The Right Side of Mr Wrong (2 page)

So much for keeping a professional distance.

Shea wriggled, took a minute to wrestle her crumpled jacket into approximately the right places, smooth her box-pleats into order. Muddy feet, or muddy shoes? She went with the stilettos, and gained the immediate five inch boost she needed.

‘That’s more like it!’

She flicked a tentative smile at the guy who had retreated a pace or two, but was still watching her with chilling determination, a large dose of disdain and an even larger dose of mental undressing. And the way his eyes locked onto her boobs brought her nipples out to graze the inside of her bra cups. She gave a shudder, as she looked back at him. Her eyes took in a broken-down t-shirt which she already knew covered the hardest of bodies, jeans ripped through in places, and low-slung, pretty much to the point of indecency. She pulled herself up sharply for letting her gaze linger a second too long on the most indecent bit, chided herself for the shiver rush that zinged down her spine when she took in the size of things in that area, becoming more defined by the moment. She shuddered again when she remembered she might be slightly responsible for that.

Crikey!
Shea didn’t know where this lusty inner woman had appeared from, but she needed to be slapped back into line, and fast.

‘And what an amazing chandelier!’

She flipped a random space-filler comment, and a sparkly smile in his direction, hoping to nudge a response, as she assessed him. Way too good looking for his own good, and everyone else’s, not that his threadbare appearance fooled her. Not only was there the flagrant mental undressing thing going on, but there was a super-arrogance to his swagger, the kind of major, understated confidence, that was only ever claimed by hugely successful men. Whatever promises had been made to her about his absence, the vagabond who studied her now, with that mix of veiled animosity and contempt, not to mention the double dose of white heat, had to be Brando Marshall.

So. Now she had the measure of him – to be handled with extreme care, keeping boobs and bottom out of his sightline if at all possible – she could afford to introduce herself. Let’s face it, someone had to make the first move here, and it didn’t look as if it was going to be him.

‘Hi, I’m Shea. Shea Summers.’

She checked the brightness of her smile, extended a slim hand towards him, giving it a little rub in passing to make sure she’d got the mud off.

He tilted his head slightly, slid those dark-lashed, lingering eyes off her chest, and up to her face. And dammit for the way that made her stomach lurch. But otherwise he didn’t move.

A strange confidence, founded on familiarity, was seeping through her, filling her with warmth and strength.

Wealthy, and reluctant?

Brilliant. Something she encountered on a daily basis, apart from the flagrant sexuality obviously, which frankly she couldn’t remember meeting anything like, ever. Dealing with that disarming and alarming trait was something she’s have to think about hard. Later. A lot later. But she’d cut her teeth on stroppy Manchester footballers, regularly won over billionaires who had more attitude than sense, loved nothing more than the challenge of a recalcitrant businessman. Here was someone she could handle without a problem. In theory. So long as she got his out of control libido into line. She noted the sullen curl of his far too sensuous lip, and couldn’t help smiling more. Stamping on the tiny part of her brain that asked what it would feel like to be snogged by a guy with a mouth like that, she wondered where the hell her professionalism had gone. Probably left beside the helicopter, along with her self-respect, when she got dragged off by a caveman.

‘I’m Shea,’ she carried on, infusing her voice with a cheery ring of confidence, ‘that’s S-H-E-A, as in day. And I’m here to help!’

She could hardly keep the laughter out of her voice now, as she noted his left eyebrow arch in surprise above his deepening scowl. She readjusted her expression to hide her delight. Boy, was she going to have fun here. She gave her mouth-obsessed brain another sharp kick. It was all too much to keep in line here; this guy, his illegal body, not to mention her own totally out of character reactions.

He leaned nonchalantly on the elegantly turned newel post at the bottom of the expansive staircase now, rubbing a thumb absently across his chin. Quite why that made her think of stubble rubbing across the tender skin of her inner thigh was beyond her. At least he couldn’t see her thought bubbles, although from the way he was scrutinising her, she couldn’t be one hundred percent sure of that. When he made no move to greet her, she forced herself to push on, airily.

‘You’re Brando, I presume? I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other in the next few days.’

