by Amy Andrews
And he’d always been a leg man.
Oh, the irony.
He dragged his gaze up. Her hair was damp and looked as if it had been finger-combed back off her forehead, her face was scrubbed clean, her freckles standing out, her cheeks a little pink from the hot water, the tiny nick a stark reminder of why she was here.
She could have been the girl next door except somehow, even in a scruffy T-shirt, baggy boxers and her eyelids fluttering in long sleepy blinks, she managed to look haughty.
To exude a you-can’t-touch-this air.
Should have had that second beer.
‘How’s the head?’ he asked, ignoring her protest, returning his mind and his eyes to the job at hand, stripping the case off the pillow.
‘Sore,’ Ava said, pushing off the door frame to the opposite side of the bed, grabbing the other pillow and stripping it, managing it quite well despite the handicap of her bandaged hand.
Blake quelled the urge to tell her to leave it. He didn’t want her here in his bedroom. Not while he was in it too. It all seemed too domesticated—too normal—especially after being shot at only a few hours ago. The bed was big and empty. Big enough for the two of them. And the night had been bizarre enough without him wondering how many times he could roll Ava Kelly over on it.
Or how good those legs would feel wrapped around his waist.
‘Did you take those tablets the doc gave you?’
She nodded. ‘Just now.’ Then she yawned and the shirt rode up a little more. He kept his gaze firmly trained on her face. ‘Sorry. I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open.’
Blake knew intimately how shock and the effects of adrenaline could leave you sapped to the bone. He threw the pillow on the bed, then peeled back the covers. ‘Get in. Go to sleep.’ Soon it will be morning and you’ll be gone. ‘You’ll feel better tomorrow.’
She smiled at him again as she threw her pillow on the bed. ‘I couldn’t feel any worse,’ she said, crawling onto the bed, making her way to the middle on her hands and knees. Blake did not check out how his shirt fell forward revealing a view right down to her navel.
He just pulled up the covers as Ava collapsed on her side, her sore hand tucked under her cheek, eyes closing on a blissful sigh, her bow mouth finally relaxing. ‘Night,’ he said.
She didn’t answer and for a moment he was struck by how young she looked. For the first time she didn’t look haughty and untouchable—she looked humble and exhausted.
Vulnerable.
And utterly touchable.
Who in the hell would want to kill her? Or had they just been trying to scare her? In which case it had worked brilliantly. Something stirred in his chest but he didn’t stay long enough to analyse it.
Ava freaking Kelly was lying right smack in the middle of his bed—no way was he sticking around to fathom weird chest stirrings. Or give his traitorous body any ideas.
He stalked towards the door, an image of her long legs keeping him company.
Don’t look back. Don’t look back.
‘Blake.’
Crap. He halted as her soft voice drifted towards him. Don’t look back. Don’t look back.
‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice low and drowsy.
Blake locked tight every muscle he owned to stop from turning around. He didn’t need a vision of her looking at him with sleepy eyes from his bed. Instead he nodded and said, ‘See you in the morning.’
Then continued on his way out of the room.
He did not look back.
FOUR
Ava’s phone woke her the next morning and for a moment she was utterly confused by her surroundings. What was the time? What day was it? Where the hell was she?
Where the hell was her phone, for that matter?
Her head felt fuzzy and her eyes felt as if they’d been rolled in shell grit. If this was a hangover then it was a doozy. The distant trilling of her musical ringtone didn’t help. Inside her woolly head, her brain knew that it needed answering but her body didn’t seem to be responding to the command to do something about it.
Then a shirtless Blake walked into the room and it all came crashing back to her. The gunshots, the police, the hospital.
Little Venice. Canal boat. Big, big bed.
His hair was damp as if he’d just had a shower, she noted absently as he strode towards her. And he had a hairy chest. Not gorilla hairy, just a fine dusting of light brown hair over meaty pecs and continuing down his middle covering a belly that wasn’t ripped but was still, nonetheless, firm and solid. The kind of belly a man didn’t get from the gym.
She stared at his chest as it came closer. The men in the circles she moved in were all ripped and smooth—every muscle defined, all hair plucked or waxed into submission. It took a lot of upkeep. Whereas Blake didn’t look as if he’d ever seen the inside of a salon.
She’d bet her last penny Blake was the kind of guy who thought grooming belonged in the domain of people who owned horses.
‘Yours, I believe,’ he said, striding towards her and passing it over.
Ava took it with her good hand, ignoring its ringing for a moment. ‘What time is it?’ she asked.
‘Time to go.’ His voice was low and serious—brooking no argument. ‘I’ll make you a coffee.’
And then he turned on his heel and left her staring after him. Obviously not a morning person.
Ten minutes later, with Detective Sergeant Biddle’s caution weighing on her mind, Ava followed her nose and her growling stomach in the direction of the wild earthy aroma of freshly ground coffee beans. With nothing as basic as a mirror in his room she’d pulled her messy bed-hair back into an equally messy ponytail and hoped Blake didn’t have any wild expectations of what a supermodel should look like first thing in the morning.
