Flirting With Danger. Kate WalkerЧитать онлайн книгу.
Lindsay was big. Her father stood a good six feet in his socks, but this man topped him by more than three inches—four, possibly, Catherine hazarded. The imposing height was matched by a similarly powerful frame, with broad shoulders and chest and long, strong arms.
The smartly tailored navy jacket and trousers, worn with a paler blue shirt and understated tie, might mirror the formal business suit Lloyd wore, but that formality emphasised rather than concealed the fact that the body underneath the fine cloth was definitely not that of a man who spent his day seated at a desk in some modern, high-tech office.
His face had the same sort of impact—hard-boned and strongly carved, with a distinct bump in the nose that told her it had once been well and truly broken and had had to be reset. Altogether, there was something about him that spoke of danger, of a powerful but volatile force barely kept in check, like a half-tame tiger-on the surface apparently quiet and controlled, but never, ever totally trustworthy.
‘Evan’s been working on the alarm system at the office,’ her father put in in an obvious attempt to reassure her, ease the prickly atmosphere.
‘Oh, so you’re the new security man.’
She didn’t even trouble to try to inject a note of polite interest into her voice; as a matter of fact, her thoughts weren’t even on what she was saying. She saw now just why her father had brought this man home with him; exactly what had been in his mind at the time.
‘I’m involved in the work, yes—’
‘And I thought we could use some of Evan’s expertise—’
‘I don’t think so,’ Catherine cut in sharply. ‘I don’t need any burglar alarms or security cameras—unless, of course, you were proposing to act as a bodyguard?’
‘I wasn’t proposing anything.’ The low voice held a trace of something Catherine couldn’t interpret—something that worried her. It might have been humour, but if so it had a dark edge that tightened her nerves disturbingly. ‘Lloyd simply asked me back here—’
‘And I offered you a drink,’ Catherine’s father inter-jected. ‘But all I’ve done so far is keep you standing in the hall. Why don’t we go somewhere where we can sit down and be more comfortable? The conservatory would be pleasant—’
Catherine’s involuntary movement drew his attention, had him changing his mind.
‘No, perhaps the lounge would be better. Cathy, darling, why don’t you take Evan through while I ask Mrs Bentley to organise refreshments? Coffee, Evan? Or would you prefer something alcoholic? And what about something to eat?’
‘Coffee would be fine—but, no, nothing to eat.’
Pushing back his shirt-cuff, Evan consulted a work-manlike watch on a slim leather strap.
‘I’m meeting a friend in just over an hour. We’re having dinner together.’
And he had no intention of being late, his attitude said only too clearly. As she led the way into the lounge Catherine couldn’t help wondering a little about the friend he was obviously so concerned about. She— because it had to be a she—was obviously very important to him, and in spite of herself she found herself trying to imagine what sort of woman appealed to this man. Probably someone dark and fiery—exotically glamorous, very feminine, her looks the perfect foil to his forceful masculinity.
‘I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey, Mr Lindsay.’
She spoke over her shoulder as she crossed to the large window in the far wall, pulling the blue velvet curtains more tightly shut with a swift, jerky action.
‘We have a perfectly efficient security system already installed, and it doesn’t need any improvements.’
‘I don’t think that was what your father had in mind, Miss Davies.’ The quiet voice mocked her deliberate, stiff formality. ‘I take it you are Catherine?’ he added with disturbing abruptness.
Taken by surprise, she swung round to face him. ‘Of course I am. Who else did you think I could be?’
‘A girlfriend?’
‘My father’s? Hardly! You can’t know him very well if you’d think that.’
The strong shoulders under the perfectly fitted jacket lifted in a nonchalant shrug.
‘You could have been. Or a nanny?’ A faint grin surfaced at her look of frank disbelief. ‘I never expected Lloyd’s daughter to be so—mature…’
The last word was loaded with so much deliberate irony that it had a rush of hot colour flooding into her pale cheeks, all the more so because it was accompanied by another of those insolent, assessing surveys, the cool scrutiny searing over the pale oval of her face, with its high cheekbones and full, rather wide mouth, before moving slowly down the length of her body, lingering at the soft swell of her breasts, the curves of her hips in the worn denim jeans.
He might just as well have added the word ‘physically’ to that ‘mature’—as it was, it seemed to hang in the air between them, making Catherine’s skin prickle in irritation.
‘After all, your father isn’t exactly the sort of man one would expect to have such a grown-up daughter—’
‘My misspent youth catching up with me,’ Lloyd put in from the doorway, his laughter holding a trace of embarrassment. ‘I was barely nineteen when Cathy was born, though her mother was older—almost twenty-four-’
‘Really, Dad,’ Catherine cut in hastily, ‘Mr Lindsay doesn’t want to hear all the details of our family history.’
‘On the contrary,’ Evan corrected smilingly. ‘I have to admit to being rather intrigued. I came here expecting to see someone who was perhaps six at the most, possibly even younger. Instead, I’m confronted by a glamorous blonde who is clearly not even an adolescent.’
‘I’m twenty-six, if that’s what you’re angling to find out.’
Catherine regretted the sharpness of her tone when she saw the way those sea-toned eyes turned to her, their regard coolly direct, clearly noting the raised colour in her cheeks, the spark of reaction in her own bright blue eyes. If that ‘glamorous’ had been meant to flatter, to make her loosen up, then it had failed; if anything, she felt even more uptight than before.
‘I would have said twenty-two—no more,’ Evan returned smoothly. ‘But then the clothes are very deceptive—and without a trace of make-up you look like a well-scrubbed young girl.’
‘I don’t like to wear make-up all the time. Having to—’ She caught herself up sharply, not wanting to give too much away. ‘I prefer to let my skin breathe,’ she corrected hastily.
‘My sister feels exactly the same way.’
It was a bland reply, easily spoken, but she knew that she hadn’t succeeded in distracting him completely from the way she had covered up what she had been about to say. The aquamarine eyes had narrowed sharply, and she could sense a watchful awareness about the powerful body before her that made her stomach twist in painful apprehension.
Her father never seemed to dominate the room in quite the same way, she reflected nervously. He never made her feel that the elegant blue and grey room was somehow too small to contain him—or perhaps that was just a reflection of her own inner feelings, the tension that now always seemed to torment her when she was in the presence of any man she didn’t know.
‘That coffee must be ready by now. I’ll go and get it.’
‘Mrs Bentley will bring it through.’
‘No.’ She shook her head determinedly. ‘I’ll go and fetch it. You rely too much on your housekeeper since I left home, Dad. It’s well after six, and she should have the rest of the evening off.’
She prayed that the words wouldn’t sound like the excuse they were as she hastily made her way from