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  “I misplaced your number,” he said.

  She gave him a puzzled look. “But you left a message. You could have just recalled the number from your phone.”

  I could? “I used a different phone,” he said quickly.

  She sighed. “I’ve been imagining you in a ditch, water rising around you, inching upward to cover your head while you battled to get free of your seat belt. Then I thought maybe you’d picked up a hitchhiker who turned out to be a psychotic axe murderer and you were lying in a thousand pieces in the trunk of your car.”

  Turner and his limbs, all five of them, cringed in unison. “I got lost.”

  He had no idea how to program the sat nav. George always did it. Turner had spent the entire journey with a woman’s strident voice telling him to turn round, trying to take him back to his old home. He couldn’t switch the damn thing off. Something about women was inherently annoying, he thought, staring at the incredulous face of the one standing next to him.

  “Lost? We’re only a couple of miles off the motorway.”

  Her eyes weren’t batrachian-like and bulging at all, but doe-like and a rather pretty dark gray velvet.

  “How could you possibly get lost?” she pressed.

  Turner bristled. “I took the wrong exit, missed the turn for Milford and found myself on a twelve-mile detour along single-track roads with nowhere to turn around.”

  “What are you driving? A double-decker bus?”

  Turner didn’t have to put up with this. He had enough trouble with George’s sarcasm. He held out his hand. “Keys please.”

  Her face fell. “Sorry. I sometimes speak without thinking. Well, not sometimes. Often. Never an unspoken thought, my dad used to say. And my mum. And my employers.”

  Whereas Turner never spoke without due consideration. Calm, measured and thoughtful was his mantra. She reminded him of someone he used to know who could never shut up. She jumped again as a group of men headed for the bar behind her and squirmed out of their way as if desperate not to be touched. So they had something in common. Turner didn’t like to be touched either. Well, he hadn’t. He looked at her fingers.

  Matty lurched into him to get out of the path of a burly guy who made no effort to avoid her.

  “Hey, watch out,” Turner said to the man.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Matty blurted.

  The guy turned and glared at him. “What’s your fucking problem?”

  “I don’t have a problem,” Turner said. “I merely wished you to be careful, not to bump into my companion.”

  The man looked either side of Turner and laughed. “Right.”

  “It’s okay.” Matty tugged his sleeve. “Come over here out of the way.”

  Turner followed her across the room. She turned and held out the keys.

  When his fingers brushed her palm, spikes of tingling sensation shot down every limb and arrowed to hit his groin. Static from that crazy jacket, he decided, and rammed his free hand into his pocket in an attempt to disguise his cock’s renewed breakout attempt. No wonder he never went out in public if this was what happened. His cock was up and down like a yo-yo. Turner could only think that he’d deprived himself of female company for so long his body no longer knew the appropriate way to react.

  It shouldn’t be reacting at all to this…weird, jumpy woman who had amazing warmth in her eyes and… Why hadn’t she let go of the keys?

  “Pity you couldn’t have arrived for the first time in daylight,” Matty said.

  Oh God, are we welded together? Why didn’t he want to let go?

  “I can’t believe you bought Milford Hall without even seeing it,” she said.

  Turner tensed. “Is there something wrong with it?”

  She smiled and he could have sworn her whole face glowed. “Oh no. It’s a gorgeous house. I’m sure you’ll be very happy there. Shall we go?”

  We? Turner was alarmed to find the idea of going somewhere with her was rather appealing, but why did she feel she needed to accompany him? He tugged the keys out of her grasp.

  “I’m positive you have better things to do with your leisure time. I apologize for my late arrival. Good evening.”

  He gave a polite nod and made for the door only to find her at his side when he opened it. Hell, she’s fast.

  “I’ve left you the basics in the fridge. George said not to bother, but it was no trouble. I need to show you how the central heating works, it’s a bit quirky.”

  Again with George? “I’m sure I’ll cope. Thank you.”

