Andrew cursed violently and rolled away to hide the painful erection in the mattress.

The woman scrambling out of his bed was real, not an illusion. And she had seen his need. And retreated like a scared deer in front of a hunter.

Not your fault. This is your sanctuary and she just invaded it.

“I’m so, so sorry Mr Pearce,” she said, her beguiling accent—the whisper of London flowing through it—only infuriating him more and that low sexy husky voice. “I didn’t mean to…”

“Get out,” he groaned.

“Yes, sir,” she said, her slanting deep brown eyes widening to the size of saucers, and then she shot out of his bedroom as if her butt was on fire.

He collapsed, burying his face in the pillow, his whole body zinging with fury and an erotic charge that refused to subside. One she’d caused. One he’d never believed he’d feel again. One he didn’t want to feel again. The soft smell of Gardenias still permeated the air and now instead of having a calming effect the arousal in his groin was throbbing with every breath he took. Aargh! He shouted into his pillow reaching his hand into his briefs he took hold of his erection for the first time in years and with just a few strokes he reached an exhilarating climax but his arousal and erection did not fade.

Once his breathing had returned to something resembling a normal rhythm, he climbed off the bed, exhausted now as well as annoyingly still turned on, he headed into the bathroom. Stepping into the glass-walled shower, he flicked the switch to frigid. It did no good, the arousal still pounding through his body at the memory of her lithe body spotlighted beside his bed, the hard tips of her nipples showing through her Tank top and the intoxicating scent of gardenias, cut grass and clean soap filling his lungs.

He was forced to take himself in hand and work the solid flesh once again. The second orgasm he had experienced in over 10 years rolled through him after one, two strokes. He grunted, the water slicking down his back.

He washed away the humiliating evidence of his loss of control a second time. And tugged on a pair of sweatpants. Still dripping from his dark locks he walked out of the room.

At least the humiliating episode might have put a swift end to Jonathan’s latest attempt to screw with his karma. The woman should have kept on running, right out the door—if she knew what was good for her.

But as he headed toward the central staircase, intending to take a swim in the lap pool on the roof, to work off the last of the energy still pulsing through his body, a sweet, buttery aroma hit him as well as the smell of Gardenia flowers again, which made him throb.

His stomach grumbled—the gnawing hunger something he hadn’t felt in years he usually just ate whatever there was in the cupboards which Jonathan kept filling. He padded down the central staircase toward the kitchen.

The aroma became so captivating; the newfound hunger began to claw at his stomach, painful in its intensity. But the renewed wave of fury wasn’t far behind as he spotted a dark head—the flowing locks now tied in a knot—bent over the stove, the buttery scent like a siren call to senses long denied. She was dancing while cooking and it was captivating, she wasn’t the most voluptuous woman but she had the figure of a gymnast lithe and sleek so unlike what he usually found appealing. He kept staring at her so intently that in his arousal he released a waft of pheromones without realising it.

He could hear her singing with that low husky sensual voice of hers—over the gentle sizzle of whatever it was that was creating the mouth-watering smell. His hollow stomach twisted into a knot, the fury pulsing through his veins.

She suddenly caught his scent and swung around meeting his eyes on instinct with a little gasp.

He braced his hands on the cold marble counter of the breakfast bar, his temper building like a volcano, then spewing out of his mouth.

“What the hell are you still doing in my house?”