Official Escort. Jean BarrettЧитать онлайн книгу.
HOPED THE SHOWER would revive her. She had spent a sleepless night trying to quell the disturbing image of Mitchell Hawke. But even behind her closed bedroom door, those stormy blue eyes had haunted her.
All day long yesterday, whenever she had turned around or looked up from her work, she had caught him watching her. She could still feel his dark gaze on her, following her with a brooding hostility she didn’t understand.
He had been right, of course. She’d had no business going out on that hill without him. But she’d badly needed to get out of the house for a while, away from its charged atmosphere, away from him.
There was another memory that Madeline couldn’t seem to shake, one that was far more unsettling. She kept seeing him there on his rumpled bed when she’d so unwisely opened his door yesterday morning to check on him before slipping away.
It refused to leave her—the potent image of sleep-tousled hair, long legs and muscular chest, the covers barely draped over another area that didn’t bear thinking about. There had been a kind of flush on all that hard, naked flesh, as if its owner had spent a long night of heated lovemaking. And then on the hill when he had—
You have to stop this. You’re in no position to be intrigued by any man, much less some steel-eyed stranger who seems to resent you, maybe just because you’ve dared to intrude on his privacy.
Madeline’s mind continued to question that privacy, wondering if it had a connection with the harsh lines of suffering around his bold mouth.
Enough. Forget about him.
Impatient with herself, she slammed a hand against the plunger that cut off the shower portion of the tub. She left the water running in the tub itself, however, to wash away the soap and scum.
Her cosmetics bag wasn’t on the sink counter when she stepped out from behind the shower curtain. She then remembered having placed it on the chair just outside the bathroom door. Wrapping herself in her terry-cloth robe, she opened the door to retrieve the bag—
And caught Mitchell Hawke in the act of examining the contents of her satchel.
For a moment their gazes met, hers shocked, his wearing a challenge without apology. Then, outraged by his invasion, Madeline swiftly crossed the room and snatched the velvet pouch he was holding out of his hand.
She lashed out at him furiously. “If you have an explanation, I don’t want to hear it, because nothing you say can—”
“Oh, I’m not going to try to make excuses for myself. Why should I, when I’m supposed to be responsible for you?”
He made it sound as if he was her jailer. She could have smacked him for his smugness. “And that entitles you to look through my belongings?”
“Maybe it does, when it turns up something illicit.”
Madeline frowned at him. “What are you talking about?”
“Those.” He nodded at the articles strewn across the bed. “A hacksaw, blades, hammers, files. And then there’s the matter of that little bag you’re hugging. I saw the stones inside it. They must be worth a fortune. What would you say all of that adds up to, Madeline? Would you say it adds up to…oh, I don’t know, maybe a case of safecracking?”
She stared at him, wondering if she ought to laugh or smack him, after all. “I see. You think I’m involved in some form of jewel robbing.”
“Aren’t you?”
“I don’t know what branch of law enforcement you practiced back in San Francisco, but you couldn’t have been very good at it.” Opening the pouch, she emptied its shining contents on the bed. “This,” she said, picking up one of the stones, “is carnelian. And that’s a tigereye. The blue ones are lapis lazuli, the milky ones moonstones and opals. All of the others, including the garnets and amethysts, fall into the same category. There isn’t a precious gem in the whole collection. Now, would you like to know about the tools?” She scooped up the three hammers and held them out. “This is a chasing hammer, this one here a raising hammer, and this is called a planishing hammer. I seriously doubt that any of them, or all the rest in the satchel, could get you inside a safe.”
Mitch said nothing for a moment. She watched his gaze travel from the bed to the table beside it. Next to the empty orange juice glass was the enameled pendant she had worn that first night. His eyes came back to her. She saw understanding in them, and something more. For the first time he actually looked contrite.
“You made the necklace thing yourself, huh?”
“And designed it, yes.”
“Okay, so I made a mistake, and I apologize for it. But if all this is just about a hobby—”
“It isn’t a hobby. I’m very serious about my jewelry making. I’m good, and one day I expect to make a living from it.”
He had a look of surprise on his face, as if he thought such a pursuit uncharacteristic of the woman he believed she was. Obviously he didn’t know her, any more than she really knew him.
“All right, not a hobby. Then, why were you so secretive about the satchel?”
“I wasn’t being secretive, I was being protective. My tools are valuable, and I can’t afford to risk them. It’s bad enough I’ll have to replace all the larger equipment I had to leave behind in San Francisco. Do you know what a good rolling mill costs?”
“No idea. Here, give me the pouch. I made the mess, I’ll pick it all up and put it back.”
His hand came out with the intention of closing around the pouch and taking it from her. Madeline, who was holding the pouch by the drawstring, wasn’t ready to forgive him. She started to jerk the pouch back out of his reach. She wasn’t certain whether what happened next was deliberate or merely an accident. She knew only that his hand was suddenly grasping not the velvet bag but her own hand.
Jolted by his touch, she tugged against his grip. She expected him to release her. He didn’t. He went on clinging to her, his strong hand searing her flesh. Their eyes met, and she was instantly lost in his mesmerizing gaze, raw with desire. She stopped resisting, almost stopped breathing.
They stood like that for what felt like a long time. Then slowly, insistently, he drew her toward him until she was resting against the hard wall of his chest. Madeline wanted to believe that when she lifted her head and parted her mouth, it was to voice her objection. But she would never be sure of that, either. Never know whether, instead, she issued a silent invitation he was immediately prepared to answer.
His mouth came crashing down on hers in a deep, blistering kiss—an explosion that involved his tongue plundering hers, the clean taste of him in her mouth, the virile aroma of him in her nostrils. For one uncontrollable, urgent moment, as he strained his hardness against her, his hand dipping inside her robe to stroke the softness of her bare skin, Madeline surrendered to his sensual assault.
Sanity was restored to her at the same time as his own awareness must have surfaced. When he suddenly released her, she felt she was being thrown away. If she experienced any sensation of loss, she denied it to herself. It would have been canceled, anyway, by the look in his eyes as she backed away from him to an area of safety. It was a wounded look, one of naked accusation. Then, without a word, he swung around and strode out of the room.
Shaken, Madeline went to stand by the window. She stared out at the leafless trees against the overcast sky and remembered his kiss. There had been a wild passion in it. There had also been a seething anger. It was the anger that decided her.
Recovering herself, she went back into the bathroom and turned off the water. She was still damp from her shower. She dried herself, fixed her hair and gathered together all of her belongings. When her satchel and suitcase were packed, the bed neatly made, she left the room and went to look for him.
She found him in the kitchen by the back door, hands thrust into his pockets as he gazed out at the barren landscape. Their situation had become impossible, one Madeline could no