One Wild Night With Her Enemy by Heidi Rice

CHAPTER SIX

LUKETRUDGEDUPthe stairs carved into the rock wall that led from the dock as sunset burst over the horizon. He barely spared a glance for the spectacular light show of reds and oranges bleeding into the cerulean blue of the sky, so dog-tired he was ready to face-plant on every agonising step.

And more frustrated than he had ever been in his life.

No way was he getting his overnight guest off the island any time soon.

He’d managed to crank open the doors to the boathouse, only to discover the boat’s hull had been damaged in last night’s storm too. Not only that, but when his cell service had come back for a half-hour he’d checked the local shipping forecast and seen a number of weather warnings that made any attempt to make it to the mainland in the next couple of days—even if he fixed the boat—not a good idea.

Exhaustion dragged at his heels and made his shoulders sag.

Jezebel was a write-off too, until he could get a plane mechanic out here—and that wasn’t happening for the next few days either, because of the weather forecast.

After confronting that reality he’d kayaked to Pirates’ Cove on the opposite end of the island and taken his daily swim, trying to calm himself down enough to function again. Even in summer the water had been satisfyingly freezing. Then, to keep his mind off the woman now camped out in his house—and his head—he’d spent the rest of the day circumnavigating the island’s ten miles of shoreline to check for any more damage.

His home was the only major structure on Sunrise, and it had survived unscathed, and he’d repaired some broken shingles on the boathouse roof before heading home to give himself time to think.

As much as he wanted Cassandra gone, the fact that he couldn’t get her off the island in the next few days meant he had a couple of options. He could take time out from his hard-earned vacation time to repair the boat’s hull himself...or he could do what he’d originally intended to do before he’d met Cassandra James—spend the week getting some much-needed downtime on his private island, and she would just have to stay the hell out of his way.

His eyes stung as he brushed sea-matted hair off his forehead, and heat pulsed beneath his wetsuit on cue. He drew in a harsh breath and shoved open the door to the mud room. Damn it. Even though he was exhausted, she still had the power to make him ache.

A vision of her as she had looked ten hours ago in his kitchen—wearing his oversized T-shirt, her hair tied on top of her head in a haphazard knot—blasted back into his brain and he tensed.

She hadn’t even tried to defend herself. Hadn’t even had the decency to admit what she’d done and apologise. If anything, she’d doubled down on her scheme—which was exactly why he wasn’t going to let her screw over his vacation. She’d already screwed him over enough.

He could control his desire if he put his mind to it.

He needed this break before the product launch.

He and his team had been working on the prototypes for two years, and he hadn’t taken any vacation time in almost as long.

Indignation seared his throat as he sat down on the bench and tugged off his board shoes, heat still pulsing defiantly in his lap. And the memories he’d managed to keep at bay throughout most of the day, through sheer force of will and hard physical activity, cascaded through his tired body.

Cassandra draped over his bed, her erect nipples begging for his attention, her eyes dazed with passion, her body flushed with need, her scent intoxicating him as he thrust heavily inside her.

He shivered violently. But it wasn’t from the cold, clammy neoprene as he peeled it off.

Jeez, Broussard, forget about last night, already. She’s the enemy now.

Everything had been fake: the sweet, sultry smile, the forthright expression, the live-wire response which had so intoxicated him, the empathy when he’d let that nugget of information about his past slip, even the possible evidence of her virginity. She’d been playing him the whole time to get what she wanted for her boss.

The heat pulsed harder and he frowned.

Okay, maybe not everything had been fake. No one could fake a response like that. She’d been as turned on as he was, the memory of her sex gripping his as she came so vivid it made the ache in his crotch painful.

Maybe some guys couldn’t tell when a woman was faking an orgasm, but he could tell Cassandra hadn’t been faking that.

But she’d still played him. And he’d let her.

He picked up the wetsuit and dumped it into the rinsing sink with a loud splat.

Get over it.

