Praise for Heidi Rice:

‘Heidi Rice is simply brilliant when it comes to writing sharp, sassy and sexy romantic novels!’

—cataromance.com

About HOT-SHOT TYCOON:

‘The amusing opening spins into an emotional and heartfelt story.’

—romantictimes.com

About PUBLIC AFFAIR, SECRETLY EXPECTING: ‘I was actually breathless while reading this book…It’s a sensual ride you won’t want to lose the opportunity of reading.’

—www.thePinkHeartSociety.com

She could smell him—that tantalising hint of seawater and pine soap—feel electricity crackling along her skin at his nearness. He hadn’t moved away but stood as still as she, just out of reach.

She glanced back down. Wow, he was magnificent—and obviously as interested in her as she was in him.

‘I hate to rush you.’ He tucked a knuckle under her chin and lifted her face, his thumb rubbing across her bottom lip. ‘But if you’re not annoyed, could you tell me what you are? Exactly?’

She grinned, the charge of excitement making her erogenous zones do a happy dance. She’d been looking for someone to use. And this guy had to be the perfect candidate. He was surly, intense, gorgeous, and the complete antithesis of what she was looking for in a life partner. And he clearly wanted to use her as much as she wanted to use him.

What was she waiting for?

Reaching up, she looped tentative arms round his neck, stretched up onto tiptoes and tried to look as if she knew what she was doing. Seduction was virgin territory for her. She’d always let the guy set the pace before—usually after several tame dates and lots of hand-holding. Which had probably been her first mistake.

Time to seize control of your sex-life, Madeleine Westmore.

Surf, Sea and A Sexy Stranger

By

Heidi Rice

www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author

HEIDI RICE was born and bred and still lives in London, England. She has two boys who love to bicker, a wonderful husband who, luckily for everyone, has loads of patience, and a supportive and ever-growing British/French/Irish/American family. As much as Heidi adores ‘the Big Smoke’, she also loves America, and every two years or so she and her best friend leave hubby and kids behind and Thelma and Louise it across the States for a couple of weeks (although they always leave out the driving off a cliff bit). She’s been a film buff since her early teens, and a romance junkie for almost as long. She indulged her first love by being a film reviewer for ten years. Then a few years ago she decided to spice up her life by writing romance. Discovering the fantastic sisterhood of romance writers (both published and unpublished) in Britain and America made it a wild and wonderful journey to her first Mills & Boon® novel.

Heidi loves to hear from readers—you can e-mail her at heidi@heidi-rice.com, or visit her website: www.heidi-rice.com

Recent books by the same author:

UNFINISHED BUSINESS WITH THE DUKE

PUBLIC AFFAIR, SECRETLY EXPECTING

MILLS & BOON

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To my boys, Joey and Luca, because you’re amazing and I love you lots.

With special thanks to Elaine for making Maddy’s beach rescue convincing.

Chapter One

‘THAT guy’s got to be the world’s worst surfer,’ Maddy Westmore murmured in disbelief as she shivered under her lifeguard’s jacket. The sleeting October rain made it hard to focus but she couldn’t pull her eyes away from the tall athletic figure clad in a black wetsuit about sixty metres out in the tumbling surf. She watched with guilty fascination as he squatted on his board, steadied himself, straightened.

Then she sucked in a breath as he wobbled precariously.

The poor guy had been surfing—or, rather, attempting to surf—for well over an hour, in the sort of miserable Cornish weather that had given Wildwater Bay its name back in the seventeenth century. She’d been studying him for most of that time. The methodical way he paddled out, waited for the biggest wave and then mounted his board. But he’d yet to ride a single breaker for more than a few seconds. She had to admire his perseverance, but she was beginning to question his sanity. He had to be frozen through to the bone by now and close to exhaustion—despite the muscular build displayed by his suit—and the undertow on this stretch of beach was no joke.

‘I dunno,’ said Luke, her fellow lifeguard, in his broad Australian accent. ‘He’s got good form. Gets onto the board all right.’

Maddy’s breath gushed out as Bad Surfer crashed backwards off his board for what had to be the hundreth time.

‘No balance, though,’ Luke finished dispassionately, flipping up his collar. ‘You wanna call it?’ he added hopefully. ‘Beach is closed in ten minutes anyway and that storm front’s gonna hit any second now.’

Feeling a rush of relief as the surfer clambered back onto his board, Maddy scanned the rest of the beach in the gathering gloom. Only a couple of hardy boogie-boarders remained inside the yellow flags they’d set up to mark the lifeguarded area. Otherwise the beach was deserted. And with good reason. North Cornwall hadn’t had a great summer this year, but the weather had gone rapidly downhill as winter drew near. Even the hard core surfers had called it a day hours ago. All except one. Who was giving hard core a whole new meaning.

‘Sure—’ she raised her voice above the gathering wind ‘—let’s put him out of his misery.’ Crossing to the lifeguard truck parked on the sand between the flags, she grabbed the loudhailer out of the cab, already anticipating the Extreme Hot Chocolate she was going to wheedle out of her boss, Phil, when she started her afternoon shift at the Wildwater Bay Café.

The booming sound of her voice as she called in the remaining boogie-boarders and the surfer whipped away on the wind, but the boarders responded instantly. Staggering out of the surf, they hurried across the acres of sand, making a beeline for the café. The pair waved and shouted a greeting as they passed—no doubt anticipating their own Extreme Hot Chocolates.

‘Crikey, he’s still at it.’

Hearing Luke’s incredulous comment, Maddy spotted the surfer’s black board with its distinctive yellow lightning stripe bobbing back out towards the main swell.

‘He’s nuts. He has to be,’ she whispered. Either that or he had a death wish.

The storm clouds had darkened in the distance, hovering over the horizon like smoky black crows and the vicious cross wind had picked up pace, making the waves gallop and leap like bucking broncos. Even an accomplished surfer would have trouble riding swell that choppy. Mr Couldn’t Keep His Balance didn’t stand a chance. She raised the loudhailer back to her lips.

‘The lifeguard station on this beach is now closing. We strongly advise you to leave the water immediately.’

She repeated the order twice more, but the surfer and his board kept paddling in the wrong direction.

‘Maybe he can’t hear us?’ she said, trying not to worry.

The hailer had a special wind setting but, after the number of tumbles the guy had taken, his ears could be waterlogged.

‘Let’s get the flags in,’ Luke said at her shoulder, rubbing his hands together. ‘He’s a big boy. If he wants to kill himself, we can’t stop him.’ Taking the loudhailer out of Maddy’s numbing fingers, he slung it into the truck. ‘Plus, I’ve got a hot date with Jack in an hour. With the promise of hot sex for dessert,’ he finished, mentioning his new boyfriend of three weeks.

The surfer heaved himself up onto his board again, his movements sluggish.

Maddy dragged her gaze away. ‘That’s what I love about you, Luke,’ she said, forcing the niggling concern down. Suicidal surfers were not her problem. ‘You’re such a romantic.’

Luke chuckled as he rolled up the flag nearest the truck. ‘Hey, hot sex is romantic, if you do it right.’

Maddy lifted the base of the flag and helped Luke to heave it into the back of the truck. ‘Is it really?’ She gave a half-laugh, unable to disguise the wistful tone.

After a year spent rehabbing her granny’s cottage, plus the lifeguarding and waitressing shifts all summer at the Bay, and most evenings given over to creating her silk paintings, she hadn’t had time for romance. And she was pretty sure she’d never had hot sex. Did luke-warm count?

Maddy frowned as they wrestled the second flag into the truck together. The wind sliced through her jacket and made her nipples pebble in reflex.

Come to think of it, it was probably a miracle her bits hadn’t dried up and died from lack of use. Or maybe they had. How would she know?

