‘Like that would have helped.’ She clutched at her throat with both hands. ‘I’m not mad. It wasn’t me. I was framed!’ she croaked out, rolling her eyes, feigning madness.
He was expected to laugh, but it was taking all his concentration just to breathe because she’d forgotten not to look at him. And then she remembered and he could see that it wasn’t just him. They were both struggling with the zing of lightning that arced between them.
‘Since Plan B was a threat to sue me for malicious damage...’ Her voice was thick, her pupils huge against the shot-silk blue; what would she do if he reached out and took her hand and held it against his zip, if he sucked her lower lip into his mouth? ‘...I didn’t think there was much point in hanging around.’
He turned away, crossed to the kettle, picking it up to make sure there was some water in it before switching it on. Any distraction from the thoughts racketing through his head. The same thoughts that had driven him from Morgan’s office amplified a hundred times.
He had no problem with lust at first sight. Uncomplicated, life’s-too-short sex that gave everyone a good time and didn’t screw with your head. This was complicated with knobs on. He should never have let her stay.
He could not have sent her away...
‘It’s a bit like denying Hadley Chase is riddled with woodworm,’ he said, tossing teabags into a couple of mugs, making an effort to bring the conversation back to the house—as effective as any cold shower. ‘Once it’s in print, who’s going to believe you?’
‘Exactly... Not that it is,’ she said, as eager as him to get back to business, apparently. ‘Riddled with woodworm. The house has been neglected in recent years, the roof needs some work, but the structure is sound and the advertisement did get people talking about the house,’ she stressed earnestly, as if that were something to be welcomed. ‘My photograph was reprinted in all the weekend property supplements.’
‘Your photograph?’ He waved her towards the ancient sofa that he sometimes slept on when he’d worked late and he was too tired to stagger the hundred yards home. ‘Didn’t Morgan employ a professional?’
‘Oh, yes, and he did his best with the interior, but it was raining on the day he was there so, despite his best efforts with Photoshop, his exteriors weren’t doing the house any favours,’ she said, sinking into the low saggy cushions. ‘We were running out of time so, when the weather changed at the weekend, I grabbed the chance to dash down the motorway early on Sunday and take some myself.’
‘You’ve got a good eye.’
‘Oh, I took hundreds of pictures. That one just leapt out at me.’
It was more than that, he thought, getting out the milk, keeping his hands busy. She’d taken the trouble to go back in her own time. Given it one hundred per cent... ‘It’s a pity the property pages didn’t just stick to the photograph.’
‘That was never going to happen. It was too good a story to pass up on and it was a fabulous PR opportunity. If Miles hadn’t panicked...’ She paused, as if something was bothering her.
‘What? What would you have done?’
‘Oh... Well, first I’d have got in a firm of cleaners at the firm’s expense. Then I’d have invited the property editors to lunch at the Hadley Arms and, once I’d got them gagging at the perfect picture postcard village, I’d have driven them up to the house, slowly enough so that they could appreciate the view, that first glimpse as the house appears.’