Can't Stop the Feeling: Romantic Comedy (Sinclair Sisters Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  He cocked an eyebrow at her, and she tried to look as innocent and disinterested as possible.

  “Will you stop talking and let me work if I promise to think about it?”

  Hope rose within her but she played it cool. “You don’t need to promise. It’s totally up to you whether or not you think about it.”

  “Then can I get back to work?”

  “Yes.” She thought about it. “But meeting up with other artists would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

  “Donna.” He was clearly frustrated. “I’ll think about it. Okay?”

  “Whatever you feel is best.”

  He growled at her. “Pose. Don’t talk.”

  She grinned and returned to her book. But it was hard to concentrate. Her attention kept being drawn to Duncan. The blue plaid shirt he wore tugged over his shoulders as he moved. Each gesture he made was precise, fluid and intentional. There were no wasted movements.

  She imagined other people might find it offensive to be reduced to lines and shape and colours. Donna was fascinated. Somehow, she had become part of his process, and it made her feel a connection to him that she wasn’t sure was wise. It was peaceful, sitting in the soft morning light, listening to pastel scrape over paper. She could have stayed there forever.

  And that’s when she heard the engines. Her heart jumped as she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. There was a convoy of cars coming up the driveway. The Women’s Institute were here, and they’d brought an army along with them. So much for the meeting they’d had about being stealthy. There was a van emblazoned with the logo of a catering company, another with Party Hire written on the side in pink glittery letters, and one proclaiming it set up the best sound equipment in Scotland.

  A lime-green Mini led the procession. In the front seat, clear as day, sat Flora and Joyce. There was nothing subtle about their approach. They’d ignored everything she’d told them. She was going to kill someone. No, she would let Agnes kill someone.

  She glanced at Duncan. He had his head down as he studied his work, but he wouldn’t stay like that for long. There was no way he could miss the convoy coming down his drive.

  “Stop moving, woman,” Duncan said as his head came up to look at her.

  Her breath caught in her throat as everything unfolded in slow motion. The cavalcade crawled towards the mansion, in plain view of the studio. Their approach caught Duncan’s eye. He frowned and set aside his sketchpad.

  “What the…?” he muttered as he leaned in for a closer look.

  There was nothing between him and the window.

  Nothing but her.

  Donna shot to her feet, her future flashing before her eyes. Duncan would lose his mind and fire everyone. The Women’s Institute wouldn’t be able to raise money for their cause. The art college would be pissed and take it out on Duncan. And she would have to listen to his endless rant because there was no way he’d give her a decent reference so she could get another job. She’d be stuck. Forever. And cook wouldn’t even be there to feed her.

  She had to do something to distract him.

  Anything.

  And she had to do it fast.

  “Donna,” Duncan said absently, his eyes on the window. “Sit back down. We’re not finished for the day. I just want to see what’s going on out there.”

  There was no time to waste. And she only had one idea to take his mind off the procession. She swallowed hard. This was so dumb.

  Don’t do it! Hermione shouted from behind Duncan. Have some self-respect!

  It was too late. Time had run out.

  Duncan frowned. “Who are all those people coming up th—”

  Whatever he was going to say was lost. Because Donna did the only thing she could think of to get his attention.

  She whipped off her top.

  Chapter 10

  One second Duncan was distracted by some work vans coming up the driveway. The next he couldn’t see anything but Donna, standing in front of him, wearing a pink flowery bra where her blouse used to be.

  “What. . .” He’d intended to ask what she was doing, but the words caught in his throat because she was unzipping her trousers and shimmying out of them.

  “It just occurred to me,” she said in a breathless, husky voice that went straight to his groin. “Real artists always paint their models naked.” Her cheeks had flushed a deep ruby pink now, and there was a madly determined, slightly panicked, glint in her eyes.

  These details Duncan picked up in passing because his gaze was firmly stuck on the smooth curves of her body, shown to perfection in her matching lingerie.

