“Are you ill?” she whispered. “I saw the stuff in the fridge.”
His face tensed and then relaxed. “Yes. That’s my medicine. Don’t touch it. Good night.”
He walked out of the room and she stumbled after him. “Are you very sick? Is there anything I can do?”
Turner kept walking. “Yes, very sick. Yes, you can leave me alone.”
Very sick? Matty’s anxiety soared. “Is what you have catching? Should I worry I’m going to come out in spots or foam at the mouth or develop a hemorrhagic fever?”
He stopped and turned to look at her. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Good. Well, not that I think I would catch anything. I’ve never even had chicken pox or flu. I’m really healthy.” That’s not helping. “Sorry. You’re not…dying or anything?” She crossed her fingers behind her back.
“No. I’m not dying.”
“Sure?”
He snorted. “Positive.”
“Oh good.” Matty breathed a noisy sigh of relief. “So have you looked around? What do you think? It’s a lovely house, isn’t it? I watched them unload your furniture. It’s going to look beautiful when it’s arranged properly. I could help—”
“No, thank you.”
She stared at his broad shoulders as he stalked away. Now he’d removed his dark gray coat she could see what a great body he had—tall, slim, long-legged and narrow-hipped. His backside was…wow…taut, tight, perfect. He was much too good for her. All the guys she’d ever liked had been too good for her. Still, most of them had been ones she’d never met, like movie stars and singers. The thought trailed away.
Matty knew before the pain hit that it was coming and tensed. Her lungs locked and her heart cramped as though her ribs had tightened around it and squeezed. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.
Hurts, hurts, hurts.
Her legs trembled and her head swam. The feeling would pass in a moment. It always did. She could almost feel hands soothing her, voices reassuring. Air rushed back into her lungs and a sensation of lethargy spread through her veins like warm oil smoothed onto muscles. The pain faded. Matty opened her eyes to see Turner staring at her, his brow furrowed. She forced a smile to her lips and stood upright. “Want to go for a swim?”
“I want my privacy.”
“I can keep out of your way,” she muttered.
“You think I won’t notice you in my pool?” He quirked an eyebrow.
“You really won’t notice I’m here.”
“That’s right because you won’t be. I want you out by tomorrow evening.”
Matty shoulders slumped. What the hell was she doing? This would never work. The man disliked her. What if the thought of her hanging around stressed him so much he became sicker? If by some miracle she aroused his interest—so what? It didn’t mean her life would miraculously return to normal, whatever normal was. George had said Turner would rock her world, but he was wrong.
Or maybe he wasn’t. He might rock it in the wrong way.
Tears sprang up behind her eyes, and before Turner noticed—not that he’d care—Matty ran upstairs to the attic. She slammed the door and threw herself on the mattress. This would have to be her world for a little longer. Maybe a lot longer.
Matty lived in one tiny part of the roof space of the house, converted years ago into a teenager’s retreat. There was a small shower room and tiny non-functioning kitchen, and underfoot a tatty gray carpet striped with primary colors. Not much furniture, just the single mattress on the floor, her mother’s rocking chair and an old stripped pine chest of drawers. On top of that were all the keepsakes and ornaments that meant the most to her. Pictures of her parents, a clay model of her mother Matty made when she was seven, a few pieces of jewelry.
Two paintings done by her father hung on one wall and underneath she’d leaned the only ancient painting she’d been able to rescue, a portrait of one of her ancestors sitting on a horse. On the opposite side of the room shelves sagged under the weight of books she’d grabbed the morning the house clearance van arrived. Matty was working her way through them, even the boring ones. And there were a lot of boring ones.
Heaving herself off the mattress, she stripped and padded to the bathroom. She disliked getting ready for bed because sleep doesn’t come easy when you’re afraid you might never wake up. Sometimes nightmares dragged her to consciousness and her heart pounded hard enough to explode out of her chest. Other times, Matty had to fight for the morning light and emerged gasping as if she’d surfaced from a deep dive.
