Taming Tess, page 5
Besides, Roman had already accepted responsibility. Honesty personified. Add reliable, neat, clean, and physically fit. He was damned near a Boy Scout.
"I need coffee,” Tess groaned and charged the kitchen. A charred remnant of toast that had avoided getting doused crunched under her foot, releasing new scorch fumes into the air and stopping her dead.
Last evening, jogging the hilly neighborhood where The Castle held court, she'd smelled the smoke. Being an old neighborhood full of aged shade trees, she'd thought someone was burning pruned branches. Green wood burning would have explained the smoke plume filling the sky.
But the childhood campfires and college bonfires she'd experienced had had a pleasant scent. This one had not.
Then came the fire truck siren. Normally, this city girl didn't so much as blink at the sound of a siren. But this one raised the hairs at the nape of her neck. She'd picked up her pace when she should have been slowing down, cooling down. Each stride brought her closer to the smoke and hammered foreboding up her spine. By the time she rounded the last corner before The Castle, her muscles were burning.
And so was her house. Her one hope of proving her father wrong—of proving she could succeed on her own without him or any man—going up in flames.
"Thank you, Roman St. John and your band of merry men."
Tess scowled at the mess her burnt toast had made of St. John's floor. It would serve him right if she didn't clean up. After all, if not for his defective equipment, her house wouldn't have caught on fire. If not for the fire, she wouldn't have been forced to move into his house. And if Roman hadn't abandoned her—hadn't left her to make her own breakfast—there wouldn't be burnt toast on his kitchen floor. She'd even had to sacrifice her first cup of coffee putting out the flames.
In her rebellious pique, she opted for making herself a fresh pot of coffee first. While it brewed, she went around opening windows to air the place out. After all, she was the one who'd have to breathe the fumes all day if she didn't. To get to the window in Roman's bedroom she had to go around his bed—his massive, four-poster that screamed “marriage bed".
She skirted the big bed, eyeing it as she headed for the exit. There wasn't so much as a wrinkle in its cover. Tess snorted. She'd bet Roman even folded his underwear.
She opened a dresser drawer. Sure enough. His shorts were folded into tight, little squares. She shook her head. “You're going to make some neatnik woman very happy, St. John."
Of course, that wouldn't be her. She wasn't neat.
She wasn't husband hunting either. She was just a woman snooping through a man's underwear drawer, a very virile man's underwear drawer. Neat or not, Roman St. John was a man's man.
And not just because he wore plaid flannel, a hard hat, and a tool belt. He had a physique sculpted by physical labor rather than weight lifting at any gym and legs made for jeans. Long legs climbing to lean hips on which he slung low that tool-filled belt and a tush Tess longed to touch just to see if it was as tight as it looked.
Tess mewed in contentment. But the marriage bed loomed before her and her mew turned to a resigned sigh. There could never be anything between her and Roman St. John in the bedroom save for smoldering lovemaking.
She fingered the reading material piled on his nightstand and conceded that maybe they might have more than lovemaking in common, like reading in bed. There were magazines dedicated to renovating older homes and a fat volume on building codes. Then there was that thin little book he'd been reading last night, the one with the faded title that he'd said was about a woman like her. She picked up the little book and turned it over in her hand.
"Shakespeare. I'm impressed, St. John,” she murmured as she squinted to read the faded title.
But impressed wasn't the word that came to mind once she made out the title. The Taming of the Shrew.
He'd compared her to a shrew. How dare he, after all the hassle and headache he'd caused her, liken her to a shrew!
"Arrogant oaf.” She slammed the book about a woman forced into marriage down on the nightstand. How like her father.
"Pompous, patronizing neat freak!” she growled at the dresser with its drawer of precisely folded underwear.
"Condescending Cro-Magnon,” she howled, hammering wrinkles into the bedspread. “You think I'm a shrew? You haven't begun to see shrewish."
She stormed out of the bedroom in search of something to write on. “Never let it be said of Theresa Louise Abbot that she didn't give a man exactly what he deserved."
She snatched up the sticky notepad but discarded it as far too small for all she had to say to Roman St. John. Remembering his office, she raced up the stairs and into the room across from the bedroom where she'd slept. She headed straight to the desk in the far corner, snatched a pen from a racquetball can next to the computer, a sheet of paper from the storage shelf beneath the inkjet printer, and started to write.
Dear Mr. St. John:
No. Too polite. St. John didn't deserve polite. She crumpled up the sheet of typing paper, tossed it over her shoulder, and snagged another.
Look here, St. John!
The paper tore beneath the ferocity of her exclamation point. She balled up the paper and sent it after the first, snatched up another, and set pen to page. This time, the pen left nothing but scratchy little lines and faint dashes where letters should be.
Scowling, Tess dug in the racquetball tin for another pen. But all she came up with were pencils. No pencil lead would stand up to her writing. Not today.
She opened the top drawer of the desk and retrieved a fresh pen. Now, what to write?
She stared at the orderly surface of the desk. Computer, printer, scanner, mouse on mouse pad, racquetball can pencil holder, bills lined up in a file holder, and books squarely braced between a set of pewter bookends. A place for everything and everything in its place. She was beginning to hate orderliness.
