- -
- 100%
- +
‘You stupid idiot. This is your own fault,’ he hissed. ‘What the hell were you trying to prove?’ He winced as the words bounced off the rock face.
Great, now you’re talking to yourself too.
The mighty hadn’t just fallen, they’d landed flat on their face, Rye thought grimly as he gripped his thigh in hands clumsy with the cold to force his leg up the final step. Pain shot through his knee and made the groin muscle cramp. He sucked in a breath and panted as clammy sweat mingled with the salt water, making the cut on his forehead burn.
He swore and waited for the worst of the agony to pass.
Unfortunately, that gave him way too much time to contemplate just how much of an idiot he’d been.
Spending close to two hours proving that he’d never be able to surf again and practically getting hypothermia into the bargain hadn’t been the smartest thing he’d ever done. Headbutting his own board and then having to get rescued by a lifeguard—and a girl one at that—had added a nice thick layer of insult to the injury. But allowing the girl’s sultry emerald eyes, her slender but surprisingly voluptuous figure to taunt him into thinking he was capable of doing more with her than simply lose his temper had to count as one of the lowest moments of his life.
Maybe not as low as those first weeks in hospital, doped up to his eyeballs, drifting in and out of agony and anchored to the bed. And maybe not as low as the day, three months later, when he’d discovered it wasn’t just his leg and his ego that had been irreparably damaged by the bike accident. But right down in the toilet his life had become in the last six months, nonetheless.
He’d felt the unfamiliar throb of arousal in his groin, had barely a second to rejoice at the surging heat before cold reality had doused it—leaving him feeling angry and bitter and humiliated all over again.
After they’d finished prodding and poking him, the doctors had assured him the impotence was psychosomatic and only temporary—brought on by the physical and mental trauma he’d suffered. And he’d believed them.
Until the summer evening in his Kensington penthouse when the look of pity and disbelief on Marta’s face had made the truth inescapable.
One thing was certain: if a stark naked Marta Mueller with her expensive supermodel’s body and her superstar I’m yours for the taking act couldn’t get a rise out of him, no pixie-faced, sultry-eyed girl clad in a full body wetsuit was going to manage it.
Pushing the ever present humiliation to the back of his mind, Rye stumbled forward and focused instead on getting to the house in one piece. His useless leg had seized up completely, forcing him to drag it across the rocky ground, his bare feet slipping in the mud. Each bump and slide had pain stabbing under his kneecap and tightening around his thigh like a vice. He glowered at the dark clouds, the pouring rain and cruel wind a perfect accompaniment to his black mood.
He let out a shaky sigh as his fingers grasped the heavy brass handle and he butted open the pantry door with his shoulder. As he shut out the angry weather and lumbered towards the suite of rooms he used in his grandfather’s house, trailing mud and water on the marble tiles, his rough humourless chuckle echoed in the darkened hallway.
If only the old man could have seen him now. In one of the many lectures Charles King had given him as a rebellious teenager, his grandfather had warned him he would have to pay for his sins in the end. Who knew the old sod would get the last laugh from beyond the grave?
CHAPTER TWO
‘PHIL, can I take the rest of my shift off?’ Maddy forced the request out, determined not to prevaricate a moment longer. She walked back across the empty café. They’d had all of three customers so far this afternoon and, even though the rain had finally petered out, the storm clouds were still hovering. She could have left hours ago and she doubted Phil would have objected. ‘I’ve got something I need to do,’ she said, dumping her tray on the bar and perching on one of the bar stools.
Phil’s ruddy face widened into an easy smile as he slopped out the glasses. ‘Damn woman, you know I’m putty in your hands. That your every wish is my command.’
‘Great, does that mean I get a pay rise?’ Maddy asked, fluttering her eyelashes comically, the easy flirtation a familiar game.
She happened to know Phil only dated long, leggy airheads. And she didn’t qualify in either category. Plus Phil was her boss, and sleeping with the boss was a big no-no for her—one of the many little Freudian hang-ups from her dysfunctional childhood that she’d had to learn to live with.
‘As soon as you go on that date with me, we’ll definitely talk about a pay rise,’ Phil continued, still playing the game.
‘Yeah, right.’ Maddy laughed. ‘Listen, I’ll make up the time tomorrow, if you want. Today was my last lifeguarding shift of the season,’ she finished, deciding to cut to the chase.
