Under His Skin

Opposites attract! Logan and Hope are fire and ice but can’t resist their off-the-charts chemistry. Will they both get burned? Find out in USA TODAY bestselling author Nicola Marsh’s latest sizzling romance down under...

Aussie construction king Logan Holmes never sleeps with clients. Especially not hoity-toity English girls wearing caftans and ordering soy chai lattes. But when Hope McWilliams hires him, he discovers they have one thing in common—chemistry hotter than the Australian sun!

Soon all Logan can think about is every sinful way he can pleasure her. And she’s offering and demanding more than he ever imagined. Exploring each other in the bedroom is one thing, but venturing into her café-culture, vintage-fashion world is more than he signed on for. What’s wrong with sports bars, anyway? Still, he has to admit spending time with the gorgeous music teacher is anything but dull!

Logan always moves on before things get serious, though. And he’s already planned his getaway. But suddenly he’s not so eager to hit the road. He knows he’s getting in too deep, and his heart is in serious danger, but something about Hope makes him want to stay when he should walk away...

Sexy. Passionate. Bold. Discover Harlequin DARE, a new line of fun, edgy and sexually explicit romances for the fearless female.

NICOLA MARSH is a USA TODAY bestselling and multi-award-winning author who loves nothing better than losing herself in a story. A physiotherapist in a previous life, she now divides her time between raising two dashing heroes, whipping up delish meals, cheering on her footy team and writing—her dream job. And she chats on social media. A lot. Come say hi! Instagram, Twitter, Facebook—she’s there! Also find her at nicolamarsh.com.

Under His Skin

Nicola Marsh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08690-5

UNDER HIS SKIN

© 2019 Nicola Marsh

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my very own tradesman, Martin,

who brings a smile to my face every day. Muah!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

EPILOGUE

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

LOGAN SHOULDERED OPEN the heavy glass door to the trendy café in inner Melbourne and froze.

He didn’t belong in this artsy-fartsy place.

Hipsters with wispy beards, rimmed glasses and tight clothes jostled for position alongside whip-smart professionals in designer suits, studying their mobile phones with the usual self-absorption. Garish art reminiscent of a kindergartener’s finger-painting dotted the walls, while muted jazz added to the cacophony of the baristas’ raised voices shouting out names for take-out double decaf soy lattes and spicy chais with extra cream.

His skin prickled with discomfort as he pushed up his rolled shirt sleeves and stepped inside. The comforting aromas of coffee, cinnamon and toasted sandwiches did little to ease his wariness as he scanned the packed tables.

He couldn’t see her.

It didn’t surprise him that Hope McWilliams would be late. She’d sounded hoity-toity on the phone and it had nothing to do with her posh British accent. An annoying mix of aloof and condescending, she’d insisted he be the one to quote the renovations to her music studio and not one of his subordinates. He could’ve blown her off. He should’ve. But his foreman had injured his back last week, meaning Logan needed to stick around town for another month before Rick was back on deck.

It pissed him off, being confined to this city when he’d rather be on the road. He’d built his construction company into one of the best in Australia and he’d done it by travelling the length and breadth of the country, ensuring his clients were happy with his sub-contractors. He trusted his team but he’d learned through sheer hard work and determination that being the boss didn’t entail delegation; he needed to take full responsibility for every job too.

A woman standing in the far corner of the café caught his attention; more precisely, her exaggerated arm-wave, making her look like a seaman waving in a fighter jet on a carrier. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed she must be beckoning him and he strode towards her through the ridiculously tiny tables. The closer he got, the more he could see: tall, slim, blonde, pretty. But it was the goofy kaftan thingy she wore that captured his attention most: pale pink, covered in music notes. Bizarre.

He stopped short of her table and stuck out his hand. ‘Logan Holmes.’

‘Hope McWilliams.’ She shook his hand tentatively, as if she didn’t want to get dirty.

That irked. It had been a few years since he’d been on the tools alongside his workers and he hated how narrow-minded people labelled men who worked with their hands as ignorant, grubby tradies. They took one look at steel-capped boots, shorts and a fluorescent work vest and immediately thought ‘Neanderthal’.

He didn’t like her supercilious stare either so he responded with a smirk. ‘Taking the music theme to extremes, huh?’

