But that was a bad idea. And he needed something to occupy his thoughts other than musing about what kind of underwear a woman like that would wear beneath her rather frumpy clothes.
In the end he forced himself to read a thriller—grateful for the novel’s rapid pace, which somehow seemed to suck him into an entirely believable story of a one-time lap dancer successfully nailing a high-profile banker for fraud. He was so engrossed in the tale that Izzy’s voice startled him, and he looked up to find her standing over him, her face all pink and shiny.
‘Mmm?’ he questioned, thinking how soft and kissable her lips looked.
‘Supper’s ready.’
‘Supper?’
‘You do eat supper?’
Actually he usually ate dinner—an elegant feast of a meal—rather than a large spoonful of glossy rice slapped on the centre of an earthy-looking plate. But to Tariq’s surprise he realised that he was hungry—and he enjoyed it more than he had expected. Afterwards Izzy heaped more logs on the fire, and they sat there in companionable silence while he picked up his novel and began to race through it again.
For Tariq, the days which followed his accident were unique. He’d been brought up in a closeted world of palaces and privilege, but now he found himself catapulted into an existence which seemed far more bizarre.
His nights were spent alone, in an old and lumpy bed, yet he found he was sleeping late—something he rarely did, not even when he was jet-lagged. And the lack of a shower meant that he’d lie daydreaming in the bath in the mornings. In the cooling water of the rather cramped tub he would stretch out his long frame and listen to the sounds of birds singing outside the window. So that by the time he wandered downstairs it was to find his Titian-haired assistant bustling around with milk jugs and muesli, or asking him if he wanted to try the eggs from the local farm.
For the first time in a long time he felt relaxed—even if Izzy seemed so busy that she never seemed to stop. She was always doing something—cooking or cleaning or dealing with the e-mails which flooded in from the office, shielding him from all but the most necessary requests.
‘Why don’t you loosen up a little?’ he questioned one morning, glancing up from his latest thriller to see her cleaning out the grate, a fine cloud of coal dust billowing around her.
Izzy pushed a stray strand of hair from out of her eyes with her elbow. Because action distracted her from obsessing about his general gorgeousness, that was why. And because she was afraid that if she allowed herself to stop then she might never get going again.
What did he expect her to do all day? Sit staring as he sprawled over her sofa, subjecting her to a closerthan-was comfortable view of his muscular body? Watch as he shifted one powerful thigh onto the other, thus drawing attention to the mysterious bulge at the crotch of his jeans? A place she knew she shouldn’t be looking—which, of course, made it all the more difficult not to. She felt guilty and ashamed at the wayward path of her thoughts, and began to wonder if he had cast some kind of spell on her. Suddenly the clingy behaviour of some of his ex-lovers became a little more understandable.
Her nights weren’t much better. How could they be when she knew that Tariq was lying in bed in the room next door? Hadn’t she already experienced the disturbing episode of him wandering out of the bathroom one morning with nothing but a small towel strung low around his hips?
Tiny droplets of water had clung to his hard, olive-skinned torso, and Isobel’s heart had thumped like a piston as she’d surveyed his perfect physique. She’d briefly thought of suggesting that perhaps he ought to be using a bigger towel. But wouldn’t that have sounded awfully presumptuous? In the end, she had just mumbled, ‘Good morning…’ and hurried past him, terrified that he would see the telltale flush of desire in her cheeks.
Almost overnight the cool neutrality she’d felt towards her boss had been replaced with new and scary sensations. She felt almost molten with longing whenever she looked at him—yet at the same time she resented these disturbing new feelings. Why couldn’t she have felt this sharp sense of desire with other men? Decent, reliable men? The kind of men she usually dated and who inevitably left her completely cold? Why the hell did it have to be him?
‘Izzy?’ His deep voice broke into her disturbed thoughts. ‘Why don’t you sit down and relax?’
‘Oh, I’m happier when I’m working,’ she hedged, as she swept more dust out of the fireplace. ‘Anyway, we’re going back to London tomorrow.’
‘We are?’ He put his book down and frowned. ‘Has it really been a week?’
‘Well, five days, actually—but you certainly seem better.’
‘I feel better,’ he said, acknowledging that this was something of an understatement. He hadn’t felt like this in years—as if every one of his senses had been retuned and polished. He was looking forward to getting back to London and hitting the ground running.
But his last night in Izzy’s little cottage was restless, and the sound sleep he’d previously enjoyed seemed to elude him. Inexplicably, he found himself experiencing a kind of regret that he wouldn’t ever sleep in this old-fashioned bed again, beneath the flower-sprigged linen. He lay awake, wondering if he was imagining the sound of Izzy moving in her sleep next door, her slim, pale limbs tossing and turning. Maybe he was—but he certainly wasn’t imagining his reaction to those thoughts.
With a small groan he turned onto his side, and then onto his stomach—feeling the rising heat of yet another erection pressing against the mattress. It had been like this for most of the week, and it had been hell. Night after night he’d imagined parting Izzy’s pale thighs and sliding his hot, hard heat into her exquisite warmth. He swallowed as the tightness increased. Was his body so starved of physical pleasure that he should become fixated on a woman simply because she happened to be around? Yet what other explanation could there be for this inexplicable lust he was experiencing?
In the darkness of the bedroom he heard the distant hoot of an owl in the otherwise silent countryside and his mouth thinned. He needed a lover, that was for sure—and the moment he got back to London he’d do something about it. Maybe contact that beautiful Swedish model who had been coming on to him so strong…
Resisting the urge to satisfy himself, he buried his cheek against a pillow which smelt of lavender, and yawned as he fantasised about a few more likely candidates.
But sleep still eluded him, and at first light he gave up the fight, tugged on a pair of jeans and went downstairs—still yawning. He made strong coffee in Izzy’s outdated percolator, and after he’d drunk it settled down to finish his thriller.
And that was where Isobel found him a couple of hours later—stretched out on the sofa, the book open against the gentle rise and fall of his chest. The feathery dark arcs of his lashes did not move when she walked in, and she realised that he was fast asleep.
Her barefooted tread was silent as she padded across the room towards him, unable to resist the temptation to observe him at closer quarters—telling herself that she only wanted to see if he looked rested and recovered. To see whether it really was a good idea for him to go back to London later that day.
But that was a lie and she knew it. Deep down she knew she was going to miss this crazy domestic arrangement. Despite the pressure of wanting him, she had enjoyed sharing her living space with her boss. Even if it had been an artificial intimacy which they’d created between them, it didn’t seem to matter. She’d seen another side to him—a more human side—and she couldn’t help wondering what it