all that effort. Fortunately the Land Rover, vibrating noisily, covered the shiver that rippled through her.
‘So, what’s the plan?’ he said.
‘Plan?’
‘I assumed you’d been up half the night working on your plan to find a buyer for the Chase.’
‘It shows, huh?’ The expensive stuff that was supposed to conceal dark shadows round the eyes clearly wasn’t doing the job.
‘Just guessing,’ he said, ratcheting up the smile, and the swarm of butterflies in her stomach, which until then had at least been flying in close formation, went haywire.
Think about that hideous purple and yellow bathroom…
‘Nearly right,’ she managed. ‘I was up half the night creating a media presence for Hadley Chase on Facebook and Twitter.’
Nearly right. Nearly true. She’d done that within half an hour of getting home. The major time had been spent finding and following media types—and the people they followed—journalists, the local Berkshire newspapers and county magazine. Anyone who had an interest in country houses, property, local history, social history. Anyone who might conceivably be interested in following Hadley Chase.
She’d spent the rest of the night trying to come up with a really convincing reason why she should call him and cancel. She needed to keep her distance, keep it professional.
She also needed to get to Hadley Chase this week, rather than at the convenience of a lawyer who thought she was poison, so here she was, on the dot of eight o’clock, her brain out to lunch and her stomach throwing a butterfly p
arty while she drooled over the man.
Forget strictly business. She should have lured him up to her flat and invited him to shag her brains out. Maybe then she’d be able to concentrate on the job in hand.
He glanced back over his shoulder, giving his attention to the traffic. Giving her a moment to catch her breath.
She focused on the memory of a house with an orange front door. And that had been the best bit. A kitchen with every tile on both walls and floor a different colour. Heard herself saying, ‘So jolly…’
Maybe he wasn’t as cool as he looked either and needed a moment of his own because he didn’t press her on the plan. Which was just as well. She wasn’t getting paid so she couldn’t afford to throw money at the problem; she was going to have to be inventive.
‘How’s Mr Gr…er…Gary?’ she said, raising her voice above the noise of the engine when the silence had gone on too long.
‘Comfortable, according to the nurse I spoke to.’
‘I’m really sorry.’
‘Not half as sorry as he is, I suspect.’
‘I meant I’m sorry that you have to do this. You didn’t want to be involved. In the sale.’
They were stopped in traffic and he looked across at her as if unsure how to answer her. His eyes were liquid silver in the morning sunlight, with a hint of steely blue. Then someone hooted impatiently from behind and once they were rattling along the motorway the noise of the engine, the tyres, the trucks rushing past, made anything but the most urgent conversation impossible.
Tash made an effort to focus on the problem ahead—she had no illusions about the Chase being an easy sell—but she was sitting within inches of Darius Hadley. Sunlight was glinting over the steel wristband of his watch, drawing attention to the hand wrapped lightly around the steering wheel, the fingers that had been inside her, driving her wild with pleasure less than twenty-four hours ago.
Who could focus on anything but the mesmerising flex of the muscles in his forearm, his thigh as he changed gear, switched lanes?
Swamped by lust, heated by the sun beating in through the windscreen on her breasts, thighs, she closed her eyes to shut out temptation. When she opened them again, her cheek was pressed against his shoulder, she was breathing in the scent of warm male and her first inclination was to close them and stay exactly where she was.
She felt, rather than saw, Darius glance down at her. ‘It must have been a late night. Not many people can sleep in a Land Rover.’
Humbled, she reluctantly straightened. ‘I was just resting my eyes,’ she said, using a yawn to surreptitiously check her chin for dribble. ‘While I focused on the plan.’
‘Sure you were,’ he said, grinning.
‘The brain does its best work while the subconscious is switched off,’ she said, realising that they’d left the motorway. How long had she slept?
Her satnav had kept her on the main roads but Darius, on home ground, had ignored the dual carriageway that bypassed the village of Hadley and as she looked around, trying to figure out where they were, he slowed and turned down a track half hidden by the rampant growth of early summer spilling from the verges.
‘I hope we don’t meet anyone coming the other way,’ she said as they bounced, very slowly, through a tunnel of fresh new summer leaves along a dirt track so narrow that the frothy billow of cow parsley brushed both the sides of the Land Rover.
‘If we do, they’d better have a good reason for being here,’ he said. ‘This is estate land.’
‘This is the back way in?’ she asked, trying to recall a map she’d seen, orientate herself. A chalk stream, low after an unusually dry spring, was curling quietly around shingle banks just below them on the right, which put them at the lower end of the estate and, as she turned and looked up, she caught a glimpse of tall chimneys through a gap in the trees.
‘The main road goes round in a long loop to bypass the village,’ he said. ‘This entrance is known only to estate residents, who have more respect for their suspension than to use it, and locals doing a little rough shooting for the pot.’
She looked at him. ‘Do you mean poachers?’
‘My grandfather would have called them that,’ he said. ‘I don’t have a problem with the neighbours keeping the pigeon and rabbit population under control in return for the odd trout.’
