He chuckles. “No, not actually, I just wanted to see you get riled up again. I figured that would do the trick.”
“You like making women angry with you?”
“Not typically. But there’s something about your ire that really does it for me.” He leans in closer—all smooth, suave and seductive. “You have a beautiful frown, sweets. Has anyone ever told you that?”
His comment makes me frown harder. Which amuses him even further. Or maybe Tommy Sullivan just spends his whole life amused.
“Masochist,” I counter.
“Never gave that one a go.” His voice drops low. “But I’m game if you are—I’ll try anything once—and then, again and again if it appeals.”
With that, his tone shifts, reverts to casual, making me feel unbalanced. Off-kilter.
“Is your friend still there too? Henrietta? She seemed like a lively one.”
I tilt my head towards him. “You remember that?”
He nods. “Sure.”
“Most concussed patients can’t recall details from the moments they first regain consciousness. That’s fascinating.”
He takes it as a compliment, and taps his temple.
“Big brain. You know what they say about men with big brains, don’t you? We’re big everywhere.”
“Are you implying there’s a correlation between the size of your brain and the size of your genitals?”
His brow furrows. “Well, I wouldn’t have used those words—ever. But yeah, that’s what I’m saying.”
“Absurd. There’s no scientific evidence to support that claim.”
“I could be an anomaly. I think you should investigate it firsthand—just to be certain.” He winks. “For science.”
With the grace of an old screen movie star, he reaches into his suit pocket, takes out a pack of cigarettes and slips one into his mouth.
It’s infuriating on so many levels.
Before he can light it, I pluck it from his lips. “For God’s sake, man, it’s the twenty-first century. Do you know what smoking does to a human body?”
I tick off the ailments on my fingers.
“Lung cancer, stroke, heart disease . . . Have you ever seen someone with emphysema, struggling for just one tiny gasp of breath?”
“Aren’t you delightful?” He snaps the silver lighter closed and slides it back into his pocket. “I bet you’re a real hit at parties.”
Any calm and tranquility I found during my swim is gone now. I’m frazzled—like a live wire that’s been cut and spliced and is sparking at its ends.
“I have to go. I’m not going to spend time chatting with someone who’s hell-bent and determined to end up speaking through an electrolarynx. I have a surgery this afternoon.”
“Are you free afterwards?” he asks. “Would you fancy grabbing some dinner with me?”
I pride myself on being a decisive person. An anticipator and a planner, clear and confident in my words and thoughts. I’m not a stammerer or stutterer. But Tommy Sullivan has a knack for turning me into both.
“I . . . I . . . don’t have time for dinner.”
He nods and moves in closer, so near I smell the warm, pleasant spice of his aftershave.
“I understand, I’m quite busy these days too. We can skip dinner and just go straight to fucking.”
My mouth drops, but before I can craft a reply, his rough fingertips tenderly touch my cheek.
“It would be good between us. Can’t you feel it, Abby?”
What I feel is a wobble in my joints and a knot of heat pulling tight and low in my stomach. It’s my name I think—the way he says it—like a secret promise of dirty delights.
“I . . . don’t have time for that either.”
“Now that’s a damn sin.” He dips his chin mournfully and places his hand on his chest. “You’re breaking my heart, lass.”
I shake off whatever tempting spell he’s weaving, and straighten up.
“Sounds like a medical condition. You should probably see someone about that.”
I brush past him, walking up the path.
“Is that an offer to examine me?” he calls. “I accept, anytime.”
And the echo of that deep chuckle chases me all the way back to the house.
Well, that was . . . interesting.
But now I can put Tommy Sullivan right out of my mind—it’s not as if I’ll have to see him again. The Dowager Countess of Bumblebridge would never employ someone so . . . improper. Incorrigible. Incredibly good-looking, a cheeky voice sighs inside my head.
But I ignore it.
Because it doesn’t matter. Grandmother won’t hire him.
I’m sure of it.
CHAPTER THREE
Tommy
THE DOWAGER COUNTESS HIRES US the next day.
It’s her man who makes the call—that’s usually how it works with the titled ones—assistants and secretaries do the legwork. Her insisting on personally interviewing me and Logan was unusual, but once we were in the library of the Bumblebridge estate, it made sense. She had control-freak micromanager written all over her. And her granddaughter is a chip off the old tiara.
Abby Haddock.
Technically, Lady Abigail. Technically-technically, Dr. Haddock—which is hot and inspires a plethora of naughty fantasies. But I like Abby best. It suits her.