Teeth clean, face washed, she switched off the light and curled up naked under her blue-checked duvet. Okay, so things hadn’t gone quite right tonight, but tomorrow was a new day and Matty was nothing if not determined. She closed her eyes on a world in which she struggled to exist and opened the door on one where she always felt at home. In her imagination, nothing could harm her. In her fantasy world, she could make her life different and she might just introduce a scowling dark-haired guy into her dreams.
Might? Who was she kidding? Turner had a starring role.
Chapter Three
Turner cursed George every time he walked into another room. What was the point in having an assistant if he wasn’t there to assist? Forget the fact he’d wanted George well out of the way for the next couple of weeks. Turner was beginning to think George could have at least sorted out all this mess, particularly the equipment stacked in the stable block, before he went off to Chile. Though on second thought, perhaps that had better stay in boxes for the time being. Maybe it looked more suspicious that he’d let George go on vacation. Turner sighed. Playing innocent was what he’d decided on and he had to stick with the plan.
Boxes were heaped everywhere—Turner kept tripping over them—paintings leaned against the walls and larger pieces of sculpture were encased in so many layers of bubble wrap, Turner had no idea what they were. He wanted to enjoy the house’s elegant sense of proportion and classic symmetry. Instead he found himself irritated and distracted.
It was with some relief Turner discovered George had not let him down in relation to security, particularly in the master bedroom. Internal shutters with heavy bolts covered the windows and multiple locks on the door would keep out intruders. Yet Turner still felt uneasy.
Not hard to figure out why.
His gaze rose to the ceiling. Somewhere up there he had an unwanted and annoying houseguest. Doubly annoying because he was aggravated by the fact something about the little pest appealed to him. Well, to his basest nature. Turner’s cock nodded in agreement. Too bad. Turner had managed without a woman for a long time and that situation wasn’t going to change. His cock would just have to get used to the idea.
It thickened and unfurled.
Bugger.
Turner grabbed the nearest box, ripped off the tape and opened it. Bed linen. He pulled out familiar-looking burgundy sheets and figured the one with elasticized edges went on first. He tucked a corner of the sheet over the top of the mattress and pulled another corner to the bottom of the bed. It was nowhere near long enough. Turner peeled off the corner he’d fitted and wrapped it around the end of the mattress. When he pulled at the sheet, he’d still got the edge wrong. Fuck.
He yanked the whole thing off and held it up. It was impossible to tell which side was longest. It looked like a giant’s shower cap. Turner scowled and tried again. Three corners secured, a touch of brute force to drag the last into place and the sheet was stretched tight enough to bounce on.
Not that he had anyone to bounce with. Turner looked up and he snapped his head back down. He didn’t need anyone to bounce with, no matter what his cock thought.
Five cartons later, he found the duvet. The moment he ripped the tape, it exploded out of the cardboard like crazy foam to flow onto the wooden floor. Turner glared at the black and burgundy duvet cover he’d thrown on the bed. How the hell was he supposed to get all of this fluff inside it?
Fluff.
Mat
ty was as fluffy headed as that little jacket she’d worn. He hadn’t the energy to argue with her earlier, but he meant what he said, this would be her last night under his roof. Too dangerous to have her around. His thrall hadn’t worked. Maybe she was just too pig-headed to be influenced. Nothing was ever easy.
Turner wrestled most of the duvet into the cover and stared in dismay at the resultant lumpy mess. He must have it the wrong way round. He growled and went in head first, dragging a corner of the duvet to an inside corner of the cover, then holding the two together while he tried to do the same on the other side, only to find the duvet wouldn’t reach.
He needed another pair of hands.
Turner almost gave up, but he refused to be beaten by a couple of acres of cotton and goose down.
