The Rich Man's Mistress. Cathy WilliamsЧитать онлайн книгу.
trembling. I’ll put your clothes to dry in front of the fire downstairs.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And I’ll bring some logs up later and get this fire going.’
‘I would appreciate that.’ Miranda could feel goose pimples on her arms from the abrupt change in temperature after the warm bathroom. ‘You needn’t worry, Mr Decroix…’
‘Luke, please. Why stand on formality when we’ll be living together?’ He inclined his head to look at her over his shoulder, and she realised, with a little start, that it wasn’t simply his face that was attractive, but the whole package. In a primitive, masculine sort of way. He had the kind of unchiselled, powerful good looks that drew stares, and she immediately looked away just in case he thought that she was staring.
‘My father will more than compensate you for any trouble.’
This time, he turned slowly to look at her and an expression of contemptuous amusement gathered itself in the corners of his mouth and glittered in the blue, brooding eyes. ‘How reassuring. And you think that I might need the compensation, do you?’
Miranda edged her way inelegantly to the bed and slipped under the covers with her towel still in place and the bundle of clothes still in one hand; then she drew the duvet all the way up to her chin. If he insisted on ignoring her chattering teeth and continuing the conversation, then she might as well be warm.
‘It’s only fair after putting you to all this trouble. But most people wouldn’t say no to a bit of financial help,’ she finally said, awkwardly.
His blue eyes narrowed coldly on her face. ‘Oh, dear. Would you have reached that conclusion by any chance because of my ragged clothing?’
‘I hadn’t noticed the state of your clothing,’ Miranda plunged on. ‘I have no idea about your financial circumstances…I don’t know what you do for a living. But, well…’ His shuttered look was hardly encouraging but now that she’d started, she felt compelled to reach some sort of conclusion to her speculations. ‘…there can’t be that many well-paid jobs that you could do from this remote location…can there…?’ Her voice trailed off into silence while Luke continued to observe her with embarrassing intensity.
He shook his head with a low laugh, ‘I don’t live here all the time, Miranda.’ He paused for a moment, looking as if he was pondering something very deeply. ‘In fact, I’m just looking after this place actually—for the time being.’
‘Oh, I see!’ That would explain a lot. His English accent, for a start. He was probably one of these nomadic types who made their way round the world doing manual chores for people. Earning a crust.
He didn’t say anything. After a few minutes his expression lightened and he shrugged. ‘I’ll bring you up something to eat. Your foot will feel much better in the morning.’
He didn’t call her m’lady again, although he more than made up for the thoughtful omission by bowing grandly at the door before he left; but Miranda no longer had the energy to feel annoyed. She was too sleepy. She would just close her eyes for a few minutes before she changed and he returned with her food.
CHAPTER TWO
THE room was warm. That was the first thing Miranda noticed when she next surfaced. A warm room and she was changed. Her eyes flickered open and for a few seconds she experienced the disorientation that sometimes attacks when the surroundings are new and unfamiliar. Then her memory returned with a crash and the image of Luke’s dark, striking and unpleasantly cynical face filled her head.
It was as though the thought had been enough to summon him, because just at that moment her bedroom door was pushed open and she saw the object of her wandering mind filling out the doorway, with a tray in his hands. Sleep had not managed to diminish his suffocating masculinity. In fact, she literally drew her breath in as he dwarfed the small room, primitively forceful despite the tea towel slung over his shoulder.
‘So you’re up at last.’ He moved across to the curtains and yanked them open, exposing a watery grey light and the sight of fast-falling snow. ‘Breakfast.’ He deposited the tray on the bed and Miranda struggled up into a sitting position.
‘How long was I asleep?’ She stretched and the sleeves of the oversized grey tee shirt rode down to expose her slender, pale forearms.
‘Over ten hours.’
‘Over ten hours!’
‘I dutifully came with your supper only to find you sound asleep and snoring…’
‘I do not snore!’
‘How do you know that?’ he asked snidely, pulling up a chair so that he could sit and watch her. ‘It’s not the sort of thing a lover might bring to your attention. Anyway, I lit the fire to get the icicles off the ceiling and left you.’ He linked his fingers together and looked as she bit into the toast and then hungrily began demolishing what was on the plate: A fried egg, bacon, baked beans, just the sort of breakfast she had always avoided.
‘After I’d changed you, of course.’
Miranda paused with the last bit of toast en route to her mouth and started at him. ‘You change me?’
‘Shocking, isn’t it?’ He clasped his hands behind his head and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. ‘Do you think that Daddy might refuse me my much needed financial compensation if he knew?’
‘You’re not funny!’ She had somehow assumed that she had changed herself, even though she had no recollection of doing any such thing, but she could tell from the gleam in his eyes that the man wasn’t lying. He had unwrapped the towel from her and had pulled on a tee shirt, and somewhere along the line those big hands of his had touched her shoulders, her stomach, her breasts. ‘You had no right!’
‘I do beg Your Highness’s pardon, but going to sleep with a wet towel around you in a damp room would just have compounded the sprained ankle with a healthy dose of pneumonia.’
‘You still had no right! You should have awakened me!’
‘I’ll try and remember the next time, if you try and remember to stick to the nursery slopes so that there won’t be a next time. You haven’t eaten all your egg up.’
‘I’ve lost my appetite.’ She closed her knife and fork and reclined back on the pillow.
‘In which case, you’d better try and find it. You’re building your strength up and step one is eating all that breakfast, meticulously prepared by my own fair hands.’ He leaned forward. ‘Maybe you’d like me to feed the rest to you…’
Miranda gave a little yelp of denial and hurriedly ate what was left on her plate, then she wiped her mouth with the paper napkin and folded her arms.
‘Now,’ he said implacably, standing up to remove the tray and then whipping the duvet off her so that she yelped even louder, this time in enraged discomfort, ‘the next thing I advise you to do is test that foot of yours.’
‘And would you like to hear what I advise you to do?’
‘Not really. Here, hold my hand and stand up.’
‘Or else what…?’
‘You don’t want to find out,’ he said silkily. ‘Now, stand up and try that foot of yours.’
When she remained on the bed, he leaned over her and said in a low, razor-sharp voice, ‘Shall I just remind you that you’re an unwanted and unwelcome intrusion into my house…’
‘Your house?’
‘While I’m looking after it, it’s my house. And if you think you’re going to play the grand princess and laze around for the next few days, or weeks if this weather doesn’t sort itself out, then you’re in for a shock. I’m not a man who puts up with the wiles and tantrums of a spoiled little rich girl!’