Undone By His Touch

How long since he’d held a woman close? Would he ever again?

‘No!’ Declan yanked his arm free, shoving her aside rather than feel the teasing brush of that rounded feminine form. ‘I can do it myself. Just show me the way.’ His other hand tightened around hers as frustration rose.

‘Very well.’

Without another word she stepped forward, leading him. Declan put his weight on his good foot, and then supported himself on the ball of the injured one.

She didn’t go too fast. Nor did she shilly shally and ask if he could keep up. It had taken him weeks to cure David of that and David was the best PA he’d ever had.

‘There you are. The chair is to your left.’ She took his left hand in hers and pulled him gently forward till he touched metal. ‘There’s the arm of it.’

She said no more but waited till he manoeuvred himself round and down into the seat.

‘If you wait a few moments I’ll go and get the first-aid kit.’

‘I’ve got nowhere else to go.’

There was an almost inaudible huff of sound, as if he’d surprised a laugh out of her. Then she was gone and he was alone.

He should be used to it now, this sense of isolation. Sometimes it grew so intense it morphed into a crawling fear that one day he’d be left so completely alone in the dark he’d never be with others again. A childish terror, but one that still woke him in the middle of the night, chest heaving and heart pounding as he reached out, clawing at the inky darkness that enveloped him.

Declan reminded himself that solitude was what he’d always come to the mountains for. A change from the hectic pace of his overloaded schedule. His usually overloaded schedule.

No longer. He’d had to delegate more to keep up, despite David’s assistance.

Anger, his ever-present companion, snarled in his veins—till he reminded himself he’d been the lucky one.

Instantly the familiar fog of regret and guilt enveloped him. His stomach twisted. He should be thankful to have survived. Yet he couldn’t convince himself it was for the best. His failure made this prison of blankness even more unbearable. If only he’d …

‘Here you are. I’ve brought the first-aid supplies.’ That voice again, cool and clear, yet with a richness that made him wonder what her singing voice was like.

‘You had no trouble finding me, then?’ Sarcasm was poor repayment for her assistance, but the caged beast that raged and growled inside demanded outlet. Declan’s usual means of using up excess energy—skiing, climbing and sex—were denied him.

Sex was possible, he supposed. He’d have to get someone like this efficient housekeeper to find and dial the numbers in his private directory. For a moment he diverted himself, wondering how she’d react if he asked her to ring his ex-lovers. Would she sound so prim and proper then?

But he couldn’t stomach the thought of sympathy sex. For that was what it would be.

Scorching anger churned in his belly. What woman would want him now?

He refused to be the object of anyone’s pity, grateful for the crumbs they deigned to dole out now he was so much less than he’d been. Even the doctors played that game, holding out the possibility his sight might return, though never guaranteeing it.

‘Your foot must be paining you after all.’ He heard her put something on the paving stones.

‘You know that for a fact, do you?’ He’d got tired in hospital of the staff dictating what was best for him and how he should feel. Till he’d discharged himself early and come here to recuperate in private.

‘I’m guessing. You’re cranky, but I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt in thinking there’s a reason for your tone.’

To his surprise, his mouth lifted in a twist of amusement that pulled unused muscles tight. He couldn’t remember smiling since the accident.

‘Where’s your sympathy for the poor maimed invalid?’

‘Probably the same place your manners are.’ She paused and lifted his foot carefully to place it on something cushioned. A towel on her lap? For some reason he rather enjoyed the idea of her kneeling at his feet.

‘Besides,’ she said as he felt gentle fingers touch his heel, ‘You’re not an invalid.’

Declan’s mouth tightened and his hands curled into fists. Great, just great: another happy-clappy optimist. Just like the last rehab worker.

‘What do you call this, then?’ he jeered, jerking a hand in the direction of his glasses.

‘Just because you can’t see doesn’t mean you’re an invalid. The man I saw doing lap after lap in the pool was fitter and more agile than most people I know.’ Her hold on his foot changed. ‘This may hurt a little.’

It hurt a lot, but Declan was used to pain now. Getting walking again on that bad leg had taken more guts and determination than anything he’d ever done. It had been harder even than turning his back on family connections when he was a kid determined to build a business his own way.