It wasn’t as if he’d been emotionally invested in their booty call. All he’d wanted out of their night together was great sex, and they’d both got that. So why was his stomach still jumpy and his throat still raw at the thought of her this morning, her chin thrust out, tendrils of wet hair framing her high cheekbones and her translucent skin still reddened from his kisses? Her toned thighs had been rigid with indignation while she’d stared him down and refused to admit how far out of line she was...

Why should he care if she didn’t have the decency to come clean and beg for his forgiveness? Business could be dirty. He’d done some things himself he wasn’t proud of in the past, to push Broussard Tech to the place it was now.

Temple was obviously a wolf. He got that. He could be ruthless too, when his business was at stake. But to use an employee to seduce him...

Unless...

Was she Temple’s lover?

His stomach twisted into a knot at the unbidden thought and something dark and violent rushed through him.

He strode naked into the mud room’s power shower and flicked on the jets. But then the memory of how tight she’d been when he’d entered her that first time came echoing back. And the shock and awe on her face when she’d climaxed. She’d looked overwhelmed.

He didn’t trust her, but she’d have to be an award-winning actress to fake that response.

His shoulders relaxed a little.

The hot, needle-sharp spray pummelled his cold skin, but as he scrubbed away the salt and sweat of the day’s activities the strident erection refused to subside.

Pressing his forehead against the glass bricks, he took himself in hand, jerking his stiff flesh in fast, efficient strokes. Trying to keep Cassandra out of his head, though, proved impossible, the memory of her body caressing his length still vivid as the seed exploded in his hand.

He washed away the evidence, feeling like he had as a teenager after those nights making out under the bleachers—used and dirty.

Not the same thing at all, he told himself. At least those experiences had made him wise to women like Cassandra James ever since. Those girls had shown him that no one could be trusted...that sex was a bargaining chip, just like everything else. He’d finally figured out he didn’t need their approval or their affection. And he didn’t need Cassandra’s.

Nor did he need her to admit what she’d done. All he needed to do was make sure she didn’t do his company any damage. Keeping her here for the next few days, maybe even the whole week, didn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing. At least if she was stuck on Sunrise, with no cell service, it would save him the trouble of having to brief his legal team to get her to sign an NDA.

He dried himself off and dressed in the sweats he kept in the mud room.

With the edge taken off his need, and the shower having revived him, it occurred to him that he was ravenous. All he’d had since breakfast was a couple of energy bars and a flask of coffee.

He headed into the kitchen.

He had staff for the house—as well as Mrs Mendoza the housekeeper he also employed a maintenance woman and a forester—but, as he’d told Cassandra, he always had them vacate when he was on the island. He hadn’t lied when he’d told her he preferred his privacy.

He huffed out a tortured breath.

The irony would almost be funny if it weren’t so damn aggravating.

The truth was, the main reason he’d bought Sunrise and built the house was so he could be alone here. He liked his solitude. The outdoor activities available when he needed downtime were a great way to stretch his body as well as his mind. And when he was working on a particularly tough or troublesome new design this was the perfect place to hole up and get it done without any distractions.

Right about now, though, he wished Mrs Mendoza and the rest of his staff were in residence, because he could use a cooked meal without having to do it himself. And having a buffer between him and his resident spy would also be useful.

The sunset cast a reddening glow over the kitchen’s granite surfaces, highlighting a mound of something on the main countertop, draped in a paper napkin. He lifted the napkin to find a mountain of bread and cheese and baloney, drenched in enough condiments to sink a battleship.

What the...?

His hollow stomach growled, but not with any particular enthusiasm. Then he noticed the passive-aggressive note jotted down on the napkin.

I made you a sandwich.

You can thank me later.

This mess was supposed to be a sandwich? It looked barely edible. Not only that, but it had clearly been sitting on the counter for the last eight hours. He pressed his finger into the bread to test it... Yup, hard as a slab of concrete.

Wrapping the whole mess in the napkin, he dumped it in the trash can.

He might be starving, but he had standards. And if she thought that pathetic attempt at a peace offering was going to go any way towards appeasing him after what she’d done, she was living on another planet.

