Annie West - Undone by His Touch

His jaw was shadowed, not with sculpted designer stubble, but with several days’ growth that made him look more like a lumberjack or pirate than a corporate tycoon.

A sensation like swirling treacle low in her belly unnerved her. She had a sudden mental picture of him swinging across a tall-masted ship, a woman on his shoulder.

Maybe it was the scar that conjured the notion. Long and not yet silvered with age, it carved an uncompromising groove up one cheek, curling in towards his eye.

Chloe shivered as she thought of the long matching wound on his leg.

‘We haven’t met before,’ she said in the efficient housekeeper’s voice she’d perfected over the years. She was grateful for it now as her pulse hammered. ‘I’ve been—’

‘Away.’ He paused, watching her, yet giving no answering smile. His forehead pleated in a frown and his dark eyebrows slashed down as if in disapproval.

By now she felt gauche with her arm extended towards him. When it became clear he wouldn’t give her the courtesy of a handshake, she dropped her arm, disappointment adding to her discomfort. Maybe arrogance ran in his family.

‘A family emergency, wasn’t it?’ he surprised her by asking.

She hadn’t expected him to know that, especially since they’d never met. His personal assistant had hired her, explaining his boss was often away for months at a time. Carinya had been his family’s spectacular Blue Mountains retreat for generations but he lived a couple of hours east in Sydney when he wasn’t travelling.

‘That’s right, Mr Carstairs. A family issue.’

Not that she’d known that the morning she’d fled this house. She’d simply packed her bags and caught the first train out. It was only later she’d discovered that in a weird coincidence of fate she faced not one but two crises. At least one of them was over.

‘But we can count on your continued presence now?’ One eyebrow arched above sleek designer glasses.

‘Of course.’ She’d been grateful when her sudden request for leave had been granted, but now she felt a spark of resentment at his attitude. ‘I moved back in a couple of hours ago. I’ll be on hand whenever you need me.’ She forced herself to smile up into his stern face.

If she’d expected a glimmer of friendliness she was disappointed.

The way he stood, staring, no answering smile or nod, should have unnerved her. But Chloe was used to standing up for herself, proving herself again and again. Her self-confidence had been forged in a hard school.

She met his gaze squarely, trying to read his face.

Most people gave non-verbal clues to their thoughts. Not Declan Carstairs. Maybe that was how he’d taken his inherited fortune and turned it into something astronomical—by playing his cards close to his chest.

Yet this was something more. Was that disapproval she read in his set jaw and tense mouth? Anger, even?

Her skin tightened as she recalled standing frozen, eyes glued to his naked form, well after she’d realised who he was. There’d been a distinct element of appreciation as her gaze had slid over his virile form.

Had he caught her staring? Heat washed her throat and cheeks.

‘I’m sorry for interrupting you just now. I hadn’t realised you were here in the pool.’

Or that you were naked.

‘Mr Sarkesian left a message saying you’d both be working in your study this morning and he’d brief me after that. I’d never intentionally …’

A dismissive gesture silenced her. ‘David had to leave on unexpected business.’ He paused and she had the impression of tension clamping his big frame rigid. ‘Was there anything else?’

‘No, nothing.’ She’d been waiting for him. ‘I’ll just take these to the pool house. Unless there’s anything I can get you?’

He shook his head. Chloe fought not to notice the way tiny droplets of water eased over his shoulders to track down across the solid musculature of his chest.

Her mouth dried and the heat in her face notched up to scorching.

She was doing it again!

She didn’t ogle attractive men. Yet the sight of her boss’s half-naked body and don’t-mess-with-me jaw conjured feelings Chloe had all but forgotten. How could it be?

Even the dreadful scar seemed to accentuate the earthy sexuality and power of his strong-boned face.

Inwardly she cringed, hoping he was oblivious to her thoughts tumbling out of control.

That black eyebrow climbed again. ‘Well. What are you waiting for, Ms Daniels? Don’t let me keep you from work.’

That was what he paid her for. She had no trouble reading his dismissive tone.

‘Of course, Mr Carstairs.’ Chloe tamped down annoyance and embarrassment as she turned away. She kept her pace even and her shoulders back, projecting a calm she was far from feeling.

Yet she reeled in shock. First had been the horror of thinking the man who haunted her nightmares had returned. Then there’d been that rush of relief, so strong she’d trembled with it. And finally the punch-to-the-gut reaction to Declan Carstairs.

Despite the scarring, he had the body of a male pin-up. More than that his sheer, sizzling intensity resonated like a force field, sucking the air from her lungs.

She was horrified to register a jiggle of response in that secret hollow place deep within. It had been years since she’d felt sexual awareness. On the contrary, she’d been accused of chilling indifference, of being an ice princess.

The recollection twisted her lips. She’d promised herself never to dwell on that again.

Now to feel a spark of attraction for her boss? Impossible!

In twenty-seven years there’d only been Mark, just one man to make her feel the blaze of desire. It was unthinkable that Declan Carstairs, rich, ruthless and disapproving, should re-ignite such feelings.

