About the Author

USA TODAY bestselling author HEIDI RICE discovered she loved romantic fiction at about the same time she discovered boys and she’s been admiring both ever since. With this in mind, her first brilliant career plan involved marrying Paul Newman. As she was thirteen, Paul was pushing fifty and there was the small matter of Joanne Woodward, that didn’t quite pan out. Brilliant career plan B involved a job as a film reviewer for a national newspaper, but one wonderful husband, two beautiful sons and a lot of really bad B-movies later and she was ready for a new brilliant career plan—so she branched out into the wonderful world of romance writing. Her first novel was published in 2007 and she hasn’t looked back since. She lives in London but loves to travel, particularly in the US, where she does a Thelma and Louise road trip every year with her best mate (although they always leave out the driving-off-a-cliff bit). And she’s having so much fun, she’s almost not sorry that first brilliant career plan didn’t work out.

Heidi loves to hear from readers—you can e-mail her at heidi@heidi-rice.com, or visit her website: www.heidi-rice.com.

B.T.W. I Love You!
Maddy
Ruby
Heidi Rice

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

Maddy

To my boys, Joey and Luca,

because you’re amazing and I love you lots.

With special thanks to Elaine

for making Maddy’s beach rescue convincing.

CHAPTER ONE

‘THAT guy’s got to be the world’s worst surfer,’ Maddy West-more murmured in disbelief as she shivered under her lifeguard’s jacket. The sleeting October rain made it hard to focus but she couldn’t pull her eyes away from the tall athletic figure clad in a black wetsuit about sixty metres out in the tumbling surf. She watched with guilty fascination as he squatted on his board, steadied himself, straightened.

Then she sucked in a breath as he wobbled precariously.

The poor guy had been surfing—or, rather, attempting to surf—for well over an hour, in the sort of miserable Cornish weather that had given Wildwater Bay its name back in the seventeenth century. She’d been studying him for most of that time. The methodical way he paddled out, waited for the biggest wave and then mounted his board. But he’d yet to ride a single breaker for more than a few seconds. She had to admire his perseverance, but she was beginning to question his sanity. He had to be frozen through to the bone by now and close to exhaustion—despite the muscular build displayed by his suit—and the undertow on this stretch of beach was no joke.

‘I dunno,’ said Luke, her fellow lifeguard, in his broad Australian accent. ‘He’s got good form. Gets onto the board all right.’

Maddy’s breath gushed out as Bad Surfer crashed backwards off his board for what had to be the hundreth time.

‘No balance, though,’ Luke finished dispassionately, flipping up his collar. ‘You wanna call it?’ he added hopefully. ‘Beach is closed in ten minutes anyway and that storm front’s gonna hit any second now.’

Feeling a rush of relief as the surfer clambered back onto his board, Maddy scanned the rest of the beach in the gathering gloom. Only a couple of hardy boogie-boarders remained inside the yellow flags they’d set up to mark the lifeguarded area. Otherwise the beach was deserted. And with good reason. North Cornwall hadn’t had a great summer this year, but the weather had gone rapidly downhill as winter drew near. Even the hard core surfers had called it a day hours ago. All except one. Who was giving hard core a whole new meaning.

‘Sure—’ she raised her voice above the gathering wind ‘—let’s put him out of his misery.’ Crossing to the lifeguard truck parked on the sand between the flags, she grabbed the loudhailer out of the cab, already anticipating the Extreme Hot Chocolate she was going to wheedle out of her boss, Phil, when she started her afternoon shift at the Wildwater Bay Café.

The booming sound of her voice as she called in the remaining boogie-boarders and the surfer whipped away on the wind, but the boarders responded instantly. Staggering out of the surf, they hurried across the acres of sand, making a beeline for the café. The pair waved and shouted a greeting as they passed—no doubt anticipating their own Extreme Hot Chocolates.

‘Crikey, he’s still at it.’

Hearing Luke’s incredulous comment, Maddy spotted the surfer’s black board with its distinctive yellow lightning stripe bobbing back out towards the main swell.

‘He’s nuts. He has to be,’ she whispered. Either that or he had a death wish.

The storm clouds had darkened in the distance, hovering over the horizon like smoky black crows and the vicious cross wind had picked up pace, making the waves gallop and leap like bucking broncos. Even an accomplished surfer would have trouble riding swell that choppy. Mr Couldn’t Keep His Balance didn’t stand a chance. She raised the loudhailer back to her lips.

‘The lifeguard station on this beach is now closing. We strongly advise you to leave the water immediately.’

She repeated the order twice more, but the surfer and his board kept paddling in the wrong direction.

‘Maybe he can’t hear us?’ she said, trying not to worry.

The hailer had a special wind setting but, after the number of tumbles the guy had taken, his ears could be waterlogged.

‘Let’s get the flags in,’ Luke said at her shoulder, rubbing his hands together. ‘He’s a big boy. If he wants to kill himself, we can’t stop him.’ Taking the loudhailer out of Maddy’s numbing fingers, he slung it into the truck. ‘Plus, I’ve got a hot date with Jack in an hour. With the promise of hot sex for dessert,’ he finished, mentioning his new boyfriend of three weeks.

The surfer heaved himself up onto his board again, his movements sluggish.

Maddy dragged her gaze away. ‘That’s what I love about you, Luke,’ she said, forcing the niggling concern down. Suicidal surfers were not her problem. ‘You’re such a romantic.’

Luke chuckled as he rolled up the flag nearest the truck. ‘Hey, hot sex is romantic, if you do it right.’

Maddy lifted the base of the flag and helped Luke to heave it into the back of the truck. ‘Is it really?’ She gave a half-laugh, unable to disguise the wistful tone.

After a year spent rehabbing her granny’s cottage, plus the lifeguarding and waitressing shifts all summer at the Bay, and most evenings given over to creating her silk paintings, she hadn’t had time for romance. And she was pretty sure she’d never had hot sex. Did luke-warm count?

Maddy frowned as they wrestled the second flag into the truck together. The wind sliced through her jacket and made her nipples pebble in reflex.

Come to think of it, it was probably a miracle her bits hadn’t dried up and died from lack of use. Or maybe they had. How would she know?

After Steve had stormed out last summer, accusing her of being more interested in her silk designs than she’d ever been in him, she hadn’t quite been able to deny it.

Even after spending every spare hour in her makeshift studio, the silk work hadn’t required nearly as much maintenance as Steve. And, okay, maybe it couldn’t give her an orgasm, but it had come close when she’d completed the first of the designs inspired by the seascape at Smugglers Point—and Steve hadn’t been very reliable in the orgasm department either. Which only made it all the more pathetic that she’d put up with him for so long, and agonised over their breakup for months.

She shuddered and plunged her hands into her jacket pockets, hunching against the wind. Still, at least she’d taken her brother Callum’s advice for once and hadn’t made the mistake of taking Steve back—or lending him the money he’d begged for, which she knew perfectly well she’d never see again.

The death of her libido and the loss of a warm body to snuggle up to at night—and wake up with in the morning—had been a small price to pay for her self-respect. Even if it hadn’t felt that way at the time. She needed to stop taking in losers and strays, as Callum liked to call them, and persuading herself she could fix them. Cal might be the last person on earth to give anyone relationship advice, given that he’d never had one that lasted more than a nanosecond to her knowledge, but he’d been right about that. While their parents’ never-ending marital breakdown had turned Cal into a rampant womaniser with serious commitment issues, it had turned her into Little Miss Fixit.

Steve had just been one more in a small but pitiful band of boyfriends—dating right back to Eddie Mayer, who’d kissed her at the school disco and then conned her out of her lunch money—who’d taken everything she had to give and given her nothing in return. She’d decided over the long winter months that this year she was turning over a new leaf. She had celebrated her twenty-fourth birthday two weeks ago, which meant it was way past time to stop making the same mistake over and over again.

This year there would be no more Miss Pushover. No more Miss Nice Guy. And no more Miss Fixit. This year she was going to be the one who took control and got what she wanted. The one doing the using. Unfortunately, they were already ten months into the new year, and she’d yet to find a single candidate willing to be used.

‘Hey, that’s weird. Where’d he go?’

Tearing her thoughts away from her disastrous love life, Maddy noticed the sharp frown on Luke’s handsome face as he stared at the horizon.

Her stomach plunged and the concern that had pawed at the back of her mind all afternoon leapt at her throat like a rabid dog.

‘Did he come past us?’ Luke murmured, far too nonchalantly.

Unzipping her jacket and dropping it on the wet sand, Maddy grasped the rescue board leaning against the truck.

‘No, he didn’t,’ she shouted over her shoulder as she jogged towards the surf, frantically scanning the waves. The frigid water lapped at the ankles exposed by her full-body wetsuit as she waded into the shallows.

‘I’ll call it in,’ Luke shouted beside her as he drew level, his own board under his arm and the coastguard walkie-talkie at his ear. ‘We’ll have to get the chopper out.’

‘No, wait. There’s his board.’ She pointed, spotting the vibrant yellow flash in the turbulent waves. Her stomach hit bottom as she realised the dark shape draped across it wasn’t moving. ‘I’ve got it.’

Luke shouted something back, but the sound was lost as Maddy hurdled the incoming surf and dived cleanly into the water. The rescue board torpedoed her into the rising swell as she went under. Within seconds, the tug and pull of the tide had drained her energy and she was riding the board through the waves on autopilot. Luckily, the injured surfer wasn’t too far out, the waves bearing him towards shore, but as the salt water scoured her eyes and she drew ragged breaths trying to conserve her strength, she saw him move his head. A vivid red stain stood out against his pale cheek.

He’s bleeding.

She redoubled her efforts, fighting the churning water, the distance telescoping as her arms and shoulders began to ache and her legs numbed.

Reaching him at last, she shoved the rescue board under his torso.

‘I’ve got you; don’t worry,’ she yelled.

She grappled with the Velcro strap attaching his ankle to his board as a five-footer barrelled down on them. She heard a groan as blood seeped from the surfer’s hairline and flowed over his sculpted cheekbone.

Concentrate. Undo the strap.

She shoved his surfboard free and wrapped her arm across him, just as the wave crashed on top of them with a deafening roar.

For a split second fear froze her as the wave sucked them down. But then the training took over. She fisted her fingers on the rescue board, her cheek pressed against his torso and kicked hard. They surfaced together, breaking back into the heaving sound and fury of the angry sea. It took Maddy a moment to orientate herself, then she paddled furiously, riding the swell as she clung to the stranger’s prone body. The shore seemed a million miles away, her legs so rubbery she could barely move them, her chest screaming with the effort to draw a decent breath. She pushed the panic down and kept going.