‘Most people can see what they’re doing.’ Was she deliberately obtuse?

‘Are you looking for sympathy?’

‘No!’ Not that. Just …

Hell. He didn’t know what he wanted. Just that he was tired of do-gooders telling him to look on the bright side.

‘Good.’ She pressed something to his heel. ‘This is just to stop the blood. I don’t think it needs stitches but I’d like the bleeding to slow before I dress it.’

‘You’re one tough cookie—is that it?’ For the first time he wondered what sort of person his housekeeper was. What had made her so cool and capable in the face of a growling employer who wasn’t fit company for anyone? ‘Are you trying to prove yourself to me?’

‘I’m simply trying to help so you don’t get an infection in this foot.’ Not even a hint of impatience in that controlled tone. For an unsettling moment Declan was reminded of his kindergarten teacher who’d had a way of quieting rambunctious little boys with just a look.

‘What are you smiling at?’

‘Was I smiling?’ He firmed his mouth into its habitual line.

‘This may hurt.’

Good. It might focus his straying mind.

Pain sliced through him as she applied antiseptic.

‘What do you look like, Ms Daniels?’

For the first time she hesitated. Intriguing.

‘Average,’ she said firmly.

‘On the tall side,’ he amended.

‘How do you know?’

Declan shrugged. ‘The way you fitted under my arm.’ He paused. ‘What else?’

‘Is this really necessary?’

‘Indulge me. Think of it as the job interview I never gave you.’

‘You’re saying my job’s in doubt?’ For the first time a hint of emotion coloured her voice. Panic?

He shook his head. ‘I’m not that unreasonable, just curious.’

He heard a huff of exasperation and then she was winding a bandage around his foot with deft movements that assured him she knew exactly what she was doing.

‘I’ve got light hair, light eyes and pale skin.’

‘Freckles?’ Why he bothered to tease when he couldn’t see her reaction he didn’t know. But despite her calm responses Declan felt her disapproval. It shimmered around him. Tired as he was of his own company and his limitations, even that was preferable to solitude.

How pathetic could he get? Taunting the woman because he was bored, bitter and defeated by the guilt that clung like a shadow.

‘Yes, as it happens. A few.’ Her voice dropped a little and he caught a husky edge as she snapped shut the first-aid kit.

Declan surged to his feet. ‘Thanks. Now, if you’ll just lead me to the edge of the pergola, I can find my way from there.’

Chloe stopped in the open doorway to the vast book-lined library. It had been updated with a state-of-the-art computer on the antique cedar desk and a phone that looked like it could hold conference calls to several countries simultaneously. Hand raised to knock, she paused at the sound of Declan Carstairs’ voice.

‘OK, David. There’s no help for it, you’ll just have to stay there. Don’t worry about it.’ Her employer thrust a hand back through his hair in a gesture of clear frustration. ‘No, don’t send one of the junior staff in the meantime. I don’t want anyone here gawping and …’ He hunched his shoulders. ‘Never mind.’

He turned and she caught his expression. His face was drawn with weariness. Lines etched the corners of his mouth and furrowed his brow. Then she caught a glimpse of his eyes and wondered with a jolt if it was tiredness or something akin to despair that shadowed his face.

The notion surprised her. He’d seemed so vibrant, so arrogantly in control just half an hour ago. Even as he’d been dependent on her to lead him and remove the glass from his foot, there’d been no question but that he’d been the one calling the shots, and not just because he paid her wages. The force of his personality made him dominate any situation.

‘No, I’ll just have to wait till you—’

He broke off and lifted his head as if scenting the air, his head swinging round inexorably to where she stood in the doorway.

Dark eyes fixed on her with an intensity that was unnerving.

Even knowing he couldn’t see her, Chloe had to resist the urge to straighten her neat skirt and blouse or lift a hand to ensure that flyaway curl hadn’t escaped again. Heat trickled through her veins and her skin flushed.

‘Call me later, David, and update me.’ He disconnected the call and stepped towards her, his eyes never wavering.

Was it an illusion that his gaze connected with hers? It had to be. Yet Chloe felt a strange breathlessness facing that hard, handsome face, as if he saw her with a clarity no-one else ever had.