  “Wha . . .” He tried again. No, Still no sentences. Because, as he started to speak, Donna turned and leaned over to shut the blind.

  She rested one hand on the sofa as she tugged at the cord with the other. The action lifted her behind out towards him, like an offering. His mouth went dry. He lost the ability to think, to speak. All he could see was the voluptuous curve of Donna’s backside, encased in silky French-cut panties with pink flowers blooming all over them.

  His fingers itched to touch as his jeans became far too tight. A roaring need rushed through him. One he hadn’t felt since his wife had died. Or maybe, had never felt. His attraction to Fiona had always been a gentle thing. What Donna’s curves made him feel was nowhere near gentle. There was a loud roaring in his ears, and his whole body grew tense, alert and primed for action. Every instinct he possessed told him to touch and taste. He shook with the effort to hold himself back.

  This was Donna.

  His housekeeper.

  There were lines. Ones a man didn’t cross. And he was looking at one of them.

  Damn it to hell!

  Guilt slammed through him, wiping the desire away. What was he doing? She was his employee. She wasn’t his wife. He’d vowed forever, and that there would never be another. It was like a bucket of ice water, dousing the flames of need.

  “That’s better isn’t it?” Donna said once the sheer blinds were closed. “We wouldn’t want the contractors to think you were up to no good with your housekeeper.” She gave him a terrified smile as her visibly shaking hands reached behind her back to unfasten her bra. “Guess I should finish getting undressed then.”

  “No!” He held up a hand to stop her as he staggered back several steps.

  Her hands dropped to her sides, and she cast a glance at the windows before a look of relief passed over her face. “Sorry. My mistake. I’ll get dressed, and we can finish off the clothed painting—after you’re done with your pastel drawings.” She grabbed for her blouse and hurriedly covered herself with it.

  Her behaviour confused him. But there was no time to reason it out. Not with Fiona’s eyes staring at him from the half-finished portrait leaning against the wall. He thrust a hand through his hair before clasping the back of his neck.

  “Duncan?” Donna’s voice trembled as her wide eyes stared up at him.

  It was all too much. He couldn’t take anymore.

  “I’m done here.”

  “What about the painting?”

  He shook his head. “I’m done. I’ll be in the gym. Don’t disturb me.”

  And with that, he tore his eyes from her and stalked from the room. Removing himself from the temptation of his curvy housekeeper.

  In other words—he fled.

  ***

  “That went well,” Donna said to the door as it slammed shut behind Duncan.

  She flopped back onto the sofa, and couldn’t help but look down at herself, noting the way her stomach creased and her thighs flattened out.

  “No wonder he ran.” She clutched her discarded clothes in front of her.

  Oh, darling. Harry Potter’s mother appeared on the couch beside her. Imaginary fingers drawn in soft, coloured pencil lines attempted to brush back Donna’s hair. Why do you bring these things on yourself?

  Donna looked at the image of the gentle, smiling woman that only she could see. “And why couldn’t you have been here ear
lier when everyone was giving me a hard time?” Harry’s mum would have sorted out Hermione and gently reprimanded Gandalf.

  A soft knock at the door made the drawing disappear and Donna squeal. “Wait a minute!”

  There was no time, the door opened, and Grace’s head appeared. She took one look at Donna, nodded to herself, then stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “It’s true then, Joyce told me you were in here getting naked with Duncan.”

  “Joyce is four hundred years old and wears glasses that are as thick as jam jar bottoms. Do I look naked to you?” She was still clutching her clothes in front of her, and even though they didn’t hide much, anyone could see she still wore underwear.

  “You look like you were trying to get naked.” Grace sat on the stool Duncan had vacated.

  “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that.”

  “What were you doing then?”

  “Distracting him.” She gave up trying to hide and swept her hands up to tie her hair back before tugging on her shirt. “I spotted the cavalcade coming up the drive, and it was the only thing I could think of to do. I blame Mairi. She made me watch that movie, Ten Things I Hate About You. The heroine flashes the coach to get her boyfriend out of detention. It worked for Julia Stiles, so it seemed like a good idea. At the time. But it didn’t go quite as I’d planned.”

