Keeping Her Close. Эбби Грин

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      Rico watched the woman come towards him. For a second he faltered. Was this her? The woman approaching slowly looked impossibly plain from a distance, bare of any make-up or artifice. Pale. And her body was all but swamped in clothes that looked as if they’d just been dragged out of a skip.

      And she had a child. Something which felt suspiciously like disappointment sent his brain reeling, and he clamped down on that emotion hard. A child was a complication. She came closer, and as he lifted his gaze back to her face he was already trying to come up with some excuse for having come all this way to find her, still doubting that it might be her. Perhaps he had been completely mistaken. Perhaps the name was a freak coincidence.

      But then she drew closer, and all thoughts of children and complications fled as his body reacted with a helpless lurch of desire. It was her.

      Despite her appearance, he could see the intensity of those huge green eyes now, framed with long black lashes, the delicate bone structure, her lush mouth. And her hair, with its irrepressible curls trailing out from under the tatty hat over her shoulders. It reminded him of the moment he’d first set eyes on her in that club. He’d been cursing himself for having gone at all, hating that he’d given in to weak restlessness, and then she’d walked in. Dressed in snug jeans and a vest top, completely at odds with the glitter of the too coiffed women who’d thronged the place. The expression on her face had been intense, as if she was being driven by inner demons, and it had resonated within Rico.

      The firm swell of her breasts had been clearly outlined against the thin material of her top, and he’d watched, entranced, as she’d walked straight to the middle of the dance floor and started to dance with completely uninhibited grace. He’d seen plenty more beautiful women in his time, clothed and unclothed, but something about her lithe little figure, with its hint of sensual plumpness, had been more enticing than any gazelle-like beauty he’d ever known. With her tawny curly hair she’d looked wild, and free, and it had called to him on a base level too urgent to ignore…

      She’d been exquisite. She was exquisite. Even though he could see at a glance now that she’d lost weight. Relief flooded him in a way that made him very nervous as she came to a standstill where he blocked the path. And along with the relief came irrational anger to find her living in such an obviously dangerous area. The anger surprised him; women didn’t normally arouse feelings of protectiveness within him. He’d noted the local thugs with distaste after he’d knocked and got no answer from her door, and retreated to his car to wait. They’d tried to intimidate him, but after one quelling look they’d recognised the danger within him and maintained a respectful distance.

      Right at that moment he’d completely forgotten that he’d just considered making his excuses and leaving. That was now the last thing on his mind.

      Gypsy decided to pretend that she didn’t know who he was, that she hadn’t just seen him again last night. It was cowardly, she knew, but she was counting on him wanting to make his escape from someone who looked like a bag lady.

      ‘Excuse me—you’re blocking my way.’

      He didn’t move aside. Those penetrating grey eyes were fixed on her with unnerving intensity, and Gypsy could feel a flush of response rise up through her body as it reacted with dismaying helplessness to his proximity. As it was she was battling to keep back the images that threatened to burst free. Images of sweat-slicked bodies moving in desperate tandem, straining to reach the pinnacle…

      ‘Why did you run last night?’

      His deep voice cut through those disturbing images. Her lie fell out with an ease that would have had her horrorstruck in any normal circumstance. ‘My daughter…I had to get home to my daughter.’ And then she cursed herself. She hadn’t denied that she’d run.

      At that moment the rain started to fall more heavily, scattering the local teens around them. Rico Christofides gestured to her door, which was up a few steps. ‘Let me help you with the pram.’

      Panic rose. Gypsy protested, not wanting him anywhere near her place or Lola. ‘No, really, I can manage…’ But even as she spoke Rico Christofides took hold of the pram and lifted it bodily against him, as if it weighed no more than a bag of sugar. She had to let go or it would have become a tug of war. The irony that Lola could become an object of a tug of war was not lost on Gypsy at that moment.

      The rain was teeming down now, flattening his black hair against his skull. Gypsy could feel drops of water falling down her back. When he gestured with his head, she had no choice but to precede him up the steps to the front door. In the manoeuvring that was done to open the door and get Lola inside, with Rico Christofides hanging onto the buggy relentlessly, he was in her tiny one-bedroomed apartment before she knew what was happening or could stop it.

      He placed the buggy back down in the pitiful excuse for a sitting room with a gentleness that momentarily disarmed Gypsy. She was a little stunned. With a brusque economy of movement he shut the main front door and came back to shut her ground-floor apartment door. Now he was looking around, and asked, ‘Have you got a towel?’

      ‘A towel?’ Gypsy repeated stupidly, knowing on some level that she was going into shock.

      ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘A towel…You’re soaked through and so am I.’

      ‘A towel,’ she repeated again, and then, as if jolted by a stun gun, she came out of her shocked inertia. ‘A towel—of course.’ Get the towel, let him dry off and he’ll be gone.

      Gypsy walked on stiff legs to the tiny bedroom she shared with Lola and opened the cupboard to take out a towel. Coming back, she handed it to Rico Christofides, trying not to notice how huge he appeared to be in the small room.

      Immediately he frowned and handed the towel back to her. ‘You first—you’re soaked. Surely you have more than one?’

      Gypsy looked at it stupidly, and then gabbled, ‘Of course.’ She gestured jerkily. ‘You take that one. I’ll get another.’ She tried not to let the mounting impatience she felt be heard in her voice. Why wouldn’t he just leave?

      Coming back to the sitting room, she saw him drying his hair roughly with big hands. He’d taken off his coat to drape it over a threadbare chair, and his impeccable suit was moulded to his strong frame, making her throat dry at recalling the body underneath.

      He turned to face her, taking his hands down, leaving his short hair sexily dishevelled. He glowed with vitality and health, making Gypsy feel pale and wan.

      He frowned down at her. ‘You should take off your coat and hat…’ He looked around. ‘Do you have a heater in here?’

      Reluctantly she pulled off her hat and started to undo her coat, knowing he was right; the last thing she needed was to get ill. She shook her head when those grey eyes settled on her again, expecting an answer, and flushed when they dropped imperceptibly to take in her shabby clothes as her coat slid off. She was very aware of her hair, which now curled in wild abandon around her shoulders, and could just imagine how frizzy it would be from the rain. She wanted to pull it back and tie it up. And she hated that he was making her aware of herself like that.

      ‘Our heater broke this morning. The storage heating will come on in a couple of hours.’

      Rico Christofides looked comically shocked. ‘You’ve no heat? But you have a child—it’s freezing outside.’

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