After what seemed like several millennia, a large hand grasped her arm and hauled her upright. She squinted through the stinging salt, saw Luke’s dark blond hair plastered to his head.

‘It’s all right; I’ve got him,’ he yelled. ‘Stand up; you can walk from here.’

Her legs shook, trembling uncontrollably as she struggled to lock her knees. How could she not have realised they were almost ashore? She hugged herself as Luke dragged the rescue board with the surfer onto the sand, then knelt beside him.

She approached in a groggy haze of exhaustion as Luke—who was much better qualified than her in pulmonary respiration techniques—examined their patient. Instead of putting the surfer in the recovery position, Luke manoeuvred him onto the waiting spinal board and fastened the Velcro strap across his chest.

‘He’s breathing. No need to resuscitate him.’ Luke shot a quick grin over his shoulder. ‘Should come round in a second. Probably took a crack on the head from his board.’ Luke tilted back on his haunches. ‘The paramedics can check him out properly once they arrive. Keep him strapped down just in case.’ He got off his knees and stood up. ‘I’ll go get you both a rescue blanket to keep you warm till they get here.’

Maddy shoved the straggles of hair out of her eyes as Luke strolled off towards the truck. Despite the thump of panic still closing her throat and the brutal sting of salt in her eyes, heat coiled low in her belly as she stared down at the man she’d saved.

She tilted her head to one side, transfixed.

Maybe he wasn’t classically handsome like Luke, but the dramatic slash of dark brows, high hollow cheekbones and the rough stubble accentuating a strong jaw gave him a raw pagan beauty that had Maddy’s breath catching. Her gaze wandered down. Broad shoulders, a perfectly defined six-pack and long, leanly muscled flanks were exquisitely showcased by the sleek black wetsuit. The heat coiled tighter.

She shuddered, although she didn’t feel remotely chilled any more, and noticed the faint blue tinge around his sensual lips. A deep moan rumbled up his chest and he moved, straining against the strap.

Maddy jerked. What was she doing? Ogling him as if he were a stripper at a hen party. The poor guy was hurt and probably freezing to death. She dropped to her knees, placed her hand against his cheek. Rough stubble abraided her palm and sent another inappropriate jolt of heat through her. She ignored it.

‘It’s okay,’ she said, the words coming out on a breathy whisper. Mortified, she paused. Boy, did she need to kick-start her love life again if she was now lusting after strangers—and unconscious ones at that.

‘You’re okay. Don’t move,’ she murmured, touching his forehead to brush back the thick, wavy locks falling over his brow. The blood that had been gushing in the sea had slowed to a sluggish crawl, seeping out of a narrow gash below his hairline.

She pressed her thumb to it and his eyes snapped open. Her pulse pummelled her neck as she stared into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. The brilliant turquoise of his irises contrasted with the bloodshot whites, and looked so pure and dazzling it reminded her of an old fifties postcard of the Caribbean Sea, the colour too rich to be real.

His brow creased as he tried to rise and came to a jerking halt, his body confined by the strap.

‘What the …?’ The expletive came out on a gruff whisper. ‘Who tied me down?’

She placed her palm on his upper arm, hoping to reassure him. Unfortunately, the feel of the rock-hard bicep bunching under her fingertips had the opposite effect on her. ‘I did,’ she blurted out. ‘It’s for your own good.’

The magnificent blue eyes narrowed. ‘Who the hell are you?’

Her skin flushed hot despite the chill and the spitting drizzle of autumn rain. ‘I’m one of the lifeguards on Wildwater Bay. We had to bring you in. You hit your head.’

He stopped struggling and dropped his head back, huffed out a breath. ‘Fantastic,’ he murmured. Bitterness clouded his eyes but it didn’t seem to be directed at her. ‘Thanks.’ The curt word lacked conviction. ‘Now, undo the strap.’

She tried not to let the commanding tone annoy her. Rudeness was probably to be expected after what he’d been through. ‘I’m not going to do that,’ she said in her best firm but fair Florence Nightingale voice. ‘You have to stay put until the paramedics get here.’

His jaw hardened. ‘No paramedics,’ he said. ‘Now, let me up.’

‘I really don’t think that’s a good idea,’ she replied, still channelling Florence.

‘Fine; I’ll do it myself.’

She watched, astonished, as he tilted his shoulder down, twisted his torso and then ripped the strap free with one hand. She moved out of the way as he struggled onto his elbows and sat up. He groaned and touched his forehead.

‘That serves you right.’ Forget Florence. Nurse Ratchet suddenly seemed more appropriate. ‘You need to lie down and wait for the paramedics to check you out.’

He swore softly and brought his fingers away. Barely glancing at the bright red stain, he fixed chilly eyes on her. Seeing the headache in them, she bit back the rest of the retort.

He leaned forward, obviously intending to stand up.

She gripped his arm. ‘The paramedics will be here any minute. You need to stay put.’

He glanced at her fingers and she pulled her hand back instinctively.

‘I decide what I need,’ he said, his voice rough.

Maddy fought for composure. Why was he being so flipping difficult? ‘But you may have injuries you’re not aware of.’ His gaze drifted disconcertingly to her chest and her nipples chose that precise moment to thrust against her suit like torpedoes.

‘I’ll risk it.’ Sarcasm edged the words as his eyes lifted to her face, but his lips twitched, almost as if he were struggling not to smile and his eyes didn’t look nearly as chilly any more.

Warmth spread up Maddy’s neck. Unbelievable. Was the world’s worst patient coming on to her? But then he flinched and she was sure she must have imagined it.

‘Hey, mate, where are you off to?’ Luke interrupted the charged silence, his arms laden with the silver body-warming blankets. Maddy wondered if he’d been to Timbuktu and back to get them.

‘I’m leaving.’ The surfer struggled onto his feet.

He staggered and Luke steadied him. ‘D’you think that’s wise? You took quite a tumble.’

The man sent Luke a cold stare. ‘I know.’

Maddy bristled at his rudeness, but Luke seemed unperturbed. ‘At least take a blanket, fella,’ he said, handing over one of the silver sheets. ‘You must be frozen.’

The stranger looked down at Luke’s offering, paused and then took it. ‘Thanks.’ He wrapped the blanket clumsily around his shoulders, his hands trembling. Maddy somehow knew that if he hadn’t been on the verge of hypothermia he would have refused.

‘Where are you staying?’ Luke asked carefully, as if he were speaking to a wild animal that might bite his hand off at any minute. Maddy knew how he felt.

‘You need a lift anywhere?’ Luke added when the man shot him a look loaded with suspicion.

For a minute the only sound was the rush of the wind and the thump of Maddy’s heartbeat in her ears.

Finally the surfer shook his head, the blood running unnoticed in a small rivulet down his temple. ‘I live at Trewan Manor,’ he said, jerking his head towards the forbidding mansion that sat at the top of the cliffs overlooking the Bay. ‘I can get there on the cliff path.’

Maddy’s gaze lifted to the point, a little astonished by the news. She’d been fascinated by that huge old house ever since she’d first started working at the Bay last June, the towering gables and grey stone turrets making her think of Wuthering Heights and Manderley and Thornfield all rolled into one. She’d assumed the place was empty, her artistic nature conjuring up all sorts of fanciful stories to explain its desolate appearance.

Her gaze returned to the surfer. Given his wild good looks, the man fitted his mansion’s raw Gothic beauty to a T. What a shame he had Heathcliff’s temper, Maxim de Winter’s arrogance and Rochester’s condescension to match—all traits that made for gorgeous literary heroes, but were a nightmare to deal with in real life.

Maddy stepped forward as the stranger turned to leave. ‘Hang on a minute; you can’t just …’

Luke thrust his arm out to hold her back. ‘Don’t, Mad. He doesn’t want your help.’

‘But that’s ridiculous; he could be seriously hurt,’ she whispered frantically, not sure why it mattered to her.

‘You can’t rescue everyone.’ Luke sent her a rueful smile, reminding her of Cal, then wrapped the remaining blanket round her and gave her shoulders a reassuring rub. ‘Let’s get back to the café. The first Extreme’s on me.’

Maddy fisted her hands on the blanket and nodded, but her gaze drifted back to the stranger as he walked across the sand. The silver blanket fluttered in the wind like a cape. She frowned, noticing the pronounced hitch in his stride for the first time. ‘He’s limping,’ she murmured. ‘He’s hurt his leg.’ Concern clutched at her throat again.

He stopped to rub his thigh, then carried on walking with a laboured, lopsided gait, his shoulders stiff and erect and oddly defensive.

‘Looks like an old wound,’ Luke said. ‘Must be why he couldn’t stay on the board.’

Concern and confusion tangled into tight little knots of irritation in Maddy’s stomach. What sort of macho fool spent all afternoon attempting something he was incapable of? And nearly killed himself in the process?

‘Nice butt, though,’ Luke said cheekily, and Maddy’s eyes dipped to the firm muscled orbs of his backside, indecently displayed by the skintight suit.

Her pulse-rate kicked up again and the coil of unwanted arousal twisted in the pit of her belly.

As much as she didn’t want to, she had to admit Luke had a point.

‘Unfortunately, I don’t think he’s your type,’ she muttered.

Luke laughed. ‘From the way he checked out your boobs, I’d have to agree with you.’

Ignoring Luke’s comment—and the renewed flare of heat it triggered—Maddy forced herself to stop admiring the studly surfer’s assets. The man might have an extremely nice bum, but he clearly had far too much testosterone for any sensible woman to handle.

She’d saved his life … And, while she hadn’t expected him to thank her, exactly, he could at least have had the decency to treat her with an iota of respect.

But, as Maddy climbed into the cab and Luke drove them across the beach to the café, her breasts tingled and heat pulsed insistently between her thighs.

She squirmed in her seat.

Terrific.

Trust her bits to come out of hibernation and do the happy dance for a guy who might as well have had a neon sign above his head saying Women—approach at your peril.

Ryan King cursed as he hauled his leg up one more step. He dropped his head between his shoulders, counted to ten and concentrated on keeping down the nausea churning in his gut. Not easy when his thigh was throbbing in unison with the stabbing pain at his temple and his whole body was so cold he was pretty sure he was about to lose several vital appendages to frostbite.

‘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.’

Or that super sexy grin gives me a heart attack.

He chuckled, the sound low and easy this time. ‘Yeah. You probably should.’

She shuffled off in the direction he’d indicated, all her nerve-endings two-stepping in time to the deep relaxed rumble of laughter that followed her down the hall.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE spare bedroom turned out to be a large, ornately furnished mausoleum dominated by a gigantic bay window that looked onto the cliffs.

