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  But how did you ask a woman you barely knew if they would be interested in a purely sexual relationship? He’d been trying to get his head around that one when the thought of Maddy and Phil working in close proximity had sent him crashing through another barrier.

  It wasn’t that he cared about who Maddy had been with before him. It couldn’t be. He didn’t do jealousy. And he wasn’t possessive with women. He expected them to be faithful for the brief time they were together, but he always wore condoms so he didn’t take any interest in their sexual history.

  Turning into the driveway of Trewan Manor, he eased up the handbrake, switched off the ignition and stared into the darkness.

  The need to know about Maddy and Phil had to be another by-product of the accident and the trauma afterwards. His pride and his confidence had been shattered in the last six months and it would take more than one night to rebuild it.

  He dug his thumb into his injured muscles to ease the painful cramp—while keying the beach café’s number into the hands-free phone on the car’s dash. First things first. Before he saw Maddy again and figured out a way of engineering her back into his bed, he had to address a more pressing problem.

  Phil answered on the second ring.

  ‘Phil, it’s Rye.’

  ‘How’s things, stranger?’ Phil’s voice had the easy familiarity of long-time friendship. ‘Still hiding out at Hell Hall?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Rye said drolly, not rising to the bait. ‘I need to drop by the café tomorrow morning,’ he continued, determined to head off yet another conversation about how he needed to get out more. ‘What time’s the early shift start?’

  He wanted to be sure Maddy would be there.

  ‘The breakfast service starts at nine,’ Phil said.

  Rye tapped the steering wheel, surprised by the little spurt of anticipation. ‘Great, I’ll see you at …’

  ‘Wait a sec,’ Phil cut in, suspicion sharpening his voice. ‘What’s the hurry, all of a sudden?’

  ‘I’ve got a bike that belongs to one of your employees I need to drop off.’

  ‘What employee?’

  ‘Madeleine Westmore.’

  ‘How do you know Maddy?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ Rye stated flatly, not appreciating the third degree—or the tiny tinge of guilt.

  Phil swore on the other end of the line. ‘Please tell me you’re not treating Maddy to the Ryan King Do ‘em and Dump ‘em routine.’

  Rye’s temper sparked. He’d coined that insulting phrase fifteen years ago, when he’d been sixteen, had turbo-charged hormones and thought boasting about all the women he got into the sack made him a man. ‘We’re not in secondary school any more, Phil.’

  ‘Too right we’re not,’ Phil interrupted forcefully. ‘Leave her alone, Rye; she doesn’t play those kind of games.’

  ‘What games?’ Rye demanded, something sour settling in his gut. Since when had free-wheeling Phil become the protective sort? Had Maddy lied to him about the two of them?

  ‘You know what games,’ Phil said, then sighed. ‘Look, mate, she’s a good friend and a great waitress. She works really hard and she got dumped on big time last year by some creep called Steve. The last thing she needs is a smooth-talking, over-sexed big shot from London using her for sport.’

  Rye would have laughed at Phil’s insulting assessment of him—the over-sexed reference being particularly ironic—if the sour something in his gut hadn’t been rising up his throat like bile. ‘What is this? Are you trying to stake your own claim?’

  ‘No. It’s nothing like that.’ Phil sounded genuinely shocked at the accusation. ‘She’s not interested in me. And, even if she were, she doesn’t do sex with the boss. Ever. She has a rule about it.’

  ‘How the hell do you know that?’ Rye shouted, the bile threatening to choke him.

  ‘Because she told me,’ Phil shot right back. ‘She was a little drunk and we were—’ He paused. ‘Anyway, that’s not the point. What did she say when you told her you own this place? I can’t believe she would …’

  ‘I’m not sleeping with her.’ Not right this minute, anyway.

  Rye ignored the tug of guilt. Maybe he should have mentioned that he owned the café, but it hadn’t seemed all that relevant.

