A Royal Wedding(16)

Which made no sense when all he had wanted last night was have that woman bucking beneath him.

Why was she doing this to him? And how?

He dragged in air. Damn her. He was hard as a rock, his loins aching with need and another woman waiting naked in bed for him. Why was he even thinking about her?

He growled and approached the bed, shucking off his robe and tossing it to the floor, already half dizzy with the heady anticipation of release. His erection rocked free, heavy and hard. He steadied it with one hand to don protection and felt his searing, throbbing heat against his palm. Dio, he needed this.

He pulled back the covers and stared down at her in the dim light. She was smiling knowingly, even though her eyes were dreamily closed, her head tipped back as if she was already in ecstasy, her hands busy at her breasts, tugging at her nipples, making them hard for him. Usually he’d spend some time with those breasts, but today his need was too great.

‘Open your legs,’ he commanded, and if she wondered at his brusque manner she didn’t show it in the way she acquiesced without a murmur. And why shouldn’t she do what he asked she when she was going home with the equivalent of a month’s wages in her pocket? She’d do anything he asked and more.

He gazed down at her, took in the glossy hair splayed over the pillow, her olive skin with its satin-like sheen in the half-light, her breasts plump and peaked. He was rock-hard and wanting and he wondered why the hell he was hesitating and not already inside her.

Until he realised that there was somewhere else he’d rather be.

With a cry of frustration he snapped on the light. ‘Get dressed,’ he ordered. ‘Bruno will take you to the boat.’

‘Did I do something wro—?’

He was reaching for his robe and tugging it on, but not before she’d opened her eyes to plead, no doubt worried she would not be paid. He caught the exact moment of change, when her eyes moved from protest to revulsion, and she pulled the covers back over herself as if to protect herself from his hideousness.

With a roar he ripped the covers straight back off. ‘Just go!’

He could wallow in them if he wanted. He could let those black waves rise up and swallow him whole, sucking him back to that dark time and those dark nights when there was no respite, no relief.

Or he could deal with the problem, get rid of the source of his aggravation, and be able to breathe in his own space again.

He would not be sucked back.

He would deal with the problem.

Because everything had been fine until she had come along. She would just have to leave.

Now.

He headed to her office to tell her exactly that. After all, it wasn’t as if the pages were in terrible condition and too fragile to be shifted. They looked fine as far as he was concerned. And besides, the longer she was here, the more chance someone would talk, someone would stumble on the news of the discovery, and the sharks and parasites of the media world would descend en masse. The story could break somewhere else—anywhere else; he didn’t care—and then the media attention would be someone else’s problem.

So he would tell her. And then she would go.

Nothing could be simpler.

The door to her office was slightly ajar. He pushed it open, still rehearsing his speech. It wouldn’t be a long one. Pack your things and be ready for the next boat, was about the size of it. Still, knowing Dr Hunter and how she liked an argument, he was mentally preparing for a fight.

He was also preparing himself to win.

She was sitting at the desk, so intent on one of the pages she was studying and on the notes she was typing in the notebook computer alongside that she didn’t hear him enter. She looked younger today, even with the frown puckering her brow, or maybe she just looked fresher. She’d dispensed with the ponytail and instead had twisted her hair behind her head so the blonde tips feathered out, and she’d swapped the khaki shirt for a white tank with straps so thin he wondered how they covered her bra straps.

Assuming she was wearing one …

Breath whooshed from his lungs. His blood rushed south. She muttered something, still oblivious to his presence, and jumped out of her chair, wheeling around to the briefcase on the credenza beside her, rummaging through its contents. It would be rude to interrupt now, he thought, when she was so intensely involved in her work. Besides, the view from the back was no hardship to endure either. A well-worn denim skirt lovingly hugged her bottom and made his hands itch to do the same. But it was the length of the skirt he approved of most, or rather the lack of it, showcasing the surprisingly long legs beneath.