The storm raged outside, wind and rain buffeting the glass and making the room even more funereal. Maddy trembled, the draught from the window penetrating her damp clothes. Skirting a four-poster bed covered with an antique satin bedspread, she made a beeline for the bathroom.

White ceramic tiles, an elegant claw-foot tub and an inbuilt gas wall heater marked this room as another refugee from the Victorian era. Luckily, the heat spread quickly as soon as she lit the fire, making the bathroom considerably more welcoming than the bedroom next door. A couple of fluffy towels, an unopened bar of soap and a bottle of men’s shampoo lay on top of a wicker laundry basket. Maddy sneezed as she stripped off her muddy clothes and stepped into the tub.

Great—nothing like a snotty nose to put the finishing touches to her uber-sexy drowned rat look.

The minute the thought entered her head, embarrassment scorched Maddy’s cheeks and her hormones started two-stepping again. She blew out a breath and whipped the frayed shower curtain into place.

Oh, for goodness’ sake. Get real.

Ryan King wasn’t interested in her. A man that good-looking probably only dated supermodels. She hadn’t turned him on—she’d made him almost crack a rib laughing. There was a difference.

And, anyway, she wasn’t really interested in him, either. Except in a purely physical sense. Which was simply due to her sex-starved hormones going AWOL after a year of disuse.

However delicious Rye King might be to look at, she wasn’t dumb enough to have a wild fling with a sexy stranger just to scratch an itch. Whatever her hormones might want. Especially as this particular sexy stranger had an attitude problem.

A seductive smile, a few seconds of charm and chest muscles to die for hardly made up for his Rottweiler routine beforehand.

She cranked the vintage brass shower control and listened to the plumbing gurgle and hiss. Then sighed with pleasure as the water went from frigid to steaming in a matter of seconds.

She stepped under the needle sharp spray, let it massage abused muscles—and made a pact with herself not to give Ryan King’s sexy grin or phenomenal pecs another thought.

And promptly broke her pact a second later.

After the luxury of a ten-minute shower, Maddy searched the old oak chest of drawers in the bedroom for something dry to wear. In the end she had to settle for a worn LA Surf Academy sweatshirt, a pair of thick wool socks and her still slightly damp knickers. All the sweatpants were far too big to wear. Luckily, the sweatshirt fell to mid-thigh. Maddy assessed her appearance in the wardrobe mirror. As long as she didn’t bend over in front of him, she could preserve her modesty.

She stared at her pale legs and the shapeless lump of her torso. If only she hadn’t been wearing the full-body wetsuit all summer she’d at least have a tan. Not that there had been enough sun for her tan resistant skin to get much colour. She puffed out a disappointed breath and sucked in the scent of pine soap. The sudden reminder of being nestled against Ryan King’s magnificent chest had her body aching with need and her heart crashing against her ribcage.

The pact. Remember the stupid pact.

Agitated and annoyed with herself, Maddy finger-combed her shaggy curls. She sighed as they fell back into an unruly bob.

Fabulous. She was about to spend an evening with the best-looking man she’d ever set eyes on—and she looked like an undead tomboy playing dress up. If Ryan King even noticed she was female it would be a miracle.

She frowned. Which was a good thing, of course, because she didn’t want him to notice her.

Do not forget the pact.

As she made her way down the darkened corridor towards the back of the house, she tried to picture Ryan King wearing his Rottweiler look to help her keep the pact front and centre. But in the picture he looked all sexy and intense, his blue eyes gleaming with …

Face it, the pact’s history.

She let out a breath as she stepped into the kitchen. He wasn’t there. Good, it would give her time to stop hyperventilating and think of a more doable pact. Maybe.

She took several slow breaths and tried to ignore her throbbing breasts as she studied his kitchen. The pitter-patter of rain against the large window above the stove added yet more eerie atmosphere to the cavernous space. Even in the dingy light, the window offered another spectacular view of the cliffs. If she pushed onto tiptoe, she could see Wildwater Beach below.

She flicked the light switch, illuminating beautifully carved teak cabinets, a butler sink with an authentic wooden draining platform and what looked like an original Aga cooking range. The room felt warm and inviting, thanks to the roaring fire raging in the grate. Her feet padded against the checkerboard tiles as she walked towards the heat and dumped her wet clothes in an old wicker basket under the sink. She did a three hundred and sixty degree turn but could see no sign of a washing machine or dryer or even a dishwasher.

It also occurred to her that, apart from a bowl and cup drying on the draining board, the room was spotlessly clean and completely bare and impersonal, just like the spare room. She rubbed her hands together, chilled despite the heat.

The quaint antique decor had to date back to the eighteen hundreds and suited the gloriously Gothic old house perfectly, but when she thought of the sleek black sports car she’d passed in the driveway and her host’s overpowering physique and appearance, she realised the house and its furnishings didn’t suit its resident at all. It seemed strange he hadn’t made any effort to personalise the space. If she’d had to guess, she would have placed him in some ultra-modern city bachelor pad filled with state-of-the-art boy toys.

Maybe he’d moved in recently? Although there were no boxes or suitcases or any of the other moving paraphernalia that had lingered for months after she’d set up home in her granny’s cottage last summer. Could the house be a holiday rental? But why would he choose to rent such a huge place all to himself?

She chewed on her lip, the questions buzzing round in her head like busy little bees.

Maybe he didn’t live here alone? The thought made her heartbeat stutter. Not that it mattered to her whether he lived alone or not …

She shook her head. She needed a distraction before her hormones started working overtime again. Having filled the old-fashioned steel kettle and set it on the stove’s hotplate, she perched on tiptoe and began to search the overhead cabinets. With the rain still pounding against the windowpanes, it looked as if she was going to have to endure her host’s company for a while longer. A hot cup of tea would help soothe jumpy nerves—and, hopefully, her overactive imagination. She hummed an old soul tune as she rifled through the tinned groceries in search of tea bags.

Rye swallowed a groan and stopped dead in the kitchen doorway. An off-key rendition of Percy Sledge’s When a Man Loves a Woman was accompanied by the sight of his house guest, clad in one of his old sweatshirts, her firm, beautifully rounded little bottom showcased in hot pink panties as she stretched up to reach the kitchen cabinets.

His mouth went bone dry as the heat, which he had assured himself while getting dressed was a fluke and didn’t signify a thing, shot straight back into his crotch.

Having found what she was looking for, the girl turned slightly and bounced down. Her breasts jiggled beneath the sweatshirt and his heart slammed into his throat.

Sweet heaven. No bra. I’m a dead man.

The mouth-watering hot pink bum disappeared under the sweatshirt but, as Rye devoured slender legs, smooth muscled calves and the glimpse of her profile revealed from behind the curtain of wild reddish-brown curls, he imagined plump naked breasts, the nipples hard and swollen, swaying into his open palms, and painful arousal marched through his system like an army charging into battle.

He bent his head, stared down at the enormous tent in his fly and had to resist the urge to throw back his head, beat his chest and howl with joy.

He was harder than granite, for the first time in six long months. He felt mightier than Superman. Ready to leap Everest in a single …

The shrill whistle of the kettle curbed the superhero fantasy. But only a little. She jumped, her breasts jiggled again, and granite became tungsten.

He watched her reach for the kettle in a daze of euphoria. Then her fingers closed over the handle and his mind engaged.

‘No, don’t touch …’

Too late. She yelped and snatched her hand back.

‘Damn.’ He crossed the room, grasped her wrist. ‘Did you burn yourself?’

The shimmer of tears made her eyes glitter. ‘What a twit,’ she said, spots of colour hitting her cheeks. ‘I can’t believe I did that.’

She trembled, and small white teeth dug into her full bottom lip. He forced his gaze away, so desperate to taste her he thought he might explode.

A scarlet line marred the soft flesh at the base of her thumb. ‘Ouch,’ he murmured.

Get your head out of your pants, King. She’s hurt.

He thrust her hand over the sink, the punches of her pulse under his thumb making him light-headed. Leaning over her to turn on the cold water tap, he strained to keep their bodies apart. She flinched and he caught a lungful of her scent. His own shampoo layered with something spicy and unbearably erotic. Sweat popped out on his brow—and the irony of the situation struck him. After six months of nothing, he finally had lift off, poised to launch into orbit at the most inappropriate moment imaginable.

The tap gurgled and the water gushed out. She jumped as it splashed onto her palm, jerked back instinctively. And her bottom pressed straight into the colossal erection.

CHAPTER FIVE

WHAT on earth was that?

Maddy’s eyes popped wide, the smarting pain in her hand forgotten as her nipples shot to attention and her erogenous zones went into meltdown.

A hissed curse brushed her earlobe as he shot back, letting go of her wrist.

Maddy stood stock-still, watching the water flow over her hand. She couldn’t feel it. The skin of her palm had gone blessedly numb. Unlike her buttocks, which felt as if they’d been branded.

To paraphrase Mae West, either her host had an iron bar in his pocket or he was very pleased to see her. The knowledge both petrified and excited her … But not necessarily in that order.

With all her senses on red alert, the trickle of water and the patter of slowing rain sounded almost as deafening as the low murmur of his breathing and hers. She could smell him, that tantalising hint of seawater and pine soap, feel electricity crackling along her skin at his nearness. He hadn’t moved away, but stood as still as her, just out of reach.

What the heck should she say? She turned off the tap, scared to look round and more scared not to.

‘I …’ she began. ‘Um …’ Heat prickled the hairs on the back of her neck.

Good one, Mads. That’s articulate.

He cleared his throat loudly, making her jump.

‘It’s not what you think,’ his deep voice rumbled out and her nerve-endings sizzled, before she registered the meaning.

What?

She twisted round and her gaze landed on the enormous bulge in the front of his faded jeans. As her nerve-endings short-circuited, she tried to make sense of his statement.

‘I don’t know what you think I’m thinking—’ she raised her eyes to his face ‘—but, if that’s not one of the biggest erections I’ve ever seen, I’d really like to know what it is.’

He raised his palms. ‘Okay; you’ve got me.’ His lips quirked. ‘You’re not annoyed?’ he said, sounding relieved.

‘No, I’m not annoyed,’ she replied, realising she wasn’t, not even slightly. ‘Despite the pact.’

His brow furrowed. ‘The what?’

‘Never mind.’ Shut up, Mads, and focus.

She glanced back down. Wow, he was magnificent—and obviously as interested in her as she was in him. Which meant she had two options here.

She could be a girl about this and revert to type. Tie herself up in knots about whether Rye King would make a suitable mate and run off screaming into the night. And her erogenous zones might calm down in about a decade or two.

Or she could be a guy about it. Snatch the opportunity and take what she wanted for once without worrying about the consequences. And put her erogenous zones in a very happy place indeed.