She waited, watching to see his reaction, and saw a wicked grin spread across his face, obliterating all traces of bad temper, simultaneously doubling up on the lust. ‘Whatever you say, Miss S-H-E-A-rhymes-with-day! I’ll look forward to that, very much, especially bearing in mind that some of us have seen quite a lot already, by way of a preview!’

His left eyebrow shot up, and he gave her a meaningful nod, and another blast of undiluted lust. Men who were this hot shouldn’t be allowed out in public. She was usually impervious, but this was something else.

Shea felt the flush burn across her cheeks as she mentally rewound, flashed back to see her skirt flapping around her elbows.
Damn.
She’d walked into that one.

She whipped her brain into gear, searching desperately for a snappy reply, but before she’d found one, he’d sprung forward, and seized her hand, his strong, broad fingers wrapping around her own for a second.

‘No worries!’ His hand landed on her arm for a fleeting, searing moment. ‘What’s a stocking top between friends, after all?’ His grin had spread, and he was laughing now, showing beautiful, not-quite-perfect teeth, but along with the laughter there was something else brooding in those dark, sooty eyes.

Shea reeled, as she took in the smoulder. Pure unadulterated desire, if ever she’d seen it, oozing, from each and every delectably rugged pore. Then she reeled again, as an electric aftershock zigzagged up her arm where he’d touched her hand.

‘So, I’m here to … ’ Before she could claw herself out of the cavernous hole she was in, he interjected.

‘We all know why you’re here.’ He sounded almost belligerent now. ‘I wasn’t sure you were going to be needed, but given what I’ve seen thus far, I’ll make an exception. That’s if you’re up for a couple of days of play before you leave?’

The way he growled the word
play
sent a shower of anticipation down her spine. Anticipation? She wasn’t an anticipator, dammit, because she didn’t participate. Full stop. In fact the merest thought of participating sent an undertow of guilt to tug at her stomach. So what the heck was going on? Something in the way he narrowed his eyes as he waited for her reaction, told her he was pushing her. She blocked out the messages in her brain that were urging her, or rather commanding her, to hurl her body straight into his arms. Instead she watched him carefully, sizing up the opponent, knowing he’d already twisted this into some sort of game. One she wasn’t completely sure she was winning right now.

‘So, let’s get this straight. I’m here to tidy – tidy and organise. That’s all. And from what I hear there’s a lot to go at. As I understand it, that’s what I’ve been engaged to do … ’ She noted the tiniest flinch of his cheek as he heard the word ‘engaged.’

Perhaps it was that flinch, that miniscule indication of weakness that made her do what she did next. That, combined with her instinct for reading difficult men, and her ability to bring them, whimpering, to heel, in record time. Mr Intense Hunk here was so far outside her experience she didn’t feel confident to lump him in that manageable category, but whatever, there was no other explanation for what happened next. She heard her voice, loud, confident, and resonant, echoing around the hallway before she even knew she was going to speak.

‘And of course, I’m also here to try out to be your wife!’

Where that lie had come from, she had no idea.

Wham!

She watched in triumph as his face jack-knifed as he heard the word ‘wife.’

And she’d got him! That was the body blow. Manageable after all, perhaps. Phew! She’d located his Achilles heel in record time, though it hadn’t been difficult, given it was one shared by most of the other thirty-something males she’d come across in his socio-economic bracket.

So, the man was entirely allergic to the idea of a wife, was he?

This suited her perfectly, given that the last thing she was looking for was a husband. She relished the power this scrap of insight gave her. It was useful ammunition, should she need to defend herself. But best of all, goading him gently was going to be very enjoyable.

Bring on the fun!

She rubbed her cheek, adjusted her glasses, and tried to hide her smile, as she waited for his reaction.

‘Mrs McCaul! Come and meet Shea.’

Shea jumped at his unexpectedly hearty shout. Beyond him a straight woman with a softening smile was coming towards her, pulling a briefcase on wheels.

‘Mrs McCaul is our housekeeper here at Edgerton.’ The curl of his lip suggested that he would have happily added ‘and resident pain in the behind,’ as he extended his arm in a half-hearted presentation.

