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‘I’m sorry; I overslept,’ she rasped sullenly. ‘Did you have to pound at my door like that? I thought it was an earthquake.’
His speculative dark eyes roamed from her bare toes curling against the cool floor to the sleep-crease marring one creamy cheek. ‘You told me to be here at this time. I thought you meant that you’d be ready and waiting’ He looked at his watch—a menacing lump of black plastic studded with buttons. Why was it that the people who needed them least always boasted the most macho time-pieces? thought Rosalind sourly.
‘So? Sue me,’ she grunted.
‘Are you always this grouchy in the morning?’ For some reason the notion seemed to give him pleasure.
‘No. I’m usually much worse,’ she snapped.
He nodded, as if he could quite believe it. ‘You left your door unlocked? Don’t you think that’s a bit unwise for a woman alone?’
‘I do now,’ she said, unable to think of anything wittier.
He looked at her as she leaned limply against the painted wall, and moved tentatively closer. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? Your face doesn’t look so good.’
No wonder—her stomach was still trying to push itself up into her throat! ‘Gee, Luke, you really know how to turn a girl’s head.’
‘No, I meant you don’t look well,’ he said. ‘Have you changed your mind about an early breakfast? Last night you said something about bacon and eggs and waffles dripping with syrup—’
‘Oh, God!’
Rosalind clapped her hand to her mouth and whirled about. She raced back up the stairs, almost killing herself as she tripped over the trailing belt of the huge, one-size-fits-all robe. This time she only made it as far as the hand-basin, hanging onto it for grim life as she was shaken by another bout of violent nausea.
Lost in her misery, she was barely aware of the long_ arm swooping around her until it contracted to a tight band just beneath her breasts, gently supporting her bent over body while her trembling legs were braced from behind by the warm cup of masculine hips and thighs. After she had finished her ignominious performance Luke forced her to sip a glass of water so that she could rinse the vile taste from her mouth.
Rosalind, a notoriously bad patient at the best of times, was purely ungrateful.
‘Go away,’ she groaned thickly as she tried to wrestle herself free of his tender mercies. Either she was as weak as a baby or Luke was a great deal stronger than he looked. ‘Why can’t you leave me alone? I don’t want you here. I don’t-mmph, mmph...’ Her fretful wail was smothered in the folds of a deliciously cool flannel as it was firmly stroked over her sweaty face and then her hands.
‘I can do that myself.’ She glared at
him from under damply spiked lashes and ruffled brows dyed the same colour.
‘Too late; it’s done. Come on. Back to bed.’
He was very good at giving orders all of a sudden, she thought grumpily, but still felt too fragile to make an issue of it. She meekly lay down on the tumbled bed and closed her eyes. She felt the mattress alongside her hip depress with Luke’s weight as he sat down on the edge of the bed.
‘I think I’ll ring down to Reception for the hotel doctor. If you have food poisoning it could be serious—’
‘Don’t bother; I know what it is and it’s not food poisoning,’ she roused herself to protest.
‘Oh. I see.’ Luke’s slow enunciation dripped with distaste. ‘Perhaps a hair of the dog would help, then?’
Rosalind’s eyelids cranked open to check the disapproving slant of the demon eyebrows. ‘It’s not a hangover, either,’ she retorted. ‘I wasn’t drunk last night. You should know; you walked me home...’
‘You could have gone out again after I left. Or hit the room-service bar.’
Maybe someone he knew was an alcoholic. It was the only reason Rosalind could think of for his unflattering suspicions. ‘Well, I didn’t. I went straight to bed.’
‘Then why are you ill?’
‘I just got up too suddenly, that’s all,’ she muttered petulantly. He would probably laugh if she told him. Hell, she would laugh if this was happening to someone else. But right now she didn’t feel in the mood to provide anyone with amusement.
He frowned, propping one hand beside her head and leaning forward for a closer inspection of her unhealthy pallor. His hair fell over his forehead and this time he didn’t bother to brush it back. His mouth was a thin, stern line, his face losing its puckish illusion of youthfulness as his expression became absorbed ... intent.
Rosalind’s skin prickled with self-awareness under the rough towelling. She was suddenly conscious that she was lying there, to all intents and purposes helpless, nude beneath her robe, while Luke bent over her, fully dressed. There was something uncomfortably erotic about the situation—a purely atavistic feminine response to the threat of male dominance.
Not that Luke was any worry to her in that direction, she told herself hurriedly, but she wondered at her own waywardness. Ever since her disaster with Justin she had preferred to be the controlling partner in her relationships with men. Even in her secret fantasies she had never felt excited by the idea of being sexually dominated, of being held captive by passion and aroused against her will by a skilful seducer...she was immune to the appeal of dashing sheikhs and silken bindings. So why such thoughts should sneak into her mind now, when she was feeling so thoroughly ghastly and totally unattractive, was difficult to comprehend.
