Susan Napier – Savage Courtship (страница 2)
The little nip of sardonic humour restored a small measure of Benedict’s normal equilibrium. He suddenly realised that waking up to find a stark-naked man looming over her was more likely to fling his mystery guest into hysterics than prompt a meek departure. The last thing his exhausted mind and body needed right now was to get involved in a dramatic scene.
He turned, intending to fetch his bathrobe from the hook in the bathroom, when the muted burr of his cell-phone distracted him. Tired as he was he couldn’t ignore the siren-call of master to technological slave. He detoured to his briefcase and pulled out the humming unit.
‘So, are you home yet?’
Benedict raked his fingers over his cropped head as he recognised his friend and colleague’s distinctive American drawl. ‘Yes, Dane,
A lazy chuckle that was Dane Judson’s good-humoured trademark vibrated in his ear. ‘What do you think of her? Can I pick them, or what? Isn’t she the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen?’
Benedict spun on his heel and stared incredulously at the woman on the bed. ‘She—I—
His friend laughed and Benedict could hear the faint clink of bottle against glass in the background. ‘Uh-huh. Rendered you speechless, huh? I knew I’d do it one day. I just wish I could have been there to see your face, but I’m stuck here in Wellington until next week.’
‘But what in the—?’
‘Many happy returns for tomorrow, pal.’ There was the audible sound of a toast being drunk.
Benedict cleared his throat as understanding burst upon his sluggish brain. ‘This is your idea of a
‘Don’t worry, pal, it’s all pleasure and no responsibility,’ Dane gleefully misunderstood him. ‘You don’t have to look after her for keeps—she’s strictly on weekend loan. I promised you’d return her in perfect nick so make sure you treat her real lover-like—’
‘
Another rolling laugh. ‘I keep telling you, all work and no play makes Ben a dull boy. And don’t tell me you’re not feeling jaded because I know you well enough to read the signs. You need to revitalise yourself with a little hell-raising and, believe me, this babe is guaranteed to loosen you up real fast. A few days with her and you’ll feel eighteen again...’
‘I wouldn’t wish a second time around as a teenager on my worst enemy,’ Benedict said sardonically, unconsciously lowering his voice as he leaned against the bedside cabinet, wondering what Dane would say if he knew that his outrageous birthday present had got tired of waiting to spring her surprise and was out cold. Benedict decided not to spoil his friend’s mirthful pleasure by telling him. ‘Let alone my best friend. I hesitate to inject a dose of unwelcome reality into your adolescent fantasies, Dane, but isn’t this kind of arrangement a bit unhealthy these days?’
Dane gave a whoop of delighted laughter. ‘Afraid you’ll have a heart-attack from the excitement? Come on, Ben—would I give you something that I thought would kill you? When was the last time you had some innocent, macho fun? A year? Eighteen months ago? Trust me, you have nothing to worry about. I had her thoroughly checked over inside
‘For God’s sake—!’ Benedict could feel the heat in his face, almost as if he was embarrassed on behalf of a woman who was obviously either a high-class call-girl or a free spirit who got her kicks out of having sex with total strangers. He knew it had been quite some time since his last relationship with a woman ended but he had been so absorbed in his work that he had never worried about his inactive libido. Not so Dane, it seemed, whose sex life was as active as his bizarre sense of humour.
‘Dane—’
‘No need to thank me, pal,’ his friend interrupted, ringing off with a breezy, ‘Just enjoy! And remember, it’s pumpkin time Monday morning...’
Benedict swayed slightly under another rolling wave of fatigue as he switched off the phone and placed it clumsily down on the bedside table. He struggled to keep his eyelids open as he wearily debated his options.
There were plenty of other beds in the house but his proprietary interest in this one was stubbornly acute.
Despite her apparent sprawl, his nameless birthday gift actually trespassed on little more than half of the bed, he noted, her left arm and hip neatly aligned with the far edge of the single mattress. He looked down at her outflung arm, at the long, slender fingers curled laxly over the edge of the bed. Her fingertips almost touched his hair-roughened knee. Gently he encircled her wrist and lifted the sleep-heavy arm, placing it neatly back against her side. There was now an inviting expanse of empty bed available. A man-sized portion, if the man was of greyhound-lean proportions...
Goldilocks slumbered on. She was amazingly still, except for that slow, sensuous ripple of breath down the long, beautiful spine. She made sleep seem like an enchantingly erotic experience and Benedict found himself wondering whether a woman who offered herself up so voluptuously to sleep would be equally hedonistic in her approach to lovemaking.
A lazy stirring of male curiosity piqued his jaded senses, his angry earlier resentment overwhelmed by the knowledge that if he cared to find out he only needed to wake her. She was his to command. He wondered if that fleecy gold hair was as soft as it looked, and whether the colour was natural. He wondered whether her front would live up to that matchless back. Even in the slackness of sleep he could see that her muscles were well-toned. Her waking movements would be strong and supple. He imagined watching that golden back arching and flexing in slow, indolent rhythm with the languid thrust of his hips. He’d take her slow and easy at first...and then...and then...
He looked down at his quiescent body in rueful self-derision. And then...nothing. His mind might be aroused but he was so exhausted he was physically incapable of doing his vivid imagination justice. If he got into bed with her tonight he would be sleeping with her in the strictly literal sense.
Waking up with her in the morning, though, was suddenly an enchanting prospect.
Oh, yes...after a good, solid sleep the birthday boy would be in far better condition to appreciate his very unexpected, and undoubtedly expensive present...
CHAPTER TWO
VANESSA FLYNN was sitting at the scrubbed kitchen table sipping her first cup of coffee of the day when her employer burst into the kitchen and came to an abrupt halt.
Her hands tightened around the cup but that was the only visible reaction that escaped her rigid self-control. Inside she was one huge, all-enveloping blush.
Mrs Riley looked up from the breakfast tray she had busied herself over on the kauri-slab bench in surprise.
‘Did you want your breakfast early this morning, Mr Savage?’ she asked, her middle-aged face creased with dismay at this departure from routine. ‘Only, your office never notified us that you were coming last night, you see, so nothing’s quite prepared. I didn’t even know that I’d be needed until Vanessa rang me a little while ago—’
‘No, no...’ Benedict Savage cut her off with a wave of his hand, frowning as he looked at the single setting she had laid on the tray. ‘You don’t have to rush.’
Vanessa braced herself as his gaze lifted, darted about the kitchen, and reluctantly settled on her.
She willed herself not to let her interior blush show, her dark brown eyes steady as they met his. She had dressed in her best wallpaper this morning—sensible, knee-length grey skirt and white short-sleeved blouse, her damp chestnut hair strictly confined to a neat French pleat, her face made up with the discreet foundation and barest touch of ginger lipstick that she habitually wore when on duty—too little to draw undue attention to her features but just enough to satisfy her feminine vanity.
Not that she had much reason to be vain. She was a shade under six feet but without the willowy slenderness that would have rendered her height fashionable. At least everything else was proportionate to her grand size, but that was little consolation. Her face was what might be politely termed strong-boned, her chin too square, her mouth too big and her wide, dark eyes deeply set and heavy-lidded, so that she was cursed with a perpetually sleepy air which was totally at odds with her practical efficiency.
She swallowed, the sweetened coffee turning bitter on her tongue as she withstood the silent stare of the man she had woken up in bed with that morning.
Behind the tortoiseshell frames she found his blue eyes unreadable. Not that Benedict Savage’s expression was