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He had no idea how much she’d changed from the girl who used to live with him. And she couldn’t tell him without revealing things she didn’t want him to know.
He knew her marriage had been bad, but he had no idea how bad.
‘You’re still here, aren’t you?’ she said by way of answer.
‘I guess I am,’ he said neutrally, turning back to the stove.
Shara eyed the frying pan and the small mountain of chopped items on the cutting board waiting to be cooked. ‘When is the army arriving?’
Royce shrugged his broad shoulders. His muscles rippled under his T-shirt, doing strange things to Shara’s tummy muscles. ‘I’m a big man. I need lots of food. And since I work out regularly it’s important to keep up my intake of protein and carbohydrates.’ He waved a spatula through the air. ‘Do you want some?’
Shara shuddered and made her way to the fridge. ‘No. Unlike you, I have a small appetite. Fruit and yoghurt suits me just fine.’
He made a sound that was indecipherable.
Shara turned away from the fridge with a punnet of strawberries in one hand and a tub of yoghurt in the other. ‘What does ugh mean?’
‘Nothing. I just don’t approve of women who think they can live on the smell of an oily rag and just pick at their food. The human body needs good nutrition to be at its best.’
Shara dumped her items on the granite benchtop with more force than was necessary. ‘You’re jumping to conclusions. Do I look like the kind of woman who just picks at her food?’
As soon as the words left her mouth Shara regretted them.
Royce turned to face her. His chocolate brown eyes travelled from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes.
He missed nothing in between. Not a single thing.
Shara knew he didn’t because she felt that look as if it were a caress.
Her skin stretched tight in every place his eyes touched. Her nerve-endings prickled. Even her nipples tightened in the confines of her bra.
The sensation in her tummy flickered to life again. Only this time it was like the flame on the stove. A solid burn that made her want to press her hand against her stomach.
Finally their gazes reconnected.
Something flared deep in his eyes—something that made her tremble with reaction.
‘No, you don’t look like a woman on a constant diet.’ Was it her imagination or was the timbre of his voice lower than it had been moments before? ‘I approve.’
Her heart thumped.
What did that mean?
I approve.
Approved of what?
The fact that she didn’t diet?
Or did he approve of her body?
The fact that it might be the latter made a rush of hot blood hurtle through her system.
She wanted to look away, but her eyes just wouldn’t obey. They remained locked on Royce as if they were glued there.
Royce didn’t look away either.
The air between them began to pulse, as if a soundless drum were beating.
It wasn’t until she saw the thick plume of dark smoke rising up behind him that she broke out of her trance-like state. ‘Royce! The pan!’
Royce cursed and spun on his heel. With swift efficiency he turned off the gas, swiped a dishcloth from the bench and flapped it in the air to dissipate the smoke.
Bending down, he inspected the contents of the frying pan.
Straightening, he threw her a mind-numbing smile over his shoulder. ‘It’s a good job I like my bacon crispy,’ he said, picking up a spatula and scooping the bacon on to a plate.
Shara eyed the results. ‘That’s not crispy. That’s dead.’
Royce shrugged. ‘Each to their own. I happen to like it that way.’
‘Are you sure you’re not just saying that because you’ve burnt it? It takes a man to admit when he’s wrong.’
His eyes glinted. ‘No, I’m not fibbing. This really is the way I like it.’
Shara grimaced. ‘I suppose you like your fried eggs with a runny yolk too?’
He flashed her a grin that made her go weak at the knees. ‘You bet. Is there any other way to have them?’
Shara smiled back. Then, realising what she was doing, she forced her mouth into a straight line.
This man was not her friend. He wasn’t exactly her enemy either. But he was standing between her and something she wanted—which was the right to make her own decisions. That right was something most people took for granted. It wasn’t until it was taken away from you that you realised how much you valued it.
‘I like mine cooked through,’ she muttered, and turned away.
Grabbing a chopping board, she began cutting strawberries with all the attention a surgeon would give to the most complicated and delicate operation.
They worked silently for a while. Much as she tried, Shara couldn’t stop her eyes from straying back to him.
For such a big man Royce moved with silent gracefulness, each movement precise and self-assured. Somehow she knew he’d make love the same way.
She flushed, dropping her lashes. She didn’t know where the thought had come from but she wished it would go back there.
His competency as a lover was of no interest to her.
Why should it be?
She was over men.
Shara took a seat at the breakfast table and began eating. Royce joined her a few minutes later with a plate piled high with food.
‘So, tell me about this ex of yours,’ he suggested softly, when he’d demolished half of the plate with considerable gusto.
The mention of her ex-husband almost made her choke on a strawberry. ‘He’s not my favourite topic of conversation.’
‘Perhaps not.’ He took a bite of mushroom. ‘But the more I know about him the easier it will be for me to do my job.’
