Page 13 of Undoing His Innocent Enemy (Hot Winter Escapes)

She was no more immune to these sensations than he was—which only made this situation more untenable, more volatile.

He turned back to the sketches for his new piece, tried to concentrate on them and block out the yearning starting to claw at his gut.

‘No camera,’ he said, in answer to the question he had managed to grasp in her stream of consciousness. He picked up the pencil. ‘Now leave.’

He heard her outraged gasp. But as he began to flesh out the wings of the eagle in the sketches for the new project, he waited to hear the sound of her retreating footsteps. They didn’t come.

Her voice, when she spoke again, had a steely quality he had to admire.

‘Congratulations, fella, you’ve just earned the title of the rudest eejit I’ve ever met. And I worked in a backpackers’ pub in Temple Bar for two years.’

His breathing released as he finally heard the pad of her footsteps retreating. The door to the workshop slammed shut. He shouldn’t turn around, shouldn’t look, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He tracked her through the glass walkway as she made her way back to the main house. His gaze devoured the sight of her through the swirling snow as she strode away—her head held high, her long legs eating up the ground—before she disappeared down the steps to the basement complex.

He threw down the pencil, the hunger surging through his veins.

He was unlikely to get much work done today. And from the look of the storm, which had been building all morning, they were going to be trapped together in the house for at least another twenty-four hours.

He frowned, annoyed all over again, as the unwanted desire continued to pump into his groin like wildfire. He thrust impatient fingers through his hair then glanced down at the prominent ridge in his sweatpants. He flattened his palm against the strident erection, to rub the rigid flesh through his clothing, furious that she had reduced him to this, and that any relief he found was likely to be temporary—until she was finally gone.

At least the storm would give him a chance to figure out the logistics of getting her back to Saariselkä without risking exposure. But concerns about how to do that took second place to getting her the hell out of his home, so he could control the desperate urge to touch her. Surely the fact that they did not like each other would help?

If last night had felt like the longest night of his life, the next twenty-four hours were going to feel like several hundred years.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘WHATAREYOUDOING?’

Cara turned from the stove, to see her reluctant host staring at her.

Surprise, surprise, he did not look pleased to see her in his kitchen.

She sighed and placed the wooden spoon on the counter, then brushed her palms on the tea towel she had tucked into the waistband of her leggings.

‘Making us supper,’ she said, trying to push her lips into some semblance of a smile.

Not easy when he was glaring at her again. But this time, she was prepared for that hard, intense, judgmental look. And determined not to let it

get to her.

She’d managed to find breakfast then taken a long nap in what she now considered to be her bedroom in the huge house. After that, she’d gone to check on her reluctant host. Once she’d ensured he was still ensconced in his workshop, she’d gone exploring.

The house had three levels and was scrupulously clean and tidy throughout. Almost as if no one lived here. There was a library full of books, in a number of different languages, all of them dog-eared and well read. She hadn’t managed to find anywhere to charge her dead phone, nor had she found any computer equipment. Which was just odd. Who lived so far from civilisation without benefit of the Internet? What did he do all day apart from read and work on his sculptures, and exercise? And how did he keep the house so clean, unless of course he had staff? But somehow she doubted that, because there was no evidence of anyone else ever having been here. And she’d noticed some kind of device busy remotely vacuuming the front parlour.

The storm had continued to rage outside for the entire day, until night had fallen about two hours ago in the middle of the afternoon.

Mr Grumpy had remained locked in his workshop the whole time. Maybe he had grabbed something to eat earlier while she’d been sleeping, but when she’d found a pantry just off the kitchen and a cold room full of frozen meat and fish, she’d had a brainwave.

She’d tried the stick. It hadn’t even put a dent in his determination to think the worst of her. So now she was going to try the carrot. Or rather the carrots, onions, leeks, potatoes, cabbage and meat of her mammy’s famous Irish stew, with a small twist, because the only unfrozen meat she’d found in the cold room were reindeer steaks.

For a moment, he was completely nonplussed by her statement. And she felt a strange pang in her chest. Not only did he appear to live here entirely alone, but she would hazard a guess no one had offered to cook him supper in a very long time.

Why that would make her feel momentarily sad for him she had no idea—given that the man practically hadLoner and Proud of Ittattooed across his forehead—but it did.

As much as she’d found her three older brothers a trial during her teenage years, because they’d always had their noses in her business, she had missed the energy and companionship of her big boisterous family once she had decided to set out alone to find her joy as a photographer. It was one thing about her chosen profession she could admit now she regretted—that she hadn’t had the time to return to Wexford and visit for over a year.

He cocked his head to one side, staring at the pot she had bubbling on the stove. Then that silvery blue gaze connected with hers again.

‘Why?’ he asked, sounding not just suspicious now but also confused.

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