Книга - P.S. I’m Pregnant: Hot-Shot Tycoon, Indecent Proposal

P.S. I'm Pregnant: Hot-Shot Tycoon, Indecent Proposal
Heidi Rice


?New York, Hollywood…Pregnant? If her landlady’s cat hadn’t gone missing and Connor Brody had bothered to return her messages asking for help in the search, Daisy Dean wouldn’t have been sneaking around his garden at night – and he would never have caught her in her underwear! But Connor’s quite pleased with his scantily clad intruder.His business deal is about to fall through because the trophy wife of a potential US investor fancies him – maybe Daisy could make it up to him by accompanying him to NYC? Sharing a Portobello Road market stall with Daisy, Juno’s been hearing all about Connor’s brother Mac. A Hollywood actor with a shocking reputation.So when he turns up unexpectedly at a wedding, Juno plans to act all aloof. But the best laid plans often go awry! Suddenly she’s front page news and the only place to hide out is Mac’s LA pad. What’s the worst that could happen?












About the Author


USA TODAY bestselling author HEIDI RICE discovered she loved romantic fiction at about the same time she discovered boys and she’s been admiring both ever since. With this in mind, her first brilliant career plan involved marrying Paul Newman. As she was thirteen, Paul was pushing fifty and there was the small matter of Joanne Woodward, that didn’t quite pan out. Brilliant career plan B involved a job as a film reviewer for a national newspaper, but one wonderful husband, two beautiful sons and a lot of really bad B-movies later and she was ready for a new brilliant career plan—so she branched out into the wonderful world of romance writing. Her first novel was published in 2007 and she hasn’t looked back since. She lives in London but loves to travel, particularly in the US, where she does a Thelma and Louise road trip every year with her best mate (although they always leave out the driving-off-a-cliff bit). And she’s having so much fun, she’s almost not sorry that first brilliant career plan didn’t work out.

Heidi loves to hear from readers—you can e-mail her at heidi@heidi-rice.com, or visit her website: www.heidi-rice.com




P.S I’m Pregnant

Daisy

Juno

Heidi Rice









www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)



Daisy


To Bryony, for knowing when the Elvis impersonator needs

to be kicked out of the manuscript.

With special thanks to Eilis, who made sure Connor

didn’t sound like an extra from The Quiet Man.




CHAPTER ONE


‘YOU can’t do this. What if you get caught? He could have you arrested.’

Daisy Dean paused in the process of scoping out her neighbour’s ludicrously high garden wall and slanted her best friend, Juno, a long-suffering look.

‘He won’t catch me,’ Daisy replied in the same hushed tones. ‘I’m practically invisible with all this gear on.’

She looked down at the clothes she’d borrowed from her fellow tenants at the Bedsit Co-op next door. Goodness, she looked like Tinkerbell the Terminator decked out in fourteen-year-old Cal’s sagging black Levi’s, his tiny mother Jacie’s navy blue polo neck and Juno’s two-sizes-too-small bovver boots.

She’d never been this invisible in her entire life. The one thing Daisy had inherited from her reckless and irresponsible mother was Lily Dean’s in-your-face dress sense. Daisy didn’t do monotones—and she didn’t believe in hiding her light under a bushel.

She frowned. Except when she was on a mission to find her landlady’s missing cat.

‘Stop worrying, Juno, and give me the beanie.’ She held out her hand and stared back up at the wall, which seemed to have grown several feet since she’d last looked at it. ‘You’ll have to give me a boost.’

Juno groaned, slapping the black woollen cap into Daisy’s outstretched palm. ‘This better not make me an accessory after the fact or something.’ She bent over and looped her fingers together in a sling.

‘Don’t be silly.’ Daisy shoved her curls under the cap and tugged it over her ears. ‘It’s not a crime. Not really.’

‘Of course it’s a crime.’ Juno straightened from her crouch, her round, pretty face looking like the good fairy in a strop. ‘It’s called trespassing.’

‘These are extenuating circumstances,’ Daisy whispered as a picture of their landlady Mrs Valdermeyer’s distraught face popped into her mind. ‘Mr Pootles has been missing for well over a fortnight. And our antisocial new neighbour’s the only one within a mile radius who hasn’t had the decency to search his back garden.’ She propped her hands on her hips. ‘Mr Pootles could be starving to death and it’s up to us to rescue him.’

‘Maybe he looked and didn’t find anything?’ Juno said, her voice rising in desperation.

‘I doubt that. Believe me, he’s not the type to lose sleep over a missing cat.’

‘How do you know? You’ve never even met the guy,’ Juno murmured, wedging the tiniest slither of doubt into Daisy’s crusading zeal.

‘That’s only because he’s been avoiding us,’ Daisy pointed out, the slither dissolving.

Their mysterious new neighbour had bought the doublefronted Georgian wreck three months ago, and had managed to gut it and rehab it in record time. But despite all Daisy’s overtures since he’d moved in two weeks ago—the note she’d posted through his door and the message she’d relayed to his cleaning lady—he’d made no attempt to greet his neighbours at Mrs Valdermeyer’s Bedsit Co-operative. Or join the search for the missing Mr Pootles.

In fact he’d been downright rude. When she’d dropped off a plate of her special home-made brownies the day before in a last ditch attempt to get his attention, he hadn’t even returned the plate, let alone thanked her for them. Clearly the man was too rich and self-centred to have any time for the likes of them—or their problems.

And then there were his dark, striking good looks to be considered. ‘All you have to do is look at him,’ Daisy continued, ‘to see he’s a you-know-what-hole with a capital A.’

Okay, so she’d only caught glimpses of the guy as he was striding down his front steps towards the snazzy maroon gas-guzzler he kept parked out front. At least six feet two, leanly muscled and what she guessed most people would term ruggedly handsome, the guy was what she termed full of himself. Even from a distance he radiated enough testosterone to make a woman’s ovaries stand up and take notice—and she was sure he knew it.

Not that Daisy’s ovaries had taken any notice, of course. Well, not much anyway.

Luckily for Daisy, she was now completely immune to men like her new neighbour. Arrogant, self-absorbed charmers who thought of women as playthings. Men like Gary, who’d sidled into her life a year ago with his come-hither smile, his designer suits and his clever hands and sidled right back out again three months later taking a good portion of her pride and a tiny chunk of her heart with him.

Daisy had made a pact with herself then and there—that she’d never fall prey to some good-looking playboy again. What she needed was a nice regular guy. A man of substance and integrity, who would come to love her and respect her, who wanted the same things out of life she wanted and preferably didn’t know the difference between a designer label and a supermarket own brand.

Juno gave an irritated huff, interrupting Daisy’s moment of truth. ‘I still don’t understand why you haven’t just asked the guy about that stupid cat.’

A pulse of heat pumped under Daisy’s skin. ‘I tried to catch him the few times I spotted him, but he drives off so fast I would have had to be an Olympic sprinter.’

She’d suffer the tortures of hell before she’d admit the truth. That she’d been the tiniest bit intimidated by him, enough not to relish confronting him in person.

Juno sighed and bent down, linking her fingers together. ‘Fine, but don’t blame me if you get done for breaking and entering.’

‘Stop panicking.’ Daisy placed a foot in Juno’s palms. ‘I’m sure he’s not even home. His Jeep’s not parked out front. I checked.’

If she’d thought for a moment he might actually be in residence the butterflies waltzing about in her belly would have started pogoing like punk rockers. ‘I’ll be super-discreet. He’ll never even know I was there.’

‘There’s one teeny-weeny problem with that scenario,’ Juno said dryly. ‘You don’t do discreet, remember.’

‘I can if I’m desperate,’ Daisy replied. Or at least she’d do her best.

Ignoring Juno’s derisive snort, Daisy reached up to climb the wall and felt the skintight polo neck rise up her midriff. She looked down to see a wide strip of white flesh reflecting in the streetlamp opposite and caught a glimpse of her red satin undies where the jeans sagged.

‘Blast.’ She dropped her arm and bounced down.

‘What’s the matter now?’ Juno whispered.

‘My tummy shows when I lift my arms.’

‘So?’

Daisy frowned at her friend. ‘So it totally ruins the camouflage effect.’ She tapped her finger on her bottom lip. ‘I know, I’ll take off my bra.’

‘What on earth for?’ Juno snapped, getting more agitated by the second.

‘The material’s catching on the lace—it won’t rise up as much.’

‘But you can’t,’ Juno replied. ‘You’ll bounce.’

‘It’ll only be for a minute.’ Daisy unclipped the bra and wriggled it out of one sleeve. She passed the much-loved concoction of satin, lace and underwiring to Juno.

Juno dangled it from her fingertips. ‘What is this obsession you have with hooker underwear?’

‘You’re just jealous,’ Daisy replied, turning back to the wall. Juno had always had a bit of a complex about her barely B-cups in Daisy’s opinion.

She put her foot in Juno’s sling and felt her breasts sway erotically under the confining fabric. Thank goodness no one would get close enough to spot her unfettered state. She’d always been proud to call herself a feminist, but she was way too well endowed to be one of the burn-your-bra variety.

‘Right.’ Daisy took a deep breath of the heavy, honeysuckle-flavoured air. ‘I’m off.’

Grabbing hold of the top, she hauled herself up, her nipples tightening as she rubbed against the brick. Throwing her leg over, she straddled the wall with a soft grunt.

She peered through the leaves of a large chestnut tree and scanned the shadows of their neighbour’s garden. Moonlight reflected off the windows at the back of the house. Daisy let out the breath she’d been holding. Phew, he definitely wasn’t in.

‘I still can’t believe you’re actually going to do this.’ Juno scowled up at her from the shrubbery.

‘We owe this to Mrs Valdermeyer—you know how much she adores that cat,’ she whispered from her vantage position on the wall.

The truth was Daisy knew she owed her landlady much more than just a promise to find her cat.

When her mother, Lily, had announced she had found ‘the one’ again eight years ago, Daisy had opted to stay put. She’d been sixteen, alone in London and terrified and Mrs Valdermeyer had come to her rescue. Mrs Valdermeyer had given her a home, and a security she’d never known before—which meant Daisy owed her landlady more than she could ever repay. And Daisy always paid her debts.

‘And don’t forget,’ Daisy said urgently, warming to her subject, ‘Mrs V could have sold the Co-op to developers a thousand times over and become a rich woman, but she hasn’t. Because we’re like family to her. And family stick together.’

At least Daisy had always felt they ought to. If she’d ever had brothers and sisters and a mum who was even halfway reliable she was sure that was how her own family would have been.

She looked back at the garden, gulped down the apprehension tightening her throat.

‘I don’t think Mrs Valdermeyer would expect you to get arrested,’ Juno whispered in the darkness. ‘And don’t forget the scar on that guy’s face. He doesn’t look like the type who can take a joke.’

Daisy leaned forward, ready to slide down the other side of the wall. She stopped. Okay, maybe that scar was a bit of a worry. ‘Do me a favour—if I don’t come back in an hour, call the police.’

She could just make out Juno’s muttered words as she edged herself down into the darkness.

‘What for? So they can cart you off to jail?’

‘Forget it, I’m not conjuring up a fiancée just to keep Melrose sweet.’ Connor Brody tucked the phone into the crook of his shoulder and pulled the damp towel off his hips.

‘He went ballistic after the dinner party,’ Daniel Ellis, his business manager, replied, the panic in his voice clear all the way down the phone line from New York. ‘I’m not joking, Con. He accused you of trying to seduce Mitzi. He’s threatening to lose the deal.’

Connor grabbed the sweat pants folded over the back of the sofa and tugged them on one-handed, cursing the headache that had been brewing all day—and Mitzi Melrose, a woman he never wanted to see again in this lifetime.

‘She stuck her foot in my crotch under the table, Dan, not the other way around,’ Connor growled, annoyed all over again by Mitzi’s less-than-subtle attempts at seduction.

Not that Connor minded women who took the initiative, but Eldridge Melrose’s trophy wife had been coming on to him all evening and he’d made it pretty damn clear he wasn’t interested. He didn’t date married women, especially married women joined for better or worse to the billionaire property tycoon he was in the middle of a crucial deal with. Plus he’d never been attracted to women with more Botox and silicone in their body than common sense. But good old Mitzi had refused to take the hint and this was the result. A deal he’d been working on for months was in danger of going belly up through no fault of his.

‘Come on, Con. If he backs out of the deal now we’re back to square one.’

Connor walked across the darkened living room to the bar by the floor-to-ceiling windows, Danny’s pleading whine not doing a damn thing for his headache. He rubbed his throbbing temple and splashed some whiskey into a shot glass. ‘I’m not about to pretend to be engaged just to satisfy Melrose’s delusions about his oversexed wife,’ he rasped. ‘Deal or no deal.’

Connor savoured the peaty scent of the expensive malt—so different from the smell of stale porter that had permeated his childhood—and slugged it back. The expensive liquor warmed his sore throat and reminded him how far he’d come. He’d once had to do things he wasn’t proud of to survive, to get out. The stakes would have to be a lot higher than a simple business deal before he’d compromise his integrity like that again.

‘Damn, Con, come off it.’ Danny was still whining. ‘You’re blowing this way out of proportion. You must have a ton of women in your little black book who’d kill to spend two weeks at The Waldorf posing as your beloved. And I don’t see it being any big hardship for you either.’

‘I don’t have a little black book.’ Connor gave a gruff chuckle. ‘Danny, what era are you living in? And even if I did, there’s not one of the women I’ve dated who wouldn’t take the request the wrong way. You give a woman a diamond ring, she’s going to get ideas no matter what you tell her.’

Hadn’t he gone through the mother of all break-ups only two months ago because he’d believed Rachel when she’d said she wasn’t looking for anything serious? Just good sex and a good time. He’d thought they were both on the same page only to discover Rachel was in a whole different book—a book with wedding bells and baby booties on the cover.

Connor shuddered, metal spikes stabbing at his temples. No way was he opening himself up to that horror show again.

‘I can’t believe you’d throw this deal away when the solution’s so simple.’

Connor heard Danny’s pained huff, and decided he’d had enough of the whole debate.

‘Believe it.’ He put the glass down on the bar, winced as the slight tap reverberated in his sore head. ‘I’ll see you the week after next. If Melrose is bound and determined to cut off his nose to spite me, so be it,’ he finished on a rasping cough.

‘Hey, are you okay, buddy? You sound kind of rough.’

‘Just fine,’ Connor said, his voice brittle with sarcasm. He’d caught some bug on the plane back from New York that morning and now there was this whole cluster screw-up with Melrose and his wife to handle.

‘Why don’t you take a few days off?’ Danny said gently. ‘You’ve been working your butt off for months. You’re not Superman, you know.’

‘You don’t say,’ Connor said wryly, resting his aching forehead against the cool glass of the balcony doors and staring into the garden below. ‘I’ll be all right once I’ve a solid ten hours’ sleep under my belt.’ Which might have worked if he hadn’t been wired with jet lag.

‘I’ll let you get to it,’ Danny said, still sounding concerned. ‘But think about taking a proper break. Haven’t you just moved into that swanky new pad? Take a couple of days to relax and enjoy it.’

‘Sure, I’ll think about it,’ he lied smoothly. ‘See you round, Dan.’

He clicked off the handset and glanced round at the cavernous, sparsely furnished living room in the half light.