Her tight smile slipped as she sat and gestured at the seat opposite, a stupid, tiny wrought-iron thing that barely held his weight. ‘I’m a music teacher. It pays to advertise.’

Okay, so the ice princess had a sense of humour. He liked that. He could work with that.

‘From your email and our discussion on the phone, you’re looking to expand your current space into a custom-built recording studio?’

One imperious eyebrow rose, instantly adding to her air of superiority. ‘You don’t waste any time, do you?’

‘I’m here to give you a quote.’

‘We could have a coffee first?’

This time when she smiled, he almost reeled back. When she relaxed, her heart-shaped face transformed from severe to breath-taking. He’d tried not to notice her beauty when he’d first seen her, because that was another assumption some people made: that all tradesmen were lecherous creeps who wolf-whistled at any woman walking past a work site. So he’d practised showing no reaction other than politeness with women from the time he’d first picked up a hammer as an eager eighteen-year-old apprentice.

But with Hope staring at him with those wide green-grey eyes and her full lips parted in a genuine smile, his famed poker face slipped and he couldn’t help but gawk.

‘Coffee to go would be great.’ He stood, eager to get away from the disarming blonde. ‘I’ll get it.’

He’d taken a step before belatedly realising he hadn’t asked her what she wanted. ‘What would you like?’

‘A soy chai decaf, regular.’

Figured. He hated fancy fake coffee blends almost as much as pretentious cafés like this.

‘I’ll meet you out the front,’ she said, reaching for her wallet on the table.

‘This one’s on me.’ He held up his hand and walked away before she could argue.

His flaky father might not have given him much growing up but he’d instilled in him old-fashioned values about how to treat a woman, such as paying for meals or beverages, being respectful and active listening. Pity his old man hadn’t practised what he preached after he’d married.

It took a surprisingly quick five minutes for the barista to make their coffees and as he wound his way through the tables towards the door he spotted Hope waiting for him outside. It gave him time to study her and this time he reacted to more than her pretty face. His cock hardened as he realised that ugly kaftan ended mid-thigh, exposing glorious long legs, which were surprisingly tanned given her pale English skin. Smooth. Lean, with a hint of muscle, testament to a subtle strength, perfect for wrapping around him...

Fuck, what the hell was wrong with him? He didn’t ogle prospective clients, especially ones who made him feel inferior with a single glance.

Scowling, he bumped the door with his hip and backed out, carefully balancing the takeout cups. He didn’t think she’d be impressed if one drop of chai froth bubbled up onto the rim. He could smell the awful spicy blend and it tickled his nose.

‘Here you go.’ He sounded gruff and cleared his throat when she turned and flashed him another one of those smiles that made him stare.

‘Thanks.’ She took a sip, followed by a soft appreciative moan that made him want to shove her up against the nearest wall and see if he could coax a few more out of her.

Instead, he took a gulp of his straight black and burned his throat.

‘My place isn’t far from here. Shall we go look at it now?’

What the fuck? Why had she insisted they meet here and not at her studio if it wasn’t far?

Another thing he hated alongside frou-frou coffees, artsy cafés and glitzy inner cities: game-playing.

‘If you’re wondering why we didn’t meet there, it’s because I wanted to get a feel for you first.’ She laughed, a little self-consciously. ‘Not literally, of course, but websites and recommendations can be misleading and I wanted to see if you were the right man for the job before I showed you what I want done.’

He refrained from pointing out the obvious—they hadn’t really talked much yet so how did she know he was right for the job?—because her tone had taken on a husky edge and for an irrational moment he wondered what she really wanted done.

It wouldn’t be the first time horny women had confronted him on jobs before. First as a naïve nineteen-year-old, when he’d rocked up to a new house to check the kitchen cupboard installation and the home owner’s new girlfriend had greeted him at the door in a loosely belted robe which she’d proceeded to undo when he stepped inside. He’d bolted.

The second time he’d been a fully qualified carpenter on his first job, building a pergola for a rich couple in South Yarra. He’d been on a ladder in the back yard when the wife had stepped out of the pool house, naked, and invited him to take a swim. He’d been deferent and polite, but building that pergola had been the hardest job ever because she’d been a stunner with a body to match. Thankfully, he’d never forgotten his first boss’s advice—‘Don’t screw where you glue’—and it had served him well.

So what was it about this woman that had him forgetting liquid nails and contemplating nailing her?