‘I hate to rush you.’ He tucked a knuckle under her chin and lifted her face to his. ‘But if you’re not annoyed—’ his thumb rubbed across her bottom lip ‘—could you tell me what you are? Exactly?’

She grinned, the charge of excitement making her erogenous zones do a Snoopy dance. She’d been looking for someone to use. And this guy had to be the perfect candidate. He was surly, intense, gorgeous and the complete antithesis of what she was looking for in a life partner. And he clearly wanted to use her as much as she wanted to use him.

What was she waiting for?

Reaching up, she looped tentative arms round his neck, stretched up onto tiptoe and tried to look as if she knew what she was doing. Seduction was virgin territory for her; she’d always let the guy set the pace before, usually after several tame dates and lots of hand-holding. Which had probably been her first mistake.

Time to seize control of your sex life, Madeleine Westmore.

Then she pressed against the rigid erection, felt the leap of response. And power surged through her.

She’d never been wanton before. Never been remotely reckless. But she could see now what she’d always needed was one wild, wanton, reckless fling to shock her out of her complacency.

‘Exactly?’ She arched a coquettish eyebrow, loving the way his sensual lips curved into a seductive grin. ‘I’m flattered, big boy. And hoping like hell you’ve got a condom large enough for that thing,’ she murmured, shocking herself.

He threw back his head and laughed.

Running large callused palms up her sides under the sweatshirt, he sobered. ‘Maddy Westmore, I think you may be my ideal woman,’ he murmured.

The little clutch at the meaningless endearment barely registered on the Richter Scale of excitement coursing through her body.

She gasped as he leant down to nuzzle her neck. His stubble

abraided sensitive skin as hot lips fastened on the pulse point and his thumbs brushed swollen nipples. He devoured her lips with a hungry, seeking kiss, then pulled back and swung her up in his arms. ‘Come on. Condoms are in my bedroom. Let’s go try one on for size.’

He strode forward, one step, then staggered and listed to one side. She leapt down before he could drop her.

He swore viciously, bending over to grab his leg.

‘I’m sorry; did I hurt you?’ she asked, mortified. How could she have forgotten about his bum leg?

His cheeks flushed a dull red as he looked away, rubbing his thigh. ‘No.’ He bit the word out.

Glimpsing the Rottweiler again, Maddy cradled his cheek, steered his face back to her. ‘Good.’ His jaw tensed beneath her fingers. ‘So you’re still ready for a fitting?’

He straightened and gave a brittle half-laugh. ‘Why the hell would you want to bed a cripple?’ The tone was bitter, angry, but she could hear the unhappiness beneath.

‘Because it’s not your leg I’m worried about.’

His eyes narrowed but the tension gradually disappeared from his face. He huffed out another laugh, the hollowness gone. ‘Good point.’

He took her hand, lifted her fingers to his lips and brushed a kiss across the knuckles. The gesture was so sweet and so unexpected, she felt herself flush.

‘I don’t want to disappoint you,’ he said, his eyes shadowed by something she couldn’t read.

She had no idea what he meant, but he sounded as if he was getting all serious on her … And it was the last thing she wanted.

This wasn’t serious. It was her first and last wild, reckless, wanton fling. She didn’t want to know him and he didn’t have to know her. Serious was for Miss Fixit. Who was dead and buried.

‘As long as you can hobble to the bedroom—’ she grasped his hand in both of hers, tugged him towards the kitchen door ‘—believe me, you won’t.’ If he didn’t hurry up, something dumb—like common sense—was going to get in the way of her Snoopy dance.

‘Hobble?’ His eyebrows lifted as he followed, the limp not nearly as prominent as the bulge in his denims. ‘That’s not very flattering,’ he said, sounding more playful than insulted.

‘If you want flattering,’ she murmured, fluttering her eyelashes for all she was worth and hoping like mad she wasn’t promising more than she could deliver, ‘you’ll have to get a move on.’

He laughed as he let her haul him out of the door.

Adrenalin and desperation surged through Rye’s body as he slammed the bedroom door shut. She stood before him, her breath panting out in ragged gasps and those bright green eyes feverish with desire. He grabbed a handful of the sweatshirt, yanked her into his arms.

‘I want you naked,’ he murmured into her curls as his hands clasped her hips, found the soft, seductive flesh beneath.

She felt smooth and warm and perfect, her lush little body vibrating as he dragged the sweatshirt over her head and threw it away. Her full breasts swayed, mesmerising him, the nipples large and red, like ripe strawberries.

Her lips lifted but she looked wary all of a sudden—and much less sure of herself.

He cupped one full orb in his palm and bent to suckle the rigid peak.

She gave a soft little sob, sank her fingers into his hair and arched into his mouth. The scent of her, the taste assailed him and then panic struck.

He had to get inside her. Now, before he lost the erection. He couldn’t wait, couldn’t play, couldn’t risk taking the time to pleasure her too much.

Dragging his mouth away from the feast of flesh, he tumbled her back onto the bed. Struggling with his fly, his fingers frantic, he released the mammoth erection, still gloriously hard. It took him several crucial moments more to kick off his jeans. Drag off his own T-shirt.

He looked up to see her watching him. Propped on her elbows, her mouth dropped open as she stared. The shell-shocked look on her face gave him a burst of pride. She wasn’t gaping at the scars; she didn’t look disgusted—she looked astonished.

She didn’t know the half of it. And, hopefully, she never would.

‘The condoms are in the bedside table,’ he said in a strained voice. ‘Can you get them?’ It would take him too long to shuffle over there.

She nodded and rolled over, pulling a foil packet out as he eased onto the bed, trying not to jostle his leg.

‘Do you want me to do it?’ she asked, her voice shaky.

‘In a minute.’ He curved a hand round her waist, then hooked his fingers in the hot pink knickers.

He could give her a minute. At least.

She lifted her hips and he drew the swatch of lace down slender, toned legs. God, if only he could risk taking his time. He wanted to feast on her for an eternity. She smelled so good, looked so delicious, the dim light from the storm outside gilding her pearly-white skin and making his groin throb all the harder. But fear and panic barked in his head like angry dogs, threatening the promise of pleasure, so tantalisingly close.

He pulled her slim body clumsily beneath him, slanted his lips across hers. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, her breath coming in shallow pants as his tongue delved. He cupped her sex, felt her buck as he sank seeking fingers into tight tender flesh.

Thank God. She was ready. Hot, wet, slick with need.

He ripped the foil open with his teeth, his breath sawing as he rolled the condom on one-handed.

Pain stabbed in his leg, panic clawing at his throat as he adjusted her hips, nestled between her thighs.

Do it now. Before you lose it all again.

She gasped something, grasped his neck, but he couldn’t hear her through the rush of blood in his ears, the need and desperation tightening like a fist around his heart.

He thrust deep. The surge of power, of pleasure, of triumph so intense he couldn’t breathe.

The velvet flesh closed so tight around him he had to withdraw, thrust again. At last he settled deep, the blast of raw heat incredible. His hips pistoned, the pain in his leg forgotten as the orgasm, cruel, elemental, unstoppable, roared through him.

He shouted out his release and charged over the edge, his lungs bursting, the wondrous euphoria raging through him like the storm outside.

CHAPTER SIX

MADDY stared at the plaster moulding on the ceiling, her disappointment almost as huge as the heavy male body smothering her.

Was that it?

Her wild, reckless, wanton fling? What a total waste of time and effort.

Ryan King may have had the sexiest body she’d ever laid eyes on—and the biggest ‘you-know what’—but he also had about as much finesse as a bulldozer.

Her eyes narrowed as the shock began to clear.

She’d asked him to slow down, tried to give him a little bit of direction. But had he listened? No, he’d just charged on regardless, using his thing like a battering ram.

Okay, he hadn’t hurt her. But that was only because she’d been so turned on. The way he’d ploughed into her, he could have done her an injury.

She wriggled, winced and wedged her hand under his shoulder to give him a shove. He grunted, but hardly budged. Then the still-huge erection pulsed inside her. She groaned, the too-full ache making her more uncomfortable and annoyed by the second.

This could have been so much better, so much more. If he’d taken his time, shown a little patience and consideration for her enjoyment, her feelings. Instead of which, he was obviously one of those guys who thought having a handsome face and a larger-than-average appendage was enough. Well, it wasn’t, not by a long shot. Not for her. Maybe there really were women who could spontaneously combust to order with only two seconds of foreplay, but she wasn’t one of them. And she refused to feel inadequate about it.

She gave him another heftier shove and bit her lip as he rolled off her to flop onto the bed beside her.

She closed her legs, noticed the tenderness between her thighs and glared at him. With his eyes closed and a smile of blissful satisfaction on his too-handsome face, he looked like a small boy who had just devoured a whole Knickerbocker Glory in one swallow.

Unfortunately for her, it had been all Knickerbocker and very little Glory.

Resentment overwhelmed her. Swiftly followed by recrimination.

This is all your own stupid fault. What the heck were you thinking?

If only she’d actually been thinking. She’d have remembered there was a reason why you had to get to know someone before you did the wild thing with them. Never had her granny’s favourite saying been truer. ‘If it looks too good to be true …’

Clutching the sheet to her chin, she examined the plaster some more.

She should never have let her hormones and her dismal relationship history rob her of every last ounce of self-control—and common sense. She’d known the guy was arrogant and dominant and moody, but she’d decided to seduce him anyway.

She shuffled across the bed, her overworked muscles protesting, and resentment peaked.

Well, at least she’d learned her lesson. No more wild, wanton, reckless flings, not for a while anyway. Because she was going to be paying the price for this one for days.

She swung her feet to the floor, glanced at the rain splashing against his bedroom window and sighed. And that was without even factoring in the long walk home through a hurricane.

She shifted to get up.

‘Maddy?’ She twisted round at the deep rumble of his voice. He stretched, propped one hand behind his head and reached out to stroke a finger down her arm, the self-satisfied smile still in place. ‘Going somewhere?’

Fabulous. Why couldn’t he have stayed in a coma so she could at least make a clean getaway? Resentment flared.

‘I’m going home,’ she said sharply. Did he even know how disappointing he’d been?

She tried to lift herself off the bed but his fingers circled her wrist.

‘Don’t go. Stay a while.’

What the heck for?

‘I can’t stay. I’ve got to get back,’ she said tightly, trying to keep her resentment out of her voice. Telling him how rubbish he was in bed would only make this more personal.

‘It’s still raining, your clothes are soaking wet and your bike has a puncture,’ he said reasonably. ‘It’s not a good idea.’

His thumb skimmed across her pulse point and she trembled.