He’d bought the derelict Georgian house on a whim at auction and spent a small fortune refurbishing it, thanks to some idiot notion that at thirty-two he needed a more permanent base. Now the house was ready, it was everything he’d specified—open, airy, clean, modern, minimalist—but as soon as he’d moved in he’d felt trapped. It was a feeling he recognised only too well from his childhood. And he’d quickly accepted the truth, that permanence for him was always going to feel like a prison.

He turned back to the window. He reckoned a therapist would have a field day with that little nugget of information, but he had a simpler solution. He’d sell the house and move on. Make a nice healthy profit—and never be stupid enough to consider buying a place of his own again.

Some people needed roots, needed stability, needed for ever. He wasn’t one of them. Hotels and rentals suited him fine. Brody Construction was all the legacy he wanted.

He dropped the handset on the sofa.

His shoulder muscles ached at the slight movement. Damn, he hadn’t felt this sore since he was a lad and he’d woken up with the welts still fresh from dear old Da’s belt. He squeezed his eyes shut. Don’t go there.

Forcing the old bitterness away, he lifted his lids and spotted a flicker of movement in the garden below. He blinked and squinted, focussing on the shadowy wisp. Slowly but surely, the wisp morphed into a figure. A small figure clad suspiciously in black, which proceeded to crawl over one of the flowerbeds.

He jolted upright and braced his palm against the glass, his head screaming in protest as he strained to see. Then watched in astonishment as the intruder stood and dipped under one of the big showy shrubs by the back wall—a light strip of flesh flashing at its midriff.

‘What the…?’ The whisper scraped his throat raw as fury bubbled.

Damn it all to hell and back, could this day get any worse?

A surge of adrenaline masked his aching limbs and exploding head as he stalked across the living room and down the wide twin staircase. Whoever the little bastard was, and whatever they were about, they’d made a big mistake.

No one messed with Connor Brody.

For all the trappings of wealth and sophistication that surrounded him now, he’d grown up on Dublin’s meanest streets and he knew how to fight dirty when he had to.

He might not want this place, but he wasn’t about to let anyone else nick a piece of it.




CHAPTER TWO


‘HERE, kitty, kitty. Come to Daisy. Nice kitty.’ Daisy strained to keep her voice to a whisper as sweat pooled in her armpits and the coarse wool of the beanie cap made her head itch.

She scratched her crown, pulled the suffocating cap back over her ears and peered into the pitch dark under the hydrangea bush. Nothing.

Why hadn’t she brought a torch? She huffed. And gave up. This was pointless. She’d almost broken her neck getting over the wall and had then spent ten long minutes searching the garden, gouging her thumb on one of the rose bushes in the process, and she still hadn’t seen a blasted thing.

She crawled out from under the bush, her fingers sinking into the dirt as she tried to avoid squashing any of the plants in the flowerbed.

Raucous barking cut the still night air like a thunderclap. She clasped her hand to her throat and swallowed a shriek.

Her heartbeat kicked in again as she recognised the excited yips. Trust Mr Pettigrew’s Jack Russell, Edgar, to give her a flipping heart attack—it had to be the most annoying dog on the planet.

She puffed out her cheeks and sucked on her sore thumb. Well, at least she could go back home now knowing she’d done her best to find the invisible Mr Pootles. Wherever he’d got to, it wasn’t Mr Hot-Shot’s back garden.

She stood, ready to walk back to the wall when the yapping cut off. The sound of a soft pad behind her had her glancing over her shoulder. She spotted the dark silhouette looming over her and had a split second to think. ‘Oh, crap.’

A muscled forearm banded around her tummy and hauled her off her feet. Her breath whooshed out as her back connected with a solid wall of hot, naked male.

‘Gotcha, you little terror,’ muttered a deep voice.

She sucked in a quick breath ready to scream her lungs out, when a large hand slapped across her mouth—smothering her with the scent of sandalwood soap.

‘No, you don’t, lad,’ the voice murmured, the hint of Irish in it only making it more terrifying. ‘You’re not calling your mates.’

She struggled against the band around her waist. It didn’t budge.

Lifting her as if she weighed nothing at all, her captor hefted her back towards the house. The soap smell overwhelmed her as she listened to the grunts of her own muffled screams through the powertool now buzzing in her ears.

Daisy’s head began to spin as tomorrow’s tabloid headlines flashed across her mind. WOMAN SMOTHERED TO DEATH OVER MISSING CAT.

She kicked clumsily, connecting with thin air, and the baggy jeans slipped off her hips. Then the arm released and she landed hard on the ground, pitching head first onto the grass. As she scrambled up a hand grasped the waistband of her jeans and yanked.

‘Hey, what’s with the satin panties?’ came the shocked shout from behind her.

She gasped, blood surging into her head as she lurched round and hauled the jeans back up to cover herself.

‘Who the hell are you?’ he yelled.

Silhouetted by the porch light, all she could make out of her captor were acres of bare chest, ominously black brows, waves of dark hair and impossibly broad shoulders.

Her whole body vibrated with fury as embarrassment exploded in her cheeks, but all that came out of her mouth was a pathetic yelp.

He reached forward and whipped the beanie cap off her head. She tried to grab for it but her hair cascaded down.

‘You’re a girl!’

She swiped her hair out of her eyes as outrage overwhelmed her. How dared he manhandle her and scare her half to death? She snatched the cap back. ‘I’m not a girl,’ she snapped, her voice returning at last. ‘I’m a fully grown woman, you big bully.’

He took a step forward, towering over her. ‘So what’s a fully grown woman doing breaking into my house?’

She stumbled back, now holding the trousers in a death grip. Outrage gave way to common sense. What on earth was she doing arguing with the guy? He was twice her size and not in a very good mood if that threatening stance was any indication.

Forget standing her ground. Time to get the hell out of Dodge.

She turned to bolt. Too late—as strong fingers clamped on her arm.

‘I don’t think so, lady. I want some answers first.’

The forward momentum pulled her off her feet. ‘Let me go,’ she squeaked, tugging on her arm. His grip tightened as he dragged her backwards up the porch steps.

Panic welled up as he marched her through sliding glass doors into a massive open-plan kitchen. The smell of fresh varnish assaulted her nostrils and light blinded her as he snapped on a switch.

He hauled her past polished oak work surfaces and gleaming glass cabinets to a sunken seating area and shoved her, none too gently, into a leather armchair. ‘Take a seat.’

She went to leap up but he grabbed the arms of the chair, caging her in. Heat radiated from his naked chest like a furnace, as did the heady scent of soap and man. She flinched at the fury in his face, which was now illuminated in every shockingly masculine detail.

A drop of water from his damp hair splashed onto her sweater. She shrank into the cool leather as the moisture sank into the fabric and touched her naked breasts.

Ice-blue eyes dipped to her chest and her traitorous nipples chose that precise moment to draw into excruciatingly hard points. Heat flared in her face. Why had she taken off her bra? Could he tell?

‘Stay put,’ he snarled, his laser-beam gaze lifting back to her face. ‘Or, so help me, I’ll give you the spanking you deserve.’

She began to shake, her heart wedged in her throat. Up close and rather too personal, the stark male beauty of his face was staggering. Dark slashing brows and angular cheekbones rough with stubble did nothing to detract from the cool, iridescent blue of his eyes, nor the livid white scar twitching against the tensed muscles of his jaw. As his gaze swept over her she noticed he had the longest eyelashes she’d ever seen.

They ought to have made those arctic eyes look girly. They didn’t.

‘You can’t spank me,’ she whispered, then wished she hadn’t as his eyes darted back to hers.

‘Don’t tempt me,’ he rasped.

Daisy’s heartbeat sped up to warp speed. Do not antagonise him, you silly cow.

He straightened and raked a hand through his hair, pushing the thick black waves back from a high forehead. His gaze slipped to her chest again.

Her cheeks got several crucial shades hotter.

‘You can stop shaking,’ he said at last. ‘You’re in luck. I don’t hurt women.’

The contempt in his voice was too much. Her temper flared, destroying the vow she’d made moments before. ‘You just scared the crap out of me, Atilla. What the heck do you call that?’

‘You were in my garden. Uninvited,’ he sneered. Not sounding anywhere near as apologetic as he should. ‘What did you expect, a red carpet?’

Before she could come up with a decent comeback, he turned and stalked over to the kitchen’s central aisle. She noticed a curious hitch in his stride. Why was he walking as if he were on a swaying ship?

He bent over the double sink. Her eyes lifted to his back and she stifled a gasp, the question forgotten. A criss-cross of pale ridges stood out against the smooth brown skin of his shoulder blades. Daisy swallowed convulsively.

Whoever this guy was, he was not the rich, pampered, narcissistic playboy she’d assumed.

Coupled with the mark on his face, the scars on his back proved he’d lived a hard life, marred by violence. Daisy bit into her bottom lip, clasped her hands to stop them trembling and dismissed the little spurt of pity at the thought of how much those wounds must once have hurt.

Do not make him mad, again, Daisy. You don’t know what he might be capable of.

He filled a glass with water, then turned back to her. Propping his butt against the counter, he crossed his bare feet at the ankles and stared. She shivered, suddenly freezing in the heat of the late-July evening.

He downed the water in three quick gulps. Daisy swallowed, realising her own throat was drier than the Gobi Desert. Probably the result of the extreme emotional trauma he’d put her through. She wasn’t about to ask him for a glass, though. Keeping her mouth firmly shut at this juncture seemed like the smart choice.

He put the glass down on the counter. The sharp snap made her jump. He coughed, the sound harsh and hollow as it rumbled up his chest, and rubbed his forehead against his upper arm. Bracing his hands against the counter, he dropped his chin to his chest, gave a weary sigh.

Daisy let a breath out between her teeth. With those broad shoulders slumped he looked a little less threatening. When he didn’t speak for a while, or look up, she wondered if he’d forgotten her. She eased out of the chair. The treacherous leather creaked, and his head snapped up.

‘Sit the hell down,’ he said, the huskiness of his voice doing nothing to disguise the snarl. ‘We’re not through.’

She sat down with a plop. He still looked enormous, and she suspected he was doing his level best to intimidate her, but she could see bruised smudges of fatigue under his eyes.

She ruthlessly quashed another little prickle of sympathy. Whatever was ailing him, he’d terrified her, threatened her and quite possibly let poor Mr Pootles die a long and painful death.

She’d be better off reserving her sympathy for the Big Bad Wolf.

‘What exactly do you want?’ she asked, pleased when her voice barely wavered.

He crossed his arms over his chest and cocked an eyebrow, saying nothing.

Completely of their own accord, her eyes zeroed in on the dark curls of hair on his chest, which tapered down a washboard-lean six-pack and arrowed to a thin line beneath the drooping waistband of his sweat pants. The worn grey cotton hung so low on his hips, she could see the hollows defining his pelvis. One millimetre lower, and she’d be able to see a whole lot more.

The errant thought had Daisy’s thigh muscles clenching.

Her gaze shot back up to find him watching her. The heat flared across her chest and up her neck. Did he know where her thoughts had just wandered?

He rocked back on his heels, still studying her in that disconcerting way, and tightened his arms over his magnificent chest. Her heart gave an annoying kick as his biceps flexed, and her eyes flicked to a faded tattoo of the Celtic cross on his left arm.

She gulped, struggling to ignore the long liquid pull low in her belly. What was wrong with her? The guy might have the tanned, sculpted body of a top male model, but Daisy Dean did not get turned on by arrogant, self-righteous bullies, however buff they might be.

‘So let’s hear it,’ he said, his soft, but oddly menacing tone cutting the oppressive silence at last. ‘What were you about in my garden?’

She thrust her chin up, determined not to feel guilty. Her mission had been innocent enough, even if it now seemed somewhat suicidal. ‘I was looking for my landlady’s cat.’

He coughed, the dry rumble making her wince. ‘How much of an idiot do you think I am?’

She bit back the pithy retort that wanted to pop out of her mouth.

‘His name’s Mr Pootles. He’s a large ginger tom with a squinty eye,’ she hurried on, despite the sceptical lift of his eyebrow. ‘And he’s been missing for two weeks.’

‘And you couldn’t come to the door and ask me if I’d seen him? Because why exactly?’

‘I did, but you never answer your door,’ she said, righteous indignation building. If he’d answered his damn door in the last two weeks she wouldn’t be in this predicament. In fact, now she thought about it, this was all his fault.

‘I’ve been out of the country this past week,’ he shot back at her.

‘Mr Pootles has been missing for two. And anyway I left messages with your housekeeper—and brownies,’ she added.

His eyebrows shot up. Why had she mentioned the brownies? It made her sound like a stalker.

‘Look, it doesn’t matter.’ She stood up, forcing what she hoped was a contrite look onto her face. ‘I’m sorry I disturbed you. I didn’t think you were in and I was worried about the cat. It could have been starving to death in your backyard.’

His eyes swept her figure again, making her pulse go haywire. ‘Which doesn’t explain why you dressed up like a burglar to come look for it,’ he said wryly.

‘Well, I…’ How did she explain that, without sounding as if she were indeed a lunatic? ‘I really should be going.’

Please let me get out of here with at least a small shred of my dignity intact.

‘The cat obviously isn’t here and I need to get back…’ She stumbled to a halt, edging her way round the chair.

‘Not yet, you don’t,’ he said, but to her astonishment his lips quirked.

She blinked, not believing her eyes. Was that a smile?

‘I got the brownies, by the way. They were tasty.’ He rubbed his belly, his lips lifting some more. The smile became a definite smirk.

‘Why didn’t you answer my messages, then?’ And what was so damn funny all of a sudden?

‘They probably got lost in translation,’ he said easily. ‘My cleaner doesn’t speak much English.’

He straightened, swayed violently and grabbed hold of the work surface.

‘What’s wrong?’ Daisy stepped towards him. His face had drained of colour and looked worn and sallow in the harsh light.

He put a hand up, warding her off. ‘Nothing,’ he growled, all traces of amusement gone.

She could see he was lying. But decided not to call him on it. After the way she’d been treated he could be at death’s door for all she cared.

He let go of the counter top, but didn’t look all that steady. ‘I know what happened to your cat.’

It was the last thing she’d expected him to say. ‘You do?’

‘Uh-huh, follow me.’

Gripping the edge of the centre aisle, he made his way across the kitchen. He moved with the fragile precision of someone in their eighties, his bare feet padding on the floor.

Daisy tramped down on her instinctive concern as she followed him. She hated to see people suffering, and for all his severe personality problems this guy was obviously suffering. But he’d made it clear he didn’t want her sympathy, or her help.

He shuffled to a small door in the far wall and opened it. Leaning heavily on it, he beckoned her over with one finger.

As she stepped forward he pulled the door wide. She heard the soft mewing sound and glanced down. Gasping, she dropped to her knees. Nestled in an old blanket beneath a state-of-the-art immersion heater was Mr Pootles—and his four nursing kittens.

Make that Mrs Pootles.

‘The cat showed up after I moved in.’ She glanced up at the husky voice, saw the hooded blue eyes watching her. ‘She had no collar and didn’t want to be petted so I took her for a stray.’

Daisy studied the cat and her kittens. A saucer of milk had been placed next to the blanket. She reached out a finger and stroked one of the miniature bodies. The warm bundle of fluff wiggled. Daisy sat back on her haunches.

Maybe the Big Bad Wolf wasn’t as bad as he seemed.

A little of Daisy’s anger and indignation drained away, to be replaced by something that felt uncomfortably like shame.

‘She had the kittens ten days back,’ he continued, the hoarse tone barely more than a whisper. ‘The cleaner’s been looking after them. They seem to be doing okay.’

‘I see,’ she said quietly.

