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Astonished, she clutched her keys so hard they hurt her palm. Unable to muster a verbal response she nodded.
“Listen to me,” he continued, “this isn’t the time. I need to take the kit and get rid of it. I spent the night in a police cell because of its existence and I don’t want you to be put in danger because you helped me out yesterday.”
Gathering her senses, she realized that if she didn’t get a grip, he’d take his stuff and leave, and she might never see him again. “You don’t think we can act like two old pals catching up on each other?” Taking a deep breath, she tossed her hair back then gestured to the staircase. “I can if you can.”
“Sure.” He drew back, but the frown on his forehead didn’t disappear. He looked vaguely at the staircase. “Right, okay, let’s see this apartment of yours.”
She liked the fact he was trying to talk himself down. She trotted off quickly. Once she got him inside she’d remind him what he’d just done to her. That kiss was the hottest thing ever. On the stairs, his presence close behind her made her dizzy. By the time they reached the next floor and her doorway, she could scarcely keep her breathing level. Her emotions swung wildly and she was torn between the desperate need to grab at him, and the need to be sensible enough to keep him there a while.
She shoved her key in the lock, glancing at him from under her lashes as she did so
He shook his head, then nodded at the door. “You ought to get yourself a better lock.” He leaned up against the doorframe with one shoulder. His pose was nonchalant, sand he was acting chilled, but the glint in his eye as he assessed her showed he was on the simmer as much as she was.
Nervous butterflies gathered in her stomach. It wasn’t just that he was attractive and powerful looking. He was in control. It made her self-aware. He’d always had that affect on her, and now they were alone, away from home and family, in London and no one was telling them to keep their hands off each other.
“Why, what’s wrong with the lock?” Light headed, Sky turned the key.
“It’s not safe enough.”
“The landlord said he’s the only other person with a key.”
He gestured at the door. “It’s an old model, anyone with half a clue could have it open inside twenty seconds.”
“I thought you were a mechanic, not a locksmith… oh right, I get it, you know all about breaking locks as well as computer stuff. You bad, bad boy. How very intriguing.”
His eyebrows scrunched. “Just offering a friendly bit of advice.”
He scrubbed at the collar on his jacket at the back of his neck.
Sky threw her keys onto the dresser and looked back at him.
He stood in the doorway, one shoulder up against the frame, staring at her. A hunk of male testosterone, a sexy temptation she was about to be alone with in her bedroom. His eyes were dark and his gorgeous mouth was tight as if he was thinking what might happen if he stepped in and closed the door behind them.
Her pulse raced. “You reckon you could break in?”
One corner of his mouth lifted. He nodded. “I know I can.”
“Well, I suppose if you can break in, you get to steal something.”
“I’d rather you gave me a reward.” He stared at her pointedly.
Sky swayed on her feet. So much for playing cautiously. Lifting her chin, she faced up to him. “Pals, catching up on one another,” she teased. “We agreed. And I don’t believe you’re just thinking about locks here, Rory.”
She thought he’d never answer. He stared across at her, and the slow scrutiny in his eyes made her entire skin tingle.
He gave a wry smile. “And neither are you.” He tutted. “Must try harder, huh?”
It made her laugh. They used to say it to each other back at home in Cadogan because it was always on her report card from school.
Closing the door behind them, Rory looked round the room, then stared at the sofa. “Where do you sleep?”
“It folds out,” she responded, wondering if he was genuinely curious or if he was still thinking about sex. She was. “It’s a futon.”
He stared at the futon for a moment, then stepped over to where she had her sketches and art equipment piled up on the dresser. The atmosphere was awkward, and laden with tension.
“What’s your plan with the art, to become a freelance artist?”
“Not necessarily, I don’t think I’m good enough.”