‘It’s not that far,’ she lied, snatching her hand away. She didn’t want to be touched. ‘I can always …’

‘You didn’t come,’ he interrupted, shocking her into silence. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘Don’t worry; it’s not a problem,’ she said, not all that convinced the apology was sincere. If he felt bad about his abysmal performance, what was with that sheepish smile?

‘Really?’ He chuckled, annoying her even more. ‘What’s with the angry eyes, then?’

She tried to dim the glare. ‘I’m not angry,’ she said with exaggerated patience. This was getting awkward now as well as irritating. She was stark naked under the sheet she had clutched to her bosom and her nerve-endings were still popping and fizzing at the sight of that bare chest and washboard-lean six-pack—when they ought to know better by now. ‘I really have to go.’

She scanned the room for his sweatshirt. Where was the stupid thing?

He took her arm. ‘Why don’t you hear me out before you rush off?’

Oh, for …

‘Fine.’ She straightened, trapped and acutely aware of her nakedness. ‘But can I have the sweatshirt first?’ She didn’t know what he had to say and she didn’t really care. But she wasn’t listening to anything in the nude. ‘I think it’s on your side of the bed.’

His lips curved as he released her. Scooping the sweatshirt off the floor, he lobbed it to her. She heard his heavy sigh as she pulled it on.

‘So what did you want to say?’ she demanded when he remained silent, his gaze heating with lazy approval.

‘That I’m not usually that bad.’ He scraped the hair off his brow, the smile becoming almost boyish. ‘There are reasons for what happened that I won’t bore you with,’ he murmured, his eyes darkening to a rich cobalt. ‘Let me make it up to you.’

Maddy felt the pulse of response—and cursed her idiotic hormones. He might have that sexy, intense look down pat, but talk about false advertising.

‘That really isn’t necessary,’ she said primly. Another round like the last one would probably kill off her libido for good.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Look, Mr King—’ time to stop this stupid charade ‘—I’m not interested.’

‘Mr King?’ He sounded amused. ‘Was I that bad?’

‘Yes, actually you were.’ Why sugar-coat it?

He clasped a hand to his breast in mock horror. ‘You wound me, Maddy.’

‘Well, now you know how it feels,’ she snapped, annoyed by his teasing. What was so flipping hilarious?

He frowned, then bolted upright, the lazy smile gone. ‘I didn’t hurt you, did I?’ The colour drained from his face. ‘You were so tight, but I thought you were ready.’

She flushed, a little ashamed of herself. He looked genuinely horrified. ‘No. That’s not what I meant.’

‘Thank God.’ He scrubbed his hands down his face, then pinned her with that sexy, intense look again and her nerve-endings sizzled some more. ‘Look, how about we make a deal, Madeleine?’

She didn’t like the sound of that, and she wished he’d stop saying her name in that low, intimate way. But then he took her wrist again, pressed his thumb to the pulse point—and she lost focus. ‘What deal?’

‘I’ll sling your clothes in the machine—and, when they’re done, I’ll drive you home myself, if you still want to go.’

‘You have a washing machine?’ she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

‘Yeah.’ The lazy smile was back. ‘I know this place looks like a throwback to the Stone Age, but it does have a few mod cons.’

‘I see,’ she said, annoyingly tempted.

His offer would be a lot nicer than having to push the bike three miles down the coast road, in a rain storm, in wet jeans. No question. But she wasn’t sure about that if. Or the way the gentle rub of his thumb was playing havoc with her pulse.

‘You promise you’ll drive me home? No questions asked?’

‘Absolutely,’ he said. But she wasn’t at all sure she could trust him. He had that damn sexy and intense thing going on again.

Or that she could trust herself. Why was her pulse doing the foxtrot?

He released her wrist and lifted her chin with his forefinger. ‘Go run yourself a hot bath—and I’ll put the laundry on.’ Leaning up on his elbow, he gave her a quick kiss. ‘Relax,’ he said as she tucked her bottom lip under her teeth, far too aware of the sizzle where his lips had touched hers. ‘I won’t jump you again. I promise.’

‘All right,’ she said tentatively. Not sure how he had got the upper hand but knowing that somehow he had.

She shot off to the bathroom as he slung the sheet back to get out of the bed. The last thing she needed was a glimpse of that very nice bum naked to make her lose focus completely.

Closing the door behind her, she listened to his foot thump against the polished oak floorboards as he limped out of the room.

It was only when she was neck deep in pine-scented bubbles that she discovered his promise not to jump her left him far too much room to manoeuvre.

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘WHAT are you doing?’

Rye winced at the shriek of alarm as water splashed over the rim of the tub and Maddy dunked down to her chin.

He choked back a chuckle at her horrified expression—and shut the door. The twin spots of colour on her cheeks and the tendrils of damp hair sticking to the graceful line of her neck made it hard for him to breathe as he crossed the room.

‘Do you mind?’ she said, outraged, her angry eyes flashing at him again.

‘Not at all,’ he said, unable to contain a smile as he settled on the wicker seat beside the tub and extended his stiff leg.

She glared at him. ‘You promised you wouldn’t jump me. Remember.’

God, but she was gorgeous. Especially when she was miffed. No wonder she’d been the one to bring him back to life. At last.

‘I’m not going to jump you,’ he said, tucking one of the tendrils behind her ear.

He ran the base of his thumb down her throat, satisfaction coursing through his veins when she swallowed convulsively. He’d lost a lot of things in the last six months, but she’d given him one of the most precious back and he intended to thank her, in the only way he knew how. Unfortunately, it wasn’t just gratitude he was feeling at the moment.

‘What exactly are you planning to do, then?’ she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

He couldn’t see much of her, but imagining all that flushed, rosy flesh naked beneath the water made it hard to stick to the plan he’d worked out while loading her wet clothes into his grandfather’s ancient twin tub.

Of course, if he had been a gentleman, he would have let her finish her bath in peace. But he’d never been a gentleman, and he’d never been all that patient either.

He couldn’t really blame her for wanting to have nothing to do with him. He’d behaved like an utter clod earlier. Why should she believe him when he told her he could do better? He hoped a lot better. She’d hardly had the five-star treatment so far.

‘I plan to seduce you.’

‘Oh, for Pete’s sake. Will you just forget it?’

The chuckle popped out despite his best efforts. She really did look miffed. And so damn delicious he wanted to lick her all over.

‘But I can’t forget it, Maddy. You gave me the most spectacular orgasm of my life.’

Her eyes widened and the spots of colour on her cheek bloomed to a vivid red. ‘I did?’ She sounded so astonished he wanted to hug her. A little surprised himself to realise he wasn’t exaggerating. Of course the intensity of his orgasm had probably had more to do with his own situation than her, but it was still the truth.

‘Not only that,’ he continued, keeping his eyes fixed on her flushed face, ‘but you saved my life this afternoon.’ In truth, she may well have saved it twice. ‘I owe you.’ He trailed his finger through the water, touched the pebbled nipple peeking through the foam.

She gasped and her pupils dilated beautifully. ‘You do?’

‘And I’m a man who always insists on paying his debts.’

‘Oh, I see.’ She looked so flummoxed and so turned on, he had to bite his cheek to keep from smiling.

‘The only thing is, I’m not sure I …’ She hesitated. ‘I want you to …’ Her eyes flicked to his lap and she went redder still.

He knew what the problem was.

He had already guessed Maddy’s brash seduction in the kitchen had been out of character. And that she wasn’t usually that sexually demanding. The women he’d bedded in the past would have called him on his atrocious performance immediately, demanding to know what the hell had happened, but she hadn’t, not at first, even though she had every right to.

While inexperience had never turned him on before, he found that enchanting mix of bravado and naivety nothing short of intoxicating. And unbearably arousing.

‘Don’t worry about that,’ he said, knowing she had to have spotted the erection. ‘This is all about you.’ He’d already vowed to keep the granite slab in his pants for the rest of the night. ‘And your pleasure.’ He cupped the back of her head, nipped her bottom lip. ‘I’ve had mine.’

After six solid months of enforced abstinence, it was going to be the hardest thing he’d ever had to do, but his sexual potency wasn’t the only thing he’d lost six months ago. He’d learned as a fumbling teenager that great sex wasn’t just about getting it up and then getting off. But, during his pity party, he’d lost sight of that too.

He wanted his sex life back. All of it.

Feasting on this beautiful woman, showing her what he was capable of … And, he suspected, what she was capable of too, would be more than enough pleasure for both of them.

Stretching past her, he lifted the sponge from its dish next to the tub, dipped it into the water. ‘How about I help you bathe?’ he said as he stroked the waterlogged sponge across her collarbone.

Her eyelids drifted shut and a little sigh issued from her lips. ‘I suppose that would be all right,’ she said, her voice thick. ‘If you’re sure it’s not too much trouble.’

His groin tightened as he watched those ripe strawberry nipples play peek-a-boo with the bubbles. He gave a strained laugh. ‘No trouble at all.’

Maddy’s pulse hammered against her throat, her mind racing and her skin tingling as if she had been plugged into an electric socket. The slow strokes of the sponge, under her chin, down her neck, over the top of her breasts, took all of her attention.

What was she doing? How had he talked her into this?

She was naked in a bath tub, allowing herself to be stroked into a frenzy—and she wasn’t sure why. He’d seemed sincere when he said he wouldn’t expect anything. But wasn’t she being a bit too much of a tease, expecting him to do this and get nothing in return? Only problem was, the offer had been so tantalising.

No man had ever offered to pleasure her without expecting anything in return. It had always been the other way round. She had planned to use him for sex originally and he had definitely used her, so maybe she was entitled to all this attention and she shouldn’t feel guilty about …

‘Maddy, relax.’ She opened her eyes to find him watching her, a rueful smile on his face. ‘Stop thinking so much.’

‘How can you tell I’m thinking too much?’ she asked. Could those penetrating blue eyes see right into her soul? She didn’t even know this guy.

He chuckled, discarded the sponge. His large hands settled on her shoulders, strong fingers massaging tight muscles.

‘You’re tensing up. Relax. Enjoy. We’ve got all night.’ His thumbs traced her collarbone then drifted under the water to circle her nipples.

She let the little moan out before she could stop herself.

‘That’s better,’ he said, like a teacher with a particularly bright pupil. ‘Are your breasts very sensitive, then?’

‘Yes.’ She gulped the word out, not sure she could breathe as he played with the swollen peaks. ‘Aren’t everyone’s?’

He laughed. ‘Not necessarily. Some women can come like this. Others can hardly feel it.’

Exactly how many women had he slept with? From the way his clever caresses were making her breasts ache and throb and fire shimmer down to her core, she suspected quite a few. Maddy pushed the thought away. It would only make her feel inadequate.

Her brow furrowed. And she wasn’t the one who should feel inadequate.

