The challenge that he’d set her would prove her determination and her commitment and would satisfy his promise to Jo without compromising the vow he’d made to himself in the aftermath of losing everything he’d worked so hard to acquire.
However, the glimpses of long tanned leg that he’d got whenever Phoebe’s robe slithered open had tested his control to the limit. That ridiculous eye mask perched on top of her mussed-up hair had got him thinking about blindfolds and silk scarves and hours of lazy sensory exploration and he’d nearly stalked over and pinned her against the counter just to see if she felt as warm and soft as she looked.
There was a thump as something hit the floor above, then a yelp of pain and a string of expletives. Alex snapped back to reality and grinned. Phoebe first thing reminded him of a very grumpy, very put out sprite.
He took a look around. Fat cushions sat at random on the two deep sofas that faced each other either side of a coffee table laden with books. Bright splashes of artwork lined the walls. Piles of magazines were stacked high either side of the fireplace. A book lay open face down on the floor beside the sofa.
The room wasn’t messy, but compared to her office it was a tip. If he didn’t know otherwise he’d have thought that two very different people occupied each space.
But then nothing about Phoebe was quite as it seemed, he realised, making his way over to the bookcase. Was she the cool, efficient PR executive? The whimpering goddess he’d held in his arms, who’d stared up at him with stars in her eyes and passion infused in her face? Or was she a combination of all of them and more?
‘I can’t imagine you’ll find anything there to interest you.’
Alex swung round and his pulse spiked. Phoebe stood in the doorway, dressed in jeans that hugged her legs and a little cardigan that clung to her curves and pulled tight across her breasts. Dark sunglasses held her hair back from her face.
For a moment Alex couldn’t decide which version he preferred. The sleepy, tousled Phoebe who smelled of bed or this sleek, fresh-faced Phoebe who smelled of flowers. And then he realised he was expected to say something. ‘That was quick.’
‘Yup.’ She grinned. ‘It’s amazing what caffeine can do. And I still have five minutes to spare.’
‘I’m impressed. Is that it?’ he said, glancing at her suitcase.
‘Yes.’
‘You travel light.’
‘You sound surprised.’
‘I am.’
‘Not all women carry their entire worldly goods whenever they go anywhere, you know. My wardrobe is particularly capsular.’
‘Unlike your house. This is very different from your office,’ he said, indicating the room with a sweep of his arm.
Phoebe frowned. Generally people didn’t see both. She shrugged. ‘I don’t think clients would be too impressed to see this, do you?’
‘Do you care that much what people think?’
She smiled. ‘I’m in PR. It kind of goes with the territory.’
‘Got your passport?’
‘Hmm. Good point.’ The phone started ringing and Phoebe walked over to answer it. ‘Would you mind? It’s in the desk. Top drawer.’
Which reminded her, she needed to get it renewed. And not before time. That photo… The hair. Phoebe shuddered. No one apart from herself and a handful of international immigration officers had ever seen it.
And any second now Alex would be sliding open the drawer, taking it out and flicking through the pages…
‘No, wait,’ she practically shouted. ‘On second thoughts, I’ll get it.’
Phoebe dropped the phone and hurled herself at him. Her body slammed into his and Alex let out a gruff oomf at the impact. Her hand covered his, their fingers tangled in the chaos and for a moment she thought the room had started to spin. Showers of sparks shot up her arm. His scent engulfed her and she nearly swooned.
Fighting back a blush, Phoebe tugged her passport out of his grip. ‘Sorry about that. Terrible photo.’ She peeled herself off him and walked to the door on very wobbly legs. ‘We—er—should probably get going.’
CHAPTER SIX
WELL, THAT HAD been gruelling, thought Phoebe, pushing her sunglasses up her nose and taking her first lungfuls of Atlantic air. The flight to the capital had been smooth enough and Alex’s skill as a pilot during the short hop to their final destination had been impressive. But having to spend close on to four hours in a confined space with him had been a nightmare.
Once on board his jet, she’d hauled out her laptop with the intention of reading up on her notes, but to her intense irritation her usually excellent powers of concentration had gone on strike. Instead, her body had decided to tune itself to Alex’s frequency. Every move he made, every frown, every smile, that flitted across his face registered on her conscience.