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She swallowed hard. She wasn’t a stranger to what happened when men grew aroused. The last time she’d gone out and her date had pulled her close for a long kiss good-night, she’d felt how much he’d wanted her pressed against her lower belly. The weight of his desire had sparked nothing but a mild curiosity. She certainly hadn’t been curious enough to take things further.
Now, though, just the sight of Griffith’s hard length straining against his pants had her own thighs growing damp with arousal.
“Don’t you have something else to wear?” he snapped.
She lifted her chin up in the air. He was the one who had invaded her privacy.
“Once my dress is dry, yes.”
He turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him. She released a pent-up breath.
What was that?
A shudder moved through her body, delicious and slightly wild. Never had she been tempted to do something as audacious as seduce a man. Let him see all of her. Let him see how quickly and easily she had been turned on by his presence. That had been part of the problem—really the problem—with the men she’d dated. None of them had made her feel the way she wanted to feel with her first lover. They checked the boxes of kind, attentive, thoughtful. But the physical attraction, the desire, had never appeared.
Her roommate in college had told her on numerous occasions her expectations were too high. Her mother had told her to trust herself. That when she found the right man, she would know.
Not someone like him. Brooding, solitary and downright rude. Although, she thought with a twist of her lips, he had at least done her the favor of showing her what was possible.
A carnal image appeared in her mind, of Griffith yanking the blanket from her hands, scooping her up in his arms and lowering her to the bed, before standing back and peeling his sweater away from chiseled abs—
Three loud knocks sounded on her door. He was back.
She waited for Griffith to storm back in, to renew their argument, but he didn’t. Silence reigned.
Finally, she walked across the room and cracked the door. A trunk—an actual steamer trunk—sat in front of the door. It had been painted an olive green and trimmed in black leather with gold accents. But there was no sign of Griffith.
Keeping one hand firmly on the blanket, she grabbed hold of one black leather handle and pulled the trunk inside, casting one more glance up and down the hall before closing the door and locking it. She undid the latch and pushed the lid up.
A rainbow of material greeted her. She reached down, ran a finger over red silk, periwinkle linen and daisy-yellow cotton. One by one she pulled out dresses, skirts, shirts and a pair of pants, until nearly twenty garments lay across the bed. All of them still had tags attached, all sporting the same floral design and the name of a designer she knew only by reputation. The kind of designer with a storefront on Bond Street in London’s high-end Mayfair district.
Did Griffith keep clothes around for potential visiting lovers? She should be thankful he had anything for her to wear at all, but the thought made her surprisingly irritated. Pushing it aside, she settled on a forest green dress with matching buttons running from the sweetheart neckline over the cinched waist and down to the hem of the full skirt. Simple yet luxurious as she dropped the blanket and pulled the dress on, the linen caressing her skin.
She moved to the full-length mirror by the fireplace. Spun in a circle and grinned as the skirt flared out.
It was not how she had planned on spending her time in France. But with a trunk full of designer clothes she’d never get to wear again, a stunning bedroom overlooking the sea and nearly a week to convince Mr. Griffith Lykaois to sign, things were certainly looking up.
With that encouraging thought in mind, she turned and picked the blanket up off the floor. The feel of the fabric in her hands made her remember Griffith’s heated gaze fixed on her breasts, his jaw tight and his fingers curled into fists at his sides, as if he could barely hold himself back.
Her hands tightened on the blanket before she balled it up and threw it into a corner. She could have a good week, could make it into something positive, if she kept her erotic imagination under control.
A walk, she decided. She’d go for a walk first.
And hope the cool sea air would knock some sense into her, starting with the fact that she had a job to do and Griffith Lykaois was the last man on earth she should be fantasizing about.
CHAPTER SEVEN
GRIFFITH’S FINGERS TIGHTENED around his pen as the sound of a door closing drifted in through the open window. Unless a ghost had taken up residence, it could only be one person.
He would prefer the ghost. Perhaps it would haunt him less than Miss Rosalind Sutton.
He hadn’t seen her in two days. Not since the morning she’d walked out of the en suite bathroom clad in nothing but that gauzy blue blanket that had clung to the curves of her breasts and wrecked his control.
Never had he wanted a woman as badly as he’d wanted her in that moment. Sunlight had pierced the thin material, highlighted the nip to her waist, the flare of her hips, her long legs. Her curls had had a mind of their own, spreading around her head like an auburn-colored halo.
And those eyes...large, framed by dark lashes, innocent.
The answering heat that had flickered in the green depths had catapulted his lust into something so fierce and reckless he’d had no choice but to leave. His self-control was resting on a knife’s edge. Retreating was the only option. It was what he was good at. Keeping himself out of emotion’s way.
