Taming Tess, page 10
The bed was looking more inviting by the minute. Except, when she slept she dreamt of Roman and those dreams weren't sweet. More like triple-X rated.
She groaned and went about her morning ritual, selecting one of her skin lotions from the dresser top ... the good skin lotion, not the one she'd picked up at The Bargain Mart. That stuff was gunk ... just as Roman had said.
She grunted. Couldn't she even apply skin lotion without thinking of him? Maybe it was time she found a bed that wasn't directly above her contractor-slash-host's bedroom. Though, if she moved out, she wouldn't have Roman's computer at her disposal. And God knows how long it would take for the local computer company—the one and only computer repair shop in Pine Ridge—to determine if her laptop could be salvaged. Heaven only knew how long it would take them to extract its contents if it was beyond repair.
She scowled and spread a dollop of lotion up her arm. Whatever had she done in life to deserve this rural hell besides walk out on her father? A father who subjugated his daughters to domesticity. A father who valued her only for the quality of son-in-law she could attract into the family.
A father who'd betrayed her when he should have lauded her. Damn him. She was a good architect. Why couldn't he accept that? Why did he have to treat every woman as if she had no more sense than a child?
Like Roman St. John who'd gone ballistic over his phone. She scrubbed the skin softener into her elbow. Here she'd done him the favor of washing his underwear and all he could do was rant about her tying up his phone.
She wasn't a child to be dressed down. That's what she should have shouted back at him instead of trying to explain about his shorts. No wonder by the time she'd found new places to spread out her drying undies and he was done with his bath, she no more wanted to talk to him than drive through a bad neighborhood at three a.m. with an empty gas tank. Lucky for him, he'd had the sense to not comment on the hamburgers she'd cooked ... not even when they crunched.
A stinging sensation radiated from her elbow. She stopped rubbing the perfumed skin cream into it, snapped the cap back on the tube of lotion, and examined her elbow in the dresser mirror. It was red ... irritated ... like her. That's what St. John did to her.
No way was she moving out now. She was nowhere near done punishing him.
She flung aside the tube of lotion and jerked opened the narrow top drawer where she'd put her underwear after it had dried. The box of condoms slid across the bottom of the drawer and butted up against her panties. Instantly, she was back on the bedroom floor, Roman's hands skimming her body, his tongue exploring her nipples, her navel, her clit. God, he had a skilled tongue. What would he have done to her with that gorgeous cock?
She moaned at the thought of him sliding in and out of her, thick and long, the walls of her vagina rippling around his wonderful cock. She swayed against the dresser, her crotch damp with desire. How easily she could end this aching frustration for both of them. But she dared not venture into the world of a man searching for a wife, not even for a one night stand ... not that one night would even be enough.
She fingered the condom box in her lingerie drawer ... the open condom box. Some of the foil-wrapped packets were missing. She'd checked. Where had Roman gone two nights ago to get that open box of condoms? Not to a drug store. Drug stores didn't sell unsealed boxes of condoms with product missing. He'd have to have gone to a friend.
A friend.
So, Roman St. John had himself a friend he was close enough to that he could go to him in the middle of the night for a package of protection. And why did she care if he had a friend or not? Because she wondered if he was as quick to tell his friend that the woman he needed the condoms for had changed her mind. Never mind that abstaining was in both their best interests ... or that she, too, was frustrated.
Though, clearly, Roman wasn't thinking about how their abstaining affected her. Wasn't that just like a man? Leave him a little frustrated and he acts like you castrated him. Like she wasn't doing this for both their sakes. Like he was the only one suffering. The only one with urges. Needs.
Desires.
Dreams of love.
Tess groaned and shoved the box of condoms aside. She didn't have time for love. Not with her father breathing down her neck, waiting for her to fail. She had no time for Roman St. John, real or fantasized. She would dress in her hand-washed silk panties and go for a run to clear her mind and enable her to plan out a timeline for getting The Castle cleaned up and repaired. If she were lucky and worked fast, she might even get it back on the market and sold before the bank repossessed it.
