Damn. She’d got ahead of him here. Now where should she go?
‘Straight on … ’ He arrived behind her, close enough to engulf her with that dangerously delicious scent she so shouldn’t be noticing, and waved an arm towards an open door on the other side of the room, beyond the sofas. She shot through it, and screeched to a halt.
Pink shrimps! She was in his bedroom!
Her heart did a double flip. She’d seen some imposing beds in her time but this one took the biscuit. She tried to ignore how inviting it looked.
His voice came from behind her now ‘ … straight on to the office – the phone’s on the desk.’
Could have been worse. She slammed up to the desk, and grasped the receiver. At least he wasn’t in the bed.
* * *
Brando stood in the sitting room, raking his hands through his hair, watching the minutes tick by on his Rolex. How could a phone conversation with a mother could take so long? Hell, he’d have sat down if he’d realised. He tried to remember the last time he’d spoken to his own mother, and failed. All he needed to say had been said years ago, and none of it good. No need to revisit that one. He hauled himself back to the present again, as the creaking floor suggested Shea was finally about to emerge from the bedroom.
‘Welcome back to the land of the living! Your mother must be a riveting conversationalist – remind me to say ‘Hi’ to her sometime when I’ve got a free day or two!’
She was hurtling towards him with a scared-rabbit look on her face and her legs a blur.
He hadn’t noticed the detail as she’d flashed past him earlier, but he’d caught enough lace and thigh to make his pulse pound, and he moved to catch a full-frontal view.
Oh man!
How the hell had he missed that? He was going to miss it again if he didn’t move, given that she was hurling herself at the door.
‘Not so fast.’ One swift sidestep, and he’d cut off her escape. Her sweet scent wafted around him as she pulled to a halt, narrowly avoiding landing on his toes. He felt his lips stretch into a broad, unscheduled smile, as he took in the long, curvy lace-covered legs rising to a scant inch of shorts showing below his pale grey sweater. And his lips weren’t the only thing stretching here. With an almighty effort he screwed his smile from ecstatic to sardonic, and watched her push a tangle of hair out of her eyes, grab the v-neck that was sliding way beyond an already exposed shoulder, and turn on him with a wonderfully defiant pout.
This girl was good. Brazen even. Out for what she could get, and not scared to grab it. On principle, he despised her for the grasping audacity that had brought her here, but right now, there was something in her blatant ambition he had to admire. What he had to do next would be so much more enjoyable if he was dealing with an opponent who could hold her own. He liked to play hard-ball, and this girl looked like she’d be whacking them back. Shea Summers had put herself in his firing line and he was going to take her down, fighting and resisting. All the more fun.
He let his eyes play on her breasts, as they pushed prominently through the gauze of cashmere. ‘Are you wearing a bra under that?’
If he’d shocked her with his direct question she didn’t let on. She hesitated, but only for a second. Playing for time, perhaps?
‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’
Nice reply. Batted straight back. That was good. He bit his lip hard, to distract himself from the fact that in his head his teeth were already grazing those nipples. He watched her brush away a stray curl. She had him fixed with her violet eyes now, her head inclined slightly. Weighing him up? Perhaps. Challenging him? Definitely.
Nothing he liked more than a challenge.
‘So I take it you’ll be sleeping with me tonight.’ Two firm rules going out of the window there, but what the hell, if it brought this to a close. He slid it out casually, then waited for the reaction. He couldn’t hold in a last jibe. ‘It’s what you’re here for, after all, isn’t it?’
The purple of her eyes darkened to indigo.
‘That’s what you think.’
Her tone was defiant, but her amused smile took him aback. She almost sounded dismissive. Not bothered. He’d see about that!
‘Going to all this trouble to try for the position of my wife? Surely the try-out has to start in the bedroom? No time like the present, so why not now?’
She gave a light shrug. ‘Maybe I prefer to know more about a man before I sleep with him, even if he does own a whopping, country house!’
He let out a snort of surprise.