By rights she should have taken the damn initiative and cooked them something decent for supper. The house was fully stocked, and she’d been sitting on her butt all day, doing nothing, while he’d been out trying to work out a way to get them off the island. Maybe that wasn’t going to happen any time soon, but he’d be damned if he’d let her freeload for the rest of her stay.

If he was going to be forced to keep her here—to keep his company safe from her shenanigans while he took a well-earned break—she could damn well make herself useful.

‘Cassandra!’ he shouted up the stairs. ‘Get down here now. You’re on kitchen duty tonight.’

‘But I already made you a sandwich.’

Cassie stared at Luke Broussard’s hard, handsome face and cursed the flush spreading across her collarbone. She’d figured out several hours ago that they wouldn’t be leaving the island tonight. So she’d spent the time trying not to let her anxiety go into free fall while she’d scoped out a bedroom for the night and hunted up a nightlight.

She had raided Mrs Mendoza’s closet again for more clothing, just in case Luke’s threat of being stuck here for more than one night played out. She did not plan to be unprepared for whatever he might throw at her. She’d also taken the opportunity to do some snooping.

To her astonishment, while looking through the wardrobes in his four guest bedrooms, she hadn’t managed to find any leftover clothes from previous girlfriends. Perhaps Luke had actually been telling the truth when he’d told her he’d never brought a woman to the island before... Not that it meant anything. The women he hadn’t brought here were the lucky ones—at least they hadn’t ended up stranded here.

Satisfied with her haul from Mrs Mendoza’s wardrobe, she’d headed to Luke’s study in a futile attempt to find an internet connected computer, or at the very least a phone charger in case the coverage returned, because her phone had now died. Unfortunately, the only chargers she’d found were for Broussard Tech phones, and all the computers had elaborate security systems so she hadn’t even been able to turn them on, let alone access the internet.

Seriously...who did that? Who had several layers of security on their computers when they were in a study in a locked house on a private island that no one could get to without a plane or a speedboat? Paranoid much?

After nearly an hour spent trying to crack his security, Cassie had returned to the guest room and dropped into a deep, exhausted sleep. She’d woken up about an hour ago, groggy and raw, still feeling the effects of the sweaty erotic dreams which had chased her in sleep...

Beyond grateful that the star player in every one of those dreams was still out of the house, she’d managed to figure out the coffee machine and made herself a cup to enjoy with the view of the sunset from her bedroom.

She’d spotted him coming up the stairs from the dock about twenty minutes ago, his head bowed and his body looking far too buff in a clinging wetsuit, his damp hair dishevelled, the way it had been last night when they’d come in from the storm.

Don’t think about last night.

As he’d entered the house, the surge of longing had convinced her to stay well clear of him for the night. Confronting him was pointless—all it would do was make her more aware of the desire that would not die, or more anxious about her predicament, because they clearly weren’t going to be going anywhere tonight.

She’d managed to find some crime novels on his bookshelves... They should keep her entertained, and might even contain a fiendishly clever and undetectable way to murder a man in his sleep.

But then she’d heard him calling her to come downstairs... Not calling her, summoning her—as if she were an employee instead of a hostage.

Ignoring him had been impossible, and it would have made her seem weak. So she had steeled herself against the inevitable surge of heat and forced herself to remain calm. Or calm-ish...

But then he’d demanded she cook them both dinner, because—as he’d put it so charmingly—‘I don’t like freeloaders any more than I like spies.’

That was when she’d reminded him of the sandwich.

‘I threw the sandwich in the trash,’ he replied now.

What the actual...?

A blush rose up her throat, combining with the surge of temper that she’d been keeping carefully at bay ever since his many hissy fits that morning had threatened to blow her head off.

‘You... You...’ she stuttered, so shocked at the sneering tone and the complete lack of gratitude for her titanic effort that morning in taking the high road that the words got stuck in her throat. ‘You did what?’ she blurted out at last.

‘I threw it in the trash. Next time you make me a sandwich, don’t drown it in mayo. I hate the stuff. And don’t leave it sitting on the counter all day, so all that’s left of it when I get a chance to eat are its fossilised remains.’

