The Party Dare. Anne Oliver
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If he wanted—
‘Apologies for the interruption, George.’ An unfamiliar voice drifted up the stairs. ‘I didn’t realise you had company.’
Deep and rich and silky, the timbre seemed to harmonise with the foyer’s warm wood-panelled walls where she imagined the recent arrival standing. Pushing the bathroom door wider, she cocked an ear in the direction of the stairwell and listened.
The actual words were muffled by the flautist’s rendition of “Greensleeves” and the disorder of mingled conversations from the twenty or so guests, but it was the tone that hooked her attention. Would he look as scrumptious as he sounded? she wondered. A shiver of lust shimmied down her spine. Would he sound the same in bed?
Then George and his visitor moved from the foyer, their voices merging with those at the dinner party.
Wow. Brie straightened away from the wall she’d been leaning against and moved to the mirror. She hoped he’d stay for a drink at least so she could get a gander at him but she took her time repairing her make-up, determined not to give in to temptation and rush downstairs merely to satisfy her curiosity. Whoever he was.
Finally, she slid her lip-gloss into her purse and exited the bathroom. He was probably married with six kids. Except he didn’t sound married. ‘And what exactly does married sound like?’ she scoffed out loud. He had to be short, then—being six foot tall herself had its disadvantages. Except she couldn’t imagine anyone with a voice like that being anything but...
Perfect.
He appeared on the top stair as if she’d conjured him up, and her normally forthright and confident ‘Hi’ turned into a breathless schoolgirl sound of awe and appreciation.
He gave a brief half-nod. Said, ‘Evening,’ in that sexy as sin voice. One hand on the newel post, he stepped onto the upstairs landing. Thirtyish. Tall. Taller than her. Close-cropped dark hair, steel-grey eyes. Whipcord lean and tanned—her idea of a perfect man in one succinct package from his clean-shaven jaw to his crisp white business shirt and twilight-blue tie to his perfectly pressed charcoal trousers...with security pass clipped to his belt.
Leo Hamilton.
She almost groaned aloud. Perfect to look at but sadly that was where it ended.
Her smile remained frozen in half bloom on her lips. She refused to be seduced by his better than gorgeous looks. Beauty was only skin deep after all. Wasn’t it great timing that she’d just fixed her lip-gloss? She frowned at the ridiculous thought that popped up from nowhere. No. It wasn’t great at all.
What she really wanted to do was tell him exactly where to stick his renovation ideas. But she straightened slowly, drew in air tinged with the faint scent of skin-warmed cotton and reminded herself there was nothing to be gained by rudeness. Pull yourself together, Brie. Smile. Forget those pesky little renovations he’s planning and try the neighbourly, welcoming approach.
To start with at least.
‘Mr Hamilton. I couldn’t help but notice your name.’ Oh... Wrong place to look. She gave a little shrug—wrong place to wear it—and dragged her eyes from his crotch and up to meet his grey impenetrable ones. ‘I’m Breanna Black.’ She stepped forward, stuck out her hand. ‘Your next-door neighbour.’
He nodded, all unsmiling and enigmatic. ‘Breanna.’ He took so long to extend his own, Brie wondered for a moment if he intended responding at all.
When he did, at last, take her hand in a decisive grip, she didn’t reciprocate like some weak-willed female meeting her teenage idol but with the same strength and intensity as he. He looked startled. His eyes widened and his jaw tightened and she got an impression of hard, wide, slightly roughened palm before he released her. Or had she pulled free first?
Whatever, that first contact was as brief as it was disconcerting so she followed up quickly with, ‘Call me Brie. I’ve heard you’re moving here from Melbourne?’ And a few other not so good things besides.
‘It’s more of an investment, but yes. You heard correctly.’ The way he said that last, almost accusatory, made it sound as if she were the town busybody when he was the ignoramus with no appreciation for history or architecture. And okay, she was interested only because he was going to be living next door—and renovating—which might affect the property value of her own home.
‘Bad week at the office?’ she murmured. ‘Thank God it’s Friday?’ When he simply stared at her and made no attempt to reply, Brie continued, ‘Carol told me. That you’re from the mainland.’ She defended what she considered her reasonable query, even if he did not. ‘She and George are more friends than neighbours. So, you’ve big plans for this place?’ The words shot out before she could stop them. ‘An indoor pool, I hear?’
‘Do you believe everything you hear?’
His cool stare matched his barely veiled criticism then he glanced down the stairwell, giving her time to check out his profile. The neat shape of his ear, the pinprick of evening stubble along the sharp jawline. Her trained therapist’s eye couldn’t help but notice his suntanned skin would benefit from one of her men’s all-fruit facials, and her mouth tingled at the errant thought of licking it off— Stop.
She pressed her lips together. Unlike the Reece-Bartons, this man was not her friend. In any way. If she could just convince her woman’s body of that fact. ‘Not at all, but I believe Carol. Are you aware that this home is a signific—?’
‘Chris, up here.’ He raised a hand to some unseen body below, effectively cutting Brie off.
The lifelong sense of powerlessness she’d always felt at being repeatedly ignored bristled along her spine. ‘Excuse me?’
His focus turned sharply and wholly back to Brie. She wasn’t being ignored now and the words she’d been about to say melted off her tongue. They stood almost eye to eye. Mouth to mouth. Breast to chest. Her nipples tightened. So did her belly. Somehow he made her feel dainty and petite, an achievement no man had ever accomplished. His gaze seemed to check her out from the roots of her hair to her low-heeled boots and every place between.
‘My architect,’ he said, finally.
Architect. Chris. Right. Now she had his attention back, she struggled to regather the thread of their conversation. ‘What does he think of your plans?’
But she was suddenly speaking to empty space because, without a second glance, he was headed back the way he’d come, his masculine scent drifting on the air behind him.
Rude. Inexcusably, unjustifiably rude. Brie saw a blonde clutching a tablet device to her ample bosom, which was plumped over an inappropriately low neckline. She watched the woman move to meet him at the foot of the stairs. His architect. Female. Of course. He actually smiled at the woman and Brie fought a stab of pique. He wasn’t ignoring Chris.
She watched them compare notes, converse a moment, then George appeared and both men walked towards the front door while Chris and her tablet headed towards the kitchen. The guys shook hands but just when Brie thought he’d forgotten she’d ever existed, Leo Hamilton turned his head and that enigmatic silver gaze found her, skimming her entire body again.
Her skin prickled, as if he’d given her an all-over body scrub with one of her salon’s best exfoliating mitts. She shivered and resisted the urge to soothe her arms.
A corner of his mouth lifted. A smile? Or a smirk... As if he knew the effect he’d had on her. She narrowed her eyes. Damn. She was a confident woman when it came to any man, hunky or otherwise, so why this particular man wielded that power she had no idea—he was irritating and arrogant and dismissive. And a bunch of other things she refused to waste her time thinking about.
If he began to raise his hand in some sort of belated farewell, she didn’t see it. Eyes averted and head high, she started downstairs. She heard the front door close and aimed a smile George’s way. ‘I hope I didn’t scare him off.’
‘I’d venture your new neighbour’s