Was this a brush-off she was giving here, or was she simply playing hard to get? He couldn’t be sure. The way he usually operated, involved him eyeballing a woman he wanted, and she was his. He played, and he caught. End of. Afterwards he discarded.
That was the way it was for him. He’d never known it any other way. Not since … he throttled that thought, fast. Enough to say that as far the last decade went, he’d surfed the double aphrodisiac of wealth and power to the max. This reluctance, this rebuff was new, and he baulked momentarily, before his confidence kicked back into play.
‘You’ll soon change your mind.’ He narrowed his eyes and looked up and down every last explosive inch of her, his testosterone-fuelled growl low and husky. ‘Give you a day or two, and I guarantee you’ll be begging.’ Let’s face it, they usually would.
He flashed her an arrogant grin, and tried to ignore the fact that right now he was the one who felt like doing the begging. She’d thrown him off balance here, and he needed to regroup. Damn the woman, damn her soft inviting thighs, and those breasts he ached to bury himself in. What the hell was he thinking? He didn’t do soft in any shape or form, either in his life, or in the women he chose. And he definitely didn’t do begging. Dammit! It was so long since he’d been with a woman, he’d made himself vulnerable. He was heading for a long hard cold shower. Time to take himself in hand, in more ways than one. And then he’d have an endorphin-blasting rip over the rooftops.
‘Begging? You think I’d beg?’ Her voice, high with incredulity, scythed into his thoughts. She hit him with a polar stare, and her voice dropped to a derisory hiss. ‘Don’t count on it, mate. If you’re thinking I’ll beg, you’re liable to have a long, lonely wait. Now if you’ll please excuse me, I’d like to get back to my room!’
So that was his dismissal, for this evening at least. He was ready to go with that. He slid aside, flung the door open, and soaked up the view of her bum cheeks wiggling beneath his sweater, as she marched on past him, and across the corridor.
Just before she disappeared, she whipped around to face him, arching her back against her door, and sticking out her chest in a way that finally flashed his smouldering groin into pure naked flames. Somewhere beneath the curtain of chestnut hair, he caught a rosy flush in her cheeks. She shot him a dimpled yet defiant grin, then, with a jut of her chin, added one resonant, parting thought.
‘I’m not even sure you’re my type!’
And then she was gone.
Brando gave another choke of derision.
Hah! This coming from a woman who’d happily thrown herself at an unknown guy to bag a stately home and a loaded husband. Successful billionaire, with a manor house and an estate was exactly her type.
Never a man to forgo the last word, he waited. Long enough for her to be was sure he was finished. Only then did he put his mouth to her keyhole, and shout.
‘Not your type, eh? I think we both know me and my bank balance are exactly what you’re looking for.’
And then he stormed back to his sitting room, and slammed the door hard enough to make the chandelier jangle.
Damn. Had he just committed to the long game? What the hell had happened to his plans to leave?
* * *
Shea spread a large dollop of home-made raspberry jam on her toast next morning, and pinched herself one more time to make damn sure this was really happening as she sipped her coffee in front of the fire. Waking up this morning she was s
urprised at the sense of relief she felt that she’d finally got away. It was strange to think she’d almost missed it altogether. If she hadn’t come home early that Sunday evening she wouldn’t be here, and she probably wouldn’t even have known about the existence of Edgerton Manor. So like her zany housemates to be obsessed with some weekend TV show about country piles, so like them to be ridiculous enough to get out the glue and scissors and start making postcards of themselves in various states of wedding dress – and undress – just because the presenter they loved to hate suggested some guy on TV needed a wife. And how weird it was to think that guy was Brando Marshall. It was all very well throwing herself into her work, but there were times when she knew she missed out. And although this trip was work related she was pleased she’d dared to come, even though she’d seemed the least likely candidate out of all of her friends to be chosen. To her mind even Guy was more suitable than her. At least his card made claims to him having a pert bum, a frilly apron, and superb washing up prowess, and at the time she assumed the disclaimer she’d scrawled on hers would put her out of the running completely. Whereas in fact when Bryony from the TV company had contacted Shea, she hadn’t seemed particularly bothered about the ‘wife’ part at all.
