A Heat of the Moment Thing Page 2

  “Oh no!” My heart skipped a beat before hurrying to catch up. “What about my new job? I’ll still be able to start on Monday, won’t I?”

  Liz hesitated. “You’d better ask the doctor. Does it matter?”

  I wiped clammy palms down my wafer-thin blanket. “Of course it matters. First impressions are everything.”

  “It’s not as if you’ve just got a cold. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

  “Yeah, that they’ve employed an idiot.”

  “They don’t need to know the kamikaze-into-the-wall bit. Just say you’ve been in hospital.”

  “But they’ll think ‘hypochondriac’ and demand details, and it’ll slip out.” I picked at the blanket. “You know I’m a terrible liar.”

  “So go with the truth, Becs.”

  “Uh-nuh. No way. It’s too embarrassing.”

  I chewed on a fingernail. It started to bleed. “Blast.”

  “Grief, Becs.” Liz shifted on the bed. “What is it with you and blood today?”

  I sucked my finger. We fell silent. Liz stood and paced. I day-dreamed about my delicious rescuer. Maybe I should lift my dating ban.

  “I’ve never had a hero before,” I said.

  “Becs . . .” Liz shot me a warning look.

  “What? It’s true.”

  She groaned. “I know you. You’re about to turn this into another man-fantasy. He was Johnny On The Spot, that’s all.”

  “Liz. Trust me. I’m over men. Forever.”

  “If only.”

  I avoided her eyes. Then looked up with a mea culpa grin. She saw right through me and we both knew it. “He is gorgeous, though.”

  “How would you know? You were half-blind. And he was wearing a swimming cap. Nobody looks good like that.”

  “I can see past a mere swimming cap,” I declared, then immediately made a liar of myself, “Do you think he’s got curly hair or straight? Long or short? He’s blond. I think. He looked blond, anyway. And you know what I’m like with blond men.”

  “Becs, you’re an idiot.” Liz gave me an affectionate smile. “But fantasize away; you won’t be doing anything else for a day or two.”

  I planned to do just that.

  * * *

  Jim, my un-heroic house-mate, knew something had happened as soon as Liz and I walked through the door. Not that it was exactly rocket science.

  Observation One: We had just arrived home, swimming gear in tow, seven hours after leaving. We don’t swim marathons. Especially on Saturdays.

  Observation Two: I was sporting a bald patch and stitches, looking very much the worse for wear. Admittedly, I often look the worse for wear, but I don’t often do the other two.

  Observation Three: Liz’s over-attentiveness was faintly reminiscent of eighteenth-century courtship rituals, and I wasn’t even questioning it. We’re close, but not that close.

  Jim’s face took on a horrified wish-I’d-never-come-out-of-my-room expression. He edged towards the stairs.

  I hobbled into the lounge and eased myself into the nearest chair.

  Liz hung back to give Jim an abrupt Reader’s Digest version of events. “She’s fragile . . .”, “. . . probably concussed . . .”, and “. . . needs watching . . .”

  “I’m not deaf,” I called out.

  They came through and Jim hovered in the doorway with a deer-in-the-headlights expression.

  Liz carefully positioned a cushion behind my back. “Comfy?”

  “As I’ll ever be,” I muttered.

  “Okay.” She paused, brought a hand to her head, then refocused on me. “So. You’ve got painkillers. And you should probably eat.” She ticked off her fingers. “Then get to bed. And sleep. Soon. Okay?”

  “Yes, Mum.”

  “Right. Well, if you think you’re okay . . .”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Great. I’ll go and sleep off this headache, then.”

  “Sure. Jim’s here.”

  She made a moue as she walked to the door. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

  With a warning glare for Jim and an “I’ll ring you” for me, Liz left.

  “Thanks,” I called after her.

  Jim ventured further into the lounge and stood, watching me guardedly. Jules, my battle-scarred cat, took the polar-opposite approach and jumped into my lap. He lifted a leg and started licking his nether regions. Lovely.

  When Jim didn’t leap in with one of his usual bad-taste comments I knew he must be really worried.

  I looked up at him. “Hey, you don’t have to take her quite so literally.” Gave a small smile, “I’ll let you know if I feel any worse, I promise.”

