Brie lifted her sunglasses off her nose to stare at her. ‘After this feast? I don’t think so. You’re just feeling the twitchy after-effects of last night’s indulgence with Secret Sinner-Santa.’
A shiver of remembered delight danced down her spine and settled low and warm between her thighs. ‘You are so right. I never knew sinning was that much fun.’
‘Woo-hoo, now you do.’
She’d been involved short-term with a guy a long time ago and it had been more about a loss of innocence than sinning—or even enjoyment, because with Jason there hadn’t been much enjoyment, for her at least. But since she and Brie had met at the hospice where Brie’s dad and Olivia’s mum were dying, she’d been so focused on getting Pink Snowflake up and running and her plans for a retreat, she’d had no time for guys, relationships. Sex.
But last night... Olivia smiled. He’d whetted her appetite. It was as if that dormant part inside her had finally woken up and demanded breakfast.
‘He was good, then?’
She sighed. ‘The man had the best hands. And he knew how to use them.’ She smiled, lost for an instant, reliving the pleasure. Heat spurted through her lower belly and she reached for her glass of sparkling mineral water. ‘The fact that he was built like a god was a bonus. He had these eyes...’ She blinked the images—him—away. He was long gone.
And switched topics. ‘So Jett made it back here eventually.’ She’d heard him come in after she and Brie had said goodnight and had been tempted to go pour herself a glass of water from the kitchenette, just to sneak a peek. But she’d changed her mind when she heard their muffled voices through her closed door. She’d not wanted to intrude. ‘Was he lost?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Brie stirred her coffee. ‘What I can’t work out is that he said he’d made it to the party late and all would become clear.’
‘That’s cryptic,’ Olivia said.
‘Good morning.’
The deep male voice had Olivia pushing upright and turning to the open doorway. ‘Hi...’ As she spoke her smile dropped away; her entire body started to dissolve.
How had he known where to find her? What are you doing here? But the words never passed her frozen lips because even as she asked the question she knew the answer.
Jett.
Her not-so-secret Sinner-Santa.
One and the same and ambling away from the door as if he’d been leaning casually against it. Listening in. Laughing at her. Looking so, so smug. Every indignant hair on the back of her neck rose and she pushed suddenly sweaty hands over her trembling thighs and down the skirt of her festive emerald-trimmed white sundress.
He wore khaki shorts and a white polo shirt and brown sandals. Plenty of bare leg sprinkled with dark masculine hair. Then she caught sight of a pair of red stiletto sandals set neatly on the floor beside the door frame.
Brie didn’t notice the incriminating evidence and rose. ‘Jett, glad to see you’re awake at last. Did you sleep well?’
‘Not bad.’ His eyes flicked to Olivia. ‘Considering.’
The eyes. Brie’s eyes, Olivia realised, seeing the pair of them close together. How had she missed that? Both tall and equally stunning with their bronzed complexions and midnight gazes. Brie leaned in and pecked him on the cheek. ‘Merry Christmas.’ She turned to Olivia. ‘Jett, I want you to meet my best friend, Olivia Wishart. Liv, this is Jett Davies. My brother.’
He nodded to Olivia and a corner of his mouth quirked. ‘Already had the pleasure.’
At the mention of pleasure, fingers of guilty heat stroked her belly and lower. How outrageous and inappropriate of him to mention it. Aware of the height disadvantage, she forced herself to stand. Almost eye to eye. Give or take a good six inches. But her legs felt like wet seaweed and the sun shimmered on all that bronzed masculine skin. Sliding on her sunglasses, she snapped out, ‘It’s always helpful to put a name to the face.’
‘You two know each other?’ Brie’s gaze darted between the two of them then settled on Olivia, puzzled.
‘Last night.’ Jett fired the two words across the patio like an accusation or a challenge, then reached down beside him and swung the shoes on two fingers. ‘You left these behind. Cinderella.’
She watched, appalled. Those same fingers had wrought wicked and unimaginable pleasure on her most intimate and private parts. When Olivia made no attempt to step forward and take them, he set them back by the door with a lazy grin, his eyes stroking down her body as if reacquainting himself with her shape, stopping at her bare feet. ‘I’m sorry, were these your only shoes?’