  He’d inherited all the property along the Bay after the death of his grandfather ten years ago, when he’d still been travelling round the world as a surf bum living off the prize money from competitions and any instructor work he could hustle. After the funeral, he’d spent two months refurbishing the café, opening a surf hire shop next door and blowing the rest of his inheritance rehabbing the old Victorian guest house on the point and reopening it as a boutique hotel to cater to North Cornwall’s young, rich and sporty summer crowd. Then he’d hired Phil to manage the café and surf shop and Tony, another of his old friends from secondary school, to manage Surf Central, and got the hell out of Cornwall for the second time in his life.

  That small taste of empire-building had planted a seed, though, that had blossomed into dissatisfaction as he’d back-packed his way to Hawaii. He’d got as far as California before he’d admitted that his nomadic, shoestring existence didn’t have the cachet at twenty-one that it had when he’d first run away from his grandfather’s oppressive rules and regulations at seventeen. So he’d made his way back to London, remortgaged Trewan Manor, arranged a loan on the Wildwater Bay businesses and started making careful investments in similar extreme sports enterprises around the globe.

  The adrenalin kick of riding the perfect wave had gradually been replaced by the more intense and sustained high of managing his fledgling business empire and watching it grow and expand.

  He’d worked hard to build King Xtreme into a thriving multinational concern. And, yeah, maybe he’d played hard as well, bedding a string of beautiful women the world over and turning his Kensington penthouse into the party capital of London society during the winter months. But his sexual conquests had never been indiscriminate, or nearly as prolific as the press liked to maintain—and, while he’d had a well-earned reputation as an adrenalin junkie, he’d never used drugs or alcohol to feed the high. Maintaining his health and his fitness had been an important part of his brand. Until the accident.

  So he didn’t deserve Phil’s scorn. Or this guilt trip.

  ‘Maddy will find out that I own the café tomorrow.’ He could sort out any hang-ups she might have about sleeping with the boss then. He didn’t anticipate it being a big hurdle, though, not after the way she had responded to his touch today. And, anyhow, strictly speaking, he wasn’t her boss. Phil was.

  ‘Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ Phil said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. The breakfast rush is over around eleven. Come by then and I can take time out to show you the books.’

  ‘I’ll be there at nine-thirty,’ he said and disconnected the call.

  He wasn’t waiting till eleven to see Maddy again. Plus he had no desire to see the books. He had accountants to do that sort of thing. And he trusted Phil. Implicitly.

  Just not with Maddy.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘THIS morning’s breakfast special is sweet waffles with crispy bacon and maple syrup.’

  Maddy waited patiently for the elderly couple to make up their minds, then jotted down their order. Pasting on what she hoped was a perky smile, she refilled their coffee cups. ‘That’ll be a few minutes. Feel free to help yourself to newspapers and magazines while you wait.’

  Tucking her pad away, she slipped through the swinging doors into the kitchen and pinned the only order of the morning on the board.

  ‘That’s it?’ said Guy, their breakfast chef, as he whisked the tab off the board. ‘I might as well have stayed in bed.’

  ‘I wish I had.’ Maddy gave the small of her back a rub and glanced at the clock. She still had five hours to go on her shift and her legs already felt like limp noodles.

  Yesterday’s unscheduled exercise, both in bed and out, would have been
enough to knock her out. But when you factored in the restless night she’d spent while a string of X-rated erotic memories played in her head—and the three-mile hike to the café this morning—she was officially dead on her feet.

  ‘I can see that.’ Guy scanned her face as he cracked eggs into the mixer. He wiggled his eyebrows. ‘Hot date, eh?’

  The suggestive comment had a couple of the most lurid memories popping into her head, in full senso-vision. Guy’s eagle eyes narrowed as the hot flush scorched her throat.

  He laughed. ‘So little Maddy finally got her mojo back last night.’

  ‘Get lost, Guy.’ She threw the words over her shoulder, his amused chuckle drowned out by the whirl of the mixer.

  She slammed out of the kitchen door, only to spot her mojo standing in the café doorway. Her stride faltered as the flush burned her scalp. What was he doing here? And why did he have to look so gorgeous?

  His bronze hair had streaks of gold she hadn’t noticed last night, and fell across his brow in windblown waves as those crystal-blue eyes fixed on her face.