Shara angled her chin into the air. ‘I don’t care. I don’t want to talk about him. Besides, I’ve already told you that I don’t want a bodyguard, so why would I want to make your job easier for you?’
She had no intention of answering personal questions.
Painful questions.
And she had no intention of helping him. She didn’t want him around, poking his nose in her business. It would be safer—for all of them—if he quit and left her alone.
His expression remained unchanged but his eyes had hardened. ‘Maybe because it’s the polite thing to do? Maybe because it would give two strangers sharing breakfast something to talk about?’
Shara stared at him over the top of her spoon. ‘Actually, I think it’s impolite to ask someone you’ve just met personal and intrusive questions. If you feel we must talk then I can think of at least a dozen more interesting topics than my ex-husband. What about the weather? Or the exorbitant price of petrol—which in my opinion has gotten way out of control?’
Royce snapped off the blackened end of a rasher of bacon, popped it in his mouth and chewed. When he’d swallowed, he said, ‘I’d much rather talk about Steve Brady.’
Shara put her spoon down on the table less than gently. ‘And I wouldn’t. Now, unless you want to talk about something else, I’m leaving.’
Royce sighed. ‘Stubborn.’
‘Yes.’
And she wasn’t about to apologise for it.
She had to protect herself.
No matter what it took.
Royce sighed again—even more heavily. ‘Will you at least tell me about how Brady is harassing you?’
Shara sat back against her seat. ‘Didn’t my father tell you?’
‘He mentioned a few phone calls and the fact that the guy has been seen hanging around outside the house.’
Shara stared back steadily, keeping her expression neutral. ‘Well, there’s nothing more to tell. Dad has summed it up nicely. Which is why hiring you is a complete and utter over-reaction.’
She’d tried telling her father that but he hadn’t listened. Maybe he sensed that things were worse than what she’d told him.
‘I’ve known Gerard for a number of years,’ Royce said. ‘He’s not the type to over-react.’
Her chin angled into the air. ‘Well, in this case he has.’
Royce stared back at her. ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’
Royce received ample evidence of Steve Brady’s harassment several hours later. He walked into the lounge room, where Shara was sitting flipping through a magazine, just as the phone rang.
He noticed the way she jumped like a scalded cat, and watched as the colour drained out of her face.
‘Leave it,’ Royce ordered as Shara reached a hand towards the phone.
‘Leave it?’ Shara asked. ‘Why?’
‘You think it’s him, don’t you?’ Royce asked. ‘Your ex?’
A frown creased the smooth skin of her forehead as she nodded her head slowly.
‘Let it ring,’ he dismissed.
‘Why?’
Royce sank down on the lounger opposite and stretched his legs out in front of him. ‘Because I said so.’
Her chin jutted. ‘That’s not good enough. I’m not a puppy dog. You can’t order me to sit, beg or roll over any time you feel like it. If you want me to do something I suggest you remember two things.’
He lifted a brow, trying to ignore how damned sexy she looked. ‘And what would those be?’
Her chin lifted even higher. She uncrossed her legs and then recrossed them the other way. The action pulled the fabric of her Capri pants tight around her hips. Royce tried not to stare.
‘There’s this movie I saw once. It’s about a guy whose life is going nowhere until he signs up for a self-help programme based on one simple covenant, which is to say yes to anything and everything. It begins to transform his life.’
‘Well, that sounds very interesting, but what has that got to do with you co-operating with me?’
Her eyes—they really were the most magnificent colour—seared into his. ‘I’ve spent a year of my life with a man who has told me what to do and what not to do every minute of every day. When I walked out I made a vow not to let that happen again. So if you want me to do something I suggest you try asking me instead of telling me.’
‘Fine. Please don’t answer the phone.’ He raised the other brow this time. ‘There. Is that better?’
‘Yes. Much better,’ she said. ‘The second thing you need to remember is that I’m not going to do anything unless I know why. If you don’t want me to answer the phone the least you can do is give me a reason.’
Royce stared at her. He couldn’t argue with her approach. He was a logical, facts-and-figures kind of guy. If he were in her situation he’d react the same way.
What he did object to was the hoity-toity princess tone of voice she was using. As if she was a queen instructing one of her minions.
Normally her attitude would be water off a duck’s back. He’d accepted a long time ago that the rich liked to think they were better than everyone else.
He’d never understood the mindset that the measure of a man lay in how much money he had in his bank account or how large his investment portfolio was.
He hadn’t understood it when students at the exclusive boarding school he’d attended had made it clear that a scholarship didn’t mean that he belonged. All it meant was that some rich person had bequeathed upon him a privilege he wasn’t otherwise entitled to.
He understood the attitude even less now that he was a grown man. A successful man. For some reason he’d assumed that his achievements would earn him an automatic entrée into the exclusive club of the wealthy.
Not so.
It also seemed to matter where—or was it how?—you made your money. Inherited wealth made you part of the group; earning it yourself didn’t.