She didn’t know how long the rain was going to hold off, or how long her resolve would hold out.
Phil glanced at the clock as he set the dirty glasses into the washer. ‘No need to make up the time, Mad,’ he said, as she knew he would. ‘You’re good for it.’
Phil might be an incorrigible flirt but he was a great employer in every other respect.
‘Thanks, Phil.’ Maddy climbed off the bar stool, untied her apron and pulled the pins out of her hair, shoving them in her pocket. She shook her head, allowing her short cap of chestnut curls to fall into place.
‘Hey, before you go, I hear congratulations are in order,’ Phil remarked. ‘Luke says you pulled your first floater out this afternoon like a pro.’
‘Thanks,’ Maddy replied, a little abashed by Phil’s praise. The incident hadn’t exactly ended as well as it might, which was why her conscience had been bugging her all afternoon. ‘I’m afraid the job’s not quite done yet, though. We didn’t do any of the standard checks on the guy. He shot off so fast.’
Phil dropped the bar rag into the sink. ‘Seems to me, if he left without getting checked out that’s his problem, not yours.’
‘Technically, maybe.’ She’d been trying all afternoon to convince herself of that fact. But her conscience wouldn’t let her. ‘But I should have made sure he was okay before I let him go.’
What if he had water in his lungs? Or a concussion? He could even now be unconscious on the floor of his mansion. She’d never forgive herself. Having dragged him out of the sea, she felt responsible for him. Which was ridiculous, of course—and probably just another biproduct of her Miss Fixit curse—but knowing that wasn’t going to help her sleep tonight until she knew for sure he was all right.
‘There’s not much you can do about it now,’ Phil added.
‘Actually, there is.’ Walking round the bar, Maddy stuffed her apron and pad in their cubby hole. ‘I’m going to pay him a visit.’ She knew where he lived. The tide had cut off the cliff path an hour ago, but it would take her less than twenty minutes to cycle up to his home via the coast road and put her mind at rest. She crossed to the café door and grabbed her rain poncho off the hook.
‘You sure he’s going to want you checking up on him?’ Phil called after her.
Maddy glanced back. ‘No, I’m sure he’s going to hate it,’ she said as she tugged the poncho over her head. ‘But that’s his tough luck.’ She shoved open the door on a surge of righteous determination. ‘He shouldn’t have tried to drown himself on my watch.’
As Maddy pedalled through the gates of Trewan Manor close to an hour later, righteous determination had turned to abject misery—and her rescue mission had turned into an epic farce. What had she been thinking? The taciturn man she had come to see was probably perfectly fine and would no doubt slam the door in her face, if he even bothered to open it—and the trip home in what was threatening to be a thunderstorm of biblical proportions would probably kill her.
The journey to the house along the coast road had been a nightmare. Negotiating tarmac slicked with mud and bracken from the recent storm had been bad enough, but then her old banger of a bike had lost its chain twice and the hill climb had made thigh muscles already abused by the afternoon’s sea-rescue weep in protest.
The spitting rain dripped under the collar of her waterproof as she dismounted and wheeled the bike past the high hedges edging the property. Maddy glared over her shoulder at the darkening sky behind her as she bounced the heavy bike along the rutted track and prayed the storm clouds would hold off for another half an hour. She didn’t have her bike lights with her, which was going to make cycling home to her cottage on the other side of the Bay suicidal if the weather let rip.
She cursed her conscience—and her compassionate nature. Callum was right. Sometimes being a Good Samaritan sucked.
Then she walked into the house’s forecourt. And her jaw went slack.
The towering Gothic edifice of Trewan Manor loomed over her, looking more like Castle Dracula than Wuthering Heights. The fanciful turrets and gables were even more dramatic and over-the-top up close, while the tall, unlit mullioned windows seemed to stare at her with unblinking disapproval. She propped the bike against one of the stone pillars flanking the entrance and shivered as she mounted the three steps to an enormous oak door, feeling like Dorothy about to enter the Wizard’s lair.
After a fruitless search for the doorbell, she lifted the heavy brass knocker. The loud thump echoed away on the wind.
When the door didn’t budge for what felt like the longest five minutes of Maddy’s life she slammed the knocker again. Twice.
