Taming Tess, page 8
"It's my place and I haven't even seen it,” she wailed, jolting him back to reality.
"And how is that my fault?” he countered, irritated ... frustrated. “You could have gotten up and ridden into town with me this morning."
"If you hadn't set fire to my place and made me homeless, I wouldn't have been in a position to need a ride into town."
"And if you weren't so bloody stubborn, you wouldn't be here in my house, in your skimpy underwear, wreaking havoc."
"Skimpy underwear? I'm lucky I have any underwear, no thanks to you."
"No thanks to me? Whose credit card paid for this?” He flicked the lapel of the robe with a forefinger. A mistake. The slick fabric slipped across the tops of her breasts. No tiny satin flower nestled in her cleavage, no camisole.
She swatted his hand away. He grabbed her hand and crammed the box of condoms into her palm. “Here. You might as well take these ... just in case there's some other poor soul you want to torment."
"I'm the tormented one here,” she shouted at his back as he strode toward his bedroom, peeling the T-shirt from his hot, sticky body. “I'm the one who was left stranded here all day!"
He pivoted on the threshold to his room and looked at her. A mistake, looking at that leggy body wrapped up in that thigh-riding robe. It just made him want her all over again. Never mind that she irritated the hell out him. That she frustrated him with her unrelenting mouth ... and sound reasoning. She was right. They'd made enough mistakes for one night.
Hell, they'd made enough mistakes to last them a lifetime. He really had to get her out from under his roof before she burrowed any further under his skin.
"I'll wake you when I get up tomorrow and drive you to your house. You can get your car, pick up your things, and drive yourself to a motel. Any motel. I don't care. Just as long as you're not in my house when I get home tomorrow night."
* * * *
Mourning doves cooed their love song, a moat-like mist shimmered off the dewy grass, and a band of sunlight broke through a sentry of pines to fall across The Castle tower. But it wasn't the idyllic veneer of mist, stone, and seemingly unscathed first and second stories Tess surveyed through the broad windshield of Roman's truck.
Sooty stains fanned upward from The Castle's third floor windows and streaked the pale blue shingled siding. The roofline to one side of the house was interrupted where flames had leapt into the sky two nights ago. Then there was the yellow tape draping her broad, stone steps, barring admittance, and a sheet of plywood where there had once been a massive, hand-carved, oak door. The Castle looked about as patched together as her nerves. Why did she have to go and get naked with the tall, strong, but most assuredly not silent Roman St. John? That last was what drove her to argue every point he made.
Wrong. What goaded her to goad him was the fact that she wanted him. But he was the kind of man she had to resist or she would end up proving her father right about every woman needing a man.
Her father who was no closer to recognizing her self-sufficiency than he'd been the day she'd bawled her way into the world as a six-pound-thirteen-ounce newborn. His firstborn. A girl. He'd wanted a son.
Tess’ fingers flexed around the mug of now tepid coffee she'd hugged against her chest as Roman had driven her into town. The only thing her father wanted from her was a son-in-law, and the essence of the man whose work-roughened hands had played her body like a finely tuned cello last night now crowded in on her in the small cab of the truck. That's why her nerves did jumping jacks across her skin as though she'd drunk a pot of espresso. Maybe Roman had been right to evict her from his home.
He shifted on the seat next to her, stirring the air between and around them. “You waiting for me to open the door for you, Princess?"
Tess wrinkled her nose at him and jerked on the passenger side door handle. “Don't trouble yourself helping me with anything, St. John."
"Remember what the Fire Chief said,” he called after her as she dropped to the ground. “Stay out of the fire area until the Fire Marshal has had time to inspect it."
"I know what the Fire Chief said,” she retorted and slapped the coffee mug down on the floor of the truck, slammed the door, and headed up to the house.
She ducked under the yellow tape that warned Keep Out and climbed up to the sweeping stone porch. She tested the edge of the plywood nailed across her front door ... if she even had a front door any longer. The plywood was securely anchored in place. She wouldn't get in this way without a crowbar, and it would be a cold day in hell before she asked Roman St. John to loan her any tool from that industrial sized toolbox anchored in the back of his truck. Besides, there was always the back door ... provided that, too, wasn't boarded up.
She descended the steps. He sat in his truck, one elbow hooked casually through the open window. Clearly, any notion of helping her eluded the inconsiderate lummox.
"Wound a man's ego by refusing to fuck him, and he pouts,” she muttered under her breath as she headed toward the back of the house.
If that was a truck door she heard opening, he was too late to make amends. Tess quickened her pace, determined she'd find her own way into the house.
The back door wasn't boarded up, but it was locked. She thought again of Roman with his truck full of tools. How easy it would be for him to pry the plywood off her front door.
She muttered a curse, found a loose brick among those edging the flowerbeds along the back of the house, and returned to the back door. She didn't need Roman St. John's help.
It took her three blows to shatter the windowpane in the door. She was plucking jagged shards of glass from the frame when a deep voice rumbled from inside the house, “Get back from there before you cut yourself."
She looked up to find Roman looking out at her, a crowbar in one hand. “You pried the plywood from the front door."
"It seemed the reasonable thing to do."
