Page 16 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay (Sturcombe Bay Romances #3)

Paul bowed in mocking amusement as he held open the passenger door of the dark-green Aston Martin. “Your carriage awaits, Madame.”

He had half-expected that Jess wouldn’t show up, or that she’d be wearing jeans and trainers when he had promised to take her somewhere classy.

But she had emerged from the hotel’s staff entrance at seven on the dot, and she’d gone for the classic little black dress.

Simple, elegant, skimming over her slender figure — and short enough to start a riot.

And her legs. Long, long legs in sheer black tights. And strappy black sandals with killer heels. And a provocative sway of her hips as she strolled across the car park.

She slanted a sardonic glance along the sleek lines of the car. “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

Paul laughed. “No, you’re supposed to relax in supreme comfort as you’re whisked to our destination.”

She rolled her eyes. “Are you ever lost for words?”

“Rarely.”

She shook her head, conceding a reluctant laugh as she slid into the comfortable leather seat. “Okay, where are we going?” she challenged. “I warn you, I’m expecting something special.”

“It will be.” He walked round the long bonnet and climbed behind the wheel. He fired the ignition and the engine purred into life like a sleeping lion. “Music?”

“What have you got?”

“What do you like?”

“Springsteen?”

He shouldn’t have been surprised at her choice — she wasn’t a soupy ballad type of woman. “Certainly. Classic or recent?”

“Oh, classic, of course.”

He clicked through his listing and chose the Darkness album, and as ‘Badlands’ blasted through the speakers, she sang along, beating out the rhythm on her knees.

He smiled across at her. “Ah, I finally got something right.”

“It had to happen eventually.”

Oh, he liked her. He liked her a lot. She was fun, challenging — he’d never known a woman quite like her. She’d be great in bed — hot, wild, exciting. It wasn’t going to be easy to get her there, but it would be worth it.

* * *

It was a beautiful car. Glenn would have been green with envy, Jess mused with a touch of dark humour. Aston Martins were one of the few cars he would choose over a motorbike.

Paul turned out of the hotel’s car park, drove past the Memorial Gardens, and accelerated smoothly up Church Road. “So, what brought you to Sturcombe?” he asked conversationally.

She gave him a flickering glance. “A slightly rusty hatchback.”

“Not an Aston Martin then?” His eyes glinted with amusement. “There aren’t too many of these babies on the road.” There was a distinct note of pride in his voice. Men and their modes of transport!

“It’s a nice car,” she acknowledged.

“Something else I got right?”

She conceded a smile.

“You didn’t answer the question,” he prompted. “What brought you to Sturcombe?”

She took a pause to consider what, if anything, she was going to tell him. “I just dumped my boyfriend of five years, six weeks before we were due to get married.”

“Drastic. What did he do?”

“I found out that he was sexting women on one of those hook-up sites.”

“Unacceptable.”

“And he was clearly meeting up with them for sex.”

“Definitely unacceptable.”

“And he was sending them dick pics.”

“Where did you bury him?”

She laughed. “Tempting, but he wasn’t worth going to prison for.” She arched one questioning eyebrow. “I assume you’d never do anything like that?”

“I’ve never needed hook-up sites.” His voice was bluntly matter-of-fact. “Sexting — fun, but only if you’re in a relationship. Sleeping with random women — not since I was about sixteen. I may have had a lot of girlfriends, but only ever one at a time. As for dick pics — that’s just sleazy.”

“So you’re Mr Clean?” she taunted.

His smile was one of pure wickedness. “Oh, I can be very dirty, given the right circumstances.”

Jess forced herself to breathe slowly. She wasn’t going to follow that topic of conversation any further. He had turned onto the dual carriageway, and the car was eating up the miles, as smooth as silk.

“So what about you?” she asked. “Lisa said you used to be a professional footballer.”

“That’s right.”

“Used to be?”

“I picked up a knee injury, tore my cruciate ligament. It put me out for most of a season, but even once I was fit again, I rarely made it off the subs bench.”

“So you retired?”

“Football careers rarely last much past the middle thirties, especially for strikers. Some go into coaching or management, but that wasn’t my thing.

I’d already accepted that none of the top clubs were going to come bidding for me.

I could have dragged out my time in one of the lower leagues, but that didn’t appeal either.

So . . .” He shrugged those wide shoulders. “I retired.”

She sensed that he wasn’t quite as unconcerned about it as he was pretending to be. “A torn cruciate ligament can be pretty painful,” she remarked with sympathy. “Glenn tore his falling off his bike.”