‘It would’ve been easier to meet at your place,’ he said, sounding rude as he fell into step beside her. He tempered it with ‘So what is it you want done exactly?’

Her startled gaze flew to his and he bit back a chuckle. He hadn’t meant to sound remotely flirtatious but he needed to regain the upper hand, to show her that he jumped to nobody’s tune, so he’d lowered his voice, knowing she could misinterpret it. The fact she had meant one of two things: she was smart or she felt the unexpected buzz of sexual attraction too.

When he returned her stare, deliberately guileless, she tilted her nose in the air and picked up the pace. ‘I’ll show you when we get there.’

‘I’ll bet,’ he muttered, so softly she couldn’t hear, unable to stop a smug grin breaking through.

Not many women challenged him. Because he moved around a lot he dated sporadically, but never longer than a few weeks.

He never, ever, wanted to leave a woman waiting for him to come back, the way his mother had constantly, tragically, waited for his father.

‘Don’t you love Melbourne?’ She reverted to distant and cool as she gestured at the graffiti-covered walls they strolled past. ‘So many hidden gems like this.’

Personally, he didn’t get the appeal of the laneways that criss-crossed the city. Some Einstein had thought spraying a bunch of ugly murals and opening up dive bars, hole-in-the-wall cafés and boutiques with crazy clothes would spruce up the place.

‘It’s messy,’ he said, taking another gulp of coffee and ignoring her glare that read ‘you’re a Philistine’.

She didn’t speak after that so he filled the silence by whistling his football club’s song. That was one thing he did love about this city: Aussie Rules, and the North Melbourne Football Club in particular. He attended every game he could because for those all too brief few hours when the elite athletes kicked an oval ball around the field he remembered the one and only thing he had ever bonded over with his dad.

Stupid, he knew, but he didn’t hate easily. It was a wasted emotion. So he preferred to remember the good times rather than the bad. Eating pies and drinking soda while cheering for a long fifty-metre goal on the run rather than sitting at the kitchen window in their shitty two-bedroom weatherboard in the middle of outback Victoria, waiting for his dad to come home. Something Stephen Holmes had rarely done.

‘My place is just around the corner.’

He stopped whistling as they rounded the final block, wishing he hadn’t been thinking about his dad. It always made him tetchy and he needed to focus on giving the princess a quote then heading over the West Gate Bridge to Williamstown to oversee a new project.

‘Here we are.’ She threw her arms wide and he found himself glancing at a hint of cleavage before dragging his gaze towards the glass-fronted shop, the window filled with music memorabilia and an ornately scrolled Hope and Harmony etched across the top.

‘I take it the harmony angle refers to your music and not a twin?’

‘I’m an only child,’ she snapped, her curt response belied by a hint of sadness.

Great, he’d touched a nerve. This got better and better.

‘This is prime real estate.’ He pointed to the park opposite, flanked by apartments. ‘Inner city with the feel of suburbia.’

‘I like it.’ She shrugged, as though the fact a twenty-something woman could afford to teach music from an expensive place like this meant nothing. The fact that she wanted a quote on renovations meant she didn’t rent, she owned it, making it all the more startling.

Yeah, Hope McWilliams intrigued him, so the sooner he focussed on the job at hand the better.

‘The quote will work better if you show me around.’

He expected her to bristle again so her chuckle disarmed him. ‘The renovations I want done are out the back.’

She unlocked the door and punched in an alarm code before locking the door behind them. ‘Follow me.’

As they moved further into the shop, he couldn’t help but stare. The regular, square shop front opened into a hexagonal room that housed a grand piano, a cello and a drum kit. The wooden floorboards glowed, the walls were covered in framed sheet music and light poured into the room via an expansive skylight. His immediate impression was one of peace, and not many places made him feel peaceful these days.

‘You teach those instruments?’

‘No, I like the way they look in the room.’ She rolled her eyes and he barked out a laugh. Sarcasm. He liked that.

Her nose crinkled. ‘Sorry. It’s just that I’m tired of teaching and I want to do something more, hence the need for renovations.’

She opened the double wooden doors at the back, revealing darkness. ‘What I need you to build is through here.’

