“For the fifth time?”
“I like to be sure.”
She didn’t roll her eyes, but she wanted to. He could tell. And he couldn’t imagine it at all, Mrs. Cole sinking to such juvenile depths. It made him desperate to see her actually do it.
“I never had playdough as a child,” he confided, and she threw him a look of sheer and utter disbelief. “No, it’s true. Our parents didn’t have the money to waste on such frivolities. And later, after my dad died, mum started taking extra shifts at the department store where she worked and needed my help around the house more. Whatever money she had for toys—which wasn’t much—went to Hughie and Vicki.”
She opened her mouth seemingly to say something but then shut it immediately. He didn’t like that. He wanted to hear whatever it was she had to say.
“Out with it, Mrs. Cole,” he commanded her, while surreptitiously sticking his finger into the dough one more time. Her reproving stare told him she hadn’t missed the move and made him feel like a kid caught with his hand in the biscuit tin.
“How old were you?” she asked him. The question, coming in an uncharacteristically timid voice, surprised him somewhat. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but that most certainly was not it.
“About eleven. Hugh and Vicki were six and four respectively.”
“That’s a lot of responsibility for an eleven-year-old to handle.”
“I managed.”
“I can’t imagine how.”
“I did, and that’s all that matters.” He regretted his brusqueness when she retreated completely. Her face went blank as she took a measured half-step back.
Mrs. Cole clearly required more tact than Miles possessed
“Of course. Well…the dough needs to prove for a couple of hours before it can go in the oven. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
And just like that…he was dismissed. That didn’t sit well with him. He wasn’t the type of man who allowed himself to be dismissed by his employees.
“What if I peel the potatoes?”
“No potatoes tonight.”
Well, that wouldn’t do at all. “I like potatoes.”
“Variety is the spice of life.”
“Trite, Mrs. Cole.”
“But true, Mr. Hollingsworth.” Her pithy comeback made in that deadpan voice amused him, but he didn’t think she’d appreciate his amusement at her expense and curbed the instinct to smile.
“What’s for dinner then?” he asked.
She removed a roll of cling film from one of the kitchen cupboards and unwound a strip. Miles watched, fascinated, as she tore off a piece and covered his recently kneaded dough with the plastic. She dropped a clean tea towel on top of that and dusted her hands in a satisfied manner before answering his question. “Lasagna. Honey roasted carrots. And salad.”
“With bread?”
“Way too many carbs. The bread is for tomorrow’s breakfast.”
He currently didn’t give a damn about the added carbs. He had been ravenous since arriving here—was it really only five days ago?—and had fully indulged in all the delicious foods she had been cooking. He knew he should care more. But considering the amount of weight he had lost, he imagined a few extra carbs would do him the world of good.
“I need the carbs,” he pointed out, and she eyed him in that long, considering manner of hers.
“You do.”
He thought she would leave it at that, but instead of diverting her eyes, she continued to stare at him. He waited. Wanting her to ask, even though he wasn’t sure he would answer.
“What happened to you?”
“Ignored my doctor when he told me to take it easy. Thought I could work through a cold, only it wasn’t a cold and I was a stubborn fool who found himself lounging in the ICU for few interminable weeks.”
“ICU?”
“Yes.”
If she wanted more, she would have to ask. Her mouth opened, the lips rounded as she formed the start of a word. Her forehead furrowed as she considered what she was about to say…a soft breath escaped those full lips, before she pursed them shut and bobbed her head slightly.
“You can prepare the salad.”
“Right.” He was disappointed by her lack of follow through. But Miles, more than most people, understood the desire to keep one’s nose out of others’ business.
He didn’t like talking about himself, and he wasn’t sure why he wanted her to ask…perhaps because he recognized the soul deep loneliness in her. He often considered himself equally isolated. But he was a loner by nature. A loner who had never been as completely cut off from the world as Mrs. Cole appeared to be.
And while he wasn’t an overly affectionate or demonstrative man, he didn’t lack love in his life. Not with a sister who forced her hugs on him, a brother who unashamedly hero-worshipped him, and a mother who always meddled in his private life.
But this woman, despite the phone call he had inadvertently walked in on a few hours ago, seemed wholly alone. And that bothered him. He was honest enough with himself to admit that he would not have given her mental and emotional well-being a moment’s consideration under normal circumstances. In fact, he had given her very little thought during the three years she had been employed by him. But right now—with little else to occupy his mind and his time—Mrs. Cole was an enigma. And Miles fucking loved solving mysteries.
One more lap!
Her lungs were burning, her legs and arms felt like they were about to fall off, but experience told Charity that half a mile was the magic number to help her fall asleep again after one of her nightmares.
And, thanks to her sister’s phone call earlier, her brain had dredged up the worst of them tonight.
She woke up covered in blood. So much blood! Was she bleeding? He didn’t usually make her bleed…well not this much.
No! Charity focused on the burn. Physical pain of her making. That horrific moment was three years in the past. It had no bearing on her current reality. Blaine was nothing to her but a bad memory now.
Such a bad memory.
Half a lap to go.
Focus…focus…focus!