Pursing her lips, Chloe set about stripping the pool house of used towels.

Halfway back to the house, the sound of shattering glass made her spin towards the pergola.

Declan Carstairs stood, frozen in tableau, one arm stretched towards the table. On the ground before him lay the splintered remnants of a glass.

Curiously it was his stillness that snared her gaze rather than the broken glass so dangerously close to the pool. Too late she caught herself staring at those broad, straight shoulders a little too avidly.

‘It’s all right, Mr Carstairs, don’t you bother with it. I’ll fetch a brush and pan.’ Chloe hurried back to the laundry, dumped the towels and scooped up her equipment.

Strangely, on her return he hadn’t moved, as if he was waiting to make sure she did the job properly.

She’d worked for wealthy people before, some demanding and others so relaxed they barely noticed what went on around them. None would have questioned her ability to do such a simple task. Yet his stillness and the furrow of concentration on his brow told her he had other ideas.

Chloe crouched before him, brushing up the shards.

‘I’ll just be a moment.’ Yet her usually brisk movements seemed slow, her limbs heavy as his silent presence loomed close. Deliberately she turned from the sight of those strong sinewed feet planted wide on the flagstones.

Ridiculous that even the man’s naked feet looked sexy. He disapproved of her, was checking on her. She didn’t want to feel anything for him.

‘Thank you, Ms Daniels.’

Chloe bit down on a bubble of laughter. Such formality when her mind buzzed with unsettling images of his bare body. Just as well he couldn’t read her thoughts.

If only he’d move and leave her to get on with this.

Thinning her lips, she concentrated on locating shards that had spread further than the rest. ‘I think that’s almost—No! Watch out!’

Too late she saw his heel come down on a splinter as he turned.

A single, low oath blasted from his lips as bright scarlet bloomed and spread across the flagstones.

‘Wait, there’s another one.’

Chloe scuttled across to pick up the shard. ‘There, that’s all. You can move to the chair now.’

Above her he stood still as a bronze god, though in the silence she heard the hiss of his indrawn breath. Blood streamed from the gash at his heel.

Finally he spoke. ‘Perhaps you’d help me, Ms Daniels.’

Frowning, she got to her feet, put the brush and pan aside and moved closer. What did he want her to do? Surely he had the strength to hop the short distance to the chair?

‘You want me to support you?’

Something like anger flashed across his face and his nostrils flared. ‘Nothing so dramatic.’ He spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Just give me your hand.’

Bewildered, Chloe complied, slipping her hand into his, absorbing the heat and sensation of hard strength surrounding her work-roughened fingers. She registered the ridges of scar tissue across his palm. A shiver of sensation skated up her arm and shoulder, raising the fine hairs on her nape.

She ignored it and looked into his face. This close she read the tiny lines bracketing his mouth as if he spent more time compressing his lips than smiling.

His features were stiff and the scar stood lividly on his taut cheek. Fierce energy hummed through him and into her, like a power source without a safety valve, inexorably rising. Tension twisted as she waited for him to speak.

Her eyes were at the level of his mouth and she watched, fascinated, as his sensuously sculpted lips thinned into a pained line.

‘You need to sit down so I can get the glass out. It won’t hurt so much then.’

His bark of laughter, rough and raw, echoed across the flagstones, jerking her gaze up to those impenetrable dark glasses.

‘The pain doesn’t bother me.’

Chloe frowned. If he wasn’t in pain, then what …?

He exhaled slowly through his nostrils, his fingers tightening around hers. When he spoke there was resignation as well as an undercurrent of anger in his words. ‘Just lead me to a chair, will you?’

‘Lead …?’

‘Yes, damn it. Haven’t you realised you’re talking to a blind man?’

THE silence pounded with the beat of blood roaring in his ears. He held his breath with anticipation, waiting for the inevitable gush of sympathy.

It was all he could do not to fling away from her.

He didn’t want sympathy. He didn’t want company. But he couldn’t afford the luxury of managing for himself. He’d probably end up with a foot full of glass, or, having lost his bearings completely, a black eye from walking into the pergola.

Almost he didn’t care. Yet he retained enough pride not to want to make a complete fool of himself before her. He did that often enough when he was alone.

Frustration surged and his muscles tightened as he thought of his frequent tumbles, his inability to do half the things he’d always taken for granted.

‘Of course,’ she murmured. ‘I apologise. I hadn’t realised you couldn’t see.’ Her words were the same as before, cool, crisp, not a shred of syrupy sympathy and for a moment he stood, startled.

Then she lifted his arm, wrapped hers around his torso and wedged her shoulder beneath his armpit. ‘If you lean on me it will be easier.’

She might have been a nurse with her brisk practicality. If he was reasonable he’d be grateful for her no-nonsense attitude.

But the soft press of her breast against his side, the cushioned swell of her hip against his thigh, the sudden scent of vanilla and sunshine as her hair tickled his bare chest and arm, made him anything but reasonable.

How long since he’d held a woman close? Would he ever again?