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It was early evening, and the sky was dark. Surely that explained why she wasn’t seeing properly?
Confusion followed disorientation. Was she hallucinating? Or was Rio Mastrangelo really standing on her front doorstep looking better than anyone had a right to?
Gone was the coarse hair that had covered his c
hin and upper lip in a mask of stubble. He had shaved, and his hair was neat—not a hint of Island Rio remained in evidence. But it was him, all right, nonchalant and sexy in a slate-grey suit with a crisp white shirt open at the collar to reveal the thick column of his neck. A neck she had loved to kiss and bite and taste.
She swallowed and looked away quickly. Stars burst at her temple too fast. Her eyes had been sore for days.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Dio. You look like death warmed up.’
She groaned inwardly, keeping her fingers gripping tightly to the door. He was right. She hadn’t just been skipping showers, but meals and hair-washing, and she was pretty sure she’d spilled some coffee down the front of her cream shirt, leaving a tell-tale trail of caramel staining.
Still, that was no business of his. He hadn’t even walked her to the door of the cabin when Rafaelo had knocked. She’d walked away from him, head held high, and she stood before him now with her shoulders squared. ‘Did you come to insult me a little more?’
‘Have you been crying?’ he asked with incredulity.
As if she hadn’t had every reason to cry! The first two weeks back from Prim’amore had been strewn with tears. Not just tears over losing Rio, but tears over the injustice of losing her job and the friendship with Art that she had foolishly believed mattered as much to the older man as it had to her.
‘No.’ She sneezed emphatically, her head spinning with the jerk of movement, and he took advantage of her distraction to move closer, lifting a hand to the door.
‘What are you doing?’ she demanded, the words thick with congestion.
He frowned. ‘You are ill?’
‘I have a cold.’ She kept her hand on the door even as he went to move it inwards.
‘A cold?’ he repeated, his frown deepening.
She coughed. ‘Yes. You know—sneezing. Coughing. Sore throat.’ As if to emphasise her point, she sneezed again.
‘It’s summer.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘So?’
He expelled a deep breath. ‘Then get inside and sit down before you fall down.’
Tilly feared his prediction was not an unlikely one. Her head was woozy and thick, her body shivering. ‘I will—as soon as you go.’
He took the final step so he was level with her—though he towered over her, in point of fact, his strong body so close she could feel his warmth and smell his spicy fragrance. His nearness was intoxicating and overpowering, and her already ravaged senses weren’t up to fending off the kick of desire that surged inside her.
It surprised her.
It was wholly unwanted.
And it weakened her too, so that when he pushed at the door again it gave easily.
She didn’t resist. She did move back, though, putting distance between herself and Rio.
He stepped into her home, his eyes glittering in his handsome face as they bored into her for a long moment and then moved down the hallway, studying the pictures on her walls and the arrangements of tulips that were wilting now, their water emitting a faintly rancid odour. Or at least she imagined it was, judging by from the brown sludge outline on the glass vase. Her nose was too blocked to fully appreciate it.
Strangely, though, Rio tickled every one of her senses, even though she was barely functioning.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, focussing on a point over his shoulder. Surreptitiously she pressed her back against the wall, needing the support to stay upright.
A muscle jerked in his jaw. ‘Where is your bedroom?’