Rule one: never believe what Bryony says … Brando’s words from last night echoed round her head. Brando Marshall. She sighed, rolled her eyes at the way he’d wormed his way back into her thoughts despite her best efforts to keep him out, then glanced at her watch. White mice! Eight o’clock, and still in her pyjamas? Nothing to be proud of there. Okay, her excuse was she hadn’t had the best night’s sleep, but as far as getting her professional head into order and putting Brando Marshall back in the feel-no-attraction-whatsoever camp where he belonged, she was doing well. Last night she’d even managed to walk through the man’s bedroom without a qualm. Dashing through, hurtling back.
Doing every action incredibly fast around Brando had worked.
She’d felt nothing. Who was she kidding here? Well, not quite nothing. But she had plans to work on that today. The point was, she was firmly back in control, of herself and the situation, which was exactly where Shea Summers always needed to be.
She’d mostly managed to stave off his rudest queries, and suggestions, obviously designed to shock her.
So I take it you’ll be sleeping with me …
The words echoed in her brain. She was still appalled by the way they’d made her skin dance, the way they’d set her heart clattering on her ribs. The twangs of guilt about her reaction had been reverberating round her head all night. She still felt ashamed that in that moment, some dark and hidden part of her was desperate to agree.
He was pushing her; he had to be playing a game.
No stranger in their right mind would ask you outright if you were wearing a bra, unless they were goading you. But somehow the completely outrageous nature of his behaviour made him easier for her to handle. She’d finally got him nailed. He was back in her Easy-to-Manage box. And that was where she was going to keep him.
She took another bite of toast, and thought how strange it felt to begin the morning so calmly, even if the thought of what Brando might do today had her stomach fluttering. Unless she was doing one of her famous dawn starts, breakfast invariably involved slopped tea and half asleep housemates, and always an early morning chat with her mum.
As if on cue, she heard Brando, calling from the corridor.
‘Mrs Summers, in the office on line one, for you Shea!’
Right. One sickening tummy flip later, and she’d go with the flow. This wasn’t a problem.
She primed herself to move fast, and, once again, had the door open before he’d finished knocking.
‘Nice PJs.’ His low laugh bounced off the panelling down the landing.
She was ready to outdo any quip he threw at her. Not quite so ready for the goosebump rash, or the way he smelled so deliciously of man, though. She braced herself.
‘Yep, they’re Wonder Woman pyjamas, and before you ask, yes, I am wearing knickers underneath. Phone still in the same place?’ She was already halfway to his sitting room, aware of Brando standing gawping in her doorway, when she realised he was speaking, and she thudded to a halt.
‘Help yourself to the phone, I’m off out. Bryony’s been on already, says a film crew’s on its way. I guess you’ll know what she means by that?’ He paused and raised one quizzical eyebrow.
Her stomach gave a telltale lurch.
Damn. She knew she shouldn’t have stopped, definitely shouldn’t have met his gaze. Although looking him in the eye was preferable to staring at him in the other place her eyes were invariably drawn to. Not that she made a habit of ogling men’s groins, but his was particularly …
Particularly what? She shouldn’t even be going there!
Attractive? Promising? Illegally sexy?
Yes to all of the above. Riveting. And also entirely off limits.
What was she thinking?
Her brain had been well-behaved when she was moving. If she didn’t get going she’d have mentally undressed him before she knew it.
Damn. Too late.
The carpet pile spread beneath her bare toes as she propelled herself forwards into a gallop. ‘Okay, great, thanks Brando! See you!’
Forward, as far as possible, as fast as possible.
Then she’d be okay.
Sour worms, there was his bed again!
Already made. Almost looking as if it hadn’t been slept in, she decided as she flew by, heading towards the office.