Still no answer.
Maddy stepped back, more than ready to abandon her mercy mission, when a sudden vision assailed her. Of her stranger, still clad in his wetsuit, lying unconscious and alone in the entrance hall of Phantom Manor. Tiptoeing back to the door, she bent over to peer into the letterbox. She’d come all this way; it would be stupid not to take a peek.
The brass letter flap eased open with an ominous creak. She squinted, focusing on a dark shape moving down the hall, and then light blinded her. She registered a glimpse of white towelling and then pitched forward as the door flew open.
‘Who the …?’ shouted a gruff voice as she did a face plant into warm flesh. Warm, hard, naked flesh that smelled enticingly of pine soap and seawater.
She scrambled back so fast the blood rushed to her head. That darkly handsome face was as dangerous to her peace of mind as she remembered it. Unfortunately, so was the scowl on it.
‘You’re not dead,’ she blurted out.
‘The lifeguard,’ he murmured, his eyebrows winging up. ‘No, I’m not dead. Not yet, anyway.’ The scowl reappeared. ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded. ‘Apart from moonlighting as a peeping Tom.’
‘I wasn’t …’ She trailed off, a guilty flush working its way up her neck as she took in his attire. All he had on was a thick towelling robe, his wavy hair slicked back from a high forehead. The angry red line on it was partially covered by a plaster. She must have disturbed him in the shower. One side of the robe gaped open to reveal mouth-watering pectoral muscles and the edge of one flat brown nipple nestled in a light sprinkling of hair. Had she just had her face nestled against that?
She gulped, trying to bring her blood pressure out of the danger zone. ‘I came to see if you were okay.’
The scowl deepened. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ He tightened the belt on his robe and shoved the lapel back into place, spoiling the view.
‘You didn’t …’ She paused, swallowing again to ease her bone-dry mouth. ‘You didn’t stay to get checked out. You should really go to the hospital after an incident like that.’
‘Is that so?’
Was he deliberately trying to make her nervous with that unsettling stare?
‘Yes, actually it is.’
His eyes drifted down her figure, making her uncomfortably aware of the mud on her jeans, the shapeless poncho and her ‘drowned rat’ hairdo.
The penetrating blue eyes lifted back to her face. ‘Did someone make you my guardian angel while I wasn’t looking?’ he asked dryly.
‘I …’ She stuttered to a halt and the blush got worse.
Well, for goodness’ sake. That was just plain rude.
‘Gosh, I certainly hope not …’ she said, his sarcasm giving her hormones a wake-up call. The man might have the body of a Greek god—but he had the arrogance to match. ‘That’s a job I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy,’ she said, warming to her theme. Why had she ever spent a moment worrying about this guy? The man was clearly far too annoying to let a little thing like a concussion get in the way of his foul mood. ‘As you’re obviously not dead—’ more’s the pity’—I’ll leave you to your own delightful company. Goodbye.’
She marched down the steps, ignoring the rumble of thunder as she grappled with her bike.
She was out of here. She should never have come. He didn’t need her help—and she certainly didn’t need to put up with his crabby attitude. She trudged down the track, the bike bumping against her hip, and promised herself this was the very last time Miss Fixit would get the better of her.
In fact, Miss Fixit was now officially dead. And good riddance.
A bellowing clap of thunder crashed above her head. She flinched as several fat spots of rain splashed onto her chin and cheeks.
‘Come back here, you little fool; you’re about to get drenched.’ The gruff command had her indignation returning full force.
Swiping the wet hair off her brow, she twisted round to see the stranger standing in the doorway. With his bare legs akimbo and the robe flapping around his knees, he looked as dramatic and forbidding as his house.
She glimpsed a criss-cross of angry red scars above his left kneecap and quashed a dart of sympathy.
Don’t you dare feel sorry for him. That’s what got you into this mess in the first place.
‘Cheers, Grumpy,’ she yelled through the building tempest, ‘but I’d rather drown.’
He shrugged and lurched back into the shadows of the house. ‘Fine. Suit yourself.’ The door slammed shut with a thud which was promptly drowned out by another crash of thunder.
And good riddance to you too.
Maddy had got exactly three metres before the heavens opened in earnest, the deluge soaking through the pitiful poncho and her jeans and trainers in seconds.
