Dr Chandler's Sleeping Beauty. Melanie Milburne

exchange. It was like a strike of lightning against her flesh. It zapped right through her body, sizzling it with erotic heat and making every hair on her head rise up from her scalp. She stepped back as if she had been burnt, her face flaming, her heart going at a pace that would have made any decent cardiologist call for an immediate ECG.

      But Jake Chandler seemed totally unaffected. He stuffed the cardboard into the bin and shoved it down as if it were a marshmallow with a powerful press of his muscled and deeply tanned arm. ‘Do you need anything else done?’ he asked. ‘Furniture shifted? Boxes carried up the stairs?’ His dark blue eyes glinted again. ‘Costumes unpacked—that sort of thing?’

      ‘I’m fine … Thank you,’ she said, wishing she could stop blushing like a silly little schoolgirl. What was it about this man that made her feel so gauche? Was it his laughing blue eyes or his in-your-face masculinity or both? ‘You’ve done quite enough.’

      A tiny silence crept past as he continued to hold her flustered gaze with his unwavering one.

      ‘I’m having a few people over for a barbecue this evening,’ he said. ‘Nothing fancy. No cucumber sandwiches or anything. Just a few steaks and snags slapped on the grill and some beers. Feel free to pop over and join us.’

      Kitty thought of the frozen, calorie-controlled, most probably hideously tasteless dinner she had bought. She thought of eating it alone, just like all the other frozen meals she had mechanically consumed with tears on the side since the break-up. She hadn’t seen the point in cooking for one person so she had stopped.

      But then she thought of spending the evening with Jake Chandler and his coterie of like-minded beer-swilling friends. What if some of them were other staff members from St Benedict’s? He was probably only inviting her so he could make fun of her in front of them. She had met his type before: the confident, smooth-talking charmer who was the life of every party.

      She would be roasted alive.

      ‘Thank you for the invitation, but I think I’ll pass,’ she said.

      ‘I hope we don’t keep you awake,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone to move in for another week or two. The people between your house and mine are overseas. Feel free to pop over if you change your mind or find yourself at a loose end.’

      ‘Thank you, but no,’ she said, even more crisply this time.

      His dark eyes twinkled again. ‘Social diary that full already, is it?’ he asked.

      She sent him a flinty look. ‘Packed,’ she said, and turned and left.

      At just before midnight Kitty stuck her head under the pillow for the tenth time but it didn’t make a single bit of difference. The doof-doof of Jake Chandler’s sound system reverberated through her building. He was on the opposite side of the complex but it felt as if he was in the next room. She was surprised no one else had complained, but then she remembered the other occupants were away on a trip overseas.

      She threw the pillow aside and stomped over to the window overlooking the small courtyard that separated their town houses. She could see people drinking and dancing in Jake’s living room. All the lights were blaring and the appetising smell of steak and sausages and onions was still lingering in the air. The sight of all that fun going on was a cruel reminder of her aching loneliness. She hated feeling so bitter, but how could she help it? Everywhere she looked people were acting as if they had not a care in the world.

      Didn’t Jake Chandler have to show up for work in the morning? What was he thinking, partying on as if there was no tomorrow? So much for his sanctimonious lecture on binge drinking. What a hypocrite!

      Kitty decided there was only one way to attack and that was on the front line. She ditched her nightwear and dressed in her track pants and a shapeless cotton shirt and slipped her feet into a pair of flip-flops. It wasn’t sophisticated or glamorous, but at this ungodly hour she didn’t give a damn.

      ‘Wasn’t that the doorbell?’ asked Rosie, Jake’s younger sister, her eyes brightening with hope. ‘Maybe Robbie decided to come after all.’

      Jake gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, kiddo,’ he said. ‘You know what he’s like. He probably won’t even remember it’s your birthday.’

      ‘Yeah, what was I thinking?’ Rosie’s shoulders dropped resignedly and she made her way back to her friends.

      Jake let out a quick sigh before he turned to open the door to find his cute posh little neighbour standing there. ‘Hey,’ he said flashing her a smile. ‘You changed your mind. Do you want a beer?’

      ‘Your music is keeping me awake,’ she said, sending him an arctic look. ‘I would very much appreciate it if you would turn it down.’

      Jake ran his gaze over her pretty girl-next-door face with its cloud of chestnut hair that was currently looking more bird’s nest than brushed. Her cheeks had two spots of bright red on them and her plump pink mouth was pushed forward in a pout. ‘My kind of music not your thing, huh?’ he said. He leant indolently against the doorjamb, one ankle crossed over the other, as he rubbed at the regrowth on his jaw. ‘Let me guess … Classical, right?’

      Her gunmetal-grey eyes flashed at him. ‘I hardly see how my taste in music has anything to do with you,’ she said.

      ‘It will if you play the violin at all hours of the day and night.’ He narrowed his eyes at her enquiringly. ‘You don’t, do you? Play the violin, I mean.’

      She gave a little shuffle from foot to foot, as if the ground beneath her feet had suddenly become too hot to stand on. ‘What do you have against the violin?’ she asked, looking at him with an equally narrow-eyed look.

      ‘I knew it!’ he said, thumping the doorjamb with the flat of his palm in victory. ‘It was either that or the viola or the cello. You don’t strike me as a woodwind or brass girl. Strings are your thing.’

      ‘And I suppose no strings is yours?’ she returned, with an arch of one of her brows.

      ‘How’d you guess?’ Jake said, grinning.

      Her eyes gave a disparaging little roll. ‘I can recognise a player at three paces,’ she said.

      ‘We’re not talking about musical instruments, are we?’ he asked.

      Her mouth tightened primly, reminding him of his kindergarten teacher when he’d brought a dead mouse in for Show and Tell.

      ‘I’m not interested in what you do in your private life,’ she said. ‘You can play as hard and as often as you like.’

      ‘Oh, I always play hard and often,’ Jake drawled, watching in amusement as her face deepened even more in a blush as she realised her unintentional double entendre.

      ‘I can see there is no point in continuing this discussion,’ she said in a starchy tone. ‘But let me tell you: your puerile sense of humour is not what I was expecting in an A&E director.’

      Jake looked down at her uptilted heart-shaped face with its glorious crown of tousled hair. He could smell the sweet, old-fashioned but delightful white lilac scent of her shampoo. It danced around his nostrils, teasing them into an involuntary flare. He could see the tiny dusting of freckles on the aristocratic slope of her nose. He could see her currently pursed but tempting full-lipped mouth.

      He felt lust hit him in his gut like a closed-fist punch coming out of nowhere.

      He wanted to bend down and cover those lips and feel them soften and swell beneath his. He wanted to taste the silk of her skin, to run his hands over the gentle slope of her breasts to see if they felt as soft and gorgeous as they looked. He wanted to feel her hands on him, their softness exploring his hardness. He wanted her to come down off that high horse of hers and ride him instead.

      Whoa, there. He slammed the brakes on his thoughts. He had a whole month to go before he cashed in on the bet with his sister. The shortest month, admittedly, but it could