She straightened at the sound of someone entering behind her.
‘I borrowed these from Phil.’ Rye stood inside the door, holding a toothbrush wrapped in cellophane and a new tube of toothpaste. ‘He keeps them for sleepover emergencies,’ he added wryly.
She snatched the offerings out of his hand, determined not to be touched by the thoughtful gesture. ‘You can’t come in here. This is the Ladies.’
His eyebrow lifted. ‘Yes, I can. I own the place, remember.’
‘Thanks for the reminder.’ She braced herself for the instinctive gagging reflex. Strangely, it didn’t come.
She ripped open the toothbrush and applied the toothpaste, ignoring his silent, watchful presence. But, as she brushed her teeth, she felt painfully self-conscious. Even after all they’d done together, the mundane ritual seemed too personal to perform in front of him.
She rinsed her mouth and retied her ponytail. Great, she still looked like the Bride of Frankenstein, just with fresher breath.
‘That was a very extreme reaction to the news that I own the café.’ He stood propped against the wall by the door, giving her a probing look. ‘What caused it?’
Maddy’s spine stiffened. No way. She wasn’t answering that. If brushing her teeth in front of him was too intimate, talking about her childhood was a definite no-go area.
‘I should go back to work,’ she said dismissively. But as she went to step past him he took her arm.
‘You’ve got the rest of the day off. Phil’s already lined up a replacement. And you’re not going anywhere until I know what happened.’ His brows lowered. ‘You looked as if you were about to pass out.’
She pulled her arm free, not sure she could cope with being interrogated right now. ‘I was in shock.’ That much was true. ‘You should have told me you owned this place as soon as you knew I worked here.’
The frown deepened. ‘Why would I? It wasn’t relevant.’
‘It was to me,’ she said.
‘Why?’
There was that probing look again. ‘I don’t have to answer that.’
He cupped her cheek as she tried to turn away. ‘Did some guy hurt you? Someone who was employing you?’
His jaw clenched as he asked the question and she realised this was more than curiosity.
‘No.’ She shook off his hand. ‘It’s nothing like that. It’s …’ She hesitated. Ducked her head. She couldn’t talk about this. Not to him. She barely knew him. But where was the familiar nausea to bolster her resolve? ‘It’s nothing. It was a long time ago and it doesn’t matter any more.’
‘Maddy, it matters.’
‘Why?’
‘Because, if we don’t sort it out … whatever it is … I’ll have to fire you.’
She gave a strangled gasp. ‘You’ll what?’ Had he lost his marbles? But he didn’t look insane. He looked determined. ‘Why would you do that? I work really hard; I …’
‘This has nothing to do with your work ethic and you know it.’
He touched her cheek. She slapped his hand away.
‘Well, what does it have to do with?’ Temper rose to strengthen her resolve instead. She couldn’t afford to lose this job. And she didn’t deserve to, just because she’d slept with him and then made a spectacle of herself.
‘Sacking you is the only option,’ he began in that reasonable tone he only employed when saying something outrageous, ‘if you won’t sleep with me because I’m your boss. We’ll have to find another way.’
Her jaw dropped. Literally. If she hadn’t known it was physically impossible, she would have sworn it hit the floor.
As she stood, trying to get her mind to engage, to say something coherent, the elderly customer she had served earlier barged through the bathroom’s double doors.
‘Oh, hello; are you all right, dear?’ The lady adjusted the glasses on her nose and peered at Maddy. ‘You look a little peaky, love.’
‘I’m …’
Rye cleared his throat and the old dear noticed him too.
‘Well, really, I don’t think this is the place for you, young man.’ She straightened like a schoolmarm telling off a particularly unruly pupil, the top of her head barely reaching Rye’s chest. ‘This is the Ladies, you know.’
‘Is it, really?’ Rye didn’t even have the decency to blush.
‘If you want to talk to your young lady,’ she added, ‘you should do it elsewhere.’
‘I’m not his young …’ Maddy yelped as Rye’s fingers wrapped firmly round her upper arm.
‘You’re absolutely right,’ he said as he shoved the door open with one arm and hauled Maddy through with the other. ‘I’ll take my young lady somewhere more private.’
‘Let go of me,’ she spat, struggling against his grip as he set off down the corridor, those long fingers tightening on her arm like a vice.
His uneven stride did nothing to slow the pace as he marched her, none too gently, into Phil’s office and slammed the door.
‘Now, let’s have it,’ he said, his voice low as her back butted the carved pine. He propped one hand above her head, caging her in. ‘I want to know what made you react like that.’
Outrage blinded her. ‘How dare you haul me about like that!’ She slapped her palms against his chest, pushed hard. He didn’t budge. ‘And I’m never sleeping with …’
His lips came down. Hard, fast, insistent. And the protest got stuck in her throat. Right alongside the resistance.
She gasped. Strong fingers angled her head to deepen the kiss and molten heat shot up from her core. Her hands flexed in the soft cotton of his T-shirt as the sure strokes spread the wildfire.
Her breath gushed out as he lifted his head, moisture flooding between her thighs but doing nothing to put out the fire. One large palm settled on her hip, steadying her.
‘Never say never, Maddy. Not to me. Not when you don’t mean it.’
‘But I do mean it,’ she stammered, but the denial sounded false, even to her.
The rough, callused pad of his thumb touched her cheekbone. She could hear the thunder of her own heartbeat, feel her pulse pummelling her neck as he traced the line of her jaw, pressed the flutter in her throat. ‘No you don’t,’ he murmured.
She looked away, feeling the outline of his arousal against her belly. Her sex ached and tightened, ready to receive him. She realised vaguely she wasn’t revolted by him. Her boss. But hideously turned on.
Shame mingled with longing, the unstoppable rush of response a betrayal. Of that little girl who had sworn to despise all the women in her father’s life—so she wouldn’t have to despise him.
‘What happened? Tell me,’ he coaxed.
‘I have ethics, that’s all,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t think it’s right.’ She couldn’t tell him. It would leave her vulnerable. Like that frightened child with the evidence of something she’d tried so hard to deny branded on her memory for ever.
‘That wasn’t ethics.’ He lifted her face. ‘I’d say it was more like a phobia. You were physically sick.’
Tears clogged her throat at the concern in his voice.
‘I wasn’t