Loe raamatut: «P.S. I'm Pregnant»
About the Author
USA TODAY bestselling author HEIDI RICE discovered she loved romantic fiction at about the same time she discovered boys and she’s been admiring both ever since. With this in mind, her first brilliant career plan involved marrying Paul Newman. As she was thirteen, Paul was pushing fifty and there was the small matter of Joanne Woodward, that didn’t quite pan out. Brilliant career plan B involved a job as a film reviewer for a national newspaper, but one wonderful husband, two beautiful sons and a lot of really bad B-movies later and she was ready for a new brilliant career plan—so she branched out into the wonderful world of romance writing. Her first novel was published in 2007 and she hasn’t looked back since. She lives in London but loves to travel, particularly in the US, where she does a Thelma and Louise road trip every year with her best mate (although they always leave out the driving-off-a-cliff bit). And she’s having so much fun, she’s almost not sorry that first brilliant career plan didn’t work out.
Heidi loves to hear from readers—you can e-mail her at heidi@heidi-rice.com, or visit her website: www.heidi-rice.com
P.S I’m Pregnant
Daisy
Juno
Heidi Rice
MILLS & BOON
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Daisy
To Bryony, for knowing when the Elvis impersonator needs
to be kicked out of the manuscript.
With special thanks to Eilis, who made sure Connor
didn’t sound like an extra from The Quiet Man.
CHAPTER ONE
‘YOU can’t do this. What if you get caught? He could have you arrested.’
Daisy Dean paused in the process of scoping out her neighbour’s ludicrously high garden wall and slanted her best friend, Juno, a long-suffering look.
‘He won’t catch me,’ Daisy replied in the same hushed tones. ‘I’m practically invisible with all this gear on.’
She looked down at the clothes she’d borrowed from her fellow tenants at the Bedsit Co-op next door. Goodness, she looked like Tinkerbell the Terminator decked out in fourteen-year-old Cal’s sagging black Levi’s, his tiny mother Jacie’s navy blue polo neck and Juno’s two-sizes-too-small bovver boots.
She’d never been this invisible in her entire life. The one thing Daisy had inherited from her reckless and irresponsible mother was Lily Dean’s in-your-face dress sense. Daisy didn’t do monotones—and she didn’t believe in hiding her light under a bushel.
She frowned. Except when she was on a mission to find her landlady’s missing cat.
‘Stop worrying, Juno, and give me the beanie.’ She held out her hand and stared back up at the wall, which seemed to have grown several feet since she’d last looked at it. ‘You’ll have to give me a boost.’
Juno groaned, slapping the black woollen cap into Daisy’s outstretched palm. ‘This better not make me an accessory after the fact or something.’ She bent over and looped her fingers together in a sling.
‘Don’t be silly.’ Daisy shoved her curls under the cap and tugged it over her ears. ‘It’s not a crime. Not really.’
‘Of course it’s a crime.’ Juno straightened from her crouch, her round, pretty face looking like the good fairy in a strop. ‘It’s called trespassing.’
‘These are extenuating circumstances,’ Daisy whispered as a picture of their landlady Mrs Valdermeyer’s distraught face popped into her mind. ‘Mr Pootles has been missing for well over a fortnight. And our antisocial new neighbour’s the only one within a mile radius who hasn’t had the decency to search his back garden.’ She propped her hands on her hips. ‘Mr Pootles could be starving to death and it’s up to us to rescue him.’
‘Maybe he looked and didn’t find anything?’ Juno said, her voice rising in desperation.
‘I doubt that. Believe me, he’s not the type to lose sleep over a missing cat.’
‘How do you know? You’ve never even met the guy,’ Juno murmured, wedging the tiniest slither of doubt into Daisy’s crusading zeal.
‘That’s only because he’s been avoiding us,’ Daisy pointed out, the slither dissolving.
Their mysterious new neighbour had bought the doublefronted Georgian wreck three months ago, and had managed to gut it and rehab it in record time. But despite all Daisy’s overtures since he’d moved in two weeks ago—the note she’d posted through his door and the message she’d relayed to his cleaning lady—he’d made no attempt to greet his neighbours at Mrs Valdermeyer’s Bedsit Co-operative. Or join the search for the missing Mr Pootles.
In fact he’d been downright rude. When she’d dropped off a plate of her special home-made brownies the day before in a last ditch attempt to get his attention, he hadn’t even returned the plate, let alone thanked her for them. Clearly the man was too rich and self-centred to have any time for the likes of them—or their problems.
