She wasn’t one of those useless, helpless women who thought that their role in life was to be dependent. Her slender hands efficiently did what had to be done. Her robe had fallen open and he could see her tee shirt underneath and the shorts that she slept in. Sensible sleeping wear and never, he thought, had he ever seen anything so damned sexy.
James was taken aback by the sudden ferocity of his arousal and he realised that it had been there from the start, practically from the moment he had laid eyes on her again. He whipped the duvet over him because she wouldn’t have been able to miss the definition of his erection underneath the jogging bottoms that she had brought down for him the evening before and that he was still wearing.
His breath caught in his throat when, eventually, she stood up, all five foot leggy ten, and brushed her hands together to shake off some of the woody dust and ash. She had forgotten that she was supposed to clutch the dressing gown around her and now he had an eyeful of long, shapely legs and the brevity of a tee shirt that delineated full, firm breasts. He thought back to four years previously when she had offered herself to him, thought back to how close he had come to taking what had been on offer, only pulling back because he had known, instinctively, that a vulnerable girl with little experience didn’t need a man like him. Desire for her now slammed into him and he half closed his eyes.
‘No wonder you have to pull that duvet over you.’ Jennifer walked towards him and James looked at her. She was resting her hands on her waist and wore a reproving expression. ‘It’s cold in here even with the heating on. You should have yelled for me to come down and light the fire. I would have understood that you couldn’t do it yourself.’
James shifted and dragged his eyes away from those abundant orbs barely contained underneath the skimpy tee shirt. In resting her hands on her waist, she had pushed aside the dressing gown and was it his imagination or could he see, in the grey, indistinct light, the outline of her nipples?
‘I was hardly about to do that when you made it clear that taking care of me for five minutes was a chore,’ he said gruffly, dragging his eyes away from the alluring sight.
Jennifer flushed guiltily in the face of this blunt accusation. He couldn’t even look her in the face and she could understand why. She had been a miserable friend, taking out her insecurities on him when he had done nothing but try and fix the gaping hole four years of absence had left in their friendship. In return, she had sniped, chastised and been grudging in her charity. God, he was probably close to truly disliking her.
When she thought about that, about him really not wanting to spend time in her company, she was filled with a sour, sickening anguish.
Although she had been at pains to avoid him for four long years, she had never, actually, thought about the simple truth, which was that she had engineered the destruction of a long-standing friendship. She had thought that the choice was a simple one. All or nothing. And in Paris she had managed to kid herself that nothing was achievable. It wasn’t. Her heart picked up speed and she longed for him to look at her again instead of averting his eyes from her the way he would have averted them from a stranger who couldn’t be bothered to help out in a crisis.
‘I’m sorry if that was the impression I gave you, James. I didn’t mean to. It’s not a chore. Of course, it isn’t.’
‘You’ve made it perfectly clear that this is the last place on the face of the earth you want to be, especially when there’s the exciting pull of Paris, parties and important exhibitions to view.’
‘I never said anything about parties,’ Jennifer mumbled. Disconcertingly, the exhibition that she had been looking forward to when she had left Paris now held little appeal. Technicolor reality was happening right here and everything else had been reduced to an out-of-focus, inconsequential background blur.
‘And Patric will be fine hosting his exhibition without me. In fact, sometimes those things can be a little bit tiring.’
James, who couldn’t think of the blond man without feeling distinctly uptight, pricked up his ears. He looked as she perched on the side of the sofa and picked absently at the tassel on one of the cushions, which she had rescued from the ground where it had landed at some point during the night.
‘Really?’ he asked in an encouraging voice and she shot him a guilty look from under her lashes.
James kept his eyes firmly fixed on her face because anywhere else would have been disastrous for the array of responses his body was having in her presence. Those were definitely her nipples outlined against the soft cotton tee shirt. He could see the tips of them. It was just one reason to make sure he looked directly at her face, although even that made him feel a little giddy.
‘I love art and I just love going to exhibitions and, of course, I would do anything in the world to help Patric out, but sometimes it gets a little boring at those dos. Lots of glamorous people trying to outdo one another. The women are always dripping with jewellery and most of the men barely look at the paintings because they are into investment art. You see, Patric’s parents are rather well connected so the guest list is usually… well… full of the Great and the Good…’
‘Sounds tedious,’ James murmured. ‘Can’t stand that kind of thing myself…’
‘It can be a little dull,’ Jennifer confided. ‘But the financial climate is tough out there and art is a luxury buy at the end of the day. Patric has no option but to put up with stuff like that.’
‘Maybe he enjoys it…’ James was keen to insinuate that the wonderful best-buddy-confidante thing might have been something of an illusion. People who go abroad could be very susceptible to the kindness of strangers. ‘He certainly looked on top of the world in those pictures I saw of him. Big grin, lots of hot babes around him…’
‘He always has a lot of hot babes around him.’ Jennifer laughed. ‘He’s that kind of person. Women are attracted to him. He doesn’t try to hide his feminine side.’
‘You’re telling me that the man’s gay?’