  Turner hurried across the road, got in his car and accelerated up the road.

  * * * * *

  You’re going the wrong way. Matty sighed, torn between exhilaration and annoyance—with herself, not him. After she’d spoken and he turned and looked at her, she’d wanted to throw herself at him. When her legs failed to move, her heart had tried to do its own thing and leap from her chest into his arms. Only, good thing it hadn’t because she suspected Mr. Uptight would have dropped it.

  Then she’d cocked everything up—again. Never had she felt so excited and so disappointed at the same time. Tall, dark and handsome nowhere near did Turner justice. He was at least six four, with jet black hair and a face that could launch a million ships. She loved his square jaw, sharp cheekbones, sensuous lips and those dark eyes rimmed by even darker lashes.

  Oh, and the ferocious scowl might have been kind of cute if it hadn’t been aimed in her direction, but it was. It was obvious he had zero interest in her. But she wasn’t going to give up. Turner was the first man in ages, apart from George, to even cast a glance her way. Nor had she misinterpreted what happened when she touched Turner’s hand. Something sparked between them—instant attraction.

  Ah, or instant revulsion. She wilted.

  Still, Matty intended to wipe that ugly scowl from his face even though he’d driven off as if the hounds of hell were on his tail.

  She made her way home with a smile on her face.

  Chapter Two

  Turner slammed his car door, tempted to kick it. Milford Hall was one mile from the center of the village. It had taken him twenty frustrating minutes to find it. Typical—there was no one around to ask for directions when needed. Turner might have considered the tricky location an effective deterrent to would-be visitors had he not suspected the difficulty all lay on his side. He could have walked faster.

  Only after he’d circled the church three times did he spot the narrow lane off to the left with the decrepit signpost pointing the way to his destination. Was it worth removing the sign? But then a question posed in the village, provided someone was around, would reveal the hall’s location in an instant. No point laboring under the illusion that moving house or removing a sign would keep Gabriel from finding him.

  He leaned against his car and stared at the Grade II listed Georgian building, revealed under moonlight in all its splendid glory, and Turner’s troubles slid away. Constructed in the 1720s and designed by John James, the place was a stunning monument to the architect’s genius. Yet it wasn’t the house that had Turner so excited but the land on which it was situated.

  “Gorgeous, isn’t it?” said a familiar voice behind him, and Turner stiffened.

  “Over fifty-five hundred square feet, with a beautiful entrance hall, drawing room, study, sitting room, dining room, breakfast room, kitchen, orangery, wine cellar, master bedroom suite, guest bedroom suite, three further bedrooms and two further bathrooms.”

  Turner faced her and glared. “Did you follow me?”

  Matty snorted. “I’ve been waiting fifteen minutes. Where’ve you been?”

  “For a leisurely drive around the village.” Turner gritted his teeth. He did not need to explain himself.

  “O—kay,” she said. “Well, in addition to the main house, there’s also a converted coach house with a games room, gym and a swimming pool with a large hot tub.”

  Turner clenched his fists. “Yes, I read the brochure. Now I can see for myself. Thank you
. Good night.”

  “The estate is set in mature gardens, with an ornamental water feature and a walled kitchen garden plus an extensive orchard. Apple, pear and plum trees. There are also Edwardian greenhouses and ten acres of meadow and—”

  “Yes, thank you. You can go now.”

  “Over the garage, there’s a self-contained flat with a sitting room, bedroom and bathroom.”

  “Lovely.” Turner took three steps toward the house and stopped, his foot crunching on the gravel. He didn’t remember reading about a self-contained flat. George hadn’t mentioned it. An uneasy feeling slithered up Turner’s spine and he swiveled to face his unwanted tour guide.

  “You live over the garage?” he asked, wondering what the hell George had been thinking.

  “Oh no.”

  Thank fuck for that.

  “I live in the house,” she said.

  Turner stared in disbelief as she mounted the steps ahead of him, opened the door, walked inside and closed it behind her.