  “O-kaaay,” he said, eyeballing me as if I were about to expire. “How about a cup of tea?”

  I pulled a face. “How about a Bourbon, more like. Something a bit more appealing than a cup of bloody tea.”

  “Er, I don’t think so.” He scratched at his five-day blue-black stubble. George Clooney wears it a lot better than Jim. “Not for me, and definitely not for you.”

  “Why not? After the day I’ve had?” Irritation stirred in me. “I can tell you, right now I’m in need of some Jim and we both know I don’t mean you.”

  His silence ricocheted off the walls.

  “You think one small drink’s going to make me fall down the stairs and rip all my stitches?” I flared.

  “No-o,” he said, clearly meaning yes.

  He glanced longingly towards the door, and I felt guilty for snapping. Hell, it wasn’t his fault I’d ended up with stitches. Or that the med. student who’d applied them had felt compelled, in spite of my vanity protest, to shave a patch of my blood-soaked hair.

  I sighed. As much for me as for Jim.

  “Sorry, Jim. I know you’re just worried about me. But”—I fluttered my eyelashes at him—“it’s only one little Bourbon.”

  He frowned. “Don’t do that eye thing with me,” he said, uncharacteristically stuffy. “It won’t work. It’s tea or nothing.”

  “Fine,” I snarled. “I’ll have nothing.”

  I tossed a yowling Jules off me, creaked to my feet and, wishing I had the energy to slam the door, hauled myself upstairs.

  Bloody Jim. Since when had he turned into Hitler? I crawled into bed. Yanked the duvet up. What was his problem? I eased my throbbing head into a more comfortable position. A lump rose in my throat, resentment threatening to mutate into self-pitying tears. Why had I lumbered myself with such an insensitive ass of a house-mate? And for how many years? I did the sums. Heavens, nine, no less. Time for a change.

  Yuk. Chlorine. I swallowed, but the taste lingered. Ditto the band of fire in my chest. I tried to keep my breathing shallow but it didn’t help. A tear escaped. How long until my next dose of paracetamol?

  Eventually, calmer—but no less sore—I stopped hating Jim. I even, grudgingly, allowed that perhaps he hadn’t been acting out of insensitivity so much as—well, the opposite. I shouldn’t be annoyed with him at all: I should be glad to see he cared. And it did prove that, despite all evidence to the contrary, he had at least a smattering of decency in him.

  Chocolate. What was his real name? I stared up at the ceiling with its flaking paint. Rob? Declan? If only I knew his address. Not that I’d stalk him or anything. But it would be nice to . . . chat. Thank him. Get to know him. Music, sports, hobbies, whatever. Meet the man inside the hero.

  And there I went again.

  I closed my eyes. Forget it, Becs. He’d been there when I needed help, that’s all. Dig deeper and he’d be like every other jerk I’d wasted a second thought on.

  My new job, on the other hand—that was worth thinking about. Imagine! Me, a travel lecturer. I wiggled my toes with anticipation, or maybe nerves. Travel agent to lecturer was quite some change. A whole new career, really.

  And two days before it began I’d gone and splattered my head open. Typical.

  Still, with paracetamol on board I should be able to start on Monday. I fingered a crunchy c
url. A scarf should do it.

  I limped to the mirror and—oh God. Make that a paper bag.

  Where was my beautiful hundred-plus-pound starting-a-new-job haircut? The blood-clotted dreads were a right mess, but the med. student’s shearing skills had really topped it off.

  It could only happen to me.

  Ooh! The Riviera! They’d tell me Chocolate’s name and then I could ring him. Tonight, even.

  Pulse tripping with excitement, I shuffled to the phone and dialled the swimming pool.

  “We cannot take your call at present. Our hours are . . .”

  Stupid bloody digital voice. Served me right. Ridiculous love quests did not lead to happiness. Fantastic careers did. And the sooner I remembered that the better.

  Chapter Three

  My scarf’s reflection bounced off the elevator doors, and Jim’s Belisha Beacon comment taunted me. Cripes. He was right. I looked ridiculous.

  The doors opened, ‘Gillingas Tertiary College – Tourism and Travel Division’ greeted me in proud gold lettering, and it was too late to bail out. I took a bracing breath and approached reception.