Daisy stood, resigned to eating the slice of humble pie she’d so cleverly served herself by climbing over his garden wall in the middle of the night.

Still, she took a few seconds to collect herself, brushing invisible fluff off Cal’s jeans and then folding down the waistband so they’d stay up without her having to cling onto them. Humble pie had always been hard for her to swallow. Having delayed as long as possible, she cleared her throat and made eye contact.

He was studying her, his expression inscrutable. She might have guessed he wasn’t going to make this easy for her.

‘I’m awfully sorry, Mr…?’

‘Brody, Connor Brody,’ he said, a penetrating look in those crystal eyes. Her pulse skidded.

‘Mr Brody,’ she murmured, her cheeks flaming. ‘What I did was unforgivable. I hope there are no hard feelings.’

She held out her hand, but instead of taking it he glanced at it, then to her astonishment his lips curved in a lazy grin. The slow, sensuous smile softened the harsh lines of his face, making him look even more gorgeous—and even more arrogant—if that were possible.

Daisy held back a sigh as her heart rate kicked into overdrive.

How typical. When Daisy Dean made an idiot of herself, it couldn’t be in front of an ordinary mortal. It had to be in front of someone who looked like a flipping movie star.

‘So are your cat burgling days behind you, now?’ he said at last, the roughened voice doing nothing to hide his amusement. He tilted his head to take in every inch of her attire, right down to Juno’s Doc Martens. ‘That’d be a shame, as the outfit suits you.’

She dropped her hand. Make that a movie star with a warped sense of humour.

‘Enjoy it while you can,’ she said dryly, trying hard to see the humour in the situation—which was clearly at her expense. She knew perfectly well she looked a complete fright.

‘And what would your name be?’ he asked.

‘Daisy Dean.’

‘It’s been a pleasure, Daisy Dean,’ he said, still smirking as if she were the funniest thing he’d ever seen.

‘I’ll come back tomorrow to get the cats, if that’s okay?’ she said stiffly, clinging to her last scrap of dignity.

‘I’ll be waiting,’ he said. The hacking cough that followed wiped the smirk off his face, but only for a moment. ‘I’ve a question, though, before you go.’

‘What is it?’ she asked warily, the teasing glint in his eyes irritating her.

Honestly, some men would flirt with a stone.

He didn’t say anything straight away. Instead, his gaze roamed down to her chest and took its own sweet time making its way back to her face. ‘Did you lose the bra on your way over the wall?’

Colour flared in her cheeks and her backbone snapped straight. That did it. ‘I’m glad you find this so hilarious, Mr Brody.’

‘You have no idea, Daisy,’ he said, coughing out a laugh, his pure aquamarine eyes sparkling with mischief.

‘I’m off,’ she said through clenched teeth, not even trying to keep the frost out of her voice.

She might have been wrong about the cat, but she hadn’t been wrong about him. He was an arrogant, overbearing, insufferable, full-of-himself—

A hissed expletive interrupted her cataloguing of his many character flaws.

She turned, watching in astonishment as he stumbled and then collapsed. The thud of his knees hitting the laminated floor made her wince.

She crouched beside him, her resentment fading fast as she took in his pallid complexion and the tremors racking his body. ‘Mr Brody, are you okay?’

‘Yes,’ he hissed, a thin sheen of moisture popping out on his forehead.

She pressed the back of her hand to his brow, felt the scorching heat as he jerked back. ‘You’re burning up, Mr Brody.’

‘Stop calling me that, for Christ’s sake.’ His head snapped up, the headache clear in his bloodshot eyes. ‘The name’s Connor.’

‘Well, Connor, you’ve got yourself a very impressive fever. You need to see a doctor.’

‘I’m okay,’ he said, gripping the work surface. She offered her hand, but he shrugged it off as he struggled onto his feet, the muscles in his arms bulging as he hauled himself upright.

She could see the effort had cost him as he stood with his hands braced on the polished wood. His chest heaved in ragged pants and the fine sheen of sweat turned to rivulets running down his temples.

‘You can leave any time now.’ He grunted without looking round.

She came to stand next to him, could feel the heat and resentment pulsing off him. ‘What? When I’m having so much fun watching you suffer?’

The tremor became a shake. ‘Get lost, will you?’

She rolled her eyeballs. Men! What exactly was so terrible about asking for help? Propping herself against his side, she put an arm round his waist. ‘How far to your bedroom?’

‘There’s a spare room across the hall.’ The words had the texture of sandpaper scraping over his throat. ‘Which I can get to under my own steam.’

She doubted that, given the way he was leaning on her to stay upright. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said briskly. ‘You can hardly walk.’

To her surprise, he didn’t put up any more protests as she led him out of the kitchen and across a hallway. The spare room was as palatial as expected, with wide French doors leading out into the garden. She eased him down onto the large divan bed in the dim light, his skin now slick with sweat. He shivered violently, his teeth chattering as he spoke.

‘Fine, now leave me be.’

He sounded so annoyed she smiled. The tables had certainly turned. She didn’t have long to savour the moment though as brutal coughs rocked his chest.

‘I’m calling the doctor.’

‘It’s only a cold.’ The protest didn’t sound convincing punctuated by the harsh coughing.

‘More like pneumonia,’ she said.

‘No one gets pneumonia in July.’ He tried to say something else, but his shadowy form convulsed on the bed as he succumbed to another savage coughing fit.

She rushed back into the kitchen, spotted the phone on the far wall and pumped in the number for her local GP. Maya Patel lived two streets over and owed her a favour since the mother-and-baby club fund-raiser she’d helped organise a month ago. Her friend sounded sleepy when she picked up. Daisy rattled out her panicked plea and Connor’s address.

‘Fine,’ Maya said wearily. ‘You need to get his temperature down. Try dousing him with ice water, open the windows and take his clothes off. I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ she finished on a huge yawn and hung up.

Daisy returned to the bedroom armed with a bowl of ice water and a tea towel. The hideous coughing had stopped, but when she got closer to the bed she could feel the heat pumping off her patient. He’d sweated right through the track pants, which clung to his powerful thighs like a second skin.

She flipped the lamp on by the bed to find him watching her, the feverish light of delirium intensifying the blue of his irises.

‘The doctor said to try and get the fever down,’ she said.

She took his silent stare as consent and dipped the cloth in the water. She wrung it out and draped it over his torso. He moaned, the sinews of his arms and neck straining. She wiped the towel over his chest and down his abdomen. Her heart rate leaped as he sucked in a breath and the rigid muscles quivered under her fingertips.

The cloth came away warm to the touch.

‘Dr Patel’s on her way,’ she said gently. ‘Is there anyone you want me to call? Anyone you need here?’

He shook his head and whispered something. She couldn’t hear him, so she leaned down to place her ear against his lips.

Hot breath feathered across her ear lobe and sent a shiver of awareness down her spine. ‘There’s no one I need, Daisy Dean,’ he murmured, in a barely audible whisper. ‘Not even you.’

She straightened, looked into his face and saw the vulnerability he was determined to hide.

He might not want to need her, but right now he did and Daisy had a rule about people in need—you had to do your best to help them, whether they wanted you to or not.

She rinsed the cloth, wrung it out and placed it on his forehead. He tensed against the chill, his big body shivering.

‘That’s a shame, tough guy,’ she said as she stroked his brow. ‘Because I’m afraid you’re stuck with me until you’re strong enough to throw me out.’

Connor closed his eyes, the blessed cool on his brow beating back the inferno that threatened to explode out of his ears. Every single muscle in his body throbbed in agony but those cool, efficient strokes, over his cheeks, across his chest, down his arms, doused the flames, if only for a short while.

He’d always hated it when his sisters had fussed over him as a kid, trying to tend the wounds their father had inflicted in one of his drunken rages. Even then he’d hated to be beholden to anyone. Hated to feel dependent. But as his eyes flickered open he was pathetically grateful to see his pretty little neighbour leaning over him. He stared at her, taking in the clear, almost translucent skin and the serene, capable look on her face as she soothed the brutal pain. She reminded him of the alabaster Madonna in St Patrick’s Church, which had fascinated him as a boy, when he’d still believed prayers could be answered.

But then his Virgin bit into her full lower lip and shifted on the edge of the bed to dip the cloth back in the water bowl. His gaze dropped, taking in the enticing movement of her breasts and the outline of erect nipples against her skintight top. Despite the heat blurring his senses and the pain stabbing at his skull, Connor felt the rush of response in his loins.

He shifted uncomfortably and she turned towards him. Flame-red curls outlined her head like a halo and the vivid jade-green eyes grew larger in her gamine face.

She placed gentle fingers on his forehead, pushed back the hair that had fallen across his brow. ‘Try to get some sleep, Mr Brody. The doctor will be here shortly.’

The desperate urge to take back what he’d said, to ask her not to leave, overwhelmed him. He opened his mouth to say the words, but nothing came out other than a guttural murmur. He grasped her wrist, grimacing as his shoulder cramped. He had to get her attention, make her stay, but however hard he tried he couldn’t make a coherent sound.

‘Don’t talk, you’ll only tire yourself out.’ She took his hand in hers, folded her small fingers round his palm and squeezed. ‘It’s okay, I won’t leave you,’ she said, as if she’d read his mind.

He shut his eyes, let himself fall into the fiery oblivion, his mind clinging onto one last disturbing thought.

Would wanting to see his angel of mercy naked send him straight to hell?




CHAPTER THREE


DAISY placed Connor’s hand carefully by his side, listened to the harsh pants of his breathing as he fell into a fitful sleep and then ran all three of Maya’s instructions back through her mind—one of which she’d been pretending she hadn’t heard.

She nipped over to the room’s French doors, unlocked the latch and flung them wide. Maybe two out of three would do the trick. But the evening air was suffocatingly still, creating no respite from the heat.

Daisy sat back on the bed. She chewed her lip and concentrated on wiping the cloth over the contours of Brody’s upper body. She applied the cooling linen to his arms and shoulders, and listened to the low groans as he struggled with the fever.

After five agonisingly long minutes, it was clear the fever had no intention of abating. If anything it seemed to be getting worse, the ice water now lukewarm in the bowl. Daisy wiped her own brow, cursing her smothering outfit for the umpteenth time that night.

Where was Maya? Shouldn’t she have been here by now? But even as she registered the thought she knew it was a delaying tactic.

Brody shifted on the bed, his movements stiff and uncomfortable.

What was her problem? She should just take off Brody’s sweat pants and be done with it. She was being ridiculous, behaving like a silly schoolgirl, when she was a mature, sensible and sexually confident woman.

Good grief, she’d seen naked men before. She’d lost her virginity at nineteen, to sweet, geeky Terry Mason. She wasn’t exactly prolific when it came to partners and some of them had definitely been more memorable than others. But none of her relationships had been disastrous enough to give her a complex about nudity. Hers or anyone else’s.

Until now.

Okay, Brody was a stranger, and his physique had affected her rather alarmingly already. But she could hardly let the poor bloke suffer because she’d had a sudden, inexplicable attack of modesty. And anyhow, this wasn’t remotely sexual, she was only trying to get his temperature down until Maya arrived. Plus, he probably had underwear on. There was absolutely no need to worry.

That vain hope was crushed like a bug when Daisy peeked under his track pants and spotted the dark, springy wisps of hair.

She let go of the damp waistband so fast it snapped back into place. Brody moaned, sweat beading on his forehead in the lamplight.

Calm down, Daisy, stop being a ninny. You can do this. You have to.

She’d just ignore her pounding pulse and her quivering ovaries.

Right. She got up to look for some fresh linen, reasoning she’d need a sheet once she got the sweat pants off, to preserve his modesty. Not that she thought he had a great deal from his cheeky remark about her bra, but it seemed she had more than enough for both of them.

It took her approximately two seconds to find the brand-new bed linen in the dresser drawer. After spending a full minute undoing the packaging and snapping out the sheets, she was all out of time-wasting tactics.

Perching on the edge of the bed, she shook Brody’s shoulder.

‘I have to take your sweat pants off, Mr Brody. They’re soaked and we need to get the fever down.’

No response, just another hoarse groan. Fine, she wasn’t going to get his permission. She’d just have to hope he didn’t sue her when he woke up and found himself naked.

She hooked her fingers in the waistband, pressed her thumbs into the damp fabric and sucked in a breath. She turned her face away, heat pumping into her cheeks as she eased the garment over his hips. Almost immediately, something halted its progress. She tugged harder, he grunted and the fabric bounced over the impediment.

A few moments more of give, and then the sweat pants got stuck again.

She fisted her hands and tried the same trick twice, but this time the pants weren’t budging. Anchored, she guessed, under his bottom. She huffed, not ready to look round. Whatever that bump had been a moment ago, she knew she’d got the pants far enough down now to afford her more of an eyeful than was good for her blood pressure.

She squeezed her eyes shut, gripping the band of elastic harder, when he mumbled something and rolled towards her. As the trousers loosened Daisy sent up a quick prayer of thanks and gave them a swift yank. They slipped down before he flopped onto his back again. She was leaning so close to him now, she could feel the heat of his skin against the side of her face, and smell the musky and oddly pleasant scent of fresh male sweat and sandalwood soap.

Do not turn round. Do not turn round and look at him.

Daisy repeated the mantra in her head, staring at the open doorway and trying not to picture long, hard flanks roped with muscle as the silky hair on his thighs tickled the backs of her fingers. She gave a huff of relief as she peeled the sweat pants over his knees, inching along the edge of the bed as she went. The effort to keep her balance and resist the urge to look at him had sweat beading on her own brow. Concentrating hard, Daisy nearly toppled off the bed when her patient groaned again.

Daisy noticed the difference in sound immediately, her ears attuned to even the slightest change in tone. This groan didn’t sound like the others, more a low, sensual moan than a painful grunt. Daisy puffed out a breath, damning her overactive imagination as her thigh muscles clenched and the sweet spot between them began to throb in earnest.

Get serious, woman. This situation is not erotic. Pretend you ‘re undressing a sick child.

But however hard she tried, Daisy couldn’t think of Brody as anything other than a man. A man in his prime. An extremely sexy, naked man who had something nestled between his thighs that had produced that resilient bounce.

As she was busy conjuring up some extremely inappropriate images to explain that damn bounce Daisy’s luck ran out. The heavy, confining folds of the track pants locked around Brody’s ankles. No matter how hard she tugged and pulled and yanked she couldn’t unravel the sodden fabric and get the pants the rest of the way off.

Blast, it was no good, she’d have to look to sort out the tangle.

Keep your eyes down. Remember. Eyes on toes.

Muttering the new mantra, she swivelled her head and her eyes instantly snagged on something they shouldn’t. Something that had her jaw dropping, her eyes widening and the liquid between her thighs turning to molten lava.

Wow!

She’d found the source of her bounce. And it was more erotic than anything she could have imagined on her own. Brody, it seemed, despite his fever, his delirium and his earlier exhaustion, was sort of turned on. His partial erection sat proud and long, angling towards his belly button.

Daisy swallowed past the rock lodged in her parched throat. She’d always been a firm believer that size didn’t matter, but that was before she’d seen Connor Brody naked. Everything about the man was quite simply magnificent.

The sudden urge to run her fingertip along the ridge of swollen flesh was so all-consuming, Daisy had to fist her hands and force her gaze away. She stared at the ceiling and gritted her teeth. Utterly disgusted with herself.

How could she have admired his private parts like that? How could she have even considered touching them? How had she gone from frightened schoolgirl to raging nymphomaniac in the space of a few minutes?

