The Right Side of Mr Wrong. Jane Linfoot

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       So I take it you’ll be sleeping with me …

      The words echoed in her brain. She was still appalled by the way they’d made her skin dance, the way they’d set her heart clattering on her ribs. The twangs of guilt about her reaction had been reverberating round her head all night. She still felt ashamed that in that moment, some dark and hidden part of her was desperate to agree.

      He was pushing her; he had to be playing a game.

      No stranger in their right mind would ask you outright if you were wearing a bra, unless they were goading you. But somehow the completely outrageous nature of his behaviour made him easier for her to handle. She’d finally got him nailed. He was back in her Easy-to-Manage box. And that was where she was going to keep him.

      She took another bite of toast, and thought how strange it felt to begin the morning so calmly, even if the thought of what Brando might do today had her stomach fluttering. Unless she was doing one of her famous dawn starts, breakfast invariably involved slopped tea and half asleep housemates, and always an early morning chat with her mum.

      As if on cue, she heard Brando, calling from the corridor.

      ‘Mrs Summers, in the office on line one, for you Shea!’

      Right. One sickening tummy flip later, and she’d go with the flow. This wasn’t a problem.

      She primed herself to move fast, and, once again, had the door open before he’d finished knocking.

      ‘Nice PJs.’ His low laugh bounced off the panelling down the landing.

      She was ready to outdo any quip he threw at her. Not quite so ready for the goosebump rash, or the way he smelled so deliciously of man, though. She braced herself.

      ‘Yep, they’re Wonder Woman pyjamas, and before you ask, yes, I am wearing knickers underneath. Phone still in the same place?’ She was already halfway to his sitting room, aware of Brando standing gawping in her doorway, when she realised he was speaking, and she thudded to a halt.

      ‘Help yourself to the phone, I’m off out. Bryony’s been on already, says a film crew’s on its way. I guess you’ll know what she means by that?’ He paused and raised one quizzical eyebrow.

      Her stomach gave a telltale lurch.

      Damn. She knew she shouldn’t have stopped, definitely shouldn’t have met his gaze. Although looking him in the eye was preferable to staring at him in the other place her eyes were invariably drawn to. Not that she made a habit of ogling men’s groins, but his was particularly …

      Particularly what? She shouldn’t even be going there!

      Attractive? Promising? Illegally sexy?

      Yes to all of the above. Riveting. And also entirely off limits.

      What was she thinking?

      Her brain had been well-behaved when she was moving. If she didn’t get going she’d have mentally undressed him before she knew it.

       Damn. Too late.

      The carpet pile spread beneath her bare toes as she propelled herself forwards into a gallop. ‘Okay, great, thanks Brando! See you!’

      Forward, as far as possible, as fast as possible.

      Then she’d be okay.

       Sour worms, there was his bed again!

      Already made. Almost looking as if it hadn’t been slept in, she decided as she flew by, heading towards the office.

      His teasing tones echoed after her as she scuttled away.

      ‘Give my love to your mother!’

      * * *

      In her immediate panic to flee from Brando, and fit in an early morning check-in with her mother, there’d been no time for Shea to worry about the film crew, which turned out to be one understated guy called Pete, looking for a couple of shots, on his way to another location.

      So much for the whole ‘lights-camera-action’ team she’d been fearing.

      All he’d done was to point a large video camera at her for ten seconds whilst she pretended to sit and drink coffee over the remains of her breakfast tray. And now they were going down to the terrace to take a shot of her approaching the front door.

      She looked out of the window to check the weather. Blustery, but dry, judging by the whirling leaves. A movement in the distance caught her eye; a figure, running through the parkland, seemingly hurling themselves at every tree, then flipping back over, and landing on their feet again.

      The pure exuberance of it made her smile.

      There was something mesmerising about the relentless repetition, and although she was supposed to be following Pete downstairs, she hung on to watch until the person disappeared from view behind a distant copse.

      Hurrying down the gracious staircase, she sighed ruefully, still thinking of the bouncing figure, as she wound her scarf around her neck. How great must it be to feel happy and carefree enough to want to do that?

      * * *

      Brando cursed as his feet hit the gravel at the top of the drive.

      He’d been out running for an hour now, had already done two hours before his very early breakfast, and he’d been throwing himself over roofs in the dark last night, yet he still felt no sense of release.

      He never slept well. He’d long since given up the hell of sleepless tossing and turning in bed, getting by on snatched naps in the office chair, but last night he hadn’t been able to sleep at all. What was it going to take to make him feel better? The sheer concentration and physical effort his free running took were usually enough to wipe out his tension within minutes. But he wasn’t usually this hyped up.

       Damn this country life.

      Nothing wound him up like a day at Edgerton, but he didn’t usually suffer this much. He suspected it had something to do with the blasted woman Bryony had dropped on him, but he certainly wasn’t going to let a woman take credit for landing him in this state. Okay, he hadn’t been able to get her out of his damned brain since he set eyes on her, but where women were concerned he was immune and untouchable. End of.

      He approached the avenue of trees along the south drive. Sixty-three trees each side. He’d do all hundred-and-twenty-six of them. Somehow he doubted he’d feel unwound afterwards, but at least he’d achieve the oblivion of exhaustion.

      He bounced on the balls of his feet.

       Damn Shea Summers.

      Then flung himself at the nearest tree trunk.

      * * *

      Seventy two trees in, sensing movement in front of the house, he broke his rhythm to pause, and watched two people emerge, then walk around in animated discussion.

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