By the time the bed was made, his bad temper had reached critical mass. He flopped down on the duvet and stared at the ceiling, festooned with decorative plaster. He knew just the thing to calm him. Turner picked out ribbons, swags, urns and draped figures in the detail. Superb craftsmanship. The hours it must have taken. The crystal chandelier hanging in the center of the room looked original, though electricity rather than candles made the glass beads twinkle. Little to worry about in those days. Life was one of rules and regulations, and everyone knew their place.
Equilibrium restored, Turner sat up. If he was to unpack his clothes, he needed to replenish his energy.
He was halfway down the stairs when he froze, a yell on his lips. Matty stood stark naked in the middle of the entrance hall, turning in a slow circle. Turner took in her slim boyish hips, her cute backside, her little apple breasts with pert nipples, her hairless— Oh good God. His cock leapt to attention, trying to see for itself. Then he remembered his threat about wandering around naked and scowled. The tadpole was trying to seduce him. Not going to work.
“Nice try,” he snapped.
She ignored him.
Turner stuck his hand in his pocket and tried to strangle his cock into submission. He walked the rest of the way down the stairs and came to a halt in front of her.
“It’s no good pretending you can’t see me.” He snapped his fingers in front of her face.
She headed toward the wall between the library and the drawing room and ran her palms over the dado rail.
Turner rolled his eyes and stomped to the kitchen. Showing any reaction was pandering to her attention-seeking antics. Best to ignore her. He would feel better when he’d eaten. He would feel a lot better when she was out of sight. He would feel completely better when she was out of the house and in another county. Country. Planet.
Except when he came back, hunger gone, she was still there, only now she lay curled on her side under the stairs, hugging her knees like a scared child. Though she was no child. He could almost see her— Oh fuck. Turner jerked upright. She lifted her head and looked straight at him with no sign of recognition. He glared. She was good, he’d give her that, but he wanted her back in the attic before he did something stupid.
Oh, why not do something stupid? Turner flipped open the button on his pants and before he had his zipper all the way down, his cock jumped out.
She didn’t even blink. He leaned down and waved his hand in front of her face, his cock joining in. He expected a moue of disgust, a scornful laugh, something. But her face didn’t change, not an eyelash fluttered.
Shit.
Turner tucked himself away and fastened his pants, ashamed of such puerile behavior. How old was he? Thirteen?
A single tear trickled down her cheek, and he stared at her in horror. A woman crying was very bad news. A naked woman crying was even worse. The fact she was crying while sleepwalking naked in his house alarmed him even more. He watched in fascination as his hand reached to scoop up the tear. Even as he brought his finger to his lips, Turner wondered what the hell he was doing.
The tang of salt snapped his brain into action. He couldn’t leave her lying there, though he supposed since she’d found her way out of bed, she could find her way back into it, but she could equally well blunder into his belongings and damage them.
Or herself.
Yes, fine. I’m worried about her. Okay?
“Time for bed,” he said in as gentle a voice as he could manage. Do I always sound gruff?
She didn’t move. Turner sighed. If she didn’t freak out when he flashed her, she was hardly going to trot upstairs when he asked, however nicely. His fingers fidgeted at his sides.
Pick her up.
I shouldn’t.
Reach down and grab her.
I can’t. What if she wakes and thinks I’m assaulting her?
Thank fuck she didn’t see you waving your cock in her face.
Turner tsked in annoyance. A moment later he held her in his arms. She was soft and warm and her hair smelled of roses. Turner’s cock went ramrod straight and he winced. The sooner she was tucked up in bed the better. So hurry, idiot. No, because he needed to move slowly to be sure he didn’t wake her.
He’d not had the chance to really look at her before. He’d been half blinded by irritation and she was always moving. Now that she lay limp in his arms, he took in every detail of her face—her crazy white hair, her cute nose, her tiny ears with those soft, shell interiors his tongue itched to explore, the slender column of her neck that he’d— Turner swallowed his groan. No matter how adorable he found her, she did not belong in his house.
