by Amy Andrews
Blake shoved his phone back in his pocket, pushing aside the unsettled feelings that both Ava and Joanna had roused. He shucked off his clothes and moved into the large glass shower recess. One of the beauties of a wide beam was all the extra space. It meant you could have more rooms. Or, as he had chosen, bigger rooms and he loved the decadence of his spacious bathroom.
On autopilot he went through the now almost second-nature process of taking off his prosthesis and placing it outside the glass area. Still on autopilot he reached for the gleaming metallic railing that was attached to the tiles at waist height the entire way. He barely registered the gritty, high-grip tiles beneath his foot.
He flicked the taps and the water rained down on him nice and hot within seconds. He shut his eyes, forcing himself to relax. To clear his head of his sister’s unhelpful suggestions. And Ava’s unhelpful seduction.
And the unhelpful build of sexual frustration.
Just because he was horny didn’t mean he should act on it. Not with her anyway.
* * *
He turned, letting the water sluice over his neck, flopping his head first forward then back, enjoying the heat on traps he’d had no idea were so tense. His eyes fluttered open. And that was when he saw it.
A lacy black thong hanging over the shower screen.
Pink ribbon weaved along the waistband and a little pink bow sat dead centre, another diamanté winking down at him.
She’d been wearing that get up under her clothes all day? His traps tensed again.
Crap.
* * *
Blake woke the next morning after another fitful sleep to dreadful off-key singing and the smell of frying bacon. His stomach growled and his mouth watered despite the assault to his ears.
He hadn’t been sure what to expect this morning after their...disagreement last night and he’d lain awake wondering what kind of a post-spat personality she was.
Was she a flouncer, a sulker, a brooder?
It certainly didn’t sound as if she was any of the above if her peppy singing was anything to go by. He reached for his leg and put it on, then reached for his T-shirt and pulled it down over his head. He’d taken it off during the night as replays of Ava straddling him had made the warm night quite a few degrees hotter.
He rubbed a hand through his hair, taking a moment before standing and facing her. Ava’s singing stopped momentarily and he could hear the lower murmur of a breakfast news programme on the television. Blake hoped that Ken had some news for them this morning. Like they’d found the person or persons responsible for shooting up Ava’s house.
She started singing again and he made his way to the kitchen and just stood and watched her for a moment as she boogied in front of the cooktop. The gown from last night was on again but was floating loosely by her sides and he felt a sudden kick in his groin at the thought that she might just be naked under there and if she turned around then—
She turned around.
Everything leapt to attention for a brief second and not even the evidence of his own eyes—that she was indeed wearing something under that gown—could stop the rapid swelling of his erection. Because a spaghetti-strapped, clingy, not-quite-meeting-in-the-middle vest top and matching boy-leg undies on a tall, bronzed supermodel was something to behold.
Her face lit up. ‘Ah.’ She smiled at him. ‘You’re up. I’m making bacon butties.’
Blake swallowed. Up? In more ways than one. Was there anything more sexy than a woman in skimpy lingerie? Except maybe for a woman in skimpy lingerie cooking bacon?
Ava smiled as Blake’s gaze roved all over her. Yeh, buddy, this is what you’re missing out on. ‘How’d you’d sleep last night?’ she enquired sweetly.
Blake’s eyes narrowed at the suspiciously smug question. So this was the kind of post-spat personality she was—a fighter.
Who liked to play dirty.
Well, he wasn’t one of her entourage of men who fluttered around her and kissed her butt. ‘Like a log,’ he said.
Wrong choice of words as her gaze dropped to the area between his hips with its suspicious bulge.
Which did not help the suspicious bulge.
But then her smile slipped a little and a tiny frown knitted her brows together. He looked down at what she’d found so disagreeable and realised, unlike every other time she’d seen him, his prosthesis was on full display.
He supposed a woman as physically perfect as Ava would find his leg rather confronting. He felt absurdly like covering it up. And then he felt really freaking cranky.
Blake’s teeth ached from clenching his jaw hard as he waited for her to say something. Something trite or clueless, something about how at least he still had one leg or how marvellous prosthetics were these days.
Instead she just dragged her gaze back up to look into his eyes. ‘Take a seat. Eggs are just about done.’
EIGHT
There was no news from Ken, although Ava Kelly was still the talk of the tabloids and breakfast shows. Speculation as to where she’d disappeared was rife and one talk-back radio station had even offered money to anyone who could produce pictorial evidence of her whereabouts.
Ken was far from impressed with that.
Blake was downright annoyed. He suggested Ava put Reggie to good use and sue their arses off for endangerment. She’d just shrugged, clearly so desensitised to press intrusion that the invasion of her human rights didn’t even register.
They got under way again as soon as breakfast was done. They were travelling along a stretch of the tidal Thames and they had to fit into lock times that were mandated by the tide. His plan was to moor somewhere around Windsor overnight then on to Reading the next day where the Kennet and Avon canal began. Once they’d turned into it, they could putt along more lazily, but for now it was full steam ahead.
Or as full steam as possible when the speed limit was four miles per hour!
And Ava Kelly was your very distracting travelling companion.
