Taming Tess, page 4
Sweet onions? Minced garlic? She was only vaguely aware of there being a variety of onions. St. John not only knew about onions, but he minced garlic as well. A domesticated man. Her father wouldn't likely approve of that.
Did she?
She tugged the neck of Roman's T-shirt up to her nose and inhaled the tangy aroma of seared beef. He'd taken the worst burnt half of the sirloin, and the T-shirt he'd given her to wear wasn't one of his thin, blue undershirts. He'd provided her with a sturdier, navy blue version with a whimsical figure of a carpenter stamped on the front. She'd have called such an act chivalrous ... were she a romantic woman.
But of course, she wasn't.
Tess rubbed the ribbed neckband of the T-shirt across her lips and contemplated the man to whom the shirt belonged, a man who did not own a robe. Why did that fact make her smile?
Because men in robes tended to look stuffy, and St. John was anything but stuffy. Besides, he had far too wonderful a chest to hide beneath a robe or pajama top. She'd seen him shirtless at work one hot day—seen how his muscles had glistened in the sunlight, all sweaty and sculpted. But not overdone. His were the muscles of a man who worked with his hands.
Then there were his buns and she wasn't talking the dinner type. They filled his jeans like a designer's dream. It got her to wondering if he wore boxers or briefs under those jeans or, come bedtime, pajama bottoms.
As if what he wore or didn't wear to bed should matter to her. He was trouble with a capital T even with the differences between him and her father. Then why couldn't she stop searching for his scent among the navy blue threads of the T-shirt?
Why did she contemplate how best to find out what St. John wore to bed ... if he wore anything at all?
Her gaze fixed on the double bed dominating the room tucked under the steep roof of the house. Stomach full, bubble bath fresh, and feeling quite toasty in Roman's oversized T-shirt, it was only natural that her mind wandered to the one area where she remained yet unsated.
And to be sated, all she had to do was descend the steps to the bedroom directly beneath hers ... to St. John's bedroom. Yep. Bat the eyelashes a few times and give him a come-hither look or two, and her reluctant host would be at her mercy. She'd seen the way he'd looked at her in that skimpy terry towel.
Yeah, right. Lusty glances or not, Roman St. John wouldn't welcome any invitation from her. She'd tweaked his ego far too often. Never mind that it had been for good reason. A woman who intended never to marry had no business tempting any man looking for a bride.
With a sigh, she shucked the bulky shorts and kicked them to the side of the bed. The bottom of the T-shirt tumbled halfway down her thighs, its caress reminding her of Roman's broad hands with their callused fingers—fingers whose firm yet unbruising grip earlier on the porch had kept her upright. How nice it would be to be able to lean on him.
Wrong. Even if St. John wasn't still too much like her father, he was looking for permanence and she wasn't. He was the last man on earth to whom she should turn for release.
She flicked off the switch beside the door for the overhead light and the room plunged into darkness. Immediately, Tess’ body reacted. Her heart skipped a beat then began a familiar jackhammer dance of fear. Her throat tightened. Sweat popped out along her spine. She switched the light back on.
He'd warned her the nights were dark out here in the country. Maybe if she left the drapes open.
But the room's single window wasn't covered with draperies, curtains, or even a shade. She scowled, torn between annoyance with the lack of privacy that bare window presented and its isolating blackness. She needed a nightlight.
But there was no reading lamp on the nightstand beside the bed or the dresser along the back wall. Just that harsh, glaring overhead fixture. How was she supposed to sleep with a hundred watts of light glaring in her face?
* * * *
Roman was aware of Tess the moment she stepped into his open doorway. He should have closed his door. He would from now on for as long as she insisted on inhabiting his spare bedroom.
But, at the moment, she stood at the doorway in his T-shirt but clearly no longer wearing his shorts. Didn't she know what she did to him, standing on the threshold of his bedroom with all that bare leg showing?
He lowered the book he'd been reading. “What?"
"There's no reading lamp in my room,” she fired back at him.