‘Shea rhymes-with-roll-in-the-hay Summers, meet Mrs McCaul. Shea, by the way, is hell-bent on finding herself a husband, and has apparently set her heart on a spot of gold-digging here at Edgerton.’ He flashed a mocking look at Shea, who inwardly shrank at this blistering introduction, but held her head high.

Mrs McCaul whisked past Brando, shaking her head, and handed Shea the case with a solid smile.

‘Don’t listen to him, Shea, we know what you’re here for, and everything’s ready for you in the annex, as Bryony asked. So if you’d like to follow me … ’

Mrs McCaul’s lilting Scottish tones lapped over Shea, as she rifled through her handbag, shed her stilettos, pulled out a pair of brown suede pumps, and slipped them on.

‘Not so fast!’ Brando’s voice was biting now. ‘Shea will be staying in the Snowfield Wing with me. No arguments.’

‘But … ’ The women’s protests chimed together, but Brando chopped them short.

‘Didn’t you hear, I said ‘No arguments!’ If you want to stay at all, Shea, this is how it’s going to be. It’s non-negotiable. There’s plenty of space up there.’ He shot her a smirking
that’ll teach you
look. ‘No point coming to hook a husband, then hiding away from him, is there?’

Shea blanked the shiver his look sent down her back, and opened her mouth to reply – not that she had decided what to say – but found there was no chance of chipping into the battle hotting up before her.

‘Very well, Brando. Luckily for us, you’re not here often, with manners like that!’ Mrs McCaul jutted her chin at him. ‘You should take lessons from your sister. Bryony may be younger, but she’s the perfect lady!’

Wow!
Shea clocked Brando’s silent grimace. One big revelation there! Bryony was more than just the TV girl. That explained a lot.

Mrs McCaul dismissed Brando with a snort, though as she turned, Shea caught a long-suffering twinkle of affection in her eyes. ‘Don’t worry Shea, he won’t be bothering you for long. He rarely graces us with his presence for more than one night at a time, so he’s already well overdue to leave.’

‘Thanks for sharing that, Mrs McCaul.’ His tone was caustic. ‘I’ll show Shea up to her room myself now. By the way, we’ll be having supper in the west wing dining room later, if that’s okay with you. I take it you’ll have time to remove the dust sheets.’

Mrs McCaul looked perturbed. ‘Perhaps not the best choice Brando. You’d be much more comfortable eating in the kitchen, as you usually do. That dining room is very … ’

He cut in abruptly. ‘Very whatever! It’s my choice, and that’s where we’ll be eating, thank you!’

Shea heard the polished oak boards creak gently as Brando turned and sauntered casually towards the staircase.

Wow! Rear of the year, or what? She let out a silent gasp of appreciation. Not that she was in the least bit interested, but a view like that could hardly go un-applauded.

‘Shoes, Brando!’

Mrs McCaul’s curt instruction flew after them, and Shea stood open mouthed and watched as Brando kicked off first one then the other sneaker, flipped them, and nonchalantly caught them as he walked.

‘Are you coming or am I going to have to wait all day?’ He was calling to her impatiently over his shoulder now, already halfway up the stairs, mounting them three at a time.

Shea wavered, chewing her thumbnail and not entirely sure what she was doing. She’d come in feet first, feeling thoroughly shaken, and even more thoroughly stirred. And she didn’t
do
stirred. Never. Brando was the rudest guy she’d met, and he wasn’t even supposed to be here. And now she was following this commitment-phobe up to his ‘wing,’ when he obviously saw her as some money-grubbing opportunist, who he was determined to wipe the floor with.

And just five minutes ago she’d thought this was a walkover.

‘If you don’t come now I can guarantee you’ll get lost, and I won’t be responsible if the wolf gets you!’

His gravelly words spiralled down from the landing, and sent goosebumps down her spine … 

And what the heck was all this about wolves anyway?

All a million miles away from what she’d been expecting. But then … 

‘I can always come back and carry you.’

Glancing up, she saw him watching her coolly over the balustrade, eyes narrowed and calculating, poised for action.

Cripes, he wasn’t joking either.

Grabbing her muddy shoes in one hand, and her bag in the other, she bolted towards the stairs.

‘It’s eight thirty pm, I hope you’re ready!’

