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‘Stop arguing with me.’ He straightened and turned. ‘To be clear, I don’t want you here, Liberty. It’s not personal. I don’t want anyone here, so if you want to make this whole process easier for us both, then don’t argue.’ Not waiting for a response, he headed towards the door. ‘I’ll get you a clean towel and some dry clothes.’

Well, great. It was one thing to guess that she wasn’t wanted, quite another to be told that in no uncertain terms. Then again, he’d said it wasn’t personal, so there was that. Still, if there was one thing she hated, it was feeling unwanted. It made her feel like a little girl again, returned to the foster system for reasons unknown and then trying to be good and quiet and no trouble for any prospective foster parents, hoping that one day someone would pick her. But no one ever did.

No point dwelling on that, however. She was happy now, running the home, and the children were her family. It was more than some people got to have.

She didn’t like him being autocratic, though. He’d obviously become too used to ordering people around, and they probably did exactly what he said since he was so important. She should do so, too, especially when he’d reluctantly offered for her to stay here. Yet something inside her didn’t like the thought of obeying him mindlessly. Something argumentative and which felt a bit wild, that she hadn’t known was there.

She bit her lip as he came in again and put a T-shirt, a pair of grey sweatpants, and a fluffy jumper of pale grey wool on the vanity next to her, along with a thick white towel.

‘Clothes for you,’ he said shortly. ‘And a towel.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, but he’d already turned back to the bath, looking down at the water.

‘This is ready.’ He glanced at her. ‘You can get in.’

She met his gaze and for the briefest of seconds something shivered in the air between them, a kind of tension. It was strange and made her feel the same kind of uncomfortable as being in his arms had felt. She looked away, her face hot, directing her attention to the laces of her shoes instead and trying to undo them. The laces were wet and it was difficult getting the knots undone.

He must have noticed, because she heard him let out yet another annoyed breath before he was suddenly on one knee on the floor in front of her, reaching for the laces of her sneakers. Too shocked to protest, Libby stared as his long, blunt fingers tugged at the knots.

‘You don’t have to do that,’ she said faintly.

‘Yes, I do.’ He didn’t look at her, frowning fiercely at the knots instead. ‘You’re not going to be able to get these undone.’

Libby gritted her teeth with annoyance at his tone. ‘I’m sorry, okay?’ she finally said, after he’d tugged irritatedly at her laces one too many times. ‘I know this is an inconvenience for you, but you don’t have to—’

‘Stop apologising.’

‘I will when you stop interrupting.’

His fingers paused and he glanced up at her suddenly, his gaze meeting hers. His eyes were grey as glacier ice, yet there were hints of blue in them, too, and flecks of darker charcoal. Beautiful eyes. Eyes full of shadows, grief and anger and pain, emotions that seemed to reach out and envelop her.

Her heart pinched tight in sympathy. Something had happened to him. Something terrible. A loss or similar that had hurt him, wounded him, and he was still bleeding.

He looked away again, tugging at the knot and finally pulling it free. He might look irritated, but his hands were gentle as he loosened the laces and slowly drew her sneaker off. Her ankle throbbed, pins and needles pricking at her foot as it began to warm up.

Without a word, he did the same with the other sneaker, getting that off as well, before putting it down on the floor next to the other. Then he rose to his full height and, again without a word, left the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him.

* * *

Kai stalked downstairs, anger burning in his gut. An anger that, try as he might, he couldn’t seem to detach himself from.

He’d already been furious about Neve’s will, and discovering the storm was settling in for the night hadn’t helped, since that meant he couldn’t get a helicopter in for his uninvited guest. Which meant that since turfing her out into the snow was the equivalent of murder, she was going to have to stay here.

Then, to add insult to injury, because the bathroom downstairs didn’t have a bath, he’d had to carry her up to the bathroom on the second floor. She’d needed some warm water and some dry clothes, so he hadn’t had a choice in the matter.

But it was the carrying of her that had set his teeth on edge. Despite her damp clothes, she’d been warm, and her body had settled against his in a way that made him very conscious of his past year of celibacy.

He hadn’t shared his bed with anyone since Neve had died, because he’d been grieving and just hadn’t felt like it. However, his body had liked the feel of this small, soft woman against him. It had liked it very much. Just as it had liked him kneeling and taking her foot in his hands and tugging at her laces. And when he’d felt the pressure of her gaze on him, he’d looked up, irritated, only to be lost for a second in the warm gold of her eyes.

A low growl of annoyance at himself escaped as he stalked back into the living room, going over to the coffee table to pick up his neglected brandy. He took a sip, letting the alcohol burn away his irritation, along with what could only be physical attraction, as well as any other unwanted emotion. Ice. He had to remain ice. Sharp and cold and deadly in the boardroom, that’s what Neve had taught him, and those lessons had served him well.

Glancing down at his watch, he frowned at the time. It was getting on for dinnertime, and he supposed he’d have to cook for two now Liberty was here. He didn’t mind cooking. Neve had told him that a man who couldn’t feed himself was a useless man, so he’d learned how to cook for himself. He’d found he liked cooking, and in those very early days he’d learned everything he could about it so he could make her favourite foods.

His housekeeper had asked him if he’d wanted her to leave him some meals—especially a Christmas meal—but he’d told her he didn’t need any. He could cook for himself.

The kitchen in the lodge had been fitted out to his exact specifications—wooden counters and cupboards to match the rest of the house, with black fittings and high-end appliances—and he’d had food brought in. Tonight, he’d been intending to cook a simple dinner of steak and salad, with some fresh bread, and he could still do that, he supposed. He just needed an extra steak.

He went about his preparations, not thinking about anything in particular. Cooking had proved to be an excellent exercise in mindfulness and control, where all he had to think about was cutting vegetables and getting the frying pan out. Turning on the gas and watching the meat brown.