"Can't you read with the overhead light?"
"I wasn't planning on reading."
"Then why do you need a reading lamp?"
She blinked, frowned briefly, then peeked up at him through a heavy fringe of lashes. “In case I have to get up during the night.” One corner of her mouth twitched upward. “You wouldn't want me tripping over anything. You wouldn't want me to have additional reason to sue you, would you?"
Was she goading him or flirting with him? Whichever, he was determined not to rise to her baiting.
"Then leave the hall light on and your door open,” he muttered.
She swept her little, round chin into an imperial angle and pursed her lips. “I don't want to leave my door open."
He half expected her to stomp her foot ... her little, perfect, bare foot with its painted nails. Such a lovely high arch it had. She should have stuck with the seductive approach. He might have succumbed to that. But the harpy tempted him to show her he could give as good as she gave.
"What's the matter, Princess,” he said, bringing his gaze back up to her face, “you afraid an open door is more than my male libido can resist?"
She folded her arms over her chest, the cock of her chin more challenging now than imperial. “I should point out, St. John, I have a killer uppercut."
"Why doesn't that surprise me?"
"Because I'm a woman who can take care of herself, perhaps?"
"Or maybe because you're a lot like the woman in these pages.” He wagged the book he held loosely in his lap. “She has a wallop that would stop any man in his tracks, too.” And a tongue to match.
She looked at the book on the bedspread between his knees. Better that she not find out to whom he compared her.
"Look,” he muttered, palming the book with its faded title. “I don't have a spare reading lamp."
"How about a table lamp from the living room?"
"How about a flashlight?” he retorted.
Her shoulders drooped and a crease scored her broad brow as she seemed to contemplate the floor between them. There she went again, looking so uncertain he had the urge to gather her in his arms and promise her everything would work out ... even if he hadn't an inkling of how that would happen.
"Okay, St. John,” she said, looking him in the eye. “Here are the facts. I need a nightlight. I've never slept without one."
The eyes blazing at him fairly dared him to make something of her revelation. That bluster was a smoke screen, of course. Not a man to kick an opponent when she was down, Roman tossed his book aside, threw back the covers, and jumped out of bed.
She glanced down the front of him and, for an instant, looked startled. Then a smile stretched across the lips he'd have liked to sample ... were she a sweeter sort of woman.
"What's the matter now, Princess? Don't my pajama bottoms live up to your royal standards?"
"On the contrary. I think smiley faces are adorable.” She grinned up at him as he stopped in front of her, her rich, brown eyes twinkling.
"They were a gift from my sister,” he grumbled. “A gag gift."
"And you wear them even though you know this?"
"Not wearing them would be a waste."
"Practical Roman,” she said, tsking in a way that reminded him of his sister's good-natured ribbing about his practicality. He wasn't sure he liked the shrewish Tess teasing him.
"I'll bring you a nightlight if you go wait for me in your bedroom."
She gave him a salute, pivoted on her heel, and bounded up the steps. All that leg wasted on a woman too ornery to live with. He shook his head, retrieved the nightlight from the kitchen junk drawer, and headed up the steps after Tess.
She was sitting on the bed, knees hugged up under her chin and covers drawn up over her knees. Thank goodness for that last. After all, a man could take only so much tempting before he broke. Still, he couldn't help but speculate on the legs bent up under that old quilted bedcover ... and the curves to which his loaned T-shirt conformed. Tess Abbot wouldn't be happy to know what base thoughts meandered through the more primal paths of his mind.
Though he noticed she was taking her own time perusing his bare chest.
Run, urged a tiny voice inside his head. Run fast and far.
"Here's the light.” He thrust the nightlight at her, but she didn't take it. She just stared at it, mink brown eyebrows raised.
"A Winnie the Pooh nightlight?” Amusement laced her words.
"I bought it when my nephew visited."
"You babysat your nephew?"
