Passion & Pleasure. Julia James

pain she’d felt at those times had seemed almost wicked, yet she was feeling much the same sensation now, if for different reasons.

      She swallowed hard. This was crazy. She shouldn’t be standing here in his bedroom doorway indulging in girlish fantasies about a man she scarcely knew. Thank God, he was asleep. She didn’t know what she’d do if—

      But he wasn’t asleep. As her hand groped for the handle of the door to pull it closed behind her, her gaze strayed to his face again—and saw his eyes were open.

      At once, her face suffused with colour. Oh, lord, how long had he been awake? How long had he been aware of her staring at him? And what excuse could she give? Surely nothing she said could explain her behaviour?

      There was an awkward silence while Fliss struggled to regain her composure and he blinked sleepily at her, lifting a languid arm to rake his nails across his scalp. Then, as if taking pity on her, he said, ‘What time is it?’ As if he didn’t know she’d been ogling him for the last five minutes.

      Fliss licked dry lips before replying. ‘It—it’s nearly half past nine,’ she said jerkily. ‘I—I tried the door downstairs and it was open.’ She paused. ‘I—wondered if you were all right.’

      His dark eyes narrowed as he took in the ramifications of her statement. ‘So you decided to—what? Take the time to check the place out?’

      ‘No!’ Fliss was defensive. ‘When Colonel Phillips was taken ill, I was the one who found him. It occurred to me that you might be—might be—’

      For the life of her, Fliss couldn’t think of a way to finish her sentence without sounding melodramatic. Matthew Quinn had levered himself up on his elbows in the interim, and was now regarding her sardonically across the sunlit room. As he moved, the sheet fell a little, and her eyes dropped automatically. She wasn’t a prude, but she couldn’t ignore his nakedness as he apparently could.

      ‘I’ll see you downstairs,’ she muttered, but, as if recognising her embarrassment, Matthew swiftly hauled the sheet up to his waist again.

      ‘Sorry about that,’ he said, not sounding sorry at all. ‘I’m not used to finding strange women in my bedroom.’

      ‘No, well, I’m sorry, too,’ said Fliss, backing onto the landing. ‘As I say, I’ll—um—’

      ‘I have been up, you know,’ he remarked, before she could escape. ‘I haven’t been sleeping all that well, and I got up around five and made some coffee.’

      Fliss swallowed. ‘Coffee doesn’t seem to be a wise choice if you’re suffering from insomnia,’ she offered awkwardly, and he gave her a rueful grimace.

      ‘I guess not.’ He lifted a hand to massage the back of his neck, arching his back as he did so, and once again he had to rescue the slipping sheet. ‘God, what time did you say it was? Half past nine?’

      ‘It’s actually nearer twenty to ten.’ Fliss corrected him a little primly and he groaned out loud.

      ‘Dammit, that guy, Gilchrist, said the furniture would be here about ten. I’d better get dressed.’

      ‘Take your time,’ said Fliss hastily, half-afraid he was going to get out of bed before she had time to close the door. ‘I’ll go and make some fresh coffee.’

      ‘Thanks,’ he said, and she hurried away before he could say anything else.

      Chapter Six

      A COUPLE of hours later, Matt surveyed his newly furnished rooms with some satisfaction.

      The twin hide sofas and satin-striped armchairs he’d chosen certainly gave the drawing room a little more panache, and the antique desk and leather chair he’d bought for the library would allow him to work at his laptop in comfort, if he needed to.

      Of course, he realised now he had gone about things backside first. He should have had the place redecorated before he started buying furniture, but his needs were too immediate to allow him that luxury. He needed somewhere to sit, somewhere to relax. And, after all, it wasn’t as if the paper was peeling off the walls.

      Except in the hall, of course. The hall and stairs would have to be tackled immediately, he acknowledged that. The impression it presently created was one of age and dilapidation.

      His new housekeeper had been terrific. He had to acknowledge that, too. After providing him with toast and coffee, she’d started on the drawing room, and by the time the delivery truck arrived, albeit an hour later than he’d anticipated, both the drawing room and the library were as clean as she could make them.

      She’d opened all the windows, and the pleasant smell of furniture polish mingled with the warm breeze from the garden. The windows themselves gleamed and the musty aroma of disuse that had pervaded the house had almost totally dissipated. Even the floorboards had received a coat of liquid polish and the Chinese rugs he’d bought as a temporary measure until he could get a carpet fitted looked at home on the shining floor.

      If he’d had the impression that Fliss was avoiding him he’d put it down to his imagination. She was here to work, he reminded himself, trying to forget what had happened earlier. It wasn’t his fault if she’d seen more than she’d bargained for. He hadn’t invited her into his bedroom, for God’s sake.

      All the same, he couldn’t deny that he’d actually enjoyed her confusion. And, for a few moments, before she’d become aware of him watching her, he’d felt a disturbing hunger in his loins. She looked so unlike any housekeeper he’d seen in her skimpy T-shirt and tight-fitting jeans, and the rush of heat that had surged into his groin had been as surprising as it had been fleeting.

      It hadn’t lasted. And, despite everything, he told himself he wouldn’t have wanted it to. He’d do himself no favours getting involved with his housekeeper, however neutral his involvement was bound to be. She didn’t know about that and he’d be a fool to indulge in sexual foreplay that could backfire on him in the most humiliating way.

      Even so, that didn’t stop him thinking about her. After she’d gone upstairs to tackle the bedrooms and he started unpacking the boxes of books he’d brought with him from London onto the newly polished shelves in the library, he had to admit that she intrigued him. He couldn’t honestly understand why she was happy doing what she did. She was an intelligent woman, for God’s sake. Didn’t she want to do anything else with her life?

      He supposed having Amy made her situation different from Diane’s, for example. If what Diane had said was true, Fliss had given up a promising education to have her baby. But why hadn’t she married the baby’s father? Why was she still living at home when she must have had other opportunities to get married?

      His brain baulked at the avalanche of questions. It wasn’t his problem, and he had the feeling Fliss wouldn’t appreciate his curiosity. Despite her occasional outbursts, he sensed she was a private person. And he couldn’t forget the way she’d acted that morning when she’d found him in bed.

      He was back to square one, to the very subject he didn’t want to think about. Weariness enveloped him, a combination of the physical work he was doing and the mental depression he had to constantly fight against. Despite his confinement, he wasn’t used to manual labour. Weeks, months spent in the confines of a small cell caused muscles to stiffen up and grow painful with lack of use. He’d tried to keep himself fit, doing push-ups and other exercises, but he’d been fighting a losing battle. Living on a starvation diet turned every effort into a major task.

      Now his muscles were aching from the continual bending and lifting, and he felt an almost overwhelming desire to go back to bed. The blessed relief of oblivion beckoned, and he had to force himself to continue with his task.

      A tap at the library door was not welcome. He would have preferred time to pull himself together, time to wipe his features clean of the pathetic self-pity he was feeling at this moment. But he hardly had time to straighten his shoulders before Fliss put her head round the door.

      ‘I’ve