by Rice, Heidi
But what she hadn’t counted on was the crows of doubt swooping down and pecking apart her logic once the dizzying rush of lust from their nooner in Phil’s office had cleared.
What if she’d made a catastrophic mistake? Was she really capable of handling a man as overpowering as Ryan King? She had absolutely no experience of the kind of fling he was talking about, while he was clearly an expert at them. And how was overdosing on endorphins on a regular basis going to affect her common sense?
The first crow to appear had been Phil. She’d insisted on finishing her shift, hoping against hope that Phil would be too chivalrous to mention her and Rye’s twenty-minute disappearing act. No such luck. Although Rye hadn’t helped her chances one bit with the deliberately proprietary kiss he’d planted on her lips in front of the whole café—garnering a round of applause from the customers and a scowl from his manager—before he strolled out of the door, the hitch in his stride taking on a definite swagger.
Maddy had nipped off to the kitchen, but Phil had cornered her by the wait station ten minutes later.
‘Maddy, what the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ he’d demanded.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she replied, struggling for guileless but failing miserably with the heat throbbing in her cheeks after Rye’s kiss.
‘Don’t give me that. Knowing Rye, I can guess what you two were up to in my office.’
The denial clogged in her throat as the heat in her cheeks went nuclear.
‘Yeah, I thought so,’ Phil finished, shaking his head.
‘I’m sorry,’ she blurted out. Why did the liberating experience of ten minutes ago seem hopelessly immature and impetuous all of a sudden?
‘Don’t be,’ he said, resigned. ‘It’s not your fault. Rye has that effect on women. He always has. Even when we were in school. He could have any girl he wanted. The rest of us were in awe.’
Maddy swallowed. While she appreciated this insight into Rye’s teenage years, Phil wasn’t telling her anything she hadn’t already guessed. And, frankly, knowing about Rye’s success with women from such an early age was making her nervous.
‘But he never kept any of them,’ Phil said, his voice sombre. ‘And some of them tried really hard to hang on to him.’ He sighed. ‘Whatever he’s told you, whatever promises he’s made, he won’t keep them. I love the guy like a brother. But, when it comes to women, he’s about as dependable as Casanova on Viagra.’
The knots of tension in Maddy’s shoulders tightened. She really didn’t need to hear this.
‘It’s okay, Phil. I know what I’m doing.’ Or at least she hoped she did. ‘You don’t have to worry.’
Phil shrugged, looking resigned. ‘Fine; I guess I can’t stop you.’ He leant down and gave her a brotherly kiss on the forehead. ‘But make sure you don’t fall for him. Because the only one whose heart will get broken is yours.’
Maddy huffed out a laugh at the memory of Phil’s parting comment as she plucked the whisk off the utensils rack. Who would have guessed that Phil had such a romantic streak? She started attacking the lumps in her béchamel as the snakes in her stomach began to calm down.
Phil’s little speech may have made her a little too aware of the magnitude of what she had agreed to. And how much more experienced Rye was in bed. But, thank goodness, falling for her no-strings fling was one problem she didn’t have to worry about.
She wasn’t a romantic. And she never would be. She had seen what the ‘love delusion’, as Cal liked to call it, had done to her parents. Hadn’t they always professed to love each other while tearing each other apart?
She stared out of the window at the dusky evening light. She had no delusions about love. Because the experience of living through the carnage of her parents’ marriage had made her positive it didn’t exist.
Yes, one day she yearned to have a stable, steady relationship and make a home she could be proud of—with a man who respected her and cared for her. A man she could trust implicitly. In a way her mother had never been able to trust her father.
But she already knew Rye wasn’t that man and she wasn’t enough of a fool any more to think she could mould him into that man with enough time and effort and patience on her part.
Tonight would set the tone for the weeks to come. And the only reason she was so nervous was that she wanted to get it right. She wanted to be confident and in control, but also sexy and alluring and irresistible. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Which meant she had to relax.
She poured the still gloopy but just about passable sauce onto her lasagne.