  His eyes flicked down her figure and the flush raced into her cheeks.

  ‘Hello, Madeleine.’ The innocuous pleasantry spoken in that low husky voice had a dangerous effect on her thigh muscles.

  ‘Hello.’ She fumbled a menu from the end of the bar and directed him to a table. He’d probably just come for breakfast. No need to panic. Yet.

  ‘I didn’t come here to eat,’ he said, stepping towards her.

  He stood too close, that clean scent of pine forests and man making the torrid memories all the more vivid.

  ‘So why did you come?’ she said, more breathlessly than intended.

  ‘Your bike.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Of course.’ Why did the knowledge bring with it that silly spurt of melancholy again? ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And we need to talk.’

  ‘What about?’ The question came out on a suspicious squeak. His eyes had gone that intense cobalt blue, the knowledge in them making her thighs quiver.

  He stroked a thumb down the side of her neck. ‘Come now, Madeleine.’ Strong fingers spanned her shoulder as he bent to whisper in her ear. ‘We both know you’re not that innocent.’

  ‘Get your hands off my waitress, King.’ Phil’s shout had Maddy jerking back, her thighs now liquid.

  Rye raised his head, winked at her, then squared up to her boss. ‘I’ll put my hands where I damn well like, Trevellian.’

  Just as Maddy began to panic about how she was going to referee a wrestling match between two guys who were each close to a foot taller than her, Phil laughed and punched Rye on the shoulder. ‘Long time no see, Hermit Man.’ The smile on Phil’s face beamed.

  These two didn’t just know each other, Maddy realised, they cared.

  Rye gave his friend a brief manly hug. ‘I need to speak to Maddy,’ Rye said. ‘We’ll use your office. Then she’s taking the rest of the shift off.’

  She’s what?

  Phil’s smile faded. ‘Now hang on a minute, hotshot,’ he said, the affection edged with irritation. ‘I told you already; Maddy’s not …’

  ‘Hey, Maddy’s standing right here.’

  The two of them glanced at her as if she were the nutty one.

  ‘And she doesn’t appreciate being talked about as if she’s not.’

  She poked a finger into Rye’s shoulder and enjoyed the flash of surprise as he stumbled back a step.

  ‘What do you think you’re playing at? Waltzing in here as if you own the place and telling me what to do.’ They’d had exactly one evening together. And he still hadn’t apologised for his insulting questions at the end of it.

  She wasn’t Little Miss Pushover any more. The new Maddy didn’t take this crap. She stood up for herself. ‘You’re not my boss. Phil is. So you don’t get to decide when my shift ends.’

  Phil tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Maddy.’

  ‘What?’ She spun round, not appreciating being halted in mid-rant. With a bit more practice, she could get good at this.

  Phil cleared his throat. He looked like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. ‘He does own the place.’

  ‘He …? What?’ The blood leached out of Maddy’s face and pounded into her heart.

  ‘He’s my boss,’ Phil added, no longer meeting her eye. ‘Which also makes him yours.’

  She turned to stare at Rye, her mouth opening and closing but no sound coming out.

  Sordid memory assailed her. Her father, his face ruddy, his trousers and boxers round his ankles and his large hands fastened to the plump young secretary’s naked hips as he bounced his crotch against her bottom. The visceral horror replayed in her mind, accompanied by the sickening echo of her father’s animalistic grunts.

  ‘But I … I don’t. I couldn’t have.’ Her voice came out on a horrified whisper. ‘I have a rule.’

  The sights, the sounds, even the smell—of furtive arousal, sordid sex—assaulted her senses as if she had walked into her father’s office ten minutes ago, instead of ten years. She clapped her hands over her mouth as the gorge churning in her stomach surged up her throat.

  ‘I’m going to puke.’

  ‘So you didn’t sleep with her, eh?’ Phil snarled. ‘You lying son of …’

  Rye tuned out his friend’s observations about his parentage as he watched Maddy dash to the toilets as if the hounds of hell were snapping at her heels.

  Okay. Maybe he’d underestimated the size of this particular hurdle.

  CHAPTER TEN

  MADDY held her aching stomach and blinked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

  Hello, Bride of Frankenstein.

