Her Tycoon Lover. Lee WilkinsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
Then she tied a couple of untidy half hitches, dropped the rest of the rope and stood up, turning to face him. She pushed her dark glasses up into her hair; her eyes, a glacial blue this morning, fastened themselves on his face. “What are you doing here?”
“You’re a pro,” he said easily. “You handled the boat beautifully—is it yours?”
“My question came first.”
He swiped at his forehead with the back of one hand, and said with a winning smile, “I’m trying to work off last night’s pork tenderloin. Not to mention the orange mousse.”
As though she couldn’t help herself, her gaze skidded down his chest, its pelt of dark hair visible through his wet top, to the flatness of his belly. She took a sudden step back. Luke grabbed at her arm. “Watch it, you don’t want to fall in.”
Her skin was warm from the sun. She shook her elbow free, patches of color in her cheeks. “I’ve got to go,” she muttered. “I’ll be late for work.”
His glance flickered down her body. Her breasts pushed against her thin green top, the faint shadow of her cleavage visible at the scooped neck; her legs were slim and lightly tanned. It wasn’t an opportune moment to remember Guy’s question…you hiding anything else under that uniform? Luke now knew what she’d been hiding. Trying to gather his wits, he repeated, “Do you own the boat?”
“Yes,” she snapped, “I bought it with my investments.”
Ignoring this, Luke said tritely, “Nice lines.” The same, of course, could apply to her. “Do you do much sailing?”
“Whenever I can.” She lifted her chin. “It gets me away from the dining room. In more ways than one. Keeps my sanity, in other words.”
“There are a great many other jobs that would suit you better.”
“You’re repeating yourself.”
“You’re not getting it.”
“Life isn’t quite as simple as you seem to think it is. Sir.”
If anyone knew life wasn’t simple, it was himself. Holding tight to his temper, Luke said more moderately, “I’m sorry, I’m being tactless. I’d hate to see you stuck here year after year when there are wider horizons, that’s all.”
“Fine. I get the message.”
“I’m also sorry about Guy,” Luke went on. “He’s a grade-A jerk who shouldn’t go near a bottle of booze.”
“I can look after types like him.”
“So I noticed.”
“The brandy was an accident.”
“And the sail on your boat’s purple.”
For a brief moment laughter glinted in her eyes. He’d already decided she had beautiful eyes. Now add the rest of her, he thought. Although beautiful was a much overused word that didn’t really encompass her grace, femininity and unconscious pride; the luster of her skin, the smooth flow of her muscles; the sexual pull she was exerting on him without—he was almost sure of this—in any way intending or wanting to.
But wasn’t this all irrelevant? He met lots of beautiful women, so many that he should be immune to outward appearances by now; and the only reason his heart was thumping in his chest was that he’d been running for the better part of sixty minutes. Nothing to do with Katrin. He said abruptly, “I don’t even know your full name.”
“You don’t need to.”
Smiling broadly, Luke held out his hand. “Luke MacRae.”
Katrin looked down at his hand, her own firmly at her sides. The wind blew a strand of hair across her face. “I already told you, staff and guests don’t fraternize. I could get in real trouble if someone sees us talking like this.”
“Then it’s too bad there isn’t a bottle of brandy close by.”
Again wayward laughter briefly warmed her blue irises; and was as swiftly tamped. Her whole face changed when she laughed, becoming vibrant and full of mischief. Luke discovered that he very badly wanted to make her laugh again, although he had no idea how to go about it. He said, reaching for her right hand, “How’s your cut, by the way?”
Her fingers lay tense in his palm. The bandage was still in place. He said flatly, “The mark is gone where Guy grabbed you.”
This time there was no mistaking the emotion in her voice: it was panic. “Let go…I’ll be late!”
“Why do I scare you?” Luke said slowly.
“I don’t know. You don’t! Why should you?”
He watched her swallow, the tendons moving in her throat where sunlight gilded skin like satin. He wanted to rest his fingers there. Feel the pulse in that little hollow race to his touch. Then let them drift across the delicate arch of her collarbone to the soft swell of her breast…he felt his own body tighten, every nerve on high alert.
He’d felt desire before. Many times. But never quite like this. So instinctual and imperative. So all-encompassing. He said with a deliberate lack of emphasis, “I think you’re by far the loveliest woman I’ve ever seen.”
If he’d expected Katrin to be flustered by his remark, or pleased, he was soon disappointed. She folded her arms across her chest, her eyes narrowing. “Do you?” she said. “Perhaps you’re beginning to understand why I wear those awful glasses in the dining room—to discourage cheap compliments from men like you.”
“Every word I said was the literal truth.”
“And the sails on my boat are purple,” she mocked.
“It’s no crime to be beautiful, Katrin.”
“Maybe not. But it’s sure a liability in a job like mine. This conversation proves my point.”
“You’re stereotyping me!”
“Deny that you gave me the once-over a moment ago.”
He couldn’t. Trying to iron any emotion out of his voice, Luke said, “You’re a very desirable woman. You know it, and so do I.”
She hugged herself tighter. “I hate flattery.”
Suddenly it was blindingly obvious to Luke. He said with all the subtlety of a fourteen-year-old, “You want me just as much as I want you. That’s why you’re scared.”
His words hung in the air; waves lapped the wharf, and overhead a gull wailed mournfully. Katrin whispered, “You’re out of your mind.”
He was. No question of that. “But I’m right. Aren’t I?”
“No! You’re the one who’s after me—not the other way around. And it’s because I’m just a waitress,” she added with a depth of bitterness that shocked him. She snatched her hand free. “I’m yours for the asking. Cheap. Available. It’s fine for you—you can jet in and jet out. But I’m stuck with—”
“This has nothing to do with how you earn your living,” Luke said fiercely.
“Yeah, right.” She pushed her hair back; in the sunlight, it gleamed like ripe prairie wheat. “You asked my name. It’s Katrin Sigurdson. My husband’s name is Erik Sigurdson. He’s a fisherman. He’s out there on the lake right now.”
It was as though she’d punched Luke hard in the solar plexus. He rasped, “You don’t wear a ring.”
“My wedding band’s antique gold, very finely engraved…I choose not to wear it at work. Or sailing.”
Was she telling the truth? She was staring straight at him, conviction in every line of her body. Conviction, defiance, and something else: a trace of the panic he’d seen before? “Are you from here?” he asked, trying to gather his wits.
“Yes.