She swiveled in the chair, scanning the rest of the room. It was crowded but organized. Pencils, erasers, and slide rule stationed on a drafting table. Storage cabinet, filing cabinet, and wastebasket lined up like good little soldiers. Even his contractor's license and a photo of a big, old farmhouse hung over the desk as straight as if he'd used a level to position them.
But no college degree. No awards. Such certificates and plaques virtually plastered her father's office walls. Yet Roman St. John was a building contractor who'd come with the highest of recommendations. Well-earned recommendations, judging by the work he'd done for her. No moneyed parent backing him, near as she could tell. Just a business built by the man's own blood and sweat.
"No, no, no,” she muttered. “I am not going to go soft over him. He's simply a less educated version of my father. And he called me a shrew ... albeit indirectly. He must pay and with far worse than a mere scathing letter."
She stared at the computer. Oh yes, there was much worse she could do to him than call him a few choice words.
She booted up his computer. There were any number of files she could mess up ... provided they weren't password protected.
She tried one and smiled when it flashed open. “Oh, St. John, you trusting fool."
She perused his accounting ledger, his quarterly profit and loss statement, and his estimate sheets. He could have charged his customers more, but he still made an ample personal income. A major portion of which he saved, she noted as she snooped further. More browsing and she amended saved with invested.
A man with security on his mind. She wasn't surprised. He was, above all else, a man with his eye on a future that included a wife and children. A family man. He'd called himself just that many times.
As much as that designation smacked of her father, she couldn't bring herself to mess with the financial accounts of a man carving out a life for a family. Besides, any numbers she changed today wouldn't likely be noticed until tax time, and she wanted immediate payback.
Tess closed the financial accounts and searched Roman's programs for something more to her liking. She could have altered his calendar where he'd listed all his jobs. But she'd noticed he also recorded his appointments in a day planner he carried with him. The man excelled at organizational skills.
She could mess with his program files. But she didn't really want to do him irreversible harm.
She could change the date on his computer.
Too juvenile.
She opened his word processing program without finding so much as single letter. No personal journal. Nothing.
Then she found his CAD program.
"Pay dirt."
Tess’ fingers flew over the keyboard, opening files, scanning pages of schematic drawings. It was an earlier, simpler version of the drafting program she'd worked on at her father's firm, but familiar enough to her.
She studied a meticulously drawn electrical layout. But it wasn't Roman's neatness that impressed her. He'd laid out a complicated routing as efficiently as any licensed electrician. No wonder he'd stuck his nose into the argument she'd had with the electrician rewiring The Castle and, to her astonishment, supported her point. Still, later, privately, she'd informed Roman she could handle her own disputes ... even though it had been Roman's intervention—a man's intervention—that had made the electrician relent and do the job her way.
Nice, to have someone at your side to lean on now and then.
But also galling to need a man in order to get another man to listen to what she wanted.
"You were probably just showing off, St. John,” she murmured, pulling up another set of files.
These included layouts for additions and garages as well as floor plans to houses. To her amazement, one of the floor plans was of The Castle.
Maybe not so amazing considering he'd held the highest bid on The Castle until she'd come along. She studied his version. He'd make only minor alterations to the lower two floors. The big changes on his plan were to the attic. A huge playroom dominated the space. A great use of the space ... for someone planning to raise a brood of children in that house.
She grimaced. Roman St. John had often said the old Victorian would be a perfect place to raise kids. He'd wanted the house for a home ... his home.
She'd wanted it for an investment, her design marrying modern day convenience with yesteryear's grandeur, the emphasis on elegant living and entertaining space for the professional minded. Not exactly what a family man had in mind. Her design priced the house right out of a small contractor's price range, too.
Correction. Make that would have priced it out of Roman's range. She could forget about her prospective upscale buyers now that The Castle was a smoky ruin.
Just as she could forget about The Castle being the first entry into her architect's portfolio. Forget using it to show her father she didn't need to play the supportive little woman to any husband in order to be successful.
"Damn you, St. John."
For hours, she tinkered with the CAD program, replacing his changes with hers. But, when she was done, her finger hesitated over the save button. She knew how much time he must have spent making his changes and entering them on the computerized plans.
But he'd argued endlessly with her over the renovation of her house. He'd left her stuck in the boonies.
He'd called her a shrew.
Besides, the job was over. Done with. Even if the house was salvageable, St. John Contracting wouldn't be awarded the job ... just the bill for rebuilding.
Regret shivered through her, and it had nothing to do with an investment reduced to ashes or lawsuits. There'd be no more contact with the hunky contractor ... except maybe in court. She might even cross his path during depositions. And that would relieve the itch between her legs, how? She wanted to jump St. John's hot bod again and again and again, and she hadn't the foggiest idea why one fuck would never be enough.
"Damn you, St. John. You have no idea how much you're costing me."
Still, her finger, poised to strike the button that would overwrite his file with hers, hesitated. Why? It wasn't like he'd need this layout any longer.