  His frozen state of incredulity lasted three-point-seven seconds before he strode after her, muttering, “No, no, no, no, no.” She hadn’t used a key. Had she left the door unlocked while she’d gone to the pub? With all his possessions inside? He wrenched at the handle and the door didn’t open. Turner came straight to the boil. He dragged the key from his pocket, unlocked the door and flung it open.

  He caught up with her halfway across the stone-flagged entrance hall, his fists clenched.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” he snapped. “I own this place. I bought it with vacant possession. There’s no sitting tenant.”

  “I’m not a sitting tenant.” She gestured around her. “Look at the exacting level of attention to detail. Most of the windows are sliding sash units with the original shutters. There’s a wealth of ornate ceiling plasterwork and delicate cornicing along with finely crafted architraves and window surrounds. Gorgeous.” She beamed at him.

  She had the bloody nerve to beam at him. Turner thought he might be steaming. He felt like a geyser waiting to blow. Then realization sank in and he snorted. George’s idea of a prank. Not funny. Not in the slightest. His assistant’s constant attempts to liven up Turner’s social life were wearing thin.

  “Is this a joke?” he asked.

  The smile fell off her face. She looked down as if she expected to see it lying in a crumpled heap at her feet. “No, it’s not a joke. It’s in the small print.”

  Turner’s mind flicked back to George’s parting comment. Something about reading the contract?

  Oh bloody hell.

  What did his idiot assistant think he was doing? Turner couldn’t live in a house occupied by a stranger. It was impossible, impracticable, insane. This had to be some sort of mistake. His hand touched the phone in his pocket and then fell away.

  George would be mid-Atlantic, on his way to two weeks’ immersion in the culture of the Izaruba tribe who lived somewhere in a remote desert in Chile. Turner had been astounded to learn of his valet’s deep interest in their survival techniques. Very astounded since George liked his creature comforts more than Turner.

  Turner shook the thought away. The point was that although he’d wanted George away from the house, he hadn’t figured on him being out of contact. How bloody convenient.

  “How much do you want?” Turner took out his wallet.

  She flinched. “I don’t want money. You won’t notice I’m here. The attic’s mine. But I have to use the doors to get in and out. I could go down the servants’ stairs if you prefer and leave by the back entrance.”

  Turner gaped at her. “How can you own the attic?”

  She gave a little shrug.

  “Wouldn’t you rather have your own place? I keep unsocial hours.” He’d have to come up with something better than that. “I like to be alone. I…I…I wander around naked.”

  “That’s fine. My hours aren’t very social either. Your wandering around naked won’t bother me at all.” She looked him up and down and grinned. “Sounds fun.”

  Turner had a sudden vision of a naked Matty sliding down the banister. His cock perked up and he sighed. He had no choice. He had to use his thrall. Turner pinned her with his gaze and spoke in a calm voice. “You don’t want to stay here. You’re going to leave.”

  “No I’m not.”

  He looked at her in astonishment. Not that his technique worked on everyone, but it did work on most. Turner tried again. “This house is not yours. Pack a bag and leave.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  Matty sighed. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

  “You already have. You can’t stay here,” he said.

  She backed up the stairs. “I think you’ll find I can. You better read the contract again. There are a couple of other things you might not have noticed.”

  “What? A gargoyle in the cellar and a mermaid in the pool?”

  “You did read it.” She raised her eyebrows.

  A choked groan erupted from his throat and she laughed.

  Turner’s shoulders slumped and he stared as she ascended the stairs. Oh God, that beautiful backside. Those pants are so tight. Now his pants felt tight too. He couldn’t think when he’d been more agitated. Even the news about Gabriel and Dava being released from prison hadn’t put him in a state like this. His life was ordered and balanced. Far from an ordinary existence, but Turner had learned to deal with the vagaries of his unusual lifestyle, George was paid to cope with it, and Miss Matty Frogspawn was not going to get the chance to find out about it.