After Steve had stormed out last summer, accusing her of being more interested in her silk designs than she’d ever been in him, she hadn’t quite been able to deny it.

Even after spending every spare hour in her makeshift studio, the silk work hadn’t required nearly as much maintenance as Steve. And, okay, maybe it couldn’t give her an orgasm, but it had come close when she’d completed the first of the designs inspired by the seascape at Smugglers Point—and Steve hadn’t been very reliable in the orgasm department either. Which only made it all the more pathetic that she’d put up with him for so long, and agonised over their breakup for months.

She shuddered and plunged her hands into her jacket pockets, hunching against the wind. Still, at least she’d taken her brother Callum’s advice for once and hadn’t made the mistake of taking Steve back—or lending him the money he’d begged for, which she knew perfectly well she’d never see again.

The death of her libido and the loss of a warm body to snuggle up to at night—and wake up with in the morning—had been a small price to pay for her self-respect. Even if it hadn’t felt that way at the time. She needed to stop taking in losers and strays, as Callum liked to call them, and persuading herself she could fix them. Cal might be the last person on earth to give anyone relationship advice, given that he’d never had one that lasted more than a nanosecond to her knowledge, but he’d been right about that. While their parents’ never-ending marital breakdown had turned Cal into a rampant womaniser with serious commitment issues, it had turned her into Little Miss Fixit.

Steve had just been one more in a small but pitiful band of boyfriends—dating right back to Eddie Mayer, who’d kissed her at the school disco and then conned her out of her lunch money—who’d taken everything she had to give and given her nothing in return. She’d decided over the long winter months that this year she was turning over a new leaf. She had celebrated her twenty-fourth birthday two weeks ago, which meant it was way past time to stop making the same mistake over and over again.

This year there would be no more Miss Pushover. No more Miss Nice Guy. And no more Miss Fixit. This year she was going to be the one who took control and got what she wanted. The one doing the using. Unfortunately, they were already ten months into the new year, and she’d yet to find a single candidate willing to be used.

‘Hey, that’s weird. Where’d he go?’

Tearing her thoughts away from her disastrous love life, Maddy noticed the sharp frown on Luke’s handsome face as he stared at the horizon.

Her stomach plunged and the concern that had pawed at the back of her mind all afternoon leapt at her throat like a rabid dog.

‘Did he come past us?’ Luke murmured, far too nonchalantly.

Unzipping her jacket and dropping it on the wet sand, Maddy grasped the rescue board leaning against the truck.

‘No, he didn’t,’ she shouted over her shoulder as she jogged towards the surf, frantically scanning the waves. The frigid water lapped at the ankles exposed by her full-body wetsuit as she waded into the shallows.

‘I’ll call it in,’ Luke shouted beside her as he drew level, his own board under his arm and the coastguard walkie-talkie at his ear. ‘We’ll have to get the chopper out.’

‘No, wait. There’s his board.’ She pointed, spotting the vibrant yellow flash in the turbulent waves. Her stomach hit bottom as she realised the dark shape draped across it wasn’t moving. ‘I’ve got it.’

Luke shouted something back, but the sound was lost as Maddy hurdled the incoming surf and dived cleanly into the water. The rescue board torpedoed her into the rising swell as she went under. Within seconds, the tug and pull of the tide had drained her energy and she was riding the board through the waves on autopilot. Luckily, the injured surfer wasn’t too far out, the waves bearing him towards shore, but as the salt water scoured her eyes and she drew ragged breaths trying to conserve her strength, she saw him move his head. A vivid red stain stood out against his pale cheek.

He’s bleeding.

She redoubled her efforts, fighting the churning water, the distance telescoping as her arms and shoulders began to ache and her legs numbed.

Reaching him at last, she shoved the rescue board under his torso.

‘I’ve got you; don’t worry,’ she yelled.

She grappled with the Velcro strap attaching his ankle to his board as a five-footer barrelled down on them. She heard a groan as blood seeped from the surfer’s hairline and flowed over his sculpted cheekbone.

Concentrate. Undo the strap.

She shoved his surfboard free and wrapped her arm across him, just as the wave crashed on top of them with a deafening roar.

For a split second fear froze her as the wave sucked them down. But then the training took over. She fisted her fingers on the rescue board, her cheek pressed against his torso and kicked hard. They surfaced together, breaking back into the heaving sound and fury of the angry sea. It took Maddy a moment to orientate herself, then she paddled furiously, riding the swell as she clung to the stranger’s prone body. The shore seemed a million miles away, her legs so rubbery she could barely move them, her chest screaming with the effort to draw a decent breath. She pushed the panic down and kept going.

After what seemed like several millennia, a large hand grasped her arm and hauled her upright. She squinted through the stinging salt, saw Luke’s dark blond hair plastered to his head.

‘It’s all right; I’ve got him,’ he yelled. ‘Stand up; you can walk from here.’

Her legs shook, trembling uncontrollably as she struggled to lock her knees. How could she not have realised they were almost ashore? She hugged herself as Luke dragged the rescue board with the surfer onto the sand, then knelt beside him.

She approached in a groggy haze of exhaustion as Luke—who was much better qualified than her in pulmonary respiration techniques—examined their patient. Instead of putting the surfer in the recovery position, Luke manoeuvred him onto the waiting spinal board and fastened the Velcro strap across his chest.

‘He’s breathing. No need to resuscitate him.’ Luke shot a quick grin over his shoulder. ‘Should come round in a second. Probably took a crack on the head from his board.’ Luke tilted back on his haunches. ‘The paramedics can check him out properly once they arrive. Keep him strapped down just in case.’ He got off his knees and stood up. ‘I’ll go get you both a rescue blanket to keep you warm till they get here.’

Maddy shoved the straggles of hair out of her eyes as Luke strolled off towards the truck. Despite the thump of panic still closing her throat and the brutal sting of salt in her eyes, heat coiled low in her belly as she stared down at the man she’d saved.

She tilted her head to one side, transfixed.

Maybe he wasn’t classically handsome like Luke, but the dramatic slash of dark brows, high hollow cheekbones and the rough stubble accentuating a strong jaw gave him a raw pagan beauty that had Maddy’s breath catching. Her gaze wandered down. Broad shoulders, a perfectly defined six-pack and long, leanly muscled flanks were exquisitely showcased by the sleek black wetsuit. The heat coiled tighter.

She shuddered, although she didn’t feel remotely chilled any more, and noticed the faint blue tinge around his sensual lips. A deep moan rumbled up his chest and he moved, straining against the strap.

Maddy jerked. What was she doing? Ogling him as if he were a stripper at a hen party. The poor guy was hurt and probably freezing to death. She dropped to her knees, placed her hand against his cheek. Rough stubble abraided her palm and sent another inappropriate jolt of heat through her. She ignored it.

‘It’s okay,’ she said, the words coming out on a breathy whisper. Mortified, she paused. Boy, did she need to kick-start her love life again if she was now lusting after strangers—and unconscious ones at that.

‘You’re okay. Don’t move,’ she murmured, touching his forehead to brush back the thick, wavy locks falling over his brow. The blood that had been gushing in the sea had slowed to a sluggish crawl, seeping out of a narrow gash below his hairline.

She pressed her thumb to it and his eyes snapped open. Her pulse pummelled her neck as she stared into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. The brilliant turquoise of his irises contrasted with the bloodshot whites, and looked so pure and dazzling it reminded her of an old fifties postcard of the Caribbean Sea, the colour too rich to be real.

His brow creased as he tried to rise and came to a jerking halt, his body confined by the strap.

‘What the…?’ The expletive came out on a gruff whisper. ‘Who tied me down?’

She placed her palm on his upper arm, hoping to reassure him. Unfortunately, the feel of the rock-hard bicep bunching under her fingertips had the opposite effect on her. ‘I did,’ she blurted out. ‘It’s for your own good.’