She hesitated because the tiny room off the master bedroom she'd turned into a walk-in closet did make a perfect nursery. She hesitated because the space off the kitchen she'd partitioned away as the maid's quarters would better suit a breakfast nook where a bunch of kids could chatter away within earshot of their cooking mother ... or father.
She hesitated because Roman St. John's design was perfectly viable for its own reasons.
In the end, she saved her changes to a new file and left his intact. There had to be a better way to get even with the man, something else that would rankle him without causing irreversible damage.
She opened the desk drawer and stirred around the contents, not sure what she was even looking for ... until she found it.
"What have we here,” she murmured, plucking a credit card from the back of the drawer. She looked from the card to the computer and smiled. “There is a God, and She is all inspiring."
Tess double clicked on the Internet icon. The computer dialed, connected, checked the saved password, and, voila, she was in.
Then she punched up the Web address for Neiman Marcus.
"Call me a shrew then leave me without a change of clothes, will you, St. John?"
Chapter Four
The feathery tips of her dark, cropped hair tickled his nose. She smelled fresh and clean as though she'd just stepped from the bath. He nuzzled her neck, tasting strawberries. She turned her head, her mouth meeting his. Hot. Wet. Her tongue touched his. He groaned and cupped her compact breasts, her nipples like pebbles against his palms. She wrapped her legs around his waist, the center of her womanhood drenching his cock...
That's when the alarm went off. That's how Roman's day began.
He gripped the truck's steering wheel and scowled as the truck trundled toward home. His day hadn't gotten any better. In fact, today had rivaled yesterday for the worst day of his life, and not because the humidity level had turned an unseasonable warm spring day into a sauna.
He'd started a new job. But the building center hadn't delivered the necessary materials. By the time he had his materials, he also had three employees buzzing with caffeine. He didn't even want to think what that hour-long coffee break cost him.
Then he'd phoned the Fire Chief and gotten his preliminary findings regarding the fire at The Castle. It was little consolation to learn Raymond's cigar hadn't likely set that attic full of boxes off, but one of his electrical extension cords.
While the boys took their lunch break, he'd headed over to The Castle. He'd expected to run into Tess there and thought they might discuss her current living arrangements and how they might change them. He'd eaten his lunch and boarded up her front door while he'd waited. He'd waited until he ran out of time, something Tess apparently had an abundance of. When he headed back to the job site, her car was still in her driveway.
Then, just as the workday was winding down, Raymond ran a skill saw up his thumb. Two hours of hospital coffee later and Roman had a caffeine buzz of his own that could have lit up the City of Chicago. At least Ray's thumb would be okay, provided he didn't mind missing half a fingernail.
By the time Roman had secured the building site for the night, he had crashed off his caffeine high. But his head still felt as though someone was tightening a vice around it. Could this day get any worse?
* * * *
The second Tess heard the rumble of a truck in the driveway, she dropped the broom and ran to the kitchen window. Forget the burnt toast crumbs, Roman was home. At least she hoped it was Roman's truck behind the blinding headlights and Roman inside it.
Anger had goaded her into invading his privacy, eating his pantry bare, and leaving the mess for him to clean up. It was the least she owed him. Or so she'd rationalized during her fits of temper after being unable to bring herself to charge a new wardrobe to him. She'd told herself she'd cancelled the order to Neiman Marcus because she didn't want to give Roman the satisfaction of having her arrested for unauthorized use of his credit card.
But, as day faded into evening and he didn't return, her curses metamorphosed into concern. Maybe the reason he hadn't phoned to tell her he'd be late was because he'd had an accident on the way home.
When she called his cousin Raymond's number, the only other St. John listed in the phone book, she'd gotten some cocky kid who said they were all at the hospital and he didn't know anything else. The hospital!
Finally, the truck door opened and the interior light splashed across a set of broad shoulders that could belong only to Roman. Tess let out a relieved breath. At least he was in one piece.
Halfway to the house, he bent and plucked the smoke detector off the ground. Tess winced. Here he might be hurt and she'd gone and left his house a mess because of her stupid anger.
She skidded dishes into the sink and squared the toaster on the back of the counter. The front door opened and Roman stepped in, frowning perplexedly at the blipping smoke detector in his hand. The hell with dirty dishes. He could be stitched together somewhere.
She moved around the table toward him, noting he still had a mouth, a nose, and two complete sets of eyes and eyebrows in perfect order. He, on the other hand, looked at the wires hanging from the hall ceiling where his smoke detector had formerly been anchored then at the broom and the burnt toast remnants at his feet.
"What the hell is this, your version of payback? I burn your house, so you set fire to mine?"
Wasn't that nice? Here she was, worried about him, and what did she get for all her concern? Criticism.
Tess stopped dead in her tracks in front of Roman and planted her hands on her hips. “I didn't do it on purpose."
"That's comforting. I'd hate to think I have a pyromaniac for a houseguest."
He slammed the smoke alarm down on the table and she jumped ... and counted the fingers white knuckling the smoke detector against the tabletop. Five, long, thick, blunt-tipped fingers accounted for. The other set was curled into a fist at his side. A fist. How dare he be angry when she was the one with the charbroiled house and no way to escape this rural hell?
