Misbehaving Under the Mistletoe. Heidi RiceЧитать онлайн книгу.
a back entrance?’ she asked, dropping her hand as her fingers connected with the solid strength beneath the blue silk of his suit.
His lips twitched. ‘I wouldn’t know. Why?’
‘I’m all wet.’ Hadn’t he noticed she looked like something the cat had dragged through a puddle?
His gaze wandered over her, and the back of her neck burned. ‘Your coat took the worst of it. Just take it off.’
She slipped off the wet coat and bunched it in her hands, the blush climbing into her cheeks.
A rueful smile curved his lips and she thought he whispered, ‘Pity.’
‘Sorry?’ Was it her imagination or was there a twinkle of mischief in his eyes?
‘Nothing,’ he murmured, but the twinkle didn’t dim one bit.
The simple sapphire tunic skimmed the top of her thighs and was one of her favourites of Nessa’s designs, but the short sleeves and plunging neckline meant wearing it without a coat was a good way to get hypothermia in December. The fragile, bias-cut fabric moulded to her figure as the wind brushed against her skin and made her shiver. She clamped her teeth together to stop them chattering and jumped when his warm palm settled on the small of her back.
‘Here.’ He shrugged out of his jacket and draped the garment over her shoulders. ‘I’ll take that.’ He lifted her coat out of her arms.
She gripped the lapels of his jacket, the tailored silk dwarfing her as he placed his hand on her hip and led her through the revolving doors into the marble lobby. The fragrance of the roses, freshly cut pine boughs and cinnamon sticks arranged in giant urns by the reception desk greeted them, but did nothing to mask the scent of soap and man that clung to his jacket.
‘Wait here.’
Crossing to the desk, he handed over her coat to one of the uniformed receptionists, who took the wet garment without showing a hint of surprise, then sent Cassie an efficient smile. As if it were perfectly normal for half-dressed women to track mud over their foyer.
Cassie tried to look invisible in Jace’s jacket as he led her through an ornately furnished lounge accented by deep-seated sofas in tartan upholstery, polished mahogany occasional tables and wrought-iron planters overflowing with winter flora. A scattering of perfectly dressed people sipped afternoon tea from delicate china cups and watched her pass.
Fabulous. She felt like Cinderella arriving at the ball in her rags.
When they stepped into the lift, she eased back against the panelling, still clinging to the jacket. ‘This place is seriously posh.’
He huffed out a laugh. ‘Don’t let them intimidate you. They’re just rich, they’re not royalty. Or at least most of them aren’t.’
‘Fabulous,’ she said wryly.
He chuckled again, shoving one hand into his pocket as he stabbed the top button on the display panel. She tried not to notice the way the movement made the linen of his shirt tighten across one broad shoulder.
His gaze took a leisurely trip down to her biker boots and back again as the lift whisked through the floors. She clamped down on the sudden wish to have him like what he saw.
Been there, done that, got the battered ego to prove it.
But when his eyes lifted to her face at last, the beat of anticipation still throbbed in her ears.
‘Money doesn’t buy you class,’ he said. ‘I ought to know.’
Sympathy welled and lodged in her throat, the blunt statement reminding her of the angry boy he’d once been. No one had ever found out that much about him at Hillsdown Road, his air of mystery only tantalising his army of admirers more. But one thing she did know was that he’d come from a ‘bad home’, because she’d overheard Ms Tremall, the head of the sixth form, talking about him to the headmaster, Mr Gates.
‘You’ve got more than enough class to go round now,’ she said passionately, the injustice of the teacher’s whispered comments surging back.
Like all the rest of the school staff, Tremall and Gates had condemned him because of his background and never given him the benefit of the doubt.
His eyebrow arched at her rabble-rousing tone. ‘It’s not class. It’s money,’ he said, with more than a hint of irony. ‘But I find it does the job just as well.’
The relaxed statement made her feel foolish. Who exactly did she think she was defending here? He certainly wasn’t that troubled boy any more. In fact, from his exceedingly posh digs, he was most likely a millionaire. She shook the thought off. Probably best not to go there given her already thriving inferiority complex.
The lift bell pinged and the doors slid back to reveal a marble lobby area only slightly less palatial than the one downstairs.
Here too, a tall vase filled with dark red lilies gave the carved stone and gilded plasterwork a Christmas glow. Using his key card to open a mahogany door, he stood back as she walked into a vaulted hallway that led into a suite of rooms.
Cassie came to an abrupt halt, dismayed by the deep-pile carpeting that led down the corridor into what looked like a large living room.
‘Is there a problem?’ he asked, lifting the jacket off her shoulders.
‘I should take off my boots.’ Mud would not look good on all that magnolia.
‘Go ahead.’ He slung the jacket over a chair. ‘I’ll call Housekeeping and get them polished while your coat’s cooking.’
‘That’s … Thanks,’ she said, embarrassed.
She hopped on one leg to unzip one of the boots, only to jerk upright when he placed his hand on her waist.
‘Hold on to my shoulder,’ he said casually enough, but as his eyes connected with hers the awareness that prickled up her spine reminded her of that dark school hallway a lifetime ago. Except this time those long, strong fingers held her, and not Jenny Kelty.
‘Thanks,’ she mumbled, her heartbeat battering her ribcage like a sledgehammer.
She touched his shoulder blade for balance, only to have her insides tilt alarmingly as the muscled sinews tensed beneath her fingers.
He kept his hand on her waist as she struggled with the boots. But once she’d yanked them off and pulled away from his touch, she realised she had another problem.
‘You might want to lose those too,’ he mentioned, apparently reading her mind as he examined the wet leggings. ‘They’re soaked.’
‘Right.’ She hesitated. The problem was, without her leggings, she’d only have the butt-skimming tunic on. She did a quick mental check. Had she put on her much-prized silk high-leg panties with the lace trim this morning, or had she opted for the usual cheap cotton passion-killers?
The instant the dilemma registered, she yanked herself back to reality.
For pity’s sake, Cass. It doesn’t matter what knickers you’re wearing.
The state of her undies had no bearing whatsoever on this situation. She was here to get her coat cleaned. Nothing more. Bending down, she wiggled out of the leggings and then shoved them under her arm.
‘You warm enough?’ he asked.
Gripping the hem of the tunic, she yanked it down, goose pimples rising on her bare thighs as her toes curled into the downy-soft carpeting.
‘Fine, thanks,’ she murmured, noticing the tiny dimple winking in one hard, chiselled cheek. That he found her predicament amusing only confirmed how ludicrous that moment of vanity had been. He wasn’t remotely interested in her. Or her knickers.
‘Make yourself comfortable in the lounge.’ He indicated the large living area as the dimple deepened. ‘While I get these sent down.’ He picked up her boots,