‘Ms Daniels. How long have you been there?’ His voice dropped to a velvet-soft murmur that signalled danger.

How did he know she was there? She hadn’t made a sound. The hairs rose on the back of her neck at the idea he’d somehow sensed her presence.

‘Not long. I was about to knock but I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation.’

His mouth firmed and his nostrils flared as if with impatience. ‘In future make your presence known immediately. Given my … impairment, I like to know when I’m not alone.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Especially when I’m discussing business. I have a particularly delicate negotiation underway at the moment and I prefer to keep the details private. Understood?’

Chloe’s mouth pursed, holding in indignation. Did he think her a potential corporate spy?

‘Of course.’ Stung at his assumption she’d tried to eavesdrop, Chloe hastened to explain herself. ‘I came to find out if you’d like lunch soon.’

His mouth twisted. ‘What have you got planned for me? No, let me guess—coddled eggs and toast. Or soup. Soup is always good.’

Chloe frowned, her mind racing through the contents of the pantry and what she could make quickly from scratch.

‘If you like soup I could manage that.’

‘I don’t like,’ he growled, pacing towards her, close enough to block her view of the room and fill her senses with his presence. ‘I’m sick of bland food and being fussed over. The housekeeper the agency sent in your absence thought I needed cosseting to build my strength. If she’d had her way I’d have lived on omelettes and junket.’ He shook his head, lifting a hand to rub his stubbled chin.

Unwillingly Chloe’s eyes followed the movement, noting the hard, intriguing angle of his jaw and the line of his powerful throat. A faint citrus scent teased her nostrils and she wondered if he’d lathered himself with lemon soap in the shower. She swallowed. He hadn’t buttoned his shirt. It hung loose, revealing glimpses of taut golden skin and a smattering of dark hair.

Her breath stilled as she recalled him emerging from the pool: naked, wet and virile. Her mouth dried.

Horrified to find her gaze following a narrow line of dark hair to the top of his faded jeans, Chloe yanked her attention back to his face, her cheeks glowing.

Anyone less in need of building up she had yet to meet. He was all hard-muscled energy and husky, powerful lines. She’d never met a man so vibrantly alive. So confrontingly masculine. Her stomach gave a strange little shimmy just being close to him.

‘I hadn’t thought in terms of … building up your strength.’ Again her gaze strayed and she firmly yanked it back to his face.

Despite her embarrassment, amusement rose at the idea of trying to cosset this man like a child. The previous housekeeper must have had her work cut out trying to feed him invalid food. Had she really tried to serve him junket? Chloe wouldn’t have dared.

‘What was that?’ His brows arrowed down ferociously as if he’d heard the laugh she stifled.

‘Nothing, Mr Carstairs.’ She paused. ‘I’d planned chicken tikka-masala burgers with cucumber raita and lime pickle for lunch. But if that doesn’t suit …’

‘It suits perfectly. Suddenly I’m ravenous.’ For a moment the shadow of a grin hovered on his lips and Chloe had a shocking glimpse of how irresistible he must be in good humour.

If ever he was in good humour.

‘Clever too,’ he drawled. ‘Far easier for a blind man to handle.’

That observation, the little sting in the tail, robbed his earlier praise of warmth and left her deflated.

Was there anything wrong in trying to take his limitations into consideration? To realise it must be difficult chasing unseen food around a plate?

He made her consideration seem like condescension.

Her boss was frank to the point of rudeness, bad-tempered and graceless. He was nothing like his charmer of a brother.

A shiver whispered down her spine and she stiffened.

Chloe knew which brother she’d rather deal with. Declan Carstairs might be arrogant but …

‘I’ll have it ready in half an hour, then.’

‘Good.’ He turned away, took three uneven paces and put his hand down to the corner of the desk as if to reassure himself he was in the right place. It was a subtle move she wouldn’t have noticed except that her brain was busy cataloguing everything about him.

Instantly she felt a pang of sympathy. How hard it must be for an active man to adjust to a world he couldn’t see.

Perhaps his temper was understandable.

‘Before you go, Ms Daniels.’ She paused in the act of turning away. ‘Tell me, you did sign a confidentiality clause with your contract of employment, didn’t you?’