‘Well, that’s very neighbourly, but people who buy this kind of property tend to be nervous of unidentified gunfire,’ she said, trying to pin down what exactly was wrong with the way he said ‘grandfather’. ‘If…when…I find you a buyer, someone had better warn the locals that they’ll have to find their small game somewhere else.’
His jaw tightened, but all he said was, ‘I’ll make sure Gary passes the word. When…if…you find a buyer. Having burned the midnight oil and spent the drive down here leaving the work to your subconscious,’ he said, ‘have you got any further than creating a Facebook page?’
‘It’s a work in progress,’ she admitted. Between reliving their close encounter in his studio and wondering how soon they could manage a replay, she hadn’t been giving nearly enough thought to saving her career. ‘What I need is a story.’
‘A story?’ He slowed almost to a stop, looking at her instead of the track.
‘Relax, Darius, I’ve got the message. Your name is off limits. Cross my heart,’ she added and then, as his eyes darkened, she drew her finger, very slowly, across her left breast in a large X.
His foot slipped from the accelerator, the engine stalled and only the ticking of the engine disturbed a silence so thick that it filled her ears.
‘You are in so much trouble, Natasha Gordon,’ he said, his face all dark shadows, his eyes shimmering with heat.
‘Is that a promise?’ she asked, her breath catching in her throat. ‘Or are you all talk?’
The click of their seat belts being released was like a shotgun in the silence and then his hands were on her waist and, without quite knowing how she’d got there, she was straddling his thighs, her mouth a breath away from lips that had haunted her since the moment she’d first seen him.
She wiggled a little, snuggling her backside closer to the impressive bulge in his jeans, and he groaned. ‘Correction. I’m in so much trouble…’
‘Talk, talk, talk…’ she murmured against his mouth, cutting off any attempt at a response with a swirl of her tongue over his lower lip. There was a satisfying buck from his hips and, giving no quarter, she sucked it into her mouth.
Darius leaned back to give her more room.
There had been a bulge in his pants ever since she’d appeared on her doorstep in curve-disguising clothes, her hair in restraints, minimal make-up. She’d been doing her best to appear cool but she hadn’t needed lipstick to draw attention to a mouth that had been hot, swollen, screaming kiss me at a hundred decibels.
He just about managed to restrain himself—if he’d kissed her they would never have left London and he wanted this over. He’d done a good job of keeping his mind on the road while he was driving along the motorway, but then she’d fallen asleep with her head against his shoulder, her lips slightly parted, wisps of escaping hair brushing his neck. Now the scent of hot woman was filling his lungs.
‘You want action, Sugarlips?’ he said. ‘Help yourself.’
Needing no second invitation, she slid her hands through his hair, tangling it in her fingers, a little cat smile tugging at her lips as she made him her captive, teased him with her mouth, sucking, nipping, inviting him to come out and play.
He was in no hurry. Right now her breasts were snuggled against his chest, her backside was tormenting his erection, her mouth trailing moist kisses under his chin.
There was nothing more arousing than a woman intent on pleasure and, resting his hands on her hips, he did no more than support her, holding her steady so that she could concentrate on driving him wild.
It didn’t take long. Her top, barely skimming her waistband, rode up as she leaned forward and he closed his eyes, mem
orising each curve of her lovely body as his hands, with a will of their own, slid up to graze the silk of her skin. Her waist dipped above the flare of her hips; there was nothing straight about her, he discovered, as his thumbs teased the edges of her stomach and she squirmed on his lap.
For a moment he was the one holding his breath but then he reached her ribcage and he felt the hitch of her breath under his hands as his fingers took a slow walk up her spinal column, kneading each vertebrae in turn, pausing only to release the catch on her bra, so that his thumbs were free to imprint the soft swell of her breasts in his memory. They had just reached her nipples when her tongue found the pulse throbbing in his neck.
With a roar, he pulled her top, bra over her head and tossed them behind him, then forgot to breathe as she leaned back against the steering wheel, eyes smoky, slumberous, only the tiniest rim of blue circling satin-black pupils.
‘Perfect,’ he said, filling his hand with her full, ripe breasts, thumbing her rock-hard nipples, stroking them with his tongue, sucking on them. Just perfect…
‘Darius…’ There was an urgency in her voice now and he popped the button at her waist, slid down the zip and eased his hands down inside the back of her jeans, a scrap of lace, easing them down as he cupped her peachy backside in his hands and lifted her towards his mouth.
He swirled his tongue around the dimple of her navel, mouthed soft kisses in the hollow of her pelvis, blew against the blonde fluff of her sex and she whimpered, wanting more. She was right—this wasn’t enough. He wanted her naked. He wanted her out of here, lying on a bank of soft grass down by the stream with sunlight, filtered through the leaves, playing on her skin. He wanted to touch every inch of her, memorise her body. Be inside her…
‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said, pushing open the door and half falling with her into the verge, where they lay laughing, catching their breath amongst long grass, red campion, a few late bluebells that were a perfect match for her eyes. ‘Come on,’ he said, hauling her up, holding her close, not wanting to let her go even for the short scramble down the bank.
She clutched at jeans that were heading for her knees. ‘Where are we going?’