‘I’m telling you no such thing!’ But she found herself laughing, right back in that place where they had always been so good together. ‘He’s just in tune with women, likes talking about the things they like talking about, and he’s also a massive flirt.’
James wanted to ask her if that was why they had broken up. Had she, perhaps, caught him in bed with one of those hot babes to whom he had been pouring out his heart, showing his sensitive side, while simultaneously chatting about clothes and shoes and feelings?
But regrettably she was standing up and telling him that she would go and get changed and get the day started.
‘I’ll bring you some breakfast,’ she said, ‘just as soon as I’ve had a shower. Er…’ Should she ask him whether he wanted a shower? A bath, maybe, if he was up to that? She decided not to because just the thought of helping him get undressed made her feel light-headed and horribly, horribly turned on.
‘Er… I won’t be long…’ She thought about helping him get naked, wondered what he would look like and felt faint at the thought of it. ‘You can make a list of what you want me to bring back from the house for you and I’ll need your key. I know Dad has one but I have a feeling he keeps it on his key ring, which he took with him to Scotland.’
For the first time since she had arrived at the cottage and run slap bang into James, Jennifer was feeling on top of the world as she quickly showered and changed into a pair of faded jeans, a vest, a tee shirt, a jumper and some very thick knee-high socks. She knew why. Keeping him at a continual distance was hard work. Of course, she wasn’t about to start being overly chummy, giggling and forgetting that he was the guy who had broken her young heart, but it was just a hell of a lot easier to let him in just a little.
At any rate she had no choice, did she? He was laid up, unable to move. She had to physically help him! If she could open up and be friends with him once more, it would just prove that she had got over him! More or less! Those niggly, confused, tumultuous, excited feelings she was having would th
erefore be nothing to worry about!
The list was ready when she returned. On it he had written, ‘laptop, charger, clothes’.
‘But before you disappear,’ he said, making it sound as though she were Scott of the Antarctic, ‘I’m feeling a little peckish…’
She was still feeling strangely upbeat when, forty-five minutes later, she headed off to his house. The estate was so vast that no other dwelling could be glimpsed from any window in the house. In summer, the trees shielded the view of the house but those trees now were bare and heavy with snow and it was a battle against the wind and the snow to make it to the front door. She had been to the house before but never to his bedroom, which she managed to locate by a process of elimination. The top of the house was comprised of a suite of rooms, and was virtually closed off, used only for guests. Of the other bedrooms, only one, apart from Daisy’s, resembled a room that was occupied.
Deep burgundy floor-length drapes were pulled open so that she could see, outside, the steady swirl of the never-ending snow. Most of the pale carpet was covered by a sprawling Persian rug and a massive four-poster bed dominated much of the room. It was neatly made up but, when she leaned against the doorframe and closed her eyes, she could picture James lying on it, wickedly, sensationally sexy, with dark satin sheets lightly covering his bronzed muscular body. Then she pictured him on that sofa, with the duvet over him as she perched on the edge and chatted to him, so close that their bodies had been practically touching. She blinked guiltily and the image was gone.
Locating a handful of clothes took no time at all but it felt uncomfortable gathering them up, jumpers, trousers, tee shirts and underwear. Designer items neatly laundered and tossed into the drawer indiscriminately. She had grabbed two plastic bags before leaving the cottage and she stuffed all the items inside and then hunted down his laptop computer and charger, both of which were in the kitchen where he had left them before his heroic mission to fell the tree.
She had left him lying on the sofa and he was still there when she finally returned, although he had decided that he couldn’t remain prone for ever.
‘I can manage to move a bit when the painkillers kick in,’ he announced, liking the way the wet made the waves in her long hair turn into curls. Her dark hair was dramatic against the paleness of her skin and he didn’t think he had ever noticed before how long her lashes were or how satiny smooth her complexion.
‘But I don’t think it’s going to do any good if I try and work sitting up on the sofa,’ he pushed himself up, flexed his muscles and grimaced when his back made itself felt. ‘I should be upright. You’d probably know that if you’d done that first-aid course you never got around to doing.’
‘So what are you suggesting?’ Jennifer asked drily.
‘Well… I can use that chair over there but you might have to bring me some sort of desk. We can position it by the bay window.’
‘What sort of desk did you have in mind, sir?’
‘Would it be asking too much for you to get the one I use at the house? It’s roughly eight by four.’ He grinned and felt a kick when she grinned back at him and shook her head with an elaborate sigh.
‘I suppose I could bring down my dressing table. It’s small and light and it’ll have to do.’ She glanced down at the clothes she had brought over in the plastic bag. ‘Can you manage to change yourself?’
‘Only after I’ve had a shower, but I figure I can just about make it up the stairs myself. If you could lend me a towel…’
She did and while he showered—she could hear the water and could picture him standing under it—she cleared the little dressing table and manoeuvred it down the stairs where she set up a miniature work station for him. An office away from his office with a view of the snowy landscape.