"Reasonable would have been you letting me know what you were doing before I broke a window."
"Reasonable would have been you asking for help,” he countered.
"Are we going to stand here all day arguing?"
He flicked the dead bolt and opened the door, warning, “Careful where you step. Looks like some doofus broke glass all over your back entryway."
"Very funny, St. John,” she simpered, dropping the brick into his hand as she strutted past him into the kitchen.
* * * *
Roman watched her sashay away from him. He wanted to strangle her. He wanted to staple her carping lips together.
He wanted to wrap her long legs around him and take up where they'd left off last night ... before he'd gone condom hunting. Why hadn't he just dropped her off in front of The Castle like he'd planned? Why had he felt compelled to wait around to make sure she got inside all right?
Why did he still want her?
He knew the answer to the first two questions. He felt responsible for her being burned out of her house. But that last question ... He had no answer to that one, at least none he was ready to face.
He tossed the brick out the door and trailed her into the kitchen. She was squatting, rummaging around under the sink, her bike shorts tight across her behind. Memory of that backside bare beneath his palms sawed through him.
He turned away from her—away from the memory of last night. A carton of milk sat open on the countertop beside the fridge. He picked it up, sniffed it, and recoiled. “Whew. That's rank."
"Another comment on my housekeeping practices, St. John?” she asked, coming up behind him.
"If the spoiled milk fits."
She shoved a heavy-duty garbage bag into his hand. “Here, Mr. Neatnik. Make yourself deliriously happy and empty my fridge before its spoiling contents ruin the appliance."
"Excuse me, but I didn't plan on sticking around."
"I don't imagine you planned on burning my house down, either,” trailed her words as she disappeared into the next room.
Roman grumbled, opened the refrigerator door, and began scooping the contents from the darkened shelves into the plastic bag. Being responsible for the fire that gutted Tess Abbot's attic was the only thing keeping him from stuffing her into the garbage bag.
* * * *
Tess strode through the butler's pantry, the formal dining room, and the front parlor, cursing Roman with every step. Damn him for following her into the house. Damn the man and his take charge attitude.
Damn him for noticing she'd forgotten to put away her milk before she'd gone for her evening run the night of the fire. She really wasn't that bad a housekeeper. Not that what he thought should matter to her.
But it did.
"Damn him,” she all but howled at her gaping front door. The door from which Roman had pried the plywood barrier. The door she'd opened to him a mere six weeks ago when he'd come to start the renovating job.
The door they'd both admired that day for its aged beauty.
Tess stroked the exquisitely hand-carved door whose lock had been shattered from the woodwork. It reminded her of Roman. Solid. Reliable. Crafted for the long haul.
How ironic she should find the one man who could reduce her dreams to ashes at Great Aunt Honey's—flamboyant Aunt Honey whose example had given Tess the strength to stand up to her father. Tess could still hear her father's the-old-lady's-gone-over-the-edge tirade when he'd heard Aunt Honey had bought an antiquated house in a remote corner of an out-of-the-way state because it was where her Bentley broke down.
A smile tugged at the corner of Tess’ mouth. Honey's reign as the grand dame of the local community players had lasted half a decade before the wanderlust had once again beckoned her. But five years of summer visits had been long enough for Tess to learn an appreciation for fine old things.
Tess climbed the grand stairway dividing the house, the new carpeting squishing beneath her feet. She'd mortgaged her soul to buy the old place and sacrificed six weeks of her life and her fingernails to sanding, varnishing, painting, and repapering.
On the second floor landing, a table and vase she and Honey had found on their first antiquing foray had been knocked over and trampled. A quick tour of the second floor revealed no room had been spared the greasy film of soot. It coated furnishings, clung to drapes, and permeated bedding. It stained the hall walls dark where the smoke had been forced down from the attic before finding escape through the burned-out roof.
She was tempted to follow the funneling pattern of stains up to the third floor, to the attic. She'd like to see if any of Aunt Honey's boxes of memorabilia, racks of costumes, or stored furniture had survived the fire. If it had been only Roman St. John barring her from the uppermost level of her house, she'd have gone up there in a heartbeat. No man ordered her about. But the yellow Keep Out tape reminded her a higher authority than Roman St. John barred her admittance.
In the master suite, water damage left the ceiling sagging ominously over the bed and some plaster had collapsed onto her desk and laptop computer. She brushed the plaster aside and lifted the dented lid of the computer. It didn't look good. Still, she packed it up in its travel case and stacked her cell phone and several soggy rolls of blueprints next to it. Clothes and toiletries were the next priority.
The concentration of odor-trapping fabric in the walk-in closet made it impossible for her to spend much time in the enclosed space. Everything would have to be laundered. The task seemed overwhelming. There must be people she could hire to do the work, even in a small town.
She selected a few blouses and her favorite linen slacks and folded them into one of the garbage bags. She added a pair of dress shoes and emptied her drawers of undies.
Fortunately, her personal belongings consisted primarily of clothes. Everything else was still in her Chicago condo. After all, The Castle had been meant only as an investment—an investment that was to have provided her a fast turnaround and showcase photos for a new portfolio.
No portfolio pictures now.
No return on her investment.