And only two metres more before she realised the back tyre of her bike was deader than Miss Fixit.
CHAPTER THREE
RYE refused to feel guilty as he snapped the hall light back off and listened to the rain storm attack the house.
He hadn’t asked her to come. He didn’t want her help. And he wanted her damn pity even less. Maybe a good soaking would teach her to stop sticking her nose in where it wasn’t wanted.
But, as he made his way back down the corridor, even the ache in his lame leg couldn’t stop the stab of guilt, the image forming in his mind of those mossy-green eyes, the long lashes sprinkled with raindrops, peering up at him as the soft downy skin of her cheek connected with his bare chest.
He stopped and braced his open palm against the wall, stared at the cold marble flooring beneath his feet. A stab of conscience sliced neatly through the temper that had sustained him for months and hit the raw nerve he’d been busy ignoring beneath.
‘Blast!’
When had he turned into someone he couldn’t stand? Someone like his grandfather?
Self-pity was an understandable indulgence, but letting the accident turn him into the same moody, humourless misery guts who had greeted him all those years ago when he’d first arrived at Trewan Manor, a grief-stricken child, was not.
He shook his head and peered at the door, wincing as the rain pelted the small stained glass window above it.
Damn, if all the women he’d seduced and enjoyed over the years—from Clara Biggs, the Truro barmaid he’d charmed into bed the day after his sixteenth birthday, right up to Marta on the morning before his fateful trip along the A30—could have heard the mean-spirited way he’d snapped at that girl, they would never have recognised him.
Hell, he wasn’t even sure he recognised himself.
He’d once adored the company of women. Their soft, scented bodies, the graceful way they moved, their endless talk about nothing, their passion for dumb things like fashion and skincare. He had even enjoyed their flashfire tempers and the hours they spent in the bathroom, or the way they made leaving the toilet seat up a national emergency.
Sex had never been the only reason he’d liked spending time with women. They’d once fascinated him.
They didn’t fascinate him any more and he had no desire to spend time with them now—why torture himself?—but that didn’t excuse the way he’d treated the girl.
Maybe she was a busybody, but he’d seen genuine concern in those sultry eyes. And if she had felt any pity towards him, she’d got over it pretty damn quick.
He stomped back towards the door. He’d never be the reckless, easy-going charmer he’d once been, but he could at least offer the girl shelter from the storm. He could stand her company for a half hour or so, and be civil to her. She’d pulled him out of the water. He would return the favour.
His lips formed into a tight smile. And offering to help would have the added benefit of making them quits. He hated to be indebted to anyone.
He thought of her parting comment and frowned.
If she didn’t want to be saved, that was her hard luck.
He heard the sharp rap on the door as his fingers closed on the knob.
She looked cute and wet and cold, like a half-drowned Little Orphan Annie. Her teeth chattered as water dripped off her clothes and splashed into a puddle on the doorstep. He noticed the ancient bike lying in a heap as she wrestled off her waterproof and flung it on the floor.
Green fire flashed in those sexy, sultry eyes as they met his and her chin jutted out.
Okay, maybe that should be Little Terminator Annie. Looked as if her earlier strop had gone ballistic. But then his gaze snagged on the outline of her nipples through the wet fabric of her T-shirt and suddenly he wasn’t thinking of Annie any more, orphaned or otherwise.
‘If you say I told you so,’ she snarled, ‘I’ll kill you myself.’
He jerked his eyes off her breasts, felt the pulse of heat in his groin and coughed, an unfamiliar tickle in his throat.
‘Come in,’ he said, trying for stern but not quite getting there, thanks to the tickle.
He pushed the door wide and stepped back silently to let her in.
She dripped into the hallway, stiff and forlorn, then muttered something that sounded like, ‘I hate you, Miss Fixit.’
He cleared his throat, the tickle getting worse. Then the heat pulsed harder as he took in the trim curve of her backside in the clinging denims.
She swept her hair back from her face sprinkling him with droplets, and said something about her bike, but the words were drowned out by the wild buzzing in his ears and the glorious swell of heat blossoming in his abdomen.
She shot an annoyed look over her shoulder. ‘Don’t hold back on my account. Say it. You know you want to.’
