Nor was he the type of guy to want to watch over anyone—making his decision to insist she stay the night even weirder.
He’d killed his white-knight complex a long time ago when trying to protect his family—and especially his mom—from the truth about his old man had blown up in his face.
He frowned, not liking the pulse of guilt at the memory of that miserable Christmas night twenty years ago, and his mom’s tear-streaked face.
Why the heck had his white-knight complex come out of hiding when he’d spotted the enraged Scottish pixie knocking Brad on his ass? Sure, he’d immediately figured that Brad had been the one in the wrong—he knew the guy—and he’d wanted to deal with him. But he could have handed Eleanor over to the wait-staff manager with instructions to pay her off, generously, once the altercation was over, rather than spiriting her up here.
He tilted his head, attempting to study her dispassionately, and felt the hot pulse of awareness return—an awareness which had been there right from the moment he’d spotted her earlier.
Damn. What was with that?
Why did she still turn him on? With her pale legs tucked under her butt, her feet clad in a pair of his athletic socks, her wild chestnut curls rioting around her delicate features and his oversized sweatshirt disguising the slender curves he’d noticed earlier, she should not have looked remotely hot.
Unfortunately, his libido hadn’t got the memo, the scent of his own shampoo doing nothing to douse the heat. He adjusted the jeans he’d put on after changing out of the vampire costume.
She’d given every impression that she thought he was an arrogant jerk. But he’d seen the arousal in her eyes too. He knew when a woman wanted him. That she’d been as determined to fight it as he was though had added an interesting novelty value.
Even when he’d been starting out, his drive and ambition and his blue-collar origins, coupled with the Bronx accent he’d worked hard to lose, had been a major turn on for high-class women looking to be pulled off their pedestals. He’d happily obliged at first, but once his investment portfolio had taken off, he’d got a whole lot more discerning. But it had been a very long time since he’d enjoyed the thrill of the chase.
Whatever.
She was still way out of bounds. Even if she didn’t work for him, and she hadn’t had a run-in with Brad the jerk tonight, he could smell the peaty aroma of his best Scotch on her breath. Plus there was that weird white-knight response to her, which he had no plans to encourage.
‘How about I carry you to one of the guest bedrooms so you can sleep it off till morning?’ he said, at which time he could let her go with a clear conscience. Hopefully putting his white knight back in its box once and for all.
She didn’t stir.
‘I’ll take that as a yes, Eleanor.’
Hooking one arm under her bent knees and the other around her back, he scooped her off the couch and into his arms.
She shifted slightly, then curled into his chest, her furled fingers gliding over his pecs before landing in her lap, the citrus scent of his shampoo mixed with the fresh, clean scent of her skin. He tensed, the surge of heat nowhere near as disturbing as the surge of protectiveness.
‘Mmm...’ she mumbled, her warm whisky-scented breath nuzzling his neck.
The weight in his pants hardened, and he cursed softly.
He hadn’t had this much of a hair trigger since he was a teenager. Around the same time he’d been sent away from everything he cared about for the duration of his adolescence.
He pushed the humiliating thought to one side as he carted her down the corridor. But instead of taking her to one of the guest suites, he entered his own bedroom. The urge to have her sleep in his bed, even if he wasn’t going to be in it with her, was somehow undeniable.
Yeah, he’d have to examine that reaction at a later date too.
After yanking back the quilt, he deposited her on the bed. He spotted the pale blue cotton of his shorts covering her lush butt, the waistband tied in a knot to stop them slipping off. The swift shot of arousal was joined by the strange pulse of admiration in his chest—his pixie was nothing if not resourceful.
Hispixie? He scrubbed his hands down his face and sighed. He definitely needed to get laid.
But as he left the room, he resigned himself to having to resort to his first hand-job in years when the pulse of heat refused to die.
CHAPTER THREE
ELLIE’SEYELIDSFLUTTEREDopen to the sound of... Was someone humming?
The husky murmur rippled through her snug body. She pushed up into a sitting position, finally focussing on the unfamiliar surroundings. She certainly wasn’t in the hostel dormitory any more.
But where on earth was she?
The luxury bedroom furniture—all sleek lines, muted masculine colours and expensive fabrics—was like something out of a magazine spread, lit by the thin strip of sunlight peeking under the blinds covering a glass wall opposite the bed.