  “Hi. I’m Jebecca Rordan—” I blushed. “I mean, Rebecca Jordan. I’m here to see Gary Silverton.”

  Perfect. Now they’d think I was dyslexic as well.

  The receptionist choked back a laugh. “You’re the new lecturer, right? I’ll page Gary for you.” She glanced at me, all innocence. “Jebecca, was it?”

  Just as she said ‘Jebecca’, a suited, senior manager-ish looking man emerged behind her. His eyebrow shot up. My cheeks flamed Belisha Beacon-bright.

  The receptionist turned to him with a smile. “Speak of the devil. Gary, this is—”

  She paused.

  I cringed.

  She shot me a doe-eyed look. “—Rebecca Jordan.”

  I sagged with relief.

  “Ah. Becky.” Gary came around her desk and shook my hand. “Welcome to Gillingas Tertiary College.”

  “Thanks.” I fingered my new headscarf. Was it slipping? I had a Worzel Gummidge horror hidden under there.

  “How are you feeling?” Gary’s eyes fixated on the headscarf. “Sounds like you had a close call.”

  “Much better, thanks.” I dropped my hand back to my side. “Sorry I couldn’t—”

  I gasped, feeling serious scarf slippage, and grabbed at my head.

  Gary, with a stricken look, tried to help. It only made things worse. The headscarf, hooked on my finger, shifted floorward, then skyward, before collapsing with ballerina grace in my hands.

  I stared in dismay at the mess of fabric.

  “Oh dear,” said Gary. “Here, let me help you.”

  No. I scrambled for my headscarf, curse the sodding thing, and wheeled away, consumed by full-body flaming shame. “If you could just show me to the ladies’ . . .”

  The receptionist leapt out of her chair. “I’ll take you. Would you like some pins?” She fossicked around in a drawer and produced a handful.

  “Thanks.”

  Curse this rotten scarf. Curse the med. student who’d left me with a bald patch. And curse me for swimming into the end of the freaking pool.

  When I returned, headscarf secured to hurricane-proof standards, Gary took me on the grand tour of Tourism and Travel.

  Nerves fluttered in my belly, only partly due to the scarf. I’d taken a huge gamble with this job. Could I make it work?

  Gary stopped and opened a door with a flourish. “Here’s your office.”

  My office. Nice. I’d only ever worked in open plan offices, where you couldn’t even yawn in private. I walked over to the window. Lush lines of oak trees and a green expanse of park stared back up at me. Pleasure swelled in my chest. As far as London views went, this was pretty damn good.

  “I love it,” I said.

  “Sal can help you out if there’s anything else you need.”

  Like pins, presumably. My fingers strayed yet again to my headscarf.

  Gary turned and led me in the other direction. “Down here you’ll find the coffee dispenser. It’s everyone’s first stop in the morning so”—he winked at me—“the earlier you get here, the better your chances of a decent coffee.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  We reached the kitchenette. “Some people, of course, live at the coffee machine. Matthew Frobisher, for instance.” He indicated the man in front of us. “This guy’s intake is nothing short of hazardous.”

  The addict in question straightened and, coffee in hand, turned our way. He checked as he saw me, then smiled.

  Wow. I took in the tall, toned body, the broad shoulders, the mess of blond hair with a couldn’t-care-less fringe flopping over one eye. Hot.

  “Becky,” said Gary, “meet Matt, London’s biggest caffeine junkie and your course supervisor.”

  Matt’s eyes locked with mine. Deep, chocolate-brown, come-to-bed eyes. Under the fluorescent lights they looked almost black.

  He shook my hand. “Well, hello again.”

  My stomach did an elevator-swoop down to my toes and back. Oh God. That voice. Rich, compelling, familiar.

  Chocolate.

  Every droplet of moisture on my tongue dried up, rendering it a useless blob of flesh.

  “I know you, right?” he prompted, still holding my hand.

  I watched his lips as he spoke, my mind replaying for the zillionth time those unforgettable minutes after I’d regained consciousness; leaning back against his chest, cocooned by his hard muscular strength, his arms holding me close, his heartbeat strong at my back, the warmth and gentle power of his hands, his deep chocolate-y voice a caress in my ear, tempting me, enticing me, seducing me . . . and stop! This had to stop! Right now!