Blake didn’t think she was being deliberately distracting. She was fully bagged up again. Baggy shorts and shirt, her hair all tucked up in a cap, sunglasses firmly in place. She looked as anonymous as the next woman riding the canals.
But he knew what she had on under all those layers.
And that was pretty much all he could think about—every time she moved or talked or offered him something to eat. Like freaking Eve with the apple. In fact, even when she wasn’t anywhere near him, he was thinking about her and what she might be wearing against her skin.
Did she have on the same spaghetti-strapped vest and matching boy-legs that had been under her gown this morning—the ones that displayed the most perfect belly-button probably ever created? Or had she changed into some other frothy, lacy, silky, maybe be-ribboned scraps of fabric when she’d changed into her outside clothes?
It was annoying how much brain space the speculation was taking up. He should be enjoying the gorgeous sunshine on his face, the breeze in his hair, the spectacular beauty of the English countryside. And while Ava had raved over the magnificence of Hampton Court, he’d barely registered it.
It wasn’t good for his mood or his sanity, and it was the last straw when he caught himself trying to look down her top from his vantage point standing at the helm as she asked him a question from the bottom of the three stairs that led to the back of the boat.
‘What?’ he asked, when he realised he hadn’t heard a word she’d said because he swore he caught a glimpse of red satin.
Ava, who’d deliberately leaned forward a little, gave him an innocent smile. ‘I said are you ready for some lunch now?’
‘Yep. But not here.’
Blake knew he had to get off the boat. Get away from the lure of her and red satin. Put himself amongst people, where he had to behave rationally. And not tea
r her clothes off with his teeth.
‘There’s a pub just up ahead,’ he said. ‘About five minutes away. We’ll moor and eat there.’
‘Fab,’ she said and smiled up at him.
Blake pushed the boat a little harder.
* * *
Ava was enjoying watching the array of boats go by and the sun on her face as they sat in the reasonably full beer garden that fronted the river. They were sitting at one end of a bench—the other end a family group were chatting away oblivious to who was sharing their table with them.
By tacit agreement, Blake had gone inside and ordered for them while Ava stayed out. Being incognito worked best when she exposed herself to scrutiny as little as possible. Sitting in a riverside beer garden just like any ordinary girl was clearly possible, but the more people she spoke to, the more she risked exposure.
She was pleased when Blake came back with two pints of cold beer. It was warm in the sunshine and she felt hot in her baggy attire. What she wouldn’t give to be in her bikini now, or at least in clothes that didn’t cover her from neck to knee.
‘You remembered,’ she said, smiling at him as she lifted her glass and tapped it against the rim of his larger one. ‘Cheers.’
Blake watched her guzzle it like a pro then lick the froth from her mouth. Sexiest thing he’d ever seen.
‘Mmm,’ she murmured after taking several deep swallows, quenching the thirst the hot sun had roused. ‘That hit the spot. It’s warm, isn’t it?’
Ava put the beer down and pulled on the neckline of her shirt, fanning it back and forth rapidly to try and cool the sweat she could feel forming between her breasts. She hadn’t done it to provoke Blake but it was pleasing when his eyes narrowed and followed the movement.
She was glad his sunglasses didn’t obscure his eyes as hers did. She liked knowing exactly where he was looking.
He looked kind of hot and bothered himself and she smiled. ‘Aren’t you roasting in those jeans?’ she asked.
Blake shrugged. ‘I’m okay.’
Ava regarded him. Did he always cover up his prosthesis? She’d been surprised when she’d seen it this morning. Not because she thought it was grotesque but because Blake always seemed so sure of himself, so confident, so...able. Seeing his leg had been a reminder that he wasn’t, or at least that it wasn’t so effortless for him.
‘Do you never wear shorts?’ she asked.
He dropped his gaze to his beer and took another sip and she could tell he was uncomfortable with the subject.
‘Perfect weather for them,’ she pushed as he turned his head to take in the activity on the busy river. ‘You don’t like people knowing?’ Ava guessed tentatively.
Blake sighed as he turned back to face her, putting his beer down. ‘I don’t care who knows or doesn’t know. Jeans...avoid conversations I don’t want to have.’
Ava got the message loud and clear. But she wanted to have the conversation anyway. ‘Like how it happened?’
‘Yes.’
‘What a hero you must be?’ she guessed again.
Blake rolled his eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘How brave you are?’
He nodded. ‘Yes.’
The level of chatter around them was sufficiently high that they could talk without fear of being overheard and Ava really wanted to know more about the circumstances of his amputation. The man had pushed her to the ground as someone shot up her house, purely out of instincts that had obviously been honed during his time in war zones.
As far as she was concerned he was a hero.
‘How did it happen?’
Blake didn’t really fancy talking about it with her, but at least talking was keeping his mind off her red bra. In fact maybe he could use it to his advantage. ‘If I tell you, will you promise to not hang your underwear in my shower?’
Ava was momentarily surprised by his blatant blackmail. But it was satisfying to know that her underwear was getting under his skin. ‘Deal.’
Blake took another sip of his beer. ‘It happened the usual way,’ he said dismissively. ‘On patrol in the middle of nowhere. A roadside bomb. An IED. All over red rover.’
