She didn’t need his opinion. So why did she suddenly find herself seeking it? Her fingertips tentatively touched one of the restraining hairpins. ‘You don’t like it?’
‘Not much.’
‘Well, go on, then. You can’t just make a statement like that without clarifying it! Why not? Does it make my nose look big? My chin look wobbly?’
He shook his head. ‘Nope. It just suggests character traits which I don’t find particularly attractive in a woman.’
Don’t ask him any more, Fran. Just don’t ask, she told herself sternly! ‘Such as?’
He seemed as reluctant to answer as she had been to ask. ‘Oh, you know. Neatness, inflexibility, uptightness.’ He withdrew the key from the ignition, and shrugged. ‘I guess that’s why it’s so provocative when a woman unpins her hair. It symbolises the removal of all inhibitions—’ Sam cleared his throat, unable to believe what was happening to him! Much more of this and he would be incapable of getting out of the car without her seeing just how aroused he was. And wouldn’t that just support Rosie’s poisonous prejudices? The stud with nothing but sex on his mind! ‘Let’s go inside, shall we,’ he suggested throatily as he reached over for her bag. ‘And I’ll show you to your room.’
Fran fumbled for the car door handle to follow him inside the house, trying to ignore what he had said, and the way he had said it. She wasn’t stupid. And to ignore that a strong, sexual attraction existed between them would be extremely stupid indeed. Perhaps it was a good thing that his mother was arriving tomorrow! Mothers made naturally good chaperones!
The bedroom he showed her to was low and cottagey. In fact, the door frame was so low that she had to stoop her head when she went in.
It was also downstairs.
Sam saw her quickly hidden look of surprise as he threw the door open. ‘Thought you’d want to be near the kitchen,’ he explained.
Which was true. Unfortunately, it also created an unflattering image of herself bustling around the stove, her sleeves rolled up and smudges of flour on her cheeks! ‘Oh,’ she said faintly. ‘Well, yes. I suppose that does make sense.’
He frowned. He had thought she would want to be as far away as possible from him. He had certainly considered it sensible to have her on a completely different floor. He didn’t want her to be on her guard, wary and defensive.
‘I’m putting my mother in the biggest guest bedroom and my sisters will each have one of the others. That just leaves mine—’ It took all the will-power he possessed not to give her the smoky smile which was threatening to play on his lips. ‘And it seemed pretty pointless for me to move out of my bed, just for a couple of nights, don’t you think?’
He said no more but the unspoken statement hovered as clearly on the air as if he had shouted the words out loud. That she had a choice where she slept….
It was a pretty room. Plain and simply furnished, it was painted white with dark-wood furniture. Several framed samplers decorated the walls and a beautiful burst of embroidered sunflowers hung over the bed itself.
Fran began to unpack her few clothes and to slide her underwear neatly into one of the drawers of the dresser. Just what was the matter with her? She was here because she owed him. And he wanted to show her—apparently—that he did not have his brains situated in his groin. So why did everything they were saying to one another sound as though they couldn’t wait to leap into bed and start tearing at each other’s clothes? Was that what people called animal attraction? Was this what he and Rosie had felt for one another? How it had all started?
While Fran unpacked, Sam clattered around in the kitchen making tea, mightily relieved when the telephone rang and he could focus his mind on something other than wondering whether her underwear was as uptight and starchy as her outerwear….
‘Hello?’ he barked.
‘Hello, Sam?’ came an exaggerated stage whisper. ‘Is that you?’
It was Maddy, his youngest sister. An actress like her mother, and scattier even than her mother—which was saying something. Never was a person more aptly named than Madelaine Lockhart, he thought with slightly grim indulgence. ‘Of course it’s me! I live
here, don’t I? Who else would you expect to answer the phone?’
Maddy dropped her voice so that it was almost unintelligible. ‘Mmmm Nggg Mummm,’ she muttered.
Sam frowned at the phone. ‘Is Mum there with you? In the room?’
‘No!’
‘Then stop talking in that incomprehensible voice! What’s up?’
‘Nothing’s up! Just tell me where we’re meeting for this birthday dinner which you’ve been so bloody evasive about!’
‘I had to organise the…er…catering,’ he said, sounding even more evasive. ‘And we’re not meeting anywhere. We’re eating here. The dinner’s going to be held here.’
‘At your home?’ screeched Maddy in disbelief. ‘You mean, not in a restaurant?’
‘What’s wrong with that? Dining at home gives you more privacy and flexibility than a restaurant.’
‘Don’t be so flippant, Sam! That’s not what I’m talking about! You can’t even boil an egg—you know you can’t! How you’ve lived on your own for so long, I simply don’t know!’