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BELLA stayed in her room until well after nine the next morning, sure that by then Owen would be downstairs overseeing his group of geeks, coming up with some program to bring about world peace or something. Last night had been the most frustrating night of her life—even more frustrating than after he’d left her bed on Waiheke, and she hadn’t thought anything could top that.
After his outrageous comments, he’d gone. With a smile that had promised everything and threatened nothing he’d walked downstairs—presumably to his room. The door had been closed when she’d summoned the courage to leave the roof. What had she been supposed to do—follow him?
She’d badly, badly wanted to. But she didn’t, of course, because her legs had lost all strength again—just with his words.
Now, as she moved quietly across the warehouse, she saw his bedroom door was closed. She knocked gently, just to be certain. When there was no reply she opened it and walked on in. Halfway to the bathroom door on the other side she realised that the big lump of beddi
ng on the edge of his bed was moving; it actually had a lump in it—him. He sat up—all brown chest on white sheets, hair sticking up in all directions and wide sleepy grin. ‘Good morning.’
She froze, halfway across the floor. ‘I thought you’d be at work already.’
‘No.’ He yawned. ‘I didn’t get much sleep last night.’
She felt the colour flood into her face.
‘I had a call from New York that went on for a while.’
Her colour continued to heighten. She started to back out of the room. At least she was wearing trackies now under the tee shirt. After the embarrassment of yesterday she wasn’t running the risk of encountering all those people when she was half starkers again.
‘No, don’t worry,’ he said, swinging his legs out of the bed and reaching for a shirt on the floor. ‘Use the bathroom. I’m going for a run.’
She stopped in the doorway. He’d stood up from the bed. Naked except for the shirt he was holding to his lower belly. He was magnificent. Rippling muscles and indents and abs you wouldn’t see anywhere other than the Olympic arena. He yawned again, stretched his free arm, showing his body off to complete perfection.
He was doing it deliberately. He had to be. She swallowed—once. Took a breath. Blinked. Swallowed again. Still couldn’t seem to move her legs.
‘Bella?’
She turned and walked then, straight back to her bedroom. Where she threw herself down and buried her burning face in the cool of the sheets.
Damn it, Owen. If you’re going to do it, do it.
Half an hour later she figured he’d gone and be out for another hour at least. So she headed to the kitchen—she needed a long, very cold drink. As she downed the icy water she heard the door slam.
She turned, and there he was wearing loose shorts and a light tee. He was puffing, sweating a little. He stalked towards her. Straight towards her and he didn’t seem to be stopping.
‘You’re back already,’ she blurted.
‘Yeah,’ he muttered. To her acute disappointment he veered off course, halting and reaching into the fridge. ‘It was short but intense.’
She held onto her glass, leaned back against the sink and stared.
‘I ran up and down the stairs for twenty minutes.’
She quickly lowered her glass to the bench. He stood facing her, strong and fit, and she was breathing harder than he. It was early morning, broad daylight, she was stone-cold sober, and she wanted him more than she’d ever wanted anything.
He leaned back, resting on the bench opposite her. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘N-nothing.’
There was a silence where he looked at her with such amused disbelief and she wanted to squirm away from the knowledge in his eyes.
‘Come here.’
She hesitated.
‘Here.’
She walked, one whole step, aiming for nonchalant, before stopping, stupidly wishing she weren’t still wearing her loose, ugly trackies and old tee shirt.