Tender lips touched her brow as his fingers stilled on her breasts. ‘You’re thinking again, Maddy.’

She opened her eyes. ‘I know; I can’t help it.’ She angled her head, took in the long fingers cradling her bobbing breasts, felt the aching response at her core. ‘I’m not used to this much attention. I feel a bit awkward.’

The minute she’d said it, she wished she could take it back.

Way to go, Mads. Why not make yourself sound like a charity case?

And, anyway, she didn’t feel awkward; she felt hot and achy and dangerously out of control. But what he was doing made her feel oddly exposed too.

He took his hands off her breasts, which immediately felt the loss, and brushed her hair back from her brow. ‘You know something, Maddy, I’ve never met a woman like you.’

He levered himself off the seat beside the tub before she could reply.

Was that a compliment or a criticism?

He took a fluffy white towel out of the cabinet and unfolded it.

Maddy’s heart sank. He’d got tired of her. She’d ruined her sexual adventure already—with her stupid overthinking. She’d had her chance to be seduced and she’d blown it.

But, when he turned towards her, she could see humour and seduction smiling in his eyes. ‘Out of the water, Madeleine.’ He held the towel up in front of him like a bullfighter. ‘I want to taste you and I can’t do that while you’re in the bath. Not without a snorkel.’

Fire rocketed to her core and she had to clasp her arms across her chest to stop the insistent throbbing.

He wanted to what?

The grin split his handsome features, those damn dimples winking again. ‘Damn, Maddy. Don’t tell me no guy’s ever tasted you before? What kind of morons have you been dating?’

She was beginning to wonder the same thing herself. Just the thought of those firm, sensual lips on certain very sensitive parts of her anatomy was making her feel dizzy.

‘I …’ she began.

His lips tilted some more. And she realised he was looking ever so slightly smug.

‘Of course they have,’ she lied smoothly, stepping out of the tub and shielding herself with her arms.

The man already had the upper hand. It was way past time she wrestled back a little control here. After all, she was supposed to be the one in charge, not him.

She dropped her arms to her sides as she let him wrap the bath sheet around her shoulders.

Stop behaving like a shy virgin. You’re not. You’re a strong, sexually powerful woman who is about to have the most thrilling night of her life.

He pulled the pins out of her hair, then drew the damp locks to one side and nipped the cord in her neck. She shuddered.

‘Great, so you like oral sex?’ The low murmured question shivered over her nape.

‘I love it,’ she said boldly, feeling like a lamb pretending to be a lion. And started as his arousal butted her bottom through the layers of denim and towelling.

He felt huge, bigger than she remembered.

She knew her sex life had always been fairly pedestrian. She’d only had two proper boyfriends and neither of them had been very inventive in bed—and she was beginning to realise they hadn’t been particularly well-endowed either. Which was why she’d wanted a wild, reckless, wanton fling in the first place. But why did she suddenly feel like a total novice? And why was heat flooding between her thighs like lava?

He swung her round to face him, rubbed his hands down her arms and placed them on her hips to draw her close. ‘Good,’ he said, touching her nose. ‘Because I love it too. And if you taste as delicious as you smell, we’re both in for a real treat.’

Oh, dear, Maddy thought as he guided her into the bedroom.

Exactly how wild and wanton and reckless was this fling going to get?

‘Please … Rye.’ The strangled moan finished with a long, slow groan. ‘I can’t. Not again. I’ll die.’

Maddy fisted her fingers into his shaggy hair as his head drifted lower. She wanted to haul him back to maintain her sanity, but instead her legs opened and her back bowed, arching her into his mouth instinctively.

Her breath panted out as he licked her belly button and probed at her core with knowing fingers to expose her to his gaze.

‘You’re beautiful.’ The whisper of hot breath across impossibly sensitized flesh made her jump as the heat pounded remorselessly back to life.

He swirled his tongue over the inside of her thighs.

‘Please.’ She gasped, not sure what she was begging for any more.

She couldn’t come. Not again. Surely it was a physical impossibility?

He hadn’t just tasted her. He’d devoured her. Feasted on every last naked inch of her skin. He’d discovered erogeneous zones she didn’t even know she had. Hell, she’d discovered ones she didn’t even know existed.

She’d come so many times she’d lost count. He would let her rest for a while, the lazy stroking never stopping, and then he’d start all over again.

Her body had become one raw, pulsating nerve that had surrendered totally to his will. Her flesh a slave to the rough, insistent strokes of his tongue, the knowing caress of callused, clever fingers.

‘Once more, Madeleine.’ He chuckled. ‘I insist.’

Then he found the hard, wet, swollen nub of her clitoris with his mouth and suckled.

Maddy sobbed, the sound elemental, desperate, as the coil of heat that had been building for an eternity ignited and burst into flames. The raging inferno seared through her body and she screamed, bucking under him, the raw pulsating nerve detonating into a mass of silvery shards that rocketed her over the edge and into the abyss.

‘Madeleine, are you okay?’

Maddy drifted back to consciousness, the warm fuzzy feeling of afterglow making it difficult for her to get annoyed by the wry humour in his tone.

She gave a long, slow sigh, her limbs finally reviving. ‘I’m dead,’ she murmured. ‘Of course I’m not okay.’

Her eyelids fluttered open and a satisfied smile curved her lips to match his. Wow, she’d never had a clue foreplay could be this amazing. And Rye King was a master at it. After the hour she’d spent in his arms she was beginning to realise her past sex life had been nothing short of pathetic.

He kissed her, the taste of her own essence on his lips unbearably erotic. ‘I think you’ll survive,’ he said as he banded his arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his embrace.

Resting her cheek against his naked chest, she could hear the pistoning beat of his heart, smell the musty scent of fresh male sweat—and feel the bulge of his erection still pulsing through faded denim. He’d refused point-blank to get completely naked with her, insisting that the rest of the evening was for her, not him. But the guilty flush crept up her neck again anyway.

That had to be painful. He’d been hard for close to an hour. As wonderful as it had been to be the focus of his attention, and on the receiving end of all his hard work, she couldn’t help feeling guilty and unbelievably selfish that he’d had no release.

Placing her palm on his chest, she moved back to peer into his face. ‘Rye, are you sure you don’t want me to …’ the silly blush got worse’ … do something for you? You’ve given me so much.’

He covered her hand, his pensive smile making her heart punch her chest. ‘Maddy, you’ve given me more. Believe me.’

Tenderness blind-sided her at the enigmatic comment. What could she possibly have given him that he hadn’t given her back ten-fold?

‘I don’t understand,’ she said, suddenly desperate to probe beneath the surface. ‘How could I have?’

He stiffened, drew his arm away as he sat up. ‘Forget it. It’s not important,’ he said, his expression shutting her out.

She understood instantly, she’d been dismissed. And struggled to ignore the silly little dart of pain.

She mustn’t start acting like a girl now. This was a purely sexual fling and absolutely nothing more. She wasn’t supposed to feel anything for this man. Nothing outside the physical. And he clearly felt nothing for her. That had been understood when they’d jumped into bed together without a thing between them except sexual attraction.

Pulling the sheet back, he got out of bed. ‘I’ll go stick your stuff in the dryer,’ he said, his back to her as he grabbed his T-shirt off the floor and put it on. ‘How about I cook us dinner before I drive you home?’

‘That would be nice. Thanks,’ Maddy said, disorientated by the abrupt change in his manner despite all her careful justifications. She clutched the sheet to her chest as he left the room.

The door closed behind him—and she slumped down into the pillows.

The problem was she had absolutely no experience with this kind of relationship and she didn’t know the rules. While they’d been making love … or, rather, having sex … it had been easy to concentrate on the physical and nothing else. But somehow the intimacy had crept up on her while she wasn’t looking. She absolutely mustn’t start reading things into this that weren’t there.

Ryan King was a handsome, exciting, superbly sexy enigma. And he had to stay that way. Tonight had been about sex. Incredible sex. And nothing else. The man was clearly a veteran of one-night flings. His comprehensive knowledge of female anatomy was proof of that.

She’d just have to take her cue from him. And not let her tendency to over-emotionalise and over-think every little nuance of a relationship get in the way. Clearly, personal, probing questions were not the way to go in this situation.

But, as Maddy walked into the bathroom to wash and then scouted the bedroom for her discarded clothing, all the questions she yearned to ask Rye King about his strangely barren home, about his past, about his present—and the reasons why he’d given her so much and taken so little—crowded into her head like corn kernels popping on a hot stove.

CHAPTER EIGHT

‘COULD I ask you a question?’ Maddy kept her eyes on the simple meal of scrambled eggs on toast Rye had rustled up.

She heard the clink of his knife and fork and looked up to find him watching her. She tried not to fidget or feel intimidated. She’d waited a decent amount of time before giving in to her curiosity. But she simply wasn’t enough of a guy to let this one go.

‘Sure,’ he replied, but she could hear the slight edge in his voice. ‘What do you want to know?’

It was hardly a fulsome invitation. The question got caught in her throat.

Spit it out, Mads. You’re entitled to ask one stupid question.

The man had been inside her, for goodness’ sake. He’d licked her to orgasm. More than once. Maybe it was a girl thing, but curiosity didn’t have to be bad. And, frankly, after the silence that had stretched out between them ever since she’d ventured into the kitchen to find him cooking their meal, she wasn’t sure she could swallow another bite until she got at least one piece of popcorn out of her head.

‘Is this your house?’

His eyebrows lifted.

‘It’s just … it doesn’t seem to suit you,’ she rushed on, feeling foolish when his forehead creased. How would she know what suited him?

‘That’s the question?’ He gave an incredulous laugh. ‘Seriously?’

‘Well, yes.’ Some of the tension eased out of her shoulders. ‘What did you think I was going to ask?’

He leaned back in his chair, stretched his long legs out and drummed the fingers of one hand on the table. The considering look he sent her made her cheeks heat a little. Why did she feel like a particularly rare amoeba under a microscope?

‘I thought you were going to ask what everyone asks,’ he said.

‘Which is?’

‘How I got to be a cripple.’

The blunt statement threw her for a moment. Until she remembered. Her gaze flicked to his thigh. ‘Oh, you mean your limp.’

He chuckled, but without bitterness. Leaning forward, he propped his elbows on the table. ‘Don’t you want to know how I messed up my leg?’

‘Not particularly,’ she said staunchly. ‘It sounds like it’s a sore subject.’

He barked out a laugh. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

She winced, mortified, as she realised what she’d said. ‘I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to make fun of your injury.’ She lurched up, began piling their plates. ‘Why don’t I wash up and get going?’

