P.S. I'm Pregnant. Heidi Rice

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