Escape for Easter. Trish Morey

suffering from the shock of hearing himself called second best, heard the door open.

      In his head the memories he had been holding back surfaced with merciless accuracy to taunt him. He remembered running his fingers over the surface of her belly and feeling the fine network of muscle beneath the soft skin quiver. Tracing the curved angle of her hip with his hands, drawing the tight little swollen buds of her delicious breasts into his mouth and hearing her beg him not to stop. Kissing the hollow at the base of her throat where the echo of her heartbeat had passed from her to him through his fingertips and lips.

      It was ironic. She was the only woman he had slept with but never seen and he carried a more vivid memory of her body than anyone else’s before.

      It took seconds for the images and tactile sensations that went with them to flash through his mind, but it was long enough to make his body burn with the strength of his out-of-control arousal.

      Teeth clenched, Cesare leapt up from his chair, a growl that registered too low for human ears vibrating in his chest as he stalked towards the door. He was actually in the act of tearing it open when he stopped himself. What the hell was he doing?

      His breathing slowed. The damned little witch was running out on him again and he was following—straight down a stairwell probably in this sort of temper. He decided if she ran and he followed it was not a good message to send out. Not if a man wanted to maintain the illusion at least of being in control.

      Face set in a dark scowling mask of discontent, he turned and walked back to his chair.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      IT BEGAN to rain just as the taxi drew up on the kerb. It only took seconds for Sam to reach the waiting vehicle, but by the time she closed the door on the downpour her hair was drenched, despite the bag she had held over her head to shield her.

      She looked out the window and her thoughts were drawn irresistibly back to her weekend break in Scotland—it had been raining like this that last day.

      Sam had read no sinister portents into the gathering storm clouds, she had had no inkling that her life was about to change as she drew the Land Rover up on the gravelled forecourt of the Armuirn Castle.

      She had simply been doing a favour for her harassed sister-in-law and about the only thing that had been on her mind was a nice hot bath. She had not anticipated that the cleaning of eight cottages would be so physically strenuous. Not that she had had any intention of letting on and confirming her brother’s mocking opinion that city life had made her soft.

      She had shaded her eyes and tilted her head as she’d looked at the castellated turret. The grey-stoned landmark could be seen for miles around. It had been her sister-in-law’s childhood home, but these days Ian and Clare lived in one of the farms and rented out the big house along with several crofts to tourists.

      Sam had lugged out a basket containing the cleaning materials, thinking how wielding a feather duster and changing bedlinen hadn’t quite been the way she had viewed spending her holiday. But she could hardly have gone off hiking in the hills when a virulent flu bug had had her sister-in-law so short-staffed that she’d been trying to do ten jobs as well as look after two-year-old twins.

      Though Sam had pronounced herself willing to do anything, she had actually been relieved when the anything had not involved looking after the twins. She loved her nephews dearly, but the responsibility of keeping that fearless pair amused and safe was not a responsibility she felt equipped to deal with.

      Instead a guilty and grateful Clare had asked if she would clean and prepare the cottages on changeover day for the new intake of holidaymakers and, if she had time, take a grocery order up to the castle and change the linen there.

      When Sam had asked if she should run a duster around the place Clare had said definitely not. It seemed the man who had rented the castle for the summer did not want housekeeping.

      In fact he did not want anything except total privacy.

      Sam had been curious. ‘What’s he like?’

      ‘Don’t ask me. I’ve never even seen him, neither has Ian. The booking was taken via the website.’

      ‘Someone must have seen him,’ Sam protested. This was after all an incredibly close-knit community where everyone knew everyone’s business.

      ‘Oh, Hamish got a glimpse. He was taking some climbers that way when a helicopter put down.’

      ‘And?’ Sam prompted.

      ‘Our mystery man got out. Hamish said he was tall.’

      ‘Not helpful.’

      Clare nodded in agreement. ‘Nobody has seen him up close since. He stays in the castle, he doesn’t come into the village. He leaves a grocery list for us when we go in with fresh towels and such like, but we haven’t seen him either.’

      ‘Maybe he’s a fugitive hiding from the authorities or a film star in the middle of a sex scandal escaping the tabloids?’

      ‘More likely he’s a stressed executive here for the fishing. But whoever he is give him a wide berth, Sam. The man has taken the castle for six months and he’s paid upfront so if he wants to be invisible he can be.’

      ‘So does the invisible man have a name?’

      ‘I don’t recall…it was foreign. Spanish or Italian, I think…?’

      By the time Sam reached the castle it was turned six and her interest in the tall Mediterranean had waned. She was shattered. She had changed twenty beds and vacuumed acres of carpet not to mention cleaned windows and been stung by a wasp. All she wanted was to get back to the farm and put her feet up.

      There was no sign of the antisocial guest and no response when she poked her head around the door and called out before she went into the kitchen.

      Inside the kitchen was dark, the blinds drawn. She put the box of groceries on the floor and after a short fumble found the light switch.

      ‘Oh, my God!’ Sam’s horrified gaze travelled around the room. It was a total disaster zone, with dirty plates and glasses everywhere plus open cartons and cans. There was not a clean surface in the room. A quick examination of the fridge where Clare had asked her to leave the perishable items revealed most of the contents were either out of date or unrecognisable and growing things.

      Sam thought of the hot bath and sighed as she rolled up her sleeves. She was no tidiness freak, and minimalism was not her thing—she liked a bit of cosy clutter—but this was something else entirely.

      If the man didn’t want housekeeping, well, too bad, she thought. In the interests of hygiene alone she couldn’t leave it as it was.

      Half an hour later the place still wouldn’t have made a health inspector smile, but it was a distinct improvement. She folded her arms across her chest and gave a small nod of satisfaction as she placed the last empty bottle in the sack for recycling and said out loud, ‘Well, I just hope he appreciates this.’

      ‘Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?’

      A fractured gasp of shock left her lips as hands closed over her shoulders and spun her around.

      Finding herself face to face with the middle button of a blue chambray shirt, she tilted her face to see the person whose fingers were grinding into the sensitive flesh that covered her collarbones and who was obviously not grateful at all. She found herself staring wide-eyed into the face of the most beautiful man she had ever seen or imagined.

      The sensory overload of looking at this much sheer perfection made her head spin. She knew she was staring like an idiot, but she couldn’t have stopped if her life had depended on it.

      He was tall, several inches above six feet, and muscular but not in a bulky way. Lean and hard. He had Mediterranean colouring, and his hair was black. It curled low on his neck and fell across his high forehead. The bones of his face were strongly carved, with razor-sharp cheekbones, a masterful aquiline