Driving Her Crazy - By Amy Andrews Page 0,17

in favour of twenty-four-hour infomercials.

Sadie flopping onto her back was a welcome distraction. Her head had rolled his way, the light flickering from the television throwing her face into interesting relief. Her skin looked even paler in the glow and long shadows fell on her cheeks from her eyelashes. Her delectable full mouth also eerily pale in the ghostly television glow seemed pursed as if ready for action.

His gaze drifted down. The sheet had ridden low exposing her T-shirt. Her perfectly plain, high-necked, nothing remotely provocative T-shirt. Hell, she was even wearing a bra! But that didn’t obscure the fascinating bloom of her breasts, large and round and perfect, tenting the shirt, stretching it across their expanse. His eyes followed the line of the shirt as it fell again towards the flat of her ribs and the slight rise of her belly and he could just make out a thin strip of creamy skin before the sheet covered the rest of her.

His gaze drifted up again as he contemplated what she’d look like without the shirt. And the sheet. Would her nipples be pale too, like the rest of her, or would they be darker, closer to the colour of her mouth?

What would they taste like?

His groin stirred.

Then she moved, murmured something unintelligible, flung an arm above her head.

Kent looked away hurriedly.

What the hell was the matter with him? Perving on a woman whilst she slept? Imagining her naked. Like some oversexed teenager? Like some perverted stalker.

The number of things that were wrong with this scenario bought him to his feet. He rummaged through his bag, found some shorts and a T-shirt, dragged his shoes back on, grabbed the room key and headed out of the door.

Unlike Sydney, which never seemed to sleep, Cunnamulla at one in the morning was deserted. Nothing was open, no lights were on, no traffic rattled by as Kent launched himself into the cool night air with vigour. He pounded the pavements of the sleepy little town for an hour with only the occasional bark from a dog for company.

The physio had recommended he started light jogging as soon as the orthopod had cleared him five months ago and, like everything he did in life, Kent adopted it with gusto. It had helped to strengthen his right ankle significantly but it had also been a useful tool to cope with his insomnia. The accompanying exhaustion usually resulted in good quality sleep, unlike the other alternatives—alcohol and pills.

Beer and sleeping tablets certainly got him off to sleep very effectively but it was fitful and haunted by the things he could keep at bay during the day. The cries of Dwayne Johnson begging for his mother. The smell of jet fuel. The searing heat of nearby flames.

He seemed to wake more exhausted than he went to bed. And hung over to boot.

Running was far, far preferable.

Sadie was still sleeping soundly when he let himself back into the room. He barely looked at her as he headed for the bathroom. He shut the door, stripped off his clothes, turned the taps on and stepped into the spray. He closed his eyes, braced his outstretched arms against the wall, dropped his head, letting the water run over his neck for a while.

When he finally lifted his head and opened his eyes, the pink thong hanging from the curtain rail was the first thing he saw.

He turned the cold on full blast.

Sadie woke to a knock at the door at seven o’clock. She opened her eyes. A tray with empty plates, used cutlery and three beer bottles greeted her and beyond that was Kent. He was curled up in his bed, sound asleep. His face was relaxed, his cheekbones not so pronounced, the creases around his mouth smoothed out, his lips slack and innocent rather than distinct and wicked.

He looked much, much younger.

He was still shirtless, the sheet pulled low on his abdomen and twisted around his legs. His right leg from the knee down was exposed and her gaze came to rest on his grossly deformed ankle.

The knock came again and he stirred.

Sadie jumped out of bed. ‘Coming,’ she called walking past the still flickering television on her way to the door. She opened it to the woman from last night bearing a smile and a tray.

‘Good morning,’ she chirped. ‘Your breakfast.’

‘Oh,’ Sadie said, taking the laden tray. ‘Er, thank you.’

Kent woke to the voices and rolled onto his back. His eyes felt gritty. It had taken another hour