Yep. A cup of coffee and a long run. That would get Roman St. John out of her head.
* * * *
The sweet tang of almonds wafted past Roman's nose and he knew Tess had invaded his space—his kitchen. The woman didn't even cook, yet she wore ... flavors. Vanilla, strawberry, almond. He must have worked for her two weeks before he'd figured out those scents had nothing to do with baking.
His knuckles dug into the bread dough he was kneading on the countertop. Those enticing scents came from the bottles, jars and tubes that had filled her bathroom counter. And she'd moved them all into his house and added them to those she'd made him buy for her at The Bargain Mart. She'd lined up the whole collection on the dresser in his spare room.
No, not lined them up. That would have suggested battle. She'd arranged them as though the battle had already been fought and won. She'd arranged them in clusters as though the spoils of the war had already been divided up among those bottles, jars, and tubes and they now held court in the vanquished territory.
The Harridan Princess was in for a surprise if she thought the local populace had surrendered himself to her subjugation. If she thought for a moment he'd relent to this latest invasion of his space, she was in for a big surprise.
She moved to the counter beside him. For all his determination, the assault of her nearness worked on him like yeast stirred into warm water. He punched the bread dough.
"That coffee still hot?” she asked, her little chin bobbing at the coffee maker on the back of the counter where he worked, her tone suspiciously ... congenial.
"Yeah."
She inclined her head toward the cupboard above the pot, her smile looking a little forced. “Think I could have a mug?"
"Help yourself."
"Gee, St. John, don't sprain a hip moving aside so I can reach a cup."
Finally, a tone he was familiar with.
She reached past him into the cupboard for the mug, her breast brushing his elbow. He should have gotten the mug out for her. He should have moved aside and given her room. But she had a knack for making him dig his heels in—for making him resist giving her so much as an inch of leeway.
A tactical error. Pitting stubbornness against stubbornness. She was the Princess of Pig-headedness.
And he was the court fool, standing there suffering the contact of her curves as she reached around him for a coffee mug. He'd mapped those curves with his eyes, his hands ... his mouth. He'd climbed their enticing slopes and free-fallen into their valleys. He'd been on the brink of the Promised Land only to be barred entrance.
He punched the bread dough again.
She lifted the pot from its heating tray and retreated a step. He gave her a sidelong glance. Skin tight bicycle shorts. Oversized T-shirt knotted up at her waist. Sleep-tousled hair and naked lips. Damn, she looked sexy.
He took a travel mug from the cupboard and banged it down on the counter in front of her. “Here."
"A travel mug?” she asked, coffeepot poised over the stoneware mug she'd chosen. “Am I going somewhere?"
"To The Castle?” he said hopefully.
"Can't,” she said, filling the stoneware mug. “It's being ionized today."
"Lucky me,” he muttered and punched the bread dough yet again.
She jammed the coffeepot back onto its hotplate. “Look, St. John, I'm trying to be nice here."
"Haven't had much practice at it, have you?"
Her mouth popped open.
He flipped the dough over with such force it raised a cloud of flour.
She fanned the flour dust away from her mug. “Just because I rejected you the other night..."
"Rejected me?” He rounded on her. “Somebody here has an inflated ego and it's not me."
She snorted. “Get real, St. John."
He shook the lump of dough in her face. “I'll tell you what's real. Real was you stripping off my pajama bottoms. Real was you sliding your hand into my crotch. Real was you begging me to stay."
Something glinted in her eyes, something that made him think of ... yearning. Or was it passion he saw in those dark depths? Or fight? Fight would make sense. More sense than the suggestion of fright he thought he glimpsed before she blinked away everything but her usual Princess-like glare.
With the backs of two fingers, she pushed the lump of dough away from her face and raised the coffee mug toward her lips. “Must you rant before I've even had my first cup of coffee?"