The magnificent blue eyes narrowed. ‘Who the hell are you?’

Her skin flushed hot despite the chill and the spitting drizzle of autumn rain. ‘I’m one of the lifeguards on Wildwater Bay. We had to bring you in. You hit your head.’

He stopped struggling and dropped his head back, huffed out a breath. ‘Fantastic,’ he murmured. Bitterness clouded his eyes but it didn’t seem to be directed at her. ‘Thanks.’ The curt word lacked conviction. ‘Now, undo the strap.’

She tried not to let the commanding tone annoy her. Rudeness was probably to be expected after what he’d been through. ‘I’m not going to do that,’ she said in her best firm but fair Florence Nightingale voice. ‘You have to stay put until the paramedics get here.’

His jaw hardened. ‘No paramedics,’ he said. ‘Now, let me up.’

‘I really don’t think that’s a good idea,’ she replied, still channelling Florence.

‘Fine; I’ll do it myself.’

She watched, astonished, as he tilted his shoulder down, twisted his torso and then ripped the strap free with one hand. She moved out of the way as he struggled onto his elbows and sat up. He groaned and touched his forehead.

‘That serves you right.’ Forget Florence. Nurse Ratchet suddenly seemed more appropriate. ‘You need to lie down and wait for the paramedics to check you out.’

He swore softly and brought his fingers away. Barely glancing at the bright red stain, he fixed chilly eyes on her. Seeing the headache in them, she bit back the rest of the retort.

He leaned forward, obviously intending to stand up.

She gripped his arm. ‘The paramedics will be here any minute. You need to stay put.’

He glanced at her fingers and she pulled her hand back instinctively.

‘I decide what I need,’ he said, his voice rough.

Maddy fought for composure. Why was he being so flipping difficult? ‘But you may have injuries you’re not aware of.’ His gaze drifted disconcertingly to her chest and her nipples chose that precise moment to thrust against her suit like torpedoes.

‘I’ll risk it.’ Sarcasm edged the words as his eyes lifted to her face, but his lips twitched, almost as if he were struggling not to smile and his eyes didn’t look nearly as chilly any more.

Warmth spread up Maddy’s neck. Unbelievable. Was the world’s worst patient coming on to her? But then he flinched and she was sure she must have imagined it.

‘Hey, mate, where are you off to?’ Luke interrupted the charged silence, his arms laden with the silver body-warming blankets. Maddy wondered if he’d been to Timbuktu and back to get them.

‘I’m leaving.’ The surfer struggled onto his feet.

He staggered and Luke steadied him. ‘D’you think that’s wise? You took quite a tumble.’

The man sent Luke a cold stare. ‘I know.’

Maddy bristled at his rudeness, but Luke seemed unperturbed. ‘At least take a blanket, fella,’ he said, handing over one of the silver sheets. ‘You must be frozen.’

The stranger looked down at Luke’s offering, paused and then took it. ‘Thanks.’ He wrapped the blanket clumsily around his shoulders, his hands trembling. Maddy somehow knew that if he hadn’t been on the verge of hypothermia he would have refused.

‘Where are you staying?’ Luke asked carefully, as if he were speaking to a wild animal that might bite his hand off at any minute. Maddy knew how he felt.

‘You need a lift anywhere?’ Luke added when the man shot him a look loaded with suspicion.

For a minute the only sound was the rush of the wind and the thump of Maddy’s heartbeat in her ears.

Finally the surfer shook his head, the blood running unnoticed in a small rivulet down his temple. ‘I live at Trewan Manor,’ he said, jerking his head towards the forbidding mansion that sat at the top of the cliffs overlooking the Bay. ‘I can get there on the cliff path.’

Maddy’s gaze lifted to the point, a little astonished by the news. She’d been fascinated by that huge old house ever since she’d first started working at the Bay last June, the towering gables and grey stone turrets making her think of Wuthering Heights and Manderley and Thornfield all rolled into one. She’d assumed the place was empty, her artistic nature conjuring up all sorts of fanciful stories to explain its desolate appearance.

Her gaze returned to the surfer. Given his wild good looks, the man fitted his mansion’s raw Gothic beauty to a T. What a shame he had Heathcliff’s temper, Maxim de Winter’s arrogance and Rochester’s condescension to match—all traits that made for gorgeous literary heroes, but were a nightmare to deal with in real life.

Maddy stepped forward as the stranger turned to leave. ‘Hang on a minute; you can’t just…’

Luke thrust his arm out to hold her back. ‘Don’t, Mad. He doesn’t want your help.’

‘But that’s ridiculous; he could be seriously hurt,’ she whispered frantically, not sure why it mattered to her.

‘You can’t rescue everyone.’ Luke sent her a rueful smile, reminding her of Cal, then wrapped the remaining blanket round her and gave her shoulders a reassuring rub. ‘Let’s get back to the café. The first Extreme’s on me.’

Maddy fisted her hands on the blanket and nodded, but her gaze drifted back to the stranger as he walked across the sand. The silver blanket fluttered in the wind like a cape. She frowned, noticing the pronounced hitch in his stride for the first time. ‘He’s limping,’ she murmured. ‘He’s hurt his leg.’ Concern clutched at her throat again.

He stopped to rub his thigh, then carried on walking with a laboured, lopsided gait, his shoulders stiff and erect and oddly defensive.

‘Looks like an old wound,’ Luke said. ‘Must be why he couldn’t stay on the board.’

Concern and confusion tangled into tight little knots of irritation in Maddy’s stomach. What sort of macho fool spent all afternoon attempting something he was incapable of? And nearly killed himself in the process?

‘Nice butt, though,’ Luke said cheekily, and Maddy’s eyes dipped to the firm muscled orbs of his backside, indecently displayed by the skintight suit.

Her pulse-rate kicked up again and the coil of unwanted arousal twisted in the pit of her belly.

As much as she didn’t want to, she had to admit Luke had a point.

‘Unfortunately, I don’t think he’s your type,’ she muttered.

Luke laughed. ‘From the way he checked out your boobs, I’d have to agree with you.’

Ignoring Luke’s comment—and the renewed flare of heat it triggered—Maddy forced herself to stop admiring the studly surfer’s assets. The man might have an extremely nice bum, but he clearly had far too much testosterone for any sensible woman to handle.

She’d saved his life…And, while she hadn’t expected him to thank her, exactly, he could at least have had the decency to treat her with an iota of respect.

But, as Maddy climbed into the cab and Luke drove them across the beach to the café, her breasts tingled and heat pulsed insistently between her thighs.

She squirmed in her seat.

Terrific.

Trust her bits to come out of hibernation and do the happy dance for a guy who might as well have had a neon sign above his head saying Women—approach at your peril.

Ryan King cursed as he hauled his leg up one more step. He dropped his head between his shoulders, counted to ten and concentrated on keeping down the nausea churning in his gut. Not easy when his thigh was throbbing in unison with the stabbing pain at his temple and his whole body was so cold he was pretty sure he was about to lose several vital appendages to frostbite.

‘You stupid idiot. This is your own fault,’ he hissed. ‘What the hell were you trying to prove?’ He winced as the words bounced off the rock face.

Great, now you’re talking to yourself too.

The mighty hadn’t just fallen, they’d landed flat on their face, Rye thought grimly as he gripped his thigh in hands clumsy with the cold to force his leg up the final step. Pain shot through his knee and made the groin muscle cramp. He sucked in a breath and panted as clammy sweat mingled with the salt water, making the cut on his forehead burn.

He swore and waited for the worst of the agony to pass.

Unfortunately, that gave him way too much time to contemplate just how much of an idiot he’d been.

