It Started With A Kiss. Miranda Lee

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СКАЧАТЬ didn’t sleep well that night, which wasn’t like him. Usually, he was out like a light soon after his head hit the pillow.

      But not this time. He tossed and turned. Even got up on one occasion and poured himself a stiff drink.

      The trouble with that, however, was it reminded him even more forcibly of the reason for his insomnia.

      Had she drunk some more after hanging up on him? Was she also up, wandering around the house in her nightie with another glass of whisky clutched in her hands?

      He carried that image of her back to bed with him and tossed and turned some more, his hormone-revved head wondering what kind of nightie it might be. Short or long? Provocative or prissy?

      Various alternatives came to mind. She’d look delicious in long creamy satin, and wickedly sexy in short black lace. Better still in nothing at all.

      His groan was the groan of a man suffering from a case of serious sexual frustration. Which would never do if he wanted to get some sleep. And he did. He hadn’t finished his work today and he’d have to beaver away at it all day tomorrow. No Sunday brunch down at Darling Harbour with his mother. No slouching around watching the cooking shows on satellite.

      Dragging himself up again, he made his way into the bathroom, where he had the hottest of hot showers, a technique he’d found worked much better on him than cold. The heat sapped his energy, and relaxed his tense muscles and other aching parts. After a good twenty minutes of sauna-type soaking, he snapped off the water, dried himself with one of his extra-fluffy white bath sheets, then fell, naked and pink-skinned, back into bed.

      An hour later he was still wide awake.

      Swearing, he rose, pulled on his black silk robe, made himself some very strong coffee and trudged downstairs to his darkroom where he surprised himself by working like a demon for several hours. It was light when he emerged, but by this time he was too exhausted to care. He went upstairs, switched off his mobile, took his other phone off the hook, closed the roller shutter which he’d recently installed on his bedroom window and collapsed into bed.

      If his oblivion was ravaged by erotic dreams, he certainly didn’t recall them, but he was embarrassingly erect when he was wrenched out of his blissful coma by the sound of his front doorbell ringing. It was just as well, Rafe decided as he struggled out of bed, that the robe he was still wearing provided discreet coverage. Because he had no intention of getting dressed. He was going to get rid of whoever was at the door, then go back to bed for the rest of the day.

      It was Isabel, looking as if she was on her way to afternoon tea with the Queen.

      Cream linen trouser suit. Blue silk top. Pearls. Pink lipstick. And that lovely blonde hair of hers, slicked back up in that prissy roll thing.

      Her perfect grooming highlighted his own dishevelled appearance. Why couldn’t he have any luck with this woman?

      ‘I presume you’ve come for your phone,’ he grumped.

      She looked him up and down with about the same expression she had when she’d first arrived yesterday. ‘Sorry to get you out of bed,’ she said drily. ‘But it is two in the afternoon.’

      Rafe decided there was no point in telling her the truth, that he’d worked most of the night because of her.

      ‘Yeah well, we party animals do get tired. And last night was Saturday night. I didn’t get to bed till dawn.’

      ‘Alone?’

      He crossed his arms. ‘Such a personal question for a lady who’s just come for her phone.’

      ‘You said I’d just come for my phone. I didn’t.’

      Rafe stared at her. Was he about to get lucky here?

      ‘Do you think I might come inside?’ she went on in that silkily cool voice of hers, the one which rippled down his spine like a mink glove.

      ‘Be my guest,’ he said eagerly, stepping back to wave her inside.

      ‘I need to go to the bathroom,’ she said straight away. ‘I’ve just driven straight down from Gosford Hospital.’

      Rafe frowned as he swung the front door shut behind him. ‘What were you doing up there?’ And, even more to the point, what was she doing here? The suburb of Paddington was not on the way from the Central Coast to her address at Burwood. So she wouldn’t have dropped in just to use his toilet!

      His heart was already thudding with carnal hopes.

      ‘Luke was in a car accident on the F3 freeway yesterday,’ she said.

      ‘Is he all right?’

      ‘A few bumps and bruises. Nothing too serious. But he knocked his head and was unconscious for a while. The police found my number in his car and contacted me early this morning, so of course I had to go and see how he was.’

      ‘He’s having some rotten luck on the road lately, isn’t he? First his parents and now him. Does his new girlfriend know about this?’

      ‘Yes, I was there when she arrived. With her mother.’

      ‘The infamous mother. What was she like?’

      ‘The bathroom first, please, Rafe?’

      ‘Oh, yes—yes, of course. This way.’ He had the presence of mind to take her upstairs, instead of to the small downstairs toilet. The main bathroom upstairs was quite spacious and luxurious, another recent renovation. He’d been steadily renovating his terraced home since he’d bought it a couple of years back. It had cost him a small fortune, despite being little more than a dump. But, as in all big cities, you paid for position.

      After showing her where the bathroom was, he dashed into his bedroom to dress. Hurrying into his walk-in robe, he ran his eye along the hangers, wondering what to wear. The day wasn’t hot, but neither was it cold. Lately they’d had typical spring weather in Sydney, fresh in the morning but warming up as the day progressed, provided it wasn’t cloudy. And it wasn’t today, judging by the sunshine on his doorstep just now.

      By the time Isabel emerged from the bathroom Rafe was looking and feeling a bit better in his favourite black jeans and a fresh white T-shirt. But his face still sported a two-day stubble and his feet were bare.

      There was only so much a man could achieve in just over three minutes, the time it took for Isabel to emerge. Clearly she wasn’t a girl who titivated.

      ‘Nice bathroom,’ she said crisply.

      He’d known she’d like it. It was all white, with glass and silver fittings. Cool and classy-looking, like she was.

      ‘You might not like this room as much,’ he said as he led her into his main living room, which was decorated for comfort rather than style. No traditional lounge suite, just huge squashy armchairs to sit in, functional side tables, far too many bookcases and an old marble fireplace which he never used, although the mantelpiece was good for leaning on and holding glasses during a party. He had a hi-fi set in one corner and a television and video in the other.

      ‘I like the doors,’ Isabel said, as she sat in his favourite armchair, a reclining one covered in crushed claret-coloured СКАЧАТЬ