‘Sit down.’ His hand covered hers where it gripped the plate. ‘It’s okay.’ His thumb stroked the back of her hand. ‘You didn’t offend me. I’m far too sensitive about the stupid thing, anyway.’

She sat down, sighed, letting him link his fingers with hers. ‘I tend to speak before I think. Steve hated it.’

‘Who’s Steve?’ he asked, lifting her fingers and kissing the knuckles.

‘My ex.’ She tugged her hand away, surprised by the thump of her heartbeat at the absent gesture.

A slow suggestive smile curved his lips as he regarded her with an unwavering gaze. ‘Your ex, the moron?’

Heat stung her nape and throbbed in her nether regions as she recalled his earlier remark in the bathroom about her past boyfriends—and exactly how he had remedied the problem. ‘Um … yes … that would be Steve.’

She stood, took the plates again, his husky laughter making her feel hot and achy and a little embarrassed. No-strings flings clearly took a bit of getting used to. ‘I really should get going. I’ve got the early shift tomorrow.’

Her wild, wanton, reckless fling was over and it was way past time she went home. After everything that had happened today, it would be a miracle if she managed to fall asleep before midnight.

‘When does your lifeguard shift start?’ he asked as she put the plates in the sink with a clatter.

‘I haven’t got any more lifeguard shifts. Tomorrow’s the last day of the season.’

‘So what shift were you talking about?’

She switched on the hot tap, confused by his sudden desire to talk. Wasn’t all this information supposed to be out of bounds? ‘My waitressing shift at the beach café.’

‘You work at the café? On Wildwater Bay?’

She turned, leaned against the sink. He sounded astonished. ‘That’s right.’

He got up and crossed to her, brushing against her to switch off the tap. ‘So how many times has Phil hit on you, then?’

‘You know Phil?’ How strange. She’d never seen Rye in the café, she would definitely have remembered.

‘Yeah, I know Phil. And exactly how much of a flirt he is.’ For a second she thought she detected something a little off in his tone, but then discarded the idea. Why would he care about Phil and her?

‘So, has he talked you into bed yet?’ he asked.

She tensed as heat rocketed up her throat. ‘No.’ That wasn’t just off, it was totally out of order. What right did he have to ask her a question like that? And in that accusatory tone? ‘He’s my boss; I would never sleep with my boss.’ She stopped. Why was she justifying herself? ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’

She hated that she sounded so lame—and that the question had made her feel dirty.

She stepped past him. ‘I’d better go.’

‘Hang on a minute.’ He grasped her arm, holding her in place. ‘There’s no need to get upset. It was a valid question.’

‘No, it wasn’t,’ she said, tugging on her arm and getting more outraged by the second.

How could she have exposed herself to this? When they’d jumped each other this afternoon, she’d never considered he might not respect her afterwards.

He had no right to probe into her sex life, just because she’d done exactly what he’d done. She hadn’t thought less of him for his actions, why should he think less of her? The double standard sucked. But far worse was the humiliation that lay just beneath. She had nothing whatsoever to feel humiliated about. She was a single consenting adult who could decide to sleep with anyone she chose. But the memory of how she’d let him bring her to orgasm—countless times—made her feel defenceless. What exactly had he been thinking while he was pleasuring her so efficiently? That she was a tart?

‘Phil’s an operator,’ he said, as if he were being perfectly reasonable. ‘And I know exactly how he operates.’ His eyes flicked down her frame. ‘You would be fair game.’

‘This isn’t about Phil,’ she said, the choked feeling in her throat making it hard to speak. ‘It’s been nice, Mr King, but it’s obviously time for me to go.’

He swore softly. ‘Don’t start with the Mr King again or you’re going to annoy me.’

‘Really?’ she said, desperate to keep her shredded dignity intact. ‘Well, that will make two of us then, won’t it?’ She stalked through the kitchen doorway, strode down the hallway.

‘Aren’t you forgetting something, Madeleine?’

She heard the arrogant tone as she wrenched open the front door.

Then spotted her bike, lying in a heap by the front steps, and stared up at the stars winking in the sky.

Drat.

She swung round, her back ramrod straight. He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, observing her with mocking indulgence.

‘Do you mind giving me a lift home?’ she asked in a clipped voice, hoping to telegraph her disapproval.

‘Not at all,’ he replied, pushing away from the wall. His stiff leg did nothing to lessen the insolent way he strolled towards her.

It took ten minutes for them to wrestle the carcass of her bike into the boot of his snazzy little sports car. And twenty minutes more to make the silent drive to her granny’s cottage on the other side of the Bay.

Maddy fumed every single inch of the way—and kept her eyes focused on the road ahead. She waited for an apology, but it didn’t come. By the time he braked in front of the tiny one-bedroom cottage her resentment had reached fever pitch.

Sleeping with a man she didn’t know had been foolhardy. But she thought she’d gone into this adventure with her eyes open. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been open enough. What was supposed to have been a sexually liberating experience had turned into exactly the opposite. He’d made her feel cheap.

But what bugged her the most was that for a second it had actually mattered to her what he thought. He wasn’t her friend. He was her one-night lover. But what was meant to be an anonymous fling didn’t seem so anonymous any more.

She gripped the door handle. ‘Thanks for the lift.’ And the multiple orgasm, she wanted to add with as much sarcasm as she could muster, but figured he had an ego big enough to take it as a compliment.

His arm shot across her to grab the door handle and hold it closed. ‘Calm down.’

Her head whipped round. ‘I am calm.’

‘Yeah, I noticed,’ he said, the planes and angles of his face tense in the moonlight. ‘I have a question for you before you go.’

She stopped struggling with the door handle. ‘If it’s about my sex life, I’m not answering it.’ On that she was absolutely clear. He’d humiliated her enough for one evening.

‘Why won’t you sleep with your boss? Did Phil do something he shouldn’t have?’

The audacious question was such a shock, she answered it without thinking. ‘Of course not. Phil and I are friends. I just … I would never sleep with anyone who’s employing me.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s unethical. And …’ she sputtered ‘… and incredibly tacky.’

She knew she sounded prissy. But she wasn’t about to go into the sordid details of her childhood—and the real reason the thought of workplace sex made her nauseous. This conversation had already got far too personal. ‘Can I go now?’ she said, making it very clear it wasn’t a request.

‘Sure,’ he said, finally letting go of the handle.

She leapt out of the car, determined not to look back.

‘Goodbye, Maddy. And thanks for an incredible evening.’

The statement sounded genuine—and final—and she turned back without intending to.

He shot her a casual salute. Was that supposed to be ironic? But, as the car sped off down the road, the tail lights disappearing into the darkness, Maddy felt the brutal pulse of heat at her core and the strange little hiccup in her heartbeat. And despised herself for it.

She walked to the cottage, took the key from under the eaves of the porch entrance, determined to wipe the pointless spurt of melancholy at his departure from her consciousness. But, as she shut the door and leant back against it, glad to be back in the homely surroundings, she noticed the vacant spot in her hallway where she parked her bike. Her head dropped back against the door with an audible thud.

‘Damn.’

She hadn’t seen the last of Rye King after all.

Rye braked at the junction and swore. Her bike was still in the boot of the car. He shifted into reverse, looked over his shoulder. Then stopped. And swung back round.

He couldn’t go back, not yet. Everything was too damn close to the surface. He’d behaved like a jerk back at the house. The mention of her former boyfriend and then Phil had made something coil in his stomach that he didn’t understand. And suddenly he’d had to know whether she’d slept with his friend. He’d handled the situation badly, though. He could see that now. Accusing her when all he’d really meant to do was ask.

But why had he been so determined to know?

He rubbed his thigh, the muscles cramping, shifted back into first and accelerated.

Probably temporary insanity, brought on by extreme stress. Bringing her to orgasm, watching her come apart in his arms had been incredible—but rediscovering all the wonders of a woman’s body had brought with it a painful side effect. He’d spent the whole afternoon and most of the evening hard as a rock. And he suspected he had a sleepless night ahead of him, lying in a bed still infused with her spicy exotic scent.

The desire to bury himself deep inside her had been all but unstoppable and, while he’d welcomed the pain in many ways because it signified the return of his libido, by the time she’d strolled into the kitchen and he’d listened to her putting on her freshly laundered clothes while he scrambled eggs, his control and his willpower had pretty much reached breaking point.

He hadn’t been in the mood for polite conversation. So, when she’d asked him that innocuous question, he’d had to stop himself from snapping her head off. He’d been sure he knew what was coming.

When he’d re-entered London society after the accident, he’d been brutally aware of the hushed whispers when he entered a room, the furtive glances at the sight of his ruined leg. Women in particular had tiptoed around the subject of his disability, trying to make him feel better by either not referring to it or referring to it all the time.

He’d expected Maddy to be like all the rest.

But she’d surprised him again. She’d genuinely forgotten about it. Her astonished response to his snarled accusation hadn’t only been refreshing, it had been a revelation. Forcing him to face the fact that, after six long months, instead of dwelling on what he had lost, maybe it was about time he started making the most of what he had. The fact that, since Maddy Westmore had stepped into his life, he now had much more than he thought, hadn’t escaped him either.

But the minute that bolt had hit him, another had struck him right afterwards. He still wanted her. And he didn’t know how to deal with that.

He didn’t rely on other people—ever—especially women. He didn’t ask for or expect anything and if they asked for anything from him in return, he usually bolted straight for the door.

He wasn’t interested in anything serious. Anything long-term. And he didn’t want that with Maddy either. He hated that choking, claustrophobic feeling that came with any hint of commitment. A lot of things had changed since the accident, but not that. He needed his freedom. And he always would.

But how did you ask a woman you barely knew if they would be interested in a purely sexual relationship? He’d been trying to get his head around that one when the thought of Maddy and Phil working in close proximity had sent him crashing through another barrier.

It wasn’t that he cared about who Maddy had been with before him. It couldn’t be. He didn’t do jealousy. And he wasn’t possessive with women. He expected them to be faithful for the brief time they were together, but he always wore condoms so he didn’t take any interest in their sexual history.

Turning into the driveway of Trewan Manor, he eased up the handbrake, switched off the ignition and stared into the darkness.

The need to know about Maddy and Phil had to be another by-product of the accident and the trauma afterwards. His pride and his confidence had been shattered in the last six months and it would take more than one night to rebuild it.

He dug his thumb into his injured muscles to ease the painful cramp—while keying the beach café’s number into the hands-free phone on the car’s dash. First things first. Before he saw Maddy again and figured out a way of engineering her back into his bed, he had to address a more pressing problem.

Phil answered on the second ring.

‘Phil, it’s Rye.’

‘How’s things, stranger?’ Phil’s voice had the easy familiarity of long-time friendship. ‘Still hiding out at Hell Hall?’

