‘Good—it’s supposed to be cold. Stay in there until you can walk in a straight line unaided and tell me your name and date of birth. I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready.’

* * *

Her hand shaking, Flora rummaged through his fridge and found a packet of fresh coffee. She spooned a generous quantity into a cafetière and topped it up with hot water.

Then she sat at the table, listening to the rushing sound of the shower.

He was taking a long time.

Was it safe to have left him there? Had he drowned?

Or maybe she’d totally misread the situation and he was spending a long time in there in the hope that she’d give up and go home.

Her nerve faltered and she caught her lower lip between her teeth.

What on earth did she think she was doing?

He was absolutely right. She wasn’t the sort of woman who stripped off and issued invitations to men. Neither was she the sort of woman who made coffee for a man while dressed in silk underwear.

With a whimper of panic she was just about to sprint back into the sitting room and retrieve her coat, when he walked into the kitchen. He’d knotted a towel around his waist but droplets of water still clung to the dark tangle of curls that shadowed his chest. His shoulders were broad and powerful and his arms strong and muscular. He had a body designed to make a woman think of nothing but sin, but what really caught her attention was the look in his eyes. Lazy, sexy and ready for action.

Her nerve fled completely and she decided to follow. ‘Coffee on the table,’ she muttered as she backed towards the door.

A hand shot out and closed around her wrist, his fingers like bands of steel as he yanked her back towards him. ‘Oh, no, you don’t.’ His voice was cool and rock steady. ‘You told me to shower. I’ve showered.’

‘You can’t possibly have sobered up that quickly.’

‘I was never drunk.’

She stared at him. ‘I saw the bottle.’

‘I admit I considered it. That’s how low I felt.’ His eyes held hers for a long moment. ‘But if there’s one thing that being around my father taught me, it’s that drink solves nothing. I was about to pour it down the sink when you walked in.’

‘You smelt of alcohol.’

His smile was faintly mocking. ‘When you took your coat off, I spilled most of it.’

Her heart thumped as she re-examined the facts. He hadn’t been drunk. He’d been sober. She swallowed hard, all her courage leaving her. Somehow her belief that he was drunk had made him less intimidating and now, knowing that he hadn’t touched a drop, she felt suddenly shaky.

‘I should probably leave now. I’ve just remembered that I—’