  “Aye, I gathered that by the way Duncan ran for the gym like the English were coming for him.”

  Donna pulled on her trousers and plopped back into the sofa. “Who saw me? Apart from Joyce.”

  “Everybody. The caterer said to give you his number. And Flora said you waved.”

  “I figured it was too late to do anything but brazen it out. Have they gone now?”

  “No. They’re measuring up the ballroom for decorations.” She gave Donna a sympathetic look. “I came to check on you.”

  “I’m fine.” She winced at the lie, and her cheeks burned. “As fine as you can be when you flash yourself to your boss and he runs for it.” It wouldn’t go down in the annals of time as her finest moment.

  Grace smiled softly and shook her head. “This can’t go on. You know that, right?”

  “I know, but if I can get him to go to Glasgow for that lecture, this will be all over.”

  “I’m not talking about that.”

  Donna couldn’t look Grace in the eye. She didn’t want to hear what she was talking about, because she suspected she already knew. She reached for her shoes and slipped them back on, hoping her apparent lack of interest would deter Grace.

  But it didn’t. “Donna, my girl.” Her voice softened, and Donna’s heart clenched. “You know I’m very fond of you.”

  “Don’t.” Donna held up a hand. “I’m okay. Honestly.”

  Grace shook her head. “You can’t go on like this. You’ve been mooning over that man for years. It’s the talk of Kintyre.”

  Her back snapped straight. “I haven’t been mooning.” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “People are talking?”

  Grace waved a dismissive hand. “People always talk. But it’s clear that you have feelings for Duncan, and it’s equally evident—”

  “That he doesn’t have feelings for me.” Nausea rose as she forced the words out.

  “That’s not what I was going to say. I think he’s very fond of you, but I just don’t think he’s capable of moving on from his wife yet.”

  “I know. That’s why I don’t have feelings for Duncan. The gossips are wrong. I’ve just been looking out for him, that’s all. Anyone would do the same. He’s so…broken.”

  The painting of Fiona caught her eye and she smiled. Each stroke had been painted with such love, and she was glad that Duncan’d had that in his life. By all accounts, Fiona had been a remarkable woman, and they’d been well-suited. No one could ever compete with a bond like that. Not that she wanted to.

  “There’s no need to worry,” she said, more to Fiona than Grace. “I don’t have a crush on my boss.”

  Liar, liar, pants on fire, the troll said as it walked through the room.

  “Well, then, that’s good,” Grace said gently, sounding like she didn’t believe Donna.

  “Honestly, I’ve just been looking out for him, for Fiona. That’s what she would have wanted.”

  She’d come into the studio every day to leave a rose for Fiona. She wasn’t quite sure why. At first, it was because she was sad that Duncan missed her so much and his studio was languishing because of it, but then she’d begun to feel a kinship with the dead woman, as though looking after Duncan had given them something in common. Sometimes, she’d even felt like she was taking care of him for Fiona.

  She blinked several times before looking back at Grace. “He’s painting again, and he’s thinking about teaching too. I think he’s coming out the other end of his grief. He doesn’t need me so much anymore. That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Aye, it is.” Grace got up and patted Donna on the cheek. “If you need anything, let me know. I’d best get back and watch those women. Or they’ll be pocketing the silver.”

  As the door closed behind her, Donna let her head rest on the back of the sofa.

  And a single tear ran down her cheek.

  She wiped it away. There was no time for self-pity. She had a mansion to run…and jobs to apply for. There was nothing keeping her in the mansion any longer. Duncan had moved on and she needed to do that too. With one last glance at Fiona’s painting and a whispered apology, Donna left the room.

