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Someone was playing bongo drums in Poppy’s head. And someone else was stomping in her stomach. Her throat hurt. Her mouth was dry. She felt like hell.
Worse than hell.
After a couple of minutes stabilising herself she twisted in the sheets about to sit up but her foot collided against something warm. Something large. In her bed. Her eyelids shot open and she managed to stifle the scream in her throat, holding her breath as she tried to make sense of it. Her heart thumped in conjunction with the annoying beat in her head as her toes gingerly tested the object.
A leg. Human. Hairy.
What. The. Hell?
She closed her eyes again until her stomach stopped churning. There was a man in her bed.
Isaac?
It took all of her strength to turn over quietly so as not to waken him up. Yes—same hair, same smell. She clamped her eyes closed again.
Isaac.
A bare leg. Two bare legs. She felt down her front … no cosy pink flannelette pyjamas, but a skimpy silk cami top? No PJ bottoms, but matching silk and lace French knickers? Lara’s expensive design—for best times only. What in hell had she done?
Please no.
Surely not?
Surely, surely not? She’d spent the night with a man. With Isaac. First time in eight long years and she couldn’t even remember it?
The vodka and Coke she’d had at the pub before she came home she easily remembered. And … ugh … the red wine gifts from her clients. Bile rose to her throat. She was never ever drinking again. Fuzzy flickering images of Isaac arriving while she was putting up the tree gradually came into focus. But how had they gone from that, to … this?
But oh, oh, God … she suddenly remembered kissing him in the bathroom. Remembered how she’d felt bold and brave and very sexy. And how he’d tasted so nice, his kiss so tender … Even now she could smell his scent, firing flashes of heat through her belly.
‘Sleeping Beauty finally wakes up.’ He turned, naked shoulders peeking out from her sheets, sat up, eyes as bright as the daylight splicing through her curtains. His hair was mussed up and he looked devastatingly hot. ‘Sleep well? Eventually?’
‘Why are you in my bed?’ Bunching the sheet around her throat, she sat up, too. No way was she getting out until he’d gone.
‘You don’t remember, Poppy? What a shame. It was a spectacular night and you don’t remember at all? I’m so disappointed.’
There was that shake of the head she knew so well. Daddy Spencer would be a proud man to see someone perfect that frown, even if it wasn’t his own flesh and blood.
‘I remember … we kissed.’ Oh, God, kill me now. ‘And then …’ She tried to force the cogs in her brain to work harder, faster, but they were stuck in fog. ‘Not a lot else.’
His hands clasped at the back of his neck showing mighty fine pectoral muscles, impressive biceps … Her mouth dried to something beyond the Sahara. Mortified she might have been, but she could still take time out to appreciate a beautiful human specimen when she saw one. She’d touched that? Lain under that? Or had she been on top? Or both? Who knew?
Aargh! Why couldn’t she remember?
He appeared to be struggling to keep a straight face. ‘You surprised even me. And I’m used to pretty much anything. Not exactly a screamer, more a gasper …’
‘A gasper? I didn’t … We didn’t …?’ A flash of him running his hand through her hair emerged through the soup in her brain. No, that had been years ago. But … the image in her head was of her current bathroom. Of safe hands stroking her back. A soft smile as he’d picked her up and carried her across the apartment and into her bedroom.
‘You kissed me.’ No way would she forget that in a London minute.
‘No, Poppy. You kissed me.’
‘You kissed me back.’
Those magnificent shoulders shrugged. ‘Glad to help out a lady in need. You said you wanted me to teach you a few things. Asked me … begged me.’
Oh, good Lord. Begged Isaac? ‘Well, that was the vodka talking.’
‘Vodka? No, a couple of bottles of Aussie Shiraz by the looks of it.’
Her stomach lurched with just the thought of it. She swallowed hard. ‘Vodka with colleagues in the pub before the wine on my own.’ Could it get any worse? He’d kissed her because she’d asked him to help her. Begged him. Not because he’d fancied her. Not because he’d wanted her. He’d kissed her out of pity.
She’d begged him?
‘I have to say you are an almost textbook drunk.’
‘Good to know.’ That’d be right. Usually Poppy did everything by the book, because not doing so caused too much harm and mayhem. And she never wanted to go there again.
‘But what is it about me, Popsicle?’ His use of her childhood nickname made her cringe, and he damn well knew it, making her pull the sheets more tightly round her cleavage as he spoke. ‘Is it something I do? Is it the way I smell? Every time we get a moment alone we end up with your head down, bum up. Gasping. Stage five implemented to perfection. You are a champion upchucker.’
