‘Never.’ The fire in his eyes burned from ice-cold to hot.
‘But it’s my bedroom.’
He shook his head, chasing off the last of the threatening storm clouds.
‘You just see if you can stay in charge, then. Boss.’ She threw down the challenge. Knew she didn’t have a hope in winning at all—but shrieked with laughter as she turned and ran as fast as she could to her room.
He caught her before she got there and went completely caveman. And she was quite happy to be his woman of the moment.
The days couldn’t pass fast enough. He was on her doorstep before she even got home some nights. But he didn’t suggest she ride home with him and nor did she offer to take him. The boundaries might be invisible but they were there.
But as the evenings lengthened and their physical need was temporarily tamed she turned and talked to him. About nothing. About everything. But never about anything personal. She didn’t want to talk about her family, sensed he never would talk about his. But one night she got some courage and steered the conversation slightly towards him. ‘Why the Whistle Fund?’
He lifted his head off the pillow. ‘Why at all?’
‘No, why the name?’
‘Because that’s what you do when you need help. You whistle.’ He pursed his lips and gave a short whistle.
‘And you whistle so you’re not afraid—there’s a song about that.’
‘Yeah, and when you’re doing something you shouldn’t, you have a mate keeping lookout—who’ll whistle if you need to make a run for it.’
She laughed at that. ‘Did you need to make a run for it often?’
‘All the time.’ He grinned.
She laughed with him but wasn’t at all sure how much he meant it as a joke. ‘And you whistle at pretty women, right?’
‘Oh, no,’ he said mock soberly. ‘That’s not pc.’
‘You’re not pc.’ She rolled onto her tummy. ‘Have there been many women Lorenzo?’
‘Are you sure this is a conversation you want to have?’
The coolness was almost visible. Damn it, why shouldn’t they talk about their pasts? Couldn’t they have a laugh about the mistakes they’d made before? Why was he blocking her from getting to know anything more about him? She’d heard the little there was to hear. So his childhood hadn’t been a picnic, okay, she’d gathered that. But he’d gone to that great school hadn’t he? Someone had cared enough to pay for that. And he’d become amazingly successful.
‘Why not? Tell me about your first and worst, I’ll tell you about mine.’
‘Look, we’re meeting up for the occasional screw. That doesn’t mean we’re going to swap life secrets or play twenty questions.’
Sophy flinched. Every night wasn’t exactly occasional. Jerk. Her temper flared. ‘Touchy, aren’t you? What happened? Did you fall in love once? Did she reject you—did she say you weren’t good enough for her? The poor boy from the wrong side of the tracks?’ Sarcasm flavoured every mean little word.
He sat up and pushed the sheet from him. ‘Actually I rejected her.’
‘Oh,’ Sophy said. ‘Of course. Silly me. You like to do that, don’t you? And why did you? Did she want too much from you?’
He swung his legs off the bed, turned his back to her. This time she had it right. The anger rippled through his muscles.
‘Poor Lorenzo, someone actually wanting emotional commitment? Support, honesty, love?’
‘Nothing so devastating,’ he denied. ‘She no longer turned me on.’
Sophy blinked. Ouch. There was a warning. She got out of bed too, pulled a shirt over her cold arms. She didn’t want him to be with her all night now. Not tonight.
‘You know, I have lots of work to do.’ She let her gaze slide over her desk—it was covered with designs and half-finished pieces that she’d decided weren’t going to go in the show. But he didn’t know that.
He looked at the table, then at her. ‘You want me to leave?’
Sophy forced a shrug. ‘Rosanna’s back in town, she’ll probably be home soon.’
‘And you don’t want her to know how loud I can make you come.’
She coloured. She supposed she deserved it. She was being rude chucking him out. ‘I wouldn’t be able to come with anyone right next door.’
‘Really.’ His sarcasm practically splashed on the floor. He pulled on his tee shirt and jeans.
He was angry—the way he moved totally gave it away. Well, so was she.
He didn’t kiss her goodbye. Just strode out. She didn’t speak—just slipped into the lounge and watched from the window as he jogged down to his car. But to her surprise he didn’t get into it and drive off. Instead he kept on jogging, his pace picking up to a hard-out run. In the darkened room she kept an eye on the street. It was a good forty minutes later before he returned. His tee shirt sweat darkened in patches. He didn’t look at the house, stayed too focused on his car for it to be natural as he unlocked and slid into it. The engine roared. He was at the speed limit in a second.
Sophy usually spent an hour each morning working with Jemma making sure the girl had a good grasp of the processes. She did—she certainly wasn’t clueless. Then Sophy left and went into her mini workshop. Her heart sank as she saw the volume of work she still had to do. Her confidence had dipped—none of it was good enough to go on display. She was totally fooling herself. She was going to embarrass herself completely. Her mobile went and she answered right away—glad of the excuse to turn her back on the mess. She listened. ‘Sure, I’ll come right away.’
She met him on the stairs on the way out.
‘Where are you going?’ His super-size frown was back.
‘I’ve promised my mother I’d meet her to help with something at lunch.’
‘But you’re supposed to be making your jewellery. You’ve still got several pieces unfinished.’ He climbed to the stair just below hers.
‘I know,’ she said, pausing for a second to wonder how he knew—had he been poking around in her room up there? ‘But I promised.’
He looked angrier than he had when he’d left last night. He stretched his hands out to the rails either side of the stairs so he made a wall she somehow had to get past. ‘But you’ve only got a week ’til the show.’
She knew that too. ‘I’ll work on them later.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t want to do it, do you? The exhibition.’
‘What? Of course I do.’
‘If you did you’d be prioritising it.’
She stiffened at the implied criticism. ‘Things other than work have priority in my life, Lorenzo. People have priority.’ Which was more than could be said for him. As far as she could tell he lived for work and work alone. People—relationships—didn’t feature in the equation at all. ‘My mother has asked for help. I’m pleased to be able to.’
‘No, she could get someone else. It’s just that you can’t say no when someone asks you. It wouldn’t matter if it was her or anyone.’
‘And that’s a bad thing?’ She glared at him.
‘It is when it stops you from achieving your own dreams.’
‘Like