  Chapter 11

  Duncan was avoiding his housekeeper, which made him feel like he was twelve years old again and didn’t know how to talk to girls. He’d hated that awkward age, and he didn’t want to relive it. It seemed he had no choice in the matter though. After their posing incident, and a heavy workout in the gym that had nearly killed him, he’d locked himself in his studio and hidden in his work. He was painting up a storm. It was a creative frenzy the likes of which he hadn’t experienced since the weeks before his final degree show in college. But it hadn’t brought him the peace he’d hoped for.

  It seemed that, although he’d managed to dodge Donna in reality, he couldn’t get away from her in his art. She was everywhere. In drawings pinned to the wall and on canvases he’d painted well into the night, before falling asleep on the sofa. Only to find upon waking that the first thing he saw was Donna’s face smiling out of the paintings around him.

  He was a man obsessed. Even when he slept, she invaded his dreams. Sometimes, he saw her in the compositions he painted when he was awake. At other times, he had blazing arguments with dream Donna, ones he would never have with her in real life and couldn’t remember when he woke. But it was the third type of dream that bothered him the most: those were blistering hot. Donna naked, lounging on the sofa in his studio, all glorious curves and willing woman. Donna undressing as she sauntered towards him across the kitchen, before pushing him back onto the table and climbing on top of him. Donna beckoning to him from the shower, water trailing over her skin…

  He groaned at the thought. The variations were endless, but they all ended up in the same place, with him suffering a hard-on that would not be sated by his own hand. But the worst part of all was the guilt. Every day he walked into his studio, the first thing he saw was the half-finished painting of his dead wife. And it was a punch to his gut every time. He felt like those dreams were betrayals of her memory, of the promises he’d made. He hated that he had no control over his mind and when he slept it was Donna, not Fiona, who returned to haunt him.

  It had been over a week since that day in the studio when she’d stripped in front of him. Seven days of suffering, every single minute. His body was desperate for her, while his mind screamed in protest, and his honour was affronted by the whole thing. This couldn’t go on. And he feared that the only way to solve it was to either fire the woman who had saved his sanity these past two years or give in to temptation and sate his hunger—assuming Donna would have him.

  It was this thoug
ht that brought his painting frenzy to a dramatic halt. In all these days of thinking about what she was doing to him—how she was torturing him with her presence, with his need for her—it had never once occurred to him that she might not feel the same way. He sat down on his stool, in his studio, in front of the latest painting of the woman who tormented him. To add insult to injury, she’d practically turned him into a portrait artist.

  With a groan he covered his face with his hands. He needed help. And he wasn’t sure where to get it. He’d cut off his friends when Fiona got sick, unable to cope with their sympathy and well-meaning advice. His only brother lived in Australia, and Duncan had barely spoken to him over the past few years. Each time Hamish had tried to talk to him, Duncan had been brusque with his replies, and the phone calls had become less frequent. But brothers could be forgiving, couldn’t they?

  He reached into his pocket for his phone, only to remember Donna had thrown it off the first-floor landing and hadn’t replaced it yet. With heavy legs, he walked to the landline in the corner of the room, lifted the receiver and slid down the wall to sit on the floor while he dialled.

  “Is everything okay?” Were Hamish’s first words, and Duncan couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t until he heard his brother’s voice that he realised just how much he’d missed him.

  “Are you going to answer me? Is my brother okay?” Hamish demanded.

  “I’m fine, Hamish,” Duncan said.

  There was silence for a beat. “Then what the hell are you doing phoning me in the middle of the night, you arsehole? I nearly had a heart attack.”

  He wasn’t sure who was the most surprised when Duncan burst out laughing.

  “It’s good to hear your voice,” he admitted once he’d calmed down.

  “It would help if you picked up the phone sometimes.”

  There was no arguing with that. “How’s the family?”

  He heard the grin in his brother’s voice while he filled Duncan in on all the things he’d missed with his nieces and nephews. Hamish had four kids under ten, and his house sounded like a war zone. Still, there was no denying he was happy, which made Duncan feel a whole lot better about neglecting him.