‘I did.’

‘Then you know the severe penalties for revealing private information about anything you see or hear in the course of your work.’

Chloe drew a deep breath, telling herself he was within his rights to check, just as he’d been to insist she sign such a clause before working for him. It had nothing to do with her personal integrity.

‘I understand that.’ Nevertheless her fingers curled tight.

‘Good. Keep it in mind. Because I’d have no hesitation in suing an employee who betrayed my trust if, for instance details of this current deal, or personal information about my life, were to appear in the press.’

Chloe’s hackles rose. Did he distrust all his employees on principle or just her?

That fragile stirring of sympathy withered, replaced by a belligerent determination to keep out of Declan Carstairs’ way. She didn’t need to listen to his provocation. She had enough on her plate with worry about Ted’s health and meeting the cost of his rehabilitation.

‘I’ve worked for celebrities in the past, Mr Carstairs. People hounded by the paparazzi every time they stepped outside.’ Her tone, more frigid than cool, implied they were far more newsworthy than he, despite the fact he was one of the country’s richest men. ‘None of them ever had complaints about my discretion.’

‘Really?’ One dark eyebrow arched provocatively.

‘Really. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr Carstairs, I’ll get on with lunch.’

Chloe immersed herself in the routine of keeping the house in tip-top condition. A magnificent sprawling place, it dated from the nineteenth century. Her favourite feature was the wide veranda with its vista of manicured gardens. The gardens led to the cliff edge that dropped sheer to the blue-green valley, which spread into the distance.

Built at a time when a rich man included a ballroom in his country retreat, the place was a pleasure to work in. Especially as a wing had been added with a modern kitchen and housekeeper’s suite.

She loved the gracious old home and didn’t mind that it took a lot to maintain. That gave her reason to avoid the corner study where Declan Carstairs spent his time.

Occasionally as she crossed the lobby she heard his rich baritone on the phone or chatting to his PA, David Sarkesian, who’d returned from Sydney. The sound of her employer’s deep voice made her quicken her pace lest he accuse her of eavesdropping for saleable gossip.

That insinuation still burned.

As did the suspicion that she enjoyed listening to the smooth rhythms of his voice for too much. The tingling awareness she felt in Declan Carstairs’ presence disturbed her. It reminded her that, contrary to everything she’d learned in the last six years, her libido hadn’t died with Mark.

She wished it had. She didn’t need that hot, edgy sensation low in her stomach when Declan touched her hand reaching for a plate. Or the breathless anticipation that caught her lungs when he spoke to her.

She even enjoyed the verbal wrangling that seemed to be part of daily life working for him. He never let an encounter go by without challenging, probing or teasing till she almost suspected he looked forward to provoking her responses.

At least it prevented her dwelling on memories of the last time she’d lived here, when her dream job had turned into a nightmare.

‘It’s over now. You need to put it behind you,’ she told her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Easier said than done when fragmented nightmares still shattered her dreams. That was why she’d forced herself to come in here, to what had been Adrian Carstairs’ suite.

Better to face the past squarely.

She’d learned that when she lost Mark years ago. The shock of grief, the unfairness of it, had kept her in denial for ages, trying to cling to a life that was past. It was only when she accepted the devastating blow that had stolen their dreams that she was able to move on.

Chloe swiped a cloth over the vanity unit.

‘The past is gone.’

When she lost Mark those words had been a lament. Now there was relief that the trauma of Adrian Carstairs’ frightening obsession was over. No matter how much she regretted his death, she couldn’t help feeling a sense of freedom that he’d never stalk her again. That his dangerous fixation was over.

She picked up her cleaning supplies and turned, only to walk into a wall of naked male muscle.

She was soft, lithe and warm as his arms instinctively closed around her. The unexpectedness of contact momentarily stunned Declan, but a second later his body was responding to the intimate contact.

Predictable, he supposed, since he hadn’t had a lover since well before the accident.

Yet why did his grip tighten when she moved to pull away? Surely not because he enjoyed the feel of her slender hand splayed across his bare chest? The gentle, almost phantom caress of her breath near his collarbone?

