Mackenzie's Promise. Catherine Spencer
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as well, she groped her way to the end of the couch. “Cramps in my leg,” she stammered, beating as dignified a retreat as she could manage.
The washroom bore the same stamp of masculine opulence as the living area. Pristine white marble floor tiles, dark green porcelain fixtures, brass fittings and black hand towels. Above the sink, a large oval mirror revealed a map of creases down one side of her face and her hair mashed unflatteringly against her head from where she’d lain on it.
No wonder he’d been staring at her so fixedly. He probably hadn’t seen anything quite as unsightly since the last time he’d scraped a drunk off the sidewalk, back in the days when he cruised the streets in a patrol car.
She did the best she could with soap and water, but she’d left her bag in her car at the top of his driveway and much though she’d have loved to get her hands on her toothbrush and a comb, she wasn’t about to leave the house and risk not being allowed back in again. He’d just have to put up with her as she was.
“It took you long enough,” he informed her, when she reappeared. “Men can do what they have to do in half the time it takes a woman.”
“They also stand up to do it,” she snapped without thinking, and blushed again as he let out a rumble of laughter.
“Here,” he said, handing her a steaming mug. “Maybe this’ll warm you up and sweeten your mood.”
She sniffed the contents suspiciously. “What is it?”
“Hot rum and lemon with sugar. I just reheated it. Watch you don’t burn your mouth.”
“I don’t like rum.”
“And I don’t like strays coming down with pneumonia under my roof, so do as you’re told. You aren’t dressed for the kind of temperatures we get out here in the evening.”
“I’m not cold.”
He traced the tip of his finger over her bare arm. “Then why the goose bumps?”
Because you’re touching me, she thought, unable to control a shiver. “Reaction setting in after sleeping, I suppose. It’s not uncommon.”
“Maybe not, but I don’t want to take any chances.” He tucked the knitted shawl around her shoulders and nudged her toward the fire. “Sit on the hearth awhile and down the rum while I fix us some food. You eat red meat?”
“Would it make any difference if I said ‘no’?”
“Not a bit,” he replied cheerfully. “I’m having steak and a baked potato, with salad and mushrooms on the side. You can either join me or watch me.”
“Steak will be fine,” she told him, wondering what demon of perversity made her take issue with him when what she most wanted was to win his cooperation. “Thank you for inviting me to stay.”
He laughed again, unkindly this time. “As if I had any choice! Medium rare okay?”
“Perfect.”
The hot rum and lemon tasted remarkably pleasant and slid down her throat in a rich, syrupy stream, warming her as thoroughly within as the fire did on the outside. Beyond an open archway at the far end of the room, she could hear him moving around, clattering utensils and running water. She found the sounds oddly comforting; a refreshing return to normality, after too many weeks fraught with anxiety and fear.
The fading glow of sunset streamed across the plain white wall opposite the windows, painting it in pastel stripes of celadon and peach. Hugging the mug in both hands, she strolled to the sliding glass doors overlooking the ocean.
The view was breathtaking, stretching as far as the eye could see over ocean and sand, cliffs and stunted, weather-bent pines. A person could gaze at the sight every day for the rest of his life, and not grow tired of the spectacle. Small wonder he’d chosen this spot as his retreat.
The huge room behind her was scarcely less impressive. He’s filthy rich, Melissa had said, and it had been no exaggeration. In addition to the one she’d noticed above the fireplace, a number of other paintings hung on the whitewashed walls, some oils, some watercolors, and every one an original. There were other items, too, which told something of his taste: a jade carving of a woman rising from a pool, her arms upstretched; a crouching mountain lion fashioned from onyx; a wide, shallow bowl of beaten copper holding a selection of bleached seashells, and a tall brass samovar.
Dark Turkish rugs left splashes of color over the pale wood floors. The leather on the couches was soft and pliant as velvet. His dining table, big enough to seat twelve with ease, gleamed with the patina of age.
“Have you lived here long?” she asked, coming to lean in the archway and watch him at work.
“Going on four years.”
“It’s a very handsome house. You were lucky it came on the market just when you were ready to buy.”
“It didn’t. I found the land and had the house built to my specifications.”
“Oh.” She scanned the kitchen, noting its top-of-the-line appliances, the finely crafted cabinets, the big work island with a slotted rack holding a selection of expensive knives built into one side. “Did you design the kitchen, too?”
“Right down to the last floorboard.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Why? Because I own more than a can opener and a frying pan?”
“No. Because most men don’t have the eye for detail which you seem to possess.”
“It comes with the territory,” he said, separating the yolk from the white of an egg and whisking it into a bowl with olive oil, lemon juice, a little anchovy paste and a dash of Worcestershire sauce. “I used to make my living noticing details. They’re critical in the solving of crime. You plan on sleeping with anybody tonight?”
She blinked, taken aback by the sudden change of subject. “I beg your pardon?”
“I asked if you planned—”
“I heard!” she said. “And I’m wondering why you think it’s any of your business.”
“Well not because I’m hoping you’ll climb between the sheets with me, cookie, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
“What a relief! But that still doesn’t answer my question.”
With superb disregard for its razor-sharp edge, he juggled a chef’s knife in his right hand, and slammed the flat side of the blade on a clove of garlic, reducing it to a pulverized mound on the chopping board. “I like plenty of this in my salad dressing. If you don’t and you’ve got a hot and heavy night ahead, you might prefer—”
“I’ll be sleeping alone.”
“Oh, yeah? Where?”
“I haven’t decided.”
He stopped what he was doing and very deliberately fixed her once again in that daunting stare, except that this time, she detected an element of incredulity in its depths. As if he’d just discovered she was missing a vital part of her anatomy—like a brain. “Are you telling me you don’t have a hotel room lined up?”
“Not yet,” she admitted, trying to sound unconcerned.
“Not yet?” He raised his rather wonderful eyes heavenward as if communing with God, although he stopped short of asking, Why me, oh Lord? “What you really mean is you don’t have the first idea where you’re going to stay.”
His tone and manner suggested he thought she was too mentally defective to comprehend the situation. Retaliating, she said, “I’m well aware I won’t find a room right here in Trillium Cove, Mr. Sullivan.”
“Congratulations,” he sneered. “Are you also aware you’re not likely to find one within a fifty-mile radius, because this is high tourist season and even fleabag No-Tell