Page 83 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay
Jess’s heart was fluttering alarmingly. That bedroom . . . The image of Paul Channing sleeping in that bed, probably naked, had burned itself into her brain as vividly as if she had seen it for real.
As she reached the bottom of the stairs she wondered for one wild moment if she should just run straight out of the front door and keep running until she was a safe distance away from him.
John O’Groats might just be far enough.
“We could eat in the kitchen, if that’s okay? The dining room’s a bit grand for just the two of us.”
“Oh . . . Yes, fine.”
That would probably be better. The dining room could well involve candles and a romantic atmosphere.
The kitchen was at the back of the house. It faced north, but she guessed that the wide French doors overlooking the garden would let in plenty of light during the day.
As in the sitting room, he had gone for simple lines and monochrome shades. Inset lights in the ceiling cast a bright glow. The cupboards were all a dark granite-grey with gleaming black granite worktops, and the backsplashes matched the pale-grey marble-tiled floor.
She leaned against the granite-topped central island, watching — fascinated — as he moved efficiently around the kitchen, collecting ingredients — rice noodles, tofu, garlic chives, tamarind puree — and began chopping and boiling and mixing up a sauce.
“What are we having?” she asked.
“Pad Thai. Is that okay?”
“Mmm. One of my favourites.”
“Do I get points?”
She laughed. “Oh, I think so.”
“Good.” Before she realised what he intended, he had put down his chopping knife and whirled her round, and she foundherself backed up against a cupboard. His dark eyes glinted with mocking amusement — and something else that she wasn’t ready to analyse.
And then his mouth came down on hers, tempting, tantalising, igniting her response.
Oh boy, this was kissing. She had closed her eyes and lifted her hands to tangle them in his hair, and all the world seemed to have shrunk into this single point in time and space. His sensuous tongue was swirling deep into the sweetest corners of her mouth, stirring a fever in her blood.
She shouldn’t be allowing this to happen — or was it exactly what she had wanted when she had agreed to come here? Her head was all over the place . . . But before she could gather her thoughts, he stepped back, those dark eyes glinting wickedly.
“I thought maybe I’d spend a few points. Seems silly to save them all up. Why don’t you take the wine out of the fridge and pour us a couple of glasses.”
She stared up at him, not sure if she could even stand, let alone breathe.
He grinned. “Wine. Fridge.” He pointed behind her, and she realised that she was leaning against it.
“Fridge. Yes. Wine. Okay.”
She turned and dragged open the fridge door, staring blankly at the contents, trying to remember what she was supposed to be doing. Her head cleared slowly and she saw the wine — a Sauvignon Blanc. She grabbed the bottle and closed the door.
“Um . . . Where’s your corkscrew?”
“No corkscrew, it’s a screw top.”
“A screw top? You just lost a point.”
“Don’t be so hasty. It’s a good wine, and the screw top eliminates the risk of spoiling it with a cork taste.”
She regarded him through narrowed eyes. “That sounds like an excuse for being a cheapskate.”
He put on an expression of affronted dignity. “Would I?”
“I don’t know.” She was forced to laugh. “Would you?”