She needn’t have worried—he barely acknowledged her, instead enquiring how she drank her coffee, then handing her a mug. ‘Thank you,’ she said automatically, wrapping her bandaged hand around it even though the morning already held the hint of another warm day.
He didn’t acknowledge that either so she wandered over to one of the two cosy-looking, dark-leather armchairs and sank into its glorious depths. She watched his back as he stared out of the large rectangular picture window above the sink in the kitchen area.
She could just make out the bustle of London traffic over his shoulder—could just hear it too. The sights and the sounds of the city gearing up for another work day. She soaked it in for a moment, preferring the low hum to the ever-expanding quiet inside the boat.
Her gaze fell to his broad shoulders.
She’d never really speculated about what lay beneath his clothes before—she’d been too busy wondering why he seemed completely immune to her. Off the market? Playing hard to get? Gay? But there’d been something about his naked, work-honed chest this morning that was more than a little fascinating.
With his back stubbornly turned, Ava had no choice but to look around her. She sat forward as she did, inspecting the luxurious interior. It was nothing like the old cheap and cheerful clunker she’d been on as a teenager with a friend’s family—wider too if her memory served her correctly.
Everything about the interior screamed class. High quality.
Money.
The three stairs down which she’d trudged last night as she’d entered the boat opened into a very large, open-plan saloon dominated by two classy leather armchairs and gorgeous wide floorboards. It was the floors that drew her eye now—a gorgeous blonde wood polished to a honey sheen. In contrast the walls were dark-grain wood panelling until halfway up, then painted an elegant shade of champagne.
A massive flat-screen television sat in a narrow , built-in smoky glass and curved chrome cabinet on the wall opposite her along with a bunch of other expensive-looking gadge
try. On the other side of it, and sitting out from the wall slightly, was an old-fashioned pot-belly stove that no doubt heated the entire boat in winter.
The saloon flowed into a galley-style kitchen, all granite and chrome with no expense spared on the high-end appliances from the full-sized fridge to the expensive Italian coffee machine. They gleamed in all their pristine glamour.
Opposite the kitchen, on her side of the boat, was a booth-style table, with red leather bench seats.
Beyond the dining and kitchen area was a smaller saloon. A dark-leather sofa, looking well worn and comfy, dominated the space. A pillow and some bedding were folded at one end, reminding Ava that Blake had given up his bed for her last night.
Another coffee table with a massive laptop and piles of paper appeared to act as a work space. At right angles to the couch, on the wall that divided off the living area from the rest of the boat, stood a chunky wooden bar. The bottom boasted ten, mostly full, rows of wine and above that was a shelf crammed full of every alcoholic spirit known to man.
Beyond the wall she knew was the bathroom, and beyond that his bedroom. What was beyond that, she didn’t know. The back of the boat, she guessed. What was that called? The stern?
Ava dragged her wandering mind back to the interior. All the dark leather, chrome and granite gave it such a masculine feel, like a den or a cave, yet the use of blonde wood and large windows gave it light and space. It was hard to believe that such a small area could feel so big.
Blake had done a fantastic job.
For she had absolutely no doubt that Blake had been responsible for the gorgeous interior—it had his signature all over it. She only had to look at the nearby coffee table to know that. It had been constructed out of a thick slab of dark timber complete with knots. It reminded her of the craftsmanship of her kitchen bench and she placed her coffee mug on it, then ran the flats of her palms across the polished surface.
It was absolutely stunning. She couldn’t not touch it.
She glanced up at Blake—still contemplating the London traffic. Clearly he wasn’t going to make conversation.
‘I’m sorry I barely noticed the boat last night. It’s...gorgeous.’
Blake should have known it was too much for her to just drink her coffee and let him call her a cab. He hadn’t slept very well last night, which had done nothing for his mood. He took a calming breath and turned round to face her.
She was sitting in the lounge chair cross-legged. His shirt was still falling off one shoulder and acres of golden leg were on display.
She really needed to go.
Ignoring Ava’s considerable charms when she’d been a picky, exacting client had been easy enough. Ignoring them when she was a damsel in distress and in the confines of his boat—not so easy.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
Ava waited for him to elaborate some more but nothing was forthcoming. ‘I’m assuming it’s all your own work?’ she prodded.
Blake nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Hobby, passion or business?’
Blake wondered if she’d shut up if he told her the truth. ‘Therapy.’
Ava blinked. That she hadn’t expected. She wanted to know more but, as Blake checked his watch, she doubted he was a man who elaborated. ‘Is it a narrow boat? I went on one when I was thirteen. It seems wider than what I remember?’
Blake stifled a sigh. ‘It’s a wide beam,’ he said. ‘It’s twelve foot across. Most narrow boats are about half that.’
‘Yes...I remember there wasn’t a lot of space...a wide beam seems like a much more liveable option?’
He shrugged and her eyes tracked the movement of his very nice broad shoulders. He’d tucked her head right in under them last night and they’d felt so solid around her—as if they really could stop bullets. She could still remember how safe she’d felt under their protection.
‘It depends what you want. Wide beams can restrict your travel options. Not all canals are made for wider boats.’
Ava was about to ask more but Blake drained the rest of his coffee, placed the mug on the sink, then turned to her and said, ‘You done?’
