He took another step forward and ran his finger from her neck to her breast—and she couldn’t control the tremor. ‘How long has it been?’
Oh, so he thought that was relevant? She refused to look at him. Maybe it was. Maybe that was why she felt so in danger of emotional investment. Honestly, she’d been without for so long even she could hardly remember.
‘That long, huh?’ A little laugh escaped him—whisker of humanity. That it was amusement at her expense made her mad. He ran his finger over her tightly shut lips, teasing them. ‘You know, you’re not so good with manners, Lucy. Didn’t anyone ever teach you to mind your “p”s and “q”s?’
She threw him a vile look. His smile faded and the mask of indifference that took its place was much better than hers had been—probably because it was genuine.
‘So we haven’t broken through your male-bravado layer. Maybe we never will. Whatever.’
He strolled from the pool table with casual ease. ‘Come on, let’s go.’ He collected his scattered clothing along the way.
She stood up and stared after him. Deflated. Well, she’d done it. Had she been hoping for more of an argument from him? Or wanting him to say, ‘No, babe, that was fantastic, we’ve got to do it again’? At least offer some clue to his thoughts? He was shut up tighter than a twenty-year-old jar of pickled peppers. She watched as he pulled on his boxers, then felt irritated as a feeling of loss hit her when his body was hidden from her again.
He pulled on the trousers but held his sodden shirt in his hand. ‘We’ll share a cab.’
Panic surged as a new threat occurred to her. ‘No, that’s OK. I can walk.’
‘No. It’s late. You’re tired.’
‘It’s almost light out. I’ll be fine.’
‘No argument. Get your jacket.’ Now he was doing the gentleman act? Terrible timing.
‘No, Daniel, I’m fine.’
‘OK, I’ll get it for you.’
‘Daniel!’
He didn’t listen. She hurried after him, stress giving her speed. She knew the job would be over the minute he saw her stuff there. He walked straight into the back room. Stopped. Saw her pack and violin case. Saw her sleeping bag on the two-seater sofa—unrolled with her sweatshirt rolled into a makeshift pillow at the head. He stared at it, then at her. ‘What the hell is going on?’
She didn’t have any clothes on—save her cowgirl boots. She didn’t have a home to go to. She’d just slept with her boss and then rejected him. She was in such a mess. It was so typical. She could always count on her innate ability to stuff things up.
‘What’s your address, Lucy?’
‘Daniel, I—’
‘Street address. Now.’
Would he give her a second to answer? Riled, she spat, ‘I’m not in a flat at the moment. I got to Wellington on Monday. I’ve been in a hostel but can’t stand sleeping in a room full of strangers. I struggle to sleep as it is.’
‘Insomnia?’
She nodded. ‘Terrible.’
‘Another thing we have in common.’ He might be acknowledging something they shared, but he sounded arctic.
She smiled in empathy, hoping it would help her case.
The glacier refused to melt. Not even a drop. ‘We should quit while we’re ahead.’
OK, so the empathy bid failed. She turned back to bolshy. ‘I thought I’d crash here until I set up a flat.’
‘You thought wrong. You can’t sleep here.’
‘It’s only for a night or two, Daniel.’ Was he familiar with the concept of leeway?
‘This building is zoned commercial, not residential.’
Clearly not. ‘Rules and regulations, huh, Daniel?’
Green eyes met gold. His were flaming again—but not with hot lust. Now it was all cold anger. ‘You are not sleeping here, Lucy.’
Fine. She marched into the room beside him and bent—starting to roll her sleeping bag.
‘Lucy.’
If iron will could speak, it would sound like Daniel.
‘What?’ She snapped the question, while still stuffing her sleeping bag into its carrier.
‘Might I suggest you put some clothes on?’
She stopped then, suddenly aware of how she must look to him standing behind her. Naked. Cowgirl boots. Bending over. ‘Sure.’
She marched out of the room and back to the bar, pulling on her top and skirt—not bothering with either bra or panties. When she got back to the room, less than a minute later, he’d finished packing away her sleeping bag. Her violin case was at his feet and he carried her pack on one shoulder. He held her jacket out to her.
‘Come on.’
She didn’t take it. ‘What do you mean come on?’
‘You’re coming home with me.’
‘In your dreams.’
‘Right home. Right now.’
She stared at him. Stunned at his words.
‘I’m not kidding, Lucy. I have a perfectly good spare bedroom. It is almost six in the morning. I have a load of work to do later and I am not going to spend hours standing here arguing with you. You won’t have to sleep with strangers. And certainly not me, as you’ve made it clear you couldn’t think of anything worse. Let’s move on.’
For once in her life Lucy was struck speechless. He was so cool about it. He wore that remote expression that had her wanting to leap up and do something drastic to get his attention again. Hot attention. But he’d come over all clinical.
The warm air of the early morning contrasted sharply with the chilly silence in which they walked along the bay to his apartment. He’d insisted on carrying her pack. She’d insisted on carrying her violin. There was where the conversation ended.
His apartment was as swanky as she’d expected. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows gave splendid harbour views. Stylish, minimalist, obviously designer-done, the whole place screamed suited bachelor—one who spent too many hours at work. He showed her to her room. Big bed, white spread. She walked away from it. ‘Thank you.’ She hoped to dismiss him immediately.
His response was even cooler. ‘N
o problem. Stay as long as you like.’
She thought about taking him up on that—a good six months? That would serve him right. But then she turned and saw him there in suit trousers and no shirt and desire rose again—together with the panic. ‘It’ll be a couple of nights tops.’
He shrugged. ‘There’s an en suite through that door,’ and he left the room.
She breathed out and went straight to the bathroom. It was a wet room—a large shower space and central drain. Multi shower jets pointed at her. It was too good to ignore.
She stripped off, savoured the scent of Daniel on her skin and quickly turned the water on hot.
Lucy didn’t sleep a wink but made a show of staying in her room until well after midday. She waited for the muffled sounds to disappear and then finally she ventured out. Opened her door to peek and listen again. Silence. She walked out and, following the hall, found the main living area, taking her time to actually notice the surroundings this time. Beautifully decorated—perfect paintwork, the furniture expensive and comfortable looking, but the whole place was so, so…boring was the only word for it. The entire apartment could be a display in a posh furniture store. She looked about for some element of personality. Something to tell her a little more about Daniel. But there was nothing. She figured that told her as much as anything.
The colours were warm—chocolate blended with neutrals and greys. Totally tasteful. The kitchen showed no sign of life—no notice board with scrawled numbers, no pile of paperwork on the desk in the corner. Magnificently minimalist.
Lucy liked maximalist. Colour and chaos and life.
Even his bookcases were unnaturally neat—stacked with big hardback books that looked as if they’d take a lifetime to read. Then she found it. One solitary photograph framed in a dark wooden frame standing in place of some books in one of the bookcases lining the wall opposite the windows. She picked it up.
Daniel in full legal regalia—wig and gown, standing next to an older man also in wig and gown. It had to be his father. Had to be. They had the same jaw, same nose, Daniel stood only an inch or two taller, the old and the new. The similarities were striking—except for the eyes. His father’s were brown—plain brown. But Daniel’s were that wild tawny colour, with those amber lights hinting at the warmth and passion and humour that he seemed so determined to hide. In the photo his expression was serious, veiled. All remote austerity again—just like this apartment. She frowned.