Secrets of a Soprano by Miranda Neville

away.
    “I’ll find you something to wear,” he muttered and left the room.
    A minute later he thrust a blue silk dressing gown through the door.
    “Put that on,” he said from the passage. “Then I’ll see to the fire.”
    “I told you, there’s no need.”
    “You must warm up. I’m coming back in.”
    In a trice she snatched up the robe. It smelled of Max. It had touched his skin. She held it closed at the waist with her crossed arms. He came through the door and his lips twitched. Clearly he found her discomfort amusing, the blackguard.
    “You look better in my dressing gown than I do.”
    Trying to look unconcerned, she feared her acting skills had deserted her. She perched on the foot of the bed, intending to dry her hair, but she couldn’t keep her eyes off Max.
    Kneeling on the hearth, he placed coals in the grate and struck tinder to coax a flame; she found his concentration on the humble task touching. He was going to a lot of trouble to ensure her wellbeing. She gazed at his broad shoulders and the way the muscles of his back rippled beneath the linen rear panel of his waistcoat. His genuflecting position could have been designed to display his narrow waist and hips and well-defined buttocks. Tessa began to feel warm again, and not because of the fire, which was yet in a state of infancy. Her flesh tingled in recollection of his touch against her nakedness. A seedling of undefined emotion—perhaps hope or joy—sprouted in the confusion that possessed her brain.
    “The footman will be up soon with tea,” he said, still intent on the immature flame.
    How could he be so cool? Had she imagined his response to their embrace? Perhaps it had been merely an instinctive male reaction, not because he was attracted to her. She only wished for the same state of indifference. If a man was going to make her feel again, why did it have to be Max, the very last one she needed?
    Turning her attention to her damp hair, she plucked out the remaining pins and shook it loose. To avoid further accidents, she clung to the edges of the robe and used her other hand—not very effectively—to towel her head. The temperature of the room rose as the flickering coals settled into a red glow. Surely he’d leave now. Pray God he’d leave now.
    He rose to his feet and turned around. Whatever his expression reflected it wasn’t indifference. Surveying her from the tips of her toes, curled with embarrassment in the soft plush of carpet, over her silk-covered body, up to her hair, now lank and wet on one side and, doubtless, rumpled and fuzzy on the other, his eyes widened. His austere features relaxed into creases that meant pure mischief. Oh God! She remembered that look.
    “Let me help you with that, Tessa.” Once again he called her by her familiar name. Husky and amused, the tone curdled her insides.
    He moved towards her.
    “No.” The word emerged in a whisper. La Divina had lost her voice.
    He removed the towel from her nerveless grasp, and, using both hands, leaned over and applied it to her head. Staring at her lap, she stayed passive on the bed, as he worked the long strands of hair on either side, then rubbed her scalp. He applied the towel gently, with much less vigor than Angela would have used, as though he was afraid to hurt her. Peering through her lashes she observed a look of intense concentration on his face. Enjoying the gentle massage, she allowed herself to sink into a warm pool of contentment as he cared for her. Yet her ease was tempered by the keen knowledge that this was Max— Max —touching her and her flesh hummed in response.
    “I think you’re dry enough now,” he said, running his hand around her head.
    “Thank you, Max,” she whispered and raised her eyes to his. Oh no, not indifferent at all.
    He dropped the towel onto the floor and took her hands in both his and she nearly swooned. Lying on the bed…not a good idea . She stiffened her back, allowed him to draw her to her feet. And