It Started With A Kiss. Miranda Lee

the compliment came just a bit late.

      ‘You’re a good cook, too. Your dad and I are going to miss the meals you’ve cooked for us.’

      Isabel relented and gave her mother another hug. ‘What say I come over and cook you a meal once in a while? Will that do?’

      ‘Just so long as you come over. Don’t be a stranger.’

      ‘I won’t. I promise.’

      ‘And you’ve forgiven your old mum?’

      Isabel smiled a wry smile. ‘Have you forgiven me for not giving you some grandchildren by now?’

      ‘Having children isn’t everything, Isabel.’

      Isabel gave her a dry look. ‘Said by a woman who had five.’

      ‘Then I should know. What you need to do is find the right man. Then the children will follow.’

      ‘Don’t you think I’ve been trying to do that?’

      ‘Don’t try so hard. You’re a beautiful girl. Just let nature take its course.’

      Isabel was tempted to tell her that nature always led her up the garden path into the arms of men who’d never give her children.

      But it was too late to confess such matters. She’d never told her mother the bitter truth about her boyfriends. She hadn’t wanted to shock her. To reveal all now would only make her look even worse than she already did in her mother’s eyes.

      ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go on that Dream Island holiday, Mum?’ she asked, deciding a change of subject was called for.

      ‘Positive. I’m too old that for that kind of holiday, anyway. Look, why don’t you go yourself?’

      ‘It’s not a place you go alone.’

      ‘Then ask a friend to go with you.’

      Isabel thought immediately of Rafe… He’d jump at the chance of going with her, all expenses paid!

      It was a tantalising idea. Did she dare? Could she actually do something like that without getting emotionally involved?

      Perhaps she could. Her experience with Luke had changed her, made her stronger and much more self-reliant. She’d gone after what she wanted for once, listening to her head and not her heart. She’d actually gone to bed with a man she didn’t love, and quite enjoyed it. Her mind no longer irrevocably linked sexual pleasure and being in love.

      Just because Rafe was more like the type of man she’d used to fall in love with willy-nilly, that didn’t mean she would fall in love this time. She also had the added advantage of knowing in advance that he wasn’t interested in marriage or children. There would never be any fooling herself that she had a future with him.

      He’d just be a passing pleasure. A salve to her pride and a comfort to her bruised female ego. Not to mention a comfort to her female body!

      By the time she got through the next fortnight, cancelling everything and putting up with everyone’s condolences, she’d need comforting. And what better way than on a balmy tropical island in the arms of a gorgeous man you fancied like mad, and who seemed to fancy you in return?

      ‘Isabel?’

      Isabel shook herself out of her provocative thoughts.

      ‘Yes, Mum?’

      ‘Well, what do you think about finding a friend to go away on that holiday with you? If you can’t get your money back, it does seem a shame to waste it.’

      ‘We’ll see, Mum.’ She’d better sleep on the idea. She’d been knocked for a couple of sixes today. And she had been drinking. The booked holiday on Dream Island didn’t start for another fortnight and she doubted Rafe was going anywhere in a hurry. Maybe if she felt the same way in the cold light of Monday morning…

      A shiver ran down Isabel’s spine at the thought of doing something that bold. It was one thing to deliberately go to bed with a man like Luke, when your intention was marriage. Quite another to contemplate a strictly sexual affair with the likes of Rafe Saint Vincent!

CHAPTER SIX

      RAFE didn’t sleep well that night, which wasn’t like him. Usually, he was out like a light soon after his head hit the pillow.

      But not this time. He tossed and turned. Even got up on one occasion and poured himself a stiff drink.

      The trouble with that, however, was it reminded him even more forcibly of the reason for his insomnia.

      Had she drunk some more after hanging up on him? Was she also up, wandering around the house in her nightie with another glass of whisky clutched in her hands?

      He carried that image of her back to bed with him and tossed and turned some more, his hormone-revved head wondering what kind of nightie it might be. Short or long? Provocative or prissy?

      Various alternatives came to mind. She’d look delicious in long creamy satin, and wickedly sexy in short black lace. Better still in nothing at all.

      His groan was the groan of a man suffering from a case of serious sexual frustration. Which would never do if he wanted to get some sleep. And he did. He hadn’t finished his work today and he’d have to beaver away at it all day tomorrow. No Sunday brunch down at Darling Harbour with his mother. No slouching around watching the cooking shows on satellite.

      Dragging himself up again, he made his way into the bathroom, where he had the hottest of hot showers, a technique he’d found worked much better on him than cold. The heat sapped his energy, and relaxed his tense muscles and other aching parts. After a good twenty minutes of sauna-type soaking, he snapped off the water, dried himself with one of his extra-fluffy white bath sheets, then fell, naked and pink-skinned, back into bed.

      An hour later he was still wide awake.

      Swearing, he rose, pulled on his black silk robe, made himself some very strong coffee and trudged downstairs to his darkroom where he surprised himself by working like a demon for several hours. It was light when he emerged, but by this time he was too exhausted to care. He went upstairs, switched off his mobile, took his other phone off the hook, closed the roller shutter which he’d recently installed on his bedroom window and collapsed into bed.

      If his oblivion was ravaged by erotic dreams, he certainly didn’t recall them, but he was embarrassingly erect when he was wrenched out of his blissful coma by the sound of his front doorbell ringing. It was just as well, Rafe decided as he struggled out of bed, that the robe he was still wearing provided discreet coverage. Because he had no intention of getting dressed. He was going to get rid of whoever was at the door, then go back to bed for the rest of the day.

      It was Isabel, looking as if she was on her way to afternoon tea with the Queen.

      Cream linen trouser suit. Blue silk top. Pearls. Pink lipstick. And that lovely blonde hair of hers, slicked back up in that prissy roll thing.

      Her perfect grooming highlighted his own dishevelled appearance. Why couldn’t he have any luck with this woman?

      ‘I presume you’ve come for your phone,’ he grumped.

      She looked him up and down with about the same expression she had when she’d first arrived yesterday. ‘Sorry to get you out of bed,’ she said drily. ‘But it is two in the afternoon.’

      Rafe decided there was no point in telling her the truth, that he’d worked most of the night because of her.

      ‘Yeah well, we party animals do get tired. And last night was Saturday night. I didn’t get to bed till dawn.’

      ‘Alone?’

      He crossed his arms. ‘Such a personal question for a lady who’s just come for her phone.’

      ‘You