For His Eyes Only by Liz Fielding Page A

could stand up. Get out of there. ‘You’ll find my number inside the lid of the cakebox.’
    ‘Most people find a business card more convenient,’ he said, flipping it open and glancing at the label on which she’d printed her name, telephone number and email address as he searched for a phone amongst the scattered tools and bones on his workbench and programmed in the number. ‘You can carry more than one at a time.’
    ‘Unfortunately, my card is out of date and since I had no way of knowing if you’d listen to me...’ She swallowed. He’d done a lot more than listen and she’d done a lot more than talk. ‘In my experience, men don’t throw away home-made cake, no matter where it’s come from.’
    ‘You were confident that once I’d tasted it I’d want more?’
    The scent of sex hung in the air as thick as paint and they both knew that the taste he was referring to had nothing to do with confectionery.
    No, no, no... ‘Oh, please!’ she said. ‘When I have all those horny men queuing up at my front door for my lemon drizzle.’
    Take that, Mr Hadley...
    ‘Really?’ He sucked on the tip of his thumb. ‘Personally, I prefer my sugar light on the lemon, heavy on the spice.’ A hot flush raced from her navel to her scalp as she realised that he was tasting her. ‘Sticky ginger...’ he said, volley intercepted and returned. Point won... ‘I’ve sent you my number. In case you run into any problems.’
    ‘Problems. Right.’ There wouldn’t be any problems. She’d make sure of that. But first she had to get out of here before she spontaneously combusted.
    Jacket...
    Where was it?
    She looked around, knowing that she should be grateful that she wasn’t crawling around on her hands and knees looking for her underwear.
    She should.
    Really.
    Darius spotted her jacket lying on the floor beside the sofa and, beating Natasha to it, scooped it up. She took a nervous step back, keeping him at arm’s length. She was mad at him. The condom remark had been crass, deliberately so—a bucket of cold water on an overheated situation that had got out of hand. Unfortunately, all it had done was create steam. They were both still on a hair trigger and playing Russian roulette which was why, instead of following her excellent example and tossing it to her, he shook her jacket out and held it up, inviting her to turn around and slide her arms into the sleeves.
    She could have ignored him, said she’d carry it, but after the slightest hesitation she turned, holding her arms towards him so that he could ease it on. She smelled of spice and sex and, with a groan he couldn’t stifle, he slid his hands down from her shoulders to cup her lovely breasts, pulling her against him while he breathed a kiss against her neck. She leaned back into him with a whimper that was half despair, half bliss and for a moment he just held her, before summoning the willpower to give her a gentle push towards the door.
    ‘Go,’ he said.
    She turned in his arms and looked up at him, her eyes liquid, appealing.
    ‘Now,’ he said, his forehead touching hers, her breasts brushing against his chest. He was wood and there was nothing he could do about it. ‘Please.’
    She took a breath. ‘Right. Yes... This was so not what I intended.’ She took a step back, picked up her bag, made it as far as the door, then paused. ‘I won’t bother you again until I have some news.’
    ‘I won’t be holding my breath.’
    Wrong on both counts.
    He’d been bothered the minute he’d set eyes on her. Unable to get her out of his mind. And breathless ever since she’d walked into his studio with that mesmerising sway of her hips.
    ‘How will you get there?’ he asked. A tiny frown puckered her smooth forehead. ‘The Chase. Now that the devious Denton is driving your Beemer?’
    ‘Oh...’ She shook her head, as if clearing it. ‘I’ll hire something.’
    ‘A waste of money. You’d be better off putting a deposit on a van,’ he said.