Brando’s shout outside Shea’s door was loud enough to make the handle rattle, and it matched his mood.

Ready? Who was he kidding? When had a woman ever been ready?

He’d spent the remainder of the afternoon fuming. Fuming with Bryony for landing him in this situation, and fuming with this damned woman who’d helicoptered her way into his private domain. After years in the music business, he reckoned he was unshockable. But what kind of woman would be pushy enough to pull a stunt like this to grab a husband? And what the hell had he been thinking to go along with it? He must have had some kind of consciousness blackout.

He let out one disgusted snort, and raised his hand to add a knock, but before his knuckle made contact, the door flew open.

Bang.
Hot sweet woman. His head reeled as her scent hit him full on.

‘Absolutely ready Brando! Or I will be in two minutes … ’

So he was right. Of course she wasn’t ready!

He leaned on the doorframe, and drummed his fingers idly, as she spun back into the room. Took in a shapely little black dress. No sleeves. A brave choice at Edgerton, in late October. High, high heels. And black lace stockings that made the backs of her calves look delectable as she walked away from him, then propelled his libido into the stratosphere as she knelt down in front of the fireplace. Yanking his lust firmly into line, he noticed that whatever the fire in his groin was doing, the fire in the grate wasn’t blazing.

‘I’d better help with that. Much as you need to learn about the rigors of life in a stately home, I’d hate you to be cold tonight.’ As he strode over, he caught the chestnut glint in her swept-up hair, then the exposed nape of her neck, as she bent over the hearth.

White and vulnerable.
His gut gave a twist of guilt at the thought of using and dispatching her. Except she’d walked into this, dammit, and hell, he knew better than to be taken in by downy napes of necks. This woman was here to play for high stakes. A swift dispatch was nothing less than she deserved, and if a tumble in the manorial bed was what was needed to achieve that, he was more than willing to go down that road, but the more he saw of those curves, the hotter that end game was shaping up to be.

As he knelt down next to her by the fire, he let his thigh bump lightly against hers. She jerked away from him, and the poker she was holding clattered onto the hearth.

Jumpy or what?

Picking up the poker, he riddled the embers back to life energetically. He knew Mrs McCaul always checked the fires, but what the heck? It was worth it, for the tease – and the insanely sexy blast of lace stretched taut across Shea’s knees. Perhaps his judgement hadn’t been so clouded after all. The promise of what was to come was looking sweeter by the second.

‘Thanks for helping with that! I’m not used to coal fires. I’ll just get my phone.’ She stood up, and the grateful smile she flashed down at him as she unfolded those glorious legs sent his stomach into a crazy freefall for the second time that day. He regularly threw his body through corkscrew twists and flips, but hauling Shea Summers into the house earlier that day had sent his insides spinning like never before. And now it had happened again, dammit.

‘Forget your phone. There’s no signal at all here. Another of the wonders of Edgerton! Are you coming then?’ he snapped, before he jumped up, marched through the doorway, and strode off down the landing.

No way was he looking back. The floorboards, creaking under her uneven high-heeled lurches, told him she was following closely behind, and he only slowed as he reached the dining room door. As he threw it open, stepping back to let her pass, a freezing gale slammed him in the face. Ha! Just as he’d expected. Despite the roaring fire, the lofty room was bitterly cold and inhospitable. Miss Shea made-in-a-day Summers was about to experience the full glory of the west dining room.

‘Come on in! I see you lost the glasses then!’

He’d noticed in her bedroom, but the full effect floored him now, as he saw her head-on. High cheekbones, gently turned-up nose, and the fullest lips.
Disarmingly pretty.
Very different without the big frames. He’d had her down as pushing thirty, but now, despite the confident jut of her chin, he doubted she was even twenty five.

She skimmed past him into the room, and he heard her gasp as the cold hit her, saw pale goosebumps springing out on her arms as he moved to pull out a heavy mahogany chair for her. Across the white damask tablecloth the candle flames stuttered in the draught, and suddenly, showing her the uncomfortable reality of life in a stately pile was starting to feel like poor judgement. Arriving opposite her, he got the full effect of her ample chest complete with erect nipples, sticking prominently through the thin fabric of her dress, no doubt whipped to attention by the chill.