‘Ms Daniels, I presume?’ He forced himself into speech, covering his abrupt loss of control.

‘Mr Carstairs, I didn’t expect to see you here.’

There was a slightly breathless quality to her usually crisp voice as if he’d caught her out in some way.

He liked it.

Just as he liked the firm yet enticingly soft curves pressed against him.

This was Chloe Daniels, his sharp-tongued, no-nonsense housekeeper? She sounded young, but he’d supposed her voice was misleading. She was nothing like those sturdy, slightly frumpish women who’d staffed the various Carstairs properties in his childhood.

This woman was slim but curved in all the right places. ‘Luscious’ was the word that sprang to mind. His fingers tightened.

A familiar surge of frustration hit him: impatience that he couldn’t see her for himself. Anger at this disability. Damn his blindness! Would he ever be whole again? He’d been curious about her so long and now, holding her, he had more questions than ever.

‘I didn’t expect to find you here either. I thought I heard voices.’

No need to say the muffled sound of conversation from Adrian’s room had hit him like a sledgehammer blow to the heart. He’d dropped the shirt he’d taken off as he reached the head of the stairs and hurried here, nerves strung tight.

He wasn’t a fanciful man but to his guilt-ridden conscience, the sound of talking from Adrian’s suite had seemed portentous.

‘I was talking to myself.’ She sounded defiant rather than defensive, as if challenging him to make an issue of it. He was intrigued at this facet of his ever-practical employee.

‘Indeed?’

‘I’m sorry I disturbed you. I was just doing a quick clean.’

‘No one will be using the suite.’ He’d lost his taste for company the day he’d lost his brother.

‘I understand.’ She paused then added, her voice low, ‘I’m sorry about your brother, Mr Carstairs.’

‘Thank you,’ he said tersely, dropping his hands.

Familiar guilt swamped him—that he was here, alive, experiencing a surge of sexual interest for this woman, when Adrian was dead. He’d failed his younger brother.

He should have been able to stop him.

His stomach lurched sickeningly. They’d been close, despite their recent geographical separation. He’d been Adrian’s biggest supporter, the one Adrian had turned to when their parents had been busy with their business and charity interests.

But that counted for nothing. All that mattered was that last, irrevocable failure.

How had he let himself be persuaded by Adrian’s upbeat assurances? He should have come here sooner, not relied on phone and email during that vital phase of his new project. How could he not have known Adrian was in such despair?

‘Is there anything else, Mr Carstairs?’

Declan plunged a hand through his shaggy hair. He wished there was something else—something to distract him.

Work was no solace. It couldn’t ease the weight of remorse.

Nor could the search for the woman who’d used his little brother then tossed him aside when she found he’d lost his wealth. Her betrayal had driven Adrian to suicide. Any doubts Declan had about her guilt had been obliterated by the scrawled note David had found jammed in Declan’s desk. As soon as he’d recognised Adrian’s handwriting he’d told Declan, who’d insisted he read it aloud.

Neither had spoken of it since but the words were engraved in Declan’s memory: desperate words that confirmed Adrian’s unnamed girlfriend, the woman he’d been seeing those last weeks, had pushed him to the edge.

Yet the private investigator had turned up no clue to her identity. Where had she vanished to?

Declan’s mouth tightened. Adrian had always been the more sensitive one and, he realised now, more vulnerable. Declan felt impotent, unable to find the woman who’d destroyed his brother and make her face what she’d done.

He gulped down bitter regret, concentrating instead on the burning hate that sustained him when the burden of guilt grew unbearable.

Self-hatred for not saving his brother.

Hatred too for the woman with red-gold hair and come-hither green eyes in the photo his brother had shown him so proudly. A photo so candid it was obvious he’d taken the shot in bed. The woman had lain sprawled in abandon, as if sated from love-making. Golden light had bathed her, giving her the aura of a languid sex goddess inviting adoration.

And Declan had felt a shot of pure, unadulterated lust blast through him at the sight of her.

Remembering made him sick to the stomach, as if he’d betrayed his brother with his response to the woman Adrian had loved. The woman who’d driven Adrian to fatal despair.

Between them they were responsible for Adrian’s death.