A Perfect Cornish Escape by Phillipa Ashley Page 0,7
from Lakmé, sweet and lilting – quite the opposite of the face that glared down at her.
‘Can I help you?’ it growled.
A figure filled the doorway, his dark hair almost brushing the lintel. It was clear he wasn’t her man because instead of mechanic’s overalls, he wore black tux trousers and a white dress shirt which was gaping open to reveal a tanned chest, sprinkled with dark hair … and, good God, one nipple was pierced by a discreet silver ring. In one hand he was clutching a black silk bow tie, the real kind that comes undone under eager fingers.
‘Yes?’ he said, his brow furrowing as Tiff teetered on his doorstep, clutching the manila envelope to her chest.
‘I’m looking for Dark. I mean Dirk. Mr Meadows,’ she said firmly.
His indigo eyes took her in with one sweeping glance. ‘Good for you but if it’s double glazing, I’ve got triple, if it’s loft insulation, I’m warm enough. If you want to convert me, you’d have better luck with Satan.’
‘In that case,’ she said, deciding she’d definitely keep hold of the letter, ‘I clearly have the wrong house. Sorry to have disturbed you.’
‘You have disturbed me.’ The voice was a bit growly but definitely not Cornish, more RP.
‘Well, I’m sorry, but it was a genuine mistake. I’ll leave you to …’ Tiff took the opportunity to give him a head to toe stare, as he’d been so ungracious. ‘Do whatever it is you’re doing.’
‘That’s exactly the problem. I wasn’t doing it. I can’t do it.’ He waggled the bow tie in front of him, obviously agitated. ‘I can’t get this bloody thing to work, you know, tie up. Got so hot doing it that I unbuttoned my shirt.’
‘No. They can be tricky. If you’re not used to wearing black tie,’ she added wickedly.
‘I think it’s fairly obvious I’m not. This get-up is hired.’
She raised her eyebrows dramatically. ‘Wow. I’d never have guessed.’
Was that a bead of perspiration glistening among his chest hair and the evening sun glinting off his nipple ring? While annoyed by his rudeness, she was irritated by her reaction to him even more. Since when had she been so easily thrown off kilter by a handsome face? She’d met better-looking men in her former life, though never one who seemed so little aware of it.
‘Well, good luck with it. Thanks for your time.’ Reluctantly, she tore her eyes from his impressive torso and turned away, still holding the envelope. ‘I was hoping to deliver this envelope to Mr Meadows, but it looks like I’ll have to drop it in the nearest post box, which is a shame because I don’t have any stamps—’
‘Wait a minute!’ he called after her. ‘What’s your business with this Dirk Meadows?’
Ouch, that was direct, she thought, but then, she was used to people being ‘direct’. Unless someone was chasing her down their drive, screaming expletives, she was rarely intimidated.
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,’ she said sweetly. ‘It’s personal.’
‘In that case, you really had better come in.’ He pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. ‘Actually, I’m Dirk Meadows.’
Tiff raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’
‘Then why didn’t you say so right away?’
‘Because I thought you were trying to sell me something or make me see the light.’
‘As you said yourself, I don’t think there’s much chance of that,’ Tiff replied tartly.
To her surprise he gave a wry smile that suited him very well. ‘Apologies. I probably was a bit brusque but I’m late for a function due to this bloody thing.’ He waggled the bow tie again.
His voice had softened, still craggy but not as rough. Tiff hesitated half a second, deciding whether she wanted to be caught or not. She was a little late herself but Marina wouldn’t mind and, besides, there was something about Dirk ’n’ Stormy that was bugging her – beyond the fact he was six feet four of brooding hotness. His comment about not needing loft insulation had been hilariously accurate.
‘Um …’
She stopped, hovering between tottering off and turning around. ‘Yes?’
‘Um. You, er … look like the kind of person who knows a thing or two about, er … clothes.’
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘That you seem to be well, um – turned out – and, er …’ He stepped down into the street in his bare feet, the bow tie thrust out, a plea in his voice. ‘Would you mind tying this damn thing for me?’