Basically, she wanted to be Mata Hari. She layered the vegetables she’d roasted with the sheets of pasta. With a little pinch of domestic goddess for added flavour. She slipped the completed lasagne into the oven. Which was a tall order for any woman, especially a woman who’d spent most of her love life so far being Minnie Mouse.
Then she spotted the time on the oven clock.
Six thirty-five!
Whipping out the tea towel tucked into her jeans and dumping it on the counter top, Maddy dashed into the cottage’s shoe-box-sized bedroom.
She had less than half an hour to turn Minnie Mouse into Mata Hari, Domestic Goddess.
Maddy jumped at the buzz of the doorbell and swept damp palms down the simple black dress she’d settled on after trying on three different outfits. Pulling one of the silk designs she’d painted this spring off the top shelf, she used it as a scarf to tie her hair back hastily, drew a few curls down to frame her face and hoped it made her look sexy. Slipping into her matching black pumps, she crossed the front room and pulled open the heavy oak door.
Rye’s broad shoulders blocked out the evening light as his gaze dropped down her figure. The dress didn’t have much of a cleavage, but heat still crept up her chest at the thorough perusal.
‘Hello, Madeleine,’ he said, the husky tone of voice deliberately suggestive. He handed her the bottle of wine he had tucked under his arm. ‘I bought French Merlot. I hope it suits whatever you’re serving.’
She glanced at the label. The wine looked pricey and sophisticated—and far too good for the mess she had in the oven. ‘This’ll be great.’ She beat a hasty retreat, clutching the wine in her fist. His uneven tread sounded on the wooden floor behind her and she forced herself to slow down.
Relax. Focus.
She sucked in a hasty breath.
And remember to breathe, Mata Hari, before you pass out.
She plonked the bottle on the small pine table she’d laid in the front room with her grandmother’s best bone china and made herself face him. He looked impossibly large in the cosy confines of the sitting room, his head skimming the exposed beams on the ceiling. How come she’d never noticed how tall he was until now? He had to be at least six foot three.
‘I made vegetarian lasagne.’ She fiddled with one of the knives, straightened it, before clasping her hands together. ‘I hope you haven’t any objections to aubergine.’
His lips quirked. ‘Not that I know of,’ he said, amusement lightening his voice. He wore a black leather jacket, a dark blue T-shirt and black jeans, one hip raised in a casual stance as he surveyed the room.
So much for having the home advantage. She was wound tighter than a coiled spring and he couldn’t have looked more relaxed, dominating the small space as if he owned it.
His eyes came back to hers. ‘Where did you get the seascape?’ he asked, nodding past her shoulder as he shrugged off the jacket and slung it over the back of a chair. ‘It’s stunning.’
She glanced round, but knew the picture he was referring to. She’d painted it last autumn, not long after she and Steve had broken up. ‘I did it,’ she replied, relaxing a little; small talk was good. It would help her focus. ‘It’s a silk painting, actually.’
He stepped up to the artwork. She drew in a sharp breath as the soft hairs of his forearm brushed against her, enveloping her in the tantalising scent of musk and man and pheromones.
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‘You’re an artist,’ he murmured. ‘And a remarkably talented one.’
She flushed, surprised by the compliment and how much it meant to her. The silk painting had only ever been a hobby. ‘Thank you.’
‘Why were you angry?’ he asked, his eyes fixing on hers.
‘How can you tell?’ she said, stunned again by how perceptive he was. She dragged her gaze away to look at the painting. Her anger at Steve and at herself was clearly visible in the choppy crest and spikes of the waves, the glowering clouds on the horizon. The weather hadn’t been particularly turbulent that day, as far as she could remember, but she had been.
She jumped slightly as a warm hand settled on her nape.
‘You keep surprising me, Maddy. And I’m not easily surprised.’
Electricity raced down her spine and her nipples pebbled into hard points as his fingers stroked up her neck.
He turned her towards him and she braced her hands on his chest. ‘Is that a bad thing?’ she said breathlessly.
