But, before the shock and heat could recede enough for her fingers to get the message, Wolfe had figured out her intention and thrust his foot forward.
The door slammed on his muddy boot. He swore profusely.
‘Blast, sorry...’ She cringed. She hadn’t meant to injure him. Much.
He shoved the door open and marched—or rather, limped assertively—past her into her living room, trailing mud, rainwater and his injured dignity with him.
The muscle in his rain-slicked cheek, gilded by candlelight, twitched like a ticking bomb. But before she had a chance to ask what on earth he was doing in the middle of North Wales, hiking in a thunderstorm—in what looked like an extremely expensive and now totally ruined designer suit—he shivered so hard, his clenched teeth rattled.
And her shocked arousal got bowled over by a wave of sympathy.
While taking pity on him would have been a stretch because—even drenched and freezing, and with several nasty-looking midge bites he still had an aura of ruthless command which would have impressed Attila the Hun—she did not want the surly billionaire catching his death in her cottage or stomping any more mud onto her grandmother’s handmade rug.
‘There are towels and a shower through there,’ she said, pointing towards the downstairs bathroom. ‘Take off your suit and drop it outside so I can dry it by the stove. I’ll find you something to wear,’ she finished with more authority than she felt.
His scarred eyebrow arched and his sensual mouth curved into something halfway between a sarcastic grin and a suggestive sneer. ‘You want me naked again so soon, Katherine? I’m flattered.’
He knows my name! Bea, you’re a dead woman.
‘Oh, shut up,’ she managed, flustered now as well as panicked and confused and inappropriately turned on. ‘Don’t worry. I promise not to even look at your dignity this time. Let alone touch it.’
So why are you talking about it, you muppet?
Perhaps because she’d thought about it far too much in the past month.
Heat flared in his now laser-focussed gaze as it raked over her. ‘Shame,’ he murmured with a rich appreciation she did not have one clue what to do with.
She made a hasty retreat up the stairs to locate something dry for him to wear from the sack of her grandmother’s old clothes that she’d recently washed to take to a charity shop in Bangor. Something that would cover his dignity and salvage what was left of her sanity.
Some chance.
She’s stunning. Even more stunning than I imagined.
Jack allowed the thought of Katherine Medford’s glorious curves in flour-dusted jeans and a worn T-shirt, her shocked emerald eyes, her pale, freckled skin and wild, red hair warm him as he peeled off his sodden clothing, dropped it outside the bathroom door and stepped into the snug shower cubicle.
The water pressure left a lot to be desired, but the heat was welcome as another shivering fit hit him. As he thawed out, his mind began to engage with something other than the visceral shock of Katherine Medford’s unusual beauty.
Her cottage—its whitewashed stone and bright-blue gingerbread trim beckoning him out of the storm like a beacon—was cosier and more comfortable than he had expected from the detective’s report on her finances. Thunder crashed outside as he dried himself off with one of the fluffy towels neatly folded on the vanity. The smell of apples from her shampoo reminded him forcefully of the erotic orchard he had visited nearly every night for a month in his dreams.
He dragged on his damp boxers, the only item of clothing which had survived the journey. And scowled down at the burgeoning tent in his shorts.
Behave.
She was everything he’d remembered and more—especially now he was wearing his lenses and could see her more clearly. But the resultant effect on his libido and his self-control was not good.
And worse was the way her saucy, sparky attitude affected him. Since when had he found defiance arousing? She’d slammed the door on his foot! And yet, as soon as he’d got inside the house, the thought of chastising her had taken second place to the thought of feasting on her full lips.
He sighed, rubbing his hair dry.
Time to get real. She might look harmless, but he already knew she wasn’t. She would not get the better of him. Again.
‘Here. It was all I could find that looked big enough.’ He turned to see a toned arm appear at the door holding a...? He scowled and tilted his head. What was that? It looked like a piece of purple towelling with...were those pink ruffles?
‘Great,’ he murmured, lifting it from her outstretched fingers. ‘Thanks,’ he said, not sure he should be all that thankful. The arm immediately disappeared back behind the door.
‘Would you like some hot cocoa?’ the disembodied voice asked.
‘I’d prefer coffee,’ he said. Coffee was the least he was going to need to wear the monstrosity she’d handed him. He shrugged on the worn frilly towelling robe. It was tight across his shoulder blades and only just covered his backside. He looked ridiculous in it, but it was warm and dry and smelt of laundry detergent, with a hint of her. He’d worn enough second-hand clothing as a kid to appreciate comfort over sartorial elegance any day.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t have coffee,’ she said, sounding almost apologetic.
‘Cocoa it is, then,’ he said, then caught another whiff of the delicious aroma which had enveloped him when he’d first stepped into the cottage. ‘And a slice of whatever it is you’re baking,’ he added, his stomach grumbling loudly as he realised he was starving.
‘The brownies are not for sale,’ she said. ‘They’re already on order.’
‘I’ll give you fifty quid per brownie,’ he said, not joking.
He heard an astonished huff which made the goose pimples on his arms—and a few other things—stand to attention.
‘Okay, sold,’ she said, not sounding all that grateful for his generosity. ‘But don’t think I won’t bill you,’ she added with a sharp tone that made him smile. He knew the value of something all depended on what someone was prepared to pay for it. And her mercenary zeal was something he could appreciate.
‘There’s ointment in the cabinet for your midge bites,’ she added. ‘It’ll stop them itching.’
‘How much will that cost me?’ he asked wryly.