Falling for the Rebel Heir. Ally Blake
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back the way they’re meant to be.’
She nodded. ‘Excellent. Happy with that. But what about after I’ve finished taking notes for you? What kind of deal will I have to make with you then?’
Her arms tightened across her chest, pressing her breasts together until she produced some damn fine cleavage. She glared at him and he tried his hardest to keep eye contact as her hot gaze dared him to even think that she might be thinking something raunchy. But the second the thought entered his mind he could think of little else.
A half hour swim for a kiss. An hour for a roll in the grass. A whole afternoon lazing in the pool and maybe she’d agree to going through the rest of Aunt Fay’s rooms and deciding what furniture and knick-knacks to keep and which to let go. For that he’d let her have the darned pool.
‘None,’ he said. ‘No more deals. Doing this one thing for me would be a huge favour, so for that you can use the pool any time you please. For evermore. So how about we clap hands and a bargain?’ He held out his hand to seal the deal.
‘Henry V,’ she blurted, an honest-to-goodness smile creasing her lovely face. She was something when she frowned; she was something else again when she truly smiled. He decided then and there that if she agreed to his terms it would be his mission over the next two weeks to make that happen again and again.
Then her cheeks turned pink and she bit her lip and looked down at her right foot, which was kicking at a small pile of dead pine needles.
‘Henry who or what?’ Hud asked.
‘Clap hands and a bargain,’ she repeated, looking up at him from beneath her dark eyelashes. ‘That was a quote from the proposal scene of Henry V. It’ll make you laugh and cry and your heart go pitter-pat. And, if it doesn’t, well then, I fear you’re just not human.’
Hud took a moment to wet his suddenly dry throat. The woman not only had the hair of a Botticelli model, the skin of a Scandinavian princess and the ability to fill the dark nooks and crannies of his subconscious with light, but he had just accidentally stumbled upon a subject that made her eyes flash like the heralding of a summer storm.
When he said nothing she continued. ‘Shakespeare. Dead English playwright. Quite famous in his time. Funny too that the line comes from the proposal scene and you just made me a proposal. Not like it’s the same kind of proposal, of course. I’d hardly agree to marry a guy for the use of his amenities—’
‘I have heard of him,’ Hud said, cutting her off before she got herself so deep into a verbal hole that she disappeared into her shoes like the wicked witch at the end of The Wizard of Oz. ‘Though I think it’s too late to bluff my way into making you think I was quoting him on purpose. A guy I work with…used to work with, said it all the time. What’s your excuse?’
‘Double English Lit major at Uni,’ she said, back to kicking at pine needles again as she breathed through her recent verbal misstep. ‘That and a computer will get a girl a fine fact checking job with an added sideline in Shakespeare and Keats and Byron quotes on tap. I’m quite the hit at parties.’
‘I don’t doubt it for a second.’ He’d be surprised if she ever made it out of a party without half a dozen new male fans. He wondered if one of those fans had managed to pin her down. Make her his. And if he truly knew what a gem he had. ‘And might I say I’m suitably impressed. You’re the first girl who has ever picked a Shakespeare quote when I’ve given one. Not that I’d rightly know.’
She grabbed a hunk of layered skirt and gave him a little curtsy. Yeah, it would be a fine thing if some guy at a party had taken this woman off the market. For though he was most enjoying looking, he hadn’t come to Claudel to shop for that kind of…what? Tryst? Crush? Holiday romance? Stormy, once-in-a-lifetime, go-for-broke affair?
This girl was witty, cautious and beguiling. It had taken an instant for him to see she was the kind of woman a man could spend a lifetime unravelling, pleasing, knowing. But he didn’t have a lifetime. He had two weeks. Which was more than he’d given any woman in years. He’d just have to be careful to remember that.
She flattened her skirt back to a less frivolous position. ‘So who’s the guy?’ she asked.
Hud lifted his gaze from the fluttering movement of her pale hands to her magnificent eyes. He raised an eyebrow.
‘Whose quotes you steal?’ she continued. ‘The guy with whom you used to work?’
‘Ah. His name was Grant, a sound guy who works for Voyager Channel films.’
‘His name…was Grant?’ she asked, her voice suddenly softer, slower, winding itself around him like one of Aunt Fay’s warm cashmere throw rugs.
‘It still is Grant, actually. Will be for many long years, I hope. He’s fine. He’s just a million miles away and I’m here, in the middle of backwoods Victoria, only it feels like he’s gone when really that honour goes to me.’
When Hud stopped talking, his heart raced as if he’d climbed a mountain, when really all he’d done was tell this strange girl more than he’d told anyone about what he was really feeling. More than he’d told his boss. Or the doctors in London. Or the editor who’d thrown money at him to ‘tell his tale’. Or any of the friends and colleagues who’d asked how he was every time they’d picked up the phone, which was more and more rare with every passing day.
‘So do we have a deal?’ he asked, knowing the time had come to bring this little rendezvous to a close. ‘Your typing fingers for my pool?’
‘Sure,’ she said, her voice still soft, still making him feel as though she had somehow wrapped him in cotton wool.
This time she held out her hand to seal the deal. He stepped forward and took it, entering her personal space, that intangible area that contained a person’s spent energy, and touched her for the very first time.
Her hand was small. Soft. Warm. Enveloped so wholly in his, it made him feel strong. Big. Commanding. It was a feeling he didn’t realise until that moment had been lost somewhere over the past months. A feeling he wanted back. He wanted more. He needed more.
After a few seconds of simply holding hands, her stormy eyes darted to his. Blinking fast. Locking. Connecting. A current seemed to flow from her hand to his. Or maybe it was the other way around.
And in that moment he saw that she felt it too. This strange compulsion pulling them together. He saw in her eyes a deep-seated desire to hold on to him and not let go.
He understood his own reasoning completely. He was a man on the verge of drowning—in violent memories, in red tape, in commiserations where he was used to commendations. And she was a bright light. Sparky, warm, flitting just out of reach.
What a woman like her saw in a broken man in need of a shave, he had no idea. He had nothing to offer her bar his pool. He consoled himself with the knowledge that she seemed switched on. She’d figure it out soon enough.
He loosened his grip and let her go. She stretched out her fingers before clasping her hands behind her back.
‘So when do we start?’ she asked.
I’m afraid we already have, he thought. But all he said was, ‘Tomorrow’s fine with me. Unless you’re busy.’
But she merely nodded. ‘Mornings are always best for me. Projects tend to slide into my inbox around midday. So nine okay with you?’
‘Sounds as good a time as any.’
She gave him a short wave and turned away, taking all that lovely vibrant energy with her.
‘So why do you need this pool of mine so badly you’re willing to give up your precious time for me?’ he asked, not yet ready to see her go.
‘Training for the Olympics,’ she threw back.
‘Then you’d better not forget your bathers,’ he said.
She waved over her shoulder. ‘Not