God, but she was maddening. And damned if he didn't still want her.
Chapter Seven
Sweat plastered the T-shirt to Tess’ spine and dripped into her eyes. Her calves burned from running, and her hands ached from clenching them into fists. She'd been running for an hour and hadn't had a single thought about The Castle. Too bad she couldn't say the same about Roman St. John. So much for clearing her head of that man.
If only he hadn't thrown the details of their aborted affair in her face, especially the detail about her stripping off his pajama bottoms. Oh, those happy face pj's and the wonder of Roman's cock rising beneath them. How naturally her hand had—
"Don't go there,” she panted, her feet pounding the blacktop road that wound through woods, over creeks, and past dirt driveways like Roman's.
If only he wasn't looking for wifely properties in his women. Then she could have slept with the man, rid herself of this insane itch, and moved on with her life. But no. He had to be a dyed-in-the-wool family man. He had to play the blasted knight come to rescue the damsel in distress.
Why had she admitted her fear of the dark to him? Why had she told him about that damned stormy night she'd almost drowned? She hated the idea of being a damsel—of needing any man, knight or not, to save her. No man had ever helped her, who didn't have an agenda of his own.
So, what was Roman's?
To get her out from under his roof. She couldn't very well blame him for wanting that. She'd insulted him, wounded him, and goaded him. She really should move out. She should stop punishing him.
But who would hold her through the next storm?
Tess scowled as the last corner before Roman's place loomed closer. She'd dealt with wind and lightning on her own before. Though she'd usually done so by closing her drapes, cranking the volume up on her CD player, and crawling under the covers ... in her Chicago condo.
"Make this work for you, girl. Make leaving more attractive than staying,” she panted. “Yeah. I could go back to the city."
The city where she could be anonymous.
"Provided I don't run into my father, my jerk of an ex-fiancé, or anyone connected with either of them,” she howled.
And there were no neighbors like Mrs. Antonetti, full of stories about Aunt Honey ... and who brought her homemade ravioli. Or Patty Rich, the young mother across the alley, who'd offered to help her clean out The Castle. Okay, so there were some good points to Pine Ridge.
"But the city is convenient,” Tess maintained.
Except for parking shortages, traffic jams, and endless lines.
"The city has plays, and art, and real people playing real music to real audiences,” she lamented into the fresh country air, feeling a little nostalgic for bus exhaust.
Just then, a truck lurched around the corner at her, its rust-patched chrome bumper catching the sunlight and reflecting it back into her face. Its oversized tires spit gravel as it veered momentarily off the blacktop. Tess was halfway into the ditch by the time the truck had righted itself and was speeding off down the road, its cab full of teenagers laughing.
Muttering a curse, she climbed back onto the gravel shoulder of the road. The ball of her foot hurt when she took a step. She must have bruised it stepping on a rock on her way into the ditch. At least in the city there were no ditches to fall into ... just curbs, which a person could rely on to be gravel free. Though there was the occasional wino.
Still, in the city, a person knew what to look out for. A person was safe there ... at least from well-muscled, overly protective soul mates with Norse God blue eyes.
Tess limped around the bend toward Roman's. She was done running. She was done debating. The bottom line, she was too attracted to the man to stay under the same roof with him. Stay and, sooner or later, she'd lean on him for support. Let him support her in any way, shape, or form and her resistance would fail ... and her father would do a victory dance in celebration of her failure.
"Damn you, Roman,” she muttered, swiping the sweat from her brow. “You get your wish. I'm outta your house and outta your life."
Yep, as soon as she hobbled back to the house, she'd call around and make arrangements for a place to stay. Decision made. Everything settled. At least she thought so until a big, shiny black truck eased around the corner behind her.
The big truck slowed in the far lane. Where was her pepper spray when she needed it?
Back at The Castle, discarded among a multitude of other city-born defenses.