No. Not again. ‘I was sick?’
‘Yes. Spectacularly.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ No wonder her stomach hurt.
‘Not pretty.’
‘So we didn’t, er, you know.’
He shrugged. ‘Hey, you know me, I never give away our secrets.’
She’d begged him not to before and he’d been true to his word. She threw him a glance—his grin widened and she wasn’t sure if he was referring to back then or last night. But he was clearly not going to enlighten her. Irritating.
Over the ensuing years that evening had hovered between them like an ominous dark cloud—would he ever confront her? Would he put her in a situation where she’d have to confess to everyone what she’d done and show who the real Poppy Spencer was?
So far he’d kept schtum on the whole thing—but then she’d never allowed herself to be in any kind of situation where she owed him anything more. And ever since then the all-new shiny reformed Poppy Spencer hadn’t put a foot wrong.
But still—he knew. And for that reason alone she kept him at a distance.
Fast forward to the second most mortifying moment of her life—if they’d actually done the deed surely she’d know? She’d feel different—her body would feel less nauseated and more … excited. Surely? No, they hadn’t had sex, she was pretty certain. Relief flooded through her. ‘So why are you in my bed now? Why am I in different clothes? Where are my pyjamas?’
His head shook. Disappointedly. ‘Don’t panic, I put a quick stop to the kiss and you’re still an almost-virgin.’
‘A what?’
‘Never mind. Just something you said last night. Amongst a whole lot of other stuff.’ His voice rose a couple of octaves. ‘“Please don’t leave me, there’s a mouse on the run. I’m scared. Too cold. Too hot. I need a drink. Headache. I’m going to be sick again. Please, don’t leave me, Isaac, I’m scared.” Eventually your demands exhausted me and I fell asleep right here. You are one hell of a snorer, by the way. I hope for your sake it was just because of the alcohol.’ He smiled his slow, lazy smile. ‘And now you’re wearing the only things I could lay my hands on in the dark at four-thirty this morning during the too-hot phase. Very, very nice, too.’
His eyebrows rose as his fingers plucked the blush-pink lacy straps of her cami. At his touch her body reacted in a very un-Poppy-like way—with a frenzied surge of what she could only describe as lust. And he knew it, too, judging by the glittering in his eyes. ‘Must have cost a fair bit.’
She slapped his hand away from her straps, not least because of the effect his skin was having on her skin. ‘They did, even with mate’s rates. And did you look … did you see …?’ She’d learnt to be forthright with her patients; why couldn’t she be forthright with him? She needed to know the extent of her absolute mortification. She took a deep breath, not wanting to hear the answer to her question. ‘Okay, so who undressed me? Did you help with that or did I manage it all by myself?’
‘Don’t worry, I closed my eyes.’ He leaned forward and whispered against her neck, making her shiver and shudder and hot and cold at the same time. ‘Most of the time.’
‘What? No!’
Then he winked. ‘All I can say is that someone’s going to be a very lucky man one day.’ But he clearly wasn’t referring to himself because with that he threw the sheet back, revealing a pair of extremely well-toned legs, thigh-hugging black boxers with the outlined shape of something she only allowed herself a moment’s glance at before she was totally and utterly lost for words … Wow … just wow. And a body that she could have sworn she saw advertising aftershave in a glossy yesterday. ‘Got to get to work, Popsicle. I’ll make sure I get a mousetrap on the way back. Thanks for a very entertaining evening.’
Then he was gone.
‘Damn. Damn. Damn.’ She leaned back against the pillows and breathed out a huge sigh, unsure of what to make of it all. Because, despite the Macarena in her stomach, she could have sworn she should be feeling a whole lot different from the way she felt right now. She should definitely not be feeling turned on. Her breasts should not be tingly, her heart should not be pounding, her lady bits should definitely not be wide awake and singing hallelujah at the mere hint of Isaac’s presence. Or at the thought of him seeing her naked. No. She should not be feeling like this at all. Especially when the startling, belittling, humiliating truth of it all was that, without any thought of consequences, she’d got drunk, accosted him and he’d kissed her back out of pity.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_ea006978-84cb-5cfb-870c-11a2a38a3728)
‘WE HAVE MICE. At least, we’ve seen one little critter upstairs. I thought I should let you know.’ Isaac paid for his coffee and nodded his thanks to Marco, the café owner. ‘I’ve got a couple of traps and we’ll sort it out our end. Just keep an eye out down here in case they migrate.’
‘Okay, cheers, mate, I’ll have a look, but we’re usually on top of zeez things. No mices here.’ Marco pushed Isaac’s coffee towards him and started to serve the next customer.
