Taming Tess, page 2
"Because of the carelessness of your workers."
She had him there, if the Fire Marshal's investigation confirmed what they already suspected.
"Look,” he ventured, “we're both stressed out. Maybe there's a condo available at the ski hill. It's off-season."
"I'm staying at your house."
"Why?"
"Because you said if you didn't have my remodeling job done by the end of the week, I could move into your house. It's the end of the week, St. John, and my remodeling job isn't done. Not by a long shot. Now, are you a man of your word or not?"
A man of his word. Above all else, he was that.
"Fine. I'll leave the headlights on until you get on the porch."
She frowned at the dirt path leading from drive to house and the shadows beyond the reach of the headlights. “It is awfully dark out here."
Did he detect a hint of apprehension in her voice, an edge of uncertainty? Could Her-City-Born-Highness be uncomfortable with the dark? Maybe there was still a way of persuading her out of staying under his roof tonight.
"Yep. No pesky streetlights shining in our eyes and keeping us awake out here in God's country."
She scowled at him. But, as her gaze slid past him toward the woods darkening the edge of the driveway, apprehension once more pulled at her features. He should be kind. Ease up on her. But a knockout gorgeous harpy was the last thing he needed sleeping under his roof, tempting him.
"With the extra overcast tonight,” he grumbled, “it'll be especially nice and dark."
She shivered, and Roman suffered a twinge of guilt. But he reminded himself whom he was feeling guilty over and prodded, “Let me help you with your seatbelt."
Her hand clamped down on the belt buckle, her white-knuckles confirming that Little-Miss-Thinks-the-World-is-at-Her-Beck-and-Call wasn't as self-assured as she pretended. Again, guilt niggled at him.
"I can manage on my own,” she retorted in the no-nonsense tone she used on him far too often, her chin tilted at its usual maddeningly haughty angle.
He pondered if a soul-deep kiss might not be just the thing to deflate some of that ego. Or was it all an act? He grunted. Bluff or not, the woman deserved no mercy.
"Perhaps her Ladyship would like me to escort her to the door."
"That won't be necessary. I can manage..."
"On your own?” he finished her familiar mantra.
"Yes,” she snapped, jerking on the door handle.
"Of course,” he returned through his teeth, silently damning the woman for her stubbornness, and stubbornness had to be at the root of her actions. Why else would a woman accustomed to five-star accommodations hold him to a stupid boast made in the heat of an argument?
She swung her legs out the door and slid to the ground, almost disappearing beyond the edge of the seat. He wished she'd disappear.
She peered at him across the broad seat. “You will leave the lights on until I'm up to the house? I have your word on that?"
"Cross my heart and hope to die,” he muttered, feeling more like a cad with each passing moment.
A tiny smile lifted the corners of her lips. “Is that a promise?"
Damn, but the woman was quick with that tongue of hers.
"If you still doubt my word at this point,” he growled, “let me put it another way. I wouldn't want her Ladyship to trip on a rut and have another reason to sue me."
She arched her mink-brown eyebrows at him. “Sue you?"
Roman winced. The last thing he'd meant to do was remind her what course of action she could take against him over the fire. As if he bought for a moment she hadn't already thought of it. She probably had her lawyer's phone number on speed dial.
"Just keep in mind,” he grumbled, “I offered to walk you to the door."
"What a gentleman."
Before he could retort that he was a gentleman, that she'd know it if she weren't so quick with her razor-sharp tongue, she shut the truck door between them. So much for scaring the mule-headed woman off with rough roads, dark woods, and bungalow-sized accommodations.
Maybe she just wanted to make him squirm a little more. That would be right up her alley or, in her case, boulevard. Maybe she'd give in and let him drive her back to town once she'd crossed his threshold and invaded his territory.
Fine. Let her have her way. The sooner she proved her point, the sooner he got rid of her.
The minute her foot came down on the top step, he flicked off the headlights and headed for the house, following a path he knew by rote. A twig snapped beneath his foot.