"No, I eat little children. You'll find his bones in the bone pile out back. I'll plug in the nightlight for you.” He dropped to one knee beside the dresser where there was an electrical outlet.
"Aren't you the gentleman,” she all but purred from the bed.
"Anything your little heart desires, Princess,” he grumbled, fighting the nightlight's bent prongs into the outlet.
"In that case, St. John..."
He rose and faced her, dread shimmering up his spine.
"Turn off the overhead light on your way out ... please."
That was it? No tirade about the spartan accommodation or the lack of curtains on her window? Even a please? He was almost disappointed.
"Sure,” he said.
"And leave the hall light on ... in case I get up during the night."
"Anything else Her Highness requires before her humble servant retires for the night?"
"I'll whistle if I think of anything."
"I just bet you will."
Chapter Three
The third time Tess opened her eyes and squinted into the sunlight streaming through the room's single window, she knew she wasn't having a nightmare. The lumpy bed beneath her and the low, slanted ceiling over her head were real—just as real as yesterday's fire at The Castle.
Tess winced. She'd put everything she had into that project. She'd even had a couple of prospective buyers lined up ... buyers expecting a livable house. Now what was she going to do?
She could call Aunt Honey and hash out options with her.
No she couldn't. Not this week ... or the next three. Aunt Honey had gone to a monastery somewhere in the Andes. Her latest passion. Spiritual enlightenment. No cell phones allowed.
Tess climbed out of bed and stumbled down the steps. St. John's door was shut. Obviously the fire for which he was responsible wasn't nagging Prince Charmless awake this morning. After all the times he'd hammered on her front door at the crack of dawn, it would serve him right if she returned the favor and knocked on his door right now.
She yawned. Maybe she'd do just that ... right after she had her first cup of coffee.
She shuffled into the kitchen to the coffee maker. There was already coffee in it, though not much and the pot was cold. Yesterday's brew?
Not in Mr. Clean's domain.
Alarm tingled at the base of Tess’ skull. If the cold coffee wasn't from yesterday...
She charged Roman's bedroom door and threw it open. No Roman. No happy face pj's. Just his made-up bed.
She dashed out the front door. The driveway was empty as well. He'd abandoned her. That countrified version of her father had up and stranded her in the woods!
Blood boiling in her ears, she stormed back into the house. A yellow sticky note on the kitchen table fluttered with her passing. She backed up and read it. It stated simply, “Taxi,” followed by a phone number.
Okay. He hadn't stranded her.
She drew a deep breath then blew it slowly out her mouth. She'd overreacted. Couple yesterday's emotional roller-coaster ride with not having had her eye-opening cup of coffee yet, it was no wonder. She'd feel better after she got her caffeine fix ... and some food.
She found a coffee mug, filled it from the cold pot, and stuck it in the microwave. The yellow sticky note with a cab company number beckoned her from the table. It would take some time for a taxi to drive out here. She should call and set a time for them to pick her up.
She dialed the number. One ring. Two rings. The microwave timer went off. The long phone cord let her reach the mug. Gratefully, she wrapped her fingers around the steamy cup.
Three rings.
She popped a couple of slices of bread in the toaster.
Four rings.
The toaster lever jammed and she wiggled it.
Five rings.
What kind of cab company took this long to answer its phone? The toaster lever jerked loose and the bread popped up. She hammered the lever back down and the bread with it.
She was about to give up on the cab when a woman answered on the sixth ring, a baby squalling in the background. “I'm sorry,” Tess said, “I must have dialed the wrong..."
The woman shouted over the caterwauling infant.
Tess pulled the receiver away from her ear, reiterating, “You are Penetti's Cab Company.” Small towns and their casual business practices. “I need a cab at..."
"I have to talk to your husband? Is he the dispatcher?"
Another shouted response, this time with the added backup of another child intoning, “Mommy. Mommy. Mommy."
"Your husband is the cabby. Okay.” Tess rolled her eyes.
She sipped her coffee as she waited for the husband to respond to the wife's shouts and come to the phone. These people would never make it in Chicago.
