Trish Wylie – Escape for Valentine's: Beauty and the Billionaire / Her One and Only Valentine / The Girl Next Door (страница 13)
Then he winked, and left the room, clicking the door shut behind him. And Sinclair shifted her attention to the deep, claw-footed tub.
It looked decadently wonderful. He’d set out the shampoo, bath gel and lotion. And he’d obviously poured some of the Luscious Lavender foaming oil into the water. She’d spent the last six months thinking about the artsy labels, the expensive magazine ads, the stuffed sample gift baskets for the ball, and the retail locations that needed some extra attention promotions-wise. Funny, that she’d never thought much about the products themselves.
The water steamed, and the lavender scent filled the room, and the anticipation of that luxurious heat on her aching shoulders was more than tempting.
She peeled off her T-shirt, unzipped her jeans, then slipped out of her underwear. She eased, toe-first, into the scorching bathwater, dipping in her foot, her calf, her knee. Then she slowly brought in her other foot, bracing her hands on the edges of the tub to lower her body into the hot water.
After her skin grew accustomed to the temperature, and her shoulders and neck began to sigh in pleasure, her thoughts made their way to Hunter. He was on the other side of that thin wall. And she was naked. And he knew she was naked.
She pictured him opening the door, wearing nothing but a smile, a glass of wine in each hand. He’d cross the black and white tiles, bend to kiss her, maybe on the neck, maybe on the lips. He’d set down their glasses. Then he’d draw her to her feet, dripping wet, the scented oil slick on her skin. His hands would roam over her stomach, her breasts, her buttocks, pulling her tight against his body, lifting her—
Something banged outside and Hunter swore in frustration. Clearly, he wasn’t out there stripping off his clothes and popping the wine cork. She was naked, not twenty feet away, and he was dutifully painting.
She sucked in a breath and ducked her head under the water.
Four
By the time Sinclair emerged from her bathroom, wrapped in a thick, terry robe, her face glowing, her wet hair combed back from her face, Hunter had cleaned up the paint and ordered a pizza. The smell of tomatoes and cheese wafted up from the cardboard box on the breakfast bar while he popped the cork from his housewarming bottle of wine.
“How did you know sausage and mushroom is my favorite?” she asked as she padded across the paint splattered tarps.
“I’m psychic.” He retrieved two stools from beneath the tarp, then opened the top of the pizza box.
“How’d it go in there?” he asked her, watching her climb up on one stool.
She arranged the robe so that it covered her from head to toe, and he tried not to think about what was under there.
She smiled in a way that did his heart good. “I’m a whole new woman.”
“Not completely new, I hope,” he teased as he took the stool facing her. The covered breakfast bar was at their elbows.
She grinned. “Don’t worry. I saved the best parts.”
“Oh, good.” He poured them each a glass of the pinot. “So, are you ready to move on to makeup?”
She reached for a slice of pizza. “You planning to help me with that, too?”
He took in her straggled hair, squeaky clean face and oversized robe. If he had his way, he’d keep her exactly as she was. But this wasn’t about him.
“I don’t think you want to arm me with a mascara wand.”
“But you’ve done such a good job so far.” She blinked her thick lashes ingenuously.
“We could call one of the Bergdorf ladies.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
She hit him with an impatient stare. “It’s not that I
“Oh.”
She chewed on her slice of pizza, and he followed suit. After a while, she slipped her bare feet off the stool’s crossbar and swung them in the air while they ate in companionable silence.
“What about clothes?” he asked.
“I’ll call Kristy and get some suggestions.”
He nodded his agreement. Having a sister in the fashion design business had to help. “Sounds like you’ve got everything handled,” he observed.
She shifted on the stool, flexing her neck back and forth, wincing. “It’s not going to be that big of a deal. I’m a pretty efficient project manager. The only difference is, this time the project is me.”
Hunter wasn’t convinced project management was the right approach. There was something in the art and spirit of beauty she seemed to be missing. But he was happy to have got her this far, and he wasn’t about to mess with his success.
She lifted her wineglass and the small motion caused her to flinch in obvious pain.
He motioned for her to turn around.
She glanced behind her. “What?”
“Go ahead. Turn.” He motioned again, and this time she complied.
“You painted too long,” he told her as he loosened her robe on her neck and pressed his thumbs into the stiff muscles on her shoulders.
“I wanted to finish.”
“You’re going to be sore in the morning.” He found a knot and began to work it.
“I’ll live. Mmmmm.”
“That’s the spot?”
“Oh, yeah.”
He’d promised himself he’d stick to business, and he would. But his body had reacted the instant he’d touched her. Her skin was warm from the bath, slick from the bath oil, and fragrant from the water and the candles. But he scooted his stool closer, persisting in the massage, determined to keep this all about her.
To distract himself, he glanced around at the freshly painted room. It was small, but the windows were large, and he could see that it had potential to be cozy and inviting. In fact, he preferred it to the big, Osland family house on Long Island.
He stayed there whenever he was in town, but with just him and a couple of staff members, it always seemed to echo with emptiness. Right now, he wished he could invite Sinclair over to fill it up with laughter. “Have you always lived in New York?” he asked her instead.
She nodded. “Kristy and I went to school in Brooklyn. You?”
“Mostly in California.”
“Private school, I bet.”
“You’re right.”
“Uniforms and everything?”
“Yes.”
She tipped her head to glance up at him. “You must have looked cute in your little short pants and tie.”
“I’m sure I was adorable.” He dug his thumb into a stubborn knot in her shoulder.
“Ouch. Was that for calling you cute?”
“That was to make you feel better in the morning.”
She flexed her shoulder under his hands. “Did you by any chance play football in high school?”
“Soccer and basketball. You?”
“I edited the school newspaper.”
“Nerdy.”
“Exciting. I once covered a murder.”
He paused. “There was a murder at your high school?”
She gave a long, sad sigh of remembrance. “Mrs. Mitchell’s goldfish. Its poor, lifeless body was found on the science table. Someone had cruelly removed it from its tank after hours. We suspected the janitor.”
Hunter could picture an earnest, young Sinclair hot on the trail of a murder suspect, all serious and no-nonsense, methodically reviewing the evidence.
“Did he do it?” Hunter asked.