She gasped—she actually gasped—so aghast at his audacity and his total inability to show any appreciation for her effort whatsoever that she was actually struggling to draw a decent breath. ‘Next time?’ she spat the words out. ‘You have got to be joking. There isn’t going to be a next time. I’d be more willing to make a sandwich for my worst enemy than you.’

‘I am your worst enemy right now, and you still owe me,’ he shot back, his tone dripping with sarcasm. ‘I’ve been out all day working my butt off and I’m starving, so a sandwich—even if it were actually edible—isn’t going to cut it. Let’s see what else you’ve got,’ he finished, before stomping past her.

She gulped, a sudden spurt of panic chipping away at her fortifying fury. ‘What do you mean, what else I’ve got?’ she asked.

Although she had a horrid feeling she already knew.

He wasn’t kidding about expecting her to cook him supper.

A hot supper, with actual ingredients, from scratch—something that didn’t come out of a ready meal container or off a takeaway menu.

He stopped and stared down his nose at her. ‘What else you’ve got in your repertoire of go-to meals. Other than prehistoric sandwiches,’ he added.

But the dig didn’t even register this time as her panic started to consume her.

But I don’t have a repertoire.

It was what she wanted to say. But she couldn’t say it because she knew it would make her look pathetic. Because it was pathetic.

She didn’t know how to cook anything. Not anything complicated. Nothing other than maybe beans on toast, or scrambled egg, or warmed-over soup from a tin. And she was fairly sure that wouldn’t cut it with this man any more than her ‘fossilised sandwich’ had—because he could whip up a pancake batter from scratch and had been a short-order chef in a diner when he was still a teenager.

The truth was, she had no excuse. She should have learned how to cook for herself a long time ago. But she’d avoided learning, avoided even attempting to learn. And the reason for that was even more pathetic.

She hated being in a kitchen and doing any kind of domestic chores because it reminded her of the day she had discovered exactly how much her father disapproved of her...

Not even disapproved of her, really. Because disapproval required some kind of emotional input. And the truth was Aldous James hadn’t cared enough about his daughter to put in any emotional effort.

He hadn’t disapproved of her. He hadn’t even seen her. And the day she had discovered exactly how little he cared had haunted her every day since—whenever she spent any time in a kitchen.

For five years—from the day Ash and her mother had come to live in the servants’ quarters at her father’s house on Regent’s Park West—the kitchen had become a place of solace and sanctuary for Cassie. A place of vibrancy and life and excitement, for good times and good feelings.

Until the day her father had chosen to change all that without telling her.

The heat in her cheeks exploded as she recalled that day in vivid detail.

She had raced down the stairs brimming with exhilaration because it had been the first day of October half-term. She had known Ash would be up early, having her breakfast while Ash’s mother, Angela, put together her father’s breakfast tray. Her friend would already be concocting some marvellous new adventures for them both for the holiday. Because Ash always came up with the best adventures.

But it hadn’t been only Ash’s latest mad plans that Cassie had been anticipating as she’d shot down the back stairs in her family’s ten-bedroom Georgian town house—a house that had felt like a prison to her—a prison full of ghosts—until Angela had appeared one day in the staff quarters and introduced Cassie to her daughter.

‘Sure, you two are about the same age. I won’t mind a bit if you want to come down and keep Ashling and I company while your father is busy.’

She hadn’t just been excited about spending some quality time with her best friend again after weeks and weeks of boring school, when they’d only got to see each other for a few hours a day because of the endless hours of homework Cassie was set by the posh private school she’d attended. She’d also been anticipating basking in the homely atmosphere Angela and Ash had created ever since they’d come into her life.

She’d loved all of it. The comforting wittering of Angela Doyle’s conversations about fairies and crystals and other nonsense, the sound of Ash’s slightly off-key singing as they sang along to her favourite show tunes while sharing the headphones from Ash’s MP3 player, the tempting aroma of the scones and breads Angela baked from scratch and the scent of lavender floor polish.

She’d burst through the kitchen door that crisp October day when she was thirteen with the wonderful feeling of belonging, of friendship, bursting in her heart—only to find the room cold and empty and silent.