Double jeopardy.

Definitely a bad call. He felt his blood surge south.
Damn.
He was in for an uncomfortable evening all round.

‘If you don’t mind, I think I’ll just go and get something warmer … ’ She’d gone before he had time to reply, and when she returned she had added a sharp tailored jacket. Marks out of ten for passion killers? He’d give an eleven. At least that sorted the immediate too-exciting nipple problem.

‘Desperate times call for desperate measures, and all that!’ She flashed violet eyes at him, and something in their mocking glint told Brando she was ahead of his game. ‘Sorry about the style clash, but I haven’t brought my arctic gear with me. I’d have taken the time to put jeans on, but we wouldn’t want dinner to get cold, would we?’

Back in the room, and looking like someone from a head office boardroom, complete with an identity name-tag hanging from her lapel.

‘You really haven’t brought anything warmer with you?’ He watched in disbelief as she shook her head. What kind of numbskull would rock up to a draughty hole like Edgerton without so much as a sweater?

‘Nope. Sorry. I’m a central heating girl, and I wasn’t expecting glacial, so you’re stuck with me in my O 4 Organise work gear.’

‘I’ll go and find you something more … ’ He left the room before bothering to finish.

Suitable, hot, sexy? Warm maybe?

Any of the above – he wasn’t fussy. Sure, he didn’t want her here, and yes, he did suspect her motives, but hell, he wasn’t completely heartless. He’d meant for her to understand that country houses weren’t always luxurious, not for her to catch pneumonia. As for what the whole O-4 thing was all about, he was still praying she wasn’t some high powered dominatrix when he came back moments later, and dropped two cashmere sweaters in her lap.

‘There you go, Madame Chairman, they’re mine, but they’re warmer than anything else you’ve got here. Put them on, and tell me what the heck O 4 Organise is.’ He watched intently as she peeled away her jacket, and pulled on his own jumpers. How could she look so sexy wearing two men’s sweaters?

‘Thanks, that’s much better.’ She was rolling the sleeves back now, pushing dislodged pins back into her hair. ‘O 4 Organise is the exclusive personal organising company I work for. I run the Manchester end. I thought I was going to be able to put my expertise to good use here, but to be honest it all looks a lot less chaotic than the shots I saw on the programme.’

He had a vague memory of the TV crew deliberately trashing the annexe to get the shots they needed, when views of endless rooms under dust sheets had failed to excite them.

‘Never believe what you see on TV.’ He spat the words out with a rueful shake of his head.

‘But Bryony said … ’

He jumped in and cut her short. ‘Rule One when dealing with Bryony: Never believe what she says.’ Then he kicked himself for not waiting to hear exactly what Bryony
had
said. No doubt it would make for interesting listening, and he may well have asked, but just then, Mrs McCaul arrived with dinner.

Brando dug into the steaming beef stew and dumplings with gusto, hoping to mask his unease. He usually ate on the hoof, snatching a sandwich in the office, or grabbing a takeaway in front of the TV. Formal meals didn’t figure on his agenda, and he
never
ate with women. Strawberries and liquid chocolate consumed from a platter of bare flesh aside, if he was with a woman it was for sex, not food. So the double assault on his system, of Mrs McCaul’s substantial supper and a hot woman eating opposite him, was throwing him off. Between forkfuls he tried to decide if Shea was mentally undressing him with those scathing looks of hers, or simply trying to peer into his soul.

It was some time, and a lot of stew later, when she finally struck up meaningful conversation. ‘So where in Scotland are we exactly?’

Brando gave her a hard stare. ‘Who told you Edgerton was in Scotland?’

‘I’m not sure, didn’t it say that on the programme?’ She hesitated, her fork halfway to that delectable mouth of hers.

‘There you go, what did I say about not believing everything you hear on TV?’ He gave a snort of laughter. ‘To be fair, they did keep the location a secret, but I’m damned sure no-one said anything about Scotland. The only Scottish thing about here is Mrs McCaul and her full-on Edinburgh accent!’

‘Okay … ’ He watched Shea’s eyes widen, then her brows furrowed as she processed this nugget. ‘So where are we then?’

