The Boat Builder's Bed (2 page)

“Sometimes those who want don’t get, and vice versa,” she hazarded, catching sight of her reflection in the corner window and attempting to drag her fingers down through her tousled hair to return it to some sort of order. Lord, she looked a mess!
 

But why would a woman not want children from Rafe? They’d be beautiful—dark-haired, dark-eyed—and as for making love with him to conceive them... The thought simply fried her brain.
 

Sophie flicked a glance up at his hard-planed face.
 

He returned her gaze very directly for a moment, then hitched his impeccable trousers up at the knees and hunkered down to attend to the broken sign.

His expensive suit fabric threatened to make contact with her newly-oiled hardwood floor. A wave of panic washed through her. What if his trousers were ruined? She zipped out to the washroom and grabbed an old navy blue towel.

“Kneel on this,” she begged. “I didn’t finish that until yesterday.”

“
You
oiled the floor?” He gazed around the studio with more attention.

“I did everything. It’s a bit smaller than I wanted, but the location’s good—right in the heart of the design district.”

“You painted it too?”

“Mmm. Hired a portable scaffold, bought the paint and oil, and just went for it.”

“It’s come up well.” He stroked a finger over the glowing floorboards and then rose lithely to his feet. Sophie waited, on edge for his opinion.

His dark eyes wandered around the airy space.
 

“Dangerous doing it on your own—a little thing like you.”
 

She saw him calculating the height of the lofty ceiling, and decided to ignore the comment about her size. She was a perfectly adequate five feet five. He was somewhere over six feet.

“Couldn’t afford to pay anyone,” she admitted. “It was terrifying to start with, but I tried to be very careful. I needed to conserve my funds for professional sign-writing and things like that...”
 
She trailed off as his gaze came to rest on her face again.

“And a chandelier?” His eyes held hers for seemingly endless seconds, and she looked away and swallowed before she could speak again.
 

“No—pure luck. I found most of it here in an old box. I thought it was too good to waste, so I gave it a clean and bought some extra glass beads from the craft shop and...sort of strung them around.”

Why am I telling him this? He can afford anything in the world—he doesn’t want to know about my scrimping.

“It’s a pretty touch,” he agreed, gazing up at the spangles of white light and rainbows of pale apple green and aqua dancing on the fresh sunlit paint. “Quite grand for a girl on a budget.”

Is he teasing me?

Sophie stole a sideways glance at him as he stood in her private space—tall, swarthy-skinned, with an unnerving air of absolute authority. Anyone else in a snowy shirt and a black Armani suit would look ridiculous grasping a chunky power-tool. In his large hand it seemed perfectly acceptable.
 

“Nice toy for a ‘boy’,” she countered, indicating the drill and wondering where her courage had come from.

“Points to you.” A sudden smile softened his austere face. “Why did you put your work-table so far back? It looks professional. People would like to see you in action.”

She shook her head and tried to sound sensible. Sensible? Most of her was acutely on edge, and her head felt filled with fog.

“No—I can plug my lamp and computer in back there. And I really didn’t want to feel like a goldfish in a bowl. I thought it was more important to have the fabrics and mood-boards where people could see them, anyway.”

He nodded, and began to pace past the wall-mounted boards with their glossy photos and small samples of paint-colors, carpet, tile and fabric.

“I recognize that. It’s one of Faye’s.” He stabbed a finger at a photo of a silver and white dining room.

“About half of them are Faye’s. Her clients, but absolutely my ideas and execution.” Sophie lifted her chin and stared him down.

He sent her another devastating grin. “Don’t be so touchy.”

“I worked damned hard on those projects.” She took a deep breath and released it slowly, not wanting to sound annoyed and nervous when she needed to appear calm and organized.

“They look good,” he agreed, flourishing the drill at the beautiful interiors. “Where are your fabrics going?”

Sophie raised her eyes to the ceiling. “That’s the next job I need to do. I’ve got some display lengths for up there.” She indicated a row of six high chromed curtain rods suspended on nylon cords.

