Getting up, she went across to her office window and looked out. She was seriously considering not answering the door, but the sight of a powerful black SUV standing at her gate caused her to revise her opinion. Who on earth did she know who owned a vehicle like that?
No one.
And then a man stepped back from the shadow of the overhang and looked up directly at her window. A dark man, she saw, with hair cut so short it was barely more than stubble over his scalp. It was difficult to judge how tall he was from this angle, but Rachel got the impression of height and power, broad shoulders encased in an age-scuffed leather jacket.
She stepped behind the curtain automatically, not wanting him to think she was spying on him, but it was too late. He’d seen her. The second peal of the bell proved it, and with a rapidly beating heart she left her office and hurried downstairs.
As she unlocked the door, she wondered if she was being entirely wise. After all, she was alone here. She didn’t know this man, and he certainly looked as if he was no stranger to trouble.
But that was her novelist’s imagination taking over, she thought impatiently. He was stranger, yes, but he’d probably picked the wrong address. He might be looking for someone. Julie Corbett, for example. Her flirtatious neighbour two doors down definitely attracted a lot of male attention. The kind of male attention this man had in spades.
She opened the door a few inches, making sure to keep most of her body hidden. Her strappy vest and shorts were not for public consumption, not when she was sure her hips spread every time she sat down at her desk. ‘Can I help you?’
The man—she’d been right, he was tall: easily six feet, with a lean, muscled build—grinned at her. His face was darkly tanned, almost swarthy, with well-defined cheekbones, dark, hooded eyes, and a nose that looked as if it might have been broken at some time. He wasn’t handsome, as the men she wrote about were handsome, but she had to admit that tough, masculine features and a hard thin-lipped mouth were infinitely more sexy. He was also younger than she was, she decided. But that didn’t prevent him from embodying the kind of power and authority that made her catch her breath.
God!
‘Rachel,’ he said, shocking her still further by his casual use of her name. ‘It is Rachel, isn’t it?’
Rachel swallowed. ‘Should I know you?’ she asked faintly, sure that they’d never met before, and he pulled a wry face.
‘No,’ he said, his accent definitely not English. ‘But I know your daughter. Daisy?’ And when that aroused no immediate recognition, ‘I’m Joe Mendez.’
Rachel felt weak. This surely couldn’t be the man who owned Mendez Macrosystems—Steve’s boss! It didn’t seem possible. Weren’t company executives supposed to wear three-piece suits, and ties and lace-up Oxfords? Not black leather jackets over tee shirts and jeans, and sockless loafers that had seen better days.
‘I—Daisy’s not here,’ she said lamely, and Joe Mendez propped a hand against the wall beside the door and regarded her with the same look of tolerance her daughter sometimes employed.
‘I didn’t come to see Daisy,’ he said, glancing behind him at the SUV. ‘Is it okay leaving the car there?’
Which seemed to denote an expectation of being invited in. Rachel hesitated. ‘It’s a quiet road,’ she said. Indeed, few unfamiliar vehicles entered the cul-de-sac. ‘Um—what can I do for you, Mr Mendez?’
‘Joe,’ he corrected her evenly. He glanced pointedly over her shoulder. ‘May I come in?’
‘Oh …’ Well, why not? she argued frustratedly. It wasn’t as if he was a complete stranger, and she owed it to Daisy to be polite. She stepped back, remembering, as her bare feet protested the chill of the hall tiles, that she was hardly dressed for visitors, but it was too late to think of that now. ‘Of course.’
‘Thanks.’
Joe stepped into the hall, immediately filling it with his presence, and, leaving him to close the door, Rachel led the way into a rather formal sitting room. It was rarely used, and in spite of the mildness of the day it had a cool, impersonal feel. But she could hardly take him into the kitchen-cum-breakfast room where she and Daisy spent most of their time, could she?
He stood in the doorway, surveying the room, and Rachel gestured rather offhandedly towards the sofa. ‘Please, sit down.’
He smiled, slightly uneven white teeth adding to his sensual appeal. Rachel knew she’d never encountered a man like him before and, remembering what Daisy had said, she could quite see why Lauren might think he was ‘hot'.
She was relieved when he moved into the room and took a seat on the sofa, although he didn’t appear to relax. He sat on the edge of the cushions, legs spread, hands hanging loosely between. And, when he looked up at her with a slightly whimsical expression, Rachel knew he was perfectly aware of the effect he was having on her.
Which made it easier, somehow. If she could just convince herself that she wasn’t like all those other women who lusted after him—Lauren, for example—she could handle this.
‘Coffee?’ she asked brightly, overwhelmingly conscious of her exposed midriff and bare legs. ‘I usually make myself a cup at this time of the morning.’
‘Sounds good.’
He was easy, and Rachel offered him a smile before quickly exiting the room. Had she time to dash upstairs and put on trousers and a shirt? she wondered as she hurried into the kitchen. But no. That would just be pandering to his conceit, and if you turned up unexpectedly you should be prepared to take people as you found them.
She’d filled the container before going up to work, so all she had to do was turn on the coffee maker. Within seconds the comforting suck and slurp of the filter filled the air and, with a careless shrug, she turned to take two mugs from the wall cupboard above the counter.
‘Daisy told me you’re a writer,’ said Joe Mendez from behind her, and Rachel almost dropped the cups. Without any apparent sound, he’d left the sitting room and was now standing at the bar where she and Daisy usually ate their breakfast. He’d shed his leather jacket to reveal a tight-fitting body shirt and jeans that rode low on his lean hips, and Rachel couldn’t help a certain twinge of resentment that he’d felt relaxed enough to make himself at home.
‘Oh, only just,’ she muttered at last, setting the mugs on the counter and turning to the fridge for milk.
‘You write romantic novels, I understand,’ he said, pursuing it. He grinned. ‘Where do you get your inspiration?’
Well, not from men like you, thought Rachel, unsure how to answer him. ‘I—er—I have a good imagination.’
‘Not just that, surely?’ He grinned again. ‘Daisy’s very proud of you.’
Rachel’s smile was thin. ‘Daisy’s biased,’ she said, wondering why she felt this need to deny her success. For heaven’s sake, she was proud of her achievement. Two successful titles and her agent panting for her next manuscript—it was a would-be writer’s dream.
He shrugged then, and, turning away from the bar, he walked to the windows that overlooked the garden at the back of the house. ‘Nice view,’ he commented, taking in the smooth stretch of lawn, the small summer-house that Steve’s father had built when Daisy was a baby. ‘Have you lived here long?’
Rachel’s lips tightened. ‘Didn’t Steve tell you?’
He swung round then, hands resting low on his hips, dark eyes frankly curious. ‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘Steve didn’t tell me a lot about you. Should he have done? Am I treading on someone’s toes here?’
Rachel