Undone by His Touch

She even enjoyed the verbal wrangling that seemed to be part of daily life working for him. He never let an encounter go by without challenging, probing or teasing till she almost suspected he looked forward to provoking her responses.

At least it prevented her dwelling on memories of the last time she’d lived here, when her dream job had turned into a nightmare.

‘It’s over now. You need to put it behind you,’ she told her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Easier said than done when fragmented nightmares still shattered her dreams. That was why she’d forced herself to come in here, to what had been Adrian Carstairs’ suite.

Better to face the past squarely.

She’d learned that when she lost Mark years ago. The shock of grief, the unfairness of it, had kept her in denial for ages, trying to cling to a life that was past. It was only when she accepted the devastating blow that had stolen their dreams that she was able to move on.

Chloe swiped a cloth over the vanity unit.

‘The past is gone.’

When she lost Mark those words had been a lament. Now there was relief that the trauma of Adrian Carstairs’ frightening obsession was over. No matter how much she regretted his death, she couldn’t help feeling a sense of freedom that he’d never stalk her again. That his dangerous fixation was over.

She picked up her cleaning supplies and turned, only to walk into a wall of naked male muscle.

She was soft, lithe and warm as his arms instinctively closed around her. The unexpectedness of contact momentarily stunned Declan, but a second later his body was responding to the intimate contact.

Predictable, he supposed, since he hadn’t had a lover since well before the accident.

Yet why did his grip tighten when she moved to pull away? Surely not because he enjoyed the feel of her slender hand splayed across his bare chest? The gentle, almost phantom caress of her breath near his collarbone?

‘Ms Daniels, I presume?’ He forced himself into speech, covering his abrupt loss of control.

‘Mr Carstairs, I didn’t expect to see you here.’

There was a slightly breathless quality to her usually crisp voice as if he’d caught her out in some way.

He liked it.

Just as he liked the firm yet enticingly soft curves pressed against him.

This was Chloe Daniels, his sharp-tongued, no-nonsense housekeeper? She sounded young, but he’d supposed her voice was misleading. She was nothing like those sturdy, slightly frumpish women who’d staffed the various Carstairs properties in his childhood.

This woman was slim but curved in all the right places. ‘Luscious’ was the word that sprang to mind. His fingers tightened.

A familiar surge of frustration hit him: impatience that he couldn’t see her for himself. Anger at this disability. Damn his blindness! Would he ever be whole again? He’d been curious about her so long and now, holding her, he had more questions than ever.

‘I didn’t expect to find you here either. I thought I heard voices.’

No need to say the muffled sound of conversation from Adrian’s room had hit him like a sledgehammer blow to the heart. He’d dropped the shirt he’d taken off as he reached the head of the stairs and hurried here, nerves strung tight.

He wasn’t a fanciful man but to his guilt-ridden conscience, the sound of talking from Adrian’s suite had seemed portentous.

‘I was talking to myself.’ She sounded defiant rather than defensive, as if challenging him to make an issue of it. He was intrigued at this facet of his ever-practical employee.

‘Indeed?’

‘I’m sorry I disturbed you. I was just doing a quick clean.’

‘No one will be using the suite.’ He’d lost his taste for company the day he’d lost his brother.

‘I understand.’ She paused then added, her voice low, ‘I’m sorry about your brother, Mr Carstairs.’

‘Thank you,’ he said tersely, dropping his hands.

Familiar guilt swamped him—that he was here, alive, experiencing a surge of sexual interest for this woman, when Adrian was dead. He’d failed his younger brother.

He should have been able to stop him.

His stomach lurched sickeningly. They’d been close, despite their recent geographical separation. He’d been Adrian’s biggest supporter, the one Adrian had turned to when their parents had been busy with their business and charity interests.

But that counted for nothing. All that mattered was that last, irrevocable failure.

How had he let himself be persuaded by Adrian’s upbeat assurances? He should have come here sooner, not relied on phone and email during that vital phase of his new project. How could he not have known Adrian was in such despair?

‘Is there anything else, Mr Carstairs?’

Declan plunged a hand through his shaggy hair. He wished there was something else—something to distract him.

Work was no solace. It couldn’t ease the weight of remorse.

Nor could the search for the woman who’d used his little brother then tossed him aside when she found he’d lost his wealth. Her betrayal had driven Adrian to suicide. Any doubts Declan had about her guilt had been obliterated by the scrawled note David had found jammed in Declan’s desk. As soon as he’d recognised Adrian’s handwriting he’d told Declan, who’d insisted he read it aloud.

Neither had spoken of it since but the words were engraved in Declan’s memory: desperate words that confirmed Adrian’s unnamed girlfriend, the woman he’d been seeing those last weeks, had pushed him to the edge.

Yet the private investigator had turned up no clue to her identity. Where had she vanished to?

Declan’s mouth tightened. Adrian had always been the more sensitive one and, he realised now, more vulnerable. Declan felt impotent, unable to find the woman who’d destroyed his brother and make her face what she’d done.

He gulped down bitter regret, concentrating instead on the burning hate that sustained him when the burden of guilt grew unbearable.

Self-hatred for not saving his brother.

Hatred too for the woman with red-gold hair and come-hither green eyes in the photo his brother had shown him so proudly. A photo so candid it was obvious he’d taken the shot in bed. The woman had lain sprawled in abandon, as if sated from love-making. Golden light had bathed her, giving her the aura of a languid sex goddess inviting adoration.

And Declan had felt a shot of pure, unadulterated lust blast through him at the sight of her.

Remembering made him sick to the stomach, as if he’d betrayed his brother with his response to the woman Adrian had loved. The woman who’d driven Adrian to fatal despair.

Between them they were responsible for Adrian’s death.

CHAPTER THREE

HE NO longer touched her, yet Chloe burned as if still pressed against him.