Two
T he next day Danielle had just bent to pick up some broken glass when the doorbell rang, making her cut herself on one of the pieces. Sucking in a sharp breath, she quickly drew back her hand, relieved to see the cut was only small. She already had a lump on her head where the heavy gold picture frame had toppled onto her as she’d been adjusting it.
But all that was forgotten when she opened the door and found the stunningly virile Flynn Donovan standing there, dressed in a dark business suit that fit his body as if it were a labor of love.
“I heard breaking glass,” he said without preamble, his gaze taking in her orange-burst silk tunic over white pants, down to her white sandals, as if looking for injury. There was more in that look than necessary and she fought not to react. But her skin quivered anyway. That look was too seductive…too physical….
And then she remembered who this man was and what he wanted from her. At the very least he wanted money.
At the worst…
She forced aside her apprehension and shot him a cold look. “How did you get in the building? We have a security code, you know. It’s supposed to keep out unwanted guests.”
“I have my ways,” he said, dismissively, with all the arrogance of someone rich enough to get anything he wanted. “The broken glass?” he reminded her.
She raised one slim shoulder. “A picture frame fell off the wall.”
His eyes sharpened with a concern that was at odds with the forbidding set of his jaw. “Are you hurt?”
For a moment she was tempted to lie. “A small cut, that’s all.” Nonchalantly she lifted her finger to show him, but when she saw how much blood covered the tissue, she gasped.
He swore. “Danielle, that is no small cut,” he muttered, reaching for her hand, his touch scorching her. She tried to pull back…tried not to welcome the feel of his skin against hers…but he held firm.
To counteract the effect, she glared at him. “I wouldn’t have cut it at all if you hadn’t rang the doorbell just as I was picking up the glass.”
“Next time I’ll leave you to bleed to death,” he said brusquely, undoing the tissue to reveal the injured finger. He scowled as he examined it. “There’s a lot of blood, but I think you’ll get away without stitches.” He raised his head, his dark eyes stabbing her. “Any other injuries I should know about?”
Tell him no.
But the truth slipped out. “Only a bump on the head.”
“Show me.”
She winced where she felt the lump. “It’s nothing, really. It’s—”
“Bleeding,” he growled, moving in closer, touching her head.
She swallowed convulsively. “I’ll be fine.”
“Where’s your first-aid kit?”
“In the kitchen, but—”
“Right.” He cupped her elbow and started her forward with him. “Let’s take a proper look at it.”
Her skin continued to scorch where he touched. “Mr. Donovan, I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than play doctor with me,” she said as they sidestepped the broken glass.
He shot her a masculine look that coiled tension inside her. His thoughts didn’t need to be said out loud to fill the silence between them.
As soon as she reached the kitchen, she quickly moved away from him and took the small box out of a cupboard to place on the bench. He followed her, then began searching through the contents. Taking advantage of the moment, she stepped back, grateful the kitchen was large and airy and far less intimate than two people standing in a doorway.
“Move that stool over there and sit under the light,” he ordered. “I’ll be able to see better.”
That was what she was afraid of. But, her heart thudding against her ribs, she did what he said anyway. Better to get it over and done with so he’d leave sooner rather than later.
He came toward her, the ball of cotton in his hand contrasting with the tan of his skin. And then he stood behind her, bringing a very male scent with him. She’d noticed it when he’d walked in but now the scent intensified like a potent wine, ready to lull her into blissful surrender.
She jumped when he brushed a lock of her blond hair aside and began dabbing at the cut. His touch was gentle yet probing, the way a man’s touch should be. Would he be the same in bed? Oh, yes, he’d know how to turn a woman on.
“Mr. Donovan—”
“Flynn,” he suddenly said in a rough voice.
She ignored that. “Mr. Donovan, I think—”
“How long will it take you to pack?”
That pulled her thoughts up short. “Pack?”
“For Tahiti. I have to go there for business. My jet’s on standby. We can leave within the hour.”
“Tahiti?” She spun to face him, barely wincing as his fingers brushed her scalp. Dear God, what was he saying?
His dark eyes watched her with a knowing look in them. “I have a house there. Our privacy will be assured.”
It fell into place then. He expected her to go away with him as payment for the loan. God, did he really think she would do such a thing?
“I don’t need any privacy,” she choked, strangely hurt. “I don’t intend to go away with you.” A burst of anger hit her. “Anyway, just who do you think you are? You snap your fingers and I’m to drop everything? Sorry. Your women friends may do that but I have a mind of my own.”
His eyes hardened. “Oh, come now, Danielle. Who are you trying to fool?”
She straightened her shoulders. “The only fool around here is you.”
His face tightened, making her aware of the firm thrust of his jaw and the broad plane of his forehead. “Don’t underestimate me.”
A frisson of fear slipped down her spine. This man had wealth, power and the right connections and he believed she’d done him an injustice. As much as she wanted to deny he could make life uncomfortable for her, she knew he would do it if pushed. She couldn’t afford that. There wasn’t only herself to think about now.
She moistened her mouth and tried to be conciliatory. “Mr. Donovan, please…I don’t sleep with men I barely know.”
“That isn’t what your late husband told me.”
She felt the blood drain from her face.
“I see you don’t like being caught out,” he mocked, seeming to watch her more closely.