And then there were his dark, striking good looks to be considered. ‘All you have to do is look at him,’ Daisy continued, ‘to see he’s a you-know-what-hole with a capital A.’
Okay, so she’d only caught glimpses of the guy as he was striding down his front steps towards the snazzy maroon gas-guzzler he kept parked out front. At least six feet two, leanly muscled and what she guessed most people would term ruggedly handsome, the guy was what she termed full of himself. Even from a distance he radiated enough testosterone to make a woman’s ovaries stand up and take notice—and she was sure he knew it.
Not that Daisy’s ovaries had taken any notice, of course. Well, not much anyway.
Luckily for Daisy, she was now completely immune to men like her new neighbour. Arrogant, self-absorbed charmers who thought of women as playthings. Men like Gary, who’d sidled into her life a year ago with his come-hither smile, his designer suits and his clever hands and sidled right back out again three months later taking a good portion of her pride and a tiny chunk of her heart with him.
Daisy had made a pact with herself then and there—that she’d never fall prey to some good-looking playboy again. What she needed was a nice regular guy. A man of substance and integrity, who would come to love her and respect her, who wanted the same things out of life she wanted and preferably didn’t know the difference between a designer label and a supermarket own brand.
Juno gave an irritated huff, interrupting Daisy’s moment of truth. ‘I still don’t understand why you haven’t just asked the guy about that stupid cat.’
A pulse of heat pumped under Daisy’s skin. ‘I tried to catch him the few times I spotted him, but he drives off so fast I would have had to be an Olympic sprinter.’
She’d suffer the tortures of hell before she’d admit the truth. That she’d been the tiniest bit intimidated by him, enough not to relish confronting him in person.
Juno sighed and bent down, linking her fingers together. ‘Fine, but don’t blame me if you get done for breaking and entering.’
‘Stop panicking.’ Daisy placed a foot in Juno’s palms. ‘I’m sure he’s not even home. His Jeep’s not parked out front. I checked.’
If she’d thought for a moment he might actually be in residence the butterflies waltzing about in her belly would have started pogoing like punk rockers. ‘I’ll be super-discreet. He’ll never even know I was there.’
‘There’s one teeny-weeny problem with that scenario,’ Juno said dryly. ‘You don’t do discreet, remember.’
‘I can if I’m desperate,’ Daisy replied. Or at least she’d do her best.
Ignoring Juno’s derisive snort, Daisy reached up to climb the wall and felt the skintight polo neck rise up her midriff. She looked down to see a wide strip of white flesh reflecting in the streetlamp opposite and caught a glimpse of her red satin undies where the jeans sagged.
‘Blast.’ She dropped her arm and bounced down.
‘What’s the matter now?’ Juno whispered.
‘My tummy shows when I lift my arms.’
‘So?’
Daisy frowned at her friend. ‘So it totally ruins the camouflage effect.’ She tapped her finger on her bottom lip. ‘I know, I’ll take off my bra.’
‘What on earth for?’ Juno snapped, getting more agitated by the second.
‘The material’s catching on the lace—it won’t rise up as much.’
‘But you can’t,’ Juno replied. ‘You’ll bounce.’
‘It’ll only be for a minute.’ Daisy unclipped the bra and wriggled it out of one sleeve. She passed the much-loved concoction of satin, lace and underwiring to Juno.
Juno dangled it from her fingertips. ‘What is this obsession you have with hooker underwear?’
‘You’re just jealous,’ Daisy replied, turning back to the wall. Juno had always had a bit of a complex about her barely B-cups in Daisy’s opinion.
She put her foot in Juno’s sling and felt her breasts sway erotically under the confining fabric. Thank goodness no one would get close enough to spot her unfettered state. She’d always been proud to call herself a feminist, but she was way too well endowed to be one of the burn-your-bra variety.
‘Right.’ Daisy took a deep breath of the heavy, honeysuckle-flavoured air. ‘I’m off.’
Grabbing hold of the top, she hauled herself up, her nipples tightening as she rubbed against the brick. Throwing her leg over, she straddled the wall with a soft grunt.
She peered through the leaves of a large chestnut tree and scanned the shadows of their neighbour’s garden. Moonlight reflected off the windows at the back of the house. Daisy let out the breath she’d been holding. Phew, he definitely wasn’t in.
‘I still can’t believe you’re actually going to do this.’ Juno scowled up at her from the shrubbery.
