Until He Met Meg (4 page)

She wondered if Bryce Carlton had siblings. At a guess she would say not. There was an air of separateness about him, of isolation. As though he was used to being alone.

Meg fought against the spurt of sympathy. Bryce’s state of being was none of her concern.

‘Were you able to reach your friend?’ The query seemed loud in the silence that had lengthened between them.

‘I’m afraid not,’ Meg answered. ‘If you don’t mind I’ll try again in a few minutes.’

‘And if she’s still not home?’

If it made any sense at all, Meg would have sworn he sounded angry. ‘I suppose I’ll call another taxi.’

‘And use your last dollar getting home,’ he concluded gruffly.

With astonishment Meg realised he
was
angry. She whirled on him. ‘So? What’s that to you?’

‘You should have let me pay for your trip home when I offered.’

‘I’m sorry my aversion to taking charity from strangers has inconvenienced you.’

‘You’re not inconveniencing me.’ His jaw set in a way that belied his statement. ‘I simply think your pride has gotten in the way of your common sense.’

‘And I’m obviously in
your
way,’ Meg deduced. ‘I suppose I’ll call another cab right now and get it over with.’

As she reached for the phone Bryce’s hand came forward to stop her. His touch warmed her chilled skin in a way she found far too pleasurable. Yet short of assaulting him she could do nothing to escape the contact. She stood and felt the waves of heat purl through her as she stared up into his scowling face.

‘You’re still freezing,’ he noted after a long moment that crackled with an unsettling awareness. His voice seemed to have dropped an octave. ‘Why did you take off my jacket?’

Meg had to swallow before she could respond. Still, her voice sounded scratchy to her ears. ‘I could hardly keep it, could I?’

He stared at her a long time, his dark eyes studying each curve of her face. His perusal was intense, yet not entirely flattering. Meg felt as though her features were being catalogued, rather than admired. Annoyance rose swiftly, blessedly providing strength when it was needed. ‘Find anything interesting?’ she inquired, echoing his words of before.

His scowl deepened, became a glower. ‘I’m sure you’re aware of how attractive you are.’ He released her arm and abruptly turned away. ‘I’ll start a fire.’

Oh, she was aware of how attractive she was all right. Passably so on a good day, in her opinion. A little short of that in his, apparently. Meg tried not to be stung by his dismissive attitude, focusing instead on his actions as he struck a long match to the kindling already in the hearth. Flames licked the wood, sending amber light into the otherwise sombre room, creating instant sunshine.

He glanced at her and indicated the chair closest to the fire. ‘Sit down would you? I’ll get you something to drink.’

His bossy tone abraded her rebellious side, well honed from years of fighting similar officiousness from her father. But the heat emanating from the fireplace was too tempting an invitation to refuse for the sake of defiance. Meg sank into the chair and held her hands gratefully toward the flames, sighing as the heat began to penetrate her body.

A moment later Bryce proffered a tumbler of honey-coloured liquor. Meg took it from him and sniffed the contents, guessing it was brandy. She swallowed a mouthful and promptly gagged as the potent fluid hit her throat. ‘What is this stuff?’ she rasped.

‘This “stuff” is twenty-year-old cognac.’

‘Crikey. Didn’t you have any new booze?’ The look of horror on his face was worth him thinking she was an ill-bred hick. She let out a giggle as she took another swig of the alcohol. ‘I had you there, didn’t I?’

His lips twisted, fighting with his bad mood. Eventually his amusement won and Meg was rewarded for her goofiness with his slow, breathtaking smile and the appearance of that surprising dimple. ‘You have a way of keeping a man on his toes, Meg Lacy. I have to say it’s as delightful as it is bothersome.’

Meg fought her own inner battle with her emotions. She tried to focus on the ‘bothersome’ comment and get annoyed but the delightful part kept getting in the way. Her heart picked up pace, pushing her liquor-fuelled blood around her body with such force she thought she might pass out. Pushing out a breath, she sank further into her chair and tried to hold on to consciousness as the room swirled around her.

Immediately Bryce was bending over, staring into her face. ‘Are you all right, Meg?’

‘Fine. I just…’
I just swooned is what. You called me delightful and I need a paramedic.
‘I skipped lunch is all. I’m feeling a little woozy.’

