‘All?’ He sounded doubtful. ‘Do you really need it all?’
‘Every last fabric swatch. My work depends on it. I’m an interior designer.’ Unemployed interior designer at present, but he didn’t need to know that.
‘Come on, then, let me give you a hand.’
‘Fine,’ she clipped, packing the containers swiftly, anxious not to have him too close. His proximity was unnerving her; his musky warm scent was making her itch. ‘If you could get those sketch pads.’ She waved him away. ‘There are plastic bags …’
It took them a few minutes to pack everything up.
‘I’ll bring the rest up to the house after we’ve got you settled.’ He had to raise his voice above the rain drumming overhead.
Settled? Hardly. She straightened, a container beneath one arm, her carry-all over a shoulder. If he wanted to play Mr Protector, so long as her stuff was safe from rain, she’d put up with it.
‘Thanks.’ Said grudgingly. She really did not want his assistance. Slipping into her rubber thong sandals by the back door, she slid the glass open and stepped onto the deck. A torrent of water slammed into her where it should be dry and she glanced up at the flapping canvas. She might not want his help, but she was forced to admit she needed it.
She stepped onto the jetty, Blake following behind her with a load of plastic-protected work. Her thongs slapped wetly as she made her way past the sapphire pool edged with moss-covered boulders, the palm-fringed undercover entertainment area to the wide glassed door.
Over the past couple of years she’d watched the beautiful house and its parade of beautiful people come and go. Now it was her turn to get a good look inside. It wouldn’t be so bad to sleep in such luxury for a change, would it? And from a designer’s point of view she couldn’t wait to see the décor.
Didn’t mean she had to like the arrangement but at least it was dry. She waited for him to come up alongside her and unlock the door, then followed him inside. He flicked a switch and light flooded the magnificent home.
She gazed up at the bright source of illumination. A myriad of tiny crystal spheres exploded from a central orb, splattering rainbows across the room.
Open-plan living gave it an airy atmosphere. The honeyed wood-panelled ceiling slanted high over two storeys, with a staircase against a feature wall in the same treacle tones leading to the upper rooms. White-tiled flooring merged with the white walls giving the impression of space. A black leather lounge with cushions in lime and tangerine tones was positioned against the exterior slate wall. The minimal furniture was teak and glass.
Stunning. But impersonal and maybe a little dated. It had been rented out for years to wealthy international jet-setters and lacked that lived-in ambience. A tingle of excitement lifted her. Maybe she’d ask if he wanted to redecorate.
They offloaded the stuff in one corner.
‘I’ll go back for the rest in a moment,’ he said, already walking towards the stairs.
As he led her to the mezzanine floor she admired a wall of rich wooden patchwork. She did not admire the shape of his taut backside encased in those hip-hugging black jeans—she imagined a painting or feature of some sort in soothing blues on the wall instead.
She thought of all the times she’d looked at the house and never known Blake owned it. In fact, she hadn’t thought about Blake in a while. But now … now it was as if those intervening years had never happened. Her feelings were as bright and strong as they’d been back then. And just as futile. But they zinged through her body and settled low in her abdomen at the prospect of dreaming about him again. They’d always been such. interesting dreams.
He indicated an expansive room with thick cream carpet and a mountain of quilt in striped olive green and black. The glossy black furniture was devoid of the usual knick-knacks. The window looked out onto the house next door and a view of the river. But not the houseboat.
Perhaps he’d chosen it intentionally, she thought as she walked past him and set her bag and clothing on a silk-covered boutique chair next to a chest of drawers. No way to spy on him. No way to drool over him and think lustful thoughts while she watched him work. Bare-chested, his skin gleaming, those rippling muscles—
‘Shower’s through there.’ He spoke behind her. ‘I haven’t looked yet but I’m informed the pantry’s been filled today so help yourself to breakfast in the morning.’
Breakfast. A sudden tension gripped her. She hoped Blake didn’t decide to look in her pantry or her fridge because she hadn’t stocked up for a week. She’d been skimping on meals, counting her last dollars. Breakfast was a luxury she’d managed without. And she loved breakfast.
Blake looked like a man with a large appetite. A breakfast-with-the-lot kind of appetite. In fact the way he was watching her, eyes kind of slumberous, lips slightly parted, he looked hungry right now.
Hungry enough to take a bite out of her … No. Bad thought. Her stomach turned an instant somersault and she licked suddenly dry lips before she realised she’d drawn his attention to them.
‘I don’t normally eat breakfast,’ she lied. ‘My cupboards are a bit Mother Hubbard at the moment.’ So don’t bother looking. ‘Why don’t you join me here in the morning?’ Why don’t you stop staring and say something?
‘I was planning to walk into town and grab something there.’
Okay, so he didn’t want to be anywhere near her. Humiliation vied with embarrassment and she was that attention-seeking thirteen-year old again. ‘Suit yourself.’ She huffed silently. Now she even sounded like a thirteen-year-old, all wounded pride and disgruntlement. She’d always acted differently around him. Why hadn’t that changed?
To her chagrin, after all these years she was still allowing him to affect her. Helpless to stop all those teenage emotions exploding into her mind like big red paint splotches on a blank wall. As if time had wound backwards. As if he’d never left.
Disgusted with herself, she was already turning away when he touched her shoulder. A feather-light touch, barely there. So gentle. So sensual. She imagined suddenly, and with devastating clarity, how it might feel if her shoulder were bare and it were his lips rather than his hand. Heat blossomed where his palm rested and she jerked to a startled stop.
‘But since we’ve a few matters to discuss …’ he began in a neutral tone that belied the fact that his fingers sculpted over her shoulder were pressing ever so slightly into her flesh or that his thumb was creating tiny circles of friction on the back of her neck ‘.breakfast might be a good place to start.’
And for a few unguarded seconds she found herself relaxing into the sensations he was creating. The fresh scent of the soap he’d used to wash his hands. The shimmer of heat down her back from his body—No. She pulled away. ‘All right.’ Spoken coolly as she swung to face him. His hand slipped off her shoulder and she almost sighed at the loss. ‘How do you like your eggs?’
‘You’re going to cook?’
He looked so surprised, she had to grin. ‘I do know how these days.’ And she had every intention of being up and dressed and prepared before he arrived.
He nodded without a glimmer of humour. ‘Shall we say oh six hundred?’
‘Make it seven.’ She needed time to acquaint herself with the kitchen.
‘Seven, then. I’ll rescue the rest of your gear then take a look at the boat. Do you have anything I can use for repairs?’
‘Try on the deck by the door. Under the tarp.’
He nodded. ‘Goodnight, then.’
‘Goodnight. And be careful.’