Swept Into The Rich Man's World. Katrina Cudmore

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      He twisted away and was gone before she could voice her thanks.

      She exhaled heavily. Was he this abrasive with everyone, or was it her in particular?

      God knew she had met plenty of curt people in her line of business, but there was something about Patrick Fitzsimon that completely threw her. In his company she felt as though an invisible wall separated them. She got on with most people—she was good at putting them at ease. But with him she got the distinct feeling that getting on with people was pretty low on his agenda.

      On the bed, she unfurled his bundle: soft grey cotton pyjama bottoms and a pale blue shirt, wrapped around a toothbrush and toothpaste.

      Her heart did a funny little shimmy at the thought of wearing his clothes, and before she knew what she was doing she brought them to her nose. Her eyes closed as she inhaled the intoxicating smell of fresh laundry, but there was no hint of the scent she had inhaled earlier when she’d fallen against him. Salt and grass...and a deep, hot, masculine scent that had her swallowing a sigh in remembrance. For a few crazy seconds earlier she had wanted to wrap her arms around his waist. Take shelter against his hardness for ever.

      She threw her eyes upwards. What was she doing? The man was as cold as ice.

      Anyway, it didn’t matter. After tomorrow she would probably never see him again. And she was not interested in men right now anyway. Her hard-won independence was too precious. From here on in she wanted to live a life in which she was in charge of her own destiny. Where she called the shots.

      One night and she was out of here. Back to her work and back to nights in, eating pizza and watching box sets on her own. Which she was perfectly happy with, thank you very much.

CHAPTER TWO

      SIXTEEN BEDROOMS, EIGHT reception rooms. A ballroom that could cater to over three hundred guests. Two libraries and countless other rooms he rarely visited. And yet he resented the idea of having to share this vast house with someone. He knew it made no sense. It was almost midnight. She would be gone within hours. But, after spending the past few years immersed in the solitude of his work, having to share his home even for one night was an alien and uncomfortable prospect.

      Two years ago, after yet another bewildering argument with his sister, he had come to the realisation that he should focus on what he was good at, what he could control: his work. He had been exhausted and frustrated by Orla’s constant battle of wills with him, and it had been almost a relief to turn away from the fraught world of relationships to the uncomplicated black and white world of work.

      He hadn’t needed Orla to tell him he was inept at handling relationships, though she happily did so on a regular basis, because he’d seen it in the pain etched on her face when she didn’t realise he was watching her.

      He still didn’t know what had gone wrong. Where he had gone wrong. They had once been so close. After his mum had died he had been so scared and lonely he had thought his heart would break. But the smiling, gurgling Orla had saved him.

      And then his father had died when Orla was sixteen, and almost overnight she had changed. She had gone from being happy-go-lucky to sullen and non-communicative, and their once unbreakable bond had been broken.

      The scrape of a tree branch against the kitchen window pane brought him back to the present with a jolt.

      He put the tea canister next to the already boiled kettle. Then he wrote his house guest a quick note, telling her to help herself to anything she needed. All the while he was hearing his father’s incredulous voice in his head, scolding him for his inhospitality. And once again he was reminded of how different he was from his father.

      Note finished, he knew he should walk away before she came down. But the image of her standing in his entrance hall, a raindrop running down over the deep crevice of her full lips, held him. Lips he had had an insane urge to taste...

      His instant attraction to her had to be down to the fact that he had been without a steady bedmate for quite some time. A lifetime for a guy who had once never been able to resist the lure of a beautiful woman. But two years ago his appetite for his usual short, frivolous affairs had disappeared. And a serious relationship was off the cards. Permanently.

      And, anyway, she was his neighbour. If—and it was a big if—he ever was to start casually dating again, it certainly wouldn’t be on his own doorstep.

      He turned at a soft knock on the door.

      Standing at the entrance to the vast kitchen, she gave him a wary smile.

      He should have gone when he could. Now he would be forced to make small talk.

      She had rolled up the cuffs of his pyjama bottoms and shirt and her feet were bare. He got the briefest glimpse of a delicate shin bone, which caused a tightening in his belly in a way it never should. Her hair, though still wet, was now tamed and fell like a heavy dark curtain down her back. For a moment his eyes caught on how she had left the top two buttons of the shirt undone, and although he could only see a small triangle of flesh his pulse quickened.

      He didn’t want to be feeling any of this. He crumpled the note he had left her into the palm of his hand. ‘The kettle is boiled. Please help yourself to anything you need.’

      ‘Thank you.’ As he went to walk to the door she added, ‘I didn’t say it earlier, but thank you for giving me shelter for the night—and I’m sorry if I woke you up.’

      She blushed when she’d finished, and wound her arms about her waist, eyeing him cautiously. There was something about her standing there in his clothes, waiting for his response, that got to him.

      He felt compelled to hold out an olive branch. ‘In the morning I will arrange for my estate manager to drive you home.’

      She shook her head firmly. ‘I’ll walk. It’s not far to the bridge.’

      ‘Fine.’

      It was time for him to go and get some sleep. But something was holding him back. Perhaps it was his thoughts of Orla, and how he would like someone to treat her if she was in a similar predicament.

      With a heavy sigh he said, ‘How about we start again?’

      Her head tilted to the side and she bit her lip, unsure.

      He walked over to her and held out his hand and said words that, in truth, he didn’t entirely mean. ‘Welcome to Ashbrooke.’

      Her hand was ice-cold. Instinctively he coiled his own around the soft, delicate skin as gently as he could.

      ‘You’re cold.’

      Her head popped up from where she had been staring at their enclosed hands and when she spoke there was a tremble in her voice that matched the one in her hand. ‘I know. The shower helped a little, but I was wet to the bone. I’ve never seen a storm like it before.’

      He crossed over to the cloakroom, situated just off the kitchen, and grabbed one of the heavy fleeces he used for horse riding.

      Back in the kitchen, he handed her the fleece.

      ‘Thank you. I...’ Her voice trailed off and her gaze wandered behind him before her mouth broke into a СКАЧАТЬ