And Ash’s hastily written note on the table telling her they’d been forced to leave.

A cold weight sank into her stomach all over again, joining the sharp twist of inadequacy as she recalled the conversation in her father’s study later that day.

‘Angela Doyle is no longer in my employ. We don’t need a housekeeper any more as you will be boarding at St Bride’s after half-term and I can simply eat at my club.’

‘But, Father, what about Ashling? She’s my best friend.’

‘Ashling is a housekeeper’s daughter. She is hardly a suitable companion for you.’

Cassie pushed past the recollection, disturbed by the realisation that her father’s callous words that day and his blank expression—impatient and vaguely annoyed—still had the power to make the muscles in her stomach clench into a knot.

How pathetic that she could still recall that day in such vivid detail. Especially now, when the last thing she needed was to give Luke Broussard more ammunition.

For goodness’ sake, Cassie, get over yourself.

How ridiculous to let the devastation of that day still control her all these years later... Maybe her life had been more colourful with Ash and her mum living in the staff quarters. And, yes, it had been thoughtless and insensitive of her father to wrench them away from her without a thought to how she might react. But to think she had avoided learning to cook because of that one painful memory...?

Seriously, it was beyond pathetic.

Especially when she considered that everything she’d thought she had lost that day had never really been lost at all. Ash was still her best friend. They’d made sure never to lose touch during all those miserable years Cassie had spent at St Bride’s. They had been sharing a flat together for the last four years, ever since Cassie had finished uni and begun her career at Temple’s as a graduate associate.

It was all good. Give or take the odd bra-less dress debacle and tuxedo ditzkrieg.

Cassie cleared her throat.

Except for one glaring problem. She did not have a ‘go-to’ meal repertoire which she could use to whip up something now and impress Luke Broussard. Not even close. Which meant the only course of action open to her—as her tormentor continued to stare at her with utter contempt—was to bluff. Because she would actually rather die than let him know she had allowed that easily bruised, painfully lonely child to continue to lurk inside her for so long.

‘Cook your own supper,’ Cassie said, drawing herself up to her full height—which was still a lot shorter than his—and trying to draw on the outrage of a moment ago. ‘I’m not your personal chef.’

She swung round to make what she planned to be a dignified and speedy exit.

Too late.

‘Not so fast, Miss Priss.’ He grasped hold of her elbow to tug her back.

A spike of adrenaline shot up her arm, adding shocking heat to the twist of pain and inadequacy already festering in her belly.

To her horror, instead of accepting her perfectly reasonable rebuttal, Luke Broussard tilted his head to one side, studying her in that strangely unsettling way he had that made her feel totally transparent.

‘You can’t cook, can you?’ he said.

It wasn’t a question.

‘How do you...?’ She stopped, her pulse tripping into overdrive as the weight in her stomach grew to impossible proportions. ‘Of course I can,’ she said, scrambling to cover the gaffe.

‘Uh-huh?’ he said. ‘Then prove it.’

‘I don’t have to prove anything to you,’ she managed, but she could tell from his expression that the game was up.

‘What are you? Some kind of princess?’ he said, contempt dripping from his words now. She should have been prepared for it. She wasn’t. Especially as she didn’t even have anything resembling a decent excuse. The weight in her stomach twisted and throbbed on cue.

‘No, it’s just... It’s not a skill I’ve ever needed. Particularly...’ she said, desperately trying to cover her tracks. Bluffing hadn’t worked. Maybe bluster would.

‘Why?’

‘We had s-staff when I was little, and I went to boarding school.’

She stumbled over the word ‘staff’, because she’d never thought of Angela as her father’s employee. Angela Doyle had been the closest thing she’d ever had to a mother. Which was why she had been devastated when her father had let her go—as well as Ash.

But Luke didn’t need to know any of that. Playing the privileged spoilt princess made her feel stronger, somehow, than the truth... That she’d been a needy, lonely child, looking for affection from people who had been paid to care for her. Angela had never made it seem that way, but that was the reality.

‘You had staff...’ he said, cursing softly under his breath. ‘That’s the excuse you’ve got for not learning a basic life skill?’