What she’d almost done was unconscionable and unethical, a gross invasion of his privacy and against everything she’d ever believed about herself. She had absolutely no right to take advantage of the poor man when he was delirious and burning up with fever and needed her help.

She grabbed the sheet she’d laid out at the bottom of the bed and whisked it over him. It settled in a billowing wave over his lower half, but did nothing to disguise what was underneath. If anything, veiled in the expensive linen—the stark white standing out against his tanned skin—Connor Brody’s naked body looked even more awe-inspiring.

She spent several seconds grappling with the sweat pants, finally freeing his feet, struggling to forget what she’d seen. But she couldn’t.

Her eyes drifted back up and she noticed the small scar on his hip, which disappeared beneath the sheet. Her breath gushed out.

She’d always thought Gary had a beautiful body. Fit and perfectly proportioned, with that tantalising sprinkling of hair that had made her mouth water. Of course Gary had always thought he had a beautiful body too, which had taken the shine off a bit. But there was no getting round the fact that Gary compared to Brody was like Clark Kent compared to Superman.

Brody’s long, lean limbs, toned muscles, the deep and, she now knew, all-over tan and that arresting face made quite a package all by themselves—not to mention his actual package, the memory of which was making Daisy feel as if she were the one with a fever—but even more tantalising was the hint of danger about him, of something not quite tame.

One thing was for sure, Gary naked had never had the physical effect on her Brody was having right this instant—and the man wasn’t even conscious.

She couldn’t catch her breath. Her skin felt tight and itchy and nothing short of a nuclear explosion had detonated at her core. And her ovaries weren’t just quivering, they were doing the rock-a-hula—with full Elvis accompaniment.

Daisy frowned, contemplating what her unprecedented reaction to a naked Connor Brody might mean—none of the options being good—when the doorbell buzzed.

She leaped off the bed so fast she tripped on the carpet and almost fell flat on her face.

Brody must have heard her, because his eyelids flickered and he grunted before turning onto his side. Unfortunately, he took the sheet with him, flashing Daisy the most delicious rear end she’d ever set eyes on. She yanked the sheet back to cover his bare butt before her blood pressure shot straight through the roof.

Her heartbeat racing and her pulse pounding in her ears, she headed down the corridor to the front door. She took several deep breaths as she fumbled with the latch.

Get a hold of yourself. He’s just a good-looking bloke and, from his rough, arrogant behaviour earlier, not a very nice one at that.

She tugged the door open to see her friend and local GP Maya Patel on the other side.

‘This had better be good, Daze.’ The harassed doctor marched past her with a loud huff, toting her black bag under her arm, her usually immaculate hair falling in disarray down the back of a two-piece track suit. ‘I hope you realise I can’t actually treat this guy as he’s not registered with our practice. I could end up getting sued if any—’

She stopped in mid-sentence to gape at Daisy. ‘Blimey, that’s a new look for you. What are you? In mourning or something?’

Yes, for my nice, sensible, discerning libido, Daisy thought wryly.

‘It’s a long story,’ she said as she led the way down the hall. The less Maya knew about the situation, the better.

‘Who is this bloke anyway?’ Maya asked, following Daisy into the darkened room.

‘I told you, my new neighbour.’ And the harbinger of nymphomania. ‘I called round to ask about Mr Pootles and he collapsed in front of me.’ Sort of.

‘Let’s take a look at him.’ Maya sat on the edge of the bed, and plopped her bag on the floor. ‘What’s his name again?’

‘Connor Brody.’

Maya touched his shoulder. ‘Connor, I’m Dr Patel. I’m here to examine you.’ She moved her hand to his brow when he failed to reply. ‘He’s certainly got quite a temperature,’ she said, lifting her hand. ‘How long has he been out?’

Daisy glanced at her watch, and realised he’d only collapsed about fifteen minutes ago, even though it felt like a lifetime. She relayed everything she knew to Maya, who began rummaging around in her bag.

‘Would it be okay if I popped next door while you examine him?’ Daisy asked. ‘I’ll be right back as soon as I tell Juno what’s going on.’

‘Sure, it shouldn’t take long,’ Maya replied, fishing a thermometer and a stethoscope out of the bag. ‘Looks like this nasty twenty-four-hour flu bug that’s been doing the rounds to me, but I’ll check his vitals to make sure it’s nothing more serious.’

Daisy high-tailed it out of the room. She did not want any more flashes of Connor Brody’s anatomy just yet. She’d had enough already to keep her in lurid erotic fantasies for weeks.

‘Have you completely lost your marbles?’

Daisy ignored Juno’s pained shout as she walked past her down the corridor to her bedsit, the towel wrapped tight around her freshly showered body. ‘I’ve got to go back there. He’s really ill. I can’t leave him to fend for himself.’

‘Why not? You don’t know the first thing about him.’ Juno followed her into her room and slumped down on the bed. Her brows lowered ominously. ‘What if he gets violent?’

‘Don’t be melodramatic. I told you, that was a misunderstanding,’ Daisy said, riffling through her wardrobe. Connor Brody getting violent was one of the few things she wasn’t worried about. ‘He looked after Mrs Valdermeyer’s cat. I think I’ve misjudged him. He’s not a bad guy.’ Well, not in that way.

She pulled out her favourite dress, a simple bias-cut cotton sheaf printed with bright pink blossoms. ‘Once the fever’s broken and I’m sure he’s okay, I’ll leave.’ She certainly didn’t want to be around the guy when he had all his faculties back. Brody unconscious was quite devastating enough, thank you very much.

‘But it’s the middle of the night, he’s a stranger and you’ll be in the house alone with him,’ Juno whined.

Daisy paused in the act of slipping on her hooker underwear. ‘I’ll be perfectly safe. Apart from anything else, he’s unconscious.’ She presented her back to Juno after tugging on her dress. ‘Here, zip me up. I told Maya I’d be back straight away.’

Juno continued to grumble about personal safety as she zipped Daisy into her dress. Daisy tuned her friend out as she spritzed patchouli perfume on her wrists, put on her bangles and brushed the tangles out of her newly washed hair.

She knew why Juno was a pessimist, why she hid behind baggy dungarees and a scowl, and why she always saw the cloud instead of the silver lining. Juno had been hurt badly once, very badly. She didn’t trust men. Which really was rather ironic, Daisy thought as she stared at herself in the mirror. After Daisy’s grossly inappropriate behaviour in their neighbour’s spare bedroom, Brody wasn’t the one who couldn’t be trusted.

‘Why are you getting dolled up?’

Daisy stopped dead, her lip gloss in mid-air. ‘What?’ She met Juno’s censorious gaze in the mirror.

‘You’re all dolled up. What’s that about?’

‘I am not,’ Daisy replied, mortally offended. But as she focussed on her reflection she could see Juno had a point. The figure-flattering dress, the sparkle of bangles and beads, the signature scent of patchouli, not to mention the make-up she’d been applying, made it look as if she were planning a night on the town, not a night spent nursing a sick man. Shocked and a little dismayed, she shoved the lip gloss back in her make-up bag.

She most definitely was not dressing up for Brody’s benefit; the very thought was ludicrous. She didn’t even like the guy.

Daisy slipped on her battered Converse, forgoing the beaded Indian sandals she’d already pulled out of the closet. ‘I’m not dressed up—this is me getting comfortable,’ she said lamely.

She pretended she didn’t hear Juno’s grunted, ‘Yeah, right,’ as her best friend trailed after her.

‘Don’t wait up,’ Daisy said, closing the door to her bedsit. ‘I’m not sure when I’ll be back.’

‘Be careful,’ Juno said, giving her one last considering look.

The crooked banisters of the old Georgian house creaked as Daisy made her way down the stairs. She noticed the peeling paint as she opened the front door, the patched plaster on the stoop. The house’s imperfections had always made her feel comforted and secure. As she walked the few steps to Brody’s door she couldn’t help comparing Mrs Valdermeyer’s cosy wreck of a house to the sleek, impersonal perfection of its neighbour.

Daisy sighed as she walked in.

The sight of Brody’s naked body might have short-circuited her hormones, but she was not going to allow it to short-circuit her brain cells too. The very last thing she needed was for anything to happen between her and her arrogant new neighbour. He might be dishy, but she’d only needed to spend a few minutes in his company—and his home—to know he was so not right for her it wasn’t even funny.

‘He’ll probably drift in and out until the temperature breaks,’ Maya Patel announced, slinging her black bag under her arm. ‘Keep dousing him with ice water. And if you can, get some more paracetamol down him in four hours’ time.’

Daisy nodded, the butterflies having a ball in her stomach at the thought of the long night ahead.

‘Are you sure it’s not serious?’ Daisy asked. Like most doctors, Maya didn’t seem to think anything short of double pneumonia was worth getting excited about.

‘I’m sure he’ll be fine once he’s sweated it out of his system. His temperature’s hovering around one hundred and two, but that’s to be expected. If it gets any higher give me a call. But his breathing’s okay and he’s a young, healthy guy.’ Maya smiled at Daisy. ‘Actually, if I wasn’t here in a professional capacity, not to mention married and a mother of three children—I’d say he was a total hunk.’

Daisy dropped her head to concentrate on undoing the front door latch, her cheeks boiling.

‘He’s been in the wars a few times,’ Maya continued. ‘But he seems to have come through them surprisingly well.’

‘You mean the scars on his back?’ Daisy asked as she yanked the heavy door open.

‘Yeah, do you know where he got them?’

‘No, I hardly know the guy,’ Daisy replied. Then her curiosity got the better of her. ‘What’s your professional opinion?’

‘Old, probably from before he hit puberty would be my guess, but I’m no expert,’ Maya said matter-of-factly, then chuckled as she stepped onto the stoop. ‘And why, might I ask, do you care if you hardly know the guy?’

Daisy struggled to come up with an answer that wouldn’t sound totally suspicious. She might as well not have bothered.

‘Ah-ha.’ Maya pointed an accusing finger at her. ‘I thought so. Seems I’m not the only one who thinks our patient is a hunk.’

‘He’s okay,’ Daisy replied flatly, praying her rosy cheeks weren’t a total giveaway.

Maya jogged down the front steps. ‘Let me know how he’s doing tomorrow if the fever still hasn’t broken.’ She turned by the kerb and wiggled her eyebrows at Daisy. ‘And keep an eye on your own temperature, Daze. Being in a room with a guy that hunky and that naked all night long can be hard work.’ She winked. ‘But I’m sure you’re up to the job.’

She laughed as Daisy’s cheeks shot from rosy to beetroot, and climbed into her car.

Daisy locked the front door and leaned back against it, focussing on the room down the hall where her hunk of a patient awaited.

A platoon of butterflies dive-bombed under her breastbone.

Hard work indeed. Maya didn’t know the half of it.




CHAPTER FOUR


CONNOR awoke with a start to the dazzle of morning sunlight. The shadows from the long, traumatic night still lingered at the edges of his consciousness.

He squinted, threw his arm up to ward off the glare, and noticed several things at once. The hammer in his head had quit banging, his muscles had stopped throbbing in time with it and he was no longer sleeping in a sauna. He eased his arm down as his eyes adjusted to the light, gazed out at the leafy old chestnut in his back garden, and the last of the dark disappeared.

Hell, it was good not to feel as if he’d gone six rounds with the champ any more.

How long had he been out? He didn’t have a clue. He caught a whiff of perfume: flowery, spicy and wildly erotic. Recollections from the night before washed over him: the pain, the heat, the terror. But more vivid was the recollection of calm words, of whispered reassurances, of firm hands soothing him back to oblivion when the cruel flashbacks had wrenched him to the surface. And all the good memories were wrapped in that enticing scent.

She’d stayed with him. Just as she’d promised.

He pushed up on his elbows as panic sprinted up his spine.

Where is she? Has she left?

His heartbeat slowed when he spotted her curled up in the armchair across the room. He drank in the sight of her—like the icy water she’d made him sip through the night—then felt like a fool.

When had he turned into such a girl? The nightmares had stalked him on and off throughout his life, always catching him at a weak moment, but he’d learned to handle them a long time ago. They didn’t bother him now the way they once had. It was good of her to stay last night, to see him through the fever and the familiar demons it had brought with it, but he didn’t need her here.

But as he gazed at her a smile curved his lips. He might not need her, but she was still grand to look at in the daylight.

He folded his arms behind his head, relaxed into the pillows and indulged himself.

She’d changed her cat-burglar outfit, which was kind of a shame. The creased summer dress did amazing things for her figure, but the hint of satin at the plunging neckline, which he guessed matched her panties, meant her nipples were no longer clearly visible. Still, the pale, plump flesh of her cleavage was some compensation.

Her rich red hair, which had been springing out all over her head last night as if she’d had an electric shock, fell in soft unruly curls to her shoulder, framing high cheekbones. His lips quirked as his gaze wandered to her feet, which were folded under her bum, and he spotted a pair of battered blue basketball boots tied with lurid green laces.

The funky mix of styles suited her. From the little he could remember of last night, before he’d passed out, she’d been headstrong and prickly as hell—with a surprisingly soft centre when her angel-of-mercy tendencies had come charging to the rescue.

He sat up and swung his legs off the bed, glad that they didn’t even wobble as he stood up. He wrapped the sheet around his waist, and his smile widened as he spotted his sweat pants neatly folded at the end of the bed. She must have stripped him. The smile became a grin. What he wouldn’t give to have been conscious at that moment.

He stretched, yawned and rubbed his throat—pleased to discover the rawness gone—but kept his eyes on his angel of mercy.

Jesus, but she was pretty, in a cute, off-the-wall way. Not his usual type for sure, but then he considered himself very flexible where women were concerned.

Despite the horrors of the previous night, desire stirred. Then his stomach growled, interrupting the erotic direction of his thoughts—and reminding him all he’d eaten in the last twenty-four hours was her brownies.

The memory of the rich chocolate squares—crusty on the outside with a luxuriously moist centre—had his senses stirring again and his stomach giving another loud rumble of protest. She didn’t move, her breasts rising and falling in steady rhythm. Connor’s heart stuttered. She really had exhausted herself on his behalf. No one had ever done that before.

Once you factored in the gift of the brownies and her mad mission to save her landlady’s cat, it occurred to Connor his sweet and captivating neighbour was quite the little Good Samaritan. Definitely not his type, then. But he still ought to thank her for being so neighbourly. At the very least he should show her there were no hard feelings for sneaking over his garden wall.

He chuckled. What he’d like to do was scoop her up and give her a long, leisurely kiss to show his appreciation. He resisted the urge. He doubted she’d thank him for the attention until he’d had a shower.

He strolled to the French doors, and closed the drapes. He’d let her sleep a while longer. Once he’d cleaned up and staved off starvation he’d wake her. He could offer her breakfast and then maybe they could get to that thank-you kiss if she wanted. No harm in seeing if they couldn’t celebrate his recuperation together before she took the cat and its kittens and headed home. If he remembered correctly she hadn’t been completely immune to him before he’d fallen on his face.

He began to whistle softly as he left the room. He felt a little shaky, probably from lack of food, but his other symptoms were as good as gone. It looked like another scorcher of a day outside, the morning sun making the garden’s showy blooms look bright with promise. He’d call the French deli round the corner, get them to send over some fresh pastries and coffee and they could eat on the terrace. He fancied finding out a bit more about the intriguing Miss Daisy Dean before he sent her on her way.

