Anything but Vanilla(3)

‘Once in a blue moon,’ she added, in case he hadn’t got the message.

Sorrel knew all about the kind of travelling man who took advantage of a warm-hearted woman before moving on, leaving her to pick up the pieces and carry on with her life. Her own father had been that kind of man, although he had never bothered with even the most occasional postcard. Forget moons—blue or any other colour—his visit was on the astronomical scale of Halley’s Comet. Once in a lifetime.

‘A little more frequently than that, I believe,’ he replied. ‘Or were you using the term as a figure of speech rather than an astronomical event?’ Fortunately, the question was rhetorical because, without waiting for an answer, he added, ‘I’m not often in the vicinity of a post office.’

‘You don’t have to explain yourself to me,’ she said, making an effort to get a grip, put some stiffeners in her knees.

Not at all.

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ West let go of the door and every cell in her body gave a little jump—of nervousness, excitement, anticipation—but he was only settling himself more comfortably, leaning his shoulder against the frame, crossing strong, sinewy arms and putting a dangerous strain on the stitches holding his T-shirt together. ‘I thought perhaps you were attempting to make a point of some kind.’

‘What?’ Sorrel realised that she was holding her breath... ‘No,’ she said, unable to look away as one of the stitches popped, then another, and the seam parted to reveal a glimpse of the golden flesh beneath. She swallowed. Hard. ‘The frequency of your correspondence is none of my business.’

‘I know that, but I was beginning to wonder if you did.’ The gleam intensified and without warning she was feeling anything but cold. Her head might be saying, ‘He is so not your type...’ She did not do lust at first sight.

Her body wasn’t listening.

It had tuned out her brain and was reaching out to him with fluttery little ‘touch me’ appeals from her pulse points, the tight betraying peaks of her breasts poking against the thin silk...

No, no, no, no, no!

She swallowed, straightened her spine, hoping that he’d put that down to the cold air swirling up from the open freezer. She continued to cling to it, not for support, but to stop herself from taking a step closer. Flinging herself at him. That was what her mother, who’d made a life’s work of lust at first sight and had three fatherless daughters to show for it, would have done.

Since the age of seventeen, when that legacy had come back to bite her and break her teenage heart, she had made a point of doing the opposite of whatever her mother would do in any circumstance that involved a man. Especially avoiding the kind of rough-hewn men who, it seemed, could turn her head with a glance.

Sorrel had no idea what had brought Alexander West back to Maybridge, but from her own reaction it was obvious that his arrival was going to send Ria into a meltdown tizzy. Worse, it would cause no end of havoc to the running of Knickerbocker Gloria, which was balanced on the edge of chaos at the best of times. The knock-on effect was going to be the disruption of the business she was working so hard to turn into a high-end event brand.

Presumably Ria’s absence this morning meant that she was having a long lie-in to recover from the enthusiastic welcome home she’d given the prodigal on his return.

He looked pretty shattered, too, come to think of it...

Sorrel slammed the door shut on the images that thought evoked. It was going to take a lot more than a pair of wide, here-today-gone-tomorrow shoulders to impress her.

Oh, yes.

While her friends had been dating, she’d had an early reality check on the value of romance and had focused on her future, choosing the prosaic Business Management degree and vowing that she’d be a millionaire by the time she was twenty-five.

Any man who wanted her attention would have to match her in drive and ambition. He would also have to be well groomed, well dressed, focused on his career and, most important of all, stationary.

The first two could be fixed. The third would, inevitably, be a work in progress, but her entire life had been dominated by men who caused havoc when they were around and then disappeared leaving the women to pick up the pieces. The last was non-negotiable.

Alexander West struck out on every single point, she told herself as another stitch surrendered, producing a flutter of excitement just below her waist. Anticipation. Dangerous feelings that, before she knew it, could run out of control and wreck her lifeplan, no matter how firmly nailed down.