She glanced at the highly polished vehicle with its extended cab and chrome running boards. Not a rusted out junker like the one the teenager drove. Not the kind of truck that ran mud races. The window slid down and the driver leaned out, a pair of Ray Bans obscuring the intent in his eyes while his broad grin stretched the limits of charm.
"Need some help, ma'am?"
Ma'am? If he was a pervert, he was a polite one.
"I'm fine, thank you."
"You're limping. I thought you might appreciate a ride."
"I'm fine. Really."
"I'd hate to leave a pretty damsel in distress in the middle of nowhere."
There was that damned damsel business again. Wasn't there a man on this earth that didn't look at women as the weaker sex?
"I'm no damsel,” she growled, gauging the distance to Roman's driveway. “Nor am I in distress."
"At least you're not arguing with the pretty part."
Her attention snapped to the driver. Clean cut, chiseled cheeks, and no requisite baseball cap covering the wide, intelligent brow or the healthy crop of dark hair. Just those pricey sunglasses hiding his eyes. Maybe he thought the Ray Bans were cool. A die-hard flirt.
"Save the flattery, Bubba,” she lobbed back at him without slowing her pace.
He laughed a deep, rich laugh. “No one's ever called me Bubba."
"Guess there's a first time for everything."
The truck rolled slowly along in the far lane, keeping pace with her. She was still several yards from Roman's driveway. Would Roman hear her if she screamed? Would he come running if he did hear her? Not likely. Not after how she'd treated him.
Maybe she could cut through the woods between the house and road. She eyed the tangled foliage along the roadside.
"That blackberry brush will tear those lovely legs all to hell."
She tilted her face toward the stranger in the truck. “Do most of the women you try to pick up run off into the woods?"
Laughter snorted from him. “That's not the usual effect I have on women."
"You can move along, now. I'm fine and really can take care of myself."
"Even an independent woman needs assistance now and then,” he drawled.
Didn't she know it?
She shook off the image of Roman's broad shoulders cradling her head and his strong arms holding her close. She picked up her pace, insisting, “I'm fine."
"I'm sure you are."
"I am."
"I'm just offering a ride."
"I'm not far from home."
He lifted his face at the road stretching out in front of them. The only driveway within view was Roman's.
"That's my drive right there,” she said.
"Right there?"
She didn't like the interest with which he noted the driveway and added, “My husband is expecting me."
"Husband?” The angle of the stranger's head shifted and she was certain, behind the Ray Bans, his eyes checked out her hands for rings.
"Yes. My husband,” she muttered, hating that she'd fallen back on the convenient defense. “He took advantage of my injured state to beat me back to the house. He so seldom wins our races."
"Competitive. I like that in a woman. Maybe we could run together sometime."
"I'm sure my husband would enjoy that."
The stranger's grin twitched. “If you're okay then..."
"I'm okay."
He gave her a nod, pulled out ahead of her and ... turned the big, black truck into Roman's driveway.
Tess stopped on the shoulder of the road where Roman's drive cut off from the main road, and uttered an oath. Maybe she'd get lucky and the stranger in the black truck would turn out to be an encyclopedia salesman.
By the time she hobbled up to the driver's side of the truck, the stranger had both arms folded over the window frame, his crooked grin telling her that her luck hadn't turned, yet.
"You're a friend of Roman's, aren't you?” she demanded
He nudged the Ray Bans onto the top of his head. “Guilty as charged. Brody McCain."
Mischief twinkled from Brody's blue eyes. Still, she accepted the hand clad in a fingerless leather glove that he stuck out to her, and confessed, “And I'm not Roman's wife."
"No kidding."
"I'm his ... houseguest. Tess Abbot."
He stopped pumping her hand and the laugh lines around his eyes deepened. “Abbot? The architect who hired Roman to renovate The Castle?"
"He told you about me, huh?"
He released her hand, his grin twitching. “Seems he left out a few details."
