So he’d had to apologise and redraw the boundaries with her. He’d had to put distance between them again.
He had no idea how long it had been since he’d last had sex—and he certainly hadn’t enjoyed any sexual relations over the last twelve months. Apparently he’d dated, but according to his research he’d never had any long-term relationships. That resonated as truth within him. Relationships—and family—weren’t things he believed in. He had not had them, he would not have them. He knew too well that the only person he could rely on was himself. His own ‘family’ had taught him that well.
But he’d definitely forgotten how good it felt to hold a soft, willing woman in his arms. He stifled a groan; he was rock hard at the mere recollection of it.
He wanted sex. With her. Now.
He wanted it so badly he could barely think.
But he didn’t want anything more than sex—no relationship, no opening up and emoting. No sharing of anything other than body and touch. Not with her or any woman. But he couldn’t demand Zara’s physical surrender and offer her nothing else. She didn’t come across as a woman ready and willing for nothing more than a quick fling. Her eyes held too many secrets and sorrows. And with the painful truth about his mother, he could never have sex with a woman on his payroll.
But that didn’t stop him wanting her.
He stared at the screens, forcing his concentration, slaving over the reports until he was up to date. He then opened up a new file. Then another. He sent screeds of emails to his staff working at the office in London under Jasper’s eye—instructing him and them on what he wanted him and them to do. There was always more to do. More work to win. More opportunities to generate.
He just had to keep working. That was what he could control. And what he did best.
But then he heard the approach of soft footsteps and his concentration blew.
She didn’t look at him; she was too busy watching that she didn’t spill whatever it was she had on the wooden tray. He should stand to help and take it from her, but he found he couldn’t move. Her cheeks were lightly flushed and her skin glowed and he couldn’t look away from how beautiful she was with her hair half falling out of its ponytail and a smear of sauce on her white T-shirt.
‘Here you go.’ She set the tray down on his table. ‘I won’t be offended if you don’t like it.’
She wouldn’t even meet his eyes. Annoyance surged inside him again. He hated that apologetic tone from her. He wanted her smile back, together with that imp of defiance and the strength he knew she had when pushed. He liked it when she was true and not hiding.
‘I promise I’ll be honest in my assessment,’ he muttered dryly, hoping to provoke a bite.
She glanced at him—a quick, sharp look—but said nothing.
Disappointment drilled deeper as he watched her leave the room. She’d basically run away from him and he didn’t blame her.
He never should have touched her. He never should have let her stay.
He never should have hauled her close and kissed her like a dying man given his last, most desired wish.
He looked at the tray she’d put on the end of his desk. He wasn’t hungry in the least but he didn’t want to make her feel even more uncomfortable.
At the first taste he closed his eyes. The soup was full of rich flavour and hearty. The steak was tender and juicy. And the potatoes? It was comfort food and there was no mistaking it. God, it was delicious.
His mouth watered. For the first time in months he was ravenous.
It seemed she’d wakened two appetites within him. He could sate only one. But with each mouthful—as she filled one need in him, the other began to bite harder.
He wanted to carry the tray down to the kitchen and dine with her. Food this good ought to be shared—eaten at a table framed by laughing, talking people. But he couldn’t. There was too much tension between them, too much need in him. And bitterly he suspected she knew more about him than he’d told her.
She knew something wasn’t right.
So he savoured the dishes she’d prepared and brought his unruly body to heel with the determination that had made him recover so much of his physical strength. But he couldn’t beat his own weakness. Not truly.
Sighing, he put the knife and fork down, unable to finish the last of it. But he had to be honest with her—at least in this.
She sat at the table, with her back to him, reading recipe books again. Her feet were bare and her slim-fit jeans and T-shirt emphasised her delectable body. It didn’t need emphasising.
He tensed as his body swiftly reacted to her—that other hunger building to epic proportions. He gritted his teeth in annoyance at his base reaction. Being out of control like this was foreign to him, but at the same time all he wanted to do was indulge.
‘Where should I leave the tray?’ he asked roughly as he stopped in the doorway. He didn’t trust himself to step a foot closer.
Startled, she turned, her eyes meeting his for the first time since they’d kissed. For a moment that passion hung between them.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. Her eyes said it all. Shadowed and uncertain but with that flicker of desire that he knew he could bring to an inferno with little more than a kiss. What if he did more than that? How would she react then?
‘It was delicious,’ he said stiffly, determined to control himself. ‘Thank you.’
‘No problem,’ she answered quietly. She stood and took the tray from him and then swiftly walked around to the other side of the table. Putting distance—a literal barrier—between them.
He leaned against the doorjamb, folding his arms across his chest, and glanced about the scrupulously clean kitchen. ‘Did you eat already?’
She placed the dishes by the sink. ‘I wasn’t that hungry.’
He frowned. ‘You should—’
‘I ate as I cooked.’ She turned and forestalled his lecture with a defiant tilt of her chin. ‘The soup.’
At that he nodded, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave her just yet. ‘That man who offered us a lift earlier,’ he said roughly, hating that he had to ask, but knowing he needed to for his own peace of mind. ‘Had you met him before?’
She shook her head, her gaze now not leaving his. ‘Had you?’
For the tiniest moment he felt like telling her. She looked so earnestly at him, her eyes soulful and her voice soft. But he didn’t want to admit the truth and see her expression change. All he wanted in this moment was to forget it all.
The irony of that made him smile bitterly.
‘You’re a very good cook,’ he muttered instead. ‘That was the best meal I’ve eaten in a long time.’
‘I’m glad you enjoyed it.’
It couldn’t be more stilted. Allowing himself one last second to look at her, he straightened and headed back to his office.
* *
*
Zara didn’t feel the pleasure she’d expected from his concession she was good at her job. She wanted something else from him now and she couldn’t get it.
She cleaned up the kitchen. Filling the late hours in the evening by scrubbing an already clean bench and floor and then wading through the next few books in the amazing cookbook collection she’d found on the shelf in the large pantry.
He didn’t come down to the kitchen again and she didn’t go to the office. She already knew he wouldn’t want a hot chocolate or anything before he went to bed. She didn’t bother with one for herself. She was still too hot.
When she finally made herself go to bed she found she couldn’t sleep. She flicked the light back on and opened up yet another of the cookbooks. But her attention kept wandering—to those faint noises she could hear within the house.
Then the silence.
He would be asleep now. But still she couldn’t find rest. Her brain had that kiss on replay. Her skin burned as the memory tormented her. Her muscles twitched as frustrated energy fired along her nerves. It had escalated so quickly. Total, raw lust.
She was so hot and flustered she couldn’t bear to stay in bed a second longer. She sprang out of it and pulled on her jeans and a fresh T-shirt, not bothering to stop for underwear. In the dark she stole down the stairs to the kitchen because there was only one thing she could do. She’d work it out—physically and mentally and distract herself completely. She pulled out ingredients, piling them on one end of the table. She’d start with bread—make something that needed beating down over and over again. Just like this intense, unwanted lust he’d roused in her.
And she didn’t care if he didn’t like sugar, she did. She’d make biscuits. And cake. And pastry. And pies. Anything and everything to occupy her mind, body and soul until the sun came up and this impossible passion waned.
She flicked on both ovens. She’d try those recipes she’d been reading. She’d be so busy following instructions she wouldn’t have the brain space to think about other things.