Spending close to two hours proving that he’d never be able to surf again and practically getting hypothermia into the bargain hadn’t been the smartest thing he’d ever done. Headbutting his own board and then having to get rescued by a lifeguard—and a girl one at that—had added a nice thick layer of insult to the injury. But allowing the girl’s sultry emerald eyes, her slender but surprisingly voluptuous figure to taunt him into thinking he was capable of doing more with her than simply lose his temper had to count as one of the lowest moments of his life.

Maybe not as low as those first weeks in hospital, doped up to his eyeballs, drifting in and out of agony and anchored to the bed. And maybe not as low as the day, three months later, when he’d discovered it wasn’t just his leg and his ego that had been irreparably damaged by the bike accident. But right down in the toilet his life had become in the last six months, nonetheless.

He’d felt the unfamiliar throb of arousal in his groin, had barely a second to rejoice at the surging heat before cold reality had doused it—leaving him feeling angry and bitter and humiliated all over again.

After they’d finished prodding and poking him, the doctors had assured him the impotence was psychosomatic and only temporary—brought on by the physical and mental trauma he’d suffered. And he’d believed them.

Until the summer evening in his Kensington penthouse when the look of pity and disbelief on Marta’s face had made the truth inescapable.

One thing was certain: if a stark naked Marta Mueller with her expensive supermodel’s body and her superstar I’m yours for the taking act couldn’t get a rise out of him, no pixie-faced, sultry-eyed girl clad in a full body wetsuit was going to manage it.

Pushing the ever present humiliation to the back of his mind, Rye stumbled forward and focused instead on getting to the house in one piece. His useless leg had seized up completely, forcing him to drag it across the rocky ground, his bare feet slipping in the mud. Each bump and slide had pain stabbing under his kneecap and tightening around his thigh like a vice. He glowered at the dark clouds, the pouring rain and cruel wind a perfect accompaniment to his black mood.

He let out a shaky sigh as his fingers grasped the heavy brass handle and he butted open the pantry door with his shoulder. As he shut out the angry weather and lumbered towards the suite of rooms he used in his grandfather’s house, trailing mud and water on the marble tiles, his rough humourless chuckle echoed in the darkened hallway.

If only the old man could have seen him now. In one of the many lectures Charles King had given him as a rebellious teenager, his grandfather had warned him he would have to pay for his sins in the end. Who knew the old sod would get the last laugh from beyond the grave?

Chapter Two

‘PHIL, can I take the rest of my shift off?’ Maddy forced the request out, determined not to prevaricate a moment longer. She walked back across the empty café. They’d had all of three customers so far this afternoon and, even though the rain had finally petered out, the storm clouds were still hovering. She could have left hours ago and she doubted Phil would have objected. ‘I’ve got something I need to do,’ she said, dumping her tray on the bar and perching on one of the bar stools.

Phil’s ruddy face widened into an easy smile as he slopped out the glasses. ‘Damn woman, you know I’m putty in your hands. That your every wish is my command.’

‘Great, does that mean I get a pay rise?’ Maddy asked, fluttering her eyelashes comically, the easy flirtation a familiar game.

She happened to know Phil only dated long, leggy airheads. And she didn’t qualify in either category. Plus Phil was her boss, and sleeping with the boss was a big no-no for her—one of the many little Freudian hang-ups from her dysfunctional childhood that she’d had to learn to live with.

‘As soon as you go on that date with me, we’ll definitely talk about a pay rise,’ Phil continued, still playing the game.

‘Yeah, right.’ Maddy laughed. ‘Listen, I’ll make up the time tomorrow, if you want. Today was my last lifeguarding shift of the season,’ she finished, deciding to cut to the chase.

She didn’t know how long the rain was going to hold off, or how long her resolve would hold out.

Phil glanced at the clock as he set the dirty glasses into the washer. ‘No need to make up the time, Mad,’ he said, as she knew he would. ‘You’re good for it.’

Phil might be an incorrigible flirt but he was a great employer in every other respect.

‘Thanks, Phil.’ Maddy climbed off the bar stool, untied her apron and pulled the pins out of her hair, shoving them in her pocket. She shook her head, allowing her short cap of chestnut curls to fall into place.

‘Hey, before you go, I hear congratulations are in order,’ Phil remarked. ‘Luke says you pulled your first floater out this afternoon like a pro.’

‘Thanks,’ Maddy replied, a little abashed by Phil’s praise. The incident hadn’t exactly ended as well as it might, which was why her conscience had been bugging her all afternoon. ‘I’m afraid the job’s not quite done yet, though. We didn’t do any of the standard checks on the guy. He shot off so fast.’

Phil dropped the bar rag into the sink. ‘Seems to me, if he left without getting checked out that’s his problem, not yours.’

‘Technically, maybe.’ She’d been trying all afternoon to convince herself of that fact. But her conscience wouldn’t let her. ‘But I should have made sure he was okay before I let him go.’

What if he had water in his lungs? Or a concussion? He could even now be unconscious on the floor of his mansion. She’d never forgive herself. Having dragged him out of the sea, she felt responsible for him. Which was ridiculous, of course—and probably just another biproduct of her Miss Fixit curse—but knowing that wasn’t going to help her sleep tonight until she knew for sure he was all right.

‘There’s not much you can do about it now,’ Phil added.

‘Actually, there is.’ Walking round the bar, Maddy stuffed her apron and pad in their cubby hole. ‘I’m going to pay him a visit.’ She knew where he lived. The tide had cut off the cliff path an hour ago, but it would take her less than twenty minutes to cycle up to his home via the coast road and put her mind at rest. She crossed to the café door and grabbed her rain poncho off the hook.

‘You sure he’s going to want you checking up on him?’ Phil called after her.

Maddy glanced back. ‘No, I’m sure he’s going to hate it,’ she said as she tugged the poncho over her head. ‘But that’s his tough luck.’ She shoved open the door on a surge of righteous determination. ‘He shouldn’t have tried to drown himself on my watch.’

As Maddy pedalled through the gates of Trewan Manor close to an hour later, righteous determination had turned to abject misery—and her rescue mission had turned into an epic farce. What had she been thinking? The taciturn man she had come to see was probably perfectly fine and would no doubt slam the door in her face, if he even bothered to open it—and the trip home in what was threatening to be a thunderstorm of biblical proportions would probably kill her.

The journey to the house along the coast road had been a nightmare. Negotiating tarmac slicked with mud and bracken from the recent storm had been bad enough, but then her old banger of a bike had lost its chain twice and the hill climb had made thigh muscles already abused by the afternoon’s sea-rescue weep in protest.

The spitting rain dripped under the collar of her waterproof as she dismounted and wheeled the bike past the high hedges edging the property. Maddy glared over her shoulder at the darkening sky behind her as she bounced the heavy bike along the rutted track and prayed the storm clouds would hold off for another half an hour. She didn’t have her bike lights with her, which was going to make cycling home to her cottage on the other side of the Bay suicidal if the weather let rip.

She cursed her conscience—and her compassionate nature. Callum was right. Sometimes being a Good Samaritan sucked.

Then she walked into the house’s forecourt. And her jaw went slack.

The towering Gothic edifice of Trewan Manor loomed over her, looking more like Castle Dracula than Wuthering Heights. The fanciful turrets and gables were even more dramatic and over-the-top up close, while the tall, unlit mullioned windows seemed to stare at her with unblinking disapproval. She propped the bike against one of the stone pillars flanking the entrance and shivered as she mounted the three steps to an enormous oak door, feeling like Dorothy about to enter the Wizard’s lair.

After a fruitless search for the doorbell, she lifted the heavy brass knocker. The loud thump echoed away on the wind.

When the door didn’t budge for what felt like the longest five minutes of Maddy’s life she slammed the knocker again. Twice.

