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Ross tarrant lowered his book and stared broodingly towards the clatter in the kitchen which had penetrated his concentration. Francesca was attacking the evening dishes as though to leave them a second longer would herald the death of the civilised world. His eyes moved from the set of her shoulders to the long line of her back. Apart from its uncomfortable stiffness it was rather a sexy back.
His connoisseur's eye slid to the swerve of her hips, recalling how she had looked nude and steamy, flushed and feminine in her weakness.
He frowned. Three days ago it had seemed such a simple, foolproof plan: drive out the irritatingly neat Sister Lewis by driving her up the wall. But the foolproof plan had backfired. He was the one quietly going up the wall!
How could one woman be so infuriatingly obstinate and yet so easy to manipulate? He lifted his book again to hide a slow grin. It might be childish of him, but he enjoyed fuelling her misconceptions about him. She was so deliciously easy to provoke into a passion that belied that prim exterior.
His grin faded. There was the rub. He was curious about her. Before she had turned up, the peace and quiet had begun to pall and yet he had known he wasn't ready, physically or psychologically, to ease back into the swing of his life. Thwarting Francesca had been in the nature of a diversion that, once his initial temper had cooled, amused his restless mind. He had not felt in the least guilty. Francesca had proved that she could look after herself, and at least she came alive at his taunts. Flaring back at him she didn't look quite so much like a wind-up doll marching stiffly towards some predetermined fate. He was doing her a favour, loosening her up.
Liar! he told himself disgustedly. His motives were entirely selfish. He never could resist a challenge and Francesca was the most flagrant one he had come across in a long time. What marvellous irony to be penned up with one of the few women who had ever rejected him outright! Actually, Francesca had the distinction of being the first, and as such had earned herself a special place in his memory. For another reason too, one that she would no doubt be astonished to hear, but he intended to save the telling until the right moment. She had earned the embarrassment. It might teach her a little humility to realise how gullible her rigid thinking made her. And in the meantime he wanted to explore the fascinating perversities of human biology.
To his amused chagrin Ross had realised that the old chemistry still existed and that, if he was any judge of body language, it wasn't only one-sided. Fran was
giving out unmistakable signals to a man who had built part of his professional reputation on his ability to read and interpret the nuances of female expression. She resented the undercurrent of attraction, that much was obvious, and he shared her reluctance. Francesca was not the sort of woman he sought out for male/female games. He liked women who were frank and open about their desires and emotions, women who preferred lovemaking to fighting, who were fun to be with and didn't tax his patience by demanding too much of his valuable time. Francesca was the total opposite. She was rather like a locked room... perhaps the female equivalent of Black-beard's lair, he speculated mischievously, littered with the bodies of past unfortunates who had been chewed up and spat out by that discreetly sexual, but tightly controlled personality. What was the key to Francesca? he wondered. What might he release if he found it? He had the time, but did he have the inclination—or the courage?
Francesca was aware of the strange vibrations from across the room. What was he thinking about? New ways to drive her up the wall? Surprisingly he hadn't even mentioned her date with Neville. Instead of baiting her mercilessly about his bet he had greeted her the next morning with a slightly expectant silence. She had ignored him until driven to point out that he hadn't even bothered to wash his few dishes from last night's dinner, adding snidely that perhaps he might find work as a dishwasher if nothing else. That had restored his acid humour and it hadn't faltered since.
Francesca had to concede that she had overestimated her ability to outstay him. As a nurse she had frequently lived in shared accommodation, but fellow nurses were quite different from a man. A man, more-over, who didn't want you there, who had no sense of organisation, who was sullen and uncooperative and didn't seem to know one end of a broom from the other. The only other man that Francesca had lived with had been her grandfather, and he had been a rigidly correct man who never came to a meal unless he was fully dressed, and liked everything to be in its rightful place.
Ross Tarrant was a creature of impulse. He slept when he was sleepy, ate when he was hungry and had a disconcerting habit of walking around half-naked. He was untidy and inconsiderate and refused to share the chores.
Francesca had caught on very early. He was doing it deliberately. No one could be that slovenly and not have died of some certifiable disease years ago!
She extracted her revenge by carrying her desire for neatness to obsession point. The fact that her constant nagging of him to tidy up got on her own nerves as well as his was beside the point, although sometimes she forgot entirely what the point was supposed to be!
Francesca was drying the last dish when the telephone rang. She turned automatically. Although Ross was well within reach of the phone it would be just like him to let it ring and ring until she was forced to answer it. But this time she had misjudged him.
'Tarrant.' He listened for a moment. His eyes shot to Fran and a devilish grin lit out across his lips. 'Yes, you have, and she is here, but she's just...er...got other things on her mind at the moment, if you know what I mean...'
Propelled by that leering innuendo Fran scooted across the room and grabbed at the receiver. Ross fended her off from his chair with mocking ease.
'Who am I? Her live-in boyfriend. Who are you?'
'Stop it! Give that phone to me!' Francesca hissed furiously, rushing in under his guard and wrenching the phone away from him. 'Hello?'
'Hi, Fran. Who's the hunk?'
'Oh, hello, Christina.' She had rung her friend from the lawyer's office to let her know of the hiccup in their plans. Christina had been less upset than Fran, pointing out that they couldn't do anything anyway until the Council had made up its mind about the Change of Land Use application, and the bank had officially notified them of their loan approval. 'No panic, just relax for a few days. You need it,' had been her cheerful advice.
'Look, I can call back if you and the hunk are—'
'We're certainly not!' snapped Fran, giving her tormentor a killing look. 'That was his idea of a sick joke. He's just a co-tenant, that's all.'
'Pity, he sounds nice.' Like a true friend Christina took the hint in Francesca's terse reply and dropped the subject. 'I just called to let you know that the Council came up trumps. Now we only have the loan to worry about.'
'That's great!' Fran's face lit up, her whole body expressing delighted relief to her interested audience. She listened while Christina brought her up to date with the rest of her activities, feeling buoyant again after the frustration of the past few days.
'Doug and I had a spat, and Brian phoned, full of remorse, wanting to know where he could reach you. I told him, politely of course, to bug off.'
'Thanks.' Christina had never really taken to Brian, although she had always been pleasant to him.
'Perhaps I should tell him you're living with someone up there. That should ram home the message.'
'No, thanks,' Fran shuddered. Things were complicated enough. She looked at Ross, unashamedly listening, and buoyancy made her rash. 'I don't think he'd be very impressive, he's the immature pretty-boy type.' Ross's eyes narrowed as he realised who she was describing. 'He fancies himself as a lady-killer,' said Fran gleefully, 'but he's handicapped at the moment... smashed himself up in a sky-diving accident. He's pretty seedy all round, but I guess when he's not sulking or flexing his beach-boy muscles he has a certain frayed charm.'
She hung up on Christina's laughter, suddenly nervous at the smug look that Ross was directing her way. He didn't look at all disturbed by her insults.
'Who told you about my accident?'