The scowl made her look even cuter. Like a pixie having a temper tantrum. His eyes snagged on her breasts again. Make that a very sexy pixie having a temper tantrum.
‘What, and risk death and dismemberment?’ he said dryly. ‘No, thanks.’
Her eyes widened and the scowl deepened. ‘So Grumpy has a sense of humour.’ She slapped a hand on one slim but shapely hip and looked even sexier. ‘What a surprise it’s at my expense.’
The heat surged and the tickle returned with a vengeance. He coughed, struggled to focus, as something light and airy and inexplicable bubbled up inside his chest. ‘Exactly who’s calling who Grumpy?’ The quip came out on a strangled groan as the tickle became a tidal wave of pressure, building under his breastbone and making his ribs ache.
She drilled a finger into his chest, wet curls flopping over her brow. ‘Don’t you dare laugh at me.’ Her foot stamped and the sopping trainer squelched. ‘Or you’ll really have something to be grumpy about.’
He wasn’t sure if it was the preposterous threat that did it, delivered with total conviction as only an angry pixie could, or the outraged colour tinting her cheeks and making her emerald eyes sparkle with fury. But the dam cracked and then broke. A sound he barely recognised rattled out—and then wouldn’t stop, reverberating against the cold empty walls. He gulped in air, clutching his sides, his ribs hurting as the unfamiliar sound got richer and deeper and more out of control, filling him with a warmth he hadn’t felt in months.
Maddy gaped, her outrage replaced by utter astonishment.
Her grumpy Adonis had tears in his eyes he was laughing so hard. The sound had been rusty at first, almost painful, but he was practically bent double now, his hand braced on the wall to keep him upright. His arctic eyes were alive with mischief as the barrage of laughs finally subsided to a rumbling chuckle.
She would have been less amazed if the man had started tap dancing.
She took her hand off her hip, unable to stop the answering grin tugging at her lips. She ought to be even madder at him—given she was the butt of this particular joke—but she couldn’t find her anger or her indignation anywhere.
A giggle popped out and she gave his shoulder a soft shove. ‘You sod.’ She smiled as his eyes met hers. He grinned, twin dimples appearing as if by magic in those chiselled cheeks.
‘It’s not funny,’ she moaned. ‘I’m soaked through.’
One last chuckle choked out. ‘I noticed.’
Maddy dragged in an unsteady breath. With his face relaxed and that chilly cobalt glittering with amusement, the man’s brooding male beauty became spellbinding. She crossed her arms over her chest, painfully aware of what a fright she must look.
‘You must be freezing.’ The grin turned to an affectionate smile. ‘You want to get changed?’
His gaze dipped and she shivered, not feeling remotely cold any more.
She nodded, having somehow lost the power of speech.
He indicated the way down the hall. ‘Spare bedroom’s third on the left. Some of my old sweats are in the chest of drawers.’ His gaze flicked down her frame. ‘None of them are going to fit, but at least they’re dry.’
‘Thanks,’ she murmured, finding her voice at last. ‘I really appreciate it.’
‘There’s an en suite with towels and …’ His deep voice trailed off and for a second she wondered if he felt as awkward as she did. His dimples, she noticed, had disappeared.
‘Help yourself.’ He paused again, cleared his throat. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready, it’s at the end of the corridor.’
‘Okay.’ She nodded again. Then thrust out her hand. Having threatened him with physical violence—twice—her granny, Maud, would have expected her to introduce herself.
He glanced down at her palm, but didn’t take it.
‘I’m Madeleine Westmore.’ The words sounded deafening in the pregnant silence. She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘But my mates call me Maddy.’
He’s not your mate, you ninny.
‘Just in case you were wondering,’ she added, her hand still hanging out there.
He brushed his palm on the towelling. ‘Hello, Maddy,’ he said, as long strong fingers folded over hers at last. ‘Ryan King. But Rye will do.’
The heat of his palm—rough with calluses—had a jolt of electricity shimmering through her bloodstream and making her pulse dance.
She let go and stuffed tingling fingers under her arm. ‘Nice to meet you, Rye,’ she murmured, although nice didn’t quite cover it.
His smile spread and her hormones joined the party.
‘You have no idea, Maddy,’ he said cryptically.
She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. ‘I should probably head to the spare room before I flood your hallway.’