  He straightened his shoulders. All he had to do was unearth the contract. He suspected it contained some peculiar clause relating to her, but that didn’t mean the thing would be binding. It had to be illegal to sell houses with people living in the attic. It had to be particularly illegal for an estate agent to sell a house when she lived in that house’s attic. A definite conflict of interest. He’d send George to sort—well, Turner would call the lawyers and the estate agents and arrange meetings. Only who were the lawyers? Where had George put the paperwork?

  The door on the right opened onto an elegant sitting room with powder blue walls. The classical color calmed Turner until he noticed his furniture haphazardly piled in one corner, boxes heaped in another, though the boxes were numbered. Great—except where was the sheet of paper detailing what was in each numbered box? Turner groaned. He’d never let George take a vacation again.

  * * * * *

  Matty closed the door to her attic room and leaned back against it. Turner was so intense he made her feel as though he were on the edge of…doing something scary. His eyes were sharp with no twinkle, he didn’t smile yet sexual energy poured off him in waves, and now Matty floundered in water deep enough to drown. She wanted and didn’t want because she had to make the move and wasn’t sure she could.

  Face it. I’m crap at seduction. She pulled off her old-fashioned fluffy top and threw it on a chair. It slithered to the floor and she left it where it lay, looking like an albino porcupine. She’d been relieved when she found the box of clothes in storage but was tired of wearing the same old things. No way could Matty buy anything new, she had to conserve the little money she had until she sorted out her life one way or the other.

  She slumped on the bed and wondered what Turner would say when he read the details in the contract. Matty had told George it wouldn’t work, that the lawyers would freak out and no way would Turner sign, but to her amazement the lawyers had said nothing and Turner had signed. Now that Matty had him here, she couldn’t let him get away, she had to make it work. If what George said was true, it had to work for Turner’s sake as much as hers. Only, what reason did she have to believe George? Matty chewed her lip. One big reason. As soon as George walked into the house and smiled at her, she knew he was the answer to her prayers.

  So if Matty wanted to dig her way out of this hole, she had no choice. She had to be persistent, but a likeable pest whom Turner would see he couldn’t
manage without because she couldn’t manage without him.

  No skulking in the attic. She had to do something, starting with going back downstairs.

  Turner clattered around in the library, so she headed for the kitchen. When she opened the fridge, Matty blinked at the stacked shelves. Her purchases had been moved to the bottom and every layer above held identical opaque bags of liquid. She pulled one out and read the label. Plasmix. Sounded medical. Oh God, is he sick? A rush of anxiety churned her stomach. When George said Turner needed her, she hoped he didn’t mean as a nurse. Matty was never ill and wasn’t good with sick people. If they threw up, she did too.

  She took out the items she needed and put them on the table. She’d shopped for fresh bread, tomatoes and cheese—not ham in case he was a vegetarian—and picked up a few other things as well. Matty popped the green foil seal on the jar of instant coffee, inhaled the fragrance with a low groan and made him a drink. Turner came into the kitchen as she was piling everything onto a tray.

  “Oh, you use my kitchen too and the contents of my fridge?” he snapped. “Do I pay for your electricity, your water, your heating? Of course I do. In the small print, is it?”

  Matty was beginning to wonder if he was ever anything other than angry. His face was full of fire and passion, his dark eyes flashing, his lovely lips narrowed into a not unattractive snarl. When he wasn’t pissed off, he looked sort of bored and arrogant.

  She pushed the tray across the table. “I made this for you. A late supper. I thought you might be hungry after your, um…difficult journey.”

  The scowl faded for a moment and he pushed the tray back. “Not hungry. You eat it.”

  Matty gave the sandwich a look of longing. “I’m not hungry either. I’ll cover it in cling film and put it in the fridge in case you change your mind. Have the coffee. There’s milk if you want.”

  “I don’t drink coffee.”

  Damn. “Sorry. I didn’t get any tea.”

  “I don’t drink tea.”