A Price Worth Paying(8)

‘Ridiculous because you’re such a catch, you mean? God, you’re unbelievable! Do you actually believe I want to marry you?’

She gave the door a final kick and spun around and almost immediately wished she hadn’t, suddenly confronted by the naked wall of his chest just inches from her face. Bronzed olive skin roughened with dark hair and two hard nipples jutting out at her. God, why the hell couldn’t the man just put on some clothes? Because this close she could see his chest hair sway in the breeze from her breath. This close she could smell the lemon soap he’d used while bathing; could smell the clean scent of masculine skin.

And she really didn’t need to know that she liked the combination.

‘You tell me,’ he answered roughly. ‘You’re the one doing the asking.’

He had her boxed in on two sides, one arm planted beside her head, the door at her back, with only one avenue of escape left to her. Tempting as it was, she got the distinct impression this man would love it if she tried to flee again. He would no doubt feed off the thrill. So she stayed exactly where she was and forced her eyes higher to meet his.

‘A few months,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t asking for forever. I’m not that much of a masochist.’

Something flickered in his eyes as he leaned dangerously down over her, and she wondered at the logic of throwing insults at the only man who could help her. Though that had been before he’d laughed her proposal down without even bothering to listen to her. Now there was obviously nothing to gain by being polite—and nothing to lose by telling him exactly how little she wanted this for herself. ‘If there was any other way, believe me, I’d grab it with both hands.’

His dark eyes searched hers, his chin set, the tendons on his neck standing out in thick cords. ‘What kind of game are you playing? Why are you really here?’

She might have told him if she thought he might actually listen. ‘Look, there’s no point going on with this. Let me go now and I promise never to darken your door again. Maybe there’s even a slight chance we might forget this unfortunate event ever took place.’

‘Forget a scrawny slip of a girl I’ve never met asking me to marry her? Forget a proposal of marriage that comes dressed in barbs and insults from a woman who, by her own admission, wishes there was some other way? I don’t think I’m going to forget that in a hurry. Not when she hasn’t even explained why.’

‘Is there any point? I’d say you made your position crystal clear. Obviously there’s no way you’d lower yourself to marry “a scrawny slip of a girl”.’

Her eyes flashed cold fire as she spat his words back at him, anger mixed with hurt. She was smarting at his insult, he could tell, and maybe she had a point. Maybe she was more petite than scrawny, though it was hard to tell, her body buried under a chain-store cotton skirt and top that left everything to the imagination. But she was no mere girl. Because, from his vantage point above her he could see the slight swell of her breasts as her chest rose and fell. This close he could see her eyes were more blue than grey, the colour of early morning sky before the sun burned away the mist from the hillsides. And this close he could smell her scent, a mix of honey and sunshine and feminine awareness, the unmistakable scent of a woman who was turned on.

His body responded the only way it knew how, surprising him, because she was nothing like his usual type of woman and he wasn’t interested. If he had been interested he would have known it the moment he’d opened the door and laid eyes on her, the way it usually worked.

And once again he regretted the sudden absence of Bianca. Clearly it had been too long if he was getting horny over any random big-eyed waif who turned up on his doorstep. He willed the growing stiffness away, his decision not to put any clothes on intended more to amuse himself rather than any attempt at seduction. And then his eyes drifted down again, lingering over the spot where the neckline gaped, exposing skin that looked like satin.

Admittedly a big-eyed waif with unexpected curves …

‘Then again, maybe not so scrawny,’ he said, unable to resist putting a hand to her shoulder in spite of the fact he wasn’t really interested, his thumb testing the texture of her skin, finding it as smooth as his vision had promised.

She shivered under his touch, her blue eyes wide, her bottom lip trembling, right before she shot away sideways. ‘Don’t touch me!’

He turned, amused by his unexpected visitor and her propensity to move from flight to fight and back again in a heartbeat. ‘What is this? You ask me to marry you and then say I can’t touch? Surely you must have come prepared for an audition.’