"Is that you, St. John?"
"No, it's the bogey man,” he grumbled, focused on separating his house key from the rest on his key chain as he climbed the steps to the porch ... and ran smack dab into his unwanted houseguest.
She screeched and tottered. He caught her by the upper arm, his knuckles brushing the side of one, firm, spandex-cupped breast. She swatted him. He let go. “Did it ever occur to you to move out of the way?"
She snagged him by the sleeve, grousing and stumbling along at his side as he crossed the porch to the front door. “You turned off the lights so quickly, I didn't have a chance to get my bearings."
"You're on my porch. It has a railing.” He slid the key into the lock and turned it. “You couldn't have fallen off or gotten lost if you'd tried."
She shifted at his side, her fingers biting into his sleeve and tugging the fabric over his arm. She really was unnerved. Another twinge of guilt nudged him. He should reassure her. Maybe slip an arm around her and pull her close—protect her against whatever frightened her. He wanted to. If only she'd keep her mouth shut.
But that was too much to ask of the stubborn woman who clutched his shirtsleeve even as another barrage of complaints rolled off her tongue. “There's a ramp off the end there. I could have been dumped right back into the driveway."
"Then you could sue me over that, too,” he growled as he opened the door, reached inside and flicked on an interior light.
"I didn't say I was suing you over anything."
He eyed Tess Abbot hopefully, the edge of light wedging out from the open door, making her appear anything but the she-devil he knew her to be. And she was a she-devil even if the diffused light softening her eyes gave more of a glint of amusement than vindictiveness ... even if her lips curled impishly at their corners.
"Yet,” she finished smugly.
* * * *
Chin held high and shoulders squared, Tess released St. John's shirtsleeve and stepped into his house. The entrance opened into a space between a kitchen with glistening, clutter free countertops, and a front room with nary a magazine out of place. Apparently, St. John didn't spend much time here. No man was this neat. Hell, she wasn't this neat.
He crowded in behind her, a wall of rock hard muscle bumping against her shoulder blades and something nearly as hard butting her backside. Odd, how they tended to bump into each other more often than two coordinated people ought. Aunt Honey would have called those encounters Freudian slips of the physical kind.
Aunt Honey had listened to her complaints about Roman St. John's tendency to get in her way ... and about how he wore his tool belt slung way too low on his hips. Never mind that the belt was designed for a carpenter's convenience. The way the hammer handle thumped against her contractor's thigh with his every move, the smooth stroke of his hand in and out of the nail pocket center front, and the ready release of the clip-on tape measure always got her thinking about something far removed from construction. Even now, just the thought of that belt and its dangling hammer handle...
"Unless you want to spend the night entertaining mosquitoes,” he was close enough to her that his breath rifled through the hairs behind her ear, “I suggest you move out of the way and let me close the door."
So much for fantasies ... as if she needed him or any man to fulfill her dreams. She would build her own empire one refurbished house at a time ... provided men like Roman St. John quit burning up her assets.
"How inconvenient of me to be in your way, St. John.” She stepped into the front room, rubbing the tickle of his breath from her ear, and added over her shoulder, “But then, I wouldn't be here if my house hadn't been set ablaze by one of your employees."
He grumbled something under his breath she no doubt didn't want to hear. As if the opinion of any man who owned a plaid couch could be of any importance to her.
Her eye snagged on a photo on a table beside the couch of a woman with wild strawberry-blond curls and a little boy with straight hair the color of wheat. Tess picked up the picture and studied it closer, frowning as she tried to match the color of the child's hair to St. John's. He'd never said anything about being a father ... or being involved with someone or having been married.
Not that she'd ever asked. She hadn't. Never would. A woman who had no intentions of marrying didn't need to know such things about a man. But a man who never spoke of his child was not a man she could respect.
"That's my sister and her son, Ben,” he said.