His frown made a hasty return. So hasty Meg was left wondering if she’d imagined that gorgeous, affectionate smile. ‘For god’s sake woman. Don’t you know how to take care of yourself?’ He put a hand to her forehead and muttered something under his breath. Then he took the tumbler of cognac from her fingers and stalked to his desk.

‘I can take care of myself just fine.’ But Meg felt sleepy, sleepier than she’d ever felt. And she suspected her voice slurred when she asked, ‘What’re you doing?’

His voice was clipped with annoyance. ‘I’m calling a doctor.’

She tried to shake her head but a jagged pain limited movement. ‘Don’t need one,’ she insisted. All she needed was a little sleep. A short cat-nap in this warm room by this warm fire would have her right as rain.

Just a teeny-tiny nap…

***

Bryce put down the phone and turned to see Meg Lacy fast asleep in his favourite armchair. The spurt of frustration he felt was quickly becoming commonplace. She was a rather frustrating woman. The more tender emotion that accompanied it was less familiar and infinitely more disconcerting. He felt a wayward compulsion to protect her, to take care of her as she obviously wasn’t taking care of herself. Skipped lunch indeed. No wonder half a glass of cognac had knocked her out.

He moved to crouch beside the chair. Touching her seemed a dangerous proposition at best, given the way his blood had heated moments ago when he’d foolishly grabbed her arm, but he had to be sure she was all right.

He brushed his knuckles over her face, ignoring the way the contact made his fingers tingle. When she didn’t stir he gave her cheek a light tap. ‘Meg, wake up.’ She murmured and burrowed further into the chair. Her tongue poked out to wet her lips and Bryce found himself entranced by the action.

Good God, she couldn’t stay here. But what were his options? Casting her out into the rain seemed cruel. She was obviously exhausted, and her temperature seemed high. He wouldn’t feel at ease until his family doctor had arrived to check her over. Once she had been given a clean bill of health he could order a car service to take her home.

And in the meantime, she couldn’t stay where she was. Her clothes were damp and she was going to get a crick in her neck from leaning on the arm of his chair. He’d have to move her to a bed and find her something dry to wear.

Which meant he’d have to take her clothes off.

Good god. She could
not
stay here.

Even as his mind reiterated the thought, Bryce found himself gathering Meg in his arms and rising to his feet. She felt as though she weighed little more than his daughter but he was intensely aware of her womanly shape pressed against him. Especially when she sighed with pleasure and snuggled closer to his chest, clutching his shirtfront in her slim fingered hand. Her soft breathing teased his flesh through the material.

Bryce’s pulse quickened as his hands flexed convulsively. He’d been too long without a woman, obviously, if he was reacting physically to a bedraggled, unconscious one.

Chastising himself as ten kinds of fool, he strode from the study with Meg in his arms.

Something was trying to tug Meg out of the deepest, most restful sleep she had had in ages. She grumbled and swatted at whatever seemed to have a hold of her sleeve. But the tugging wouldn’t stop, and eventually Meg forced her eyelids to lift.

She saw eyes, huge and dark, staring back at her and a mass of curly, chestnut hair surrounding a heart-shaped face. Meg muttered a confused query. ‘What…what happened?’

‘You fell asleep.’ The voice was full of scorn.

‘Where am I?’ Meg looked around, perplexed. She didn’t recognise the room. It was all heavy timber and lacy blue linen. Gauzy white curtains abutted a tall, narrow window. Through the glass Meg saw water so intensely azure it almost blinded her. A moment later she recognised the distinctive coat hanger of the Harbour Bridge and the unique white sails of the Opera House.

Her room had a view of the 7-Eleven across the road, not of Sydney Harbour. Meg knew she wasn’t at her flat even before the little girl answered. ‘You’re at
my
house.’

Recollections started filtering into her sleep fogged brain. Yesterday. Job-hunting, the rain. The taxi. Bryce Carlton.

Bryce Carlton!

Meg turned back to the little girl and gaped. ‘Phillipa?’

Phillipa rolled her chocolate eyes. ‘Who else?’

‘Oh my god.’ All of a sudden Meg was fully awake. ‘Is it really morning?’

Phillipa crossed her arms over her puny chest and stared at Meg with a mingled expression of curiosity and disdain. ‘It’s seven thirty.’

‘Oh. My. God.’ She’d fallen asleep in Bryce Carlton’s house? Frantically Meg searched her memory for the sequence of events. The last thing she recalled was Bryce giving her that throat-burning drink. The twenty-year-old cognac. She’d felt so tired, so warm for the first time that day. His chair had been so comfortable.