Her hands slammed into the wall, bringing her body to an abrupt halt. Water fountained violently up around her and crashed onto the coping tiles. For a split-second, she was tempted to flip and do another lap, but she knew her physical limitations. That was it for her tonight. A hot shower and, hopefully, she’d manage another two hours of sleep before getting up to fix breakfast.
She levered herself out of the pool. Thankfully her arms, wobbly after the relentless workout, supported her weight. Her hair, too long to be contained by a swim cap, had been plaited and wound into a large bun. But the long, thick rope of her braid had lost its anchor and tumbled to her waist.
She should cut it but…
I want your hair jaw length, Cherry. It’s classy.
She shuddered and grabbed up the thick fluffy towel she had left on the bench beside the half Olympic size indoor pool. There was an outdoor pool as well. Purely recreational. But this one was for swimming laps. And Charity made full use of it whenever her employee and his family were not in residence.
Her breathing was heavy and echoed around the large room. The water, only now starting to settle after her exit, was slapping against the pool wall. Those sounds, combined with the rhythmic drip of moisture from the end of her braid to the floor, and the sighing rustle of the towel against her skin and the fabric of her swimming costume, were comforting and familiar.
But the quiet squeak of rubber against the tiled floor was unexpected, unwelcome, and intimidatingly intrusive.
She froze.
Her instinct was to crouch, to make herself small and invisible…but she refused to do that. Not this time. And after that split-second of indecision and absolute terror, she lifted her chin to look and then exhaled the breath that had snagged in her throat.
The man silhouetted in the doorway did not frighten her.
She co
uld not see his face, the light coming from behind him was brighter than the dim illumination in the natatorium, but she recognized the breadth of those shoulders and the arrogant assurance in his stance.
Besides, no man could be frightening with a scrawny puppy sitting splay-legged at his feet.
He did not frighten her, but his intrusion did make her feel uncomfortable and exposed. Vulnerable in a different way.
She lifted her towel and held it up in front of her body, shielding herself from his view.
Her message was clear, but he didn’t turn away as she had hoped he would.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Cole. I wasn’t expecting to find you here. Not at this hour.”
“I could say the same of you.” She winced as soon as she said it. He could go where he pleased at any hour of the day or night.
“I couldn’t sleep. It was swimming or hot milk. And this was the more appealing option. What brings you here at three in the morning?”
“I had a nightmare.” The words were out before she could think the better of it.
“About?”
“The boogeyman. The pool’s all yours.” She wrapped the large, sheet towel securely around her body, and tucked the ends in at her chest. When he didn’t move, she edged toward the door. Her wet feet slapped against the floor, echoing around the massive room.
As she drew closer to him, and her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw that he was wearing swim trunks. The squeak that she had heard earlier had come from his rubber-soled sandals.
She swallowed dryly at the sight of his bare chest, trying hard not to notice too many details. She told herself that if she wanted him to respect her desire for privacy during this awkward moment, she should allow him the same privilege. She tore her eyes away from the subtle shading of dark hair on his well-defined—but not grossly exaggerated pectorals—and lifted her gaze to his face…to find him blatantly staring at her legs. The towel ended just below her crotch, leaving everything else bare to his, very interested, eyes.
Heat crept up her body, inching from the tips of her toes, turning her legs to mush, and pooling heavily in the neglected cleft between her thighs. The warmth moved upward, swirling pleasantly in her stomach, beading her nipples, and finally blooming on her face. She lifted her hands to her chest, holding the towel close, not wanting him to recognize her bewildering reaction for what it was. She barely recognized the sexual attraction—it had been so long since she’d felt anything similar to this.
She was confused and not sure how to feel about it. Part of her reveled in the awareness; it felt like the resurrection of something she had believed forever lost to her. A part of her that had been slowly and torturously murdered by Blaine. In the three years since his death she had stopped thinking of herself as a sexual being. And during their marriage…She flinched away from the recollection, not wanting to remember how he had hurt and punished her for having normal sexual urges.
But another part of her hated that it was Miles who stirred these feelings. She told herself that it was because she hadn’t been around any virile, single men in years. She shouldn’t have cut herself off from the world so completely. Perhaps if she’d been around men, these feelings would have reawakened sooner. Proximity and lack of other distractions could be the driving factors behind this sizzling awareness she suddenly had of him as a healthy, virile, and, extremely sexy man.
She even found his slimmer physique hot. It emphasized the hardness of his body and the cut of his muscles and spoke of how well he had taken care of himself before his illness.
Her breathing had shallowed, and she knew that it was evident to him. He didn’t move out the doorway when she took another step forward. She muttered an apology beneath her breath, and angled her body sideways to shuffle past him.
Don’t do it! Her inner voice screeched at her. But she unwisely ignored it and crept past him. The doorway wasn’t narrow, and neither of them were particularly broad but somehow, she got close enough to feel his body heat, smell his divine cologne, and—ever-so-lightly—brush against his chest as she sidled by.
The contact made her freeze. Made them both freeze and she stood there…in front of him, head bowed and eyes shut. Stood quivering like a nervous gazelle, not wanting to move away from his heat or the electrifying touch of his bare chest against the backs of her hands. She was hyperaware that if she dropped her hands, dropped the towel…a thin layer of spandex would be the only thing separating his bare skin from hers. And, God, she so badly wanted to drop her hands. Her nipples were hard, painful points and craving that contact.