Ava, whose mug was almost empty, understood the implied message. Time to go. Her night was up. She too drained the contents of her drink, then held the mug out towards him. ‘That was delicious. Do you think I could possibly have another? I’m not really a morning person. Coffee helps.’
Blake contemplated telling her no. Something he doubted Ava Kelly had ever heard. But his innate manners won out. He strode towards her and took the mug, turning away from her and her temptingly bare shoulder instantly. He set about making her another cup, conscious of her gaze on his back the entire time.
It unsettled him. Blake didn’t like being unsettled.
‘That was Ken Biddle on the phone.’
Blake, who had been trying to tune her out, turned at the news. ‘They got him?’ he asked hopefully.
‘No.’ She shook her head and the ponytail swung perkily.
Blake had a thing for ponytails.
‘But they have some promising leads,’ she said. ‘They’re confident they’re closing in.’
‘That’s good, then,’ Blake said, turning back to the coffee machine, away from ponytails.
‘He thinks I’ll only need to lie low for a few more days.’
A presentiment of doom settled around him at the casual note in her voice. ‘What are your plans?’ he asked, stirring in her three sugars.
Ava watched as Blake’s shoulders straightened a little more. She took a calming breath. The second Ken had asked her to keep her head down for a little longer there’d only been one option for her. ‘Well, actually...I was hoping I could...stay here.’
Blake dropped the teaspoon and it clattered against the stainless-steel sink. No. Freaking. Way. He turned slowly around, careful to couch his distaste at the idea in neutrality. ‘But I’m going on holiday,’ he said, determined to be firm but reasonable.
‘Exactly,’ Ava nodded. ‘That’s why it’s perfect—don’t you see? I could boat sit for you, at least until they find the person who shot up my home anyway. I can be anonymous here—certainly no one’s going to be looking for me on the Regent’s Canal and it’ll look like someone’s still home here, for a little while anyway. It’s win-win.’
‘The boat is my holiday,’ he said, trying to stay calm in the face of her barefaced cheek. ‘I’m going up the Kennet and Avon to Bath, giving the boat her first decent run since I finished the fit-out.’
Ava was only temporarily discouraged as the appeal of spending some time afloat, traversing the English countryside on Blake’s gorgeous boat, took hold.
If she had to lie low, she might as well do it in style, right?
‘Even more perfect. I can come with you.’
This time Blake didn’t even bother to act as he stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. Had she seriously just invited herself along on his holiday? ‘No.’
‘Oh, come on, Blake, please?’ Ava climbed out of the chair, feeling at a distinct disadvantage with him glowering down at her. ‘It’ll just be for a few days and you won’t even know I’m here, I promise.’
Blake folded his arms as she neared. He hadn’t believed that statement last night and, after a horrible sleep on his couch, he believed it even less this morning. ‘No.’
‘Look, I’ll pull my weight. Seriously, I can help with locks and things. They’re much easier with an extra set of hands. And I can...I can cook,’ she said, desperately hoping that the way to this man’s heart—or his empathy at least—was through his stomach. ‘I am an excellent cook.’ She marched over to his fridge. ‘I can keep you well fed,’ she said as she opened it, ‘while you—’
Ava blinked. The fridge was bare save for a mauled six-pack of beer and a carton of milk.
&n
bsp; ‘Good luck with that,’ he said dryly.
Ava turned to face him as the door closed. ‘You have no food?’
‘I’m expecting a delivery in the next hour or so. It’ll stock me up for the trip.’
‘Yes, but...what do you normally eat?’
Blake shrugged. ‘I have coffee. And there’s plenty of places to eat on the riverside.’
Ava shook her head. Oh, man, he was going to want to marry her after a few days of her cooking. ‘In that case,’ she tisked, ‘you definitely need me along for the ride.’
Blake could not believe what he was hearing. ‘So, Ava Kelly supermodel, darling of the paparazzi, is going to be content to act like some anonymous little hausfrau-cum-first-mate, cooking and cleaning and being a general dogsbody?’
Blake refused to think what other services she might be able to render.
Ava folded her arms too. ‘I think I could manage it for a few days.’ She wasn’t going to be swayed by his taunts. She’d been called worse things and had worked incredibly hard since she was fourteen. Getting away with him for a few days was the perfect solution.
‘Reggie won’t like it,’ Blake warned.
She gave him one of her haughty, down-the-nose looks. ‘You leave Reggie to me.’
Blake rubbed a hand through his hair at her persistence. Just his luck to be saddled with a woman who wasn’t used to hearing no. ‘Look,’ he said, changing tack. ‘You want to lie low on a canal boat for a few days? I think that’s a great idea. Knock yourself out. There’s plenty along here for hire.’
Ava was starting to get ticked off. People didn’t usually argue with her so much. They were generally falling over themselves to agree with her. But not Blake. Oh, no.
And she didn’t understand why. She knew, in the way that women did, that he found her attractive. And it hadn’t been in the way he checked her out, rather in the way he’d avoided checking her out. Which was just as telling.
And, when she hadn’t been miffed by it, she’d admired him for it.