Tess picked up a puzzle box from the nightstand beside the bed where she'd slept. She had kept this piece close because its enigmatic construction had inspired her and Honey to create endless stories about its use. Like all of Aunt Honey's collected antiques and memorabilia, it was coated with a greasy film.
Regret balled in Tess’ throat. Maybe her father was right. Maybe women were sentimental fools.
"Like hell,” Tess muttered, carefully setting the piece back on the nightstand. Wanting to check out what, if anything, of Aunt Honey's attic storage had survived wasn't being sentimental. It was being a property owner who wanted to survey the damage done.
The hell with her father, the Boy Scout contractor, and any yellow Keep Out tape, she was entitled to see how much damage her house had suffered. Besides, it wasn't like anyone would have to know she'd gone up to the attic.
* * * *
Roman had emptied the fresh food compartment of Tess’ fridge, gone into her basement to her electrical box and pulled the breakers to the attic, then called the power company on his cell to reconnect the electrical service to The Castle. He'd even chitchatted with Mrs. Antonetti from next door when she brought over a casserole for Tess. Still, Tess hadn't come downstairs. If he wanted to get to his job site anytime today, it looked like he was going to have to search out Princess The-World-Waits-on-Me to let her know about the electricity.
Even before he saw the yellow tape across the third floor stairwell flutter, the whisper of a breeze sliding over him told him someone had opened the door at the top of those stairs. Three guesses who it was and the first two didn't count.
He found Tess in the attic, a trim silhouette in bike shorts and Bargain Mart tee framed by charred beams and backlit by blue sky. He knew what those gentle curves felt like beneath his hands and pressed against the length of his body ... naked.
An involuntary groan rumbled up from his throat. She spun toward him, her foot tangling in a pile of rubble. She stumbled backward into what appeared to have been a towering hall rack constructed of wood and wrought iron. For a second, she seemed to have come to a safe landing on its seat. Then the charred front legs of the chair-rack snapped and the looming structure pitched forward to the floor, pinning Tess beneath.
Roman bolted to her side and dropped to his knees. “You okay?"
One dark eye glittered out at him from a framework of iron coat hooks. “Sure, St. John. I'm just peachy. Would you mind getting this thing off me? I think it skewered me."
He hefted the rack off her and helped her to her feet.
"Where'd it get you?” he asked, scanning her back.
"The back of my shoulder,” she said.
"Uh-huh,” he murmured, fingering the tear in her shirt.
"How bad is it?” she asked.
"You're not spurting blood."
"Thank you for your medical opinion, Dr. St. John."
"I suppose that means you want a second opinion and that you expect me to drive you to the hospital for it."
"I need to go to the hospital?” she asked with some alarm.
"Only for your wounded ego,” he muttered and clamped a hand over her shoulder, trying to hold her still while he explored the injury beneath the rip.
"Hey,” she huffed, squirming beneath his hand, creating a friction that could have re-ignited the attic. “You're the one who brought up the hospital."
"Stand still so I can get a good look at the injury,” he commanded, tugging at the collar of her shirt.
"There. I'm standing still. What's your final verdict?"
He released her and straightened. “It's a scratch that even a monkey could clean and bandage."
"A monkey, huh?” He didn't like the way she canted her head at him as she turned, or the self-satisfied smile she gave him as she started for the steps. “Come on, St. John. Let's test your theory."
* * * *
Tess had liked the feel of Roman's hands on her shoulders. She'd liked it way too much. Still, she couldn't resist goading him. The result, they were now bumping elbows and hips in the narrow aisle between the bathroom vanity and raised Jacuzzi of the master bath. He stretched the ribbing of her shirt back from the nape of her neck.
"You trying to choke me, St. John?"
"I'm trying to get a better look at that scratch."
"Can't you do that without choking me?"
"Apparently not."
"Let go of me.” She twisted out of his grip, grabbed the bottom of her shirt, and peeled it off over her head.
He raised his eyes to the ceiling.
"Like you didn't see me in a whole lot less than a sports bra last night,” she blasted, instantly regretting the reference to that incident where close quarters, heat lightning, and hot bodies had conspired against her better judgment.
"I was trying to be a gentleman,” he returned, lowering his gaze to her ... letting it slide down over her. His pupils flared, turning his eyes a sexy smoke-blue.
"Just check the cut,” she said, giving him her back and trying not to look at him in the mirror but failing miserably.
"How long since your last tetanus shot?” he asked, studying her shoulder and sounding not the least like a man in lust.
"Less than a year,” she answered, sounding far too breathless.
He grunted.
"What's that grunt supposed to mean?” she demanded, letting her ready defensiveness put the edge back into her voice.
"Nothing. Turn your back toward the window so I can get more light on the cut."
"That grunt meant something,” she insisted, shifting toward the window for him.
"Maybe it just means I was impressed that you're up to date on your shots.” His fingers framed the cut and stretched the skin around it. She started, but not because his touch hurt.
"Up to date on my shots?” She snorted. “You make me sound like a dog who needs rabies tags."
That got a smile out of him. Something she really hadn't meant to do. He had way too nice a smile. It showed his straight, white teeth and lit up his face.