His teasing tones echoed after her as she scuttled away.
‘Give my love to your mother!’
* * *
In her immediate panic to flee from Brando, and fit in an early morning check-in with her mother, there’d been no time for Shea to worry about the film crew, which turned out to be one understated guy called Pete, looking for a couple of shots, on his way to another location.
So much for the whole ‘lights-camera-action’ team she’d been fearing.
All he’d done was to point a large video camera at her for ten seconds whilst she pretended to sit and drink coffee over the remains of her breakfast tray. And now they were going down to the terrace to take a shot of her approaching the front door.
She looked out of the window to check the weather. Blustery, but dry, judging by the whirling leaves. A movement in the distance caught her eye; a figure, running through the parkland, seemingly hurling themselves at every tree, then flipping back over, and landing on their feet again.
The pure exuberance of it made her smile.
There was something mesmerising about the relentless repetition, and although she was supposed to be following Pete downstairs, she hung on to watch until the person disappeared from view behind a distant copse.
Hurrying down the gracious staircase, she sighed ruefully, still thinking of the bouncing figure, as she wound her scarf around her neck. How great must it be to feel happy and carefree enough to want to do that?
* * *
Brando cursed as his feet hit the gravel at the top of the drive.
He’d been out running for an hour now, had already done two hours before his very early breakfast, and he’d been throwing himself over roofs in the dark last night, yet he still felt no sense of release.
He never slept well. He’d long since given up the hell of sleepless tossing and turning in bed, getting by on snatched naps in the office chair, but last night he hadn’t been able to sleep at all. What was it going to take to make him feel better? The sheer concentration and physical effort his free running took were usually enough to wipe out his tension within minutes. But he wasn’t usually this hyped up.
Damn this country life.
Nothing wound him up like a day at Edgerton, but he didn’t usually suffer this much. He suspected it had something to do with the blasted woman Bryony had dropped on him, but he certainly wasn’t going to let a woman take credit for landing him in this state. Okay, he hadn’
t been able to get her out of his damned brain since he set eyes on her, but where women were concerned he was immune and untouchable. End of.
He approached the avenue of trees along the south drive. Sixty-three trees each side. He’d do all hundred-and-twenty-six of them. Somehow he doubted he’d feel unwound afterwards, but at least he’d achieve the oblivion of exhaustion.
He bounced on the balls of his feet.
Damn Shea Summers.
Then flung himself at the nearest tree trunk.
* * *
Seventy two trees in, sensing movement in front of the house, he broke his rhythm to pause, and watched two people emerge, then walk around in animated discussion.
Bingo, it was her!
Had to be. And a guy with a camera.
Without thinking, he veered off across the park towards them, sprinting over the grass. He prided himself on his low heart-rate, but right now his pulse was banging through his body. Springing up the steps onto the terrace, he vaulted over a wooden seat, and arrived beside the pair with a grin, his hands stuffed as far into the pockets of his low-slung jeans as he could reach.
‘Nice morning for filming!’
Shea and the cameraman turned to include him now. He met Shea’s glance, and gave a wide, unrepentant, laid-back grin. ‘I hope you’re wearing … ’
But she was too fast for him. Before he could finish, she’d jumped in.
‘Yes Brando, I do have underwear on.’ She gave him a glib smirk. ‘I’d ask if you do, but given that half your Y-fronts appear to be on public display already, the question seems unnecessary! Good to see you shop at Calvin Klein.’
Nice one! Who’d have thought Miss Frosty-morning would have had that in her.
Feisty he could deal with.
Her hair was scraped back and he found himself wanting to pull it free, shake it loose, bury his fingers in the strands.
‘Pete just wants to get a shot of me walking into the house. It shouldn’t take long and then we’re done here.’ She was speaking to him brusquely now, her elbows by her ears, as she fiddled to replace a pin at the back of her hair. He caught a blinder of her breasts as she spun around.
The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights Page 54