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'And how.' She was relieved the mood had lightened, but as she made the coffee she found she was still all fingers and thumbs, and her agitation wasn't helped by the fact that Luke was standing there leaning against the kitchen door with his hands in his pockets, watching her as she worked.
'Would you like something to eat?' she asked expressionlessly as the coffee-machine began to bubble and splutter. 'I usually shop at weekends, so there isn't much in, I'm afraid, but I could rustle up a few ham and salad sandwiches, or an omelette if you'd prefer?'
'A round of sandwiches would be welcome.' He gestured to his tie and jacket. 'Do you mind if I make myself comfortable? It's pretty warm in here and I've only averaged three or four hours' sleep a night over the last week. I don't want to fall asleep on you.'
'Feel free.' She forced a bright smile as her breath stuck in her throat. How had all this come about anyway? If anyone had told her this morning that Luke Hawkton would be disrobing in her flat that night she would have laughed in their face. Suddenly events were galloping away with her and it was too dangerous. He was too dangerous. 'Difficult week, was it?' she asked evenly.
'Damn awful.'
He had taken off his jacket and tie, and now, as he undid the first few buttons of his shirt, she really had problems with her breathing. He was too attractive for his own good, or certainly for her good, she thought ruefully as she turned determinedly away, taking a few deep, hidden breaths and busying herself with the food. Mog had disappeared through the catflap after his meal for an evening sojourn.
'But everything turned out all right?' she asked after a few moments, when she could trust her voice not to betray her.
'Of course.' There was a touch of arrogance in his voice now. 'I always get what I want in the end.'
'Always?' She nerved herself to turn and face him again as she placed two plates of sandwiches on a tray.
'Always.' He smiled at her, a faintly sensual quirk to his mouth, and she couldn't tell if he was serious or not.
'Lucky old you,' she said lightly as she pouted two cups of coffee and placed sugar and milk on the tray.
'Here, I'll carry it through.' He reached over and took the tray out of her hands, the hardness of his thighs as he brushed against her causing a shiver of feeling right down to her toes. 'Lethal' was the word Charlotte had used to describe him and she hadn't been wrong, she thought faintly. More was the pity.
'Nice room.' After he had placed the tray on the low coffee-table he straightened and glanced round the lounge. 'Very nice,' he drawled approvingly.
'I like it.' Her parents' estate had meant she had had no financial problems even before she had secured her highly paid post at Top Promotions, and, knowing that her flat would probably be home for the rest of her working life, she had spared no expense in furnishing it exactly as she liked.
The lounge was a mixture of browns and reds, the full-length dark scarlet curtains that draped the balcony windows rich and warm, complementing the lighter oatmeal carpet and walls, and the big soft suite, in shades of muted red and brown, toning with the whole perfectly. Any wood was a dark, rich mahogany that gleamed and shone, reflecting the bowls of fresh flowers she always like to have around and which filled the flat with the scents of summer.
'Do sit down. You must be starving,' she said, with a prim politeness that spoke volumes to the big, dark man watching her so closely, especially when, having handed him his coffee and sandwiches, she ignored the space next to him on the sofa in front of the coffee-table and perched herself on the very edge of a chair.
'You obviously take a great deal of pleasure in your home,' he said quietly, after demolishing a sandwich in a couple of bites, his gaze lingering on a painting on the far wall. 'That's a Goudge, isn't it?' he asked softly as he turned back to her.
'Yes, it is.' She tried to hide her surprise, which hadn't been very well received when he'd unexpectedly revealed that he liked cats. Tim Goudge had only just arrived on the London scene, and although he was an excellent artist and a very pleasant man he was not well known and had no influential patrons to smooth his way. 'You like his work?'
'My aunt does. She's followed his progress over the last few years in his native Ireland and was quite thrilled when he moved to London. I noticed one of his paintings in that art gallery you promoted, by the way. Was that your idea?' he asked intently.
'Yes.' There was something about the sight of him, relaxed and comfortable on her sofa, with his long legs stretched out in front of him and the muscled power of his chest accentuated by the thin shirt, that was bringing out goose-pimples all over her body.
'I thought so. Arnold White is not exactly a philanthropist at the best of times, and I couldn't see him giving a boost to a new artist unless someone had sold him the fine that it would be financially advantageous to do so. Is that what you did?' he asked suddenly. 'Promised him he would rake in the filthy lucre?'
'More or less.' She wasn't quite sure if he approved or disapproved of her actions, and her tone was sl
ightly defensive. 'Tim Goudge needed a break and Mr White won't lose by it in the long run. Besides which there were enough well-known artists on view that day to carry ten art galleries.'
'Oh, I'm not criticising your kindness, Josie. Far from it.' He eyed her lazily. 'But it doesn't quite fit in with the hard, formidable career woman image, does it, to go out on something of a limb when there's nothing in it for yourself? You know as well as I do that succeeding in one's native Ireland is quite different from making it in this jungle.'
'I—' How could she answer that? And why should she anyway? she thought militarily. She didn't have to explain her actions, good or bad, to him. 'Well, these you go.' She gave him a bright smile that didn't reach her eyes. 'One of life's little mysteries, Luke. Just when we think we've got it all taped we find out how wrong we can be. It happens all the time.'
'Not to me, it doesn't.' He held her glance for one more moment, his eyes piercingly steady, before holding out his cup with an easy smile. 'I'd love one more cup before I go on my way…'
'Of course.' She almost flew out to the kitchen, her thoughts racing. Why should it matter to him what she was really like? He was attracted to her, that much was obvious, but surely the light affairs he indulged in didn't necessitate a baring of the soul? Just the opposite, she would have thought.
'So, dinner's out tomorrow?' She jumped visibly at his deep, husky voice sounded just behind her, and spilt most of the coffee over the worktop. 'How about Sunday?' he asked softly.
'No. No, I'm sorry—'
'Are you?' He had moved to stand just behind her as she busied herself mopping the spilt coffee, her hand shaking. 'You have the most wonderful hair,' he said huskily, his hand moving up under the mass of burnished red curls and stroking her neck in a warm, intimate movement that shocked her beyond measure. 'Like fire, flickering and glowing…'
