Under His Skin. Nicola Marsh

       CHAPTER TWO

      HOPE SILENTLY CURSED her fair English skin as heat surged to her cheeks.

      Damn this man for making her feel more flustered than she had in years.

      No man rattled her, not any more. She’d only been foolish enough to fall for a guy once before and the lessons learned seven years ago courtesy of her first—and only—love ensured she didn’t sweat the small stuff. What she’d endured with Willem, and the resultant fallout, had hardened her to the point of complete and utter cynicism.

      Sure, she dated. She hadn’t completely given up hope of finding a genuine guy. But her in-built self-protective mechanism ensured that whenever a guy got too close she found herself picking faults, picking fights or being picky in general, doing whatever it took to sabotage the relationship. Not a great trait for finding any kind of lasting happiness; then again, Willem’s deliberate destruction of her naïve love meant she didn’t believe in anything long-term so it didn’t fuss her.

      No man perturbed her; she didn’t let them get close enough. Yet Logan bloody Holmes, with his broad shoulders, smouldering blue eyes and cheeky grin, had made her discombobulated since the moment he’d strode into her favourite café as if he owned the place.

      She’d first learned the phrase ‘sex on legs’ when she’d been fourteen, after smuggling a bag of illicit romance novels into her room. Nothing got past Mrs Folsod, the housekeeper, a woman who Hope assumed to have been an off-the-books operative for MI6 because the battle-axe had been that good at snooping and ferreting out secrets. But those fabulously eye-opening books had made it past the old bat and Hope had devoured them, savouring every saucy page. She’d learned a lot from those glorious books: the art of self-pleasuring, how raunchy sex could be beyond the boring sex-ed classes at the snobby private school she had attended and many intriguing terms, including the one that described Logan perfectly—sex on legs.

      Muscly legs too, from what she’d glimpsed beneath his denim. The fabric outlined a sensational butt too. As for those forearms...corded with muscle, tanned, with a fine dusting of dark-blond hair the same colour as that on his head.

      It looked as though he hadn’t had a haircut in a while, the shaggy surfer style suiting him, drawing attention to those cut cheekbones and jaw, accentuating the unique blue of his eyes. They reminded her of a Yorkshire sky on a perfect summer’s day, which was crazy, considering she hadn’t been home in five years.

      ‘Hope?’ He snapped his fingers in front of her face and she wrenched her attention back to him.

      He’d said ‘anything’s doable’ in a tone so loaded with innuendo she’d clenched her thighs, like she had thirteen years earlier reading that first racy novel.

      Sure her cheeks must be a fiery beacon to her embarrassment, she mustered a disinterested expression. ‘I want to know if you can turn this space into a state-of-the-art recording studio.’

      When he grinned, she knew she hadn’t succeeded in fooling him and she almost sagged in relief when he stopped staring at her with those too-knowing eyes and glanced around the room.

      ‘This is one quirky space.’ He pointed to the cracked glass ceiling. ‘Looks like a few birds ended up with a headache up there.’

      ‘It was like that when I bought it.’

      ‘How long ago was that?’

      ‘About a month after I arrived in Australia, five years ago.’

      ‘Yet you still sound like the Queen.’

      She laughed at his lame impression of a British accent. ‘I love living here but I can’t quite manage a “no worries, mate” yet.’

      ‘Takes practice.’ He winked and that heat in her cheeks spread to every inch of her yearning body.

      God, it was embarrassing how long since she’d last had sex. One year? Two? She’d given up counting around the time she’d had her third putrid date via an online app one of her students swore by.

      Her unintentional celibacy had to be the reason she wanted to push this rugged, sexy Aussie down onto the floor and mount him.

      ‘Are you okay?’

      To make matters worse, he took a step closer, bringing him within touching distance. He smelled good too, like cut grass on a rainy day. Earthy. Wholesome. It made her wonder what he would taste like...

      Crap. Thinking about those old novels wasn’t good.

      ‘I’m fine, it’s a tad hot in here.’ She refrained from fanning her cheeks, just.

      ‘Really?’ His gaze locked on hers and she knew without a doubt he was toying with her. ‘I guess it’s better than the initial chill.’

      The corners of his mouth quirked into a cute smirk; he wasn’t talking about the ambient temperature.

      ‘I’m reserved when I first meet people,’ she said, annoyed by the compulsion to justify herself but needing to get this guy onside because he was the best for her needs. The needs of her studio, that was, and the first step to really proving herself in the music industry. Her story, and she was sticking to it. ‘I can come across a little cold.’

      ‘Brr...try freezing.’ He mimicked a shiver and rubbed his arms, drawing her attention to his fine biceps and pecs straining beneath the simple white cotton of a button-down shirt.

      Seriously rattled by the urge to keep ogling him, she gritted her teeth. ‘Do you want this job or not, Mr Holmes?’

      ‘Uh-oh, the thermostat got turned down again.’ His teeth fake-chattered and she bit back a laugh. ‘And for what it’s worth I don’t give a fuck about this job. I run one of the top specialised construction companies in the country. I don’t advertise because word of mouth recommendations will keep me busy with potential business for the next few decades.’

      He took another step closer and she held her breath. ‘So let’s get one thing straight. The real question here is whether I choose to do your job and whether you can afford me.’

      Nobody spoke to Hope like this, ever. From the moment she’d been born into the illustrious McWilliams family, everyone around her had kissed her aristocratic ass. She’d thought it the norm until she’d grown older and wiser, around the age of seven, when one of the maids’ daughters had called her a stuck-up prig. She’d been shocked to be disliked for the first time in her life and hadn’t liked it. Her parents had deferred to her and the domestic staff had too; even her teachers had been politely fawning.

      The problem with everyone pandering to her meant she could never fully trust when someone liked her for herself. And she’d made a monumental mistake in her personal life because of it.

      She couldn’t tell the difference between suck-ups and sincerity. So she really admired those who didn’t kowtow to her. Like Logan.

      ‘Sorry if I offended you.’ She offered the same smile she’d used to great effect over the years when wheedling exactly what she wanted out of her parents. ‘I revert to my English roots all too quickly when I’m bamboozled.’

      ‘I have that effect on you?’