He glanced up at the rods, then down to her.
 

“Not in those shoes. I’ll do them for you.”

“
What?”

“By way of a trade. I presume you have a ladder somewhere if the scaffold’s gone?”

“Out the back,” she agreed in a small voice.

“So I’ll hang your fabrics to save you breaking your neck.”

Sophie decided she could forgive his arrogance because she hadn’t been looking forward to that job. It had been hard enough getting the screw-eyes into the ceiling and the rods sitting evenly. But accepting his assistance felt strange because she was unused to anyone offering help.

“And what’s the trade?” she asked, narrowing her eyes because she knew from long experience nothing was truly free.

“You visit the house with me this morning and see what you can come up with.”

Hell—he wasn’t joking!

“It’ll take more than a morning, and I charge an hourly fee.”
 

Privately she thought she’d almost be willing to work without payment to include such a prestigious job in her portfolio.

“Naturally.”

She gathered more courage together. “Can I offset my first consultation against the cost of fixing your car? It would really help with my startup expenses.”

“Forget the damn car. Insurance will cover it.”

“You said I’d be paying.”

“Well, pay me with this consultation if that makes you feel better, but there’s no need.”

She said a silent prayer of thanks, then he added, “And come to lunch with me. It’s a business thing. Faye will probably be there. But you’re younger than her, you’ve cut yourself loose from her apron-strings, and you might enjoy rubbing her nose in it. I know I would if I were you.”

Lunch with Rafe Severino, just like that?
 

“No.” She pitched her voice flat and determined. “I won’t be the meat in your matrimonial sandwich if that’s what you’re suggesting. You’re not using me to get back at her for something that’s none of my business.”

She heard him draw a sharp breath.

“There’s no ‘matrimonial sandwich’ as you so charmingly put it. That’s long done with.” He glanced back at the mood-boards. “But I need a decorator instead of Faye. I’d quite like her to know she was easy enough to replace.”
 

“So I’m the easy option?”

“A damned prickly option so far. I’ve offered to mend your sign, hang your fabrics, let you loose on the best new house in the city, and buy your lunch. I’m not asking for anything in return.”

“Good, because you won’t be getting anything.”
 

Then a flood of embarrassment rushed through her, and she clenched her hands together in front of her breasts. What would he think she meant by ‘anything’?
 

“Sorry,” she added in a small voice.

“Opening day nerves?”
 

“I didn’t mean to sound so rude.”

To her annoyance he burst into deep husky laughter.

“Yeah, well I did get a glorious mental picture of what ‘anything’ might include, but...”

“No, I wasn’t thinking that at all.”

“Whatever
that
was.” He reached across and touched her hair, re-positioning one long strand. Hot little waves instantly skittered down her spine, and a slow insistent throbbing invaded her panties.

“Leave it please.”

He took no notice and stayed standing too close, running his fingers right to the end of it. “You need to tie it up when it’s windy. Great hair though.”

Sophie managed a nod of thanks and backed away, face burning.

 
“I’ll leave your sign until later,” he added. “I’ve no screws the right size here, so I’ll get something better from the guys at the house while you have your look around.” He set the drill back in his toolbox. “Do you have some more sensible shoes, or do we collect them on the way?”

Sophie tried to damp down the sensations racing through her body by switching her mind to the old paint-spattered trainers hidden in the washroom. She could imagine how silly they’d look with the floaty-paneled blue designer skirt she’d found at the Labels Live Again shop.

“Yes, of course,” she said, trying for cool and competent. “But I put this skirt on for the opening. It’s hardly suitable for a building site. If we could call in to my apartment on the way I’ll change into trousers.”

“Lead me to your fabrics, then.”

So he was serious? She watched as he shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it onto the low settee that ranged along one wall below the mood-boards. Did it look good enough in the studio? It was a thrift-shop find disguised by one gloriously extravagant throw and two others of much more humble origin. She’d sewn four cushions from deleted silk samples, trimmed their corners with real feather tassels, and arranged them against the throws.