Still no answer.

Maddy stepped back, more than ready to abandon her mercy mission, when a sudden vision assailed her. Of her stranger, still clad in his wetsuit, lying unconscious and alone in the entrance hall of Phantom Manor. Tiptoeing back to the door, she bent over to peer into the letterbox. She’d come all this way; it would be stupid not to take a peek.

The brass letter flap eased open with an ominous creak. She squinted, focusing on a dark shape moving down the hall, and then light blinded her. She registered a glimpse of white towelling and then pitched forward as the door flew open.

‘Who the…?’ shouted a gruff voice as she did a face plant into warm flesh. Warm, hard, naked flesh that smelled enticingly of pine soap and seawater.

She scrambled back so fast the blood rushed to her head. That darkly handsome face was as dangerous to her peace of mind as she remembered it. Unfortunately, so was the scowl on it.

‘You’re not dead,’ she blurted out.

‘The lifeguard,’ he murmured, his eyebrows winging up. ‘No, I’m not dead. Not yet, anyway.’ The scowl reappeared. ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded. ‘Apart from moonlighting as a peeping Tom.’

‘I wasn’t…’ She trailed off, a guilty flush working its way up her neck as she took in his attire. All he had on was a thick towelling robe, his wavy hair slicked back from a high forehead. The angry red line on it was partially covered by a plaster. She must have disturbed him in the shower. One side of the robe gaped open to reveal mouth-watering pectoral muscles and the edge of one flat brown nipple nestled in a light sprinkling of hair. Had she just had her face nestled against that?

She gulped, trying to bring her blood pressure out of the danger zone. ‘I came to see if you were okay.’

The scowl deepened. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ He tightened the belt on his robe and shoved the lapel back into place, spoiling the view.

‘You didn’t…’ She paused, swallowing again to ease her bone-dry mouth. ‘You didn’t stay to get checked out. You should really go to the hospital after an incident like that.’

‘Is that so?’

Was he deliberately trying to make her nervous with that unsettling stare?

‘Yes, actually it is.’

His eyes drifted down her figure, making her uncomfortably aware of the mud on her jeans, the shapeless poncho and her ‘drowned rat’ hairdo.

The penetrating blue eyes lifted back to her face. ‘Did someone make you my guardian angel while I wasn’t looking?’ he asked dryly.

‘I…’ She stuttered to a halt and the blush got worse.

Well, for goodness’ sake. That was just plain rude.

‘Gosh, I certainly hope not…’ she said, his sarcasm giving her hormones a wake-up call. The man might have the body of a Greek god—but he had the arrogance to match. ‘That’s a job I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy,’ she said, warming to her theme. Why had she ever spent a moment worrying about this guy? The man was clearly far too annoying to let a little thing like a concussion get in the way of his foul mood. ‘As you’re obviously not dead—’ more’s the pity ‘—I’ll leave you to your own delightful company. Goodbye.’

She marched down the steps, ignoring the rumble of thunder as she grappled with her bike.

She was out of here. She should never have come. He didn’t need her help—and she certainly didn’t need to put up with his crabby attitude. She trudged down the track, the bike bumping against her hip, and promised herself this was the very last time Miss Fixit would get the better of her.

In fact, Miss Fixit was now officially dead. And good riddance.

A bellowing clap of thunder crashed above her head. She flinched as several fat spots of rain splashed onto her chin and cheeks.

‘Come back here, you little fool; you’re about to get drenched.’ The gruff command had her indignation returning full force.

Swiping the wet hair off her brow, she twisted round to see the stranger standing in the doorway. With his bare legs akimbo and the robe flapping around his knees, he looked as dramatic and forbidding as his house.

She glimpsed a criss-cross of angry red scars above his left kneecap and quashed a dart of sympathy.

Don’t you dare feel sorry for him. That’s what got you into this mess in the first place.

‘Cheers, Grumpy,’ she yelled through the building tempest, ‘but I’d rather drown.’

He shrugged and lurched back into the shadows of the house. ‘Fine. Suit yourself.’ The door slammed shut with a thud which was promptly drowned out by another crash of thunder.

And good riddance to you too.

Maddy had got exactly three metres before the heavens opened in earnest, the deluge soaking through the pitiful poncho and her jeans and trainers in seconds.

And only two metres more before she realised the back tyre of her bike was deader than Miss Fixit.

Chapter Three

RYE refused to feel guilty as he snapped the hall light back off and listened to the rain storm attack the house.

He hadn’t asked her to come. He didn’t want her help. And he wanted her damn pity even less. Maybe a good soaking would teach her to stop sticking her nose in where it wasn’t wanted.

But, as he made his way back down the corridor, even the ache in his lame leg couldn’t stop the stab of guilt, the image forming in his mind of those mossy-green eyes, the long lashes sprinkled with raindrops, peering up at him as the soft downy skin of her cheek connected with his bare chest.

He stopped and braced his open palm against the wall, stared at the cold marble flooring beneath his feet. A stab of conscience sliced neatly through the temper that had sustained him for months and hit the raw nerve he’d been busy ignoring beneath.

‘Blast!’

When had he turned into someone he couldn’t stand? Someone like his grandfather?

Self-pity was an understandable indulgence, but letting the accident turn him into the same moody, humourless misery guts who had greeted him all those years ago when he’d first arrived at Trewan Manor, a grief-stricken child, was not.

He shook his head and peered at the door, wincing as the rain pelted the small stained glass window above it.

Damn, if all the women he’d seduced and enjoyed over the years—from Clara Biggs, the Truro barmaid he’d charmed into bed the day after his sixteenth birthday, right up to Marta on the morning before his fateful trip along the A30—could have heard the mean-spirited way he’d snapped at that girl, they would never have recognised him.

Hell, he wasn’t even sure he recognised himself.

He’d once adored the company of women. Their soft, scented bodies, the graceful way they moved, their endless talk about nothing, their passion for dumb things like fashion and skin-care. He had even enjoyed their flashfire tempers and the hours they spent in the bathroom, or the way they made leaving the toilet seat up a national emergency.

Sex had never been the only reason he’d liked spending time with women. They’d once fascinated him.

They didn’t fascinate him any more and he had no desire to spend time with them now—why torture himself?—but that didn’t excuse the way he’d treated the girl.

Maybe she was a busybody, but he’d seen genuine concern in those sultry eyes. And if she had felt any pity towards him, she’d got over it pretty damn quick.

He stomped back towards the door. He’d never be the reckless, easy-going charmer he’d once been, but he could at least offer the girl shelter from the storm. He could stand her company for a half hour or so, and be civil to her. She’d pulled him out of the water. He would return the favour.

His lips formed into a tight smile. And offering to help would have the added benefit of making them quits. He hated to be indebted to anyone.

He thought of her parting comment and frowned.

If she didn’t want to be saved, that was her hard luck.

He heard the sharp rap on the door as his fingers closed on the knob.

She looked cute and wet and cold, like a half-drowned Little Orphan Annie. Her teeth chattered as water dripped off her clothes and splashed into a puddle on the doorstep. He noticed the ancient bike lying in a heap as she wrestled off her waterproof and flung it on the floor.

Green fire flashed in those sexy, sultry eyes as they met his and her chin jutted out.

Okay, maybe that should be Little Terminator Annie. Looked as if her earlier strop had gone ballistic. But then his gaze snagged on the outline of her nipples through the wet fabric of her T-shirt and suddenly he wasn’t thinking of Annie any more, orphaned or otherwise.

‘If you say I told you so,’ she snarled, ‘I’ll kill you myself.’

He jerked his eyes off her breasts, felt the pulse of heat in his groin and coughed, an unfamiliar tickle in his throat.

‘Come in,’ he said, trying for stern but not quite getting there, thanks to the tickle.

