But when he got to the Treehouse he couldn’t help looking at the window above the garage. The curtain wasn’t drawn; there was no sign of life. The garage was locked but a wall of boxes blocked the back window so he couldn’t see if a car was parked in there. He had no way of knowing whether she was home or not. Unless he knocked on her door.
The tablets he’d given her could cause drowsiness. He sighed. So what? That was no reason to bother. She’d be fine. Only there were probably druggies and vagrants in that park in the dark of the night. And she was on the edge of it, alone. In a room above a rickety garage that had to be the size of a postage stamp. Yeah, the niggle turned into a nag and then into a frankly disturbing level of worry. The only way to get rid of it was to see her for himself and thus be sure she was okay. And that was the only reason he wanted to see her. Medical—a professional capacity. But he wasn’t her doctor or anything. He was determined not to be that. A concerned acquaintance?
Oh, bugger it. He thumped up the stairs, hoping to make enough noise to ensure she’d hear his arrival. He rapped hard on the door. Rapped harder. Shouted out her name. It was at the point when he was considering smashing the lock that he heard a grumbling response.
Finally the door swung open.
At first all he saw was the tee shirt. Less than a second later realised that all she wore was the tee shirt. Cute, cotton, white thing. Maybe there were knickers, but maybe not. His tongue gummed to the roof of his mouth.
‘Is everything okay?’ Drowsily she tucked her hair back behind her ears.
‘That’s what I was coming to ask you,’ he muttered, barely more intelligible than a grunting Neanderthal. Even sleepy her eyes sparkled. He then made the massive mistake of glancing down. Thighs, calves, ankles. Her long, tanned legs that were slender but also hinted at strength. Yeah, supple muscles were shown off under the gorgeous stretch of golden skin and he wanted to reach out and run his fingers down their warm length. Wanted them to spread again for him.
‘I think it’s okay,’ she said huskily. ‘It doesn’t seem to be any worse.’
He flinched. He’d totally forgotten about the sting, he’d just been checking her out and wondering about the undies. And now she held her leg slightly outstretched meaning he caught the glimpse of lace-edged silk covering her crotch. His tongue actually tingled as the urge to drop to his knees hit him. He wanted to lick her there. Oh, hell, everywhere.
Cotton tee shirt. He frowned, forced himself to think on the cotton. Not the lace knickers. Sweet not sexy. Not sophisticated. Not appropriate. She was his landlady. This would be mess-up central if he followed the path his body was determinedly dragging him towards. He swallowed, furious with his rapid descent into peeping Tom territory. ‘Make sure you reapply the cream.’ He snapped more than he meant to.
Her sleepy blue eyes widened. ‘Why are you so grumpy?’
He glowered. ‘I’m not.’
‘Oh, you so are.’ She grinned, undaunted. ‘But I think it’s still there, buried beneath the frown.’
‘What’s still there?’ He couldn’t resist asking.
‘The ability to have fun.’
The tiny tot was back at flirting? ‘Oh, I have fun,’ he said deliberately slowly. ‘But I’m selective about who I have fun with.’
‘That’s very wise.’ She nodded guilelessly. ‘I’m very selective myself.’
Oh, really? His muscles sharpened. ‘How much fun have you had?’
Her lashes drooped; she almost pouted. ‘Not enough.’
He determinedly looked past her so he wouldn’t be tempted to touch those full lips. ‘Looks like you’ve been having a bit.’ He nodded towards the empty bottle in the middle of the dining table.
She turned to see what he meant. ‘Oh, that …’ she swung back, her smile impish ‘… was good.’
He took the opportunity of her movement to step past her into the room. And was dead unimpressed with what he could see. Furniture from one corner to the other. Furniture on top of furniture, boxes above and below. A tiny single stretcher crammed under the window was her bed? He winced at its obvious discomfort—hard and definitely too short for him. How could she stand it?
‘You can’t be serious about living here,’ he said, all grump again.
‘Why not?’ she answered coldly.
‘There’s no room.’ There wasn’t an inch of spare floor space. A half metre square in which to get in from the door and then, bam, stuff.
‘There’s more than enough room for me.’
He looked down at her—too close—in the too small space. Quickly he looked back to the table, anything to stop himself taking rampant advantage of the lack of space. He noticed an ‘H’ written in permanent marker in the top corner of the wine label. ‘What’s the H for?’
She glanced at the table and her expression turned guilty.
Why? ‘Got any more?’ he couldn’t help teasing.
He glanced round; behind him was a fridge. He shot her a look and reached out a hand. It was literally a bar fridge—and, yes, filled with alcohol. He hadn’t actually expected that. The only other item was an oversized container of hummus. ‘How many bottles you got in here?’ He held the door open, amazed.
‘Five,’ she said defensively. ‘And they’re only half bottles.’
He drew one out, saw the single capital letter on the label, bent and saw they each had different letters. ‘What do they stand for?’
Roxie folded her arms, never going to admit that she’d blown his rent advance on getting her hair done, some new underwear and half a dozen half-bottles of champagne. ‘None of your business.’
‘No, go on, they obviously mean something.’ Relentlessly he waited.
‘All right, H was for getting my hair done.’ She defiantly ran her fingers through her hair, flicking it so it fell over her shoulder, almost long enough to cover her breast. Almost. ‘I’d waited ages for that.’ And she’d drunk it early—to celebrate getting her tenant and the money for the haircut. She watched him drag his gaze from the ends of her hair back to the bottles in the fridge.
‘What about the P?’ he asked.
‘For my first public performance.’ She stepped forward, quickly trying to explain them all so he’d leave. Trying to think up something for the one whose purpose was flashing neon-sign style in her head. ‘T is for when I book my ticket overseas. D is for when I get my driver’s licence.’ She winced when she said that one—now he’d really think she was a kid. ‘A was for the audition—getting through to the Blades. I’m going to have it later.’
‘Who are you going to have it with?’ he asked.
You? Roxie slammed her mouth shut on the instant-response answer and took a half-second to come up with something sassier. ‘It’s only a half-bottle. I’m going to have it all by myself.’
His brows lifted. ‘Did you have the first all by yourself?’
‘Absolutely.’ She smiled, pleased with her ability to keep talking in the face of his gorgeousness.
‘Didn’t it have a bit of a kick?’
‘Fantastic.’ She nodded.
He finally grinned back. ‘No headache?’