‘Well, it can’t be that basic if I’ve survived perfectly well without it,’ she said.

‘Until now,’ he said, sounding exasperated with her incompetence. ‘I mean, damn. What about your mama? Didn’t she teach you something? Anything?’

‘No, I was only four when she died.’

As soon as the words were out of her mouth she wanted to take them back. Because his eyes darkened and what she saw on his face, instead of distrust or anger or even heat—which seemed to be his go-to emotions where she was concerned—was pity.

‘That’s tough, cher.’

It was the first time he’d used the endearment since discovering Ash’s text, and to Cassie’s horror the growled condolence had an effect she couldn’t mitigate or guard against, brushing over her skin and making her heartbeat slow and her ribs squeeze, cutting off her breathing.

She stiffened and re-inflated her lungs with an effort.

‘You’re weak, Cassandra, that’s your problem.’

Her father’s voice slashed across her consciousness. She forced herself to keep breathing past the pain in her chest and the boulder in her throat.

Don’t you dare cry—not in front of him. You’re just tired and stressed. This is not a big deal.

‘Not really. I don’t even remember her,’ she lied. ‘And, anyhow, that’s a little sexist, isn’t it? To assume my mother would teach me how to cook?’ she added, trying to regain at least some of her self-respect and the fighting spirit she’d worked so hard to create over all the years of her father’s indifference.

Men like Luke Broussard saw a weakness and exploited it. That was what they did.

Luke shrugged, but his expression didn’t change, his clear mossy-green eyes still shadowed. ‘I guess it could have been your papa,’ he said, the French inflection on the word sounding strangely intimate. ‘I just asked because my mama taught me. She always said I needed to know the basics...’ He counted them off on his fingers. ‘Gumbo, Jambalaya, crawfish étouffée and pancakes.’

‘I only know what one of those things even is,’ Cassie supplied, stupidly relieved as the knot in her stomach loosened a fraction.

As much as she might want to stand up to him, handling confrontation head-on had never been her strong suit—just ask her father.

Luke swore again, but she felt the knot release a little more. Maybe he despised her, but at least she wasn’t going to have to fake any cordon bleu cooking skills now.

Always an upside.

‘Well, we’ve both gotta eat tonight. And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna do it all. If you want, I can show you how to cook my mama’s Jambalaya?’

Warmth blossomed in the pit of her stomach alongside a burst of astonishment. But then she got a grip and saw the pity still shadowing his eyes.

The off-hand offer wasn’t really meant as an olive branch—she totally got that. He was quite possibly only doing it to demonstrate to her exactly how pathetic she was. But somehow she couldn’t bring herself to tell him where he could stick his offer.

Unfortunately, she was fairly sure her inability to tell him no wasn’t just because she was so hungry she was more than ready to eat anything—even humble pie—but also because darkness was closing in outside the window, and spending the evening with him without having to argue with him would be better than spending it alone in the guest room.

‘I think I could probably manage that,’ she said cautiously, hating herself a little bit for folding far too easily, but deciding she could always go back to standing up to him tomorrow. Tonight, she was too stressed and exhausted and famished. ‘If you tell me exactly what to do.’

The quirk of his lips took on a wicked tilt—and suddenly she was fairly sure he wasn’t thinking about cooking any more. Because neither was she.

‘Don’t worry, I’m real good at giving orders.’

Don’t I know it?she thought, but didn’t say. Because with the thought came a blast of unhelpful memories about the orders he’d given her the night before, and how much she’d enjoyed obeying them without question.

Way to go, Cassie. Why not turn a catastrophe into a sex-tastrophe? Because this isn’t already awkward enough...

‘Go grab the bag of crawfish from the freezer,’ he said, the teasing glint instantly gone again, ‘and then I’ll show you how to make Jambalaya.’

She was so relieved that he seemed as disinclined to flirt as she was, that she was halfway across the kitchen before she thought to turn around and ask, ‘What does a crawfish look like?’

He paused while grabbing a pan from the rack above the kitchen island, a low chuckle bursting out of his mouth. ‘Hell, cher, don’t you know anything?’

