His skin tightened as he thought of her mouth. It was that fever again—he wished his extreme emotions would ease. Except, regarding Merle Jordan, they weren’t really emotions. They were hormones. Sheer, mere, lust. But part of him welcomed the warmth of it. For all the partying, he’d been feeling cold these last few months. He’d attributed it to too much of the same game as always—long work hours, jaded social scene, easily won escapades. Boredom, in other words.
Merle Jordan wasn’t boring. Merle Jordan wasn’t like anyone he’d ever met. A very serious, homeless archivist.
By the late afternoon he was out of patience to wait any longer for when and how she might appear. He strode to the study, where he knew she’d set up her archival operation. He blinked as his eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight outside. He avoided looking at the cardboard box open on the floor, nor did he glance at the papers spread on the large table. He still wasn’t ready.
Merle was standing by the table, a page in hand, staring at him, and he stared right back because what was she wearing? The white inspection gloves on her hands he could understand, but those coveralls? Akin to a hazmat suit, they enveloped her completely, only instead of white or blue or high-vis neon, they were all black. They were, without doubt, the most shapeless sack he’d ever seen.
‘Is something wrong?’ she asked nervously.
He could still only stare. Beyond the suit her skin was as luminous as he’d remembered and he lost himself in her dark brown eyes. They reminded him of rich chocolate, that sort he’d like to play with—to melt, then lick. As he watched, her eyes widened and grew darker. Velvet delicious. Her long brunette hair was held back in a loose braid that hung down her back. Utilitarian, yes. Also, stunning. He still couldn’t stop staring.
‘Mr Castle?’
That snapped him back to reality. ‘Mr Castle’ was his father, Hugh. He was Ash.
‘How are you getting on?’ he asked.
‘Well, thank you.’ Her polite response wasn’t enough to sugar-coat her wish to dismiss him and only worsened his irritation. His own contrariness was killing him.
‘Did you find a body in the bunker?’ he muttered.
Her brown eyes widened fractionally before a flinch compressed her features. ‘A...what?’
‘A body. In the bunker,’ he repeated unrepentantly and grinned as he gestured towards her. ‘Hence the forensics fashion.’
He knew he’d been out of line, but he wanted her to unleash the spirit flaring in her eyes.
Her chin lifted. ‘Very funny.’
Vitality flowed through his veins. It might be a frosty reaction, but he’d got her to speak.
‘A lot of the boxes are dusty.’ She iced her explanation with the coolest of tones. ‘My “forensics fashion” protects my clothes.’
Even as fiery embarrassment stained her skin, the determined dignity in her restrained response made him squirm. To his amazement, Ash experienced a rare moment when he regretted his teen-acquired tendency to say whatever outrageous thing popped into his head. And what kind of sub-human was he for being annoyed that she was so well-covered by her clothing?
But as he watched, her smooth forehead wrinkled and her coolly assessing gaze narrowed. ‘You were joking about a bunker, right?’
‘You mean you don’t know?’ he drawled, as he realised an opportunity had suddenly opened up. She’d fallen for bait he’d not intended to set.
‘If only you had a moustache, you could twirl the ends,’ she muttered. ‘Obviously I don’t know, or I wouldn’t have asked.’
He paused to savour the surprising sass of her answer. She was crisply to the point and her quietly crackling energy stoked his.
‘There’s a secret bunker,’ he said, determined to snare her interest now.
‘A relic from the war?’ She frowned. ‘Here on the property?’
‘Sadly no, not a historic one. That would’ve been fascinating. This one is more...’ Bonkers. He cleared his throat. ‘It’s new. My father had it installed.’
Her eyebrows lifted. ‘You mean a panic room?’
‘I think it’s a little more over the top than that.’ He’d not checked it out yet. He’d missed its construction entirely and had only become aware of its existence when he’d read through the list of current contractors the estate was paying for. Because he’d been so out of sorts at his glimpse of the garden, he’d avoided investigating in full the other changes to the grounds. Having Merle with him while he did might be a good diversion.
‘Why would your father want a bunker?’ She looked confused. ‘Why here?’
‘Why indeed?’ He had no idea, he just wanted to avoid his history by focusing on her and he didn’t want her to disappear on him again yet. ‘Want to see it?’ he purred.
Her eyes darkened even more, melting into delicious pools of an unreadable emotion.
‘I’m partway through this box,’ she muttered.
It was a weak show of reluctance. An absurd level of anticipation swept through him. Surely this was like catnip to a woman who liked historical records and old things?
‘It’ll still be here when we’re done,’ he replied easily, trying not to let his eagerness for her company show too obviously. ‘Apparently, it’s only in the garden. It shouldn’t take long.’
He watched, conscious of the increasing awareness between them—the rising colour in her cheeks, the thrum of heat in his blood.
‘There might be all kinds of things stored in there that should be considered for the archives,’ he tempted.
‘You don’t know for certain?’
‘I’ve not been in there yet.’
Surprise flashed. ‘You’ve not yet ventured into a secret bunker that’s been built here?’
He shook his head, suppressing the instinctive rejection of anything his father had built and focusing on her. ‘Could be exciting, right?’ he said blandly. ‘Like discovering Tutankhamun’s tomb?’
He watched as her mouth quivered, but she couldn’t suppress her smile for long. A hard lump in his chest eased. One point on the board—he’d made her smile. And it had been worth the effort.
‘Let me just finish up with this letter.’ She put the document she held onto the table, drawing his attention to his father’s things. Things that made his skin crawl. Things he wanted to burn.
‘You don’t wear glasses?’ he asked, distraction a necessity as she marked up something with her pencil.
‘Stereotype, much?’ she muttered coolly. ‘Bookish girl must need glasses?’