‘Hey!’ he shouted over the top of her screeches. ‘Calm down. I’m not here to hurt you.’
She went silent; the sound of streaming water ceased too. She tried to look but it hurt and she had to squeeze her eyes tight. ‘Who are you?’ she rasped, her throat raw from her ripped shrieking.
‘You’ve got this stuff in your eyes?’
Roxanna’s panicked senses were slightly pacified by the calm question delivered in such a cool, authoritative voice. ‘I think the spray mixed with the steam or something,’ she wheezed. Not that it was the more pressing point right now.
‘It’s a wonder you didn’t pass out. Here.’ He took her upper arm in a firm grip and walked her two paces. ‘Sit.’ He pushed her down so she was perched on the edge of the bath.
She blinked rapidly, desperate to regain her wits. She heard the tap running in the sink, felt the breeze as the window was opened. But no matter how much she blinked, the stabbing sensation in her eyes didn’t ease. All she could see through the fuzzy agony was a tall figure, too close. ‘Who are you?’
‘Gabe Hollingsworth. I saw the sign and walked right in,’ he answered in that same calm voice, but now he sounded as if he was smiling. ‘Sorry if I gave you a fright.’
No one ‘walked right in’. The hedge saw to that. Most people thought this place was an extension of the park, the gardener’s disused cottage or something. She came in through the garage but that was securely locked. So she wasn’t sure she believed him. Had he climbed the fence to steal something—or worse? But if he was a serial killer or sex offender, would he really be helping her now?
‘Your eyes are really sore.’ He truly seemed concerned. And, yes, amused.
‘No kidding.’ She couldn’t keep them open they stung so bad. She gripped the edge of the bath with cold fingers and told the rest of herself to chill too. This Gabe guy didn’t sound like a serial killer. Not that she knew what a serial killer was supposed to sound like, but she hoped that hint of humour was a good sign.
‘We need to wash them out.’
We didn’t need to do anything. ‘I’m fine. It’ll be right in a minute.’
‘No, we need to bathe them. Don’t worry, I’m a doctor.’
She half snorted. He might not be a serial killer, but she so doubted his ophthalmology qualifications.
‘No, really, I am.’ He read her sceptical mind. ‘Put this over your eyes for a second.’
He pushed a wet and cold folded flannel to her face and she raised her hand to hold it in place—had to admit it soothed. The taps ran again.
‘Lift up.’ As if he didn’t think she was capable of following instructions, a firm, warm hand cupped her cheek. He took the flannel away and then tilted her face from one side and then to the other as he carefully poured cool, clean water across each eye.
‘Try to keep them open,’ he murmured. ‘It’ll help.’
His voice was right by her ear, meaning his face was right by hers. Roxanna’s heart thudded. She hadn’t been this close to another person in the best part of a year and last time she’d been the one doing the doctoring. This was beyond different. This was—
‘Better?’ he asked, another too-close murmur.
Goosebumps rippled across her skin as she suppressed a shiver, not that she was at all cold. In fact, she was all of a sudden burning. And all of a sudden she remembered she was only wearing a pair of ancient Lycra shorts and an almost supportive singlet. No bra. While water was trickling down her face and onto her chest. ‘I’m getting wet.’ She pulled back, wanting to cover up.
‘No worse than you already are,’ he said, a brisker tone this time.
‘I can manage now, really.’ She tilted her chin free of his grip. ‘Thanks.’
The sting in her eyes truly had eased and she opened them widely to look at the man bent down before her. She blinked more rapidly than she had when they’d been chemical filled. Was she hallucinating her way through this? But no, she’d felt his touch, had heard his words and now, as her vision cleared, she saw him rise to full height.
The effect was something else. Bronzed, broad-shouldered, unbelievable. At least six feet with dark hair and even darker eyes that were gazing right at hers in an uncomfortably intense way. Peripherally she noted the blue jeans, red tee, skate shoes. The cool clothes merely served to emphasise the fit body, the tan, the muscles, the obvious strength that made her glad she was sitting because her knees had weakened from some pathetically female hormone-driven response. And given he had some foliage as decoration, it seemed he really had come through the hedge. But his eyes held her attention hostage—jet-black, bottomless, unwavering eyes.
‘Thanks,’ she croaked, to break the suddenly dense silence. She swallowed. ‘How can I help you anyway?’
He put the glass he’d used beside the sink, then took a few paces backwards, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. ‘I saw the “to let” notice.’
‘It only went up this afternoon.’ She stood, trying to get some kind of equality in the situation. Fat chance when he was tall and she wasn’t. When he was dressed and she all but wasn’t. When he was devastatingly good-looking and she definitely wasn’t.
‘I know.’
‘You want to rent this place?’ He didn’t look like a prospective tenant. He looked like the kind of guy who owned things. Lots of things. Working in retail, even her little-old-ladies-giftstore kind of retail, meant she knew fashionable, what cost lots and what didn’t. She knew the watch on his wrist cost lots, so did the shoes, while the tee shirt was one of those priced ten-times too high just because of the label. He was definitely someone who held the cards in his hands.
‘I want to buy it,’ he said bluntly.
Yeah, definitely the owning kind.
‘It’s not for sale,’ she answered equally bluntly.
He held her gaze for a moment, then dropped to look at the puddle on the floor between them. ‘Where’s the owner?’
Roxie’s spirit hardened. ‘You’re looking at her.’
His unfairly long lashes swept up and the deep, dark eyes studied her again—surprise had widened them.
‘You don’t believe me?’ she asked.
‘Well, you don’t look …’ He shook his head. ‘Never mind.’
She knew what he’d almost said. He thought she looked too young to own a house? How old did he think she was? Clearly not much older than a schoolgirl. Did he think she was the teen cleaner? Great. But she was no kid, she was twenty-two and she’d cared for this house almost single-handedly for the last five years. Not that she was going to get all indignant and ram that down his throat, no matter how much his assumption annoyed her. And, yeah, underneath that, she smarted because this one-thousand-per-cent man-in-prime didn’t see her as a capable adult, or a woman.
The unfairness of the situation riled her. This was her house, but he was standing in her bathroom with the upper hand, having rescued her from a mortifying moment. But she hadn’t needed rescuing; she’d have been fine. She was always fine. And wasn’t it just so typical that the one time in her life she met a spectacularly good-looking man, she had to be looking like a scruffy kid?
If only she had shoes on to give her the slightest chance of looking him straight in the eye—statement shoes, like six-inch stilettos. Instead she had to crane her neck to meet that focused, but depressingly impassive, gaze. She opted not to, instead walked as coolly as she could into the lounge. Not that easy when her heart was hammering faster than when he’d frightened the screams out of her minutes before—he really was something