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'Just get ready for bed.' It was the wrong thing to say, and immediately the words had left her lips she knew it—but he so muddled her, she thought helplessly, her senses screaming.
'Certainly,' he said politely. 'I thought you'd never ask.'
'And stop being… ' There wasn't a word for the magnetic pull of that flagrant masculinity, and she stared up at him helplessly for a moment, her gaze faltering before the dark, glittering eyes.
'Yes?' he enquired helpfully. 'Stop being… ?'
'Oh, nothing.' She tried to glare at him but it didn't come off.
He smiled, gently, and then continued towards the door, pausing for a moment as he turned to look at her again. 'It was a nice try but it didn't work,' he said softly.
'What?' She stared at him bewilderedly, her colour still high.
'The hair.' His gaze wandered over the plaits from which several little curls had escaped, the look in his eyes bringing a heat to her stomach that was a painful, pleasurable ache.
She shut her eyes for a moment before forcing steel into her gaze and glaring at him without saying a word.
'I'm going, I'm going… ' He disappeared into the bathroom.
She had only brought a couple of whisper-thin nighties with her, knowing the nights would be warm, and although the one she was wearing was the more circumspect of the two its gossamer delicacy left nothing to the imagination, Marianne reflected uneasily.
Could she sleep in her robe? The sultriness of the night mocked the idea, but she could at least keep it on until she was under the covers. She'd have to, she decided desperately, and then sort of wriggle out of it and let it slide onto the floor. She'd do that once the light was out—the covers themselves were as fine as a spider's web.
She climbed into bed, wrapped the folds of the robe about her legs and pulled the covers around her waist, thereby dislodging the army of pillows which fell in all directions. By the time they were back in place and she was installed with a book in her side of the bed, Marianne had heard Hudson leave the bathroom.
She gazed feverishly at the book in her hands, the lines of black print dancing madly in front of her eyes, and tried to pretend she always lay in bed on a baking-hot night with enough nightwear on for the Antarctic. It appeared Hudson had no such scruples.
'That feels better,' he said contentedly.
She raised her eyes from the book to see him strolling round the end of the bed, dressed in nothing but a small—alarmingly small—towel wrapped snugly round his lean hips. And once Marianne looked she kept on looking—she couldn't help it.
His broad, muscled shoulders and wide, powerful chest were gleaming in the muted light from the bedside lamps, and his chest was hairy—very hairy, Marianne thought as a trickle of something hot shivered down her spine. His legs and arms were hairy too, and on his chest the tight black curls suggested his head hair would be curly as well if he let it grow beyond its severely cropped style—perhaps that was why he didn't, she reflected shakily.
His thighs looked strong and hard, and he was very tanned, his skin dark against the snowy whiteness of the towel. Altogether it was a male body—overwhelmingly, menacingly male—that looked as finely honed as any athlete's, and it made Marianne feel even more jittery than she had been feeling.
Hudson glanced at her as he reached his side of the bed and she dropped her gaze quickly, mortifyingly aware that she had been ogling him, and that he knew. She could tell from the gleam of satisfaction in the slumberous, darkly sensual eyes.
'Cold?'
It was a lazy drawl and meant to provoke, but even with her eyes on the book all Marianne could see was a lithe, tanned, muscled body that would make any woman weak at the knees, and her voice reflected her own weakness as she said shakily, 'Not particularly.'
'Oh.' He continued to watch her without moving.
One little word, but it carried a wealth of meaning, and this time the adrenalin provided a welcome boost that made her voice sharp as she retorted, 'I'll take my robe off when I'm good and ready, thank you,' as she raised her head t
o glare at him.
'I told you, Annie, you've nothing to fear from me,' Hudson said gently. 'And I meant it'
The ridiculousness of the statement hit her between the eyes as she found herself staring at him again, and she was conscious of the fact that she was desperately trying to keep her gaze fixed on his face and ignore the acres of bare flesh beneath. 'I didn't think I had,' she replied stiffly. And it genuinely wasn't Hudson's control she was worried about so much as her own. How was she going to manage to get through the night and keep her hands off him?
'Good.' He smiled, and she could have hit him. 'You'll have to excuse the towel,' he continued contentedly, 'but I don't possess a pair of pyjamas.'
'Oh.' Her colour increased and with it her agitation.
'And by some oversight I left my robe in Tangier.' He shrugged easily, the movement flexing powerful muscles and making her hot. 'No doubt they'll send it on.'
'No doubt.' He was going to sleep naked? He couldn't, could he?
