In The Billionaire's Bed. Sara Wood

material possessions, they were all he saw, all he knew. Odd that she was so attracted to him. Perhaps it was the magnetism of opposites. Even now, alienated by his cold obsession with wealth, she felt an undeniable feral thrill from his extreme masculinity.

      But where to start, to explain her philosophy of life? He wouldn’t understand it for a moment. His eyebrow hooked up cynically as though she must be lying because she hadn’t come up with an explanation. That galvanised her to give him one.

      ‘Edith knew my views on living simply,’ she said with quiet passion. ‘I wouldn’t want more money than I knew what to do with. Besides, I’d worry like mad if I had money invested in the stock market.’

      ‘Think of all the new clothes you could have had,’ he suggested.

      ‘I have all I need! If I want something like a winter coat, I work extra hours. I already have a home that means a great deal to me. I truly have everything I want. Why should I rock the boat by changing my circumstances? I could end up very unhappy and out of my depth. Edith knew me well enough to know that quality of life is more important to me than material possessions. She accepted that because it was her philosophy too.’ Catherine smiled fondly.

      Clearly baffled, he shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

      ‘No,’ she said with a gentle sorrow. ‘I don’t suppose you do. But… Supposing I had accepted her offer. It would have changed the way people regard me, especially if she’d left me all her money too. As I said, my friends would have been ill at ease in the manor and very conscious of the differences in our situations. If I bought them a round of drinks in the pub, they might think I was being patronising. If I didn’t, they’d think I was mean. You can’t win. When someone’s financial circumstances change, the attitude of people around them changes too. I have good friends, people I am very fond of,’ she said, gazing up at him earnestly. ‘I don’t want to lose their unquestioning friendship. It means everything to me.’

      ‘Living in an expensive house you’d soon make new friends,’ he remarked cynically.

      ‘Exactly! They would be drawn by my apparent wealth,’ she cried with heartfelt passion. ‘That’s the last thing I want! My friendships are genuine. People like me for who I am, not what I am or how much money I’ve got. We do one another favours, which makes for a wonderful sense of community and protection. I am very happy and I’d be a fool to jeopardise that happiness. I explained all this to Edith and she realised that I already had…my…paradise.’

      Her voice had faltered towards the end of the sentence. Any moment now and it could be Paradise Lost.

      The kettle began to sing. Just in time, she managed to stop him from lifting it and burning his hand. Unfortunately her dash to the stove meant that they ended up body to body, his arms wrapping around her protectively when she cannoned into him.

      ‘Hot,’ she babbled breathily, her flapping hand indicating the kettle. But all she could feel was the fiery furnace of his chest. The frantic beating of her imprisoned heart. She was too shocked to move.

      ‘Hot. I see,’ he murmured, his mouth a sinful curve as his head seemed to bend low to hers.

      Scorn laced her eyes. Another married man on the make, ready for any opportunity. Buster, she thought, your six seconds are up.

      ‘I’ll make the drinks,’ she snapped, glaring at him.

      The grey eyes chilled. The sinful curve disappeared and she was abruptly released.

      ‘You do that.’

      With elaborate care she filled the cafetière and placed it on the table. Then she added hot water to the herbal tea bag and slid, subdued, into her chair again.

      Her pulses were galloping like a herd of wild horses. The man was so packed with rampant male hormones that he was a danger to her self-respect. She had to get away.

      Her heart sank. That meant she must broach the subject of her mooring without any further beating about the bush.

      She’d hoped to prepare the ground by chatting in a companionable way so that he felt at ease with her, and therefore more inclined to let her stay. But, she thought gloomily, a leisurely approach was out of the question now.

      ‘Have you thought of a reason for wandering about my island?’ he asked sardonically before she could come up with her opening line.

      Her shoulders slumped. Not the most promising of starts.

      ‘Edith let me moor my boat on the far side,’ she began, deciding on a full frontal attack.

      ‘What kind of a boat?’ The frown was working hard as he pulled a pack of painkillers from inside his jacket and popped out two pills. ‘Do you row over here from the village or something?’

      Catherine wondered if his bad temper was due to his headache. He’d been rubbing his head a lot, she recalled.

      ‘It’s a narrow boat,’ she explained. ‘I live on it.’

      His face was a picture. Hastily she took advantage of his astonishment.

      ‘I was wondering, if temporarily—’

      ‘No.’

      She blinked. ‘You haven’t heard what I was about to say!’

      ‘I’m not stupid. I make my living by putting two and two together. You want to continue the arrangement. The answer’s no.’

      ‘Surely, if you’re going to sell—?’

      ‘All the more reason to get rid of any illicit vagrants who call in whenever the fancy takes them.’

      Her face flamed at the description. ‘But it’s—!’

      ‘No.’

      Her mutinous gene seemed to assert itself. ‘Why?’ she demanded, her eyes blazing with anger.

      Zach’s gaze dropped, his thick black lashes a heart-stopping crescent on his cheeks as he pushed down the cafetière plunger slowly then poured out the coffee, filling the kitchen with its rich aroma.

      ‘Nobody would buy this place with itinerants tied up to its banks. And while I’m still here I want privacy and security. I’m not likely to get that with you camping out in the reeds and thinking you can treat my island like your own garden, to visit whenever you feel like it,’ he replied irascibly.

      Catherine thought gloomily that it was just as well she hadn’t mentioned the chickens or the vegetable plot.

      ‘You wouldn’t know I was there,’ she persisted.

      He looked her up and down. There was almost a dry amusement in his expression, although she doubted that his mouth cracked into a smile more than once a year.

      ‘Don’t you believe it,’ he said, as cold as the Arctic. ‘The answer’s no. Get used to it.’

      The cracked ice eyes tried to freeze her resolve over the rim of the mug. She’d never heard such a definite refusal in her life. But what did she have to lose?

      ‘I can understand your reservations, but think of the advantages,’ she coaxed, all soft sugar and reason. ‘I could keep an eye on things while you’re away—’

      ‘Forget it,’ he snapped, swallowing both pills with a gulp of coffee. ‘I’ll install an alarm system.’

      She winced, imagining sirens wailing across the peaceful countryside and emptying it of animal life for ever.

      ‘OK.’ She sighed. ‘Your position is clear. Nevertheless, I think I’ll wait and see what your wife has to say,’ she told him, playing her last, desperate card.

      ‘You’ll have a long wait,’ he muttered.

      She frowned. ‘I don’t see why. She’s been here several times already. Everyone’s seen her. She drives a yellow car and she supervised the men in the removal van—’

      ‘Word