Tess smiled and set the picture down. She had no business being pleased about her contractor's non-marital status ... even if he was a spectacular specimen of manhood. He was too much like her father. At least, he was whenever he espoused the merits of rural family life or patronizingly pointed out the flaws in her renovating plan.
Why did her libido have to be attracted to this contrary man? Her smile faded. Maybe this was just about a man she couldn't have. Much as she hated to admit her father was right about anything, he'd pegged her when he said she always wanted what she couldn't have.
* * * *
"Now what are you scowling at?” Roman demanded, instantly defensive.
She blinked and, when the heavy dark lashes lifted once more, his uninvited houseguest's gaze fixed on his hand clamped over the edge of the still open door. “I thought you wanted me out of your way so you could close the door and keep out the mosquitoes."
He stepped into the room toward her, silently cursing her stubbornness as he slammed the door shut behind him. The object had been to crowd her—push her into realizing she'd manipulated herself into being alone in the home of a man she barely knew and to make her see the error of her actions. Instead, the inimitable Tess had pushed him into closing the door and sequestering them in his house alone together.
Worse, she turned her back on him, her slightly rounded hips swaying as she strolled deeper into his house. His palms could almost feel their perfect fit. In his dreams, they had. Then, the crisp tones of her voice trailed back at him.
"You going to give me the grand tour, or shall I explore on my own?"
He should have known Tess was beyond reasoning with. She'd proven that all too often in the past weeks while he'd worked on her house—a house he knew far better than she did. Yet, every suggestion he'd made, she'd opposed. Maybe that was the key to handling her—reverse psychology.
She stopped at the threshold of his bedroom. Tess Abbot in spandex bicycle shorts and sports bra mere feet from his bed. Reverse psychology called for him to suggest she take his room—sleep in his bed. Hell, she and her trim runner's body were already too close to his bed ... where he'd like nothing more than to toss her down, strip away her clothes and taste her just to see if she was as hot as he suspected she was.
Down, boy. Stick to business. Think with the head on your shoulders.
And the head on his shoulders told him Tess was flat out too clever to fall for reverse psychology. Her quick wit was proof enough of that. But there'd been other hints of her intelligence, like the fact that she'd known how to open up a supporting wall without dropping the roof into the front room. He'd liked that she'd known what she was doing in that old house ... even if learning that fact about her had culminated from weeks of arguments.
He liked way too much about Tess Abbot to let her into his bed ... whether or not he shared it with her.
"That's my bedroom,” he said, sounding more territorial than he'd intended.
"This the only bedroom in the house?"
"And if it is?"
She leaned back against the doorframe and folded her arms across her chest, her eyes gleaming. “Then you'd better hope that couch of yours is comfy, because that's where you'll be sleeping."
"You think you're always entitled to the prime location, don't you?"
She huffed, her nostrils flaring in a way he'd love to make them flare. “When I've been uprooted from my house due to no fault of my own, I expect the offending party to be gracious about living up to what he promised."
"I offered only that you could move into my house. I said nothing about moving into my bedroom."
He advanced on her, not stopping until he stood so close she had to crane her neck well back to meet his glare. She didn't flinch. He'd give her points for good acting.
"Why, St. John, I'd almost think you were trying to intimidate me."
Okay, so she wasn't acting. So, she'd backed him down plenty of times already during the remodeling of The Castle these past several weeks.
He nodded at the stairs that climbed from outside his bedroom door. “There's a second bedroom up there and my office."
"Second bedroom, huh?” She peered over her shoulder into the darkness at the top of the steps. “What's a bachelor need with a second bedroom?"
"I don't plan on being a bachelor forever."
She eyed him, one dark eyebrow canted up on her forehead and a mischievous lift to the corner of her mouth. “You think this little bungalow is big enough for a family?"
"It's a starter home."
She glanced into his bedroom. “You and mommy and...” she nodded up the steps, “baby makes three?"
"Something like that."
She scowled and straightened from the doorway. “Fine. I'll take the upstairs room.” She canted her face at his, so close he could smell the minty sweetness of her breath. “And you thought I couldn't be reasonable."
