In Mcgillivray's Bed. Anne McAllister
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It was a new beginning.
She liked the sound of that. She stuck her head under the showerhead and lathered up vigorously, washing Roland Carruthers right out of her hair. And St. John Electronics, too. Then she ducked her head beneath the shower and watched the lather disappear down the drain. In seconds it was gone.
She was clean, fresh, unencumbered.
And desirable.
An intriguing thought.
Syd turned off the water, toweled herself off and dressed in the clothes McGillivray had given her. Then, for luck, she dabbed a tiny bit of McGillivray’s lime-scented after-shave on her pulse points—and began to plot the future.
THIS might have been a mistake—bringing Sydney St. John home with him.
The woman was a menace, Hugh thought, banging around the kitchen, trying not to think about the naked woman showering just beyond that closed bathroom door. She was ten times more tempting than Lisa Milligan had ever thought of being, and she didn’t even seem to know it.
And because he had done his best to preserve her modesty, she’d thought he was gay!
He’d never felt less gay in his life!
He stood at the kitchen counter now, in theory chopping up onions for an omelette, but in fact he had his eyes shut while in his mind he could still see her as she’d shimmied out of that beaded dress on the boat. Judging from his reactions, his body remembered the view even better than his mind did.
And the glimpse he’d got when that quilt had fallen away just moments ago hadn’t helped cool his ardor. He didn’t need any more views like that one, thank you very much—not unless she was going to follow it up with a little action.
Fat chance.
Wasn’t going to happen.
He wasn’t going to let it happen, because Sydney St. John—for all her clothes shedding and shimmying—was no different than Lisa Milligan. If she had been telling the truth about what had happened on the yacht—and she had to be, simply because her story was so ridiculous she couldn’t possibly have made it up!—then she was obviously an idealist. She’d refused to marry Roland What’s-His-Name for business reasons. Ergo, she must have some romantic notion about marrying for love.
Nothing wrong with that.
Hugh believed in it himself. It was exactly what he had wanted with Carin.
But he couldn’t have Carin, so he had learned to want something else. Fun. Games. A night’s romp with no strings attached.
It didn’t take a genius to see that Sydney St. John had more strings than a tennis racket. There would be no romping with her.
“Not gonna happen,” he told Belle. “No sir. No way.”
So when Sydney St. John waltzed into the kitchen fifteen minutes later, he was prepared.
Or he thought he was—until he caught a glimpse of her breasts bobbing beneath the soft cotton of his navy blue T-shirt and her endless legs below the hem of his boxer shorts. Then his firm commitment and his well-planned words dried right up.
“Well, that was refreshing,” she said, beaming at him. “I feel so-o-o much better.”
She looked better, too, if that were possible. She had her long hair tucked up inside a towel which made her look almost regal in a Queen Nefertiti sort of way—all neck and turban.
And breasts. And legs. No way could he forget the breasts and legs. Hugh swallowed hard.
“Glad to hear it,” he managed, and was relieved that he didn’t sound like a fourteen-year-old. Just to be sure, he cleared his throat before he went on. “Sit down. Dig in.” He dumped an omelette on her plate, then gestured toward a plateful of toast and several bowls of leftovers from Lisa’s earlier seduction efforts. “Then we need to get some things straight.”
“Sure.” Syd gave him a bright smile. Her breasts jiggled beneath his T-shirt as she sat down. Hugh looked away as she took a bite of omelette, then began heaping salad and coleslaw onto her plate.
“This is great! Did you cook all this? I can’t cook a thing,” she admitted cheerfully. She swallowed the omelette, then took a big bite of the coleslaw and closed her eyes blissfully. “God, it’s good. I’m famished.”
She dug in, plowing her way through the eggs, the toast, the bacon, the leftover slaw and salad and chicken wings Lisa had fixed. Hugh tried not to watch. She was just a woman eating, for heaven’s sake. Nothing spectacular about that.
Except that she relished it so much, sighing happily, smacking her lips. Watching her attack a chicken wing was like watching that old movie Tom Jones. Except she was a damned sight sexier than whoever that woman had been playing opposite Albert Finney. And the sexual undercurrents weren’t on the screen, they were in Hugh’s head. He jumped up and paced around the room.
“Something the matter?” she asked, following him with her gaze.
“No!” The word came out more as a snap than as a word. “I’m just…making some coffee. Do you want some coffee?”
“That would be wonderful.”
He made a pot of coffee. And while he was doing it, he got a grip. He remembered again all the things he needed to say to make sure they both got through the next day or so unscathed. And when it had finished dripping, he poured two mugs and carried them over to the table.
He set one in front of her and took one to the other side of the table where he sat down opposite her with slow deliberation, intending to make sure she understood how very serious he was.
She took the coffee gratefully, then started in on the chicken again.
Hugh averted his gaze. “Rule number one,” he said.
She looked up, fork halfway to her mouth, which was shaped like an O. She blinked. “Rule what?”
He set his jaw. “We need some ground rules. So you don’t get any mistaken ideas.”
“So I don’t…” Her voice trailed off. She put the forkful of potato salad in her mouth, closed it again, then began to chew slowly as if she were chewing over his words as well as the food. All the while her very blue eyes never left his. He felt his blood pressure going up.
At last she swallowed. “Right,” she said finally. “Ground rules.” She set down her fork and folded her hands in her lap. “By all means.”
There was something in her voice—sarcasm?—that made him narrow his gaze. She smiled at him.
He scowled at her. “I don’t want you getting any ideas.”
“Ideas?” By God, she looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. “About what?”
“About us,” he bit out.
“Us?” Her eyes grew like saucers.
“Yes, us. You and me.” He spelled it out. “On account of what happened before. In there.” He jerked his head toward the bathroom.
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