He pushed the door wide and stepped back silently to let her in.

She dripped into the hallway, stiff and forlorn, then muttered something that sounded like, ‘I hate you, Miss Fixit.’

He cleared his throat, the tickle getting worse. Then the heat pulsed harder as he took in the trim curve of her backside in the clinging denims.

She swept her hair back from her face sprinkling him with droplets, and said something about her bike, but the words were drowned out by the wild buzzing in his ears and the glorious swell of heat blossoming in his abdomen.

She shot an annoyed look over her shoulder. ‘Don’t hold back on my account. Say it. You know you want to.’

The scowl made her look even cuter. Like a pixie having a temper tantrum. His eyes snagged on her breasts again. Make that a very sexy pixie having a temper tantrum.

‘What, and risk death and dismemberment?’ he said dryly. ‘No, thanks.’

Her eyes widened and the scowl deepened. ‘So Grumpy has a sense of humour.’ She slapped a hand on one slim but shapely hip and looked even sexier. ‘What a surprise it’s at my expense.’

The heat surged and the tickle returned with a vengeance. He coughed, struggled to focus, as something light and airy and inexplicable bubbled up inside his chest. ‘Exactly who’s calling who Grumpy?’ The quip came out on a strangled groan as the tickle became a tidal wave of pressure, building under his breastbone and making his ribs ache.

She drilled a finger into his chest, wet curls flopping over her brow. ‘Don’t you dare laugh at me.’ Her foot stamped and the sopping trainer squelched. ‘Or you’ll really have something to be grumpy about.’

He wasn’t sure if it was the preposterous threat that did it, delivered with total conviction as only an angry pixie could, or the outraged colour tinting her cheeks and making her emerald eyes sparkle with fury. But the dam cracked and then broke. A sound he barely recognised rattled out—and then wouldn’t stop, reverberating against the cold empty walls. He gulped in air, clutching his sides, his ribs hurting as the unfamiliar sound got richer and deeper and more out of control, filling him with a warmth he hadn’t felt in months.

Maddy gaped, her outrage replaced by utter astonishment.

Her grumpy Adonis had tears in his eyes he was laughing so hard. The sound had been rusty at first, almost painful, but he was practically bent double now, his hand braced on the wall to keep him upright. His arctic eyes were alive with mischief as the barrage of laughs finally subsided to a rumbling chuckle.

She would have been less amazed if the man had started tap dancing.

She took her hand off her hip, unable to stop the answering grin tugging at her lips. She ought to be even madder at him—given she was the butt of this particular joke—but she couldn’t find her anger or her indignation anywhere.

A giggle popped out and she gave his shoulder a soft shove. ‘You sod.’ She smiled as his eyes met hers. He grinned, twin dimples appearing as if by magic in those chiselled cheeks.

‘It’s not funny,’ she moaned. ‘I’m soaked through.’

One last chuckle choked out. ‘I noticed.’

Maddy dragged in an unsteady breath. With his face relaxed and that chilly cobalt glittering with amusement, the man’s brooding male beauty became spellbinding. She crossed her arms over her chest, painfully aware of what a fright she must look.

‘You must be freezing.’ The grin turned to an affectionate smile. ‘You want to get changed?’

His gaze dipped and she shivered, not feeling remotely cold any more.

She nodded, having somehow lost the power of speech.

He indicated the way down the hall. ‘Spare bedroom’s third on the left. Some of my old sweats are in the chest of drawers.’ His gaze flicked down her frame. ‘None of them are going to fit, but at least they’re dry.’

‘Thanks,’ she murmured, finding her voice at last. ‘I really appreciate it.’

‘There’s an en suite with towels and…’ His deep voice trailed off and for a second she wondered if he felt as awkward as she did. His dimples, she noticed, had disappeared.

‘Help yourself.’ He paused again, cleared his throat. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready, it’s at the end of the corridor.’

‘Okay.’ She nodded again. Then thrust out her hand. Having threatened him with physical violence—twice—her granny, Maud, would have expected her to introduce herself.

He glanced down at her palm, but didn’t take it.

‘I’m Madeleine Westmore.’ The words sounded deafening in the pregnant silence. She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘But my mates call me Maddy.’

He’s not your mate, you ninny.

‘Just in case you were wondering,’ she added, her hand still hanging out there.

He brushed his palm on the towelling. ‘Hello, Maddy,’ he said, as long strong fingers folded over hers at last. ‘Ryan King. But Rye will do.’

The heat of his palm—rough with calluses—had a jolt of electricity shimmering through her bloodstream and making her pulse dance.

She let go and stuffed tingling fingers under her arm. ‘Nice to meet you, Rye,’ she murmured, although nice didn’t quite cover it.

His smile spread and her hormones joined the party.

‘You have no idea, Maddy,’ he said cryptically.

She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. ‘I should probably head to the spare room before I flood your hallway.’

Or that super sexy grin gives me a heart attack.

He chuckled, the sound low and easy this time. ‘Yeah. You probably should.’

She shuffled off in the direction he’d indicated, all her nerve-endings two-stepping in time to the deep relaxed rumble of laughter that followed her down the hall.

Chapter Four

THE spare bedroom turned out to be a large, ornately furnished mausoleum dominated by a gigantic bay window that looked onto the cliffs.

The storm raged outside, wind and rain buffeting the glass and making the room even more funereal. Maddy trembled, the draught from the window penetrating her damp clothes. Skirting a four-poster bed covered with an antique satin bedspread, she made a beeline for the bathroom.

White ceramic tiles, an elegant claw-foot tub and an inbuilt gas wall heater marked this room as another refugee from the Victorian era. Luckily, the heat spread quickly as soon as she lit the fire, making the bathroom considerably more welcoming than the bedroom next door. A couple of fluffy towels, an unopened bar of soap and a bottle of men’s shampoo lay on top of a wicker laundry basket. Maddy sneezed as she stripped off her muddy clothes and stepped into the tub.

Great—nothing like a snotty nose to put the finishing touches to her uber-sexy drowned rat look.

The minute the thought entered her head, embarrassment scorched Maddy’s cheeks and her hormones started two-stepping again. She blew out a breath and whipped the frayed shower curtain into place.

Oh, for goodness’ sake. Get real.

Ryan King wasn’t interested in her. A man that good-looking probably only dated supermodels. She hadn’t turned him on—she’d made him almost crack a rib laughing. There was a difference.

And, anyway, she wasn’t really interested in him, either. Except in a purely physical sense. Which was simply due to her sex-starved hormones going AWOL after a year of disuse.

However delicious Rye King might be to look at, she wasn’t dumb enough to have a wild fling with a sexy stranger just to scratch an itch. Whatever her hormones might want. Especially as this particular sexy stranger had an attitude problem.

A seductive smile, a few seconds of charm and chest muscles to die for hardly made up for his Rottweiler routine beforehand.

She cranked the vintage brass shower control and listened to the plumbing gurgle and hiss. Then sighed with pleasure as the water went from frigid to steaming in a matter of seconds.

She stepped under the needle sharp spray, let it massage abused muscles—and made a pact with herself not to give Ryan King’s sexy grin or phenomenal pecs another thought.

And promptly broke her pact a second later.

After the luxury of a ten-minute shower, Maddy searched the old oak chest of drawers in the bedroom for something dry to wear. In the end she had to settle for a worn LA Surf Academy sweatshirt, a pair of thick wool socks and her still slightly damp knickers. All the sweatpants were far too big to wear. Luckily, the sweatshirt fell to mid-thigh. Maddy assessed her appearance in the wardrobe mirror. As long as she didn’t bend over in front of him, she could preserve her modesty.