"Uncle!” he bellowed, taking a step backward.
"Excuse me?"
"I'm crying uncle. Anything to get you to let me drive you back to town and put you up anywhere else but here."
A devilish smile pulled across her mouth, causing tiny dimples to dent the corners of her kissable lush lips. “No deal. Just point me in the direction of your bathtub, St. John."
Bathtub? Swell. Not only was he about to be stuck under the same roof with Tess Abbot for the night, he was about to be stuck with her naked.
Chapter Two
At the end of the first floor hall, he motioned her ahead into a brightly tiled room. “There're extra towels on the..."
She shut the door in his face. He'd been about to follow her into the bathroom, that towering man with the linebacker shoulders and feet half the size of the state of Nebraska. Imagine her and Roman St. John confined in this tiny space together. He'd probably have knocked her into the tub.
Unless he caught her with those huge hands of his, like he had when he'd bumped into her on the porch. Such big, strong hands. She wondered if what they said about the size of man hands ... and feet ... being indicative of the size of another anatomical attribute were true.
"Don't go there. Don't go there. Don't go there,” she chanted in a low voice and thumped her head back against the bathroom door. Besides, she already had an opinion of the size of St. John's cock. She'd seen how it filled out his jeans even at rest ... had felt it press into her backsi—
"You okay in there?” he called.
She wheeled at the door. The man was still out there ... right outside the door. She flicked the lock into place. “I'm just fine. I don't need a chaperone to bathe."
"I heard the thump. I was concerned. So, shoot me."
If resolving this whole mess could be accomplished so simply, she'd gladly have obliged ... especially when he gave her attitude. But there were laws against shooting a person just because he bothered you.
She could hear him grumbling on the other side of the door. Then his heavy, hurried footsteps faded off down the hall.
Tess rolled her head, the tension crackling in her ears like popcorn. She needed a good, long soak in a tub of hot water and not just because her clothes and hair smelled of smoke.
She drew back the shower curtain, not surprised to find a sparkling tub. He had to have cleaning help ... or a woman in his life. She frowned at that last thought. She frowned deeper at wasting even a second trying to recall if he'd ever mentioned a woman during their weeks working together. St. John's eligibility status was of no concern to a woman who'd sworn off matrimony. But a one night stand or two or a dozen...
"No, no, no, no,” she muttered under her breath. “The last thing I need is a fling with a guy whose values match my father's."
She plugged the drain, turned on the hot water, and scanned the back lip of the tub for bath supplies. She wanted bubbles. Not that she expected to find bubble bath among her reluctant host's paraphernalia. A man like Ro—
Whoa. What was this?
Between a nondescript lump of soap and a Value Size jug of shampoo stood a bottle labeled “bubbling bath crystals". Before she could censure herself, an image of her contractor popped into her head, his brawny arms draped over the sides of the tub while one furry leg protruded from a pile of iridescent suds. Maybe the man was right about her coming home with him being a bad idea. She lusted after him.
Of course it was a bad idea.
But she refused to admit that to him. That would be like admitting defeat to her father.
Tess scowled, dumped a hefty amount of bath crystals under the stream of water spilling from the spout, and turned toward the open shelves stacked with towels above the toilet. They were a motley collection of odd sizes and dark colors, mostly burgundy. She wouldn't have pegged him for a man with enough imagination to waver from the standard blues commonly liked by the plaid flannel set. Then again, he had surprised her with the bubbling crystals ... and a few other times in the weeks they'd worked together.
Curious if she'd find other surprises in the personal space of his bathroom, she opened a set of bi-fold doors opposite the tub and sink and found a washer and dryer. Compact and orderly with a shelf of laundry supplies above the appliances. Even the dirty clothes hadn't been tossed willy-nilly. They were in a laundry basket atop the washing machine—Roman St. John's white, rumpled shorts and sweaty tees.
