BTW: I Love You: Surf, Sea and a Sexy Stranger. Heidi Rice

asked.

      She tensed as heat rocketed up her throat. ‘No.’ That wasn’t just off, it was totally out of order. What right did he have to ask her a question like that? And in that accusatory tone? ‘He’s my boss; I would never sleep with my boss.’ She stopped. Why was she justifying herself? ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’

      She hated that she sounded so lame—and that the question had made her feel dirty.

      She stepped past him. ‘I’d better go.’

      ‘Hang on a minute.’ He grasped her arm, holding her in place. ‘There’s no need to get upset. It was a valid question.’

      ‘No, it wasn’t,’ she said, tugging on her arm and getting more outraged by the second.

      How could she have exposed herself to this? When they’d jumped each other this afternoon, she’d never considered he might not respect her afterwards.

      He had no right to probe into her sex life, just because she’d done exactly what he’d done. She hadn’t thought less of him for his actions, why should he think less of her? The double standard sucked. But far worse was the humiliation that lay just beneath. She had nothing whatsoever to feel humiliated about. She was a single consenting adult who could decide to sleep with anyone she chose. But the memory of how she’d let him bring her to orgasm—countless times—made her feel defenceless. What exactly had he been thinking while he was pleasuring her so efficiently? That she was a tart?

      ‘Phil’s an operator,’ he said, as if he were being perfectly reasonable. ‘And I know exactly how he operates.’ His eyes flicked down her frame. ‘You would be fair game.’

      ‘This isn’t about Phil,’ she said, the choked feeling in her throat making it hard to speak. ‘It’s been nice, Mr King, but it’s obviously time for me to go.’

      He swore softly. ‘Don’t start with the Mr King again or you’re going to annoy me.’

      ‘Really?’ she said, desperate to keep her shredded dignity intact. ‘Well, that will make two of us then, won’t it?’ She stalked through the kitchen doorway, strode down the hallway.

      ‘Aren’t you forgetting something, Madeleine?’

      She heard the arrogant tone as she wrenched open the front door.

      Then spotted her bike, lying in a heap by the front steps, and stared up at the stars winking in the sky.

       Drat.

      She swung round, her back ramrod straight. He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, observing her with mocking indulgence.

      ‘Do you mind giving me a lift home?’ she asked in a clipped voice, hoping to telegraph her disapproval.

      ‘Not at all,’ he replied, pushing away from the wall. His stiff leg did nothing to lessen the insolent way he strolled towards her.

      It took ten minutes for them to wrestle the carcass of her bike into the boot of his snazzy little sports car. And twenty minutes more to make the silent drive to her granny’s cottage on the other side of the Bay.

      Maddy fumed every single inch of the way—and kept her eyes focused on the road ahead. She waited for an apology, but it didn’t come. By the time he braked in front of the tiny one-bedroom cottage her resentment had reached fever pitch.

      Sleeping with a man she didn’t know had been foolhardy. But she thought she’d gone into this adventure with her eyes open. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been open enough. What was supposed to have been a sexually liberating experience had turned into exactly the opposite. He’d made her feel cheap.

      But what bugged her the most was that for a second it had actually mattered to her what he thought. He wasn’t her friend. He was her one-night lover. But what was meant to be an anonymous fling didn’t seem so anonymous any more.

      She gripped the door handle. ‘Thanks for the lift.’ And the multiple orgasm, she wanted to add with as much sarcasm as she could muster, but figured he had an ego big enough to take it as a compliment.

      His arm shot across her to grab the door handle and hold it closed. ‘Calm down.’

      Her head whipped round. ‘I am calm.’

      ‘Yeah, I noticed,’ he said, the planes and angles of his face tense in the moonlight. ‘I have a question for you before you go.’

      She stopped struggling with the door handle. ‘If it’s about my sex life, I’m not answering it.’ On that she was absolutely clear. He’d humiliated her enough for one evening.

      ‘Why won’t you sleep with your boss? Did Phil do something he shouldn’t have?’

      The audacious question was such a shock, she answered it without thinking. ‘Of course not. Phil and I are friends. I just … I would never sleep with anyone who’s employing me.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Because it’s unethical. And …’ she sputtered ‘… and incredibly tacky.’

      She knew she sounded prissy. But she wasn’t about to go into the sordid details of her childhood—and the real reason the thought of workplace sex made her nauseous. This conversation had already got far too personal. ‘Can I go now?’ she said, making it very clear it wasn’t a request.

      ‘Sure,’ he said, finally letting go of the handle.

      She leapt out of the car, determined not to look back.

      ‘Goodbye, Maddy. And thanks for an incredible evening.’

      The statement sounded genuine—and final—and she turned back without intending to.

      He shot her a casual salute. Was that supposed to be ironic? But, as the car sped off down the road, the tail lights disappearing into the darkness, Maddy felt the brutal pulse of heat at her core and the strange little hiccup in her heartbeat. And despised herself for it.

      She walked to the cottage, took the key from under the eaves of the porch entrance, determined to wipe the pointless spurt of melancholy at his departure from her consciousness. But, as she shut the door and leant back against it, glad to be back in the homely surroundings, she noticed the vacant spot in her hallway where she parked her bike. Her head dropped back against the door with an audible thud.

      ‘Damn.’

      She hadn’t seen the last of Rye King after all.

      Rye braked at the junction and swore. Her bike was still in the boot of the car. He shifted into reverse, looked over his shoulder. Then stopped. And swung back round.

      He couldn’t go back, not yet. Everything was too damn close to the surface. He’d behaved like a jerk back at the house. The mention of her former boyfriend and then Phil had made something coil in his stomach that he didn’t understand. And suddenly he’d had to know whether she’d slept with his friend. He’d handled the situation badly, though. He could see that now. Accusing her when all he’d really meant to do was ask.

      But why had he been so determined to know?

      He rubbed his thigh, the muscles cramping, shifted back into first and accelerated.

      Probably temporary insanity, brought on by extreme stress. Bringing her to orgasm, watching her come apart in his arms had been incredible—but rediscovering all the wonders of a woman’s body had brought with it a painful side effect. He’d spent the whole afternoon and most of the evening hard as a rock. And he suspected he had a sleepless night ahead of him, lying in a bed still infused with her spicy exotic scent.

      The desire to bury himself deep inside her had been all but unstoppable and, while he’d welcomed the pain in many ways because it signified the return of his libido, by the time she’d strolled into the kitchen and he’d listened to her putting on her freshly laundered clothes while he scrambled eggs, his control and his willpower had pretty much reached