‘We owe this to Mrs Valdermeyer—you know how much she adores that cat,’ she whispered from her vantage position on the wall.
The truth was Daisy knew she owed her landlady much more than just a promise to find her cat.
When her mother, Lily, had announced she had found ‘the one’ again eight years ago, Daisy had opted to stay put. She’d been sixteen, alone in London and terrified and Mrs Valdermeyer had come to her rescue. Mrs Valdermeyer had given her a home, and a security she’d never known before—which meant Daisy owed her landlady more than she could ever repay. And Daisy always paid her debts.
‘And don’t forget,’ Daisy said urgently, warming to her subject, ‘Mrs V could have sold the Co-op to developers a thousand times over and become a rich woman, but she hasn’t. Because we’re like family to her. And family stick together.’
At least Daisy had always felt they ought to. If she’d ever had brothers and sisters and a mum who was even halfway reliable she was sure that was how her own family would have been.
She looked back at the garden, gulped down the apprehension tightening her throat.
‘I don’t think Mrs Valdermeyer would expect you to get arrested,’ Juno whispered in the darkness. ‘And don’t forget the scar on that guy’s face. He doesn’t look like the type who can take a joke.’
Daisy leaned forward, ready to slide down the other side of the wall. She stopped. Okay, maybe that scar was a bit of a worry. ‘Do me a favour—if I don’t come back in an hour, call the police.’
She could just make out Juno’s muttered words as she edged herself down into the darkness.
‘What for? So they can cart you off to jail?’
‘Forget it, I’m not conjuring up a fiancée just to keep Melrose sweet.’ Connor Brody tucked the phone into the crook of his shoulder and pulled the damp towel off his hips.
‘He went ballistic after the dinner party,’ Daniel Ellis, his business manager, replied, the panic in his voice clear all the way down the phone line from New York. ‘I’m not joking, Con. He accused you of trying to seduce Mitzi. He’s threatening to lose the deal.’
Connor grabbed the sweat pants folded over the back of the sofa and tugged them on one-handed, cursing the headache that had been brewing all day—and Mitzi Melrose, a woman he never wanted to see again in this lifetime.
‘She stuck her foot in my crotch under the table, Dan, not the other way around,’ Connor growled, annoyed all over again by Mitzi’s less-than-subtle attempts at seduction.
Not that Connor minded women who took the initiative, but Eldridge Melrose’s trophy wife had been coming on to him all evening and he’d made it pretty damn clear he wasn’t interested. He didn’t date married women, especially married women joined for better or worse to the billionaire property tycoon he was in the middle of a crucial deal with. Plus he’d never been attracted to women with more Botox and silicone in their body than common sense. But good old Mitzi had refused to take the hint and this was the result. A deal he’d been working on for months was in danger of going belly up through no fault of his.
‘Come on, Con. If he backs out of the deal now we’re back to square one.’
Connor walked across the darkened living room to the bar by the floor-to-ceiling windows, Danny’s pleading whine not doing a damn thing for his headache. He rubbed his throbbing temple and splashed some whiskey into a shot glass. ‘I’m not about to pretend to be engaged just to satisfy Melrose’s delusions about his oversexed wife,’ he rasped. ‘Deal or no deal.’
Connor savoured the peaty scent of the expensive malt—so different from the smell of stale porter that had permeated his childhood—and slugged it back. The expensive liquor warmed his sore throat and reminded him how far he’d come. He’d once had to do things he wasn’t proud of to survive, to get out. The stakes would have to be a lot higher than a simple business deal before he’d compromise his integrity like that again.
‘Damn, Con, come off it.’ Danny was still whining. ‘You’re blowing this way out of proportion. You must have a ton of women in your little black book who’d kill to spend two weeks at The Waldorf posing as your beloved. And I don’t see it being any big hardship for you either.’
‘I don’t have a little black book.’ Connor gave a gruff chuckle. ‘Danny, what era are you living in? And even if I did, there’s not one of the women I’ve dated who wouldn’t take the request the wrong way. You give a woman a diamond ring, she’s going to get ideas no matter what you tell her.’
Hadn’t he gone through the mother of all break-ups only two months ago because he’d believed Rachel when she’d said she wasn’t looking for anything serious? Just good sex and a good time. He’d thought they were both on the same page only to discover Rachel was in a whole different book—a book with wedding bells and baby booties on the cover.
Connor shuddered, metal spikes stabbing at his temples. No way was he opening himself up to that horror show again.
