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Which didn’t really make sense because she hadn’t touched alcohol.
Or, at least, not intentionally.
Suspicion entering her mind she lifted a hand to her aching skull and sat up slowly, wincing slightly as a shaft of sunlight probed through the curtain and stabbed her between the eyes.
Realising that she was lying in an enormous, ele
gant bedroom, panic swamped her.
Whose bedroom?
Just what had happened last night?
The girl was still studying her closely, as if she couldn’t understand how anyone could look so awful and still be alive. ‘Yiayia made Andreas promise that he’d never bring a woman home while I was in the house, so I suppose that means he’s in love with you.’
What?
Who was the girl sitting on the bed?
And who the hell was Andreas?
Searching her aching brain for some recollection of what had happened the night before, Libby had a sudden memory of broad, muscular shoulders, a firm mouth and lots and lots of fireworks.
Yes, there’d definitely been fireworks.
‘I…er…who exactly is Yiayia?’
‘Yiayia is Greek for Grandma, and you’ve said enough, Adrienne.’ Cool male tones came from the doorway and the girl scrambled off the bed, suddenly wary.
‘There’s no need to use that scary tone. I’m old enough to know the facts of life and I know all about sex.’ She looked at Libby curiously. ‘Did you have sex? Yiayia says that loads of women want to go to bed with Andreas because he’s seriously rich and very good-looking. Women go mad about him.’
Deprived of her powers of speech, Libby glanced helplessly at the man in the doorway and clashed with the darkest, sexiest eyes she’d ever seen. Despite her somewhat pathetic state, her mouth fell open and she did something she never did when she met a man.
She stared.
He was well over six feet, powerfully built, with jet black hair smoothed back from his forehead and bronzed skin that suggested a Mediterranean heritage. He possessed all the arrogant self-assurance of a man who’d been chased by women from the cradle.
She felt herself colour under his sharp gaze. It was evident from the hint of mockery in his dark eyes that he realised that she had an extremely hazy recollection of the events of the night before.
‘You talk too much, Adrienne.’ Without shifting his gaze from Libby’s pale face, he strolled into the bedroom and she noticed for the first time that he was carrying a mug. ‘Drink that.’ He placed a mug of black coffee on the bedside table. ‘It will help.’
Confronted by this final confirmation that he was well aware of her delicate condition, Libby shrank back against the pillow, stricken with guilt at her own behaviour.
She’d obviously been horribly drunk the night before.
What she didn’t understand was how.
Unlike her, he was fully dressed and she was uncomfortably aware of his wide shoulders and sleek, dark good looks next to her near nakedness. Deciding that so much masculine virility was too much for a woman with a headache, Libby reached for the coffee.
Grandma had a point, she thought weakly. She didn’t know about the rich bit, but he was incredibly good-looking. Almost enough to make a woman forget that all men were rats.
Which was evidently what she must have done when she’d agreed to go back to his flat with him.
How could she have done such a thing?
She never took risks like that!
She was obviously seriously on the rebound.