‘Oh my
god!
’ It couldn’t be true! She wouldn’t have done something so outlandish. But it had to be — there was no other explanation.

She’d collapsed in Bryce Carlton’s den.

And she’d spent the night in his house.

With a squeal of alarm Meg pushed back the warm covers and shot out of bed. ‘I can’t believe this. I have to get out of here.’

‘You can’t stay here.’

Through her panic Meg felt a twinge of annoyance. ‘I already said that, didn’t I?’

Phillipa eyed her with the kind of menacing expression that belonged on a much older person. ‘I was just making sure we understood each other.’

A laugh bubbled up in Meg’s chest and she realised she was close to becoming hysterical. ‘Is your dad here?’

‘He’s in the kitchen. He wants to see you.’

Meg gulped. ‘He does?’

‘That’s what he said. “Go downstairs Phillipa and see if Miss Lacy is awake. Then please tell her I’d like to see her”.’

‘Oh, no.’

‘Oh, yes.’

They eyed each other across the expanse of the queen-sized bed. Despite her state of shocked mortification, Meg felt it important not to let her distress be so obvious to Phillipa. She pasted a bland expression on her face. ‘Well, I shall have to go see him, won’t I?’

She marched out of the room without a further word, Phillipa trailing close behind. She discovered a staircase leading upward and resolutely ascended it, determined to appear cool and calm when she faced her unwitting host.

That resolution flew out the window when she became aware, much too late, of what she was wearing. A pyjama shirt in silky soft black satin. A
man’s
pyjama shirt, that billowed off her thin frame like a circus tent.

It had to belong to Bryce.

The realisation did terrible things to her equilibrium. As she reached the top of the stairs, she tripped, tumbling gracelessly onto her hands and knees on the hard marble tile.

A pair of black leather shoes came into her line of vision. They were polished to a mirror shine, and she could practically see her growing humiliation in the finish. ‘Good morning, Meg.’

‘She’s wearing purple knickers.’

‘Phillipa!’ Bryce admonished as Meg scrambled to her feet. Could this possibly get any more mortifying? ‘Apologise to Meg.’

‘But her knickers
are
purple Daddy!’

‘She’s right,’ Meg agreed in an effort to stop the whole terrible conversation. ‘My knickers are purple. No harm done.’

With a monumental effort she met Bryce Carlton’s eyes. His gaze wasn’t on her face, but on her body, his expression so grim it bordered on thunderous. Meg tugged at the hem of the pyjama shirt, instinctively drawing it lower over her thighs. Fortunately Bryce was tall, his clothing huge. There was little chance he could confirm the colour of her underwear.

Yet Meg’s horror mounted when the truth hit her. He must have already seen her in her undergarments. How else had she gotten out of her clothes and into his pyjamas?

Her face flamed so hotly Meg knew it must be glowing red. She wanted to die right there on the spot, or at least fall into unconsciousness again, as she had last night. Anything to escape the embarrassment of standing here while Bryce eyed her like a street urchin who’d slinked into his house and stolen his sleepwear.

Not an entirely inaccurate assessment of the situation.

‘You must want your pyjamas back,’ she blurted.
Good one Meg. Focus his attention even more on your attire.

‘Certainly not.’

He appeared so stricken by the idea that Meg hastened to add, ‘I didn’t mean right
now.
’ Her gaze skidded off him, landing on a painting hanging beside them, an oil colour of Sydney Cove as it would have appeared a century ago. She muttered, ‘Not that you haven’t seen enough already.’

It took him only an instant to grasp her meaning. ‘Doctor McTavish changed your clothes last night.’

‘He did?’

‘Well…he asked for my help. But I averted by eyes.’

‘You didn’t…’ Meg cleared her throat. ‘See me in my purple knickers?’

‘Of course not.’

Of course not.
He hadn’t even been tempted to take a sneaky glimpse apparently. As relieved as she was, Meg couldn’t help feeling a little affronted. So he was probably spoiled for beautiful women who all wanted to show him their underwear. Surely even her less-than-voluptuous figure deserved an involuntary peek?

Abruptly, Bryce cleared his throat. ‘There’s some breakfast for you in the dining room.’

‘Daddy,’ Phillipa interjected with thinly concealed impatience. ‘I need you to help me get ready for school.’