All the stresses and strains of the last few days, the torments of the night, lifted as he bounded up the wide sweeping staircase to his bedroom suite. It felt good to be alive and back to his usual self. Anticipation lightened his steps, making him feel like a kid let loose from school on the first day of summer.

An hour later, Connor had indulged in a scalding hot shower, pulled on his favourite worn jeans and Boston Celtics T-shirt and stuffed down the last two brownies and a cup of steaming black coffee.

He peeked into the spare room and frowned. Angel Face hadn’t moved. He padded into the room and squatted in front of her. Thick lashes rested on her pale cheeks and her breath scythed out in the gentlest of snores.

He caught a curl of hair that had fallen over her face, breathed in the spicy scent and then tucked it behind her ear. He skimmed his thumb over her cheek, felt the soft downy skin as smooth as a child’s and fought the urge to kiss her awake. Still she didn’t budge.

He cocked his head. Damn, but that position had to be uncomfortable, she’d have a crick in her neck when she came round and probably wouldn’t thank him for it. She’d be better off sleeping in his bed. The sheets were fresh and she could lie down flat. It was the least he could do after all she’d done for him.

Never a man to second guess himself, Connor threaded one hand under her bum and the other beneath her shoulders and hefted her into his arms. She murmured something, then cuddled into his chest, her flyaway hair tickling the underside of his chin. Her scent drifted up and he breathed it in. She smelled delicious. So delicious he had a hard time controlling the rush of blood to his groin as he walked from the room.

She was surprisingly light, even in his weakened state it took him less than a minute to carry her up to his bedroom. As he placed her gently in the middle of the deluxe king-size bed it struck him how tiny she was. Probably no more than five feet two or three. Funny he hadn’t noticed that the night before—no doubt the indignant scowl on her face had made her seem taller. He grinned again, his hands braced on his hips. He certainly hadn’t managed to intimidate her much—and he’d been in a bad enough mood to give her a very tough time.

She stirred, squinting in her sleep. He strolled to the large floor-to-ceiling windows, where sunlight flooded the room, to close the curtains.

‘Where am I?’

He turned at the soft murmur, to find his guest propped up on her elbows. She gazed at him out of those large mossy eyes, looking confused and wary—and good enough to eat.

‘You were out cold,’ he said as he finished closing the curtains. ‘I figured you’d be better in bed.’

Her eyes popped wide. ‘Mr Brody! What are you doing up?’

He sat on the edge of the bed, and smiled, touched by her concern. ‘I’m right as rain, thanks to you.’ He traced his thumb over the pulse in her throat, resting his fingers on her collarbone, and felt her shiver of response. ‘And seeing as you’ve seen me naked, Daisy Dean, I think you best be calling me Connor, don’t you?’

Colour flooded her cheeks, giving her pale skin a pretty pink glow. He chuckled, desire stirring again, but a lot more forcefully this time. No, she wasn’t immune to him at all.

What the hell? Why not let breakfast wait until after that thank-you kiss?

Daisy blinked, the last of the sleepy fog clearing from her brain. Goodness, those eyes, that face were even more devastating spotlighted by the shaft of daylight beaming through the curtains.

And his comment had brought back dangerous memories: of how delicious he’d looked naked—and just how thoroughly she’d assessed all his assets.

She pulled back, sat up. Did he know about that? Maybe he hadn’t been as delirious as she’d thought.

‘I’m so glad you’re feeling better,’ she said. She breathed in the scent of freshly washed male and was hit by another alarming jolt of memory. ‘Sorry to pass out like that but it was a long night.’

‘It was,’ he said, the confidential curve of his lips doing very strange things to Daisy’s heart rate.

‘Right, well…’ she edged back ‘… I should shoot off. You obviously don’t need me here any more and I—’

He leaned over and grasped her upper arm, halting her retreat in mid-scramble.

‘You’ll not be running off,’ he said, ‘before I’ve a chance to thank you.’ The mesmerising blue gaze dipped to her lips as the Irish in his voice became more pronounced. ‘Properly.’

Heat flooded between her thighs. But instead of saying the polite denial her mind was screaming at him—something else entirely popped out of her mouth. ‘How do you intend to do that?’

His eyes flared and he cradled her cheeks in his palms. His hands felt rough but unbearably erotic as he threaded his fingers through her hair, pushed the heavy mass back from her face. ‘How about we start here?’ he murmured, still smiling that devastating smile, his breath feathering her cheeks.

Then he slanted his lips across hers. The warm, wet heat was so shocking, and so unexpected, Daisy gasped. His tongue probed, firm and possessive, and her mind disengaged completely as the reckless thrill, the spike of adrenaline shimmered through her bloodstream.

He tasted of coffee and chocolate and danger. Forgetting everything but the feel of his lips on hers, Daisy sank shaking fingers into the silky black curls at his nape and drew him in as a drowning woman draws breath.

He didn’t need any more encouragement. The kiss went from coaxing to demanding as he hauled her against him, his palm sweeping down her back. The weight of his long, strong body pressed her into the mattress as he pushed her down. She gave a staggered moan. This was madness, supreme folly and she couldn’t summon the will to care.

As his lips stoked her into a frenzy she heard the hiss of her zipper. He reared back, breaking the kiss. Their eyes locked, his stormy with passion, the gleam of desire so intense she felt as if she’d been branded.

‘You’re beautiful, Daisy Dean,’ he said, his thumbs stroking her nipples through the fabric as his eyes met hers. ‘I want you naked.’ The gruff statement was both question and demand.

She drew in ragged breaths, her arousal painful, as he tugged down the bodice of her dress, unsnapped the hook of her bra and bared her breasts.

She should have been shocked; she should have pushed him away. This was all wrong and she knew it. She’d been telling herself all night, she didn’t even like this man—that he was not her kind of guy. But the time spent tending him, caressing fever-drenched flesh, hearing the broken cries of his nightmares, had formed a strong bond of intimacy that she couldn’t seem to shake.

She’d looked into his soul last night, was looking into it now. They’d connected on some primal level and this was the only way to break the spell.

She wanted him naked too. She wanted him inside her.

His legs straddled hers and she looked down to see the ridge of his erection pressed against faded denim. Her fate was sealed as all her common sense dissolved to leave nothing but raw need clawing at her gut.

She shifted, but couldn’t budge, pinned to the bed under him.

‘You’ll have to get off me if you want me naked,’ she said.

‘Good point.’ His grin dazzled her. ‘I’ll race you,’ he said, bounding off the bed.

She lurched into a sitting position, and watched mesmerised as he whipped his T-shirt over his head and his six-pack rippled. She looked away, determined not to be distracted from the task at hand by the muscular chest she’d spent most of the night memorising by touch. Anticipation surged through her. She was going to win this race.

She grappled with her shoelaces, cursing her choice of footwear. If only she’d stuck with the sandals. Finally she freed her feet, toed off the boots and flung them off the bed. She heard the thud as his jeans hit the floor, concentrated on wriggling her dress over her hips.

Heat blasted through every nerve ending as she looked up to see him standing before her, gloriously naked and his erection looking even more magnificent than she remembered it.

She bit into her bottom lip; her breath clogged her throat as excitement and trepidation seared her insides like a flashfire. He mounted the bed, grasped her ankle and gave a sharp tug. ‘Come here,’ he said, dragging her beneath him.

‘Wait.’ She braced her hand on his chest. ‘I want to touch you.’

‘Same here,’ he said, cupping her chin. ‘Let’s negotiate.’

Then he kissed her, moulding their mouths together and crushing her body into the mattress. The coarse hair of his chest abraded swollen nipples. She dragged in a breath, let it shudder out as his lips trailed over her collarbone. His tongue slid fire across the swell of her breast and then his teeth nipped at the rigid peak and tugged. Rough hands kneaded her buttocks as his lips found hers again, the kiss so wildly erotic she thought she might be consumed by the flames.

She reached down, shaking with suppressed desire, and cupped his powerful erection in her palm. He shuddered as her fingers wrapped around the pulsing length.

She revelled in the feel of him, everything she’d imagined and more. His forehead touched hers, his whole body vibrating, his breathing harsh as she stroked and caressed him, learning the shape and texture as she had yearned to do all through the night. Velvet over steel. So solid, so warm, so responsive to her touch.

She ran her thumb over the thick head, felt the tantalising bead of moisture. He cursed softly and grasped her wrist, jerking back.

‘You’ll have to stop, or this’ll be over before it’s begun,’ he rasped.

‘I don’t want to stop,’ she cried, desperation edging the words.

Don’t make me stop. Don’t make me think, her mind screamed.

I don’t want to think, I just want to feel.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘I don’t want to rush you.’

She’d never been more sure of anything in her life.

‘I want to rush. I’m ready,’ she said, alarmed, need overwhelming her. She had to do it now, before the delicious fog of sensation cleared.

‘Let’s see how ready, then,’ he murmured.

Before she could figure out what he meant, his fingers delved into the curls at her sex. She shuddered as he circled her clitoris and probed. She cried, gripped his shoulders, slick juices flooding out as she bucked against those knowing fingers, primed to explode.

He chuckled. The sound deep, husky and self-satisfied. ‘Hell, you’re incredible.’ His fingers pushed inside her, his thumb grazing the hard nub. She moaned, clinging to the edge of control. ‘But you’re a bit tight, Angel Face,’ he said, sounding regretful.

‘What?’ The question shuddered out on a breath of need—and confusion. Why was he still waiting?

He groaned, holding her buttocks as he pressed his erection against the slick folds of her sex. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘You won’t,’ she gasped. ‘I want you inside me.’ How much more encouragement did he need? ‘Now.’

‘You’re sure?’ he asked again, making her want to scream.

She nodded, lifting her knees, angling her hips to accommodate him, so frantic she’d lost the power of speech. If he didn’t get on with it, she’d die of need.

She was about to tell him so when he stilled, cursed under his breath and then, to her complete astonishment, pulled away from her and climbed off the bed.

She bounced up on her elbows. Horrified.

‘Where are you going?’ she cried out on a thin wail of exasperation. Had he lost his mind?

He bent to get something out of his bedside table. ‘What’s the hurry, angel?’ he murmured.

Her eyes drifted down to that perfect rear end. Lust and frustration surged through her. She wanted to scream the house down. He’d worked her up to the point of meltdown and now he’d decided to rearrange his dresser!

‘What’s the hurry? Are you joking?’ she squeaked, embarrassed by the desperate quiver in her voice.

He turned back gripping a telltale foil packet between his fingers and heat flooded into her cheeks. Even in her rampaging nymphomania, how could she have forgotten about protection?

‘No joke,’ he said, sounding ever so slightly smug. ‘We wouldn’t want any surprises.’

He knelt back on the bed, grinning at her as he ripped open the packet with his teeth and rolled the condom on. He put his hands over her shoulders, forcing her back on the bed, caging her in.

‘Hasn’t anyone ever told you, patience is a virtue, angel?’ His eyes dipped to her tightly peaked nipples. ‘Although, it should be said, there’s not a lot of virtue in what I’m thinking right at the minute.’

Daisy’s caustic reply caught in her throat as his lips covered hers. She rose up to kiss him back, letting the need, the sensation take over. But as she wrapped her arms round him, her fingers found the ridges on his back and tenderness welled up right beside the need.

His fingers gripped her hips and in one smooth move, he thrust inside her.

She sobbed, the fullness shocking her, the fury of sensations making her cry out. Then he began to move. Slow, heavy, insistent strokes that had the orgasm coiling ruthlessly inside her.

A staggered moan wrenched from her throat as the intense pleasure sent shock waves rocketing up from her core. She anchored her legs round his waist, sweat slicking her skin as she moved to meet each of his deep thrusts with thrusts of her own, and he drove deeper still. Her high-pitched pants matched his harsh grunts. Everything clamped down, her whole body glowing and pulsating as it rode the crest of a magnificent wave. The broken sobs echoed in her head as she burst free and exploded over the top—and heard his muffled shout as he crashed over behind her.

‘That was amazing. You’re amazing,’ Connor murmured, stroking Daisy’s cheek, then winced at the cliché.

But what else was he to say? Hell, if he hadn’t been horizontal already he would have fallen over. He’d never had a stronger, more satisfying orgasm in his life. The experience had been literally mind-altering.

Using every last ounce of his strength he braced his arms to stop himself from collapsing on top of the woman responsible and crushing her. Her eyelids fluttered open as he stared down at her. He grinned as she focussed on his face. She looked as shattered as him, those round expressive eyes wide with amazement.

Then her vaginal muscles squeezed around him in the final throes of her orgasm.

‘God, sorry,’ she whispered as the pink in her cheeks darkened to maroon.

She looked horrified.

He had no clue what the problem was—but with her still wrapped tight around him he was finding it hard to give a damn. Feeling the blood rushing back to his groin, he did the decent thing—with not a small amount of regret—and lifted off her. The next round would have to wait. Something had spooked her—and he didn’t want to scare her off.

Propping his elbow beside her head, he leaned over her. His gaze swept her lush little figure and came to rest on her face. The flush of afterglow warmed her skin and dilated her pupils, darkening the deep green of her eyes, while the sprinkle of freckles across her nose defined those impossibly high cheekbones. She really was gorgeous.

She coloured even more, then looked away and tried to scoot out from under him. He locked his arm round her waist. ‘Now where would you be going? We’re not half finished yet.’

She wiggled, he held firm. Finally she looked at him, her cheeks now a deep and very becoming shade of scarlet. ‘There’s no time for anything else. I really have to be going, Mr Brody.’

His eyebrows shot up at the formal address. Then he simply couldn’t stop himself. He threw back his head and roared with laughter.

When he finally got his amusement under control, she’d stiffened like a board, her bottom lip puffed up in a defiant pout as she glared at him.

He grinned. What was she about?

Women! He gave his head a rueful shake. They really were a whole different species. But didn’t that make them all the more fascinating?

‘Angel Face,’ he murmured, loving the way her eyes narrowed, ‘as we’ve just made love like a couple of rabbits, I think you’d best be calling me Connor.’




CHAPTER FIVE


DAISY was utterly mortified. But she couldn’t decide if she was more annoyed by her own behaviour or the patronising look on Connor Brody’s face as he held her trapped by his side.

‘I don’t feel comfortable calling you by your given name,’ she blurted out. And then realised how prim and ridiculous it sounded.

Thank goodness he didn’t bust a gut laughing at her again. But the twinkle in his eye made it clear it was a struggle not to.

‘Should I make you more comfortable, then?’ He pulled the sheet over her, flattening his open palm on the expensive linen and lifting his eyebrow as if willing her to share the joke.

Daisy felt the warm weight of his hand on her belly and turned away, feeling so exposed she wanted to die on the spot.

When she’d surfaced a moment ago to find him gazing at her, his face flushed, those sexy blue eyes intent on hers and his erection still gloriously firm inside her, the hideous truth had dawned on her.

She’d ravished a complete stranger. Had as good as begged him to make love to her.

Which meant she was her mother’s daughter after all. Her mother, who had spent her whole life latching on to any guy who could give her a decent orgasm.

Daisy didn’t know the first thing about Connor Brody. And he knew nothing about her. For all he knew she could be the sort of woman who made rabbit-love every chance she got. He couldn’t possibly know she’d never ravished anyone before in her life.

The fact that the orgasm they’d shared had been the most incredible she’d ever had only made the situation that much worse.

When the muscles of her sex had clenched in response to the feel of him inside her, she’d been mortally embarrassed. Knowing she’d been tricked by her pheromones into believing they shared an intimacy, a connection, that they actually didn’t.