The cottage was small and, having avoided him the night before, leaving him to watch television on his own, she resigned herself to the fact that she wasn’t similarly going to be able to avoid him during daylight hours. She could work in the kitchen and she would, but even stretching her legs would entail walking into the sitting room.
Far from feeling discomforted by the prospect of that, as she had the evening before, she felt as if something had changed between them. Despite her best efforts, she had stopped fighting herself and relaxed.
He had forgone the hassle of shaving and he emerged half an hour later with wet hair and just enough of a stubble so that he looked even darker and sexier. Reluctantly she was forced to admit that neither Patric nor Gerard, the erstwhile lawyer with whom she had tried to forge a relationship, were a patch on James when it came to sheer animal sex appeal.
He took himself off to the sitting room with a pot of coffee and Jennifer tried to concentrate on catching up with her emails in the kitchen. It was almost impossible. Eventually, she began reading some of her father’s recipe books, amused when she noticed a number of pages creased, dishes he had either tried or else had put on a list to try at some stage.
In the midst of trying to decide whether she should just abandon all hope of concentrating on work and start cooking something a little more ambitious for their dinner, she was interrupted by the sound of a book hitting the ground with force and she yelped and jumped to her feet.
James was standing by the window with his hand pressed against the base of his back and scowling. He turned as she entered and greeted her with, ‘Why do people resist doing something when they must know that it’s for their own good!’
Jennifer looked down at the heavy book that had hit the floor. It was her father’s gardening tome.
‘Apologies. I had to throw something.’
‘Do you throw something every time you get frustrated?’ she asked, moving to collect the book and replace it on the little coffee table.
‘My favoured way of releasing stress is to go to the gym and punch-bag it out of my system. Unfortunately that’s impossible at the moment.’ He felt a lot less stressed now that she was in the room. ‘What are you doing in the kitchen? Are you working?’
‘I’m reading a recipe book and wondering whether I should chance cooking something a little more ambitious a bit later. Shall I get you something to eat? Drink?’
‘No, but you can sit and talk to me.’ He gave up the chair in favour of the sofa and lay down with a sigh of intense relief.
‘Your secretary must have a nightmarish time working for you,’ Jennifer commented, moving to the comfy chair by the fire and tucking her legs under her.
She marvelled at how easy it was to slide back into this easy companionship and how much she was appreciating it, having feared it to be lost and gone for good. She tried not to think that it was no good for her and then decided that she was just, finally, dealing with things in an adult fashion. Not hiding, not fighting, just accepting and moving on. What could be dangerous or unhealthy about that? Besides, she enjoyed looking at him, even though she hated admitting that weakness to herself. She liked seeing him rake his fingers through his hair as he was doing now. It was a gesture that had followed him all through his teenage years.
‘My secretary loves working for me,’ he denied. ‘She can’t wait to start work in the mornings.’
Jennifer imagined someone young, pretty and adoring, following him with her eyes and working overtime just to remain in his company, and suddenly was sick with jealousy. ‘She’s in her sixties, a grandmother, with a retired husband who gets under her feet. Working for me is like having a permanent holiday.’
The relief that flooded her set up a series of alarm bells in her head and she resolutely ignored them. So that crush she had had might not have been quite as dead and buried as she had hoped, but she could deal with that!
He was grinning at her and she smiled back and said something about his ego, but teasingly, blushing when he continued to look at her with those fabulous deep blue eyes.
‘So tell me why you threw the book,’ she said, still feeling a little hot and bothered by his lingering stare. She knew that it wasn’t good t
o feed an addiction, however much you thought you were in control, but she found she just couldn’t stand up and walk back to the kitchen and carry on reading recipe books.
‘A couple of months ago, we finalised a deal with a publishing company. On the whole a lucrative buyout with a lot of potential to go somewhere, but one of the subsidiary companies is having a problem toeing the line.’
Jennifer leaned forward, intrigued. She remembered reading about that buyout on the Internet. ‘What do you mean toeing the line?’
‘They need to amalgamate. They have a niche market but it makes no money. The employees could be absorbed into the mainstream publishing company and get on board with ebooks but they’re making all sorts of uncooperative noises and refusing to sign on the dotted line without a fight. Of course, they could be made to toe the line but I’d rather not take on board disgruntled employees.’
Jennifer had worked with a couple of small publishing houses in Paris, one of which specialised in maps, the other in rare limited edition books. She had been fascinated to find how differently they were run from their mainstream brothers and how different the employees were. They were individually involved in their companies in a way ordinary employees tended not to be. Both had successfully broken away from the umbrella of the mother company and both were doing all right but hardly brilliantly. Without any security blanket, it was tough going.
She peppered him with questions about the legal standing of the company he was involved with, quite forgetting her boredom in the kitchen when she had been unable to concentrate on work.
Digging into her experiences with similar companies, she expanded on all the problems they had faced when they had successfully completed management buyouts.
‘You want to work with them,’ she said earnestly. ‘You can exploit a different market. It doesn’t all have to be about ebooks and online reads. I personally think it’s worth having that niche market operating without interference because it really lends integrity to the bigger picture.’
The Girl He'd Overlooked Page 8