Surf, Sea and a Sexy Stranger. Heidi RiceЧитать онлайн книгу.
up with his crabby attitude. She trudged down the track, the bike bumping against her hip, and promised herself this was the very last time Miss Fixit would get the better of her.
In fact, Miss Fixit was now officially dead. And good riddance.
A bellowing clap of thunder crashed above her head. She flinched as several fat spots of rain splashed onto her chin and cheeks.
‘Come back here, you little fool; you’re about to get drenched.’ The gruff command had her indignation returning full force.
Swiping the wet hair off her brow, she twisted round to see the stranger standing in the doorway. With his bare legs akimbo and the robe flapping around his knees, he looked as dramatic and forbidding as his house.
She glimpsed a criss-cross of angry red scars above his left kneecap and quashed a dart of sympathy.
Don’t you dare feel sorry for him. That’s what got you into this mess in the first place.
‘Cheers, Grumpy,’ she yelled through the building tempest, ‘but I’d rather drown.’
He shrugged and lurched back into the shadows of the house. ‘Fine. Suit yourself.’ The door slammed shut with a thud which was promptly drowned out by another crash of thunder.
And good riddance to you too.
Maddy had got exactly three metres before the heavens opened in earnest, the deluge soaking through the pitiful poncho and her jeans and trainers in seconds.
And only two metres more before she realised the back tyre of her bike was deader than Miss Fixit.
Chapter Three
RYE refused to feel guilty as he snapped the hall light back off and listened to the rain storm attack the house.
He hadn’t asked her to come. He didn’t want her help. And he wanted her damn pity even less. Maybe a good soaking would teach her to stop sticking her nose in where it wasn’t wanted.
But, as he made his way back down the corridor, even the ache in his lame leg couldn’t stop the stab of guilt, the image forming in his mind of those mossy-green eyes, the long lashes sprinkled with raindrops, peering up at him as the soft downy skin of her cheek connected with his bare chest.
He stopped and braced his open palm against the wall, stared at the cold marble flooring beneath his feet. A stab of conscience sliced neatly through the temper that had sustained him for months and hit the raw nerve he’d been busy ignoring beneath.
‘Blast!’
When had he turned into someone he couldn’t stand? Someone like his grandfather?
Self-pity was an understandable indulgence, but letting the accident turn him into the same moody, humourless misery guts who had greeted him all those years ago when he’d first arrived at Trewan Manor, a grief-stricken child, was not.
He shook his head and peered at the door, wincing as the rain pelted the small stained glass window above it.
Damn, if all the women he’d seduced and enjoyed over the years—from Clara Biggs, the Truro barmaid he’d charmed into bed the day after his sixteenth birthday, right up to Marta on the morning before his fateful trip along the A30—could have heard the mean-spirited way he’d snapped at that girl, they would never have recognised him.
Hell, he wasn’t even sure he recognised himself.
He’d once adored the company of women. Their soft, scented bodies, the graceful way they moved, their endless talk about nothing, their passion for dumb things like fashion and skin-care. He had even enjoyed their flashfire tempers and the hours they spent in the bathroom, or the way they made leaving the toilet seat up a national emergency.
Sex had never been the only reason he’d liked spending time with women. They’d once fascinated him.
They didn’t fascinate him any more and he had no desire to spend time with them now—why torture himself?—but that didn’t excuse the way he’d treated the girl.
Maybe she was a busybody, but he’d seen genuine concern in those sultry eyes. And if she had felt any pity towards him, she’d got over it pretty damn quick.
He stomped back towards the door. He’d never be the reckless, easy-going charmer he’d once been, but he could at least offer the girl shelter from the storm. He could stand her company for a half hour or so, and be civil to her. She’d pulled him out of the water. He would return the favour.
His lips formed into a tight smile. And offering to help would have the added benefit of making them quits. He hated to be indebted to anyone.
He thought of her parting comment and frowned.
If she didn’t want to be saved, that was her hard luck.
He heard the sharp rap on the door as his fingers closed on the knob.
She looked cute and wet and cold, like a half-drowned Little Orphan Annie. Her teeth chattered as water dripped off her clothes and splashed into a puddle on the doorstep. He noticed the ancient bike lying in a heap as she wrestled off her waterproof and flung it on the floor.
Green fire flashed in those sexy, sultry eyes as they met his and her chin jutted out.
Okay, maybe that should be Little Terminator Annie. Looked as if her earlier strop had gone ballistic. But then his gaze snagged on the outline of her nipples through the wet fabric of her T-shirt and suddenly he wasn’t thinking of Annie any more, orphaned or otherwise.
‘If you say I told you so,’ she snarled, ‘I’ll kill you myself.’
He jerked his eyes off her breasts, felt the pulse of heat in his groin and coughed, an unfamiliar tickle in his throat.
‘Come in,’ he said, trying for stern but not quite getting there, thanks to the tickle.
He pushed the door wide and stepped back silently to let her in.
She dripped into the hallway, stiff and forlorn, then muttered something that sounded like, ‘I hate you, Miss Fixit.’
He cleared his throat, the tickle getting worse. Then the heat pulsed harder as he took in the trim curve of her backside in the clinging denims.
She swept her hair back from her face sprinkling him with droplets, and said something about her bike, but the words were drowned out by the wild buzzing in his ears and the glorious swell of heat blossoming in his abdomen.
She shot an annoyed look over her shoulder. ‘Don’t hold back on my account. Say it. You know you want to.’
The scowl made her look even cuter. Like a pixie having a temper tantrum. His eyes snagged on her breasts again. Make that a very sexy pixie having a temper tantrum.
‘What, and risk death and dismemberment?’ he said dryly. ‘No, thanks.’
Her eyes widened and the scowl deepened. ‘So Grumpy has a sense of humour.’ She slapped a hand on one slim but shapely hip and looked even sexier. ‘What a surprise it’s at my expense.’
The heat surged and the tickle returned with a vengeance. He coughed, struggled to focus, as something light and airy and inexplicable bubbled up inside his chest. ‘Exactly who’s calling who Grumpy?’ The quip came out on a strangled groan as the tickle became a tidal wave of pressure, building under his breastbone and making his ribs ache.
She drilled a finger into his chest, wet curls flopping over her brow. ‘Don’t you dare laugh at me.’ Her foot stamped and the sopping trainer squelched. ‘Or you’ll really have something to be grumpy about.’
He wasn’t sure if it was the preposterous threat that did it, delivered with total conviction as only an angry pixie could, or the outraged colour tinting her cheeks and making her emerald eyes sparkle with fury. But the dam cracked and then broke. A sound he barely recognised rattled out—and then wouldn’t stop, reverberating