Whatever way you looked at it, she’d used this man and his mouth-watering body to slake a temporary physical thirst—and fallen victim to her own libido. In so doing she’d broken the solemn promise she’d made to herself as a teenager, that she would never be like her mother. That she would never let her libido rule her life.

A calloused thumb skimmed down her cheek. ‘What’s the problem? Tell me and we’ll see to it.’

Daisy swung round to face him. The tenderness in his eyes surprised her, but the lazy, confident, let’s-humour-her smile on his lips contradicted it rather comprehensively.

Daisy felt her misery being replaced by irritation.

It really was a bit much of him to find the biggest identity crisis of her life so hilarious.

She sat up abruptly. She had to stop wallowing. Letting a total stranger witness her having a breakdown was not going to help matters. ‘I’m absolutely fine,’ she said, her voice as matter-of-fact as she could manage.

She grasped the sheet to her breasts, pushed her hair behind her ears, and felt a tiny bit better. She’d always been a woman of action. Once she saw a problem she set about fixing it. She’d have more than enough time later to analyse her wanton, irresponsible behaviour and what it all meant. Right now she needed to get the heck away from her studly neighbour before anything else happened.

The way he’d been studying her—all that smouldering intent in his gaze—suggested he was planning a repeat performance. And she wasn’t entirely sure she could trust her body not to take him up on his offer. Given what this little liaison had already cost her, another frenzied encounter with Mr Sex-On-A-Stick was the very last thing she needed.

‘This is a little awkward,’ she said. ‘But could you pass me my dress? I need to be off.’

He made no move to get her dress, so she scooted down the bed, intending to lean over him and get it herself.

But as she did so he stroked a hand down her hair. ‘What’s the rush?’ he murmured, his voice husky but firm. ‘Let’s talk about it. Whatever it is, we can fix it.’

She gaped at him over her shoulder. Would you credit it? The only time in her life she’d rather gnaw off her own tongue than talk about her feelings and she’d found the one man on the planet willing to share and discuss.

‘Mr Bro…’ She paused when his eyebrow lifted again. ‘Connor, we had sex. It was great sex. So thank you. But I don’t think there’s anything else to say.’

Both his eyebrows lifted at that one. Clearly, her no-nonsense approach had shocked him but she soldiered on. ‘We have absolutely nothing in common,’ she continued, slipping off the bed. ‘We’re obviously totally wrong for each other.’ She dropped her end of the sheet and whipped on her dress. ‘This was strictly a one-shot deal after a difficult night.’

They both knew the score here, and if he thought they were going to have another quickie for old times’ sake he could forget it—the first one had been quite devastating enough to her peace of mind.

She pulled on her knickers, scouted around for her bra, grabbed it off the floor and shoved it into the pocket of her dress. ‘So why don’t we call it quits and leave it at that?’

She straightened, holding one baseball boot as she scoured the luxurious deep-pile carpet for the other.

‘Are you serious?’ he asked. He hadn’t moved, the sheet resting tantalisingly low on his hips as he stared at her.

‘Absolutely,’ she said, forcing a smile.

Noticing the way the thin wisps of black hair curled around his belly button, she swallowed and averted her eyes. To her immense relief she spotted the other boot peeking out from under the bed. She grabbed it and stood up.

He’d propped himself up on the pillows, and was still studying her, looking stunned.

No doubt with those dark, dangerous good looks and the masterful way he made love, having the woman do a runner was a new experience for him. Daisy couldn’t muster much sympathy. He’d have to learn to deal with it. She had her own problems.

He slid his feet to the floor, the sheet now barely covering him.

Daisy threw up her hand to stop him going any further. ‘Please don’t get up. I can see myself out,’ she squeaked. The last thing she needed was another full-frontal view of that mouth-watering physique.

Before he could say another word, she dashed out the door, barefoot.

Connor gaped at the open bedroom door and listened to the pit-pat of Daisy’s footsteps as she hightailed it down the stairs.

The muffled slam of the front door echoed at the bottom of the house.

He flopped back on the bed, stared at the ceiling and frowned at the fancy light fixture his interior designer had insisted on shipping in from Barcelona.

What the hell had that been about?

He might as well have set her tail on fire, she’d shot out of the room so fast. Either he’d been hallucinating, or he’d just been treated to the female equivalent of the ‘wham-bam thank you, ma’am’ routine.

He guessed he ought to be hurt, but first he’d have to get over the shock.

Not that he hadn’t been dumped before, mind you. Of course he had. He could still recall Mary O’Halloran, slapping him down in front of all his mates when he’d been thirteen and full of the carelessness of youth. He’d snogged her and forgotten to call her the next day so he figured he’d deserved it. In fact, he still felt a little guilty whenever he thought about Mary.

But even Mary, riled to the hilt, hadn’t dumped him without chewing his ear off first for twenty minutes about all his shortcomings. And he’d never met a woman since who wouldn’t talk you to death about ‘the state of the relationship’ as soon as look at you. God, when he thought about all the times Rachel had insisted on ‘having a little chat about where they were headed’ his stomach sank.

So why should he care that Daisy had brushed off his offer to talk? Sure, he hadn’t really meant it. All he’d wanted to do was calm her down, get her to stick around.

He lay on the bed, the ripples of sexual fulfilment making him feel lethargic, and tried to convince himself it was all for the best. He should be overjoyed. It made things a lot less complicated. He wasn’t looking for anything serious and neither was she.

He rubbed his belly, stretched his legs under the sheet, contemplated taking another shower, then caught the heady whiff of her scent. Heat surged into his crotch. He frowned and sat up, staring at the tent forming in his lap.

The damn problem was, he wasn’t pleased. Because he wasn’t finished with her yet. Okay, they had nothing in common, and their one-night stand, or one-morning stand or whatever the hell it was didn’t have any future. But still, he hadn’t wanted it to end, not yet. He’d had plans for today. Fine, so them getting naked and having mind-blowing sex hadn’t been a definite part of it, but he didn’t see why they shouldn’t go with the flow there. They might not be compatible out of bed, but they sure as hell were in it. In fact they were more than compatible. She’d been as blown away as he had by the intensity of…

He stopped, his brain finally catching up with his indignation. Had she been spooked by how good they were together? He relaxed back into the pillow, the pounding heat in his groin finally starting to subside.

That had to be the problem. Daisy might be the most pragmatic, forthright woman he’d ever met, but she was still a girl. And wasn’t it just like a girl to analyse everything to death? To worry about what great sex meant instead of just enjoying it while it lasted.

He huffed out a laugh.

And now he thought about it, he didn’t have to feel hard done by either. Little Daisy might turn out to be his ideal woman. Someone sexy enough to turn him inside out with lust and smart enough to know he wasn’t a good bet for the long haul. Hell, they’d only just met and she’d already figured that out. Now all he had to do was show her that just because they weren’t going to spend the rest of their natural lives together, didn’t mean they couldn’t spend the next little while exploring their potential in other areas.

He whipped back the sheet and leaped out of bed—his faith in the wonder of womankind restored. He’d have that shower after all, get dressed and then head to her place and invite her back for breakfast. Whatever she had planned for the next couple of days he’d persuade her to drop it.

Daisy seemed to be remarkably susceptible to him—whether she liked it or not. Getting her over this little hump so they could finish what they’d started shouldn’t be too tough. He strode into the bathroom, his whistled rendition of ‘Molly Malone’ echoing off the tiles.




CHAPTER SIX


CONNOR was feeling a lot less jolly two hours later as he stood on Daisy’s doorstep. He braced the box under his arm, heard the furious feline hiss from inside and stabbed the door buzzer, impatient to see Daisy again and get at least one thing sorted to his satisfaction.

It had taken him an eternity to chase her landlady’s cat down and get it in the box—and he had a criss-cross of scratches on his hand for his trouble. Unfortunately the cat wasn’t the only thing that had mucked up his morning. After a panicked call from the architect on his Paris project, he’d had to book a Eurostar ticket for this afternoon.

As soon as he’d put the phone down to his PA, Danny had been on the line from Manhattan, begging him to bring his trip there forward a week to stave off the now apparently imminent possibility of the Melrose project going belly up. He really hadn’t needed another conversation about Danny’s ludicrous ‘fake fiancée’ solution so he’d ended up agreeing to fly over there from Paris at the end of the week.

All of which was going to stall his plans to get the delicious Daisy Dean back in his bed any time soon. But once he’d finally wrestled the cat into the box, he’d made up his mind he wasn’t prepared to write the idea off completely. Not yet.

He glanced at his watch. He knew a cosy little four-star restaurant in Notting Hill where he and Daisy could discuss their next moves over a glass of Pouilly Fumé and some seared scallops before he grabbed a cab to St Pancras International. He didn’t see why he shouldn’t stake his claim before he went. A three-week wait would be a pain, but he could handle it if he had something tangible to look forward to when he got back.

He pressed the buzzer again. Where the hell was she? It was ten o’clock on a Saturday morning and she’d been up most of the night—surely she couldn’t have gone out?

He noticed the ragged paint on the huge oak door and glanced up at the house’s elegant Georgian frontage. Crumbling brickwork and rotting window sills proved the place had been sadly neglected for years. She really did live in a dump.

The thought brightened his mood considerably.

Maybe he could persuade her to housesit while he was gone. He’d had a call back from the estate agent while he was having his spat with the cat. Even if he got an offer straight away as the guy seemed to think, it would take a bit to do all the paperwork. And he liked the idea of Daisy being there, waiting for him when he got back from his trip. He was just imagining how much they could enjoy his homecoming when the door swung open.

‘Well, if it isn’t the invisible neighbour.’ The elderly woman standing on the threshold stared down her nose at him, which was quite a feat considering she was at least a foot shorter than he was. The voluminous silk dressing gown with feather trim she wore looked like something out of a vintage Hollywood movie. Her small birdlike frame and the wisps of white hair peeking out of her matching silk turban would have made her look fragile, but for her regal stature and the sharp intelligence in her gaze. Which was currently boring several holes in his hide.

‘What do you want?’ she sneered, eyeing him as if he were a piece of rotting meat. ‘Finally come to introduce yourself, have you?’

As Connor didn’t know the woman, he figured she must have mistaken him for someone else. ‘The name’s Connor Brody. I’ve a cat with me belongs to the landlady here.’

He put the box down in front of her, the screech from inside making his ears throb and the slashes on his hand sting.

She gasped and clutched a hand to her breast as her face softened. ‘You’ve found Mr Pootles?’ she whispered, tears seeping over her lids. She bent over the box—the anticipation on her face as bright as that of a child on Christmas morning.

He stepped forward, about to warn her she was liable to get her hand ripped off, but stopped when she prised open the lid and a deep purr resonated from inside. He watched astonished as she scooped the devil cat into her arms. Lucifer rubbed its head under her chin, gave another satisfied purr and slanted him a smug look. The little suck-up.

‘How can I ever thank you, young man?’ The old woman straightened, clutching devil cat to her bosom as if it were her firstborn babe. ‘You’ve made an old lady very happy.’ The joyful tears sheening her whiskey-brown eyes and the softening of her facial features made her look about twenty years younger. ‘Wherever did you find him? We’ve been searching for weeks.’

‘The cat’s been bunking in my kitchen,’ he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets, not sure he really deserved her thanks. ‘I should warn you. There’s more than one cat now.’

The elderly lady’s eyes popped wide. ‘Oh?’

He nodded at the creature, who was gazing at him as if butter wouldn’t melt in its mouth. ‘Your Mr Pootles became a mammy eleven days ago. I have four kittens at mine.’

‘Four…’ The lady gasped and then giggled, sounding for all the world like a sixteen-year-old girl. She held the cat up in front of her and nuzzled it. ‘You naughty cat. Why didn’t you tell me you were a girl?’

Connor figured it probably wasn’t his place to point out the cat couldn’t talk. ‘Here.’ He pulled out a spare set of keys from his pocket. ‘You’ll want these to get the kittens now, as they’re too little to be on their own for long.’

‘Why, that’s awfully sweet of you,’ she said, taking the keys.

‘They’re in a cupboard in the kitchen,’ he added. ‘Is Daisy around?’ he asked, awkwardly. ‘I need to speak to her.’

The old lady’s eyes widened as she put the keys in the pocket of her gown. ‘You know Daisy?’ she asked, sounding a lot more astonished about that than she had been about her tomcat’s kittens.

‘Sure, we’re friends,’ he said, colour rising in his cheeks under the old woman’s scrutiny. It wasn’t a lie. If what they’d got up to that morning didn’t make them friends, he didn’t know what did.

‘Well, I never did,’ she said. ‘After all the nonsense Daisy’s said about you in the last few weeks.’

What nonsense? She hadn’t even met him until last night.

‘Daisy’s such a dark horse.’ The old woman gave him a confidential grin, confusing him even more. ‘I always thought she might have a little crush on you, the way she could not stop talking about you. Little did I know she’d been fooling us all along. So, did you two have a lovers’ tiff? Is that why she said all those awful things?’

‘No,’ he said, totally clueless now. And not liking the feeling one bit. ‘What things?’

The old woman waved her hand dismissively. ‘Oh, you know Daisy. She’s always got an opinion and she does love to voice it. She told us all how you were rich and arrogant and far too self-absorbed to care about a missing cat. But we know that’s not true now, don’t we?’

Connor’s lips flattened into a grim line. So she’d badmouthed him, had she, and before she’d even met him. Wasn’t that always the way of it? As a boy it had driven him insane when people who barely knew him told him he’d never amount to a thing. That he’d turn out no better than his Da.

But Daisy’s bad opinion didn’t just make him mad. It hurt a little too. Which made him more mad. Why should it bother him what some small-minded, silly little English girl thought?

Was that why she’d bolted? Because she’d decided he wasn’t good enough for her? If she thought that she was in for a surprise.

‘Is Daisy in her room? I need to speak to her.’ Make that yell at her.

‘Of course not, dear,’ the old lady said quizzically. ‘Daisy and Juno are working on The Funky Fashionista.’

‘The what?’

The woman gave him a curious look. ‘Her stall in Portobello Market.’

‘Right you are,’ he said hastily. Not knowing what Daisy did for a living probably made his claim to be a friend look a bit suspect. He took a step down the stairs, keen to get away.

Portobello Road Market was round the corner. It shouldn’t take him too long to track her down—and give her a good piece of his mind.

‘But, Mr Brody…’ The elderly woman called him back. ‘How will I get your keys back to you?’

‘Don’t worry about them,’ he said, a smile playing across his lips as the kernel of an idea began to form. ‘You keep them. If I lock myself out, it’ll be useful for you to have a set.’

He waved and hopped down the last few steps to the pavement.

He mulled his idea over as he strode down the street towards the Bello. And the more he mulled, the more irresistible the idea became. Sure what he had in mind was outrageous, and Daisy wasn’t going to like it one bit, if her disappearing act that morning was anything to go by. But if ever there was a way to kill two birds with one stone, and teach a certain little English girl how not to throw said stones in glass houses, this had to be it.

After the shoddy way she’d treated him, it was the least she deserved.

Daisy Dean owed him. And what he had in mind would make the payback all the sweeter.




CHAPTER SEVEN


‘NO WONDER you’re knackered. It’s called compassion fatigue.’ Juno scowled as she placed the last of Daisy’s new batch of silk-screen printed scarves at the front of the stall. ‘You didn’t need to spend the whole night there looking after him. You don’t owe that guy a thing. And I bet he didn’t even thank you for it.’

Oh, yes, he did.