Isaac took his cup, negotiated the defunct fireman’s pole that connected their upstairs apartment with Ignite café, and found a seat, aiming to fortify his strength with a sharp caffeine buzz before he nipped back to the flat. The last thing he wanted was to bump into Poppy and relive the awkwardness of earlier. A coffee shot would help. Plus keep him awake for the long night’s work ahead.
He took a sip. Added an extra sugar for luck. Opened his smartphone and reviewed his notes. The only thing of any consequence he’d managed to achieve today was to check the availability of the bar for Friday, for Poppy. Then he’d sorted out a mousetrap, for Poppy. Spoken to the manager at Ignite café, for Poppy. And hidden in the café, from Poppy. The woman was invading his every living, breathing moment, not to mention his to-do list.
Which was very interesting. He never allowed any woman to ever invade anything at all. Work came first. Always. Work was predictable and straightforward. Work didn’t change the goalposts or come with an agenda that you didn’t understand. He knew where he stood with his business—knew what he needed to do to be the best. And he’d made damned sure he had been, throwing hour after hour, year after year into transforming his bars into award-winning establishments. Being pretty much uprooted and homeless by the age of sixteen, he was used to travelling, liked the challenge of working in different countries, of winning the hearts and loyalty of the Parisians and the Dutch. Next stop, the States, and he’d be a success there, too. That would show everyone who’d ever doubted him.
But despite what he’d said and what he’d tried to convince himself to believe, he’d really enjoyed that kiss. The cheeky glimpse of Poppy’s half-naked body bathed in moonlight hadn’t been half bad either. Which, hands on heart, had not been his fault. She’d said she was ready, when in reality her silky top hadn’t quite covered everything it needed to. He’d turned away … too late.
Hell. He closed his eyes briefly at the mental image; she was definitely all woman. And off every limit he had. So the fact his brain kept wandering back to those scenes last night—the kiss, her body, her smell, even her pyjamas—was very inconvenient.
He added fast-track the renovations to his to-do list. He could control his libido, but he couldn’t guarantee for how long, so the sooner he was out of that flat, the better. Stupid enough to get in any way involved with a woman, doubly so to get carried away with a woman he had too much history with. That could get all kinds of messy.
Isaac subscribed to the ‘no promises, no commitment, no heartbreak’ school of relationships. Easy. In his bitter experience commitment usually lasted just until someone better, richer, younger came along, leaving chaos and hurt in the slipstream. He didn’t need any of that.
The doorbell pinged behind him as someone entered along with the cold December wind-chill factor. Women’s voices. His gut pinged, too, as his hand froze, coffee cup halfway between the table and his mouth. Izzy’s northern-infused accent. Poppy’s hesitant laughter.
So much for avoiding her.
Gulping the too-hot coffee and almost suffering third-degree burns in the process, he put his cup on the table, tugged up his coat collar around his ears, focused on his phone and concentrated on trying to be incognito. Plan A: when they started to order at the counter he’d slip out unnoticed.
‘Isaac! Hello.’ Izzy dropped a kiss on his cheek, then shoved a stray lock of short blond hair behind her ear, beaming. He’d met a lot of Poppy’s friends over the years, as part of a peripheral group that tagged along whenever Poppy’s brother, Alex, was home on leave, but never had he envisaged living with any of them. Strange how life worked out. ‘Long time no see. Where’ve you been?’
‘Hi, Izzy. Hello, Poppy. I was in Europe for a while sussing out some bar venues. We’ve just opened one in Bastille and we’ve another planned for Amsterdam.’ He tried to focus on Izzy, but his eyes kept drifting towards the woman he’d spent the night with. She refused to meet his gaze, keeping her focus on the counter ahead, then on Izzy, a small polite wave to Marco. Scraping his chair back, Isaac lifted his plastic carrier. ‘I got some traps. I’ll head upstairs now and set them up. Do you have any peanut butter?’
Finally Poppy looked up at him, her make-up-free cheeks pinking. Instead of her regulation work ponytail her hair hung in loose curls around her shoulders, which normally would have made her look younger, if it hadn’t been for the purple shadows under her eyes.
She pulled a thick cream cardigan around her uptight shoulders and stamped black suede boots on the tiles. Her mouth had formed a grim line. Clearly the hangover still hung.
Even so, she still looked breathtaking. He’d never really thought of her like that until yesterday. But breathtaking was the only way to describe her. Yeah … well, she’d certainly taken his breath away with that surprise kiss last night. As she spoke he wondered what could happen next time, if he left his principles at the bedroom door. Which was never going to happen. Because he would never let them get into that situation again.
