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But as she headed for the door, he stepped in front of her. ‘Don’t go, Allycat. Come in and dry off and clean up your leg. My offer still stands.’
She lifted her head, forced herself to meet his gaze. But where she’d expected pity, or impatience, all she saw was a pragmatic intensity—as if he were trying to see into her soul. And something else, something she didn’t recognise or understand—because it almost looked like desire. But that couldn’t be true.
‘I can’t stay,’ she said, hating the tremble in her voice.
She didn’t want to feel this weak, this fragile. She hated showing him even an ounce of her vulnerability, because it made her feel even more pathetic.
‘Yes, you can.’ He didn’t budge. ‘As I said, I will pay for your time,’ he added, the tone rigid with purpose.
‘I don’t need you to do that. I’m shattered anyway. I’m just going to cycle home.’ She needed to leave, before the foolish yearning to stay, and have him care for her, got the better of her.
* * *
Mon Dieu, who would have thought that Monique’s shy and sheltered daughter would grow into a woman as striking and valiant as Jeanne D’Arc?
‘So there are no more jobs tonight?’ Dominic asked.
The girl frowned, but, even caught in the lie, her gaze remained direct. ‘No, there aren’t,’ she said, the unapologetic tone equally captivating. ‘I lied.’
He let out a rough chuckle. ‘Touché, Allycat.’
He let his gaze wander over the slim coltish figure, vibrating with tension. Her high firm breasts, outlined by her damp cycle gear, rose and fell with her staggered breaths. With her wet hair tied back in a short ponytail, damp chestnut curls clinging to the pale, almost translucent skin of her cheeks, blue-tinged shadows under her eyes, and an oil mark on her chin, she should have looked a mess. But instead she looked like the Maid of Orleans—passionate and determined.
And all the more beautiful for it.
Not unlike her mother. Or what he could remember of her mother.
Monica Jones had been his father’s mistress, during that brief summer when his father had acknowledged him. But the truth was it was her daughter, the girl who stood before him now, her wide guileless eyes direct and unbowed despite her obvious misery, whom he remembered with a great deal more clarity.
She’d been a child that summer, ten or eleven maybe, but he still remembered how she had followed him around like a doting puppy. And defended him against his father’s abuse. She had stood up to that bastard on his behalf, and because of that he’d felt a strange connection with her. And it seemed that connection hadn’t died. Not completely.
Although it had morphed into something a great deal more potent—if the sensation that had zapped up his arm when he had touched her was anything to go by.
She was quite stunning, pure and unsullied—despite her bedraggled appearance. The compulsion to capture her cold cheeks in his palms and warm her unpainted lips with a kiss surprised him, though.
Why should he want her, when she was so unsophisticated? Un garçon manqué. A tomboy without an ounce of glamour or allure. Why should he care if she was cold, or wet, or injured? She wasn’t his responsibility.
Perhaps it was simply the shock of seeing her again, and the memories she evoked? Maybe it was the compelling contrast she made with the woman he’d just kicked out of his life? Not spoilt, entitled and indulged but fierce and fearless and proud. The most likely explanation, though, for his attraction was that erotic spark that had arched between them the minute she’d stepped into the house.
After all, it had been over a month since he’d made love to a woman, and considerably longer since he’d felt that visceral tug of desire this woman seemed to evoke simply by breathing.
‘Then I will order a car to take you and the bike home in due course,’ he answered, because he was damned if he’d let her leave before he had at least had a chance to explore why she intrigued him so much. And no way was he letting her cycle home tonight. It was practically a hurricane out there.
A shiver ran through her and he noticed the small puddle forming at her feet.
‘There’s a bathroom on the first floor. Dry off and help yourself to the clothes in the dresser,’ he said. ‘I will meet you up there once I have found some medical supplies for that leg.’
The flush on her face brightened. She looked wary and tense, like a feral kitten scared to trust a helping hand.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ she said.
‘I know,’ he replied. ‘Now go. Vite.’ He shooed her upstairs. ‘Before you flood my hallway.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘I DISCOVERED WHERE my housekeeper hides the medical supplies,’ Ally’s host announced as he strolled into the large study on the first floor and placed a red box on the mahogany desk.
Ally swallowed down the lump of anxiety in her throat. She wrapped her arms around her midriff, but remained rooted to her spot by the room’s large mullioned windows.
