Australia: Wicked Mistresses. Robyn Grady
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twice more. Then she closed her eyes and, resting her neck against the rim, simply floated.
When her nostrils blew air into the water, she yanked herself up with a start. She’d drifted close to sleep, and the bath had lost its steamy edge. Past time to dry off.
But as she reached for the towel her attention honed in on the rain, still thumping on the roof, and the wet clothes piled near the chair.
Her throat closed.
She had nothing to wear.
A gust of wind blew the curtain in, and she snatched the towel to her breast. But the wind dropped just as suddenly as it had appeared and the curtain fell straight again.
Wet hair running rivers over her shoulders, Nina first straddled the bath’s rim then, careful of her foot, stepped out and secured the towel under her arms. The door had opened and shut; her companion must have left while she’d been submerged, rinsing out her hair. But where had he gone?
Wondering if she should call out, she instead peeked around the curtain’s corner—and her legs all but buckled.
CHAPTER FOUR
NINA’S face flamed and her toes dug into the floor. She’d enjoyed the sight of her half-naked angel earlier, but she had only imagined the full, delectable picture standing before her now.
His back to her, he stood in the middle of the room, saturated—including the towel he now unravelled from around his hips. The moving shadows of early evening had deepened on the walls, but nothing could dim the glistening outline of his broad back as he tossed the towel near the unlit fireplace, where it landed with a heavy slap.
Bands of sinew roped in his arm when he stretched to retrieve a second towel from the table, and when he tousle-dried his hair—his long legs braced apart—Nina couldn’t tear her gaze from his hamstrings … thick and hard and rock-solid scrumptious. His buns were tight too, and beautifully masculine; she lost her breath each time he rubbed himself and one or the other flexed in turn. When he flicked the towel behind his head and gave his back a two-handed rub down, the rippling muscles sang to her like a Ravel composition come to life.
Too soon he knotted that towel around his hips and thrust both hands through his damp dark hair. At the same time he rotated her way. Her mind slotted into gear and Nina ducked back behind the curtain. Heartbeat knocking at her ribs, she watched his shadow’s languid gait as he moved towards the bed. She bit her lip and almost whimpered. To think a man like that truly existed and, better yet, was here with her.
“Are you all right back there?”
At the deep enquiring voice Nina’s pulse leapt and she squeaked, “Fine. I’m fine.”
“I used the outside shower to wash off.”
Outside shower? “Oh?”
“A broken drainpipe,” he explained, at the same time as an arm materialised behind the curtain. A green chequered shirt was thrust towards her.
“This’ll have to do for now,” came the voice, so near and rich the vibrations shot a fiery dart directly at her core. “Can’t help in the underwear department,” he added as she took the shirt and the hand withdrew. “When you’re dressed we’ll bandage those cuts. I want to know they’re clean.”
She finished drying, then slipped the oversized laundered shirt over her head. Bath, shirt, bandages. Do this, do that. He might have saved her life, but did he ever give over being such a boss?
Shirt-tails brushing her knees, she straightened the collar, then drew back the curtain and said, “You love being in charge, don’t you?”
He was crouched by a kitchen cupboard. He seemed to deliberate on his answer and then, hitching back one shoulder, pushed to his bare feet. “It’s what I do.”
Right. Like Alexander had led armies. Only Alexander hadn’t been a bean-counter—
And he hadn’t worn jeans like this man could.
But even as she unconsciously wet her lips at the heart-pumping sight standing tall before her, another vision sprang to mind and she couldn’t smother a laugh.
A wry glint in his eye, he sauntered over. “What’s the joke?”
“It’s just commanding and accountant don’t seem to go. I can’t help picturing a masked crusader, with a big A on his chest and a turbo-blasting calculator cocked in one hand.”
Faint lines branching from the corners of his eyes deepened. “Never underestimate the power of a turbo-blasting calculator.” His gaze fixed on hers, he moved closer still, the low band of his jeans riding and sliding with each deliberate step.
“What about you?”
“Me?” Her attention shot up from the dark hair trailing down from his navel. “What about me?”
“We’re done with the guessing game. Spill.” His pale eyes twinkled. “Who are you?”
Very good question.
“I’m … er … in hospitality.”
His eyes darkened. “Here to check out the opposition?”
“I’m a hands-on type.”
He nodded as if he understood. “How long are you staying?”
“That’s up in the air.”
Seemingly not surprised, he undid the first aid kit she now realised he held. “I’m here for a wedding on Saturday.”
“The Wilson wedding?”
His gaze sharpened. “You’re a friend of April’s?”
“Not exactly.”
“A friend of the groom’s, then? I’m Gabriel Steele, by the way. April’s boss. Or should I say former boss.”
“The bride-to-be resigned?” she asked, and he nodded. “And you’re not happy about it.”
A muscle in his jaw jumped twice before he crossed to the fireplace. He placed the first aid kit on the mantel and, with kindling prepared, struck a match. “April’s a great PA.”
“Guess her fiancé thinks she’ll make a great wife.” And he didn’t want to share with macho man here. Understandable. She’d bet Gabriel had a harem of Girl Fridays back at the office, all eager to rip their veils off.
He retrieved a poker and, with one perfectly sculptured arm bracing the mantel, stirred the embers while virgin flames licked around the logs. “These days I didn’t think marriage meant a woman had to give up her career.” He sniffed. “But good luck to them.”
A vote for feminism? Nina thought not. Did he disapprove of his PA’s fiancé? Or were his reasons more personal? Perhaps he had a thing for this April himself? Or was it more a classic case of “eligible male against marriage” syndrome? Those guys ought to form a club.
But then her mind scuttled back to his name.
She’d known a Gabriel once. Of course she hadn’t seen or heard from him in years. Not since the funeral.
Her stomach double-clutched at the thought of that day and she studied her host’s face again, this time in the wavering firelight. The hawkish nose, the cleft in his shadowed chin, the sharp widow’s peak dead centre of his forehead as he set the poker aside.
The Gabriel she’d known—Gabe Turner—had been a friend of her brother’s, and they’d made an unlikely pair. While Anthony had been sporty, charming, and much sought after by the girls, Geeky Gabe had sat on the chess squad, had worn his hair parted way over on one side, and had owned glasses with super-thick lenses that darkened when hit by the light. Sadder still, Gabe had been poor … or poor by Petrelle standards.
One day she’d let Gabe into their house—more like a three-storey