Page 35 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay (Sturcombe Bay Romances #3)

“Right. And there are memories tied up in this room, more so than in the sitting room. Birthday parties, Christmas dinners. My nanna was a great cook.” He glanced around the room, smiling.

“She lived here all her life — she was born in one of the upstairs rooms. Her grandfather had bought the place when it was first built.”

“What about your parents? Did they buy their house to be close to her?”

He shook his head. “My mother’s family had owned it for the same amount of time. My mum and dad grew up together.”

She smiled with sardonic humour. “Childhood sweethearts?”

“More just friends when they were kids. Then they both went away to different universities and it was when they came back that they got together. They’ve been married for over thirty-five years now.”

“I’m impressed. Mine managed twenty-five, less one day. They were due to celebrate their silver wedding when my dad announced that he was leaving.”

“Cold.”

“I don’t entirely blame him. For my mother, nothing’s ever right. She could complain that the sky’s the wrong shade of blue. But he didn’t exactly go about things in the right way. He’d been seeing someone else, someone a lot younger, for more than a year, and they had a baby on the way.”

Paul nodded. “It would have been better if he’d been honest about it.”

“It would.”

“Anyway, come and have a look upstairs.”

* * *

Paul smiled to himself as he climbed the stairs.

If you were talking about fabulous views .

. . Long, long legs, a very neat backside in tight jeans.

Hair the colour of autumn leaves tumbling halfway down her back — hair he could imagine spread across his pillow .

. . That was what he called a fabulous view.

He was going to show her his bedroom, though he doubted if he’d be able to persuade her to share it with him tonight. But that was okay — he was enjoying the game.

“That’s Nanna’s room.” He gestured towards the door on the right, but didn’t open it. “I haven’t started on it yet. It . . . feels kinda weird to go in there.”

Jess nodded. “Vicky said the same thing about when she inherited her cottage from her Aunt Molly. She felt really awkward going into her room at first, going through her things. She could still smell her perfume.”

“We went in there when Nanna first moved down to live with Mum and Dad, to pick up some clothes and things for her.” He laughed, shaking his head at the memory.

“We were all afraid she’d suddenly burst in and demand to know what we were doing, messing with her stuff!

And the fuss she made . . . Anyone would have thought she was moving to Australia.

It took months to persuade her to move — she’d had a couple of falls, and they were really worried about her.

Even when she finally agreed to go, she wouldn’t let them put in a stairlift for her so she could use one of the upstairs bedrooms. She said it looked like a toilet! ”

Jess hooted with laughter. “She sounds like a wonderful old woman.”

“She was. We all adored her, though she could be as cantankerous as they come.”

“And you still miss her.”

“Yes, I do. Anyway, this is my office.” He opened the next door.

“Ah.” Her eyes danced with amusement. “The hub of your financial empire!” She glanced around, taking in the long desk, the two large computer screens. And the weight bench and rower. “Not just for exercising your brain, then?”

“Unfortunately, when you give up professional sports it’s all too easy to let yourself go to seed.”

“Hmm.” She flickered a speculative glance over him, lightly mocking, and he arched one eyebrow in unspoken question. She returned him a cool smile, and turned away.

It amused him that she’d tease him. None of his past girlfriends would have challenged him like that. Oh boy, he really liked this woman, on a level way beyond the thought of getting her into bed.

“That’s the bathroom.” He ignored that door. “I haven’t bothered with that yet, but I’ve had an en-suite installed in my bedroom. Which is here.” He opened the door and stood aside for her to step through.

He was pleased with how this room had turned out. He’d been inspired by the hotel he’d stayed in when his team had gone on a trip to Jakarta to play a few friendlies during the off-season.

Rich plum-coloured walls and gleaming dark mahogany furniture, and a long built-in wardrobe with frosted glass doors. Three paintings of swirling Indonesian dancers lined up on one wall.

And the bed — big and wide and covered with a plum satin spread. Would she be tempted?

She glanced into the room, then stepped back, but the slight wobble in her smile told him that she had felt the tug. “It’s . . . um . . . a big place just for you on your own,” she remarked as she preceded him down the stairs.

“I like a lot of space. Besides, as neither Cassie nor Lisa wanted it, if I hadn’t taken it on it would have gone out of the family. That didn’t seem right.”

“No, I can see that.”