The heat suffused Daisy’s cheeks as she recalled how thoroughly Connor Brody had thanked her. She ducked behind the rack of cotton dresses and prayed Juno hadn’t noticed her reaction.

‘Why are you blushing?’

Daisy peeked over the top of the rack to see Juno watching her. Did the woman have radar or something? ‘I’m not blushing. I’m rearranging the dress sizes.’ She popped back behind the rack. ‘It never ceases to amaze me how out of order they get,’ she babbled, shoving a size fourteen in between two size eights.

‘Daze, did something happen I should know about?’ Juno asked quietly, appearing beside her. She placed her hand over the one Daisy had clutching the rack. ‘If he did something to you, you can talk to me—you know that, right?’

The concern in Juno’s eyes made Daisy’s blush get a whole lot worse as embarrassment was comprehensively replaced by guilt.

It had taken her less than twenty minutes of angst after bolting out of Connor Brody’s house that morning to get over her panic attack. She wasn’t even sure what she’d got so worked up about now. Okay, so she’d jumped him, but who wouldn’t in her situation? She’d been exhausted. She’d spent the whole night in close proximity to that beautiful body of his. She’d seen him at his most vulnerable plagued by those terrible nightmares and it had created a false sense of intimacy. So what? He hadn’t exactly objected when she’d demanded he make love to her. And she’d never be idiotic or delusional enough to fall in love with a man like Connor Brody. A man who was so totally the opposite of the nice, calm, settled, steady, average guy she needed.

All of which meant she could rest assured that what had happened in Connor Brody’s bed that morning hadn’t suddenly turned her into her mother. Because that had always been her mother’s mistake—not the pursuit of good sex, but the belief that good sex meant you must have found the man of your dreams. Daisy knew that good sex—even stupendous sex—had nothing whatsoever to do with love.

The relief she’d felt had been immense.

But the one thing Daisy hadn’t been able to get past—or to justify—was the scurrilous way she’d treated Connor Brody. Not just after they’d made love—but before she’d ever met him. Was it any wonder Juno thought something bad had happened at Brody’s house when Daisy had spent the last few weeks assassinating his character to anyone who would listen?

And on what evidence? None at all. She’d judged him and condemned him because he was rich and good-looking and, if she was being perfectly honest with herself, because she’d fancied him right from the first time she’d laid eyes on him and she’d resented it.

She’d broken into his home, all but accused him of killing a cat he’d actually been looking after and then—after trying to make amends during the night by nursing him through his fever—she’d ruined it all by seducing him first thing the following morning and then freaking out and running off.

Thinking about the way she’d brushed off his perfectly sweet attempts to calm her down made her cringe. He’d been a nice guy about the whole thing—had even offered to talk about it, and how many guys did that after a one-night stand? And what had she done? She’d told him to get lost. The poor guy probably thought she was a total basketcase and frankly who could blame him?

Daisy gave a deep sigh. At the very least she owed the man an apology. What was that old saying about pride going before a fall? She might as well have hurled herself off a cliff.

‘Daze, you’re really starting to worry me.’ Juno’s urgent voice pulled Daisy out of her musings. ‘Tell me what he did. If he’s hurt you, I’ll make him pay. I promise.’

Daisy gave a half-smile, amused despite everything at the thought of Juno, who was even shorter than she was, going toe to toe with Brody. She shook her head. ‘He didn’t hurt me, Ju. He’s a nice bloke.’

She paused. Maybe nice was too tame a word to describe Connor Brody, but it served its purpose here. ‘If anything, it’s the other way around—I hurt him.’

She knew she hadn’t done more than dent his pride a little, but that still made her feel bad.

Walking round the stall, Daisy pinged open the drawer on the antique cash register. She lifted out the rolls of change and began cracking them open.

‘How?’ Juno asked, picking up a five-pence roll and ripping off the paper wrapping.

Daisy blew out a breath. ‘I’ve been a complete cow to him. All those things I said to you and Mrs V and everyone else, all the assumptions I made. They all turned out to be a load of old cobblers.’ The tinkle of change hitting the cash drawer’s wooden base couldn’t disguise the shame in her voice.

‘What makes you think he’d care?’ Juno scoffed, but then she’d always been willing to think the worst of any good-looking guy. Daisy wondered when she’d started to adopt the same prejudices.

‘That’s not the point,’ Daisy said. ‘I care.’

‘All you really said was that he’s rich and arrogant. What’s so awful about that?’

‘He may be rich, but he’s not arrogant.’ As she said it Daisy recalled the way he’d kissed her senseless before she’d even woken up properly. ‘All right, maybe he is a little bit arrogant, but I expect he’s used to women falling at his feet.’ She certainly had.

‘So what? That doesn’t give him the right to take advantage—’

Daisy pressed her fingers to Juno’s lips. ‘He didn’t take advantage of me. What happened was entirely consensual.’ Just thinking about how consensual it had been was making her pulse skitter.

‘What exactly did happen?’ Juno’s eyes narrowed. ‘Because it’s beginning to sound as if more than rest and recuperation were involved. You’re not telling me you slept with him, are you?’

Daisy’s flush flared back to life at the accusatory look in Juno’s eyes. How on earth was she going to explain her behaviour to Juno when it had taken her so long to explain it to herself? She opened her mouth to say something, anything, when the rumble of a deep Irish accent had both their heads whipping round to the front of the stall.

‘Hello, ladies.’

Daisy’s heartbeat skipped a beat. He looked tall and devastating in the same worn T-shirt and jeans he’d stripped out of that morning—and amused. His lips twitched in that sensual smile she remembered a little too vividly from the moment she’d woken up in his bedroom.

‘While I hate to interrupt this fascinating bit of chit-chat—’ he gripped the top of the stall’s canopy and leaned over the brightly coloured scarves and blouses ‘—I’d like to have a word, Daisy.’ His forefinger skimmed her cheek. ‘In private.’

Daisy swallowed, feeling the burn where the calloused fingertip had touched.

‘Daisy’s busy. Buzz off.’

He dropped his hand and shifted his gaze to Juno, still looking amused. ‘Who would you be, then? Daisy’s keeper?’

‘Maybe I am?’ Juno blustered, standing on tiptoe and thrusting her chin out—which made her look like a midget with a Napoleonic complex next to Brody’s tall, relaxed frame. ‘And who the hell are you? Mr High and—’

Daisy slapped her hand over Juno’s mouth.

‘It’s all right, Ju,’ she whispered, desperate to shut her friend up. ‘I’ll take it from here.’

All she needed now was for Brody to get an inkling of what she’d said about him to pretty much the whole neighbourhood. This apology was going to be agonising enough, without Juno and her attitude wading in and making it ten times worse.

‘I’ll explain everything later,’ she said into Juno’s ear, holding her hand over her friend’s mouth. ‘Can you look after the stall on your own for half an hour?’

Daisy took Juno’s muffled grunt as a yes and let her go.

‘Fine,’ Juno grumbled. She shot Brody a mutinous look. ‘But if you’re not back by then I’m coming after you.’

Daisy gave Juno a quick nod. Great, she guessed she’d owe Juno an apology too before this was over. She picked up her bag and rounded the stall to join Brody. Right at the moment, though, she had rather bigger fish to fry.

‘I know a café round the corner in Cambridge Gardens,’ she murmured, walking through the few milling shoppers who’d already made it up to the far end of the market under the Westway where The Funky Fashionista was situated.

He fell into step beside her but said nothing.

‘Why don’t we go there?’ she continued, not quite able to look at him. ‘They do great cappuccinos.’

And Gino’s cosy little Italian coffee house was also off the tourist track enough that it shouldn’t be too crowded yet. The last thing she wanted was an audience while she choked down her monster helping of humble pie.

It took them less than five minutes to get to Gino’s. Not surprising given that Daisy jogged most of the way, clinging onto her bag with both hands and making sure she kept a couple of steps ahead of Brody’s long stride. As soon as they’d walked away from the stall she’d been consumed by panic at the possibility that he might touch her or speak to her before she’d figured out what she was going to say to him.

And how ridiculous was that? she thought as they strolled into Gino’s and she grabbed the first booth by the door. He’d been buried deep inside her less than three hours ago, given her the most earth-shattering orgasm of her life and now she was scared to even look at him.

She slid into the booth and hastily dumped her bag onto the vinyl-bench seat beside her, blocking off any thoughts he might have of sitting next to her. Casting his eyes at the bag, he slid his long body onto the bench opposite. As he rested his arms loosely on the table she noticed the Boston Celtics logo ripple across his chest.

Her eyes flicked away.

Don’t even go there, you silly woman. Hasn’t that chest got you in enough trouble already?

She raised her hand to salute Gino, who was standing behind the counter. ‘Would you like a cappuccino?’ she asked as she watched Gino wave back and grab his pad.

‘What I’d like is for you to look at me.’

The dry comment forced her to meet his eyes.

‘That’s better,’ he said, the low murmur deliberately intimate. ‘Was that so terrible now?’

Daisy decided to ignore the patronising tone. She supposed she deserved it.

‘Look, Mr Brod… I mean, Connor. I’ve got something to say and I…’ She rushed the words and then came to a complete stop, her tongue stalling on the apology she’d worked out.

Then Gino stepped up to the booth. ‘Hello, Daisy luv. What’ll it be? The usual?’

Daisy stared blankly at her friend, struggling for a second to remember what her usual was. ‘No, thanks, no muffin today.’ She’d probably choke on it. ‘Just a latte, not too heavy on the froth.’

‘As always, my lovely,’ Gino said as he jotted the order on his pad, his broad cockney accent belying the swarthy Italian colouring he’d inherited from his mother. ‘What’s your poison, mate?’ he asked, addressing Brody.

‘Espresso.’

‘Coming right up,’ Gino replied. Then to Daisy’s consternation he tucked his pad under his arm and offered Brody his hand. ‘Gino Jones, by the way. This is my place,’ he said as Brody shook it. ‘Haven’t seen you in here before. What’s your name?’

Daisy rolled her eyes. She’d forgotten what a busybody Gino could be.

‘Connor Brody,’ Brody replied. ‘I moved in next door to Daisy a few weeks back.’

Gino frowned, releasing Brody’s hand. ‘You’re not the bloke who—’

Daisy coughed loudly. Good God, had she blabbed to Gino about Brody too? Why did she have such a big mouth? ‘Actually, we’re in a hurry, Gee,’ she said, slanting Gino her ‘shut up, you idiot’ look. ‘I’ve left Ju alone on the stall and the market will be heaving soon.’

‘No sweat,’ Gino said carefully. ‘I’ll go get your drinks.’ Then he shot her his ‘don’t think I won’t ask you about this guy later’ look and left.

‘You know, it’s funny,’ Brody said, although he didn’t sound at all amused, ‘but people around here don’t like me much.’ The statement sounded slightly disingenuous, but Daisy suspected that was wishful thinking on her part.

Her stomach sank to the soles of her shoes as guilt consumed her.

Time to stop messing about and give the man the apology she owed him. And she better make it a good one.

‘Mr… Sorry, Connor.’ She stalled again, forced herself to continue. ‘I’ve behaved pretty badly. Climbing into your garden, accusing you of…’ She paused. Don’t say you thought he killed the cat, you twerp. ‘Of not helping to find Mrs V’s cat. And then…’ The blush was back with a vengeance as he watched her, his face impassive. ‘This morning I forced you to make love to me. And then I ran off without saying goodbye. I feel completely ashamed of my behaviour… It was incredibly tacky and I’m awfully sorry. And I’d like to make it up to you.’ She stumbled to a stop, not sure what else to say.

His expression had barely changed throughout her whole rambling speech. Maybe he’d looked a little surprised at first, but then his face had taken on this inscrutable mask.

‘Hmm,’ he said, the sound rumbling up through his chest. For some strange reason, Daisy’s knees began to shake. She crossed her legs.

He cocked his head to one side. ‘That’s a lot of sins you’ve to make up.’

‘I know,’ she said, hoping she sounded suitably contrite.

To her surprise, he reached across the table and took her hand in his, threading his fingers through hers. ‘What makes you think I was being forced, Daisy Dean? Did it seem to you I wasn’t enjoying myself?’

She gulped past the dryness tightening her throat. How had they got onto this topic? ‘No, it’s not that. It’s just. I was rather demanding. I don’t think I gave you much of a choice in the matter.’

She ought to tug her fingers away, but somehow they’d got tangled up in his. Just as her stomach was now tangled in knots.

He rubbed his thumb across her palm, making her fingers curl into his. ‘You’d be wrong about that,’ he said. ‘You gave me a choice and I took it. With a great deal of enthusiasm.’

His thumb began stroking her wrist, doing appalling things to her pulse rate. She was just about to muster the will to pull her hand away when he let her go and sat back.

Gino cleared his throat loudly and slid their coffees onto the table.

‘Here you go, folks.’ Gino sent Daisy a searching look, raising his eyebrows pointedly, before leaving them alone.

No doubt Gino was as confused as she was. Why had she been holding Brody’s hand? Letting him caress her like that? It wasn’t as if they were intimate. Well, not in the proper sense.

She wrapped her hands around her coffee mug to keep them out of harm’s way. ‘I’m so glad there are no hard feelings,’ she said.

At least she would be glad, once she’d got away from that penetrating gaze.

‘Not about making love to you, no,’ he said, the Irish in his voice brushing over her like an aphrodisiac. ‘There are no hard feelings about that. I enjoyed it, a lot. And, I think, so did you.’ It wasn’t a question. ‘But as to the rest,’ he continued. ‘There you’ve more explaining to do.’

Her cup clattered onto the table and coffee slurped over the rim. ‘I do?’

‘Why did you run off?’

‘I don’t know,’ she lied, and then felt guilty again when he lifted one dark brow. He wasn’t buying it.

‘It was a bit too intense,’ she said. ‘And I don’t usually jump into bed with men I hardly know.’ She clamped her mouth shut. Half the truth would have to do. Because she was getting the weird sensation she was being toyed with, lured into some kind of a trap. Which was preposterous, of course, but Daisy never ignored her instincts.

‘That’s good to know,’ he said. She took a gulp of the hot coffee and then reached for her bag. ‘I’m so glad we got all this settled. I’d hate for us not to be friends. Especially as you live right next door.’

Which made the whole thing even more awful. How was she going to face him every day if her hormones went into meltdown every time she looked at him? She’d have to get that little problem under control and quickly. But for now she decided distance was probably the best medicine. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she slid out of the booth and offered her hand. ‘I’ll see you around. The coffees are on me. I’ll tell Gino to put them on my tab. Thanks for being so understanding.’

He clasped her hand, the warm, rough feel of his palm sending little shivers up her arm—and held on. ‘Sit down. We’re not finished.’

‘We’re not?’

He nodded at the booth seat. ‘There’s still the matter of the making up to settle.’

‘What?’ She plopped back in her seat, not at all sure she liked the commanding tone.

‘The making up.’

Finally he let her hand go. She tucked it under the table, her fingers tingling.

‘You said you wanted to make up for what you’d done,’ he said calmly. ‘And we’re going to have to sort it now, because I don’t have much time.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’m catching the Eurostar to Paris in a little over an hour. I’ve got eight days there and then I’ll be two weeks in New York.’

Daisy’s shoulders slumped with relief. Thank you, God. She had no idea why he was telling her his itinerary, but at least she’d have over three weeks before she had to see him again. She should be well over this silly chemical reaction by then. ‘That’s wonderful. I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time. I’ll miss you,’ she added, a tad concerned to realise it was the truth.

