Maid for Montero(23)

‘I rather think it might be more appropriate if you do not call me sir tonight.’

She shrugged and steered her car past the others parked along one side of the narrow lane. ‘Is that an order, Mr Montero?’

‘If you like, and try Isandro. It is my name. Relax,’ he recommended. ‘This is a party. I will not cramp your style…’

‘It’s not that sort of party and be careful there’s a…’ She stopped and hid a smile, adding as he surveyed his muddy shoe, ‘A bit of a ditch that side.’

Zoe had been concerned for her friends’ feelings, but slowly let down her guard as she realised that, far from looking down his nose at her friends, he was charming them. She could relax and enjoy herself; why not? Against all her expectations he was not being aloof or even icily polite. From the moment they had arrived and he had been swept away by Chloe, who had wanted to show him off, he had given the appearance of enjoying himself.

Watching Isandro talk easily with John and the local vet—who, according to Chloe, had not worn low-cut blouses before her divorce—it was Zoe who found herself feeling like an outsider. She felt her resentment rise as the red-headed divorcee threw back her head and laughed throatily at something Isandro had said, giving him an excellent view of her cleavage. Zoe’s teeth clenched—and he looked, of course; he was a man!

How predictable. Shaking her head in a combination of contempt and cynical amusement, she felt embarrassed for the woman who was being so obvious. And he wasn’t doing anything to discourage her, she thought. Her eyes narrowed as the woman’s hand came to rest on his arm and stayed there, her long nails showing as flashes of scarlet as they curved over his biceps.

Zoe couldn’t decide if the woman was pathetic or predatory…and whether she herself was embarrassed or envious.

Ignoring the laughable possibility that she wanted to touch Isandro, she directed her stubbornly critical glance over his strong, arrogant profile, pushing away the image of moving her hands over the hard muscular contours of his body, waiting for the hot hormone rush that tinged her cheek with pink to recede.

This was insane, she told herself. How could the man be all the way over the other side of the room and still manage to jangle every nerve ending in her body? His masculinity really was totally overwhelming. She sipped her drink, wishing that there were something stronger than fruit juice in it—though maybe not; the last thing she needed was her social restraints vanishing. Zoe had not exaggerated when she explained her reaction to alcohol; she had learnt after a couple of deeply embarrassing experiences that she and booze were not a good combination.

Common sense told her this was about hormones. She’d just have to accept it as an uncomfortable fact, like a pollen allergy, and deal with it. No point whatsoever in overanalysing the primitive physical response he had awoken in her, and it didn’t really matter if this was all about timing or that he had been the catalyst for kicking her dormant hormones into life. She would treat it as an inconvenience rather than a disaster. There were always coping mechanisms and for the rare occasions there weren’t, you avoided the problem. Like her body’s inability to cope with alcohol—she didn’t touch it; she wasn’t going to touch Isandro. Simple.

What would be a disaster or at least an unwanted distraction would be to think too much about the primitive hunger she sensed was somewhere inside her. She should acknowledge it and forget about it. She was human; she had rotten taste in men. But she must not go there.

The vet, on the other hand, had clearly no such qualms about going where God knew how many women had been before, Zoe thought, her lips moving in a grimace of distaste as the older woman and her curves moved in closer. She had all but trapped him in the corner now…not that he showed any inclination to escape.

Her lips were still tightened in a cynical sneer of superiority when, without warning, Isandro turned his head slowly as though sensing her scrutiny. His dark eyes sought and connected with hers across the room. It was as if he possessed some radar that told him exactly where she was standing…where she was staring.

Their eyes locked, and for a long, heart-thudding moment Zoe could feel her own pulse over every inch of her skin, the vibrations reaching her tingling fingertips. She stopped breathing. Her stomach muscles quivered; her legs felt weak and oddly heavy; her knees literally shook.

The contact might have lasted moments or an hour, she didn’t have a clue, but by the time she managed to bring her lashes down in a protective fan her insides had dissolved. Her throat was dry as she raised her empty glass to her lips and struggled to regain some semblance of self-control.