‘A bad thing? Not at all.’ His lips skimmed across hers, the touch barely there. She strained towards him instinctively, her bottom lip quivering.
‘Why are you so nervous?’ he murmured.
‘I …’ she stuttered. He was so close she could see the flecks of silver in his irises, taste the peppermint on his breath. So much for Mata Hari. One kiss and he was very definitely in charge. ‘I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed,’ she said truthfully.
‘I see.’ He chuckled and his mouth closed the tiny gap.
Her fingers sank into the silky strands of his hair as his lips travelled down to devour her neck. Her head dropped back to give him better access, her whole body vibrating with need, excitement finally drowning out her trepidation. And then her nose wrinkled and she drew in a deep breath … Of burnt lasagne.
‘The dinner,’ she yelped as she scrambled out of his arms. She raced across the room with his laughter echoing in her ears.
So much for the domestic goddess too.
‘It’s ruined.’ She dumped the charred remains of her signature dish onto the hob and batted away the acrid smoke.
‘Maybe just a bit.’ He laid his palm on the small of her back and passed her a glass of the Merlot.
She took a hasty swallow to ease the mortification tightening her throat—and nearly choked.
His palm rubbed circles on her back through the cotton of her dress. ‘It’s not a problem. I’ll order take-out from the hotel restaurant, get one of the waiters to drive it up.’
She placed the glass on the sideboard, her shoulders slumping. Who was she kidding? She wasn’t cut out for this. She didn’t do sophisticated, or sensual.
‘I’m so sorry, Rye. But I’m not sure this is going to work.’
His eyebrow lifted and he looked so damn gorgeous she wanted to bawl her eyes out. Why couldn’t she be the sort of woman who could have her cake and eat it too? Or, at the very least, bake it without burning it to a crisp.
‘All this over burnt lasagne.’ He gave her an easy smile, not looking deterred in the least. ‘It’s not important, Maddy. As sweet as it was for you to offer, I don’t expect you to cook for me.’
‘I know. It’s not that. It’s …’ She picked up her wine glass, watched the rich red liquid slop against the rim. ‘I’m so nervous I’m shaking.’
He took the glass out of her hand, placed it carefully on the sideboard again.
‘I mean, I’ve never done anything like this before,’ she blurted out. ‘I don’t have a clue what I’m doing.’
He drew her neatly into his arms. She blinked, shocked to feel the outline of his erection. How could he be turned on when she’d made such a mess of things?
‘You’re over-complicating things,’ he said, the low timbre of his voice making the hairs on her nape stand on end and every one of the places where their bodies touched throb. ‘I know exactly what I’m doing,’ he said, framing her face. ‘So there’s no need for you to worry about it.’
He threaded his fingers into her hair, held her head steady for a mind-numbing kiss. Her panic receded, blasted away by the rush of lust as his tongue worked its way into her mouth and then explored in soft, sensual strokes.
He broke away first, gave her a quick kiss on the nose. ‘So why don’t you relax and enjoy yourself and let me lead the way?’
‘I’ll try,’ she said hesitantly, still feeling hopelessly overwhelmed.
He grinned suggestively and she gave a half-laugh. He looked so sinfully seductive.
‘Don’t worry, I happen to know a great relaxation technique.’
By the time the delivery of seared scallops and rocket salad arrived an hour later, Maddy was so relaxed she was practically in a coma—and ready to let Rye lead her anywhere he wanted to.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MADDY hummed the joyous chorus of an old R & B song as she pedalled past the gates of Trewan Manor. Leaves brushed across the pathway as the crisp autumnal air stung her cheeks. November had always been her favourite month of the year—brisk and exhilarating.
She swung her leg over the saddle and rode the pedal the final few metres to the house, picturing Rye’s naked body in the cottage’s tiny shower cubicle that morning. And having the hottest guy in the universe at her disposal certainly kept the cold at bay. A giggle popped out as she propped the bike against the front wall.