  I dragged some air into my lungs and it fuelled the fire in my cheeks. A few more degrees and I’d spontaneously combust.

  Which, all things considered, might not be a bad option.

  I withdrew my hand and licked my lips. “Um, no, I don’t think we’ve met; no.” Liar, liar.

  I moved to inspect the coffee machine, every hair on my head aware of his gaze. Why had I just said that? What good could it possibly do?

  “Oh. I could have sworn . . . Hmm. Sorry, my mistake.” Matt cleared his throat. “It’s good to have you on board, Becky. I’ll catch up with you later, once you’ve had a chance to settle in.”

  He paused. “Nice scarf, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled.

  I couldn’t turn around. I daren’t turn around. He’d read the truth all over my face.

  Gary cleared his throat. “Right, then. Let’s go and meet the rest of the team.”

  * * *

  “How can this be happening to me?” I wailed, hugging a pillow. “It’s so not fair.”

  “On the plus side,” said Liz, “at least you’ve tracked down your rescuer.”

  “There’s no plus side. He’s my boss. And he’s seen me half-naked, concussed, and looking like an idiot.”

  She gave me a sly glance. “You begged me to hunt him down after he saw you like that.”

  “I was concussed.”

  “Off on another man-fantasy, more like.”

  I waved a no-no-no finger at her. “Only for a moment. Then I woke up, straightened my halo, and—”

  “Went for a brain transplant?” She shot me an affectionate smile.

  “Ha ha, very funny. But there’s no transplant needed. It’s my New Year’s resolution at stake. No more dates, no more disasters. That’s it. Just me and my stellar career.” Even as I said it, I knew I’d failed on the enthusiasm front.

  “You make it sound like a life sentence.”

  Yeah, that’s how it felt. I sighed.

  “Becs, it’s only a New Year’s resolution. If this guy’s really got you hooked, go get him. Just . . . don’t make him into something he’s not.”

  “No.” I leapt up and stabbed a finger at the note taped to the mirror of my dresser. “Look. See? Thou shalt not ever, under any circumstances
, date SSW’s.”

  “SSW’s?”

  “Seriously Shaggable Workmates. I think we can safely say he’s an SSW.”

  “Let me see that.” Liz came and looked over my shoulder. She took in my signature, the scrawled date. “Ah. Post-Mickey-itis.”

  Then, gently, “Becs, there won’t be another Mickey.”

  “Here’s hoping.” I pinched my eyes closed. “What am I going to do?”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Turn back time.” I paced the room, then flung myself on the bed. “I don’t know. Own up to recognising him, I suppose.”

  “Why did you lie about that?”

  “I have no idea.” I sat up and chewed on a fingernail. “I guess I knee-jerked. Saw him, thought ‘hot boss’, leapfrogged to Mickey, and the words were out before I’d even decided what to say.”

  I stood. Started pacing again. “Damn Mickey! And damn Matt!”

  Liz watched me in silence. Then, “You really like him, don’t you?”

  I looked at her, bit my lip, nodded. Returned to my bed and slumped against the headboard. “But this is the job of a lifetime. I can’t screw it up.”

  “What’s to screw up? I know loads of couples who met through work.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, but none of them had my track record.”

  “You’ve just had bad luck.”

  “In large doses. There’s too much at stake this time. I can’t go there. He’s off-limits.” Then, wistfully, “What a waste.”

  She came and sat on the edge of the bed. “Look, Mickey was an asshole. That g-string on the noticeboard stunt was unforgiveable. But, hon, you weren’t to know.”

  What—that for all he was funny and witty and fantastic company, he was also a complete prick? One who thought nothing of trashing someone’s reputation and career for the sake of fifty quid? Humiliation rippled through me all over again.

  “Hey,” she said, “everyone makes the odd mistake.”

  “Not as many as me, though. And look! I want to do it again.” I buried my face in the pillow. “I should be sent to a nunnery. Or locked up. Right now. Forever.”

  “He’s probably nothing like Mickey.”

  I looked up at her. “He’s my new boss. End of story.”