  Luckily, she hadn’t had time to eat breakfast yet, so the dry heaves hadn’t produced much. But the sallow skin of her face and the dark circles under her eyes made her look an absolute fright. Her ribs protested as she bent down to splash water onto her cheeks.

  She straightened at the sound of someone entering behind her.

  ‘I borrowed these from Phil.’ Rye stood inside the door, holding a toothbrush wrapped in cellophane and a new tube of toothpaste. ‘He keeps them for sleepover emergencies,’ he added wryly.

  She snatched the offerings out of his hand, determined not to be touched by the thoughtful gesture. ‘You can’t come in here. This is the Ladies.’

  His eyebrow lifted. ‘Yes, I can. I own the place, remember.’

  ‘Thanks for the reminder.’ She braced herself for the instinctive gagging reflex. Strangely, it didn’t come.

  She ripped open the toothbrush and applied the toothpaste, ignoring his silent, watchful presence. But, as she brushed her teeth, she felt painfully self-conscious. Even after all they’d done together, the mundane ritual seemed too personal to perform in front of him.

  She rinsed her mouth and retied her ponytail. Great, she still looked like the Bride of Frankenstein, just with fresher breath.

  ‘That was a very extreme reaction to the news that I own the café.’ He stood propped against the wall by the door, giving her a probing look. ‘What caused it?’

  Maddy’s spine stiffened. No way. She wasn’t answering that. If brushing her teeth in front of him was too intimate, talking about her childhood was a definite no-go area.

  ‘I should go back to work,’ she said dismissively. But as she went to step past him he took her arm.

  ‘You’ve got the rest of the day off. Phil’s already lined up a replacement. And you’re not going anywhere until I know what happened.’ His brows lowered. ‘You looked as if you were about to pass out.’

  She pulled her arm free, not sure she could cope with being interrogated right now. ‘I was in shock.’ That much was true. ‘You should have told me you owned this place as soon as you knew I worked here.’

  The frown deepened. ‘Why would I? It wasn’t relevant.’

  ‘It was to me,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’

  There was that probing look again. ‘I don’t have to answer
that.’

  He cupped her cheek as she tried to turn away. ‘Did some guy hurt you? Someone who was employing you?’

  His jaw clenched as he asked the question and she realised this was more than curiosity.

  ‘No.’ She shook off his hand. ‘It’s nothing like that. It’s …’ She hesitated. Ducked her head. She couldn’t talk about this. Not to him. She barely knew him. But where was the familiar nausea to bolster her resolve? ‘It’s nothing. It was a long time ago and it doesn’t matter any more.’

  ‘Maddy, it matters.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, if we don’t sort it out … whatever it is … I’ll have to fire you.’

  She gave a strangled gasp. ‘You’ll what?’ Had he lost his marbles? But he didn’t look insane. He looked determined. ‘Why would you do that? I work really hard; I …’

  ‘This has nothing to do with your work ethic and you know it.’

  He touched her cheek. She slapped his hand away.

  ‘Well, what does it have to do with?’ Temper rose to strengthen her resolve instead. She couldn’t afford to lose this job. And she didn’t deserve to, just because she’d slept with him and then made a spectacle of herself.

  ‘Sacking you is the only option,’ he began in that reasonable tone he only employed when saying something outrageous, ‘if you won’t sleep with me because I’m your boss. We’ll have to find another way.’

  Her jaw dropped. Literally. If she hadn’t known it was physically impossible, she would have sworn it hit the floor.

  As she stood, trying to get her mind to engage, to say something coherent, the elderly customer she had served earlier barged through the bathroom’s double doors.

  ‘Oh, hello; are you all right, dear?’ The lady adjusted the glasses on her nose and peered at Maddy. ‘You look a little peaky, love.’

  ‘I’m …’

  Rye cleared his throat and the old dear noticed him too.

  ‘Well, really, I don’t think this is the place for you, young man.’ She straightened like a schoolmarm telling off a particularly unruly pupil, the top of her head barely reaching Rye’s chest. ‘This is the Ladies, you know.’