Wham, bam and thank you, ma'am, and I won't say anything if you won't; it can be our little secret and don't tell the wife?
Oh, how debauched and utterly, utterly despicable! Oh, how she hated him! And was ready to punch him if he so much as touched her!
He didn't. He said, 'Let's go and eat,' and got effortlessly to his feet, casually holding a hand out to her.
Caro took it because the only other option she had was to crawl back up to the terrace on her hands and knees. Suddenly her head was spinning wildly. Every nerve in her body tingled as those hard, warm fingers closed reassuringly around her own and the sensual shock of the sensation was responsible for the way her fingers clung so desperately to his; of course it was. And she clung even more tightly as he bent to retrieve their glasses.
And when he straightened up her body inadvertently swayed giddily towards his, brushed against the taut, lean length of him, the tips of her suddenly unbearably sensitised breasts grazing the soft dark cotton that covered his deep chest.
'Oh!' Caro gasped then trembled violently, every cell in her body leaping in hectic response to the tough, masculine feel of him, the warmth of him, the closeness of him. Unnamed emotions—dozens of them—surged frantically around inside her; she was so confused she didn't know what to do with herself. Cling to him and wrap her arms tightly around him, or take to her heels and run a mile?
Wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling his head down to hers, pressing her tingling body even closer to his could be one of her better ideas—in the cause of her ultimate revenge, of course.
However, running the proverbial mile would put her out of danger. But surely there was no danger at all? There shouldn't be, not as long as she played the seduction game by her own private set of rules!
But would she remember the rules? Her body, wriggling closer into his right now, at this very moment, seemed to have forgotten there had ever been any!
Confusion reigned.
'Steady!' With a wry, lop-sided grin as he capitulated to a surge of unexpected chivalry, Finn managed to hold onto the wine glasses, prise his daughter's nanny's delectably curvy, inviting little body from all over his and steer them both in the direction of the terrace and the waiting steaks which would undoubtedly be as hard as leather and stone-cold by now.
The way she'd fallen against him, her fantastic body wriggling and clinging, had been out-of-this-world provocation. Finn wondered if it could have been deliberate—like the way she'd disappeared to the far end of the garden, practically inviting him to follow. Or whether her unsteadiness had been a result of swallowing her wine far too quickly.
He gave her the benefit of the doubt and put the sexually provocative moment down to the wine. His hand was on the small of her back because he suspected she was ever so slightly tipsy and he didn't want her to fall over her feet.
He would prefer not to have to touch her, not under these circumstances. Touching her put far too much strain on his self-control. Stone-cold sober and fully aware of what she was doing—now that would be another story altogether.
Finn pulled his mind sharply away from that enticing scenario, guided her to the picnic table and went to collect the meat.
He wanted to touch her, to hold her, wanted it with a sharp, compelling urgency he hadn't experienced in a very long time, probably not since adolescence and rioting hormones had driven him into the wholehearted exploration of the mysteries of the female sex.
And when he finally took her in his arms he wanted her fully aware of what was happening, crystal-clear about the consequences of the step they would be taking. He wouldn't want her mental and physical faculties blurred by an injudicious intake of alcohol.
Besides, there was another, more altruistic side to his interest in this endlessly fascinating woman. He wanted to get to know why she was having to pretend to be a nanny in order to earn a few extra bucks, and she wouldn't confide in him until she could trust him, and she sure as hell wouldn't trust him if he gave way to his suddenly rampaging male hormones, dragged her into his arms and covered every inch of her face and body with hungry, burning kisses.
It was too soon. Much too soon. True, she was older, more sophisticated and far less naive than her younger sister had been, and the gasp of excited response she'd given when she'd stumbled against him, their bodies brushing, touching and burning from breast to thigh, had told him she was just as sexually aware of him as he was of her.
Even so, he wasn't going to rush a thing. Instinct told him that their future relationship could be interesting. More than merely interesting. He wouldn't risk putting it in jeopardy through lack of patience.
Fortunately the meat hadn't been ruined by the delay and the salad was absolutely fine, and as he helped himself to wine after she'd shaken her head and covered her glass with her hand in refusal she remarked, 'You cook a mean steak.' Reluctant humour lit her eyes. 'Why is it that men see tending a barbecue as a perfectly acceptable masculine activity but wouldn't be seen dead anywhere near a kitchen stove and a potato-peeler?'
'Don't generalise.' His eyes glinted at her over the rim of his glass. 'They don't come much better than me around the kitchen stove—or sink, for that matter. I have been known to rise from Sophie's strained vegetables to a four-course dinner for six, believe it or not.'
She might believe it; at a pinch she just might. Not because she thought he was incapable of lying—he had done nothing but lie to poor Katie—or because his lazy grin was totally disarming and unbelievably sexy, but because, for all he was by all accounts as rich as Croesus, he didn't flaunt his great wealth.
The property she, at his insistence, had viewed with him this afternoon had positively reeked of wealth and perfect taste. Ultra-modern, enclosed in acres of beautifully manicured grounds, the house had boasted every luxury and convenience known to man—discreetly boasted, of course. She had privately thought that the place would suit him very well, that he'd lose no time in getting his solicitor to exchange contracts.
But Finn, guiding Sophie through the great sliding glass doors that led from the airy book room into a huge domed space-age conservatory, had observed, 'Very avant-garde, but not exactly homely. Can't see us romping here, can you, Sophie, girl?'
So yes, unfortunately she could bring herself to believe he was as handy around a kitchen as he was with his baby daughter. She wished she couldn't believe anything good or halfway human about him. She wanted to hate him through and through, not grudgingly have to respect bits of his character.
But there was no point in letting her emotions get in the way here. So, he had his good points, but that did nothing to alter what he'd done to Katie.
He was leaning forward now, his tan
ned forearms on the rough, grainy surface of the wooden picnic table, idly twisting the stem of his glass between those long, strong fingers. She couldn't read his expression, not clearly, because the daylight was fading rapidly now, but his voice was warm, intimate, as he invited, 'Tell me about yourself, Caro.'
As an opener it sounded promising. However, she had no intention of telling him anything about herself, not yet anyway, not until she was ready to tell him whose sister she was; so she manufactured what she hoped would pass as a seductive smile and disclaimed huskily, 'I'm sure we could find something far less boring to talk about. You, for instance—'