‘I can’t believe you’d throw this deal away when the solution’s so simple.’
Connor heard Danny’s pained huff, and decided he’d had enough of the whole debate.
‘Believe it.’ He put the glass down on the bar, winced as the slight tap reverberated in his sore head. ‘I’ll see you the week after next. If Melrose is bound and determined to cut off his nose to spite me, so be it,’ he finished on a rasping cough.
‘Hey, are you okay, buddy? You sound kind of rough.’
‘Just fine,’ Connor said, his voice brittle with sarcasm. He’d caught some bug on the plane back from New York that morning and now there was this whole cluster screw-up with Melrose and his wife to handle.
‘Why don’t you take a few days off?’ Danny said gently. ‘You’ve been working your butt off for months. You’re not Superman, you know.’
‘You don’t say,’ Connor said wryly, resting his aching forehead against the cool glass of the balcony doors and staring into the garden below. ‘I’ll be all right once I’ve a solid ten hours’ sleep under my belt.’ Which might have worked if he hadn’t been wired with jet lag.
‘I’ll let you get to it,’ Danny said, still sounding concerned. ‘But think about taking a proper break. Haven’t you just moved into that swanky new pad? Take a couple of days to relax and enjoy it.’
‘Sure, I’ll think about it,’ he lied smoothly. ‘See you round, Dan.’
He clicked off the handset and glanced round at the cavernous, sparsely furnished living room in the half light.
He’d bought the derelict Georgian house on a whim at auction and spent a small fortune refurbishing it, thanks to some idiot notion that at thirty-two he needed a more permanent base. Now the house was ready, it was everything he’d specified—open, airy, clean, modern, minimalist—but as soon as he’d moved in he’d felt trapped. It was a feeling he recognised only too well from his childhood. And he’d quickly accepted the truth, that permanence for him was always going to feel like a prison.
He turned back to the window. He reckoned a therapist would have a field day with that little nugget of information, but he had a simpler solution. He’d sell the house and move on. Make a nice healthy profit—and never be stupid enough to consider buying a place of his own again.
Some people needed roots, needed stability, needed for ever. He wasn’t one of them. Hotels and rentals suited him fine. Brody Construction was all the legacy he wanted.
He dropped the handset on the sofa.
His shoulder muscles ached at the slight movement. Damn, he hadn’t felt this sore since he was a lad and he’d woken up with the welts still fresh from dear old Da’s belt. He squeezed his eyes shut. Don’t go there.
Forcing the old bitterness away, he lifted his lids and spotted a flicker of movement in the garden below. He blinked and squinted, focussing on the shadowy wisp. Slowly but surely, the wisp morphed into a figure. A small figure clad suspiciously in black, which proceeded to crawl over one of the flowerbeds.
He jolted upright and braced his palm against the glass, his head screaming in protest as he strained to see. Then watched in astonishment as the intruder stood and dipped under one of the big showy shrubs by the back wall—a light strip of flesh flashing at its midriff.
‘What the…?’ The whisper scraped his throat raw as fury bubbled.
Damn it all to hell and back, could this day get any worse?
A surge of adrenaline masked his aching limbs and exploding head as he stalked across the living room and down the wide twin staircase. Whoever the little bastard was, and whatever they were about, they’d made a big mistake.
No one messed with Connor Brody.
For all the trappings of wealth and sophistication that surrounded him now, he’d grown up on Dublin’s meanest streets and he knew how to fight dirty when he had to.
He might not want this place, but he wasn’t about to let anyone else nick a piece of it.
CHAPTER TWO
‘HERE, kitty, kitty. Come to Daisy. Nice kitty.’ Daisy strained to keep her voice to a whisper as sweat pooled in her armpits and the coarse wool of the beanie cap made her head itch.
She scratched her crown, pulled the suffocating cap back over her ears and peered into the pitch dark under the hydrangea bush. Nothing.
Why hadn’t she brought a torch? She huffed. And gave up. This was pointless. She’d almost broken her neck getting over the wall and had then spent ten long minutes searching the garden, gouging her thumb on one of the rose bushes in the process, and she still hadn’t seen a blasted thing.
She crawled out from under the bush, her fingers sinking into the dirt as she tried to avoid squashing any of the plants in the flowerbed.
Raucous barking cut the still night air like a thunderclap. She clasped her hand to her throat and swallowed a shriek.
