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Back in her room and wrapped in a huge, fluffy towel, Fran opened the wardrobe door and surveyed the few clothes she’d brought with her. They were the normal selection she would take to a job like this, but to her dissatisfied eye they seemed lamentably few.
In the end, she put on the same camel trousers that she’d arrived in, but teamed them with a silky-looking gold shirt rather than the cream sweater. The house was well heated and she always seemed plenty warm enough whenever Sam was around!
She was just brushing her wet hair when there was a rap on the door, and when she opened it Sam was there, a printed menu in his hand, a look of query on his face.
‘I’ll order now, shall I—’ He broke off in midsentence, and frowned. She looked…
Fran frowned back. ‘What is it?’
‘Your hair.’
She touched a wet strand as if she were touching a talisman. ‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘It’s loose,’ he murmured, aware that his voice sounded slightly dazed. As if she were the only woman in the history of the world to have worn her hair wet and loose down her back! Yet the effect it had on her face was simply stunning—softening it, making her eyes look like bright green-gold beacons.
She deftly twisted a rope of hair between her fingers. ‘I’m about to put it up.’
‘No, don’t.’
Fran looked at him. ‘Don’t?’
‘You look more relaxed that way.’
‘Precisely,’ she smiled repressively, then glanced down at the menu he was holding. Perhaps food would take her mind off the fact that he had left the three top buttons of his shirt undone and that the moisture from the shower was making his skin gleam like a precious metal. ‘I like just about everything on the menu,’ she told him briskly. ‘So you can order for me, can’t you, Sam?’
If any other woman had asked that question, he would have adopted a look of jaded cynicism. It would have seemed overly cute. Too dependent. Too girly-girly. But then, any other woman would have aske
d him in a simpering way which usually meant that they wanted you. Fran didn’t. So was that because she just didn’t simper? Or because she just really didn’t want him?
‘I think I can just about manage that,’ he said drily, thinking that a drive to the Chinese restaurant might also ease the ache in his groin.
Fran was in the sitting room when he arrived back, bearing all the different foil containers. He dipped his head as he entered the low room to find that she had lit the fire and warmed plates and brought trays in for them to eat in front of the roaring logs. She had also, he was immensely disappointed to discover, put her hair back up in a constricting topknot so that once more she looked remote and untouchable.
‘Okay to eat in here?’ she asked him. ‘The dining room seemed a little cold, and a little formal and I thought it was best not to use it before your mother arrives.’
‘In here is perfect. Did you read my mind?’
‘No, I’m just feeling tired and lazy!’
‘Me, too.’ He had been dreading sitting facing her across a dining table with candlelight creating intimacy and making his blood sing with desire.
They ate prawns and chicken and rice and noodles, with cold wine to drink. Afterwards, Fran sat eating a fig and picking at a small bunch of white grapes, aware that he was watching her. And liking him watching her.
She knew what was happening. She was falling for him big time. And he was about the most unsuitable candidate she could have picked, bearing in mind the circumstances which had brought her here. He had said that he wanted to prove he was a good guy at heart, and he seemed to be succeeding. With honours! Oh, hell, she thought, why did life have to be so damned complicated?
Sam drank more than he would usually have done, but then he reasoned that he would need some kind of sleeping aid tonight. He noticed that Fran was nearly matching him glass for glass, too.
‘Shall I open another bottle?’ he asked.
She was tempted. Then shook her head. ‘Better not,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to greet your mother with an almighty hangover.’ Which was not the real reason at all. She was starting to feel woozy and pretty sure that if she had much more, then she might relax a little too much and find herself swaying in the direction of his arms!
She watched him lick a trickle of grape juice away from where it had made his lips all sticky. Just watching him eat was like a lesson in sensuality, with those long fingers pulling the succulent fruits from their stem. Popping them whole in his mouth. White teeth biting into firm, juicy flesh. How was he managing to cast this powerful spell over her?
She sat up straight and shifted her bottom back a bit. What would she be doing if she didn’t find him the most attractive man she’d ever met? Talking! She cleared her throat, like an amateur about to make an after-dinner speech. ‘So what made you decide to become a literary agent?’ she asked him.
Sam gave a wry smile, recognizing immediately the reasoning behind the sudden change of tone. ‘Because I love writing, I guess.’
‘So why—?’
