No Escaping Love. Sharon Kendrick
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and smothering them with shampoo, then conditioner. It took her almost half an hour to dry them, and by that time she was exhausted and barely had the energy to brush her teeth and climb into the king-sized bed. It had been a long day.
She had thought that she wasn’t hungry, but her stomach obviously thought differently since she woke up in the night feeling distinctly empty. She sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes with the back of her fist, her heart sinking when she saw that her watch read only four a.m.—hardly the proper time to eat. Her stomach rumbled loudly in protest. Perhaps if she was very quiet, she could go and raid Max’s larder—he’d told her to help herself, after all.
She climbed out of bed and pulled on her robe. Barefooted, she quietly opened the bedroom door and listened for a moment. She could hear nothing other than the faint ticking of a clock somewhere in the distance. Max Ryder’s bedroom door was closed, thank goodness. Silently she padded over the thick pile of the carpet, the soft woollen strands tickling her toes. She reached the kitchen and gently opened the door.
Whatever else he might or might not have done, Max Ryder certainly ate well. The fridge was full of salads, cold meats, cheeses, fruit, and an expensive-looking box of Belgian chocolates. Further hunting produced a bread-bin, and she cut herself two enormous slices of brown bread, buttered them, and layered salad and ham between them.
She had just found a full carton of orange juice and was about to open it when she heard a sound behind her and whirled round to find Max Ryder standing at the door, wearing nothing but a pair of faded denims—and only half-zipped, she noted in horror before averting her gaze from them so hastily that the carton of juice slipped from her fingers.
At precisely the same moment, they both lunged for the juice, Shauna’s outstretched hand making her lose her balance, her bare feet slipping wildly on the shiny tiles. She would have fallen awkwardly had his arm not reached out automatically and, as she toppled, he caught her.
Winded, she sagged against him, momentarily too dazed to be aware of anything other than his strength as he held her, of the tingling warmth of his hand as it casually spanned her back, and then, as her senses returned, she realised to her horror that she was clasped close to him, that her breasts were jutting firmly against the warm skin of his bare chest—their shape clearly defined through the wool of her robe. A strange wave of dizziness assailed her and colour washed her cheeks as she saw that the way she was leaning against him had caused a bare breast to slip free of the confines of her robe, so that almost the whole of the milky-pale globe—untouched by the hot summer sun—was visible.
She heard him swear beneath his breath and she hastily pulled away, breathing rapidly, unable to meet his eyes for embarrassment as she pulled the gown tightly around herself, as if it were armour-plating. The thick maroon dressing-gown had been chosen with no concessions to fashion, warmth and hard-wearingness being its main function, but all of a sudden she might have been clothed in some feminine little wisp of satin, she felt so exposed under his gaze.
‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he grated, in a loud, harsh voice, and she noticed a small muscle working on his left cheek. He pushed her out of the way almost roughly, slammed the orange juice down on the work surface, and stood facing her.
‘Is this your idea of entertainment?’ he demanded. ‘Hurling things around the kitchen at this Godforsaken hour? Not to mention yourself!’
‘That was an accident—I slipped on the floor. You frightened me,’ she protested.
‘Frightened you? You’re bloody lucky I didn’t rugby tackle you to the ground,’ he snapped. ‘I heard noises, and I thought it was an intruder.’
The remark about the rugby tackle was a little too close for comfort. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! Does this mean that every time I walk around the apartment you’re going to start throwing yourself at me like the caped crusader?’
The green eyes were cold. ‘As I recall,’ he said icily, ‘it was you who threw yourself at me.’
‘And I told you it was an accident! I am now sharing this flat with you, in case you’d forgotten, and that means that from time to time I will be making some little noise or movement,’ she said, sweetly sarcastic.
‘It sounded like Nelly the Elephant stomping around,’ he retorted. ‘And do you always make a habit of eating sandwiches at four in the morning?’
Boss he might be—custodian he was not! ‘I eat when I’m hungry—like now! So if you wouldn’t mind letting me get on with it…’
‘I’m going,’ he snapped moodily. ‘Just try and make less noise on your return trip, will you? And put the light out.’
As he stomped out of the kitchen, she had to resist a very strong urge indeed to stick her tongue out at him. She waited until she heard his door close quietly, before perching on a stool and shakily pouring herself some juice.
He had implied that he was a tyrant. Tyrant? That was the understatement of the century! She could have provided a far more colourful description! He was the foulest-tempered, meanest man she’d ever encountered. She bit into the sandwich viciously. He also had one of the best bodies she’d ever seen—and she’d seen hundreds, bronzed and posing on beaches all over Portugal. There hadn’t been a trace of surplus flesh on that frame, even when he bent down. He had also been perfectly at ease with his semi-clothed state, completely unselfconscious, which was more than could be said about her.
She bit into the sandwich again, wishing that she could dispel the sinking wave of disconcertion that washed over her as she recalled the way that her breasts had pressed against him. The way in which her robe had fallen open… She pressed her knuckles to the sides of her head, the sandwich forgotten. What if he’d thought it deliberate? His ego was so immense, his opinion of women so low, that he probably hadn’t put it past her to wake him up in the middle of the night, and then to drape herself provocatively all over him, like some amateurish femme fatale.
A small groan escaped her. Please don’t let him think that, she prayed. After all, hadn’t one of his criteria for employing her been that she didn’t ‘fall into the man-eating tigress mould’?
She finished off the rest of the sandwich and stacked her plate and glass in the dishwasher. As she tiptoed back to bed, she resolved that, unless there was a fire, Max Ryder would never again see her in any form other than fully dressed—that way there could be no misinterpreting her motives!
Although there wasn’t much of the night left, Shauna opted for sleep, and, much to her surprise, it came. When she opened her eyes it was nine-fifteen and bright sunshine was streaming in through a crack in the silk curtains.
Ten o’clock sharp, he had said, so she had to hurry, although, as she towelled herself dry after a brief shower, she decided that it wouldn’t come as any great shock to her to learn that he had reconsidered his job offer after the orange juice incident.
She dressed in a simple black tunic, but she relieved its starkness with a scarlet ribbon at the nape of her neck which loosely tied back the thick black curls.
Feeling ready to face the world—or, more importantly, him—she opened her bedroom door, hoping against hope to find the sitting-room empty, but she was out of luck, for he sat there at the table by the window, as large as life, with a coffee-pot steaming in front of him.
He looked up as she entered, and she braced herself for a barrage of abuse, or a cold dismissal, but there was neither—he barely glanced up from his newspaper, except to say, ‘The coffee’s fresh,’ gesturing to the pot before him.
She hesitated for a moment, and eventually he looked up at her, his expression as inscrutable as if it had been carved in marble.
‘About last night,’ she began.
‘Forget it,’ came the curt rejoinder.
What was it that made her persist, when his tone expressly forbade it? ‘But I…’
‘I said forget it!’ The green eyes looked as dark as jade.
‘I