When she flicked a light switch, Logan gaped. If the hexagonal room was unique, this one was truly odd. Sandstone floor, three roughly concreted walls and one brick, scattered with mediaeval light sconces and a glass-domed ceiling with more cracks than a plumber’s convention.

‘I need this converted into a soundproof recording studio.’ She faced him, hands on hips, a worried frown slashing her perfectly shaped brows. ‘Is it doable?’

‘Anything’s doable.’

And there it was, the unmistakable flare of excitement in her eyes.

He hadn’t imagined it earlier.

She was into him.

Considering he hadn’t got laid since he’d arrived in Melbourne three weeks ago, ruffling the princess to the point of unravelling could be fun.

CHAPTER TWO

HOPE SILENTLY CURSED her fair English skin as heat surged to her cheeks.

Damn this man for making her feel more flustered than she had in years.

No man rattled her, not any more. She’d only been foolish enough to fall for a guy once before and the lessons learned seven years ago courtesy of her first—and only—love ensured she didn’t sweat the small stuff. What she’d endured with Willem, and the resultant fallout, had hardened her to the point of complete and utter cynicism.

Sure, she dated. She hadn’t completely given up hope of finding a genuine guy. But her in-built self-protective mechanism ensured that whenever a guy got too close she found herself picking faults, picking fights or being picky in general, doing whatever it took to sabotage the relationship. Not a great trait for finding any kind of lasting happiness; then again, Willem’s deliberate destruction of her naïve love meant she didn’t believe in anything long-term so it didn’t fuss her.

No man perturbed her; she didn’t let them get close enough. Yet Logan bloody Holmes, with his broad shoulders, smouldering blue eyes and cheeky grin, had made her discombobulated since the moment he’d strode into her favourite café as if he owned the place.

She’d first learned the phrase ‘sex on legs’ when she’d been fourteen, after smuggling a bag of illicit romance novels into her room. Nothing got past Mrs Folsod, the housekeeper, a woman who Hope assumed to have been an off-the-books operative for MI6 because the battle-axe had been that good at snooping and ferreting out secrets. But those fabulously eye-opening books had made it past the old bat and Hope had devoured them, savouring every saucy page. She’d learned a lot from those glorious books: the art of self-pleasuring, how raunchy sex could be beyond the boring sex-ed classes at the snobby private school she had attended and many intriguing terms, including the one that described Logan perfectly—sex on legs.

Muscly legs too, from what she’d glimpsed beneath his denim. The fabric outlined a sensational butt too. As for those forearms...corded with muscle, tanned, with a fine dusting of dark-blond hair the same colour as that on his head.

It looked as though he hadn’t had a haircut in a while, the shaggy surfer style suiting him, drawing attention to those cut cheekbones and jaw, accentuating the unique blue of his eyes. They reminded her of a Yorkshire sky on a perfect summer’s day, which was crazy, considering she hadn’t been home in five years.

‘Hope?’ He snapped his fingers in front of her face and she wrenched her attention back to him.

He’d said ‘anything’s doable’ in a tone so loaded with innuendo she’d clenched her thighs, like she had thirteen years earlier reading that first racy novel.

Sure her cheeks must be a fiery beacon to her embarrassment, she mustered a disinterested expression. ‘I want to know if you can turn this space into a state-of-the-art recording studio.’

When he grinned, she knew she hadn’t succeeded in fooling him and she almost sagged in relief when he stopped staring at her with those too-knowing eyes and glanced around the room.

‘This is one quirky space.’ He pointed to the cracked glass ceiling. ‘Looks like a few birds ended up with a headache up there.’

‘It was like that when I bought it.’

‘How long ago was that?’

‘About a month after I arrived in Australia, five years ago.’

‘Yet you still sound like the Queen.’

She laughed at his lame impression of a British accent. ‘I love living here but I can’t quite manage a “no worries, mate” yet.’

‘Takes practice.’ He winked and that heat in her cheeks spread to every inch of her yearning body.

God, it was embarrassing how long since she’d last had sex. One year? Two? She’d given up counting around the time she’d had her third putrid date via an online app one of her students swore by.

Her unintentional celibacy had to be the reason she wanted to push this rugged, sexy Aussie down onto the floor and mount him.

‘Are you okay?’

To make matters worse, he took a step closer, bringing him within touching distance. He smelled good too, like cut grass on a rainy day. Earthy. Wholesome. It made her wonder what he would taste like...