The Tortured Rake. Sarah Morgan
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the bedroom—ready for action?’
Was he actually flirting with her?
No, of course he wasn’t. She was having delusions again. Not looking at him, Katie shot into the bedroom and closed the door.
The powerful surge of lust astonished him.
What the hell was he doing, flirting with a woman who had pictures of him in her home?
It was asking for trouble and he already had more than enough of that.
He’d been running on adrenalin since that moment he’d walked off the stage and now the tension was a white-hot ball inside him. His carefully constructed life was crashing down around him like a full-scale demolition programme. There were things he needed to do and people he needed to speak to.
So why did his hand burn to reach for the door handle rather than his phone?
Why was he gripped by an inexplicable urge to break down that damn door and lose himself in her gorgeous breasts and sweet smile?
It didn’t help that she wanted him too. Experienced at dealing with women far more sophisticated than
Katie, he’d read her easily—seen the exact moment her pupils dilated and sexual awareness had darkened those lovely eyes. He’d also seen how hard she was fighting that reaction.
Nathaniel gave a bitter smile.
He hoped she was having more success than he was. Right now, sex was the last thing he needed.
Hands thrust in his pockets, he stepped back from her bedroom door, disconcerted by the sheer strength of that craving.
He was no saint when it came to his relationships with women, but he knew better than to mess around with a woman who looked at him as if he had a first-class ticket to the end of the rainbow.
There were no rainbows in his life. Only thunderclouds. At the moment those thunderclouds were threatening a storm like no other.
Nathaniel checked his phone again, but there was no response from Annabelle. Had she even picked up the message? Was she huddled in a heap somewhere, shivering with reaction?
He felt the bite of guilt, as he always did when he thought of Annabelle, and something deeper, something uglier—something moulded deep inside himself.
Pushing the phone back into his pocket, he wondered why he was even bothering trying to contact her. It wasn’t as if they were close. None of the Wolfe siblings did ‘close.’ The only common thread they shared was fierce independence. A reluctance to bond with anyone.
Nathaniel paced across the flat and glanced out of the window but the streets were empty apart from a loan woman slipping and sliding on the icy streets as she struggled against the icy wind.
There were no paparazzi. Miss Chatterbox-with-the-gorgeous-breasts had managed to lose them.
He stared blankly out of the window, and by the time the bedroom door opened again he had himself under control.
It was immediately obvious that she’d renewed her make-up and then scrubbed it off, afraid it would look as if she were trying too hard. Nathaniel gave a humourless laugh. She didn’t need to try. Make-up or no make-up, her mouth was still the same full tempting curve that made a man want to dive straight in and sample the flavour. Even seeing her wild, curling hair tied back in an unflattering ponytail didn’t kill the chemistry. All that chatter and unusual openness should have irritated him. Instead she was getting under his skin.
He wondered what she’d say if she knew how close he was to hauling her back into the bedroom. He wanted to lose himself. He wanted distraction from the mess that was his life.
‘Are you—?’ She cleared her throat, careful not to look at him. ‘Are you going to answer that?’
Answer what?
Drowning in his private hell, Nathaniel realised that his phone was ringing and he hadn’t even noticed.
It was his brother Sebastian and this time he took the call, conscious that Katie would be listening to every word of the conversation. ‘Yes, he was there…. Rafael must have given him the ticket…. I’ve no idea. All we can do is manage the situation.’ As he talked, Katie busied herself in the kitchen area, clattering away, trying not to listen. She was still wearing her skinny jeans and her bottom was a smooth curve straight from a bad boy’s fantasy. Deep in that fantasy, Nathaniel realised he’d missed half of what his brother had said. ‘Sorry?… No, that’s way too risky. I’m going to leave the country. I’ll be in touch and you have my private number…. The most important thing is that we protect her.’
What the hell was the matter with him? He should be concentrating on damage limitation, not working out ways to remove Katie from those jeans.
He pocketed the phone. ‘Do you have any bourbon?’
Still with her back to him, she stacked a week’s supply of breakfast bowls. ‘Sorry, no.’ Her slender shoulders were stiff and Nathaniel felt a flash of irritation.
‘Look at me, will you?’
‘The only way I can behave even remotely normally is if I don’t look at you. Sorry if that seems rude, but that’s just the way it is. I don’t have bourbon but I do have water, or—’ Still not looking at him, she tugged open the fridge. ‘Milk?’
‘I haven’t drunk a glass of milk since I was three years old.’
‘It’s full of calcium and vitamin D. Good for your bones.’
‘Alcohol is good for my stress levels. What’s this?’ He picked up a bottle of red wine that was sitting on the side and read the label.
She glanced over her shoulder, the movement sending the ponytail swinging. ‘You won’t be interested in that. It could double as paint stripper.’
Nathaniel was tempted to confess that the way he felt right at that moment he would have considered the paint stripper. ‘It can’t be that bad.’ Without waiting to be asked, he reached past her and grabbed two glasses from the cupboard. The scent of her wound itself around his senses and he tried to block his reaction.
She closed the fridge and moved away carefully. ‘Don’t pour one for me.’
Wondering how sexual tension could still throb when two people weren’t looking at each other, Nathaniel ignored her and poured two glasses. ‘Drink. We both need it.’ He took a large mouthful and winced as his palate was assaulted by flavours not normally associated with wine. ‘On second thoughts, maybe we don’t need it.’
‘I’ve changed my mind. I think I do.’ Visibly flustered, she picked up her glass and drank.
‘Clearly you don’t have a very discerning palate.’
‘I can’t afford a discerning palate, Mr Wolfe.’
‘What’s it going to take to get you to look at me?’
Still holding the glass, she stared at a point in the centre of his chest. ‘I just—I’m finding it really hard to behave normally with you. Sorry, but… aren’t you finding this at all odd?’
‘What’s odd about it?’
‘Well, I’m me.’ With a rueful smile, she glanced down at herself. ‘Jeans with a hole, tiny flat, modest job. And you’re—well, you know who you are. Let’s just say I feel as though I should buy a ticket before I’m allowed to look at you. I associate you with movies. I keep waiting for some bad guy to leap out from behind you with a gun.’
‘Talking of guys leaping out from behind me, is some jealous lover built like a sumo wrestler likely to turn up later and want to beat me to a pulp? Presumably not, as you’re speed dating.’
‘I live alone. Number of jealous lovers—zero. I’m going through a lean patch. Well, not lean as in lean,