She stared at her pale legs and the shapeless lump of her torso. If only she hadn’t been wearing the full-body wetsuit all summer she’d at least have a tan. Not that there had been enough sun for her tan resistant skin to get much colour. She puffed out a disappointed breath and sucked in the scent of pine soap. The sudden reminder of being nestled against Ryan King’s magnificent chest had her body aching with need and her heart crashing against her ribcage.

The pact. Remember the stupid pact.

Agitated and annoyed with herself, Maddy finger-combed her shaggy curls. She sighed as they fell back into an unruly bob.

Fabulous. She was about to spend an evening with the best-looking man she’d ever set eyes on—and she looked like an undead tomboy playing dress up. If Ryan King even noticed she was female it would be a miracle.

She frowned. Which was a good thing, of course, because she didn’t want him to notice her.

Do not forget the pact.

As she made her way down the darkened corridor towards the back of the house, she tried to picture Ryan King wearing his Rottweiler look to help her keep the pact front and centre. But in the picture he looked all sexy and intense, his blue eyes gleaming with…

Face it, the pact’s history.

She let out a breath as she stepped into the kitchen. He wasn’t there. Good, it would give her time to stop hyperventilating and think of a more doable pact. Maybe.

She took several slow breaths and tried to ignore her throbbing breasts as she studied his kitchen. The pitter-patter of rain against the large window above the stove added yet more eerie atmosphere to the cavernous space. Even in the dingy light, the window offered another spectacular view of the cliffs. If she pushed onto tiptoe, she could see Wildwater Beach below.

She flicked the light switch, illuminating beautifully carved teak cabinets, a butler sink with an authentic wooden draining platform and what looked like an original Aga cooking range. The room felt warm and inviting, thanks to the roaring fire raging in the grate. Her feet padded against the checkerboard tiles as she walked towards the heat and dumped her wet clothes in an old wicker basket under the sink. She did a three hundred and sixty degree turn but could see no sign of a washing machine or dryer or even a dishwasher.

It also occurred to her that, apart from a bowl and cup drying on the draining board, the room was spotlessly clean and completely bare and impersonal, just like the spare room. She rubbed her hands together, chilled despite the heat.

The quaint antique decor had to date back to the eighteen hundreds and suited the gloriously Gothic old house perfectly, but when she thought of the sleek black sports car she’d passed in the driveway and her host’s overpowering physique and appearance, she realised the house and its furnishings didn’t suit its resident at all. It seemed strange he hadn’t made any effort to personalise the space. If she’d had to guess, she would have placed him in some ultra-modern city bachelor pad filled with state-of-the-art boy toys.

Maybe he’d moved in recently? Although there were no boxes or suitcases or any of the other moving paraphernalia that had lingered for months after she’d set up home in her granny’s cottage last summer. Could the house be a holiday rental? But why would he choose to rent such a huge place all to himself?

She chewed on her lip, the questions buzzing round in her head like busy little bees.

Maybe he didn’t live here alone? The thought made her heartbeat stutter. Not that it mattered to her whether he lived alone or not…

She shook her head. She needed a distraction before her hormones started working overtime again. Having filled the old-fashioned steel kettle and set it on the stove’s hotplate, she perched on tiptoe and began to search the overhead cabinets. With the rain still pounding against the windowpanes, it looked as if she was going to have to endure her host’s company for a while longer. A hot cup of tea would help soothe jumpy nerves—and, hopefully, her overactive imagination. She hummed an old soul tune as she rifled through the tinned groceries in search of tea bags.

Rye swallowed a groan and stopped dead in the kitchen doorway. An off-key rendition of Percy Sledge’s When a Man Loves a Woman was accompanied by the sight of his house guest, clad in one of his old sweatshirts, her firm, beautifully rounded little bottom showcased in hot pink panties as she stretched up to reach the kitchen cabinets.

His mouth went bone dry as the heat, which he had assured himself while getting dressed was a fluke and didn’t signify a thing, shot straight back into his crotch.

Having found what she was looking for, the girl turned slightly and bounced down. Her breasts jiggled beneath the sweatshirt and his heart slammed into his throat.

Sweet heaven. No bra. I’m a dead man.

The mouth-watering hot pink bum disappeared under the sweatshirt but, as Rye devoured slender legs, smooth muscled calves and the glimpse of her profile revealed from behind the curtain of wild reddish-brown curls, he imagined plump naked breasts, the nipples hard and swollen, swaying into his open palms, and painful arousal marched through his system like an army charging into battle.

He bent his head, stared down at the enormous tent in his fly and had to resist the urge to throw back his head, beat his chest and howl with joy.

He was harder than granite, for the first time in six long months. He felt mightier than Superman. Ready to leap Everest in a single…

The shrill whistle of the kettle curbed the superhero fantasy. But only a little. She jumped, her breasts jiggled again, and granite became tungsten.

He watched her reach for the kettle in a daze of euphoria. Then her fingers closed over the handle and his mind engaged.

‘No, don’t touch…’

Too late. She yelped and snatched her hand back.

‘Damn.’ He crossed the room, grasped her wrist. ‘Did you burn yourself?’

The shimmer of tears made her eyes glitter. ‘What a twit,’ she said, spots of colour hitting her cheeks. ‘I can’t believe I did that.’

She trembled, and small white teeth dug into her full bottom lip. He forced his gaze away, so desperate to taste her he thought he might explode.

A scarlet line marred the soft flesh at the base of her thumb. ‘Ouch,’ he murmured.

Get your head out of your pants, King. She’s hurt.

He thrust her hand over the sink, the punches of her pulse under his thumb making him light-headed. Leaning over her to turn on the cold water tap, he strained to keep their bodies apart. She flinched and he caught a lungful of her scent. His own shampoo layered with something spicy and unbearably erotic. Sweat popped out on his brow—and the irony of the situation struck him. After six months of nothing, he finally had lift off, poised to launch into orbit at the most inappropriate moment imaginable.

The tap gurgled and the water gushed out. She jumped as it splashed onto her palm, jerked back instinctively. And her bottom pressed straight into the colossal erection.

Chapter Five

What on earth was that?

Maddy’s eyes popped wide, the smarting pain in her hand forgotten as her nipples shot to attention and her erogenous zones went into meltdown.

A hissed curse brushed her earlobe as he shot back, letting go of her wrist.

Maddy stood stock-still, watching the water flow over her hand. She couldn’t feel it. The skin of her palm had gone blessedly numb. Unlike her buttocks, which felt as if they’d been branded.

To paraphrase Mae West, either her host had an iron bar in his pocket or he was very pleased to see her. The knowledge both petrified and excited her…But not necessarily in that order.

With all her senses on red alert, the trickle of water and the patter of slowing rain sounded almost as deafening as the low murmur of his breathing and hers. She could smell him, that tantalising hint of seawater and pine soap, feel electricity crackling along her skin at his nearness. He hadn’t moved away, but stood as still as her, just out of reach.

What the heck should she say? She turned off the tap, scared to look round and more scared not to.

‘I…’ she began. ‘Um…’ Heat prickled the hairs on the back of her neck.

Good one, Mads. That’s articulate.

He cleared his throat loudly, making her jump.

‘It’s not what you think,’ his deep voice rumbled out and her nerve-endings sizzled, before she registered the meaning.

What?

She twisted round and her gaze landed on the enormous bulge in the front of his faded jeans. As her nerve-endings short-circuited, she tried to make sense of his statement.

‘I don’t know what you think I’m thinking—’ she raised her eyes to his face ‘—but, if that’s not one of the biggest erections I’ve ever seen, I’d really like to know what it is.’

He raised his palms. ‘Okay; you’ve got me.’ His lips quirked. ‘You’re not annoyed?’ he said, sounding relieved.

‘No, I’m not annoyed,’ she replied, realising she wasn’t, not even slightly. ‘Despite the pact.’

