Maybe it stung because up until that moment he’d never openly expressed his dislike of me, and to have it confirmed somehow made it unequivocally real. Or maybe, with the stress I’d been under recently and the lack of a support network, which I’d been feeling more acutely than usual, I was simply more sensitive to a barb that otherwise might have bounced right off, and overreacting. Who knew? And what did it matter? Ultimately, all that was important was securing Nick’s help in managing the fortune that had dropped into my lap and already caused so much trouble.
The shrubbery thinned and the path came to an end, along with my ruminations, which were flattened by the impact of the sight that met my eyes. Built from wood painted a blinding white and possessing innumerable windows and glass doors off which the sun glinted, the two-storey villa was vast and stunning. Tall pillars on the ground floor supported a veranda that wrapped around the first, providing the long wide terrace below with dappled shade. The enormous raised rectangular pool had clear sides so the water within looked like a thick solid slab of cobalt. A vast swathe of emerald-green grass edged the beach, beyond which lay the sparkling sea. Palm trees swished in the breeze and brightly coloured flowers stood in planters dotted around the grounds. As tropical paradises went this one was unbeatable, and I’d seen a few.
‘This is a lovely house,’ I said with what had to be the understatement of the century as I hauled my jaw off the floor and followed him up the wide timber steps to the deck.
‘I like it.’
‘I can see why you choose to spend the winters here.’
‘I’m not a fan of the cold.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said, acutely aware that sweat was about to start trickling unattractively down my temples, although why the attractiveness of anything should matter I had no idea. ‘Hot chocolate, roaring fires and cashmere. What’s not to like?’
‘Winter isn’t hot chocolate, roaring fires and cashmere for everyone,’ he said in a tone that shrivelled my stomach and sent a flush to my cheeks that had nothing to do with the heat.
No. Right. Stupid of me. Nick had grown up with very little. I remembered my brother telling me once years ago when I must have been about thirteen that his mother had frequently had to make the choice between eating and heating. Unable to comprehend such a situation and, in all honesty, not particularly interested in my brother’s lanky taciturn friend anyway, I’d shrugged and put it from my mind, one of the many moments of which I’m not proud.
‘I guess not,’ I said, berating myself for yet again speaking without thinking, which unfortunately happened all too often in his vicinity, and pushing aside the shame of the past to focus on the present. ‘I’ve heard cashmere attracts moths anyway.’
With one quick disbelieving glance in my direction, Nick strode through a pair of open French doors into a bright, airy kitchen that was the size of the poky flat in zone four I shared with two others, dumped my suitcase and then headed for a run of glossy wood units that stretched across the width of the far end of the room.
‘Would you like a drink?’
God, yes, I thought wistfully as I set my handbag down on the enormous bleached-wood-topped island and perched on a stool. A large rosemary-garnished gin and tonic—something to settle the jitters and quench my thirst—would be heavenly. But it wasn’t even midday and I didn’t need another black mark against me, especially when I so badly needed his help. ‘A coffee would be great, thanks.’
He turned to a machine that was all buttons and spouts and looked as though it could orbit the earth, and while it hissed and burbled, I took the opportunity to study him.
No doubt this casual look of his was such a surprise because whenever we did meet these days he clearly came straight from work and it was hard to imagine him in anything other than a suit. And equally obviously, it was because we were always in the company of others, my attention diverted, that I’d never before noticed the breadth of his shoulders beneath the fine wool or the corded muscles of his forearms that appeared when, having taken off his jacket, he inevitably rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.
I’d certainly never seen him doing anything as pedestrian as stirring a spoonful of sugar into a macchiato, I mused, my gaze narrowing in on the action. It was strange how fascinating his economy of movement was, how mesmerising his hands were. If the touch of his palm against mine could send a sizzle of electricity shooting up my arm, what effect might it have on other parts of my body? Such as my waist...my thighs...my breasts...?
A shocking image of him abandoning the machine and spinning round to haul me into a crushing embrace slammed into my head then and I instantly went hot. My mouth dried. My lungs froze. My pulse gave a great kick and then started racing.
What was going on? I wondered, frantically scrubbing the all too vivid vision from my mind and struggling for control. Why was I eventhinkingof his hands on me? I hadn’t before. A clinch of any kind, crushing or otherwise, had never crossed my mind. Well, not for years, at least. So why now?
Objectively, I could see he was exceptionally good-looking. He’d grown out of his lankiness years ago, and at well over six foot, with a broad, lean physique and a harshly beautiful face composed of strong, masculine features, he was the epitome of tall, dark and handsome. And judging by the way he had a different woman on his arm in every photo I’d ever seen him in, I wasn’t the only one to know that.
But this wasNick. Impossibly and eternally uptight, judgemental and disapproving, and therefore very muchnotmy type any more.
‘Here you go,’ he said, and I jumped, rattled by the lurid waywardness of my thoughts. He slid the cup of hot strong deliciousness in my direction, and frowned. ‘Are you all right?’
No. I wasn’t all right at all. I’d clearly lost my mind. But I had to get a grip, because he was as sharp as a knife and if he somehow managed to figure out what was going on in my head... It didn’t bear thinking about.
‘I’m fine,’ I said, somehow managing to drum up a breezy smile while inwardly pulling myself together and outwardly fanning my face. ‘I’m just not used to this heat. And it’s been a hectic twenty-four hours.’
‘You must be desperate to have flown all this way so quickly.’
He had no idea. For a moment I wondered if he took pleasure from having me dangling from his strings, but, quite frankly, I doubted he took pleasure in anything. I’d certainly never heard or seen any evidence of it. Naturally I hadn’t paid those photos all that much attention, but even when in the company of a stunning blonde he seemed to exude cool indifference.
‘I am,’ I said, taking the cup and belatedly thinking I should have asked for my coffee to be iced since yet more heat sliding through my body could well lead to combustion. ‘I got your email and caught the next available flight.’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘You didn’t leave me much choice.’
Not that it had been that much of a hardship, once I’d got over my indignation at being summonsed so high-handedly. I’d decided to fly first class, which had been as comfortable as I remembered. The lounge. The personal service. The comfort, the quiet and the champagne you didn’t have to pay extra for. Everything I’d once taken for granted, I’d realised on the occasion I’d flown to Scotland with a no-frills airline, although, actually, none of it got you to your destination any faster.
Of course, the experience had cost a lot—even more once I’d guiltily paid extra to offset the increased carbon footprint flying first class generated—but I didn’t need to worry about that now. Financially, I didn’t need to worry about anything ever again, as long as I stayed away from scoundrels out to fleece me. And no doubt once that properly sank in, I’d be thrilled and excited and over the moon with happiness instead of anxious and nauseous and, at times, downright petrified.