The stairs at the end of the second floor were presumably the way to the attic. Turner climbed the worn wooden treads and found the door open at the top. One step inside, he paused. He took in the rumpled makeshift bed on the floor, the large number of books, clothes lying all over the place and guessed she’d been living here for some time. Poor… Moment of sympathy over, he straightened. Her situation, whatever it was, didn’t mean she had a right to be there.
Two uncovered skylights gave a glimpse of a starry heaven, and Turner imagined her lying bathed in moonlight, her creamy skin… Oh shit. Put her down. He laid her on the bed and tugged the duvet over her. One click and the fiber optic bedside light sprang to life and dappled her face in a rainbow of colors. He frowned when he saw the thick white candle standing behind the bed. The thought of the house going up in flames worried him. He’d had extra smoke alarms installed but still wasn’t convinced he’d hear them in time if he was in a deep sleep, not without George there.
Turner hesitated and then picked up the candle. He couldn’t risk it.
But if he took it, she’d know he’d been in there.
He put it back.
Before he could snatch it up again, he stuffed his hand in his pocket.
She looked a lot younger while she slept. Long, dark lashes curled on her cheeks, tears all gone. White hair and dark lashes?
He’d prioritized what he needed to do to get the house straight, but now he had something different at the top of that list. Get rid of the squatter. So he needed to search out the documents relating to the purchase of the house and, failing that, details about the lawyers. Except there was something even more urgent than that. Turner went straight to his bedroom, locked the door, leaned back against it and unfastened his pants. His strangled cry of relief sounded overloud in his ears but was short-lived. Now that he’d given his cock room to breathe, it hardened, lengthened and insisted on attention.
Turner wrenched off his clothes on the way to the shower and dropped them in an untidy trail. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt as desperate to jack off to the image of a particular woman. He grabbed a bottle of shower gel from an open box as he passed and stepped into the curved glass cubicle. Turner welcomed the icy blast, hoping it would dampen his ardor, but the water warmed up fast.
With eyes shut or eyes open, Matty’s face filled his head. No need to conjure up a face from his past, a white-haired home intruder worked just fine. Turner squirted gel onto his hand and dragged his fist up from his balls, a slow pull along the length of his cock to bring his foreskin over his crest. He groaned a
nd leaned back against the shower wall, repeating the action with his fist until he was milking more and more pre-cum.
Torn between needing fast and wanting it slow, Turner twisted his hand around and, catching the sensitive cock head with his palm, he pushed his fist down to finish at his balls.
Those tiny ears.
Two hands, one above the other, pumping and squeezing.
Eyelashes as dark as his but longer.
Turner clasped his balls and tightened his hold as he used his other hand to stroke the swollen veins of his cock.
That tantalizing gap between her lips.
He fisted himself faster and tighter with one hand, and reached with his other to tease his anus. One finger sliding in the cleft of his buttocks to press against the puckered ring, and he grunted in pleasure.
Breasts made for his mouth.
Turner gasped as his finger slid inside up to the webbing. His hands worked in unison, teasing, tightening, thrusting until he felt the beast coming, racing toward him, hooves pounding, dark mouth widening to swallow him whole. Orgasm started in his head—maybe a few feet higher than that through a layer of plaster and floorboards—and roared down his spine to bathe his balls in liquid fire. His cum seethed, boiled and overflowed to shoot down his cock and spray onto the glass wall opposite.
His breathy cries echoed in the shower stall as he emptied himself in long, wrenching spasms. Turner watched the streaks of his cum slide down the glass. He sighed. He could think of a better home. Somewhere warm and snug.
He washed the shower then himself, and switched off the water. Turner stuck out his hand, waiting for the towel until he remembered two things—George wasn’t there and Turner hadn’t yet found the box with the bath towels.
Shit.
* * * * *
Matty woke with a crushing pain in her chest and air locked tight in her lungs. She struggled to sit and then fought to breathe while white dots danced in front of her eyes. Her fists clenched and she shook. Then with one deep gulp, oxygen rushed in and her world righted itself—only to tip and fall over with a crash when she looked to her left.
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