‘Better?’ he asked, another too-close murmur.
Goosebumps rippled across her skin as she suppressed a shiver, not that she was at all cold. In fact, she was all of a sudden burning. And all of a sudden she remembered she was only wearing a pair of ancient Lycra shorts and an almost supportive singlet. No bra. While water was trickling down her face and onto her chest.
‘I’m getting wet.’ She pulled back, wanting to cover up.
‘No worse than you already are,’ he said, a brisker tone this time.
‘I can manage now, really.’ She tilted her chin free of his grip. ‘Thanks.’
The sting in her eyes truly had eased and she opened them widely to look at the man bent down before her. She blinked more rapidly than she had when they’d been chemical filled. Was she hallucinating her way through this? But no, she’dfelthis touch, hadheardhis words and now, as her vision cleared, shesawhim rise to full height.
The effect was something else. Bronzed, broad-shouldered, unbelievable. At least six feet with dark hair and even darker eyes that were gazing right at hers in an uncomfortably intense way. Peripherally she noted the blue jeans, red tee, skate shoes. The cool clothes merely served to emphasize the fit body, the tan, the muscles, the obvious strength that made her glad she was sitting because her knees had weakened from some pathetically female hormone-driven response. And given he had some foliage as decoration, it seemed he really had come through the hedge. But his eyes held her attention hostage—jet-black, bottomless, unwavering eyes.
‘Thanks,’ she croaked, to break the suddenly dense silence. She swallowed. ‘How can I help you anyway?’
He put the glass he’d used beside the sink, then took a few paces backwards, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. ‘I saw the “to let” notice.’
‘It only went up this afternoon.’ She stood, trying to get some kind of equality in the situation. Fat chance when he was tall and she wasn’t. When he was dressed and she all but wasn’t. When he was devastatingly good-looking and she definitely wasn’t.
‘I know.’
‘You want to rent this place?’
He didn’t look like a prospective tenant. He looked like the kind of guy who owned things. Lots of things. Working in retail, even her little-old-ladies-gift store kind of retail, meant she knew fashionable, what cost lots and what didn’t. She knew the watch on his wrist cost lots, so did the shoes, while the tee shirt was one of those priced ten-times too high just because of the label. He was definitely someone who held the cards in his hands.
‘I want to buy it,’ he said bluntly.
Yeah, definitely the owning kind.
‘It’s not for sale,’ she answered equally bluntly.
He held her gaze for a moment, then dropped to look at the puddle on the floor between them. ‘Where’s the owner?’
Roxie’s spirit hardened. ‘You’re looking at her.’
His unfairly long lashes swept up and the deep, dark eyes studied her again—surprise had widened them.
‘You don’t believe me?’ she asked.
‘Well, you don’t look...’ He shook his head. ‘Never mind.’
She knew what he’d almost said. He thought she looked too young to own a house? How old did he think she was? Clearly not much older than a schoolgirl. Did he think she was the teen cleaner? Great. But she was no kid, she was twenty-two and she’d cared for this house almost single-handedly for the last five years. Not that she was going to get all indignant and ram thatdown his throat, no matter how much his assumption annoyed her. And, yeah, underneath that, she smarted because this one-thousand-per-cent man-in-prime didn’t see her as a capable adult, or a woman.
The unfairness of the situation riled her. This was her house, but he was standing in her bathroom with the upper hand, having rescued her from a mortifying moment. But she hadn’tneededrescuing; she’d have been fine. She was always fine. And wasn’t it just so typical that the one time in her life she met a spectacularly good-looking man, she had to be looking like a scruffy kid?
If only she had shoes on to give her the slightest chance of looking him straight in the eye—statement shoes, like six-inch stilettos. Instead, she had to crane her neck to meet that focused, but depressingly impassive, gaze. She opted not to, instead walked as coolly as she could into the lounge. Not that easy when her heart was hammering faster than when he’d frightened the screams out of her minutes before—he really was something else.
‘The house will never be for sale,’ she said, aiming for polite but firm. ‘I’m sorry you’ve fought your way through for nothing.’
‘Not for nothing.’ He followed her. ‘I’ve always been curious about this place. If you don’t mind. I’d love to take a look around it.’
She couldn’t really say no when he’d just helped her out, albeit in dispassionate passing-medic style. So she nodded and spread her hands wide. ‘It’s known as the Treehouse. The reason is obvious.’
He walked into the middle of the large room, his gaze raking it with a wide sweep. ‘It certainly is,’ he said softly.
His obvious appreciation of it helped her forgive him—just a little—for not seeing her as an equal.
‘Why are you renting it out?’ he asked as he walked closer to inspect some of the detail carved into the picture rail.