His brow furrowed. ‘The what?’

‘Never mind.’ Shut up, Mads, and focus.

She glanced back down. Wow, he was magnificent—and obviously as interested in her as she was in him. Which meant she had two options here.

She could be a girl about this and revert to type. Tie herself up in knots about whether Rye King would make a suitable mate and run off screaming into the night. And her erogenous zones might calm down in about a decade or two.

Or she could be a guy about it. Snatch the opportunity and take what she wanted for once without worrying about the consequences. And put her erogenous zones in a very happy place indeed.

‘I hate to rush you.’ He tucked a knuckle under her chin and lifted her face to his. ‘But if you’re not annoyed—’ his thumb rubbed across her bottom lip ‘—could you tell me what you are? Exactly?’

She grinned, the charge of excitement making her erogenous zones do a Snoopy dance. She’d been looking for someone to use. And this guy had to be the perfect candidate. He was surly, intense, gorgeous and the complete antithesis of what she was looking for in a life partner. And he clearly wanted to use her as much as she wanted to use him.

What was she waiting for?

Reaching up, she looped tentative arms round his neck, stretched up onto tiptoe and tried to look as if she knew what she was doing. Seduction was virgin territory for her; she’d always let the guy set the pace before, usually after several tame dates and lots of hand-holding. Which had probably been her first mistake.

Time to seize control of your sex life, Madeleine Westmore.

Then she pressed against the rigid erection, felt the leap of response. And power surged through her.

She’d never been wanton before. Never been remotely reckless. But she could see now what she’d always needed was one wild, wanton, reckless fling to shock her out of her complacency.

‘Exactly?’ She arched a coquettish eyebrow, loving the way his sensual lips curved into a seductive grin. ‘I’m flattered, big boy. And hoping like hell you’ve got a condom large enough for that thing,’ she murmured, shocking herself.

He threw back his head and laughed.

Running large callused palms up her sides under the sweatshirt, he sobered. ‘Maddy Westmore, I think you may be my ideal woman,’ he murmured.

The little clutch at the meaningless endearment barely registered on the Richter Scale of excitement coursing through her body.

She gasped as he leant down to nuzzle her neck. His stubble abraided sensitive skin as hot lips fastened on the pulse point and his thumbs brushed swollen nipples. He devoured her lips with a hungry, seeking kiss, then pulled back and swung her up in his arms. ‘Come on. Condoms are in my bedroom. Let’s go try one on for size.’

He strode forward, one step, then staggered and listed to one side. She leapt down before he could drop her.

He swore viciously, bending over to grab his leg.

‘I’m sorry; did I hurt you?’ she asked, mortified. How could she have forgotten about his bum leg?

His cheeks flushed a dull red as he looked away, rubbing his thigh. ‘No.’ He bit the word out.

Glimpsing the Rottweiler again, Maddy cradled his cheek, steered his face back to her. ‘Good.’ His jaw tensed beneath her fingers. ‘So you’re still ready for a fitting?’

He straightened and gave a brittle half-laugh. ‘Why the hell would you want to bed a cripple?’ The tone was bitter, angry, but she could hear the unhappiness beneath.

‘Because it’s not your leg I’m worried about.’

His eyes narrowed but the tension gradually disappeared from his face. He huffed out another laugh, the hollowness gone. ‘Good point.’

He took her hand, lifted her fingers to his lips and brushed a kiss across the knuckles. The gesture was so sweet and so unexpected, she felt herself flush.

‘I don’t want to disappoint you,’ he said, his eyes shadowed by something she couldn’t read.

She had no idea what he meant, but he sounded as if he was getting all serious on her…And it was the last thing she wanted.

This wasn’t serious. It was her first and last wild, reckless, wanton fling. She didn’t want to know him and he didn’t have to know her. Serious was for Miss Fixit. Who was dead and buried.

‘As long as you can hobble to the bedroom—’ she grasped his hand in both of hers, tugged him towards the kitchen door ‘—believe me, you won’t.’ If he didn’t hurry up, something dumb—like common sense—was going to get in the way of her Snoopy dance.

‘Hobble?’ His eyebrows lifted as he followed, the limp not nearly as prominent as the bulge in his denims. ‘That’s not very flattering,’ he said, sounding more playful than insulted.

‘If you want flattering,’ she murmured, fluttering her eyelashes for all she was worth and hoping like mad she wasn’t promising more than she could deliver, ‘you’ll have to get a move on.’

He laughed as he let her haul him out of the door.

Adrenalin and desperation surged through Rye’s body as he slammed the bedroom door shut. She stood before him, her breath panting out in ragged gasps and those bright green eyes feverish with desire. He grabbed a handful of the sweatshirt, yanked her into his arms.

‘I want you naked,’ he murmured into her curls as his hands clasped her hips, found the soft, seductive flesh beneath.

She felt smooth and warm and perfect, her lush little body vibrating as he dragged the sweatshirt over her head and threw it away. Her full breasts swayed, mesmerising him, the nipples large and red, like ripe strawberries.

Her lips lifted but she looked wary all of a sudden—and much less sure of herself.

He cupped one full orb in his palm and bent to suckle the rigid peak.

She gave a soft little sob, sank her fingers into his hair and arched into his mouth. The scent of her, the taste assailed him and then panic struck.

He had to get inside her. Now, before he lost the erection. He couldn’t wait, couldn’t play, couldn’t risk taking the time to pleasure her too much.

Dragging his mouth away from the feast of flesh, he tumbled her back onto the bed. Struggling with his fly, his fingers frantic, he released the mammoth erection, still gloriously hard. It took him several crucial moments more to kick off his jeans. Drag off his own T-shirt.

He looked up to see her watching him. Propped on her elbows, her mouth dropped open as she stared. The shell-shocked look on her face gave him a burst of pride. She wasn’t gaping at the scars; she didn’t look disgusted—she looked astonished.

She didn’t know the half of it. And, hopefully, she never would.

‘The condoms are in the bedside table,’ he said in a strained voice. ‘Can you get them?’ It would take him too long to shuffle over there.

She nodded and rolled over, pulling a foil packet out as he eased onto the bed, trying not to jostle his leg.

‘Do you want me to do it?’ she asked, her voice shaky.

‘In a minute.’ He curved a hand round her waist, then hooked his fingers in the hot pink knickers.

He could give her a minute. At least.

She lifted her hips and he drew the swatch of lace down slender, toned legs. God, if only he could risk taking his time. He wanted to feast on her for an eternity. She smelled so good, looked so delicious, the dim light from the storm outside gilding her pearly-white skin and making his groin throb all the harder. But fear and panic barked in his head like angry dogs, threatening the promise of pleasure, so tantalisingly close.

He pulled her slim body clumsily beneath him, slanted his lips across hers. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, her breath coming in shallow pants as his tongue delved. He cupped her sex, felt her buck as he sank seeking fingers into tight tender flesh.

Thank God. She was ready. Hot, wet, slick with need.

He ripped the foil open with his teeth, his breath sawing as he rolled the condom on one-handed.

Pain stabbed in his leg, panic clawing at his throat as he adjusted her hips, nestled between her thighs.

Do it now. Before you lose it all again.

She gasped something, grasped his neck, but he couldn’t hear her through the rush of blood in his ears, the need and desperation tightening like a fist around his heart.

He thrust deep. The surge of power, of pleasure, of triumph so intense he couldn’t breathe.

The velvet flesh closed so tight around him he had to withdraw, thrust again. At last he settled deep, the blast of raw heat incredible. His hips pistoned, the pain in his leg forgotten as the orgasm, cruel, elemental, unstoppable, roared through him.

He shouted out his release and charged over the edge, his lungs bursting, the wondrous euphoria raging through him like the storm outside.

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