‘Yeah,’ Rye said drolly, not rising to the bait. ‘I need to drop by the café tomorrow morning,’ he continued, determined to head off yet another conversation about how he needed to get out more. ‘What time’s the early shift start?’

He wanted to be sure Maddy would be there.

‘The breakfast service starts at nine,’ Phil said.

Rye tapped the steering wheel, surprised by the little spurt of anticipation. ‘Great, I’ll see you at …’

‘Wait a sec,’ Phil cut in, suspicion sharpening his voice. ‘What’s the hurry, all of a sudden?’

‘I’ve got a bike that belongs to one of your employees I need to drop off.’

‘What employee?’

‘Madeleine Westmore.’

‘How do you know Maddy?’

‘It’s a long story,’ Rye stated flatly, not appreciating the third degree—or the tiny tinge of guilt.

Phil swore on the other end of the line. ‘Please tell me you’re not treating Maddy to the Ryan King Do ‘em and Dump ‘em routine.’

Rye’s temper sparked. He’d coined that insulting phrase fifteen years ago, when he’d been sixteen, had turbo-charged hormones and thought boasting about all the women he got into the sack made him a man. ‘We’re not in secondary school any more, Phil.’

‘Too right we’re not,’ Phil interrupted forcefully. ‘Leave her alone, Rye; she doesn’t play those kind of games.’

‘What games?’ Rye demanded, something sour settling in his gut. Since when had free-wheeling Phil become the protective sort? Had Maddy lied to him about the two of them?

‘You know what games,’ Phil said, then sighed. ‘Look, mate, she’s a good friend and a great waitress. She works really hard and she got dumped on big time last year by some creep called Steve. The last thing she needs is a smooth-talking, over-sexed big shot from London using her for sport.’

Rye would have laughed at Phil’s insulting assessment of him—the over-sexed reference being particularly ironic—if the sour something in his gut hadn’t been rising up his throat like bile. ‘What is this? Are you trying to stake your own claim?’

‘No. It’s nothing like that.’ Phil sounded genuinely shocked at the accusation. ‘She’s not interested in me. And, even if she were, she doesn’t do sex with the boss. Ever. She has a rule about it.’

‘How the hell do you know that?’ Rye shouted, the bile threatening to choke him.

‘Because she told me,’ Phil shot right back. ‘She was a little drunk and we were—’ He paused. ‘Anyway, that’s not the point. What did she say when you told her you own this place? I can’t believe she would …’

‘I’m not sleeping with her.’ Not right this minute, anyway.

Rye ignored the tug of guilt. Maybe he should have mentioned that he owned the café, but it hadn’t seemed all that relevant.

He’d inherited all the property along the Bay after the death of his grandfather ten years ago, when he’d still been travelling round the world as a surf bum living off the prize money from competitions and any instructor work he could hustle. After the funeral, he’d spent two months refurbishing the café, opening a surf hire shop next door and blowing the rest of his inheritance rehabbing the old Victorian guest house on the point and reopening it as a boutique hotel to cater to North Cornwall’s young, rich and sporty summer crowd. Then he’d hired Phil to manage the café and surf shop and Tony, another of his old friends from secondary school, to manage Surf Central, and got the hell out of Cornwall for the second time in his life.

That small taste of empire-building had planted a seed, though, that had blossomed into dissatisfaction as he’d back-packed his way to Hawaii. He’d got as far as California before he’d admitted that his nomadic, shoestring existence didn’t have the cachet at twenty-one that it had when he’d first run away from his grandfather’s oppressive rules and regulations at seventeen. So he’d made his way back to London, remortgaged Trewan Manor, arranged a loan on the Wildwater Bay businesses and started making careful investments in similar extreme sports enterprises around the globe.

The adrenalin kick of riding the perfect wave had gradually been replaced by the more intense and sustained high of managing his fledgling business empire and watching it grow and expand.

He’d worked hard to build King Xtreme into a thriving multinational concern. And, yeah, maybe he’d played hard as well, bedding a string of beautiful women the world over and turning his Kensington penthouse into the party capital of London society during the winter months. But his sexual conquests had never been indiscriminate, or nearly as prolific as the press liked to maintain—and, while he’d had a well-earned reputation as an adrenalin junkie, he’d never used drugs or alcohol to feed the high. Maintaining his health and his fitness had been an important part of his brand. Until the accident.

So he didn’t deserve Phil’s scorn. Or this guilt trip.

‘Maddy will find out that I own the café tomorrow.’ He could sort out any hang-ups she might have about sleeping with the boss then. He didn’t anticipate it being a big hurdle, though, not after the way she had responded to his touch today. And, anyhow, strictly speaking, he wasn’t her boss. Phil was.

‘Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ Phil said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. The breakfast rush is over around eleven. Come by then and I can take time out to show you the books.’

‘I’ll be there at nine-thirty,’ he said and disconnected the call.

He wasn’t waiting till eleven to see Maddy again. Plus he had no desire to see the books. He had accountants to do that sort of thing. And he trusted Phil. Implicitly.

Just not with Maddy.

CHAPTER NINE

‘THIS morning’s breakfast special is sweet waffles with crispy bacon and maple syrup.’

Maddy waited patiently for the elderly couple to make up their minds, then jotted down their order. Pasting on what she hoped was a perky smile, she refilled their coffee cups. ‘That’ll be a few minutes. Feel free to help yourself to newspapers and magazines while you wait.’

Tucking her pad away, she slipped through the swinging doors into the kitchen and pinned the only order of the morning on the board.

‘That’s it?’ said Guy, their breakfast chef, as he whisked the tab off the board. ‘I might as well have stayed in bed.’

‘I wish I had.’ Maddy gave the small of her back a rub and glanced at the clock. She still had five hours to go on her shift and her legs already felt like limp noodles.

Yesterday’s unscheduled exercise, both in bed and out, would have been enough to knock her out. But when you factored in the restless night she’d spent while a string of X-rated erotic memories played in her head—and the three-mile hike to the café this morning—she was officially dead on her feet.

‘I can see that.’ Guy scanned her face as he cracked eggs into the mixer. He wiggled his eyebrows. ‘Hot date, eh?’

The suggestive comment had a couple of the most lurid memories popping into her head, in full senso-vision. Guy’s eagle eyes narrowed as the hot flush scorched her throat.

He laughed. ‘So little Maddy finally got her mojo back last night.’

‘Get lost, Guy.’ She threw the words over her shoulder, his amused chuckle drowned out by the whirl of the mixer.

She slammed out of the kitchen door, only to spot her mojo standing in the café doorway. Her stride faltered as the flush burned her scalp. What was he doing here? And why did he have to look so gorgeous?

His bronze hair had streaks of gold she hadn’t noticed last night, and fell across his brow in windblown waves as those crystal-blue eyes fixed on her face.

His eyes flicked down her figure and the flush raced into her cheeks.

‘Hello, Madeleine.’ The innocuous pleasantry spoken in that low husky voice had a dangerous effect on her thigh muscles.

‘Hello.’ She fumbled a menu from the end of the bar and directed him to a table. He’d probably just come for breakfast. No need to panic. Yet.

‘I didn’t come here to eat,’ he said, stepping towards her.

He stood too close, that clean scent of pine forests and man making the torrid memories all the more vivid.

‘So why did you come?’ she said, more breathlessly than intended.

‘Your bike.’

‘Oh, yes. Of course.’ Why did the knowledge bring with it that silly spurt of melancholy again? ‘Thanks.’

‘And we need to talk.’

‘What about?’ The question came out on a suspicious squeak. His eyes had gone that intense cobalt blue, the knowledge in them making her thighs quiver.

He stroked a thumb down the side of her neck. ‘Come now, Madeleine.’ Strong fingers spanned her shoulder as he bent to whisper in her ear. ‘We both know you’re not that innocent.’

‘Get your hands off my waitress, King.’ Phil’s shout had Maddy jerking back, her thighs now liquid.

Rye raised his head, winked at her, then squared up to her boss. ‘I’ll put my hands where I damn well like, Trevellian.’

Just as Maddy began to panic about how she was going to referee a wrestling match between two guys who were each close to a foot taller than her, Phil laughed and punched Rye on the shoulder. ‘Long time no see, Hermit Man.’ The smile on Phil’s face beamed.

These two didn’t just know each other, Maddy realised, they cared.

Rye gave his friend a brief manly hug. ‘I need to speak to Maddy,’ Rye said. ‘We’ll use your office. Then she’s taking the rest of the shift off.’

She’s what?

Phil’s smile faded. ‘Now hang on a minute, hotshot,’ he said, the affection edged with irritation. ‘I told you already; Maddy’s not …’

‘Hey, Maddy’s standing right here.’

The two of them glanced at her as if she were the nutty one.

‘And she doesn’t appreciate being talked about as if she’s not.’

She poked a finger into Rye’s shoulder and enjoyed the flash of surprise as he stumbled back a step.

‘What do you think you’re playing at? Waltzing in here as if you own the place and telling me what to do.’ They’d had exactly one evening together. And he still hadn’t apologised for his insulting questions at the end of it.

She wasn’t Little Miss Pushover any more. The new Maddy didn’t take this crap. She stood up for herself. ‘You’re not my boss. Phil is. So you don’t get to decide when my shift ends.’

Phil tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Maddy.’

‘What?’ She spun round, not appreciating being halted in mid-rant. With a bit more practice, she could get good at this.

Phil cleared his throat. He looked like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. ‘He does own the place.’

‘He …? What?’ The blood leached out of Maddy’s face and pounded into her heart.

‘He’s my boss,’ Phil added, no longer meeting her eye. ‘Which also makes him yours.’

She turned to stare at Rye, her mouth opening and closing but no sound coming out.

Sordid memory assailed her. Her father, his face ruddy, his trousers and boxers round his ankles and his large hands fastened to the plump young secretary’s naked hips as he bounced his crotch against her bottom. The visceral horror replayed in her mind, accompanied by the sickening echo of her father’s animalistic grunts.

‘But I … I don’t. I couldn’t have.’ Her voice came out on a horrified whisper. ‘I have a rule.’

The sights, the sounds, even the smell—of furtive arousal, sordid sex—assaulted her senses as if she had walked into her father’s office ten minutes ago, instead of ten years. She clapped her hands over her mouth as the gorge churning in her stomach surged up her throat.

‘I’m going to puke.’

‘So you didn’t sleep with her, eh?’ Phil snarled. ‘You lying son of …’

Rye tuned out his friend’s observations about his parentage as he watched Maddy dash to the toilets as if the hounds of hell were snapping at her heels.

Okay. Maybe he’d underestimated the size of this particular hurdle.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.