Apparently not. But suddenly not being able to cook didn’t seem like her biggest problem, when the rusty rumble of spontaneous laughter rippled over her skin and made the ever-present weight in her stomach start to throb.

Hello, downside, my old friend.

Whose dumb idea was it to give her cooking lessons?

Luke watched Cassandra’s forehead crease as she shook the skillet. The sizzle of frying scallions and garlic was doing nothing to mask the smell of his pine shampoo on her hair. She scraped the pan with the spatula.

Oh, yeah, your dumb idea.

‘Just tease it,’ he said, wrapping his fingers around her wrist to direct her movements.

Her pulse jumped under his thumb and she jolted. The stirring in his groin, which he thought he’d taken care of an hour ago in the mud room shower, hit critical mass. He let go of her wrist as if he’d been burned. Because that was what it felt like—as if she were a live electrical socket which he couldn’t resist jamming his fingers into.

‘That’s it...you got it,’ he said, regretting his spur-of-the-moment decision even more as he got another lungful of her clean scent over the pungent smell of frying garlic. His burgeoning erection hardened and he stepped back, far too aware of the urge to press it into the curve of her backside.

He cursed silently.

By rights he should be exhausted.

By rights he should have taken care of this yearning in the shower and during twelve hours of chores and outdoor pursuits.

By rights he should want to have nothing whatsoever to do with this woman.

She’d lied and cheated and had intended to use the connection between them to spy on him for her boss. So why couldn’t he get his hunger for her under control? And why had the look on her face when he’d demanded she cook him supper, then asked her about her mama, torn at his insides?

When she’d come back from the cellar where he kept a chest freezer, holding a bag of frozen crawfish aloft like a fisherman with a prize catch, the smile of accomplishment which had split her face had hit him square in the chest. And he’d known he’d made another major error of judgement. Because spending any time with her, let alone teaching her something she should have been taught long ago, was going to be pure torture.

Why did she have to look so hot in Mrs Mendoza’s jeans? And why had the truth about her mama made him aware of her fragility instead of her duplicity?

He set about dicing bell peppers and then instructed her on how to sift and rinse the rice and make the broth. All the while trying to persuade himself that he had been played again.

How did he know that the brave, motherless girl act wasn’t as much of a con as the forthright, artless sex goddess act of yesterday?

But somehow, as she worked diligently to follow his instructions to the letter and make as little eye contact with him as possible, he couldn’t shake the memory of the look of devastating loss which had shimmered in her eyes when he’d harassed her about her cooking skills.

And somehow he knew, even though he wanted to recapture his previous cynicism and harden his attitude towards her, that Cassandra James wasn’t that good an actress.

He’d touched a nerve somehow. A nerve he’d never meant to expose. And he couldn’t quite bring himself to exploit it.

Picking up the rice she’d sorted, and the sausage he’d fried earlier, he chucked it into the skillet on top of the vegetables.

‘Is your mother still alive?’ she asked carefully over the sizzling of the food.

‘No, she died when I was sixteen,’ he said, not only surprised by her decision to break their truce, but also by the pulse of connection he felt. Just because they’d both lost their mothers when they were still kids, it didn’t make them friends.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘She was very beautiful.’

‘How would you know?’ he asked, pushing his cynicism back to the fore. Damn, was she still spying on him?

‘I saw a picture of the two of you on your desk,’ she said, her forthright expression daring him to make a big deal out of it.

‘What were you doing in my office?’ he demanded.

‘Trying to find a phone charger so I can save my career,’ she shot back, but then her gaze softened. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ she added, and he could see she meant it. ‘I didn’t see any photos of your father, but I hope—despite his bad reputation—he was still...’

‘I never met him,’ he lied smoothly. ‘After she died I was on my own. But that was the way I wanted it.’

‘Then why are you so worried about people finding out about him?’ she asked, her expression open and uncomplicated. ‘Surely his reputation can’t hurt you? Not after everything you’ve achieved?’

