Man About The House. Alison Kelly

sound. ‘I was not drunk!’ The declaration was immediately followed by a painful grimace that called her a liar.

      ‘Sweetheart,’ he said through a chuckle, ‘if they took blood from you now, they could sell it as eighty proof.’

      ‘I tell you, I don’t drink. I didn’t have anything last night but punch and cola.’

      ‘Uh-huh.’ He didn’t bother to hide either his scepticism or amusement at her straight-faced avowal. ‘And I suppose you don’t have a hangover this morning either, even though you look like death warmed up.’

      ‘Having never been drunk, I don’t have the slightest idea what a hangover is,’ she told him, devoid of all trace of the previous shyness she’d exhibited around him. ‘And if I look a bit off colour it’s because I’m obviously coming down with some kind of flu.’

      She was absolutely serious, Brett realised. She truly believed she was feeling the way she did because she was getting a bug. Meaghan had said she was naive, but this... Hell, it was criminal to let someone as innocent as Joanna Ford out alone!

      ‘The flu, huh?’ he said casually. ‘Running a temperature?’

      ‘No, but I think the aspirin I took earlier is keeping it at bay.’

      ‘And the aspirin was for...let me guess...that mild headache you have?’

      ‘There’s nothing mild about it. It feels like—’

      ‘Like your skull is being split in two from the inside?’ he inserted, knowingly. ‘Except, of course, when a raised voice, a slammed door or even a sneeze makes it seem like someone is using a jackhammer to clear your sinuses.’

      Thick black lashes blinked over surprised turquoise eyes. ‘Well, yes...I guess that’s one way of putting it,’ she conceded, her tone tinged with the same hint of doubt that was beginning to show in her wan-looking face.

      Brett gave a sage nod and went on. ‘And I’d say the odds would be in the red that, despite the fact you’ve probably brushed your teeth three or four times now, your mouth still feels like it’s coated with old cotton wool that’s been dipped in vinegar and rolled in sand. Oh, and your stomach probably feels like it’s going to cave in too, but the mere thought of actually introducing food to it makes it start recoiling in dread.’

      He raised an eyebrow at her ever-increasing frown. ‘How’s Dr Brett’s description of your symptoms so far? Ah, yes...and shaking your head hurts,’ he added, seeing her grimace after doing so.

      ‘Well?’ he prodded.

      ‘That’s what a hangover feels like?’

      ‘Yep, ’fraid so.’ As concern battled with confusion for dominance in her pretty face Brett wished he’d been a little less smug. “I know it’s small consolation right now,’ he said, ‘but you aren’t the first person to have one, Joanna.’

      ‘But my stomach doesn’t feel like you said,’ she told him, in a grasping-at-straws tone.

      ‘Ahh,’ he said sagely. ‘Then you’re obviously what I call a cast-iron gut drunk,’ he told her, softening the description with a smile. ‘The majority of hangover victims, myself included, cannot look at anything even remotely greasy the morning after. But there’s a second category who swear ingesting as much cholesterol-laden food as quickly as possible restores them to a reasonable facsimile of health.’ He grinned. ‘My bet is you’re in the latter category and that you’re craving...oh, say, a big plate of bacon and eggs? Or maybe a nice, thick juicy hamburger?’

      He allowed himself a smug chuckle as her expression came close to a drool. ‘Tell you what, you put those sheets in the machine while I go get dressed, then meet me in the kitchen.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Because it just so happens I’m the cure for your hangover,’ he said, returning to the task of peeling off his wetsuit. ‘I happen to cook the best damned bacon and eggs you’ll ever taste.’

      ‘You can’t do that while I’m here!’ The adamant declaration surprised him.

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t expect you to do all the cooking.’

      ‘I mean you can’t just take your clothes off like that!’

      Take my—’

      There was no containing his amusement once he’d caught on to where she was coming from, but he sobered quickly when she dumped the bedding onto the floor and pivoted towards the door. Acting purely on instinct, he threw out an arm, barring her escape; he instantly regretted the action when fear flared in those gorgeous eyes.

      ‘It’s okay, Joanna,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I’m dressed. That is, I’ve got a pair of swimmers underneath.’ Once again she flushed pink.

      A week ago he’d have sworn blushing had been entirely bred out of the last few generations of females, but Joanna Ford was a real revelation. A very attractive, very sexy revelation. It was clear she didn’t know what to say or where to look. Or rather, she was working hard to look at everything bar his bare chest, to which she was currently close enough for him to feel the warmth of her stuttered, ‘Oh. Well... I...’

      The husky quality of her uncertain whisper sparked interest in muscles of Brett’s body which in the wake of the emotional workout Toni had given him weren’t supposed to be looking for exercise. They especially weren’t supposed to be motivated by a petite twenty-two-year-old with more curves than common sense and a way of nibbling her mouth that made a man want to say, Hey...taste mine.

      When she did eventually bring her gaze to his face, her demeanour of shy expectation as she slowly slipped a strand of silky jet hair behind her ear almost made him groan. Had any other woman looked at him like that he’d have read it as a come on and accepted the invitation. Hell, he wanted to accept it now! Trouble was, as difficult as it was to believe, he doubted Joanna had a clue about the signals she was emitting.

      Deciding they both needed space Brett lowered his arm and stepped back. Producing what he hoped was a reassuring smile, he excused himself and headed to the bathroom.

      

      Brett heard her enter the kitchen scant seconds before a soft, awed voice officially announced her. ‘You really can cook.’

      ‘You seem surprised.’ He spared her a quick glance. ‘Can’t you?’

      ‘Can’t I what?’

      ‘Cook.’

      Her laugh was incredulous. ‘Of course I can. I’ve just never met a man who could.’

      ‘Then you must’ve met a lot of useless, skinny, hungry men.’ His teasing comment limped into an awkward silence.

      The way she was fidgeting with the carton of eggs lying on the benchtop hinted at her still being uncomfortable in his presence, for which Brett was grateful. It meant she’d be too distracted to notice any semblance of unease he might display, because there was no denying this girl seriously raised the level of his awareness meter. In the half-hour or so since their earlier encounter, she’d donned make-up and a trendy trouser suit and it irritated him. To his way of thinking, the sexy fashion-plate image constituted false advertising by promising things that were way out of this kid’s league and strictly off limits to him. Sans make-up, dressed in the blue jeans and sweatshirt of earlier, she’d been less of a threat to his good intentions by at least looking as innocent and unworldly as she so obviously was. Now she looked as if she not only knew the score but wanted the role of captain-coach in the game.

      He tried hard to concentrate on what he was doing, but was so aware of her watching his every move her gaze was almost like a physical touch.

      ‘Um, would you like me to set the table?’ she offered, after several minutes of razor-sharp silence which Brett figured had to have made her as uncomfortable as him.

      ‘Sure. Thanks.’

      Instantly