A Tempting Engagement. BRONWYN JAMESON

flinched as if he’d grabbed her again, as if he’d struck her, and stared at him with wide, stunned eyes. Hell. He hadn’t meant such a low blow. Undeserved, given her reason for running. He raked a hand through his hair, scraping the wet strands back from his face and wishing he could tidy up his rampant emotions as easily.

      “I’m sorry, Em.” He closed his eyes a moment. “That was uncalled for.”

      When she didn’t answer, he looked back to find she’d sat. On top of a packing box. Distracted, he gestured at its many mates sitting higgledy-piggledy along the porch. “Are you moving?”

      “Yes.” Her reply sounded as much like a weary sigh as a word.

      Mitch frowned. Chantal hadn’t mentioned this in her update. “Because of your grandfather’s will?”

      “Stepgrandfather.”

      “Semantics. Every man and his dog knows you did more for Owen in his last years than all his blood relatives lumped together. You shouldn’t have given up fighting, Emily.”

      “I didn’t give up, I lost,” she fired back. Defiance lent color to her cheeks; her eyes sparked fiercely. She no longer looked stunned, no longer sounded defeated. If he touched her now, she wouldn’t jump and tremble. If he touched her now… Don’t go there, Mitch.

      He blew out a long, serrated breath and hitched his chin toward the boxes. “When are you moving?”

      “This weekend.”

      “To?”

      “I have a room at the Lion.” She stood up and straightened defensively, as if in response to something she saw in his eyes. Possibly pure, hot exasperation. “It’s clean and it’s conveni—”

      “It’s cold, and there’s nothing convenient about living on top of a bar. Hell, Emily. You about jumped out of your skin when I drove up beside you. How do you think you’re going to manage when a drunk knocks on your door?”

      “I’ve taken self-defence classes,” she said, lifting her chin. But the words came out coated in hesitation rather than bravado. With a jolt of satisfaction Mitch sensed the shift, and started toward her. No way was she moving into any hotel room, and he intended to make that crystal clear.

      “What did they teach you, Emily?” he asked softly, backing her up with slow, steady deliberation. “Did they teach you the three prime targets?”

      “Yesss.”

      Her husky whisper wouldn’t have scared a mouse. Disgusted, annoyed, he kept coming. “Which would you go for first?”

      Her back hit the wall and her eyes widened, thick lashes fluttering. Her mouth opened, no words came out, but Mitch felt the touch of her exhalation against his skin. And knew he was much closer than he’d intended.

      She shifted, drawing breath, and her jacket brushed against his, a soft shush of fabric against fabric, yet he felt it as intensely as if he’d leaned right into her body. An intense desire to do just that expanded in his blood, catching him completely unaware. Hands planted either side of her face, he felt the soft temptation of her body inches from his. Saw her lips, pink, moist, open.

      You’re supposed to be talking her into coming back, he told himself, not reminding her why she left.

      “What would you do, Emily?” he asked, irritated with himself, his body, his cursed male hormones. “If I were that intruder?”

      Blinking, she stretched taller against the wall, and he wondered if she was trying to escape or trying to get closer. Mouth to mouth. And still she said nothing, did nothing but breathe fast and shallow, air sloughing against his throat until he could stand it no longer. With a muttered oath, he used his purchase on the wall to push himself away.

      From the edge of the porch, he heard her sigh, the sound as soft as the slow fall of rain. “I guess you made your point.”

      “Which point would that be?” he asked with rueful honesty. Something like—now I’ve seen you in my bed, I can’t think of anything else but getting you back there?

      “The lessons were a big fat waste of money. I am a wimp and nothing will change that.” She tried to temper the words with a smile, but when Mitch didn’t return it, she looked away. “The room is only temporary. Until I find a better place.”

      “You don’t have to do that,” he said slowly. This was it—the opening he’d been waiting for. He paused, deliberately, until her gaze swung back to his. “If you come back and work for me.”

      At first she simply shook her head, eyes hauntingly dark with some unnamed emotion. But when he opened his mouth to explain, she stepped in quickly. “I have a job. Two jobs, actually.”

      “Chantal told me about the bar job.” Mitch shook his head, hoping to clear it of the residual, hazy desire. “What else are you doing?”

      “Cleaning. At the Lion.”

      “Pulling beer and cleaning hotel rooms?” The words exploded from his mouth. “Hell, Emily, that’s not the kind of work you should be doing.”

      Hell, Mitch, that’s not the way to go about this. What is wrong with you? Scaring her out of her wits, all but jumping her bones, judging her job choice…or lack of choice. He needed to remember what this was about. Joshua needed a secure and stable home environment, constancy and routine, and he wanted Emily. Mitch had let him down enough times this past year—this time, he wouldn’t fail.

      “Joshua needs a nanny,” he said more softly. Evenly. “I’m working from home, writing, so the hours are flexible. My Everyday Heroes series is going into production soon, so I’ll have trips to Sydney where I might be away most of the week. I’ll make the extra hours worth your while. You can double your previous pay.”

      She choked out a laugh, a strangled sound of surprise. “With that kind of pay, you should have candidates lined up halfway to Cliffton.”

      “I’m only making the offer to you.”

      Her amusement faded, her eyes looked large and somber in the low light, and when she spoke, the one word was barely audible. “Why?”

      “Joshua wants you.”

      Those three words widened the crack in Emily’s defences—the crack that had started when he’d accused her of breaking Joshua’s heart. Not knowing how to answer—not wanting to answer too fast, too emotionally, too thoughtlessly—she touched an anxious hand to her throat.

      “Ever since you left, he’s been…difficult.”

      Oh, Lord, he knew exactly where it hurt most. Emily’s gaze darted back to his shadowed face, found his expression as hard to read as the color of his eyes. Hazel, according to his passport, but they changed as often as his mood. One minute as green as a winter garden, the next the cool gray of a rainstorm.

      “There’s no need to live in,” he said evenly. “If that’s what’s bothering you.”

      Her heart lurched. Of course he wouldn’t want her in his house, not when she might do something inappropriate and embarrassing such as, say, climb into his bed. Again.

      “I’ll find you a place in town and pay the rent.”

      “As well as that extra pay?” She swallowed audibly. “You are kidding, right?”

      “Do I look like I am?”

      No, he looked intent and purposeful, his jaw set as hard as the rest of his body. A ripple of sensation shimmered through her nerve endings as she recalled the look in his eyes as he’d tracked her across the porch. The feeling of all that dark heat so close, and so far. Because naturally, she’d misread those signals, too. He’d been playing with her, proving his point, demonstrating her vulnerability.

      Frustrated and annoyed, she shook her head. “That’s plain ridiculous, spending so much money—”