Her heartbeat kicked in again as she recognised the excited yips. Trust Mr Pettigrew’s Jack Russell, Edgar, to give her a flipping heart attack—it had to be the most annoying dog on the planet.
She puffed out her cheeks and sucked on her sore thumb. Well, at least she could go back home now knowing she’d done her best to find the invisible Mr Pootles. Wherever he’d got to, it wasn’t Mr Hot-Shot’s back garden.
She stood, ready to walk back to the wall when the yapping cut off. The sound of a soft pad behind her had her glancing over her shoulder. She spotted the dark silhouette looming over her and had a split second to think. ‘Oh, crap.’
A muscled forearm banded around her tummy and hauled her off her feet. Her breath whooshed out as her back connected with a solid wall of hot, naked male.
‘Gotcha, you little terror,’ muttered a deep voice.
She sucked in a quick breath ready to scream her lungs out, when a large hand slapped across her mouth—smothering her with the scent of sandalwood soap.
‘No, you don’t, lad,’ the voice murmured, the hint of Irish in it only making it more terrifying. ‘You’re not calling your mates.’
She struggled against the band around her waist. It didn’t budge.
Lifting her as if she weighed nothing at all, her captor hefted her back towards the house. The soap smell overwhelmed her as she listened to the grunts of her own muffled screams through the powertool now buzzing in her ears.
Daisy’s head began to spin as tomorrow’s tabloid headlines flashed across her mind. WOMAN SMOTHERED TO DEATH OVER MISSING CAT.
She kicked clumsily, connecting with thin air, and the baggy jeans slipped off her hips. Then the arm released and she landed hard on the ground, pitching head first onto the grass. As she scrambled up a hand grasped the waistband of her jeans and yanked.
‘Hey, what’s with the satin panties?’ came the shocked shout from behind her.
She gasped, blood surging into her head as she lurched round and hauled the jeans back up to cover herself.
‘Who the hell are you?’ he yelled.
Silhouetted by the porch light, all she could make out of her captor were acres of bare chest, ominously black brows, waves of dark hair and impossibly broad shoulders.
Her whole body vibrated with fury as embarrassment exploded in her cheeks, but all that came out of her mouth was a pathetic yelp.
He reached forward and whipped the beanie cap off her head. She tried to grab for it but her hair cascaded down.
‘You’re a girl!’
She swiped her hair out of her eyes as outrage overwhelmed her. How dared he manhandle her and scare her half to death? She snatched the cap back. ‘I’m not a girl,’ she snapped, her voice returning at last. ‘I’m a fully grown woman, you big bully.’
He took a step forward, towering over her. ‘So what’s a fully grown woman doing breaking into my house?’
She stumbled back, now holding the trousers in a death grip. Outrage gave way to common sense. What on earth was she doing arguing with the guy? He was twice her size and not in a very good mood if that threatening stance was any indication.
Forget standing her ground. Time to get the hell out of Dodge.
She turned to bolt. Too late—as strong fingers clamped on her arm.
‘I don’t think so, lady. I want some answers first.’
The forward momentum pulled her off her feet. ‘Let me go,’ she squeaked, tugging on her arm. His grip tightened as he dragged her backwards up the porch steps.
Panic welled up as he marched her through sliding glass doors into a massive open-plan kitchen. The smell of fresh varnish assaulted her nostrils and light blinded her as he snapped on a switch.
He hauled her past polished oak work surfaces and gleaming glass cabinets to a sunken seating area and shoved her, none too gently, into a leather armchair. ‘Take a seat.’
She went to leap up but he grabbed the arms of the chair, caging her in. Heat radiated from his naked chest like a furnace, as did the heady scent of soap and man. She flinched at the fury in his face, which was now illuminated in every shockingly masculine detail.
A drop of water from his damp hair splashed onto her sweater. She shrank into the cool leather as the moisture sank into the fabric and touched her naked breasts.
Ice-blue eyes dipped to her chest and her traitorous nipples chose that precise moment to draw into excruciatingly hard points. Heat flared in her face. Why had she taken off her bra? Could he tell?
‘Stay put,’ he snarled, his laser-beam gaze lifting back to her face. ‘Or, so help me, I’ll give you the spanking you deserve.’
She began to shake, her heart wedged in her throat. Up close and rather too personal, the stark male beauty of his face was staggering. Dark slashing brows and angular cheekbones rough with stubble did nothing to detract from the cool, iridescent blue of his eyes, nor the livid white scar twitching against the tensed muscles of his jaw. As his gaze swept over her she noticed he had the longest eyelashes she’d ever seen.
