His hair was tousled, black stubble breaking out along his jawline, almost as thick as his trimmed goatee.
Sin. That was what he looked like. A walking, talking advertisement for sin. And temptation.
‘I didn’t mean to scare you,’ he said, not looking the least apologetic. ‘I heard noise and came to investigate.’
‘I couldn’t sleep.’
His deep blue eyes held hers, meaning swirling in them. ‘Nor could I.’
She broke the lock first, aware of warmth suffusing more than just her face.
‘What brings you out of hiding?’ he asked, standing a little closer than she would have liked.
She took a step back. ‘I’ve not been in hiding.’
‘You’ve barely left your room in three days. Monique says you’ve been no further than the dining room.’
‘This isn’t my home. I don’t feel comfortable roaming around as if I belong here.’ She felt especially uncomfortable now, but in an entirely different way, in a ‘sexy half-naked man in front of me’ kind of way.
She must be delirious. Sleep deprivation could do that.
‘You do belong here. While you are under my roof, this is your home. You are free to treat it as you wish.’
‘Except leave it.’
‘You are always free to leave.’
She bit back the comment that wanted to break free. What was the point? It would only be a rehash of all their other arguments regarding her freedom.
‘I was after some warm milk,’ she muttered. ‘I thought it would help me sleep.’
‘I thought I heard you thrashing about in your bed.’ At her quizzical expression, he added, ‘My room is next to yours.’
‘Oh.’
‘You didn’t know?’ His lips quirked into a smirk.
‘No. I didn’t.’ It shouldn’t matter where Pepe slept. He could sleep in a shed for all she cared. But the room next to hers...?
Why the thought should heat her veins, she had no idea.
The playful, sensuous expression in his eyes softened a touch. ‘I make a mean hot chocolate.’
It took a moment for her to realise he was offering to make her some. ‘Thank you.’
He started busying himself, opening doors and rifling through drawers.
She suppressed a snigger and hoicked herself up on the kitchen table. ‘You don’t know your way around your kitchen any better than I do.’
‘Guilty as charged.’ He knelt down and leaned into a cupboard, giving her an excellent view of his tight buttocks straining against the denim. ‘I employ housekeepers so I don’t have to know my way around my kitchens. When I’m home alone, take-out is my best friend.’
Oh, the blasé way he pluralised kitchen! Cara thought of the poky galley kitchen she shared—had shared—with three other women. It would probably fit in Pepe’s fridge.