“I’ll get the ladder,” she said over her shoulder, heading for the dank washroom before he could see what a mess it was. “It’s those bolts of fabric by my work-table.”
 

He insisted on taking the stepladder from her the moment she re-appeared, so she took over unrolling the length of fabric he’d started on.
 

“This is very kind of you,” she finally acknowledged, ashamed of her less- than- gracious reaction to him. “I could put my other shoes on, you know.”

“I’ve got a bit more reach than you, and I’m used to ladders and heights. I just throw this over the rod, do I?”

“Ummm—not quite. See those little clippy things? Fold the raw edge in and squeeze the top of the fabric into them.”

He climbed until his glossy shoes were level with her face. Sophie looked up to admire the graceful folds of her soft taupe linen, and instead found her eyes riveted on a pair of long masculine legs. The trouser fabric pulled taut as he stretched. She could easily imagine the muscles of his hard sinewy thighs and tight butt.

Higher, his fine white cotton shirt spanned powerful shoulders.
 

And all that beautiful man might be available.
 

No longer involved with his talented wife he’d asked
her
out to lunch. Was it possible he had no other current woman in his life?
 

Not likely
, she thought with sudden derision.
He’s a magnet to women, especially if he’s separated now.
Why would he want Sophie Anne Calhoun with her thrift-shop clothes and paint-speckled hands when he could choose anyone in New Zealand—or the whole world? He’s asked me to lunch for one reason only. To annoy Faye.

So she decided she’d harden her heart and not be the least bit impressed by him. The only time she’d ever mixed business with pleasure had been disastrous; it had led to the birth and ultimate shattering loss of little Camille. No way in hell would she make another mistake like that.
 

Rafe Severino could be a huge and profitable source of business, but that was all. She’d allow herself just this one indulgent moment and then banish the warm rush of possible pleasure from her mind.

Possible?
Guaranteed pleasure, surely? To be kissed by that mouth, caressed by those long capable fingers, covered by such a prime body?

As he clipped the length of fabric up, Sophie watched him and unconsciously licked her lips.

CHAPTER TWO

“Something like that?”
 

“Fine.” She cleared her throat. “Shall I hand you up the next one?”

“I’ll move the ladder.” He stepped down beside her and lifted it sideways.

“You’re faster at it than I would have been.” She unrolled a length of sheer gold and cream striped voile. “Be careful with this—it might snag.”

Rafe smiled, undid his belt buckle, pulled the black leather strip from his trousers, and tossed it onto the sofa with his jacket. “Can’t have that, can we?”
 

Sophie’s eyes widened as he removed his square cuff-links and gold Rolex, and turned his sleeves back on themselves several times.

“Stop that!” she finally exclaimed.
 

“Nothing sharp left now,” he said, smiling broadly and extending his hands towards her as though she was a school-teacher doing fingernail inspection.

“I’m sure you’re safe.” The desperate squeak in her voice indicated it was far from the truth. The man was hurling sex all around her new studio. She wanted to bite his beautiful arms. How ridiculous!

She thrust the length of voile towards him and stood well out of his way, knowing nothing about him was the least bit safe. He gave her dangerous thoughts, and made her hot and bothered, and now he was
flirting?
 

Rafe Severino—teasing me? Doing a sexy little striptease, sending me his big-bad-wolf grin and making me feel far too warm?
 

She set her hands on her hips and pushed at her back with her fingers. Yup, her spine was still there.
 

Well come on then, stiffen up, spine! I need to think of him as a great source of business and forget any other ideas about him. Help me here...

She watched his long legs as he climbed, and some wicked little brain-demon started stripping his clothes away.
 

Okay, just a few more moments of indulgence.

“Do you do any sailing?” He’d braced himself high up the ladder again.

Sophie tried to banish her picture of long tanned legs dusted with dark hair, a smooth muscular back, and rippling shoulders. And gathered her scattered thoughts together to remember the endless to-and-fro inter-island ferry trips she took every single Sunday to see Camille.