His Christmas Eve Proposal. Carole Mortimer
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his air of masculine perfection, only adding to his ruggedness.
‘I have absolutely no idea how you got in here,’ Hawk bit out impatiently as the girl continued to stare at him unblinkingly. ‘But I seriously advise you to get yourself out again!’ he added, with none of the tolerance he usually felt towards his more enthusiastic female fans.
This was his bolt-hole, damn it, and it shouldn’t even be public knowledge, let alone accessible to some desperate woman who had got in here because she either wanted to share his bed or use a relationship with him to acquire a movie role!
How on earth had she got past Donald?
The girl—for she was no more than that, Hawk was sure, despite her height and the fullness of her breasts and those curvaceous hips—moistened the sensual softness of her pouting lips.
Her eyes, between lush dark lashes, were a deep, mesmerising green, her nose was small and pert, and covered with a smattering of freckles and her chin was stubbornly pointed in a heart-shaped face. And all of her elfin beauty was surrounded by that long flame of pre-Raphaelite-style hair.
At any other time, Hawk knew, he would have found her untamed beauty fascinating. But not when she had invaded the privacy of his home. Not just his home, but his bedroom, for heaven’s sake!
‘If you aren’t out of here in two minutes I’ll have no choice but to forcibly remove you,’ he warned her harshly, and he ran an impatient hand through his tousled hair, his previous good humour having completely evaporated, to be replaced by impatient anger at this girl’s intrusion.
She moistened her lips a second time before speaking, those green eyes huge and haunting. ‘If you would just let me explain, Mr Hawkley—’ Her voice was throatily soft, her accent distinctly English.
‘Keep your explanation and just get out of here!’ he cut in irritably, his gaze narrowing suddenly as he saw the tray bearing a cafetière and coffee cups on the bedside table. She must have brought it in with her. ‘Where’s Donald?’ he rasped suspiciously.
‘That’s what I was trying to explain,’ Rosie answered, with some relief.
‘You were?’ His stance was challenging now, muscles rippling as he folded his arms across his chest.
He really was as gorgeous as he looked on screen, Rosie acknowledged slightly breathlessly, and his semi-nakedness made him more immediately so in the intimacy and privacy of his bedroom.
But it was also pretty obvious from Joshua Hawkley’s comments that he was in complete ignorance of who she was or what she was doing here. That Donald hadn’t told his employer that she was even staying here.
Joshua Hawkley’s aggression was understandable now that she realised he had thought she was an intruder—an over-enthusiastic female fan?—in his home.
She shrugged. ‘My—er—I don’t know if you noticed, but Donald wasn’t at all well yesterday when he picked you up from the airport…’ She grimaced as Hawk gave a puzzled shake of his head. ‘No? Well, this morning he woke up shivering and with a high temperature. I think he probably has the flu,’ she finished.
Three things became obvious to Hawk from that statement.
First, this girl knew exactly who Donald was, and so wasn’t an intruder at all.
Second, she had come to an abrupt halt after beginning her statement with ‘My—’
And third, perhaps she didn’t need to complete it. She had obviously been around to see what Donald had looked like when he woke up that morning…!
IN THE light of those realisations, Hawk re-evaluated the young woman standing beside his sleep-tousled bed.
She looked vaguely familiar to him—as if he should know her… Where had he seen her before? He knew he had never met her.
And obviously she was here to see Donald…
She had to be in her early twenties—but then Donald was only in his early forties. A twenty-year-odd age difference wasn’t an insurmountable barrier.
Hawk had never found the need to discuss Donald’s private life with him, but he supposed that his assistant must have one. He knew that the older man liked to listen to classical music, and that when their schedule allowed Donald took off to go to live concerts in one part of the world or another.
But, despite his cultured tastes, there was still no doubting that Donald—even with his prematurely white hair—was still an attractive guy, and in possession of all normal male needs.
Even so, Donald could have warned Hawk that he had invited a female guest to stay when Hawk had returned home last night. Donald had arrived two days earlier, so that he could prepare and warm the farmhouse for his employer’s arrival.
Hawk scowled, feeling at something of a disadvantage now, after his first assumptions about this lady. ‘Does Donald need to see a doctor?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Rosie shook her head, somewhat relieved that Hawk wasn’t probing for intimate details of her relationship with his long-term employee. ‘I’ve given him some medication to bring his temperature down, so he probably just needs to go back to sleep for a while. Something he’s loath to do without speaking to you first,’ she added. The reason for Donald’s urgent need was becoming obvious now that she knew of this man’s ignorance regarding her identity.
Joshua Hawkley gave a terse nod. ‘I’ll get dressed and come straight through.’
‘I—yes. I’ll make fresh coffee, shall I?’ she asked with a grimace, as she picked up the untouched tray she had brought in earlier.
Hawk felt a brandy might be more beneficial after the jolt of unexpectedly finding this woman in his bedroom, but as it was only ten o’clock in the morning coffee would have to do. ‘That would be great,’ he accepted briskly, turning away, eager to put some clothes on so that he could go and speak to Donald.
He pondered the fact that if Donald had relationships, then he had never brought any of his women home with him before. But at the same time Hawk recognised it was the holiday season—a time when everyone wanted to be close to somebody.
Which meant he would probably have to accept Donald’s red-haired and wildly beautiful friend staying for a while.
A thought he found strangely disturbing…
The fresh coffee had barely finished percolating when Joshua Hawkley entered the cosy warmth of the open-plan kitchen, with its green and white tiles and oak cabinets.
‘The medication seems to have served its purpose,’ he drawled, as Rosie turned to give him a guarded look. ‘Donald is already asleep,’ he elaborated. ‘Which means that any explanations will have to come from you,’ he finished dryly, and he moved to sit on one of the stools at the breakfast bar, looking across at her enquiringly.
He was a little less overwhelming now that he was wearing a navy blue sweater, faded denims and scuffed cowboy boots, Rosie acknowledged. But only a little; the dark good looks that so captivated cinema audiences, that held millions of women in his thrall, were no less disturbing in reality, and the long length of his hair was giving him a piratical appearance.
Which was probably the idea, Rosie allowed, knowing he was due to start filming the sequel to his previous million-dollar box office hit The Pirate King some time in the New Year.
She deliberately turned away from his piercing blue gaze to pour his coffee into a waiting mug, playing for time, not really sure how much Donald would want her to tell his employer. The fact that Donald hadn’t told Hawk anything about her at all only increased her reluctance!
‘Pour yourself a cup and join me,’ Hawk invited huskily, once she had placed the steaming mug of black coffee on the breakfast bar in front of him, along