Page 4 of Lovers' Dance

Matthew Bradley was wealthy, spoilt and arrogant. Used to getting his own way in work and in his personal life. His family’s businesses were well-known throughout the world and he lived in an elite social class that few were allowed entry to. You were born into it. Matthew Bradley was privileged. And privileged men like him didn’t lust after women like the one in his bedroom upstairs. Only she wasn’t upstairs anymore. He could hear her calling his name tentatively and the throbbing below his waist threatened to overwhelm him.

He hid his lower anatomy behind the counter and said loudly, “I’m in the kitchen.”

Matt remembered with embarrassing guilt, the way he had stared at her sleeping form when parked up in front his house. Even then he had been fascinated by her stunning features, forcing himself to keep his sight on her face and nowhere else. Now, having seen her naked, he wanted to know what it felt like to have her legs wrapped around his waist while he…What was wrong with him? How could he be thinking like this about an injured woman he’d saved a mere few hours ago?Pulling his mind out of the gutter he arranged his features into a polite mask and awaited her arrival.

I had a moment’s worry at Matt’s reaction to me wearing one of his shirts with his tie in lieu of a belt, and running shorts that I’d knotted at one side of the hip. His clothes swamped me, but I couldn’t go around in that pink bathrobe and my clothes were icky.

“Hi,” I said, walking into the kitchen with my clothes bunched up in one hand. “I hope you don’t mind me borrowing your clothes.”

He shook his head, mouth pressed into a thin line as his eyes followed me. Was he annoyed? I started to babble while resting my dirty clothes on the counter. “I didn’t want to wear your girlfriend’s robe—”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he interrupted smoothly.

I tried not to look shocked. “So, uh, the pink robe is yours?”

Matt’s lips tugged at the corners. “No, it’s for my friend. I can find you clothes that fit if you want.”

“Aaah,” I drawled with a knowing look. “And does your friend have a hairdryer here?” I gestured to the towel on my head.

He nodded. “Would you like me to get it for you?”

Feeling at ease with my strange rescuer I nodded back. “So clothes and a hairdryer. She’s your girlfriend.”

“No, she’s not,” he shot back a bit sharply, then grinned at me to take the sting out of his words. I couldn’t help but grin back. He had a nice smile.

“Yes, she is,” I said emphatically. “Or she wants to be. Seriously, Matt, when someone starts leaving clothes and stuff at your place, they’re planning on moving in. Soon.”

“And what do you know about that?” he asked, fiddling with something in his hands. “You barely look eighteen.” His face abruptly lost its previous joviality and he was back to looking sternly at me. “Wait, exactly how old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

His disbelief was obvious, as was the wariness creeping into his silver grey eyes. “Try again.”

“I’m twenty-six,” I repeated indignantly. “Do you want to see my license?”

“Please.” He had stopped fiddling with whatever he was holding and was folding his arms across that broad sweater-clad chest of his.

“Seriously?” I couldn’t believe this, but the expectant air around him didn’t dissipate so I went to recover my purse which I’d left on the pretty little table in the foyer. When I returned Matt was pacing in front the sleek island in the centre of his kitchen. Barefoot and without makeup, I knew I probably looked younger than my age, but not jail bait young. “Here it is. I must say I’m insulted that you think I’m lying about my age.”

I held it out to him, trying my best to wipe the scowl off my face as he snatched it from my hand and scanned it intently. A look of relief covered his face for a second then his gaze travelled up and down my form.

“God. You’re tiny.” he murmured.

I scowled at my rescuer. First he implies I lied about my age, and now he was cracking on my height. “I’m a ballet dancer. We’re tend to be short. It’s not my fault you’re freakishly tall.”

He placed my license on the counter, picked up a plaster and stuck it to the cut on my head. “All better.”

I blinked a few times, unnerved by his nearness. He smelt nice, really nice. He was devastatingly handsome, too. I wasn’t into white guys, never saw them in that way. But, standing close to Matt with his fingers gently touching the bump at my temple, I was getting uncharacteristically hot.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?” he pressed. “Or call the police?”

I shook my head, uncomfortable by my body’s strange reaction to him. Matt moved away. “I think you’re making a mistake, but it’s your decision. Would you like something to drink before I take you home?”

I glanced at the bottle of whiskey. Heck, after the night I’d had, it was deserved. Without asking I took his glass, filled the tumbler to the rim and chugged it down under his astonished observance.

“Ack.” I gasped, feeling the burn all the way down to my stomach. “That’s good whiskey.” My eyes streamed and my tongue felt numb, but damn, it was some top-notch booze.

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