‘Classified information here, I hope you can be trusted. Edgerton is in the Cotswolds.’ He bit back his smile as he tried to contain his laughter.

‘Sorry. Not helpful.’ She shook her head and looked blank. ‘You’ll have to be more specific.
Cotswolds
doesn’t mean anything to me. Where’s it near?’

This he found hard to believe. Had to be a wind-up, but he’d play along. ‘Cirencester, Cheltenham, Gloucester?’ She still looked blank. He’d try something easier. ‘Oxford?’

She thought hard, scrunched her lip, shook her head. ‘Still not helpful. Maybe if I saw it on a map?’

Brando stopped chewing, put down his knife and fork. This he found hard to believe.

‘What?’ Shea’s shriek was high and defensive. ‘So! I don’t have the geography gene! I can’t help it! I don’t know where anywhere is, unless I’ve been there, if I don’t see it on a map. We can’t all be perfect and know everything. I don’t have the history gene either come to that, but there are a lot of things I can do, and do very well, so back off!’

So Shea-what-do-you-say might have a great ass, but she didn’t have the first clue where she was, and what’s more she wasn’t trying to hide the fact, nor did she feel the need to apologise. Interesting combination. And boy did she look feisty when she did angry!

She lowered her eyes for a second, and when she looked up at him again it was with a half smile that spread to a wide grin. ‘When you warned me about getting lost in the house earlier, you were closer to the mark than you thought!’

Zap!

That smile caught him off guard, and smacked him square in the stomach.

‘I think we’ve done enough dining room penance for one day. I’ll get Mrs McCaul to serve pudding by the fire in my sitting room, and I’ll show you a map. We’ll be much cosier there.’

Jeez, had he really just said that!

He asked himself a) where that had come from and b) why the heck he’d used the word
cosy.
He never said
cosy! It was like someone else was operating his mouth.
Jeez again!
He needed to stop panicking, remember this was his infallible instinct, working to push the situation to a quick conclusion. Hell, a frosty dining room was hardly conducive to the moves he had in mind, and he was aiming to get this whole thing over at break-neck speed. And there was something else he’d noticed. Sure this Shea was sexy enough, with her curves and lively nipples and splashy smiles, but he’d seen the way she flinched when he came anywhere near her, and he’d sensed a curious pent-up tension. Uptight didn’t begin to cover it. A quick tumble in the sack with a man with his taste for wild and wicked was just what was needed to send this woman running for the hills. See her off for good. Job done.

A sudden crush in his groin suggested his libido was in definite agreement.

* * *

Peach cobbler, egg custard, coffee and liqueurs. All in the comfort of the boss’s private sitting room. Cosy was his way of describing it. Too damned intimate was hers.

Shea wondered how she’d let it happen, which part of her active mind hadn’t been functioning. She could only blame the cold for her brain freeze.

Pudding in the snug would have been beyond the limit of her professional boundaries at the best of times. But peering over maps in flickering firelight, with a hunk who set her heart banging horribly every time his arm stretched across and grazed hers? That was in the way-out-of line category. Just the memory of it was enough to make her cringe with guilt. Thank goodness she’d had the sense to make a quick exit.

Back in the safe haven of her room, she stripped off her dress, dragged some shorts over her tights, and slipped one of the borrowed sweaters over her bra, definitely not because it smelled of raw man she assured herself, but because after an hour of wearing it, she was completely addicted to the softness and the warmth. As she pulled the pins out of her hair and dragged her curls into submission, she noticed her useless mobile on the coffee table. A phone call with her mum wasn’t going to happen tonight. No bad thing. She needed time to work out what the heck was going on here.

It wasn’t so much
what
she’d been doing, but how she was reacting. It should have been completely possible to have got through this evening in a detached, professional manner. Her work constantly put her into intimate environments with men. She regularly marched in, pulled some guy’s bedroom to pieces, put it all together again, and marched right on out. She’d always assumed her ability to freeze advances before they’d even happened was because of her past hanging around her like an invisible force field. That coupled with her ‘no-nonsense’ attitude. She’d worked alongside a whole bunch of clients with less than perfect reputations and had always sailed through unscathed.