“Okay, dinner?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

* * *

Jess’s heart was fluttering alarmingly. That bedroom . . . The image of Paul Channing sleeping in that bed, probably naked, had burned itself into her brain as vividly as if she had seen it for real.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs she wondered for one wild moment if she should just run straight out of the front door and keep running until she was a safe distance away from him.

John O’Groats might just be far enough.

“We could eat in the kitchen, if that’s okay? The dining room’s a bit grand for just the two of us.”

“Oh . . . Yes, fine.”

That would probably be better. The dining room could well involve candles and a romantic atmosphere.

The kitchen was at the back of the house. It faced north, but she guessed that the wide French doors overlooking the garden would let in plenty of light during the day.

As in the sitting room, he had gone for simple lines and monochrome shades. Inset lights in the ceiling cast a bright glow. The cupboards were all a dark granite-grey with gleaming black granite worktops, and the backsplashes matched the pale-grey marble-tiled floor.

She leaned against the granite-topped central island, watching — fascinated — as he moved efficiently around the kitchen, collecting ingredients — rice noodles, tofu, garlic chives, tamarind puree — and began chopping and boiling and mixing up a sauce.

“What are we having?” she asked.

“Pad Thai. Is that okay?”

“Mmm. One of my favourites.”

“Do I get points?”

She laughed. “Oh, I think so.”

“Good.” Before she realised what he intended, he had put down his chopping knife and whirled her round, and she found herself backed up against a cupboard. His dark eyes glinted with mocking amusement — and something else that she wasn’t ready to analyse.

And then his mouth came down on hers, tempting, tantalising, igniting her response.

Oh boy, this was kissing. She had closed her eyes and lifted her hands to tangle them in his hair, and all the world seemed to have shrunk into this single point in time and space. His sensuous tongue was swirling deep into the sweetest corners of her mouth, stirring a fever in her blood.

She shouldn’t be allowing this to happen — or was it exactly what she had wanted when she had agreed to come here? Her head was all over the place . . . But before she could gather her thoughts, he stepped back, those dark eyes glinting wickedly.

“I thought maybe I’d spend a few points. Seems silly to save them all up. Why don’t you take the wine out of the fridge and pour us a couple of glasses.”

She stared up at him, not sure if she could even stand, let alone breathe.

He grinned. “Wine. Fridge.” He pointed behind her, and she realised that she was leaning against it.

“Fridge. Yes. Wine. Okay.”

She turned and dragged open the fridge door, staring blankly at the contents, trying to remember what she was supposed to be doing. Her head cleared slowly and she saw the wine — a Sauvignon Blanc. She grabbed the bottle and closed the door.

“Um . . . Where’s your corkscrew?”

“No corkscrew, it’s a screw top.”

“A screw top? You just lost a point.”

“Don’t be so hasty. It’s a good wine, and the screw top eliminates the risk of spoiling it with a cork taste.”

She regarded him through narrowed eyes. “That sounds like an excuse for being a cheapskate.”

He put on an expression of affronted dignity. “Would I?”

“I don’t know.” She was forced to laugh. “Would you?”

“Not with you.” For a moment his eyes reflected warm sincerity, then they flashed with wicked humour. “I wouldn’t dare.”

She snatched a tea towel from the worktop and flicked it at his shoulder. He caught it and pulled her towards him, dropping a kiss on the tip of her nose.

“Pour the wine.”

She retreated behind the island and perched on one of the stools as her heartbeat slowly returned to normal. He had moved over to the glassy hob and was deftly stirring the noodles, prawns and scrambled egg in a large wok.

This was crazy. She had decided weeks ago that she wasn’t going to let herself fall in love with him . . .

Whoa! She wasn’t in love with him. Of course she wasn’t.

Paul Channing was the last man any sensible woman would fall in love with.

He was an unashamed player — all his relationships were easy come, easy go.

In fact, according to Lisa, he chose his girlfriends on the basis that they had great legs. That was hardly a recommendation.

To distract herself from that unsettling train of thought she picked up the wine bottle, unscrewed the top and filled the two glasses, taking a deep swig of hers.

It was better than she had anticipated, light and slightly sweet, with a faintly fruity, smoky flavour.

“Hey!” Paul chided her, laughing. “Careful, I don’t want you to get drunk.”

“Don’t you?”

“Of course not.” Those dark eyes glinted with wicked intent. “When I take you to bed, I want you wide awake and sober. I don’t want you claiming I took advantage of you the next morning.”