And what was that singed smell?
She zeroed in on the smoking toaster and tried to raise the burning bread, but the damned lever stuck again. She reefed the toaster cord from the outlet, and the toaster skidded across the counter and crashed to the floor just as the cabby came on line.
"I need a cab,” she said, flinging her coffee on the flaming toast now skittering across the linoleum flooring. Just as the cabby spoke, the smoke detector in the hall squealed to life.
"Just a minute,” she shouted into the mouthpiece, dragging a chair under the smoke detector. “Let me shut this thing up."
She tucked the phone receiver under her chin, climbed onto the chair, and dislodged the battery. But the alarm kept squealing at ear splitting decibels.
"It's hard wired,” she muttered and cursed Roman's attention to code even though she would have been every bit as safety-conscious and connected the alarm directly to the house current.
She ripped the detector off the ceiling and the squeal gave way to an annoying blip. “Internal back up battery,” she explained into the phone receiver. Roman had covered every base. “I'll just be another second."
She dropped from the chair, set the phone down, went to the front door, and flung the alarm outside. Silence once more reigning, she picked up the phone. “Now, about that cab."
"What do you mean, the cab is in the shop? You can't possibly have just one..."
"You have only one cab and it's getting a new transmission ... today.” She managed a tight, “Thank you,” and hung up.
"You did this on purpose, Roman St. John. You left me the phone number of the lamest cab company in town."
She dug out a phone book and opened it to the yellow pages. Just as she thought. There were two other listings. Ten minutes later, she'd phoned both companies only to be informed that the only thing they had in common with Penetti's Cab Company was a listing in the yellow pages that served two other small towns. They were both fifty miles away and neither serviced Pine Ridge.
"Damn you, Roman St. John,” she howled. “Leave me here without any way to get to town—without a change of clothes. What am I supposed to do?"
She could walk ... if she knew the way. Why hadn't she paid attention to how they'd gotten here last night?
Tess thumbed the thin phone book still in her lap. At least she could call the fire department and find out what conclusion they'd drawn about the fire at her house.
Fifteen minutes later, she concluded her conversation with the Fire Chief. It hadn't been Roman's cousin's cigar that had started the fire. That news had dropped the floor out from under her. She had only minimal insurance. Anticipating a speedy turnaround on the house, she'd chanced saving money by relying on her contractor's insurance for protection.
Then came the reprieve she desperately needed. The fire had started as the result of an overheated electrical cord Roman's cousin Raymond had admitted to using.
At least those were the preliminary findings. The Fire Marshal still had to investigate for himself and write up his own report. But with the only Fire Marshal servicing all of Michigan's Upper Peninsula gone on vacation, they'd have to wait for a downstate Fire Marshal to fit them into his schedule. Fires not resulting in injury or death didn't merit high priority inspection.
Meanwhile, The Fire Chief had said she was free to enter her property. “Just don't go into the actual fire area."
Don't go into the fire area? What kind of security was that? Roman and his henchmen could be at The Castle right now removing incriminating evidence.
Tess paced Roman's plaid and pine living room. A deviant mind would pick decor like this ... as would a million other middle class people with casual taste ... or tight budgets.
Could her contractor have financial troubles?
Tess paused in front of the fieldstone fireplace that dominated the front wall of his living room. But, if that were the case, then why burn her place down and not his own?
She wheeled away from the fireplace. He must have an angle. All men had angles. And she wasn't thinking about the angles planing Roman St. John's cheeks. Or was she?
She groaned and spun around at the end of the couch. Roman's sister and nephew smiled up at her from the yellow birch picture frame on the end table. Maybe he needed money for them.
"And he'd get that by burning down your house, how?"
If only Aunt Honey weren't incommunicado. Aunt Honey would have heard her out. Then Aunt Honey would have pointed out that the Fire Chief had already found the contractor's equipment to be at fault for the fire. There'd be no reason for Roman to remove evidence.