He swallowed, but the lump of anger in his throat, that was always there when he thought of his father had faded. ‘I’m not worried about it any more,’ he said, astonished to realise it was true. ‘Now, stop snooping and start stirring,’ he added, suddenly desperate to change the subject before the compassion in her gaze got to him.

She stiffened at the curtness in his tone, but did as she was told. The recollection of how she’d followed instructions last night, too, sent a shaft of heat through his overworked system. But this time he welcomed it as he set about defrosting the crawfish in the microwave.

He didn’t want to care about her loss—didn’t want to feel any connection to her grief or recall how much he had needed his own mom growing up, and how much he’d missed her when she was gone.

His mother had been the only person to stand by him through all those years of being despised, being kicked around and treated like dirt because of his old man. He definitely didn’t want to think about how much it had hurt when he’d lost her too soon.

But as he peeled the crawfish it reminded him of how he’d watched his mother doing the same task in their trailer. And the words she’d spoken to chastise and console him.

‘Don’t go getting yourself into more fights—you hear me? It won’t change a thing. All it’ll do is give them an excuse to judge you more.’

She’d been right, of course, and eventually he’d listened. But what would it have been like to have none of that guidance, none of that care and compassion when you needed it most, no one to tend you when you were hurting, to teach you what you needed to be taught?

The tightness in his chest increased.

Not the point. She still used you. Just because she lost her mama young, it doesn’t make her someone you can trust.

He breathed deep, to calm the pummelling of his heart and the low-grade pulsing in his pants. Leaning closer, he poured the broth into the pan. It spat on the hot metal and made her flushed face glow.

Heat slammed into him again. ‘You can stop stirring,’ he said.

She dropped the spatula and edged away from him, obviously finely tuned to how volatile his feelings had become—which just made the feeling of connection more acute. Damn her.

‘It’ll take a while to cook now,’ he said, placing the lid on the pan so the food could steam. He glanced her way, taking in the gentle sway of her breasts, which he could detect even under the housekeeper’s sweater, and making him far too aware of how much he wanted to cup the plump flesh...

‘I’m afraid we’re gonna be stuck here together for a couple of days at least,’ he murmured.

Her eyebrows rose up her forehead, and the flush on her cheeks intensified, but the argument he’d been expecting didn’t come.

‘I assume it’s unavoidable?’ she said.

‘Yeah, it is,’ he said. Even though it wasn’t...entirely.

Truth be told, he could get her back to the mainland sooner rather than later if he was prepared to spend the next couple of days fixing the speedboat’s hull. Or, when the cell service came back—which it would—pay to have a mechanic flown out to fix Jezebel...

But he was forcing himself to stick to the plan of action he’d decided on earlier. Why should he ruin his vacation or spend a small fortune just for her convenience?

Plus, keeping her here until the product launch was good insurance.

He knew she was right in what she’d said—his father’s sins had never been his. Why should he keep them hidden any longer? Didn’t that just give the bastard a power over him that he had never deserved?

His gaze flicked over her breasts and back to her face as the heat continued to pulse in his groin. But just because he still desired her, and she’d made a good point about his old man, it didn’t mean he was going to let this attraction get the better of him.

She was watching him with those guarded eyes, and he had the weirdest vision of a young doe bracing itself for the hunter to shoot when she said, ‘I’m sorry this happened. I really didn’t intend to spy on you...’

She swallowed, and he realised he wanted to take her words at face value.

‘I’ll be sure to stay out of your way until I can leave,’ she added.

‘You do that,’ he said, annoyed at the pulse of regret he felt when she stiffened at his surly statement. ‘If you need food, Mrs Mendoza leaves stuff in the freezer that you can nuke,’ he added, to soften the blow while also making it crystal-clear that no more impromptu cooking lessons would be forthcoming. ‘I’ll shout once this is ready and you can eat in one of the guest rooms,’ he finished.

‘All right.’

She walked away, and the strange pang in his chest increased. But then she turned back.

‘Thanks for teaching me how to make your mother’s Jambalaya.’

‘Not a problem,’ he murmured.

Even though he knew it was a problem—she was a problem—which he had a bad feeling he now had even less of a clue how to fix.