What on earth…?
He straightened, half expecting to see her staring up at him from the pillow. But there was only a ridiculously girlish nightdress-pink with a cartoon rabbit that was saying ‘Give me a hug’-that she’d thrown on the bed.
On his bed…
And then it hit him.
His mother had walked into her kitchen and found Annie preparing dinner and she’d leapt to the obvious conclusion that she was with him.
That they were an item. Together. Partners. All those ridiculous expressions used these days to describe a couple who were living together without the blessing of church or state.
He stooped to pick up his shirt and sweater, get out of there, but as he straightened he heard the door open behind him and there she was, reflected in the tall cheval mirror, with only a bath towel wrapped around her like a sarong, her arms full of the clothes she’d been wearing.
She dropped her clothes on the chair. Then, catching sight of her reflection, she pulled a face as she lifted her hands to her hair, using her fingers to push the damp strands off her face, tucking it first behind her ears, then pulling it forward, turning her head first one way, then the other, as if trying to decide what kind of style might suit her.
He’d been given a close-up of that fine bone structure earlier but now, without the distraction of badly cut hair, ugly glasses, he knew without doubt that it was a face he’d seen before.
But where?
Tall, skinny, bones that a camera would love, she had to be a model, he decided, but he didn’t have time to think about it. Half hidden in the L, she hadn’t seen him and, as she pulled free the tail of a towel that she’d tucked between her breasts, he said, ‘I wouldn’t do that…’
Practically leaping out of her skin, Annie spun round and her mouth went dry.
George Saxon, wrapped up in a soft shirt and cashmere sweater was a man to turn a woman’s head. Now, stripped to the waist, his wide golden shoulders and chest were as bone-meltingly beautiful as a fine Greek bronze.
She swallowed. Managed to croak out, ‘Your mother said…’ before, realising exactly what his mother must have thought, the words died on her lips and she clutched her towel to her breast as she felt herself blush pink from head to toe. ‘Oh…’
George watched, fascinated, as a wave of delicate pink enveloped Annie, not just her face, but her smooth, creamy neck and shoulders, to disappear beneath the towel she was clutching to her breast as she quickly cottoned onto exactly what the mix-up had been.
He knew he shouldn’t think about that, but whatever she’d used in her bath smelled as inviting as the promise of a warm spring day and the temptation to unwrap her, see just how far that blush had gone, was almost irresistible.
‘Oh, indeed,’ he replied, his voice thick, his attempt at briskness failing miserably. ‘It’s entirely my fault,’ he said, trying again. ‘I should have explained.’
‘She had more important things on her mind.’
‘Yes.’ Then, ‘It’s not a problem,’ he said, moving to pick up his shoes, but Annie reached out and, with her hand on his arm, stopped him.
‘Please. Don’t go.’
He barely registered what she said, instead staring at her left hand, white, perfectly manicured nails painted a deep shade of pink against the darker skin of his arm and, when he finally looked up, there were only two things moving in the room. His heart as it pounded against the wall of his chest and the slight rise and fall of Annie’s breasts as she breathed a little too fast.
And, as her words finally registered, what had been a simple misunderstanding seemed to become something more. Something that was meant.
One move, that was all it would take, and if she was looking for a night of forgetfulness in a stranger’s arms, he would have said he was her man.
But, deep in his bones, he knew that, despite the disguise, the deception, Annie was not a one-night-stand kind of woman. He, on the other hand, had never been interested in anything else and, taking her hand in his, he held it for a moment, wanting her to know that he wasn’t rejecting her but being a friend and discovered that she was trembling.
‘What are you running from?’
Unable to speak, she shook her head and, swearing beneath his breath, he put his arm around her, pulled her against him.
‘It’ll be all right,’ he said, holding her close, intensely aware of her breath against his naked chest. Her skin, warm and scented from the bath, against his.
Meaningless words, but they were all he could think of and, far from steady himself as she looked up at him, he stroked the dark smudge under one of her eyes with the pad of his thumb as if he could wipe the shadow away. Make everything better.
‘You’ll be safe here.’
Her response was no more than a murmur that whispered across his skin and he had to tear himself away from the temptation to go with the moment.
‘Sleep well, Annie,’ he said and, dropping a kiss on her poor tortured hair, he stepped back, grabbed his shoes and walked swiftly from the room. Closing the door firmly behind him with a snap before he changed his mind.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ANNIE stared at the closed door. ‘I don’t want to be safe!’ she repeated, louder this time.
All her life she’d been kept safe by a grandfather afraid that he’d lose her, as he’d lost his son. She’d been educated at home by tutors, had very few friends-mothers tended to be nervous about inviting her to play when she arrived with a bodyguard in tow.
And it hadn’t got any better as she got older. The only men her grandfather had allowed within touching distance had known better than to take liberties with the nation’s sweetheart. And somehow she’d never managed to get beyond that.
She’d been so sure that George was different.
He’d run out on the family business, had at least one ex-wife, a broken relationship with his teenage daughter. She should have been able to rely on a man with a record like that to take advantage of a damsel in distress.
It wasn’t as if she’d screamed when she found him in her bedroom. On the contrary, when she’d turned and seen him she’d known exactly why women lost their heads over totally unsuitable men. Had been more than ready to lose hers. In every sense of the word.
Instead, after a promising start and despite the fact that she was a towel drop away from being naked, he’d kissed her on the top of the head as if she was six years old instead of twenty-six.
How lowering was that?
She looked at the hand with which she’d detained him, used it to tug free the towel, standing defiantly naked. Then, catching sight of herself in the mirror-all skin and bones-she didn’t blame him. Who on earth would fall in lust with that? she thought, quickly pulling on the pink nightie to cover herself up.
Pink, cute. With a bunny on the front. Just about perfect for a six-year-old, she thought as she climbed into bed.
Or the oldest virgin in the country.
George woke from a dream in which a large, pink, girl rabbit wearing glasses had him pinned down to the bed, furry paws planted firmly on his chest.
Her familiar blue eyes appealed to him to save her while she murmured softly, over and over, ‘I don’t want to be safe…’ And he knew that in some way they were, for her, one and the same thing.
He sat up with a start, certain that he’d seen those eyes somewhere before. Then he scrubbed his hands over
