Man About The House. Alison Kelly

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СКАЧАТЬ beach on his first choice of wave had worn off, cold and old age had started to prove a diabolical combination. Not his age, of course, but the wetsuit he’d fished out of his wardrobe was about thirteen years old; as insulation it was as useful as a screen door on a submarine.

      He laughed aloud when he caught himself giving his most beloved tri-fin an affectionate pat as he leaned it against the wall of the laundry, yet in that instant he knew that even though he’d come to no firm decisions about his professional future he’d made the right personal one in coming home. He’d missed this...really missed it. Oh, sure, he could’ve surfed in California, and on occasion he had, but somehow it suddenly seemed more natural, indeed essential that the rest of his life be spent seeing the sun rising over the Pacific rather than setting on it.

      Reaching behind his neck, he snared the plaited tail of the wetsuit’s zip and was tugging it down when a startled yelp behind him caused him to almost leap free of the clinging latex.

      ‘Lord, Joanna! You frightened the life out of me.’ His heart was still beating out of whack. ‘You always sneak up on people like that?’

      ‘I... I...I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you were home.’ She was hugging a pile of bedding and looking everywhere but at him. ‘I...er...just wanted to use the washing machine. But it’s okay. It can wait. I’ll do it later.’

      When she went to dart from the room, Brett snagged her arm. ‘Whoa, there. Contrary to whatever stories you’ve heard, I don’t bite.’

      Though she stilled, her head was downcast, and he used his free hand to tilt it. The minute their eyes made contact she flushed the most vivid red Brett had ever seen and he couldn’t help smiling. ‘Now your skin matches the red lines in your eyes.’

      If possible she turned even redder. With the exception of last night, when she’d been totally plastered, whenever she was around him Joanna Ford acted as if she was being asked to deal with an alien. It put an irritating dent in his ego, since women usually made no secret of the fact they enjoyed his attention.

      ‘So, how are you feeling this morning?’ he asked. ‘And if you say anything but “half-dead”, I’m not going to believe it.’

      Her tongue came out to graze her lip a split second before she spoke, so mesmerising Brett that it took him several seconds to realise he hadn’t heard her response. Releasing her chin, he shook his head to clear it. ‘Sorry...what?’

      The sigh she gave was so heavy he regarded it a disguised blessing she was still hugging the laundry. Considering his lower body was clad in a wetsuit, the less he was reminded of the fact she even had breasts the better off he’d bel

      She’d been out cold when he’d finally summoned the courage to strip her wet top from her last night, but, as swift and circumspect as he’d endeavoured to be in averting his gaze, images of their translucent white firmness and cherry-red peaks had tormented him for the better part of the night.

      ‘I said...I’m mortified about what happened last night.’

      Her voice was slightly shaky and her knuckles whitened as she tightened her grip on the wad of bedding. She swallowed hard before continuing, ‘I don’t remember much, except being sick and you talking to me, then helping me inside. I’m sorry you had to find me like that... I know how...how revolting it is to see someone vomit, and I want you to know I appreciate you staying with me and taking care of me.’

      It irked the hell out of him that while the tone of her apology was polite and sincere she’d delivered it without once looking at him. He didn’t know if she realised he’d been the one to undress her, but suspected she didn’t; her embarrassment didn’t seem that extreme.

      ‘Listen, Joanna, I realise getting drunk and pulling a hangover can blur the brain a bit, but it wasn’t the washing machine who carried you inside and tucked you into bed.’ His bored tone had her head swinging around to him and her mouth opening and closing like a beached fish.

      Eventually she managed a sound. A loud, indignant sound. ‘I was not drunk!’ The declaration was immediately followed by a painful grimace that called her a liar.

      ‘Sweetheart,’ he said through a chuckle, ‘if they took blood from you now, they could sell it as eighty proof.’

      ‘I tell you, I don’t drink. I didn’t have anything last night but punch and cola.’

      ‘Uh-huh.’ He didn’t bother to hide either his scepticism or amusement at her straight-faced avowal. ‘And I suppose you don’t have a hangover this morning either, even though you look like death warmed up.’

      ‘Having never been drunk, I don’t have the slightest idea what a hangover is,’ she told him, devoid of all trace of the previous shyness she’d exhibited around him. ‘And if I look a bit off colour it’s because I’m obviously coming down with some kind of flu.’

      She was absolutely serious, Brett realised. She truly believed she was feeling the way she did because she was getting a bug. Meaghan had said she was naive, but this... Hell, it was criminal to let someone as innocent as Joanna Ford out alone!

      ‘The flu, huh?’ he said casually. ‘Running a temperature?’

      ‘No, but I think the aspirin I took earlier is keeping it at bay.’

      ‘And the aspirin was for...let me guess...that mild headache you have?’

      ‘There’s nothing mild about it. It feels like—’

      ‘Like your skull is being split in two from the inside?’ he inserted, knowingly. ‘Except, of course, when a raised voice, a slammed door or even a sneeze makes it seem like someone is using a jackhammer to clear your sinuses.’

      Thick black lashes blinked over surprised turquoise eyes. ‘Well, yes...I guess that’s one way of putting it,’ she conceded, her tone tinged with the same hint of doubt that was beginning to show in her wan-looking face.

      Brett gave a sage nod and went on. ‘And I’d say the odds would be in the red that, despite the fact you’ve probably brushed your teeth three or four times now, your mouth still feels like it’s coated with old cotton wool that’s been dipped in vinegar and rolled in sand. Oh, and your stomach probably feels like it’s going to cave in too, but the mere thought of actually introducing food to it makes it start recoiling in dread.’

      He raised an eyebrow at her ever-increasing frown. ‘How’s Dr Brett’s description of your symptoms so far? Ah, yes...and shaking your head hurts,’ he added, seeing her grimace after doing so.

      ‘Well?’ he prodded.

      ‘That’s what a hangover feels like?’

      ‘Yep, ’fraid so.’ As concern battled with confusion for dominance in her pretty face Brett wished he’d been a little less smug. “I know it’s small consolation right now,’ he said, ‘but you aren’t the first person to have one, Joanna.’

      ‘But my stomach doesn’t feel like you said,’ she told him, in a grasping-at-straws tone.

      ‘Ahh,’ he said sagely. ‘Then you’re obviously what I call a cast-iron gut drunk,’ he told her, softening the description with a smile. ‘The majority of hangover victims, myself included, cannot look at anything even remotely greasy the morning after. But there’s a second category who swear ingesting as much cholesterol-laden СКАЧАТЬ