‘Not for long, you won’t,’ he said, the predatory smile that tugged at his lips concerning her a whole lot more. ‘Because when I get to New York you’ll be meeting me there.’

She choked out a laugh. ‘You lost me,’ she said, but she could have sworn she heard the sound of a trap snapping shut.

He relaxed back in his seat, the picture of self-satisfaction. ‘You want to make things up to me,’ he prompted. ‘It so happens I need a girlfriend in New York for those two weeks. It has to do with a business deal.’ He tapped his fingers on the table in a rhythm that sounded like the tumblers of a lock clicking into place. ‘And that girlfriend’s going to be you.’

He could not be serious? Was he insane? ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not going to New York. When I said I wanted to make things up to you, I was planning to bake you another plate of brownies. Not take a two-week trip to New York as your fake date. Are you nuts?’ He was still looking at her with that cocksure, you’ll-do-as-you’re-told expression on his face. It was starting to annoy her. ‘Even if I wanted to go.’ Which she most definitely did not. ‘I couldn’t possibly. I’ve got my stall to run.’

He sighed. ‘If your little bodyguard friend can’t run the stall on her own you can find someone to help her. I’ll pay any wages due. My PA will sort out your travel plans.’ He looked pointedly at his watch again, as if to say, I don’t have time for this.

Daisy’s temper kicked up another notch. ‘You’re not listening to me, Brody. I’m not doing it. I don’t want to. You’ll have to find someone else.’ She did not want to spend two weeks alone with him in New York. She already knew how irresistible he was—what if she had another lapse in judgment brought on by extreme hormonal overload and jumped him again? Things could get very complicated indeed. ‘I don’t owe you that much,’ she finished, indignation seeping from every pore.

‘Oh, but you do, Daisy Dean.’ He leaned forward, those icy blue eyes chilling her to the bone. ‘You told half of London I was selfish, arrogant and not to be trusted. That’s known as slander.’

The blood seeped out of her face. How did he know about that?

‘There happen to be laws against that sort of thing. So unless you want me to be calling my solicitor, you’d best be on that plane.’

He got up from the booth. She drew back, but he caught her chin in his fingers and tilted her face to his. ‘And, Daisy,’ he murmured, the warmth of his breath making her heart go into palpitations. ‘Who said anything about a fake date?’ he finished, his lips so close she could all but feel them pressed against hers.

‘But I’m not your girlfriend,’ she managed to say as her heart pounded in her throat. ‘I certainly don’t love you. And right now I don’t even like you.’

His gaze swept over her, making her notice the length of his lashes again, before his eyes fixed on her face. If she’d hoped to wound him she could see by his expression she’d failed.

‘Make no mistake. This is only a two-week deal. I’m not in the market for anything more and neither are you.’

She thought she could hear a tinge of regret in his voice and cursed her overactive imagination. She doubted he had the emotional capacity for regret. The rat.

‘But we don’t have to love each other for what I have in mind.’

With that, his lips came down on hers in a hard, fast and sinfully sexy kiss. She tried to twist away but he held her firm until she felt the pulse of response, the throb of heat. And before she knew what was happening, she was kissing him back.

He pulled his mouth away first and straightened. ‘You like me right enough, Daisy Dean.’ He brushed his thumb across her bottom lip. ‘And we both know it.’

She jerked back, mute with anger and humiliated right down to her knickers—which were now soaked with need.

‘There will be lots we can see and do in Manhattan—and I’ve a mind to show it to you,’ he continued, that devil-may-care charm not the least bit fazed by her furious glare. ‘So, you can spend the two weeks in your bed alone, or make the most of the experience. The choice will be yours.’ He gave her a mock salute. ‘I’ll see you in New York, Angel Face.’

Daisy glared at his back as he strolled out of the café, heard him whistling some off-key Irish ditty as he disappeared down the street.

The overbearing, conceited, blackmailing jerk.

She flung her bag on the seat. How dared he steamroll her like that?

She glowered at the booth opposite, sure she could feel smoke pumping out of her ears. To think she’d actually felt sorry for what she’d said about him. He wasn’t just arrogant. He was a megalomaniac—with an ego the size of his precious Manhattan.

If he thought she was going to step into line, he could forget it. And whatever happened she was not going to sleep with him again. No way, no how.

But even as she made the promise she knew it was going to be next to impossible to keep.




CHAPTER EIGHT


BY THE time Daisy had packed up the stall with Juno that evening and trudged back to her bedsit, she’d decided the conversation with Brody in Gino’s café had been his crazy idea of a joke. Either that or she’d been dreaming.

He couldn’t be serious about blackmailing her into a trip to New York. This was the twenty-first century—people didn’t do that sort of thing. Well, not people with any semblance of decency.

She turned on the light and toed off her shoes, every cell in her body weeping with exhaustion after a virtually sleepless night and ten solid hours on her feet—not to mention the day’s emotional trauma. Thank you so very much, Connor Brody. Pulling off the bangles on her wrist, she dropped them into her jewellery box, then sat on the bed and unclipped her silver ankle bracelet. She’d just forget the whole ridiculous episode.

She hadn’t even told Juno about Brody’s threat. She’d forced herself to calm down before returning to the stall—her lips still red and puffy from Brody’s goodbye kiss—and had put a few things in perspective. Brody could not possibly have been serious. So why bother Juno with the details?

Edging her curtain back, Daisy peeked at the windows of

Brody’s house. Pitch black. Thank goodness. He must be in Paris. She huffed. Good riddance.

She let the curtain drop, lay down on the bed and stared at the fairy-tale motif she’d painted on the ceiling last winter. A blue-eyed, black-haired cherub winked at her cheekily from behind a moonbeam.

She shifted onto her side and tucked her hands under her cheek—the damn cherub reminding her of someone she did not want to be reminded of.

Sunday and Monday flew by in a flurry of work and other related activities. Daisy manned the stall, ran a class on silk-screen printing at the local community centre, got stuck into her latest clothes designs and did her regular slot at the Notting Hill Arts Project—happily getting neck-deep in tissue paper, glitter and PVA glue as she helped her group of five-to ten-year-olds make their costumes for this year’s Notting Hill Carnival. Just as she’d suspected, there had been no word from Brody. By Tuesday night, the events of the weekend had been as good as forgotten—give or take a few luridly erotic dreams.

Bright and way too early Wednesday morning, her three days of denial came to an abrupt end.

‘Daisy, Daisy, open up, dear.’ Mrs Valdermeyer’s excited voice was punctuated by several loud raps on the door. ‘A package has arrived for you. Special delivery no less.’

Daisy rolled over, blinking the sleep out of her eyes. Stumbling out of bed, she checked the Mickey Mouse clock on the mantelpiece and groaned. It was still shy of seven a.m.

She pulled the door open and her landlady whisked past, holding a small brown-paper parcel aloft like a waiter on silver-service duty. She laid it ceremonially on the bed. Then turned to Daisy and bounced up on her toes.

‘Isn’t it exciting?’ She clapped her hands. ‘It’s from that handsome young man next door—it says so on the front.’

Daisy felt a much louder groan coming on, but bit it back.

‘What’s going on?’ Juno stood in the doorway, wearing her Bugs Bunny pyjamas and a sleepy frown.

‘Daisy has a package from a gentleman admirer. Isn’t it exciting?’ Mrs Valdermeyer plopped down on the bed and patted a spot next to her. ‘Come in, Juno, and let’s watch her open it.’

Daisy felt the groan start to strangle her. Fabulous. When had her bedroom become package-opening central?

‘What gentleman admirer?’ Juno asked. Walking into the room, she glanced at the package. ‘Oh, him,’ she scoffed.

Daisy opened her mouth to speak—and start ushering her audience out the door—when Mrs V interrupted her. ‘Don’t be such a grump, Juno dear.’ She whisked a pair of scissors out of her dressing gown with a flourish. ‘The man is positively delicious and he saved Mrs Pootles from a fate worse than death. Daisy could do a lot worse.’ She offered Daisy the scissors. ‘In fact Daisy did do a lot worse—remember that awful Gary?’

‘Do I ever,’ Juno replied, sitting next to Mrs Valdermeyer. She caught Daisy’s eye. ‘But I’m not sure this guy is that big an improvement.’

‘Well, he’s certainly a lot better looking,’ Mrs Valdermeyer shot back.

‘We’re not dating, Mrs V,’ Daisy interceded, before her landlady got totally the wrong idea. ‘So there’s no need—’

‘Why ever not, dear? He’s loaded, you know. Which, I might add, comes in very handy if the passion fades.’

Daisy grabbed the scissors, resigned to opening the package as quickly as possible before the conversation deteriorated any further.

She snipped the string and folded the paper back carefully, aware of the two pairs of eyes watching every move she made. Her heart pummelled as she opened the lid.

Please don’t let him have put crotchless knickers in here. Or something equally tacky.

But as she upended the box she was surprised to see three envelopes of varying sizes and a slim, black velvet case bounce onto the bed.

‘How marvellous. Jewellery. Open that last, Daisy,’ Mrs Valdermeyer said, thrusting the first of the envelopes into Daisy’s hand. ‘Jewellery needs to be properly savoured.’

Once Daisy had opened all three of the envelopes, Mrs Valdermeyer was practically doing cartwheels around the room and Juno’s frown had turned into the San Andreas fault.

Daisy slumped onto the bed, stunned. In her lap she had a first-class return ticket to JFK dated for twelve noon that coming Sunday, a carefully typed itinerary of her travel arrangements signed by someone called Caroline Prestwick and a gold credit card in her name.

Her hand shook as Mrs Valdermeyer thrust the jewellery case into her lap on top of the other booty. Daisy picked it up, and found another envelope attached to the bottom of the case.

She ripped it off, stared blankly at her name scrawled on the front in large, block letters and then tore it open. Inside was a sheet of thick textured white paper with the Brody Construction logo stamped across the top. As she scanned the contents of the letter her fingers began to tremble.

Angel Face,

I found the sparkles in Paris and thought they would suit. Get anything else you need with the card—and don’t spare yourself. I want you to look the part.

There’s a car booked for the airport. See you at The Waldorf.

Connor

PS: I’ve my solicitor on speed-dial if you don’t show.

‘It’s all so wonderfully romantic,’ Mrs Valdermeyer crooned over her shoulder. ‘Two weeks at The Waldorf and a gold credit card. You’re going to have the time of your life, Daisy.’

‘What does he mean about his solicitor?’ Juno said.

‘I’m not going.’ Daisy folded the letter and shoved it back in its envelope. She couldn’t possibly go. Okay, somewhere in the last few days she’d got over her anger, and for a moment Mrs Valdermeyer’s industrial-strength enthusiasm had almost blinded her to the truth. For a split second she’d seen herself on Connor’s arm decked out in glitters and her best posh frock. She’d never been further than Calais on a school trip so she felt she was entitled to get momentarily carried away. But she couldn’t do it. And what had he meant by ‘I want you to look the part’—as if she were his personal mannequin? The cheek of the man.

‘Of course you’re going, my dear. Don’t be absurd,’ Mrs Valdermeyer said.

‘I really don’t think she should,’ Juno piped up. ‘She’d be totally at his mercy and—’

‘Stop right there, Juno.’ Mrs Valdermeyer got up and took Juno’s arm. ‘I want you out of here. Daisy and I have to talk about this in private,’ she said, dragging Juno to the door.

Before Juno had a chance to say anything else, she’d been shoved over the threshold and had the door slammed at her back.

Mrs Valdermeyer brushed her hands together. ‘Right, now the most unromantic woman in the Western World has gone, let’s discuss this properly.’

She sat down next to Daisy, laid a hand on her knee.

‘You don’t understand.’ Daisy fisted her fingers on Connor’s perfunctory letter. ‘It’s not romantic at all. He just needs a girlfriend to hang on his arm for a couple of weeks. We’re not even dating. It’s a business thing. Or something.’ She let out a trembling breath. The truth was, he thought so little of her, he hadn’t even had the courtesy to tell her why exactly he needed her there.

Daisy shoved Connor’s letter and the jeweller’s case back in the box—ignoring the cold fingers of regret gripping her stomach.

How pathetic that she felt depressed she couldn’t go. She was her own woman, she didn’t need a man to complete her and she certainly didn’t need some too-sexy-by-half egomaniac sweeping her off her feet only to dump her back down to earth again two weeks later.

‘He may very well think that,’ Mrs Valdermeyer said gently, resting her knarled hand over Daisy’s. ‘But I suspect there’s a bit more to it.’

Tears pricked Daisy’s lids—and made her feel even more pathetic. ‘Like what?’ she said, cynicism sharpening her voice.

‘Daisy, dear. Men don’t ask a woman on a first-class, all-expenses-paid trip to New York just for the sake of a business deal.’

‘He didn’t ask me,’ Daisy said, the tears she was busy ignoring clogging her throat. ‘He told me. And I think he’s expecting some pleasure mixed in with his business to justify the expense.’

Mrs Valdermeyer chuckled fondly. ‘He is a scoundrel, isn’t he? Just like my third husband, Jerry.’ She patted Daisy’s leg, still chuckling. ‘But once you’ve tamed him, my dear, you’ll see they’re the very best kind. Both in bed and out.’

Daisy tried to smile at the old lady’s irascible tone, but somehow she couldn’t muster more than a strained grimace. ‘I don’t want to tame him. Believe me, it would involve far too much work.’

Mrs Valdermeyer took Daisy’s hands in hers. ‘Look at me, dear.’ Daisy lifted her eyes, saw that the old woman wasn’t smiling any more. ‘Don’t you think you’re taking this a bit too seriously? Surely, this is about a man and a woman having a marvellous adventure together. Nothing more. And you’ve had far too few adventures in your life to let one as spectacular as this pass you by.’

Daisy huffed. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. I had enough adventures to last me a lifetime before I ever came here.’

‘No, you didn’t. Those were your mother’s adventures. They don’t count. This is going to be your adventure and you’re going to enjoy every minute of it. You need to get out there and experience life before you can think about finding love, you know.’

A flutter of butterfly wings began to beat under Daisy’s breastbone. She tired to ignore them. ‘I really don’t think…’

Mrs Valdermeyer held up her finger to silence her. ‘Don’t think, Daisy. You’re a dear sweet girl who thinks far too much, mostly about everybody but herself. For once, don’t think, just feel.’ She patted Daisy’s knee. ‘Take it from me, I’m an old woman and there are a few things I’ve learned. You’ve got the rest of your life to plan things out, to do the right thing, to be cautious and careful and responsible. That’s what you have to do when you start a family—that’s what your mother should have done and didn’t. And if you find the right man to do it with it won’t be boring, let me tell you. But you’re young, and free and single and you get to be spontaneous now, to live life as it comes and take whatever fun and excitement you can grab.’ She picked up the velvet jeweller’s case. ‘Now, I want to know what sparkles your handsome scoundrel picked out for you in Paris. Don’t you?’

Mrs Valdermeyer placed the case back in Daisy’s lap.

Daisy stared at the embossed gold lettering on the top, ran her finger over the textured velvet. She sighed. What the heck. What harm could it do to take a quick peek? She lifted the heavy case in one hand and opened the lid.

The sight of the emeralds winking on a lattice of silver chains had her heart leaping into her throat and threatening to choke her. She took an unsteady breath and touched the precious stones.

The butterflies went haywire as the fanciful, fairy-tale images that had been hovering at the back of her mind came into sharp, vivid and all-too-real focus.





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