They ought to have made those arctic eyes look girly. They didn’t.
‘You can’t spank me,’ she whispered, then wished she hadn’t as his eyes darted back to hers.
‘Don’t tempt me,’ he rasped.
Daisy’s heartbeat sped up to warp speed. Do not antagonise him, you silly cow.
He straightened and raked a hand through his hair, pushing the thick black waves back from a high forehead. His gaze slipped to her chest again.
Her cheeks got several crucial shades hotter.
‘You can stop shaking,’ he said at last. ‘You’re in luck. I don’t hurt women.’
The contempt in his voice was too much. Her temper flared, destroying the vow she’d made moments before. ‘You just scared the crap out of me, Atilla. What the heck do you call that?’
‘You were in my garden. Uninvited,’ he sneered. Not sounding anywhere near as apologetic as he should. ‘What did you expect, a red carpet?’
Before she could come up with a decent comeback, he turned and stalked over to the kitchen’s central aisle. She noticed a curious hitch in his stride. Why was he walking as if he were on a swaying ship?
He bent over the double sink. Her eyes lifted to his back and she stifled a gasp, the question forgotten. A criss-cross of pale ridges stood out against the smooth brown skin of his shoulder blades. Daisy swallowed convulsively.
Whoever this guy was, he was not the rich, pampered, narcissistic playboy she’d assumed.
Coupled with the mark on his face, the scars on his back proved he’d lived a hard life, marred by violence. Daisy bit into her bottom lip, clasped her hands to stop them trembling and dismissed the little spurt of pity at the thought of how much those wounds must once have hurt.
Do not make him mad, again, Daisy. You don’t know what he might be capable of.
He filled a glass with water, then turned back to her. Propping his butt against the counter, he crossed his bare feet at the ankles and stared. She shivered, suddenly freezing in the heat of the late-July evening.
He downed the water in three quick gulps. Daisy swallowed, realising her own throat was drier than the Gobi Desert. Probably the result of the extreme emotional trauma he’d put her through. She wasn’t about to ask him for a glass, though. Keeping her mouth firmly shut at this juncture seemed like the smart choice.
He put the glass down on the counter. The sharp snap made her jump. He coughed, the sound harsh and hollow as it rumbled up his chest, and rubbed his forehead against his upper arm. Bracing his hands against the counter, he dropped his chin to his chest, gave a weary sigh.
Daisy let a breath out between her teeth. With those broad shoulders slumped he looked a little less threatening. When he didn’t speak for a while, or look up, she wondered if he’d forgotten her. She eased out of the chair. The treacherous leather creaked, and his head snapped up.
‘Sit the hell down,’ he said, the huskiness of his voice doing nothing to disguise the snarl. ‘We’re not through.’
She sat down with a plop. He still looked enormous, and she suspected he was doing his level best to intimidate her, but she could see bruised smudges of fatigue under his eyes.
She ruthlessly quashed another little prickle of sympathy. Whatever was ailing him, he’d terrified her, threatened her and quite possibly let poor Mr Pootles die a long and painful death.
She’d be better off reserving her sympathy for the Big Bad Wolf.
‘What exactly do you want?’ she asked, pleased when her voice barely wavered.
He crossed his arms over his chest and cocked an eyebrow, saying nothing.
Completely of their own accord, her eyes zeroed in on the dark curls of hair on his chest, which tapered down a washboard-lean six-pack and arrowed to a thin line beneath the drooping waistband of his sweat pants. The worn grey cotton hung so low on his hips, she could see the hollows defining his pelvis. One millimetre lower, and she’d be able to see a whole lot more.
The errant thought had Daisy’s thigh muscles clenching.
Her gaze shot back up to find him watching her. The heat flared across her chest and up her neck. Did he know where her thoughts had just wandered?
He rocked back on his heels, still studying her in that disconcerting way, and tightened his arms over his magnificent chest. Her heart gave an annoying kick as his biceps flexed, and her eyes flicked to a faded tattoo of the Celtic cross on his left arm.
She gulped, struggling to ignore the long liquid pull low in her belly. What was wrong with her? The guy might have the tanned, sculpted body of a top male model, but Daisy Dean did not get turned on by arrogant, self-righteous bullies, however buff they might be.
‘So let’s hear it,’ he said, his soft, but oddly menacing tone cutting the oppressive silence at last. ‘What were you about in my garden?’