She stopped, blushing slightly.
Good grief, when had she become a giggler?
She grinned, hauling a sack of groceries out of the bike’s front basket. Probably some time in the last two weeks. Having Rye King as a lover was likely to make any woman high. On life and endorphins. The man was a sexual athlete, of Olympic gold medal winning standards. Passionate, inventive, tireless and completely insatiable. She hugged the groceries to her chest, a delicious shiver running through her at the memory of exactly what he’d done to her in the shower that morning.
The grin got bigger as she practically floated to the Manor’s front door, adding dedicated, attentive and extremely flexible to his list of accomplishments. She gave a breathy sigh. Rye made love with a concentration so intense it made her feel as if she were the centre of his universe.
Her hand stilled on the door knocker. And the wide grin faltered.
Okay, maybe that was a teensy, weensy bit over the top. Even for a woman who’d been overdosing on endorphins for a fortnight. She shrugged. Clearly blow-your-socks-off sex had the ability to make you lose your grip on reality occasionally. Good to know.
She wasn’t the centre of Rye King’s universe. Any more than he was the centre of hers. All they’d really shared in the last two weeks was a string of intimate meals and even more intimate sexual liaisons. For, while her senses had become attuned to every aspect of his body—his musky enticing scent, the sweet salty taste of his skin, the silky softness of the thin line of hair that bisected his six-pack and made him tense when she trailed her fingertip down it—she still knew next to nothing else about him.
Because the man guarded personal information with the same focus and concentration that he made love. And, frankly, she’d had enough of it. She shifted the groceries onto one arm and lifted the Manor’s heavy brass knocker. But all that was about to change.
She was here now on a mission—having decided that his evasiveness whenever she asked a personal question was getting ridiculous.
When they’d first embarked on their casual affair, she’d totally respected his boundaries. Their no-strings fling was about having fun and … She paused. How had Rye put it? Oh, yeah, ‘exploiting the great sexual chemistry’ between them. And that had been absolutely fine. At first.
In the beginning, she’d had no desire to examine his psyche, to expose the secrets of his past, especially as he seemed so averse to the idea. So she’d backed off every time she saw that shuttered look that told her louder than words she’d just strayed into forbidden territory. Plus Rye was extremely adept at distracting her. And she’d found it next to imp
ossible not to let him.
But the fact was, after spending every night together at the cottage for two whole weeks, they were starting to run out of things to talk about.
She pounded on the door and guilty knowledge lifted the hairs on the back of her neck.
Stop lying to yourself, Westmore.
All right, fine. Her decision to surprise him this evening had nothing to do with a small talk shortage. And everything to do with the fact that her curiosity was starting to strangle her.
She wasn’t usually a nosy parker. But, the more circumspect Rye became, the more desperate she was to know why he found it necessary to be so secretive. Those questions that had buzzed around in her brain after their tryst in Phil’s office a fortnight ago were all still there. With several more added.
Why was he so determined to keep her at arm’s length? What was so terrifying about revealing personal information? Why wouldn’t he talk about even the most innocuous details of his childhood? And why had he resolutely refused to invite her back to the Manor since that first night?
Yesterday evening, as he’d tucked into her chicken and asparagus risotto and she’d studied the way his wavy hair had begun to curl around his ears, all the questions queuing up on the tip of her tongue had been about to choke her.
His brooding intensity, the moody, taciturn quality that lurked beneath the relaxed, easy-going charm fascinated her. So much so that getting to know and understand him was starting to become an obsession.
But it was this morning’s events that had finally spurred her into action.
While she’d brushed her teeth, Rye had appeared in the bathroom in his boxers, hugged her round the waist and told her he had an important conference call first thing in the morning so he’d have to stay at his place tonight.
She’d tried to dismiss the little bump of dismay at the thought of spending her first night without him as nothing more than endorphin withdrawal. But she couldn’t dismiss the stab of disappointment—and hurt—that it hadn’t even occurred to him to invite her over to the Manor.