Ava should have expected the abridged version. ‘Did anyone die?’
Blake steeled himself not to flinch at the question. ‘Yes. One.’
Ava nodded slowly at another abridged version that told her nothing of the emotional carnage he must have borne. ‘And the leg? Did you lose it straight away or after?’
‘It was pretty mangled. They amputated it as soon as I hit the hospital.’
His words were flat, his answers matter-of-fact but Ava could see the tension in his muscle, the tightness of his jaw.
‘That must have been...incredibly painful,’ she murmured.
Blake gripped his glass as the sounds of his screams flashbacked to fill his head all over again. He wondered if people—if Ava—would think him so heroic if they knew how loudly he’d screamed. Lying in agony in the dirt, his eardrums blown out, the warm ooze of his own blood welling over the hand he’d reached down to try and stop the pain.
If they knew his brother-in-law lay dead beside him and Blake hadn’t even given him a single thought.
‘It was.’
Ava was about to say more. To push more. To ask more. But the waiter arrived, placing their ploughman’s lunches in front of them and an extra bowl of hot chips for Ava, and Blake’s white-knuckled grip on his glass eased as he picked up his knife and fork.
‘Let’s eat,’ he said.
Ava sighed. Conversation over.
* * *
They didn’t talk much over lunch, for which Blake was grateful. Ava seemed happy enough to drop her line of questioning and just eat and enjoy the sunshine, with occasional questions about their route for the afternoon.
He didn’t really talk about what had happened to him—not with civilians anyway. His family knew the most of it. The army shrink knew more. Joanna at one stage had wanted to know every detail and had wanted to go over and over it ad nauseam and, even though it had been horrible and he’d dreaded seeing her number flash on his phone screen or hearing her wobbly, strung-out voice in his ear, he’d done it because he’d owed her.
The only people he could really talk to about it with any level of comfort were the guys he’d served with because they were the only ones who could truly understand any of it. But he rarely saw any of them and when he did, contrary to popular perception, none of them were particularly keen to rehash old war stories.
Talking about it with Ava wasn’t his definition of fun but at least he’d won a concession from her so maybe it had been worth it.
He watched her as she laid her cutlery on her empty plate then reached for the tomato sauce bottle and squirted great dollops all over her hot chips, then sprinkled a heart-attack quota of salt over the top. She picked one up in her fingers, and ate with gusto, sighing a little sigh. She added two more to her mouth, then, before they were fully swallowed, another two.
A dollop of sauce smeared at the corner of her mouth and Blake’s gaze was drawn to it—he couldn’t help himself.
‘What?’ she asked around her mouthful of hot chips. Then she picked up the remnant of her beer and washed them down, licking her lips free of sauce and beer residue.
The woman made the simple act of eating into a sexual enterprise.
‘Isn’t your body supposed to be a temple or something?’ he asked. ‘Aren’t supermodels supposed to always be on some kind of diet that involves no carbs and lots of egg-white omelettes and running on a treadmill for six hours a day?’
‘Ugh, no thanks.’ Ava shuddered as she picked up another chip and popped it in her mouth. ‘My mother used to be strict about that stuff as I was growing up and—’
Ava stopped. She didn’t want to think about
her pageant-queen mother. It was a long time ago and it always put her in a bad mood and the sunshine and company were just too good.
‘Anyway...I do exercise...mostly...but...’ She sighed. ‘I have to admit, I’m not a fan and it’s hard to see the point when I’m one of those people who have good genetics with a great metabolism and can pretty much eat whatever without putting on weight. I’ve been really blessed like that.’ She grimaced. ‘I’m one of those women other women hate.’
Blake could see that. Most women he knew had some kind of body hang-up or other trying to keep up with impossible images in women’s magazines. Images that she perpetrated.
‘The thing is,’ she said as she chomped on another chip, ‘I just freaking love food. I don’t know if that’s because of Dad’s influence or not but it’s just...I don’t know, like...air to me. I need it.’
‘And,’ she said, picking up another two chips and dipping them in a puddle of sauce on the bottom of the bowl, ‘I’m starving all the time, which is why I cook a lot at home and wanted an amazing kitchen, which you—’ she jabbed another chip in his general direction before popping it in her mouth ‘—gave me in spades. No pics of me at restaurants stuffing a three-course meal down then asking for seconds of dessert. I eat like a supermodel when I’m in public and then come home and cook up something amazing in my beautiful kitchen because by then I’m so freaking hungry I’m almost faint with it.’
Blake knew it shouldn’t, but her appreciation of both his kitchen and for food in general turned him on. Just talking about how much she loved food had clearly got her all enthused and excited. She was using the chips to emphasise her points and her cheeks were all flushed and her freckles were standing out. He wanted to whisk her glasses off and see if the yellow highlights in her eyes were glittering fit to match the sun on the Thames.
There was nothing haughty or spoiled about this Ava, who was chowing down on hot chips and cold beer.
Ava chose another chip, realising there were only five left and she hadn’t offered him any. ‘Oh, God, sorry,’ she said, picking up the bowl and pushing it towards him. ‘Do you want any? They were so good I got carried away.’