Running From the Storm

As they crossed the hall he slipped a hand beneath her bare elbow, sending shivers running up and down her spine.

He seemed even taller than she remembered, and somehow his height and the mature width of his shoulders, his sheer masculinity, made her feel dainty and feminine.

The kitchen at Hallgarth was large and airy, with all mod cons, its open windows letting in the sunshine and fresh mountain air.

Comfortable and homely, it was fitted out like a farmhouse-style living-kitchen, with hickory furniture and an open range, which at the moment was partially screened by a vase of flame-blue delphiniums and pale-pink scented roses.

Caris had half-expected his housekeeper to be there, but they seemed to have the place to themselves. Wondering about it, she asked, ‘Does your housekeeper live in?’

‘Mrs Timmins lives over the garage. But it’s her weekend off. I hope you don’t mind?’

Flustered to realize he must be the one who had put her to bed, she stammered, ‘Well, n-no, I … No, of course not.’

He gave her a sidelong glance. ‘I realize it would have been much more circumspect if my housekeeper had been here, but she’s gone up to Buffalo to visit her family.’

Straight-faced, but with a gleam in his eye that suggested he was teasing, he went on, ‘If in the circumstances you feel seriously compromised …’

Caris was about to deny any such thing when he finished, ‘You can always marry me.’

His words made her heart give a little jump. Managing a laugh, she said with determined lightness, ‘That seems a little drastic.’

‘You mean you’ll settle for less?’

‘I’ll settle for a cup of coffee.’

He sighed. ‘Well, if you change your mind about marrying me, just let me know.’

CHAPTER THREE

HAVING filled a percolator and put it on the electric hob, he took a first-aid box from a cupboard and squatted on the hearthrug at her feet.

‘While that heats, suppose I take a look at your ankle?’

Watching her wince as he ran assessing fingers over her ankle and slender foot, he said, ‘I think some more spray and another bandage wouldn’t go amiss.’

The cold spray was soothing—his nearness anything but—and she quivered inwardly at the thought of those strong, long-fingered hands touching her while she slept.

Her pulse rate going up alarmingly, she did her best to ignore how his stone-coloured trousers pulled tight over his lean hips and muscular thighs. Her stomach clenched and a sweet, languorous heat began to spread through her.

Glancing up at her as she sat to all intents and purposes calm and composed, he felt a sudden desire, a strong urge to pull her into his arms, to kiss her and go on kissing her until he had brought an end to that composure.

In short, he wanted her to be aware, as aroused as he was.

Almost from the start he had known that this woman had a powerful, quite unprecedented effect on him. What he didn’t know for certain was how she felt about him.

And he badly wanted to.

As he stared at her, he noticed the pulse in her throat was beating visibly, and realized with a surge of triumph that despite her calm appearance she was feeling the excitement he was feeling too.

It was a heady thought.

With an effort, he leashed his libido. It was too soon, he warned himself. This was neither the time nor the place to make love to her, and anticipation would only increase the pleasure.

The air was still thick with sexual tension, but his impulses were once more firmly under control. His voice was even as he asked, ‘Not too tight, I hope?’

Looking down into his lean, tanned face and noticing how his long, thick lashes curled, she assured him huskily, ‘No … No, it’s perfectly all right, thank you.’

When he had fastened the bandage securely, he replaced her sandal and rose to his feet in one lithe movement. ‘Now for some coffee.’

He filled two earthenware mugs and handed her one before taking a seat opposite and stretching out his long legs.

The coffee was hot, strong and fragrant, and Caris sipped it gratefully.

When it was gone, he queried, ‘More coffee?’

‘Please.’

Having refilled her mug, he said, ‘While you drink that, decide what you’d like for brunch.’

Still feeling that sensual heat, and terrified of giving herself away, she tried for the prosaic. ‘Who does the cooking when your housekeeper’s away?’

‘I do.’

Remembering her time at university—when most of her male friends had admitted to living on tinned food, takeaway pizzas and being helpless in the kitchen—she asked, ‘Really? Can you cook?’

‘Can I cook!’

Noting the gleam in his eye, she demanded, ‘Well, can you?’

‘Of course I can.’

‘Honestly?’

‘Oh ye of little faith.’

‘Sorry.’

‘I should think so.’

‘What kind of thing can you cook?’

‘I make a mean omelette.’

‘In that case, an omelette would be great.’

With a fresh pot of coffee keeping hot, he quickly set the table before taking a pack of bacon and a bowl of brown eggs from the fridge.

While the bacon grilled, he made a large omelette, golden and puffy. Folding it neatly, he garnished it with rolls of crisp bacon before dividing it between two warm plates.