Hot-Shot Tycoon, Indecent Proposal. Heidi Rice
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?’
She thrust her chin up, determined not to feel guilty. Her mission had been innocent enough, even if it now seemed somewhat suicidal. ‘I was looking for my landlady’s cat.’
He coughed, the dry rumble making her wince. ‘How much of an idiot do you think I am?’
She bit back the pithy retort that wanted to pop out of her mouth.
‘His name’s Mr Pootles. He’s a large ginger tom with a squinty eye,’ she hurried on, despite the sceptical lift of his eyebrow. ‘And he’s been missing for two weeks.’
‘And you couldn’t come to the door and ask me if I’d seen him? Because why exactly?’
‘I did, but you never answer your door,’ she said, righteous indignation building. If he’d answered his damn door in the last two weeks she wouldn’t be in this predicament. In fact, now she thought about it, this was all his fault.
‘I’ve been out of the country this past week,’ he shot back at her.
‘Mr Pootles has been missing for two. And anyway I left messages with your housekeeper—and brownies,’ she added.
His eyebrows shot up. Why had she mentioned the brownies? It made her sound like a stalker.
‘Look, it doesn’t matter.’ She stood up, forcing what she hoped was a contrite look onto her face. ‘I’m sorry I disturbed you. I didn’t think you were in and I was worried about the cat. It could have been starving to death in your backyard.’
His eyes swept her figure again, making her pulse go haywire. ‘Which doesn’t explain why you dressed up like a burglar to come look for it,’ he said wryly.
‘Well, I…’ How did she explain that, without sounding as if she were indeed a lunatic? ‘I really should be going.’
Please let me get out of here with at least a small shred of my dignity intact.
‘The cat obviously isn’t here and I need to get back…’ She stumbled to a halt, edging her way round the chair.
‘Not yet, you don’t,’ he said, but to her astonishment his lips quirked.
She blinked, not believing her eyes. Was that a smile?
‘I got the brownies, by the way. They were tasty.’ He rubbed his belly, his lips lifting some more. The smile became a definite smirk.
‘Why didn’t you answer my messages, then?’ And what was so damn funny all of a sudden?
‘They probably got lost in translation,’ he said easily. ‘My cleaner doesn’t speak much English.’
He straightened, swayed violently and grabbed hold of the work surface.
‘What’s wrong?’ Daisy stepped towards him. His face had drained of colour and looked worn and sallow in the harsh light.
He put a hand up, warding her off. ‘Nothing,’ he growled, all traces of amusement gone.
She could see he was lying. But decided not to call him on it. After the way she’d been treated he could be at death’s door for all she cared.
He let go of the counter top, but didn’t look all that steady. ‘I know what happened to your cat.’
It was the last thing she’d expected him to say. ‘You do?’
‘Uh-huh, follow me.’
Gripping the edge of the centre aisle, he made his way across the kitchen. He moved with the fragile precision of someone in their eighties, his bare feet padding on the floor.
Daisy tramped down on her instinctive concern as she followed him. She hated to see people suffering, and for all his severe personality problems this guy was obviously suffering. But he’d made it clear he didn’t want her sympathy, or her help.
He shuffled to a small door in the far wall and opened it. Leaning heavily on it, he beckoned her over with one finger.
As she stepped forward he pulled the door wide. She heard the soft mewing sound and glanced down. Gasping, she dropped to her knees. Nestled in an old blanket beneath a state-of-the-art immersion heater was Mr Pootles—and his four nursing kittens.
Make that Mrs Pootles.
‘The cat showed up after I moved in.’ She glanced up at the husky voice, saw the hooded blue eyes watching her. ‘She had no collar and didn’t want to be petted so I took her for a stray.’
Daisy studied the cat and her kittens. A saucer of milk had been placed next to the blanket. She reached out a finger and stroked one of the miniature bodies. The warm bundle of fluff wiggled. Daisy sat back on her haunches.
Maybe the Big Bad Wolf wasn’t as bad as he seemed.
A little of Daisy’s anger and indignation drained away, to be replaced by something that felt uncomfortably like shame.
‘She had the kittens ten days back,’ he continued, the hoarse tone barely more than a whisper. ‘The cleaner’s been looking after them. They seem to be doing okay.’
‘I see,’ she said quietly.
Daisy stood, resigned to eating the slice of humble pie she’d so cleverly served herself by climbing over his garden wall in the middle of the night.
Still, she took a few seconds to collect herself, brushing invisible fluff off Cal’s jeans and then folding down the waistband so they’d stay up without her having to cling onto them. Humble pie had always been hard for her to swallow. Having delayed as long as possible, she cleared her throat and made eye contact.
He was studying her, his expression inscrutable. She might have guessed he wasn’t going to make this easy for her.
‘I’m awfully sorry, Mr…?’
‘Brody, Connor Brody,’ he said, a penetrating look in those crystal eyes. Her pulse skidded.
‘Mr Brody,’ she murmured, her cheeks flaming. ‘What I did was unforgivable. I hope there are no hard feelings.’
She held out her hand, but instead of taking it he glanced at it, then to her astonishment his lips curved in a lazy grin. The slow, sensuous smile softened the harsh lines of his face, making him look even more gorgeous—and even more arrogant—if that were possible.
Daisy held back a sigh as her heart rate kicked into overdrive.
How typical. When Daisy Dean made an idiot of herself, it couldn’t be in front of an ordinary mortal. It had to be in front of someone who looked like a flipping movie star.
‘So are your cat burgling days behind you, now?’ he said at last, the roughened voice doing nothing to hide his amusement. He tilted his head to take in every inch of her attire, right down to Juno’s Doc Martens. ‘That’d be a shame, as the outfit suits you.’
She dropped her hand. Make that a movie star with a warped sense of humour.
‘Enjoy it while you can,’ she said dryly, trying hard to see the humour in the situation—which was clearly at her expense. She knew perfectly well she looked a complete fright.
‘And what would your name be?’ he asked.
‘Daisy Dean.’
‘It’s been a pleasure, Daisy Dean,’ he said, still