Sleeping Partners

‘Great, thanks.’ He turned and smiled at her, but then his gaze returned almost immediately to the view as he said, ‘Amazing what a bird’s-eye view can reveal. Did you know the girl in the house opposite likes to sunbathe in the nude?’

Oh, no—she’d forgotten about Maria’s little penchant for displaying herself to half of Kensington. The exotic dancer in one of the local nightclubs was a dedicated naturist as her perfect tan confirmed.

‘Uh-huh,’ she said nonchalantly.

‘I’m beginning to think I miss a lot by living in Windsor.’ He turned and added, ‘Want any help with the meal?’

Robyn forced a thin smile. ‘I wouldn’t dream of dragging you away from the view,’ she said pithily.

‘I prefer the one I’m looking at now.’ His voice was soft, throaty, and it flustered her more than she would have liked.

She tried to think of something airy and blasé to say but her mind was blank. Completely blank. Come on, Robyn, you can do better than this, she warned herself silently. He’s used to witty social chit-chat, light flirting and innuendo; that was the name of the game in the cosmopolitan circles Clay moved in. Someone staring gormlessly at him with their mouth half open was not his scene.

‘Clay, what’s this job you talked about?’ she asked abruptly.

‘Ah…’ He stood up slowly, moving off the balcony and into the sitting room before continuing, his eyes on her flushed face, ‘

It won’t be for a while yet.’

‘A while?’ There was something in his voice that made her wary.

‘Next year…probably.’ He eyed her unrepentantly.

‘There isn’t a job, is there?’ she stated tightly.

‘No,’ he agreed meekly, ‘although there probably will be. I’m sure opportunities will arise—’

‘I don’t want your handouts, Clay,’ she snapped testily, ‘and I don’t appreciate being lied to.’

‘It wasn’t exactly a lie, more an exaggeration.’

‘It was a lie, Clay.’ Her voice brooked no argument.

‘Okay, it was a lie.’ He managed to look magnificently sexy and little-boy ingenuous at the same time. ‘Does this mean no Bolognese?’ he asked humbly.

‘It should.’ She didn’t trust the humility. Such an emotion was an enigma to Clay Lincoln. But if there was no job prospect, it must mean he had come to see her because he wanted to and, despite every sane and sensible instinct that was urging her to show him the door, Robyn found herself saying, ‘But as you’re clearly dead on your feet I can’t exactly send you away hungry. But once you’ve eaten, that’s it. I’ve got work to do.’

‘Thank you, Robyn.’ It was far too humble to be genuine.

Yes, right, thank you, Robyn. She was already berating herself for being such an idiot as to fall for the blatant manipulation as she scurried down to the kitchen. He’d clearly got something important on tomorrow that he’d travelled halfway across the world to deal with, and he’d called round to see her on the off chance rather than spend the evening alone.

But he had called round, and to her. Not some model type or one of the many numbers in the little black book she was sure he’d got.

She savoured the thought for a moment as she whisked the sticks of spaghetti out of their long tube on the top of the breakfast bar, and then as she put the lid back on the glass tube she realised what she was doing. Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous, she told herself sternly. Okay, a good few years had passed since that night she had run away from him with shame and hurt tearing her apart. It would be good to be able to finally lay the ghost of that whole episode once and for all, something she’d realised in the last weeks she had never done. She didn’t want to hate Clay Lincoln; she didn’t want to hate anyone.

But—and the but was huge—there was a great big difference between letting go of something that was ultimately harming only herself and actually striking up a relationship, however tenuous, with him. That would verge on the insane.

He would eat her up and spit her out and not even notice that he’d done so. That was the sort of man he was; he lived his life in the fast lane. He had been fascinating and captivating and a million miles out of her league when she was sixteen, and nothing had changed. Except…she now had the sense to see the situation clearly.

Her mouth set in a grim line and she opened the fridge, taking out a half-full bottle of white wine and pouring herself a generous glass before she carried on with the meal. Dutch courage maybe, but she needed all the help she could get with Clay upstairs.

‘That was wonderful.’ As Clay stretched back in his chair Robyn forced herself not to react as hard male muscles bunched and then relaxed again. The broad chest and wide, very male shoulders were shown off to perfection by the thin, lightweight shirt he was wearing. By the time she had trotted upstairs from the kitchen earlier with two steaming plates of spaghetti Bolognese, he had discarded the tie he’d been wearing and had undone the first few buttons of his shirt. It had caused an immediate rush of blistering awareness she could have done without.

‘I’m glad you enjoyed it.’ Robyn smiled brightly, determined not to dwell on what seeing him at her table did to her fragile equilibrium. ‘There’s apple and almond pie for dessert, or chocolate mousse? Both shop bought I’m afraid.’

‘There’s not any custard to go with the pie, is there?’ Clay asked hopefully.

Robyn swallowed. The slight touch of boyishness was dynamite. ‘Sure,’ she said evenly. ‘I can make you some.’