Alice Ross - Forty Things To Do Before You're Forty

‘St-stay right where you are,’ she stammered, turning towards him brandishing the sword and shield. ‘I’m calling the police.’

‘I, er, really don’t think there’s any need for that,’ came a deep male voice.

‘Oh yes, there is,’ countered Annie, flourishing the sword in what she hoped was a threatening manner. ‘And if you’ve got a gun, put it on the floor and kick it over here.’

She held her breath as he bent down and kicked something towards her. Ah ha! So he did have a gun. Thank goodness she’d had the foresight to relieve him of that. She’d known that watching all those American cop shows would prove useful at some point. Good move, Annie. Very good move. But, to her amazement, it wasn’t a loaded pistol that landed at her feet, but a packet of digestive biscuits. Biscuits? Annie furrowed her brow. Who on earth would break into a manor and steal a packet of biscuits? Was nothing sacred where this criminal was concerned?

‘Where’s your weapon?’ she demanded.

‘I don’t have one.’

Hmm. Annie squinted her eyes against the light. He definitely had something else in his hand. She cleared her throat, ‘Wh-what else are you holding?’

‘A carton of blackcurrant juice.’

Huh. So he considered himself some kind of joker, did he? Well, Annie wasn’t in the mood for jokes. This was no laughing matter.

‘Breaking and entering is no laughing matter,’ she huffed.

‘I couldn’t agree more. But I had a key.’ He stepped forward, into the pool of sunlight streaming in through one of the windows.

Annie could see him clearly now. And what she saw caused the breath to whoosh from her lungs, the sword and shield to flop to her side, and all her blood to rush to her head. Bathed in the golden sunlight he looked like some kind of Greek god; a tall, muscular, broad-shouldered Adonis in faded blue jeans and a navy V-necked T-shirt. For a few brief seconds she was rendered speechless. And senseless. And a lot of other things ending in –less that she really couldn’t think of at that particular moment. His jet-black hair, with just the hint of a wave, was dripping wet. He was obviously fresh from the shower. An image of him in the shower crashed into her mind, causing her already shaking legs to almost cave beneath her. She made a grab for the bannister in order to steady herself as she attempted to eradicate the image. His actual presence was unsettling enough. To add fantasy to the equation was really not helpful. He did, though, look vaguely familiar. Was this the man who’d asked her for directions earlier? So intent had she been on her running, she’d paid him scant attention. Which now seemed completely ludicrous. She must need her eyes testing. Badly. How else could she not have noticed those sculpted cheekbones, that strong stubble-covered jaw, and those twinkling dark eyes? Oh my God! She was practically salivating. Which was pathetic. And besides, he might have a key but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a burglar.

‘Are you a burglar?’ she asked. The question came out more like a strangled squeak.

He snorted with laughter. ‘No. Are you?’

‘Of course not,’ she snapped. ‘I’m the caretaker.’

‘I thought so.’ He nodded pensively, one side of his deliciously sensuous mouth curling upwards. ‘The uniform gives it away.’

Uniform? What uniform?

‘Would you, er, like a hand with your helmet?’ he continued, pointing to her head whilst plainly doing his utmost not to laugh.

Confusion engulfed Annie. ‘Wh-what?’

‘Your helmet.’

What on earth was he-? Oh no. She was still wearing the helmet from the suit of armour. As if she didn’t look ridiculous enough.

‘No thank you,’ she huffed. Swamped in mortification, she put down the sword and shield, placed a hand either side of the helmet and attempted to tug it off. It didn’t move.

‘Here, let me help.’

Before Annie had a chance to protest, he set down the carton of juice, and his long legs took the few strides necessary to bring him directly in front of her. He was so close she could smell his citrusy shower gel mixed with his own masculine scent. Through the gap in her helmet her eyes were directly level with the V of his T-shirt from which a few dark hairs were visible. She watched, mesmerised, as a drop of water fell from his head and landed on the bare skin at the V, before trickling down under the T-shirt. To her dismay, she had to summon every ounce of willpower not to slide her hands under the T-shirt to explore exactly where the drop had gone.

‘Ready?’ he asked.

Ready? For what? Surely he didn’t know what she was thinking. He couldn’t possibly mean-

Before she knew what was happening, in one deft movement he pulled the helmet from her head.

‘There you go.’ He handed it to her, then stepped back.

Annie attempted to ignore the bizarre wave of disappointment that engulfed her at the distance now between them.

‘Thanks,’ she muttered, avoiding eye contact, as a deep flush crept up her neck. What on earth was happening to her? She didn’t know what it was but she had to get a grip. Take control of the situation. Or at least try and control something – starting with the hurricane of lust that was swirling around her. She tilted up her chin and met his gaze. Bad idea! No sooner had she looked into his eyes than she immediately wished she hadn’t. They were exactly the same shade of navy-blue as his T-shirt, framed by long dark lashes and sparkling with humour. The devastating combination set off a swarm of butterflies in her stomach.

‘Look, maybe we should start again,’ he said, holding out his hand to her. ‘I’m Jake. Jake … Sinclair.’

Annie gawped at the large tanned hand. The thought of touching it made her dizzy. But she couldn’t just stand there like a plank.

‘Annie Richards,’ she said, aware of her blush deepening and a strange swirling sensation sweeping over her the moment she placed her hand in his. So light-headed was she, she thought she might swoon. Not that she made a habit of swooning. She had never swooned in her entire life. But perhaps that was because she’d never met such a devastatingly drop-dead gorgeous male in her entire life.

‘I’m an old friend of Jasper’s,’ he continued. ‘He offered me the use of the manor.’

Did he now? Well, trust Jasper to forget to tell her. Not that Annie was surprised. While Portia verged on the academically brilliant, her brother – despite an education costing more than the national debt of some countries – had never been the brightest bulb in the many Pinkington-Smythe chandeliers.

‘Have you, um, duelled with many burglars lately?’

Had she duelled with many burglars? Was that an attempt at humour? Because Annie really wasn’t in the mood for humour. She was too busy wading through her pit of mortification, searching for the exit sign. ‘Um, not many, no,’ she mumbled, tucking a wayward curl behind her ear.

‘So, if you’re the caretaker, you must live nearby,’ he continued.

Annie nodded. ‘In the gatehouse.’

‘Right. Nice and handy then.’

‘Very handy. Yes. Thanks.’

Thanks? Why was she thanking him? And why was he standing there looking so … so … gorgeous? And so … cool ? While she felt like a complete turnip. She glanced longingly at the door. She couldn’t just make a bolt for it. She’d have to make some attempt at conversation. She cleared her throat.

‘How long are you staying?’

She held her breath hoping it was just overnight. Or a couple of days. Or even until mid-week. She could cope with that. Probably.

‘Six weeks or so.’

Six weeks! Yet again Annie’s legs almost caved. She made another grab for the bannister. Six weeks. That was what? … forty-two days. Which would be – she did a quick mental calculation – approximately one thousand hours. Good lord. It was like … forever. He might as well have said “a whole month and a half”, because that’s what it equated to.