Chapter Twenty-Nine

Boxing Day, Night

They’d finished the wine and half the chocolates and Lori had made more coffee and Drew wanted, quite desperately, to kiss her. Not going to happen. He couldn’t start something. Not now. Not when you don’t know how any of this is going to play out.

Didn’t stop the wanting though.

The drip of water off the roof had become a steady rush. Drew opened one of the French doors as Lori turned off lights and checked the other doors behind him. He leaned out, careful to avoid falling water. The air was much warmer and scented with wet vegetation. Tomorrow, roads would be clear. He pulled the door shut and fastened the security bolts.

‘All done.’ Lori set the alarm, then moved towards the lighted stairs. Drew followed her.

‘Lori.’ What made him say her name, at that exact moment, he didn’t know. He had a half impression that she was already turning, before he’d said it. She was a stair higher than he was, which brought her face on a level with his. Her mouth. For a second he hesitated, then he leaned forward very gently, giving her space if she wanted to take it.

Her mouth was sweet, tasting of chocolate and wine and coffee and a spark of heat, against his tongue, that wasn’t sweet at all.

She was there, coming to meet him, not pushing him away.

He slid his hand up under her hair, holding her head steady to deepen the kiss. Her palms flattened against his chest, not entirely surrendering herself to him.

But she was still kissing him.

Heat and sweetness and desire thrummed through him.

When he finally let go, sealing the kiss with a swift brush of his lips across hers, he drew his head back, looking into her eyes. This close he could see the flecks in the grey, dark striations radiating from the wide dark pupils. ‘Lori …’ He barely recognised his own voice.

‘No.’ She moved her hand and put it to his mouth. ‘No more.’ For a second she tipped her head close, resting her forehead against his. Then she pulled back and was gone, the muffled ‘goodnight’ floating behind her.

Drew stood still, looking up until she disappeared into the bathroom. His body was tingling, every sense on full alert. He’d just kissed Lori France and he wanted urgently to do it again.

And there is no way in hell that is going to happen.

What part of ‘Not My Type’ don’t you understand?

Lori lay in bed, in the darkness, listening to the night, the silence broken only by the melting snow dripping from the roof and feline snores from somewhere at her feet, where Griff had settled to sleep.

She’d just kissed Drew Vitruvius. And she’d enjoyed it. And she rather wanted to do it again.

And the whole thing was pretty much a mess, because he was so not the type of man she was attracted to, except that it seemed that she was, and he was leaving in the morning anyway, and if Misty hadn’t been in the house she had a lowering feeling that she might have ended up in his bed, or he in hers, and she really didn’t do casual hook-ups.

She turned over, restlessly, to lie on her side. Griff put his head up and grumbled at the disturbance. ‘This is my bed,’ she reminded him in a pointed whisper. Griff gave her the death stare and put his head down again.

Wanting Drew Vitruvius was wrong. She had to convince herself of that. But she’d figured him all wrong. On the basis of the scraps she’d read, she’d assumed he was one kind of man, and he’d turned out to be quite another. Even tonight, the tales of his adventures hadn’t been the macho boasting she would have expected. They’d been told, often against himself, with a sense of wonder and an understated, self-deprecating humour. He was an intelligent, healthy, well-built male with a nice body and a lovely mouth. It was perfectly reasonable to want him in her bed.

She was attracted to the man, not the celebrity, and they had spent two days together, with Misty, somehow making a sort of unit. Like a family.

But he was going back to his life and she was going back to hers and in his world someone appeared to be trying to kill him. The sharp pain sliced into her with a force that made her heart stutter. The thought of him hurt … Dead …

She gritted her teeth and dragged her mind away from the images that were projecting inside her head. That was another downside of being a writer – too easy to imagine the ‘what ifs’ and catastrophise about them.

And if anything told her that she shouldn’t get involved with Drew Vitruvius, that was it. She had a normal ordinary life – no killers, scorpions or dangerous mountains in it, and she didn’t need a man who had them in his. Enough. She rolled over, shook up her pillow, and settled down to sleep.

Things might look different in the morning.