She frowned. ‘I thought mice ate cheese.’
‘The guy in the market said to use peanut butter—apparently they love it. If we don’t have any I’ll head to the shop and get some.’
‘No. There’s some in the cupboard by the fridge.’ She peered up at him. ‘Smooth.’
‘Thanks. I like to think so.’ He grinned.
‘Yeah, Mr Big Shot, whatever. I was talking about the peanut butter, not you.’ She tutted, her shoulders dropping a little as her eyebrows rose. ‘You definitely fall in the crunchy camp.’
‘Oh, and now I’m mortally wounded.’ Still, it was good to have her at least being able to look at him. Things could get weird in the flat if they couldn’t speak to each other. ‘Well, I’ve got to set these traps then get back to work … Oh, talking of … the private room’s free at Blue on Friday for your work get-together if you still want it. Do you need to come and view it?’
‘No, I don’t think—’ She looked off-balance and not particularly thrilled at having this conversation.
‘Or are you fine taking my word for it?’ He could give them both a get-out if he sorted it all here. Then he could head off to his sanctuary and work out what the hell was going on in his head. Or at the very least try and get her out of it. ‘How many will be coming? Do you need food? I can get the chef to make up a specials menu for you all.’
‘I think there’s probably about twenty of us, including some spouses and partners.’ She matched his smile. Not too friendly. ‘I’m sure the regular menu will be fine.’
Good, no need to spend any more time with her than necessary. ‘Great. I’ll see you later. Some time. I’m kind of busy at the bar so I might not be around much.’
Way to go—Poppy’s whole demeanour seemed to brighten. ‘Oh—okay.’
‘Wait. Isaac?’ Izzy interrupted and his optimism floundered. ‘Maybe Poppy and I should come over this afternoon. I’d love to see your new bar. I’m scouting out places for the wedding reception. And Poppy? How can you organise a party without checking out the venue first?’
‘Oh, I trust Isaac,’ she said in a voice that conveyed the opposite. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’
Izzy looked at her friend with growing incredulity. ‘It’s a cocktail bar, right? And you’re on a day off?’
Poppy gave a weak shrug. ‘Yes. Actually, just for a change I have some time off. And I was hanging out for a coffee. You know Marco makes a mean espresso.’
‘Forget the coffee. What are we waiting for? Blue awaits. Come on, bride-to-be’s prerogative.’ Blissfully ignorant of the awkwardness in the room as she rode her fluffy happy wedding cloud, Izzy smiled. ‘A cocktail will be fun. Happy hour for mates, okay, Isaac?’
Looked as if he had no choice.
Looked as if none of them had a choice. The bride-to-be certainly did hold all the cards.
Poppy shook her head as she wiggled out of Izzy’s hold and held up her hands. ‘No, I’m sorry, not today, we can go to Blue some other time. Come along with us on Friday if you want—there’ll be quite a crowd. But as from today I’m officially on the wagon. I’m never drinking again.’
‘Why ever not?’ Izzy asked. ‘It’s Christmas time. We have to drink and be merry. It’s the rule.’
‘I had too much last night. You know me, I’m a very cheap date and rubbish at holding my booze.’
As Isaac well knew, to the detriment of a sane mind and a decent night’s sleep. And that kiss that made his mouth water for more. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Poppy, I’m sure we can rustle you up a virgin margarita. Or even—’ he made sure he had her full attention ‘—an almost-virgin one.’
‘Why do you keep …?’ Her cheeks blazed and she looked down at her boots. When she lifted her chin again realisation flamed in her eyes. ‘Oh, my God. I didn’t …?’
‘Didn’t what?’ Izzy’s eyebrows formed a V. She looked first at Poppy and then at Isaac. ‘What are you two talking about? What didn’t you do?’
Isaac saw the pain on Poppy’s face and knew he’d stepped too far. She did sarcasm like a pro, but had also relied on him to hold her secrets close to his chest, and he’d never been tempted to share them so he wasn’t going to start now. Although sometimes she was a little too damned serious for her own good. Honestly, she didn’t need to repent for ever. Everyone had at least one thing in their past they regretted. And being sexually inexperienced wasn’t exactly a crime. Some man would be very lucky indeed to reintroduce Poppy to the dating scene. Isaac only hoped it wouldn’t be a jerk like the last one.
And why did the thought of Poppy with another man make his blood pressure hike? Things weren’t making sense today. ‘Didn’t … get to sort out the rest of the tree decorations. Right, Poppy? Maybe you and Izzy could finish them this afternoon.’ And stay out of my way.
