Life With Riley. Laurey Bright

to write down her insurance company’s name, she looked up. “Of course I have!”

      “You scarcely look old enough,” he said skeptically. “Is the car yours or your parents’?”

      “I’m twenty-four,” she snapped. “And the car’s mine!”

      His dispassionate gaze swooped from her dead-straight, too-fine hair escaping in hanks from its ponytail, to her ancient trainers, on the way taking in the baggy bottle-green T-shirt that concealed small but quite decently shaped breasts, and the comfortable, wash-softened jeans.

      When she’d dressed, the jeans had seemed perfectly respectable. Now she was acutely conscious of the fading, thinned fabric at the knees—and the tear, barely perceptible this morning, that had widened when she’d bent to pick up a child who’d taken a tumble at the day care center where she worked.

      Still, that was no reason for this stranger to eye her with what she strongly suspected was scorn. Her head instinctively went up in defiance. It was about level with his chin, which meant that he was under six feet by some inches. But the breadth of his shoulders and an unmistakable air of assurance more than made up for the height he didn’t have.

      Riley was used to literally looking up to people, but not many of them made her feel this intimidated. He was too big, too damned close, and she had no way of escape. “Don’t crowd me,” she said fiercely as his eyes swept up again to hers.

      He stepped back, doubling the space between them to a meter or so. “Are you paranoid or something?”

      “I don’t have to be paranoid to be wary of strange men. Especially men who go round abusing innocent women.” She handed back the notebook and pen, unflinchingly standing her ground as he came closer again to take it.

      “I don’t.” His gaze this time lingered rather thoughtfully on her as he pushed his hands into his pockets, sweeping back the sides of his jacket. “You’re very small. I suppose you would feel—”

      “You’re not exactly Arnold Schwarzenegger yourself, are you?” Riley didn’t like being reminded of her deficient height.

      With deliberate insolence she returned the look he’d given her, contemptuously examining the solid chest behind the pristine shirting, the black leather belt fastened about a taut waist above lean hips and what looked like rather well-muscled thighs encased in trousers so nicely fitted they must have been tailor-made.

      Reaching his polished leather shoes—Italian, at a guess—she brought her gaze back to his, glad that she didn’t have to get a crick in her neck to do so. She wasn’t actually keen on very tall men—they made her feel her own lack of inches too acutely.

      Surprisingly, his mouth twitched, and a spark of laughter lit his eyes. “Do you want to look like Arnie?” he asked her.

      “Of course I don’t—”

      “Neither do I,” he cut in. “Luckily.”

      So he was quite happy as he was. Self-satisfied jerk.

      He took his hands out of his pockets and looked down at the one she’d bitten.

      “I’m sorry about that,” Riley said uncomfortably. “How bad is it?” Instinctively, as she would have done with a hurt child at the day care center, she took his hand to inspect the wound.

      His palm was broad, his fingers long and blunt-ended with clean, short-cut nails. An expanding strap held the stainless steel watch on his wrist. She’d have expected gold.

      Again that subtle scent tantalized her. She turned his wrist and paused, momentarily fascinated by the tiny pulse beating under the skin. There was no blood although the marks of her teeth were hideously clear.

      “You really thought I was attacking you,” he said to the top of her head.

      “Yes.” Riley released him.

      “I didn’t mean to terrify you.”

      Riley’s head jerked up. “I wasn’t terrified. I was furious.”

      He grinned suddenly, a grin of pure amusement. She’d been right about his mouth—it was rather nice really. And his teeth were white and straight.

      Capped, most likely. He looked the type who could afford it. She ran her tongue over her own slightly crooked left canine, a habit she’d had since childhood, making her lips involuntarily part.

      “So was I,” he said.

      “I was going to stop and leave my name and number,” she insisted. “You didn’t have to jump on me like that.”

      “The way you raced back to your car, it looked as though you were making a fast getaway,” he pointed out.

      “If I was going to cut and run I wouldn’t have stopped to check what I’d done,” she argued. Her gaze going to the ugly scrape on his car, she muttered gloomily, “I don’t suppose the repair bill will be less than the no claims discount on my policy.” Not on a BMW. They’d probably have to import the paint from Europe or something.

      “I could get it assessed and let you know the cost if you’d rather just pay for it.”

      “Mmm,” she said doubtfully. “Well…”

      “Is that a problem?”

      Riley didn’t suppose it would be any use trying to explain to him just how much of a problem it was. She would lay odds that he’d been born chewing on a mouthful of silver spoons—or if not, that he owned a drawerful of them now. She sighed. “I’ll work it out. I’m responsible.”

      “I’m glad to hear it.”

      Her indignation resurfaced. “I am a responsible person. And a good driver!” Although she’d learned in America she’d become accustomed to driving on the “wrong” side of the road in England even before coming to live in New Zealand.

      Silently he turned his head and looked at the damage she’d done.

      “We all make mistakes!” she protested. “You did, when you thought I was taking off.”

      His considering, gunmetal eyes met her defiant brown ones. “Okay,” he said slowly. “I accept that.”

      Riley’s relief was disproportionate. She couldn’t help breaking into a smile, her wide mouth tilting up at the corners, her lips parting. “Thank you,” she said.

      He must have noticed the crooked tooth, because his gaze remained riveted on her mouth and there was the strangest expression on his face, as if he’d just seen something that he found utterly disconcerting.

      Maybe he was a dentist. After all, the tooth was a very small imperfection—one of many, including the few freckles peppering her nose—and surely not all that noticeable?

      Involuntarily her tongue moved almost protectively to touch the tooth, but something rebelled against showing her self-consciousness and she quickly altered the movement, instead unthinkingly moistening her lips.

      His head twitched up slightly, and his eyes narrowed as again they met hers.

      No! she thought, blinking at the glint she saw in the metallic depths. Surely not…

      Then it was gone, his expression bland and his eyes hooded as he stepped back again. She must have been mistaken.

      He turned and walked around the back of his car, not looking at her again until he reached the door, then he studied her over the BMW’s shiny, dustless roof. “Do you have a job?” he asked abruptly.

      Riley blinked. “Part-time.”

      “Forget the insurance,” he said. “I believe in people facing up to the consequences of their actions, but I’ll have this fixed and maybe we can come to some arrangement.”

      Riley stiffened. “What kind of arrangement?” she asked suspiciously, wondering if she hadn’t been mistaken after