City Cinderella. CATHERINE GEORGE
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“You made it clear this morning that you don’t want me. Which makes no difference. I still want you.”
She realized too late that she had nowhere to go. Lucas had backed her up against the bed, the edge of which fitted nicely behind her knees. If he moved only a fraction, she would fall. She shivered as she pictured all too vividly what might come next.
“Just a kiss, Emily,” he whispered. “As thanks for the flowers, or good-night, or whatever reason suits you best—”
At the first touch of his lips on hers, Emily’s legs buckled. She sat abruptly on the bed, and Lucas fell to his knees beside her, hauling her against his chest to kiss her with such force and hunger she yielded to him, powerless to control her response.
“You see what you reduce me to?” he demanded roughly, raising his head a fraction. “Does it give you a kick to see me on my knees?”
CATHERINE GEORGE was born in Wales and early in life developed a passion for reading that eventually fueled her compulsion to write. Marriage to an engineer led to nine years in Brazil, but on his later travels the education of her son and daughter kept her in the U.K. And instead of constant reading to pass her lonely evenings, she began to write the first of her romantic novels. When not writing and reading she loves to cook, listen to opera, browse in antique shops and walk the Labrador.
City Cinderella
Catherine George
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER ONE
THE wind from the Thames came whistling up the cobbled street as he paid off the taxi. Aching in every bone, he hurried into the building and leaned against the wall in the lift, cursing the virus that had finally caught up with him. On the top floor he heaved himself upright when the doors opened, and with a groan of relief at the prospect of warmth let himself into the loft apartment he called home. He shrugged off his overcoat, dumped his briefcase on the pile of mail on the military chest in the hall, and, desperate for hot coffee with a slug of Scotch in it, opened the kitchen door. And stood rooted to the spot.
The kitchen’s stainless steel and granite was immaculate, as expected. But it was occupied. A young woman he’d never seen in his life sat on one of the retro-style stools at his breakfast bar, tapping away at a laptop, her concentration so intense she had no idea he was there.
Before he could demand an explanation his sudden, hacking cough brought the stranger’s head swivelling round, her eyes wide in utter dismay as she slid to her feet to face him.
‘Mr Tennent?’ she said at last, in a surprisingly deep, husky voice for someone only an inch or so over five feet. ‘I do apologise. This is the very first time, I swear.’
Lucas Tennent remained standing in the doorway, staring at her blankly, his thought processes blunted by the dull pounding in his head. ‘The first time for what? Who the devil are you?’
‘I’m your cleaner.’
He blinked. ‘My cleaner?’
She nodded, flushing. ‘Thank you for the cheque you left for me today—unless you’d like it back now.’
‘Why the hell should I want it back?’ he said irritably, grappling with the fact that this was the E Warner who kept his flat in mint condition. Not elderly and aproned, but young, in jeans and skimpy sweatshirt, with soot-black curling hair skewered up in an untidy knot.
‘Mr Tennent,’ she said after a moment, eyeing him closely. ‘You don’t look at all well.’
‘I feel bloody awful,’ he snapped. ‘But keep to the point. Explain about the laptop.’
‘I was using my batteries, not your electricity,’ she said defensively.
‘My sole interest, of course,’ he said with blighting sarcasm. ‘Tell me what you were doing.’
Her jaw set. ‘I’d rather not do that.’
‘Tell me just the same,’ he said relentlessly.
‘Nothing criminal, Mr Tennent,’ she said with hauteur. ‘I’m—doing a correspondence course.’
‘So where do you normally work on it?’
‘In my room. But this week it’s half-term. At the moment peace and quiet are in short supply where I live. So I did some work here today. But only after I finished your cleaning,’ she assured him.
‘Sorry I came home early to spoil your fun—’ he began, the rest of his words engulfed in a sudden spasm of coughing. To his surprise, he was gently taken by the arm and led towards the breakfast bar.
‘Sit there for a moment, Mr Tennent,’ she said with sympathy. ‘Do you have any medication?’
He shook his head, gasping for breath as he subsided on a stool. ‘No. I just need coffee. Make me some and I’ll double your money.’
She gave him a withering look and turned on her heel, presenting a back view rigid with offence while she dealt with the machine guaranteed to turn beans into coffee at top speed. Lucas sat silent, chin on hands, diverted from the thumping in his head by the sight of E Warner tugging her sweatshirt down to cover an inch of bare midriff as she put her laptop to sleep and closed it before pouring the coffee.
‘When I came in I thought I was hallucinating, Ms Warner,’ he remarked eventually, as the scent of his best Blue Mountain filled the air. ‘But a laptop seemed an unlikely accessory for housebreaking.’ He took a relishing gulp of the strong, steaming liquid she set in front of him. ‘Thank you. I think you just saved my life.’
She shook her head, frowning. ‘Not really, Mr Tennent. You should be in bed.’
‘I will be shortly.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Aren’t you having any coffee?’
Her smile activated a dimple near the corner of her mouth. Which was a very enticing feature, he noticed—unpainted, full-lipped, and eminently kissable. The curves outlined by the sweatshirt were equally enticing… And the fever was obviously affecting his brain, he thought in swift disgust, hoping she couldn’t read his mind.
‘It seemed best to wait until invited,’ she said ruefully.
Lucas nodded, then winced when the movement made his headache worse. ‘Do please join me, Ms Warner,’ he said formally. ‘Or are you Mrs?’
‘Miss.’
‘What does the E stand for?’
‘Emily.’ She eyed him, frowning. ‘Mr Tennent, do you mind if I touch your forehead?’
‘Not at all.’ He submitted to a cool hand laid briefly on his brow, and sat back. ‘Diagnosis?’
‘High temperature. You’ve got flu, hopefully.’
‘Hopefully?’
‘I meant rather than anything worse.’ She hesitated, then bent to search in a backpack on the floor and came up with a packet of paracetamol. ‘Will you take these? Two now and two tonight, and drink plenty of fluids.’
He stared at her in surprise.