friend of his or just a groupie?â
Her outraged attention swung back to his mocking, handsome face. His insulting cynicism brought an angry flush to her face, or did that rise in temperature have something to do with the beads of moisture he brushed off his sensual lips�
âI hardly think thatâs any of your business,â she retorted haughtily. âPerhaps youâd like to carry on with whatever Mr Patrick is paying you to do, other than eat pizzas.â
He looked amused. âEven a humble painter is allowed a lunch break, Doctor . Would you like me to give the boss a message?â he offered, casually looping the towel around his neck. The action revealed another inch of smooth, hard flesh.
Megan swallowed and lowered her gaze. âItâs personal.â
âYou wish.â
Pale grey eyes clashed with turbulent blue.
âIâll wait,â she announced frigidly. Other than physically remove her, he couldnât do much about it, and if he did come over heavy handed sheâd stick him with a lawsuit for assault before he could blink!
âSuit yourself,â he drawled. âBut then Iâm sure you generally do.â This woman had spoilt and privileged written all over her, from her smooth voice to her assured manner.
Just as Meganâs bottom made contact with the dust-sheet-covered chair there was a sudden upheaval beneath her that sent her with a startled shriek to her feet.
A bundle of spitting fury struck out at her with sharp claws as it hurtled across the room like a ginger flash of lightning.
âOuch!â she yelled. âThat thing scratched me.â Rolling up the right leg of her jeans revealed a long, though admittedly shallow, scratch along her calf.
âThat thing is called Sybil and you did sit on her. Poor cat,â he crooned to the cat from the flat downstairs.
Megan wasnât surprised to see the animal respond to his velvety croon, and in lightning transformation. That voiceâ¦! She could imagine any number of women who were old enough to know better purring if he used that voice on them.
âIs the skin broken?â
âIâll live,â she replied, rolling down her trouser leg. Superficial or not, the scratch stung. âDo you have any idea when heâll be back?â
âWho?â
Megan gave an impatient grimace. âMr Patrick.â
âOh, himâ¦heâll be back in the country some time next month, I understand.â
Megan, her high hopes dashed by the casual revelation, felt her face fall. âBut he has to be back before then,â she protested.
âReallyâ¦?â
âHeâs spending next weekend in the country with us.â
âMaybe it slipped his mindâ¦?â
Megan, who had flopped disconsolately into the cat-free chair, cast him a look of scorn. âOr maybe Uncle Malcolm lied through his teeth,â she muttered half to herself.
Look on the bright side, she told herself, no eligible suitorequalled not being paired off with anyone, and it always had been a long shot.
The bad news was there would be other weekends!
âMalcolm Hall is your uncle?â
Megan shot him a startled glance and began to sneeze. âYou know him?â She felt another sneeze building and began to ransack her bag for tissues, she found the packet just in time.
âWeâre not members of the same club,â she heard him drawling scornfully when her sneezes subsided. âAnd I donât play golfâ¦but they let us unskilled labourers into quite a few places these days.â
Megan gave her pink nose a last angry scrub, her china-blue eyes snapping with anger. Where did this man get off automatically assuming she was some sort of snob? There was only one person here guilty of judging by appearances and it wasnât Megan!
âIn my book decorators arenât unskilled, althoughâ¦â she allowed her gaze to travel significantly over his