His heart raced like a jackhammer. He felt the boundaries he’d set being smashed left, right and centre and he had no idea what to say, or do or think.
But then she let out a long, descending whistle and flapped her hand across her cheeks, and her eyes ran coquettishly down his dinner suit. His skin tightened every place her gaze touched, and his heart eased.
He snuck a hand to her waist, the fabric sliding against his palm until he connected with the curve of her hip. It took all of his self-control not to throw her over his shoulder, take her back inside her crazy home, close the door behind them and forget about the rest of the world.
Instead he leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, letting her sweet vanilla scent wash over him like a cure-all.
‘You,’ he said, his voice gruff, ‘look like a dream. And that dress; there are quite simply no words.’
The smile he wrought lit her from the inside out. ‘What,’ she said, swinging from side to side, ‘this old thing?’
Her tone was wry, but he knew she half-meant it. For nothing that romantic could ever have come from today.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked.
She held up two fingers. ‘Two seconds. I’m still missing an earring. You’d think in a place this small that wouldn’t be a concern, right?’
She turned and raced inside. He followed, intrigued at just how much Rosalind’s home might reveal about the woman whose layers seemed to go on and on.
At one end an ajar door revealed the corner of a double bed which all but filled the space. It was covered in a soft, worn, pastel comforter. It was unmade. One pillow lay in the centre of the bed, dented where her head had lain. She was used to sleeping there alone. So far, the insights were entirely positive.
In the middle where he stood was the kitchen. He looked for photos of family or friends, but there were none on show. No knickknacks had pride of place on the pleasantly scuffed bench. It was almost as though she was on holidays rather than living in the place. He wasn’t sure what to make of that.
He glanced up. In lieu of a chandelier was a home-made mobile of the solar system made from bent wire-hangers and string, planets made from chocolate wrappings, balls of rubber bands, and an old squash-ball pitted with teeth marks. He’d asked for insight and he’d been given a fanciful, inventive, dynamic mind. No surprise there.
He counted. No Pluto. Poor Pluto. He was in, then suddenly one day he was out. Cameron felt an affinity with the little guy. He only hoped Pluto was out there in the universe, kicking butt and taking names.
‘Found it!’ Rosalind called out from deep in the other end of the caravan.
In the bathroom, perhaps? He took a step in that direction, and out of the shadows a face peered back at him. Against one wall rested a life-size cardboard cut-out of a musclebound actor in a wetsuit. And just like that all the good the single pillow on her bed had done to his ego was wiped out. By a piece of cardboard.
He stepped back into the relative safety of the more conservatively decorated kitchen. His head brushed against something. He turned and came face to face with a line of string, over which had been hung a collection of skimpy lace underwear, quite different from the androgynous knickers she’d had on under her layers upon layers of clothing the other night.
He swallowed hard, wondering just what she might or might not be wearing under her diaphanous dress. The answer would be his for the taking if he wanted it, of that he was sure. And try as he might he couldn’t imagine a situation in which he would not.
Before he had the chance to interpret the thought, Rosie appeared from the other end of the van, pinning the back on a dangly earring at her left lobe, saw where he was standing and came to a screeching halt. And blushed.
It wasn’t even the loveliness of the blush that got him deep in his gut. It was the fact that, even after he’d already seen every inch of her beneath the underwear, she still managed to blush at all.
Their eyes caught. And locked. Her sparkling grey depths were warm, questioning, unguarded as always. But this time he felt like he was teetering on the edge of a most important discovery, when she closed her eyes and spun away, and it was gone.
‘It’s getting late,’ she said, grabbing a clutch purse and a fake-fur wrap the same colour as her hair. ‘Your family will be expecting you. How good does that feel?’
He let her lead the way, and paused when she simply shut the door and kept on walking.
‘You’re not locking up?’ he asked.
She shot him a quick smile as she backed towards his car. ‘No need. You met my faithful protector, didn’t you? Serious eyes, big muscles, made of cardboard. He keeps me safe from harm.’