He leaned toward her, and she felt his hot, uneven breath washing over her cheek and ear, stirring the damp strands of hair that had escaped her braid.
His hands lifted to grasp her upper arms, and she lamented the fact that she wore a long-sleeve swimsuit. She wanted to feel those hands on her naked skin.
Wanted it.
Needed it.
Burned. For. It.
He inhaled deeply, his chest expanding against her knuckles, and she fantasized about exploring the contours of that magnificent torso. But before she could do anything, he exhaled and spoke…
His voice, a broken, hoarse whisper, delivered the words directly into her ear, “Goodnight, Mrs. Cole. Sleep well.”
He shifted her gently to the side, and for a split-second, the movement brought her fully against him, and she could feel his heavy, thick erection even through the towel.
It should frighten her. Should send her rabbiting back to her rooms. But once he had her set aside, her eyes darted downward and she could see the clearly delineated ridge of his hard penis pressing up against the fly of his swim trunks. Even as she watched, the tip crept past the waistband of those low-riding trunks. Her greedy eyes widened, but before she could get a proper look he had turned away and was striding toward the pool, Stormy following him.
He muttered a curt “stay” to the dog and dove cleanly into the water. He surfaced halfway across the pool, impressive for a man who was recovering from what seemed to be a respiratory illness, and his body cleaved through the water, his strong shoulders and arms making quick work of the eighty-two-feet distance. His legs churned up a substantial wake, and Charity imagined those strong, muscled thighs threshing beneath the blue water.
She wanted to straddle them, capture them between her thighs, and hold him still while she claimed his hard length into her clenching, thirsty pussy.
Oh my God! What the hell was going on with her? He was her boss. The wrong man to fixate on. What a ridiculous time for her body to decide to wake up and want again.
It was nearly four in the morning—she’d had a terrible nightmare; her defenses were down. That had to be why her emotions were going haywire. He was a (near) healthy man, she was a healthy woman, and their physical closeness and lack of clothing had merely resulted in a predictable physiological response between them.
That was it.
Tomorrow they would pretend that this never happened and continue on as normal.
She hoped.
Eight laps—all he could manage at the moment—and one frigid shower later, and Miles’s hard-on was only now beginning to subside. Why hadn’t he moved out of the doorway? What the bloody fuck had he been thinking?
He had been riveted by the look of absolute longing in those damned seductive eyes of hers. Her lashes were so dark and thick she always looked like she was wearing black liner around her eyes…it added to her mystique and her unique beauty.
He should have turned around and left when he had spotted her, but he had been captivated by her grace and power as she sliced through the water like a sleek, human torpedo. And when she had levered herself out of the pool—God, he had been lost. Tall, lithe, and toned; her body was magnificent. Her long, long legs were sleek, muscled and beautifully shaped. She had turned away for an instant to grab her towel and unintentionally presented her perfect behind to his ravenous gaze. Round and firm, his hands had clenched with the need to touch, squeeze
, and caress it.
He had frozen, stunned by the strength of his lascivious reaction, while his eyes had drunk it all in during that too brief moment before she had wrapped the towel around her. Her bathing costume zipped up the front like a wet suit, and it hadn’t been closed all the way, forming a tantalizing open V over her firm, high breasts. Revealing the shadow of her perfect cleavage. Her nipples had been tight and hard from the cold air, and his mouth had watered embarrassingly at the sight of them.
And that hair…
Jesus! He glanced wryly at his cock, hard again thanks to this compulsive stroll down memory lane. He hadn’t bothered going back to sleep. It was nearly six, and he had given up on sleep. Instead, he was on his bed lying on his back and staring at the ceiling. Wearing nothing but boxer briefs and fantasizing about his housekeeper.
She hadn’t been immune to the sizzling sexual tension electrifying the air between them. He knew she hadn’t. She could have waited for him to move, and he would have moved, once he picked his jaw up from the floor. But she hadn’t waited. Choosing instead to slide past him and shocking the hell out of him.
And then she had stopped. Right there. In front of him. Her body brushing against his with every shallow breath. And he had wanted to taste her. Any part of her. The soft skin beneath her ear had called to him…
And he had been so close to answering that call when Stormy’s cold nose on his leg had jerked him back to his senses.
He cupped himself now and gave his hardness a slow stroke through the soft cotton of his boxer briefs as he fantasized about that arse. Those nipples. Imagining those long, strong legs wrapped around him as he took her.
He exhaled on a slow, shuddering breath and slid his hand under his waistband. His palm found his hot, aching length and he fisted himself…
An enquiring whine made him jerk his hand back guiltily. His head whipped to where Stormy sat up in her crate beside the bed, watching him with a quizzical tilt of the head.
“Seriously? Do you have to stare?” No way he could continue with the pup’s curious, innocent gaze on him, and he shut his eyes for a moment, before resignedly sliding off the bed and striding to the bathroom for another long, icy shower.
The Best Next Thing Page 9