No perfume, just something faint, like wild flowers. More subtle and alluring than he would have imagined possible.
Her hair had brushed his bare chest and the nearly overwhelmingurge to press close and slide his hands up and under that shirt, around to cup her breasts and feel their weight and firmness, had had him jumping back and away like a scalded cat to the other side of the kitchen.
Rocco shut off the shower and stepped out for the second time in the space of half an hour. He vowed at that moment to do everything in his power to find Steven Murray, so that he could draw a line under this incident once and for all and get this woman out of his head.
For two days Gracie managed to avoid Rocco by making sure she was up after him in the mornings and in bed before he came back to the apartment at night. Luckily, he seemed to be busy. She was congratulating herself on having evaded him for the third morning in a row when he suddenly emerged from the study in the apartment, issuing a string of expletives, looking seriously disgruntled. And absolutely gorgeous in faded jeans and a T-shirt.
Gracie couldn’t avoid bumping straight into him, and sprang back as if burnt, heat washing through her body like a tidal wave. She went hot and cold all at once. She could smell his scent on the air, musky and masculine. He glowered at her from his superior height and Gracie fought the urge to apologise.
To fill the silence and deflect him from her embarrassment she blurted out, ‘What are you doing here?’
Looking seriously disgruntled now, he said, ‘Sometimes I work from this office—if that’s all right with you?’
A little redundantly she found herself asking, ‘Is there something wrong?’
Rocco’s dark gaze swept over her and Gracie burnt up even more.
‘My chef has just rung to say he’s ill, and his replacement is busy. I have someone coming for dinner this eveningand I didn’t want to go out, but now it looks as though I’ll have to.’ Rocco chafed at having to look at the reasons why he
didn’t
relish being seen out in public with Honora Winthrop, when just a few days ago he would have welcomed the prospect. The woman standing in front of him, who’d been avoiding him zealously for the past two days, was far too close to those reasons for comfort.
Something pierced Gracie’s insides as she wondered churlishly if this dinner was a date. His mistress, perhaps? Again, almost without thinking, she found herself saying, ‘I can cook if you like?’
Rocco smiled mockingly. ‘You? Cook?’
His obvious incredulity combined with her recent disturbing flash of something which felt awfully like jealousy made her say waspishly, ‘I can do better than baked beans and toast, if that’s what your tastes run to.’
His eyes darkened at that, and dropped again in a lesiurely appraisal, as if he was contemplating his tastes running to
her.
Gracie squirmed. He was just playing with her.
She drew back and stepped away, feeling seriously prickly, cursing herself and her mouth. ‘Look, forget I said anything. It was a stupid idea.’
She was almost past him when he caught her arm and stopped her. His entire hand wrapped around her bicep. The breath stopped in her throat and she swallowed painfully. Slowly, she turned and looked up. His expression was contemplative, and he didn’t let her go.
‘Can you really cook?’
Gracie nodded, and fought the urge to tug her arm free. She didn’t want him to see that he affected her. ‘If you give me a list of what you want I’ll do my best. How many is it for?’
A shadow crossed his face. He dropped her arm abruptly, as if he’d just realised he was still holding it.
‘Two.’
That curious pain lanced Gracie again. She crossed her arms. ‘I can manage two.’
He just looked at her for a long silent moment, until Gracie felt like screaming with tension, and then he nodded slowly. ‘Okay, then. I’ll give you the list and we’ll eat at eight—after champagne
Her hair had brushed his bare chest and the nearly overwhelmingurge to press close and slide his hands up and under that shirt, around to cup her breasts and feel their weight and firmness, had had him jumping back and away like a scalded cat to the other side of the kitchen.
Rocco shut off the shower and stepped out for the second time in the space of half an hour. He vowed at that moment to do everything in his power to find Steven Murray, so that he could draw a line under this incident once and for all and get this woman out of his head.
For two days Gracie managed to avoid Rocco by making sure she was up after him in the mornings and in bed before he came back to the apartment at night. Luckily, he seemed to be busy. She was congratulating herself on having evaded him for the third morning in a row when he suddenly emerged from the study in the apartment, issuing a string of expletives, looking seriously disgruntled. And absolutely gorgeous in faded jeans and a T-shirt.
Gracie couldn’t avoid bumping straight into him, and sprang back as if burnt, heat washing through her body like a tidal wave. She went hot and cold all at once. She could smell his scent on the air, musky and masculine. He glowered at her from his superior height and Gracie fought the urge to apologise.
To fill the silence and deflect him from her embarrassment she blurted out, ‘What are you doing here?’
Looking seriously disgruntled now, he said, ‘Sometimes I work from this office—if that’s all right with you?’
A little redundantly she found herself asking, ‘Is there something wrong?’
Rocco’s dark gaze swept over her and Gracie burnt up even more.
‘My chef has just rung to say he’s ill, and his replacement is busy. I have someone coming for dinner this eveningand I didn’t want to go out, but now it looks as though I’ll have to.’ Rocco chafed at having to look at the reasons why he
didn’t
relish being seen out in public with Honora Winthrop, when just a few days ago he would have welcomed the prospect. The woman standing in front of him, who’d been avoiding him zealously for the past two days, was far too close to those reasons for comfort.
Something pierced Gracie’s insides as she wondered churlishly if this dinner was a date. His mistress, perhaps? Again, almost without thinking, she found herself saying, ‘I can cook if you like?’
Rocco smiled mockingly. ‘You? Cook?’
His obvious incredulity combined with her recent disturbing flash of something which felt awfully like jealousy made her say waspishly, ‘I can do better than baked beans and toast, if that’s what your tastes run to.’
His eyes darkened at that, and dropped again in a lesiurely appraisal, as if he was contemplating his tastes running to
her.
Gracie squirmed. He was just playing with her.
She drew back and stepped away, feeling seriously prickly, cursing herself and her mouth. ‘Look, forget I said anything. It was a stupid idea.’
She was almost past him when he caught her arm and stopped her. His entire hand wrapped around her bicep. The breath stopped in her throat and she swallowed painfully. Slowly, she turned and looked up. His expression was contemplative, and he didn’t let her go.
‘Can you really cook?’
Gracie nodded, and fought the urge to tug her arm free. She didn’t want him to see that he affected her. ‘If you give me a list of what you want I’ll do my best. How many is it for?’
A shadow crossed his face. He dropped her arm abruptly, as if he’d just realised he was still holding it.
‘Two.’
That curious pain lanced Gracie again. She crossed her arms. ‘I can manage two.’
He just looked at her for a long silent moment, until Gracie felt like screaming with tension, and then he nodded slowly. ‘Okay, then. I’ll give you the list and we’ll eat at eight—after champagne
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