He arched one dark eyebrow. “Your ex? I didn’t have him pegged for a cyclist.”

“Motorbike.”

“Ah.”

“He’s got a bike shop in Bristol. I helped him run it.” She smiled dryly. “He’s going to struggle with it now, until he can get someone else in to help. He never was any good with paperwork.”

“Which bothers you not at all?”

“Not at all. Bloody well serves him right. I hope he goes bankrupt.”

He laughed. “Did you ride yourself?”

“Pillion.” She pulled a face. “I used to ride a Moto Guzzi. I loved that bike. That was how I met Glenn, riding out with his group. But I came off it and broke my wrist quite badly. It never really healed properly, so I struggled to control the rear brake.”

“That’s a shame. Do you miss it?”

“Well, yes. I suppose like you miss playing football. There’s something about being in the zone, you know?”

He nodded, his eyes dark. “I know.”

“You can never quite get that feeling any other way.”

There was that wicked smile again. “Oh, I know of one other way.”

She turned her head away sharply, watching the twin beams of the car’s headlights stab through the gathering twilight. It had started to rain, just a drizzle, and the slow rhythmic swish of the windscreen wipers was almost hypnotic.

Maybe this had been a mistake. She’d been ready twenty minutes early, then she’d paced around her small room, her mind bouncing between the two poles — stay or go.

Then she’d seen the car pull into the car park in front of the hotel, and she’d told herself firmly not to be a coward. She could cope with a man like Paul Channing.

But now, in the quiet confines of the car, she wasn’t sure that she could.

She’d seen him in casual jeans and sweater, and in — oh boy! — that clinging wetsuit. Tonight he was wearing a dark-blue suit, stylishly cut and immaculately tailored over those wide shoulders.

But even the best of tailoring couldn’t disguise that aura of lithe male power, like a panther prowling the fringes of the jungle. She’d seen it in action — an internet search had shown her a clip of him scoring a Championship League Goal of the Season, several years ago.

He’d slid past three defenders with an effortless, almost laconic grace, and arced the ball from over thirty yards out to curl it round the goalkeeper and into the back of the net.

She’d probably watched that clip at least a dozen times.

* * *

Springsteen was singing mournfully about his ’69 Chevvy as Paul turned the car into the gravelled car park in front of a beautiful seventeenth-century manor house — two storeys, with square chimneys and a slate-tiled roof, ivy clinging to the grey stone walls.

The latticed windows glowed a warm amber, and the front door was standing open in welcome.

“Very nice,” she approved.

“Three for three?”

She laughed, nodding.

He came round to open her door, and they scampered through the rain to the shelter of the stone porch.

The entrance hall was as beautiful as the exterior.

The gleaming dark wood of the floor contrasted beautifully with the rich walnut wainscoting on the walls which were hung with gilt-framed portraits of fine ladies and gentlemen.

A large well-polished table stood in the centre of the room, holding a fabulous display of lilies and roses beneath a chandelier worthy of Versailles hanging from the high coffered ceiling.

The imposing head waiter came forward with a smile. “Ah, Mr Channing. We have your usual table.”

“Thank you.”

Jess shot him a narrowed look. “You bring all your girlfriends here? You just lost a point.”

He returned her one of those bland smiles. “Not all my girlfriends. And not always girlfriends.”

She shook her head. “No, you don’t get the point back.”

The head waiter glanced from one to the other, slightly puzzled by the exchange. “Um . . . this way, please.”

They followed him into the dining room. This was the last word in elegance. Softly lit by antique-style sconces, the walls were panelled to the ceiling in that rich dark walnut and the floor was covered with a carpet in subtle shades of olive-green and gold.

The circular tables were covered in pristine white cloths over olive-green table skirts which matched the velvet curtains and the cushioned chairs. Gleaming crystal glasses and white tableware graced the tables, each holding a centrepiece of white roses.

The head waiter led them to a corner table and produced two menus in olive-green leather binders.

“Ah, a point awarded for a proper menu,” Jess accorded. “Not some stupid edgy thing in chalk on a garden spade.”

Paul laughed at that. “Certainly not.”

Jess forced herself to focus on the menu, not the man sitting opposite her, but that was far from easy. He was wearing a pale-blue shirt, the collar open, and she could just glimpse a smattering of dark curling hair at the base of his throat.

And his hands were strong and sensitive. They looked like hands that would know how to caress a woman’s body . . .