Taming Tess, page 9
His eyes met hers in the mirror above the vanity, and his smile faded. “You got something to clean this out with, something sealed and still sterile?"
She pulled a first aid kit from a drawer at her hip. “Brand new. Figured I'd better have a stock of bandages with a building crew hammering about."
"You bought this for me and my men?” he asked, accepting the kit from her. Briefly, both their fingers held the case, and a charge tingled up from Tess’ hand as though plastic had become as conductive as copper.
"Don't get a swelled head, St. John,” she said, releasing the kit to him. “We princesses sometimes look out for the little people."
"Smart Princess, to take care of her subjects."
He set the kit on the vanity top next to her hip and popped it open. She should say something in response to what he'd just said ... especially since it sounded suspiciously like a compliment. But his fingers stirring through the contents of the first aid kit just wouldn't let her think of any smart comeback.
He selected a package of gauze pads and bobbed his chin toward the medicine cabinet above the sink. “You got any peroxide in there?"
She nodded and retrieved the bottle before he could reach for it himself. She didn't need him leaning any closer than he already was.
"Ready to test that theory about monkeys?” he asked when he'd soaked a gauze pad with peroxide.
She met his amused eyes in the mirror. “Just do it, St. John."
He dabbed at her shoulder with the peroxide-soaked pad. Cold liquid dribbled down her back, and she arched away from him.
"You had your belly button pierced. This can't hurt worse than that,” he contended.
"I didn't jump because the peroxide burned. I jumped because it's cold and you dribbled it down my back."
"Ah.” He dabbed her shoulder with a freshly doused pad, catching the excess this time with a dry pad. “Why'd you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Pierce your belly button."
"To aggravate my father."
"That was grown up of you."
Tess winced. Roman was right. She'd done more than a few silly things in her youth to get her father's attention. No wonder the old man was certain she'd fail. He probably still saw her as that rebellious child motivated by all the wrong reasons.
She sighed. “A lot has changed since those days."
Roman studied Tess’ reflection in the vanity mirror. The way she pulled her shoulders in as she hugged the T-shirt to her stomach. The downward angle of her chin. The pucker of her brow. He'd bet dollars to doughnuts, Tess Abbot had some unresolved issues with her father.
Father issues and a girlhood crush on a boy who'd left her in the middle of a stormy lake to drown. Maybe the Princess wasn't as indulged as he thought.
He spread an adhesive strip over the wound, fighting the urge to pull her into his arms and comfort her. He knew where comforting this woman would lead. He'd found that out last night on the floor of his spare bedroom. It was a mistake he wouldn't make again.
"There,” he said, removing his hands from Tess’ back, so far surviving the temptation she presented him. “Now, all you have to do is stay out of places where you can get hurt."
"I was safe enough in the attic until you snuck up on me and startled me,” she said, pulling the T-shirt on over her head.
Damn, but he wanted to fit his hands around her waist. Waist, hell, he wanted to reach around her and cup those breasts he'd sampled last night. But this time, he'd take his time, rubbing her nipples beneath his palms, rolling them between his finger and thumb until they were ripe with need for his tongue. Then he would...
She faced him and leaned back against the counter, her hands on either side of her hips, braced at the edge of the vanity. The challenging pose almost took his mind off how inviting her bare flanks looked, with their promise of what hid beneath her cotton sports bra just before the T-shirt dropped to her thighs—almost made him forget how, only moments ago, her shoulders had curled protectively in on her. She'd had the same defensive look about her last night as she'd recited the details of her near drowning. Damn, but the woman confused him.
"I didn't sneak up on you,” he said, bringing himself back to her accusation—wanting to comfort her and throttle her all at the same time.
"You were checking up on me,” she accused.
He rolled the bandage wrapper into a tight ball between his fingers. “You obviously needed checking up on."
"Afraid I was going to tamper with evidence?"
He leaned in close to her in spite of the danger the Princess of Temptation presented. “Is that something I need to be concerned about with you, Princess?"
"No."
She didn't shrink from him. She didn't flinch. She didn't give an inch. And that single syllable shaped her mouth into the most alluring circle. If he leaned in another few inches and took that mouth ... They'd be on the floor ripping off their clothes and going at it like rabbits.
He shoved the remaining gauze pads into the first aid kit, snapped its lid shut, and pulled back from her. “I came up to tell you that I was leaving."
"Good-bye,” she sang.
"I also pulled the power to the attic and called the electric company to reconnect you."
"I bet you were a Boy Scout, one of those with all the badges."
Roman gritted his teeth, refusing to rise to her baiting. “I'll come by later with Ray, and we'll tarp your roof."
"Should I be concerned about you crossing that yellow tape?"
"We won't need to get inside the house to do it."
"Uh-huh."
"And one more thing I came upstairs to tell you. Mrs. Antonetti brought you a casserole."
Tess’ face brightened, and her defensive pose eased. “A casserole? From Mrs. Antonetti?"
"Yeah."
"She's a really good cook.” Tess licked her lips.
"Prize winning,” he murmured, mesmerized by the pink tip of her tongue sweeping across the cleft in her bottom lip. Don't go there.
She looked up at him, and the brightness dimmed from her features as though she could read his thoughts. “You take the casserole. I won't have any way of heating it up in a motel room."
"Get a condo with a kitchen at the ski hill. Make that one of the units with a kitchenette. No sense wasting a full kitchen on you."
"Just because I had a little mishap in your kitchen..."
"You call nearly setting fire to my kitchen a mishap?"
"You didn't even suffer smoke damage. Take a whiff of my house."
He nodded. “You need an ionizer. Got something I can write on? I'll give you a couple of phone numbers."
"Friends of yours, no doubt."
"The pitfalls of a small town. Everybody knows everybody. You want the numbers or not, Princess?"
"Yeah.” She waved him out of her way and headed into the bedroom. “You might recommend a professional clothes cleaner while you're at it. Every piece of clothing I have here reeks."
"Any of them will do a good job. But they're open only until noon today."
"Another charm of Small Town USA. Businesses close early on Saturdays. I'll be lucky if I see my clothes by midweek."
"You could take them to the Laundromat yourself."
A shadow skittered across her eyes. Before Roman could figure out what it meant, she turned to the pile of clothes on the bed, grousing, “I have hole in my roof big enough to drive a bulldozer through. I'm in no mood to sit around any Laundromat waiting for my underwear to dry."
Underwear. Hers. There on the bed. Silk scraps, lace trimmed and frothy colored.
The muscles in his groin cramped. She was not the woman for him. But it was his fault her house had nearly burned down ... that her underwear was presently unwearable. He owed her. He sighed. He was going to regret this.
"Take your stuff back to my place and use my washer and dryer."
Her chin came up at him. “Is that an order, St. John?"
"It's an offer."
Chapter Six
She should have refused his offer.
That's what Tess was thinking as she stared at the alien contraptions in Roman's bathroom closet. But more because of the fact he'd noticed her navel ring than because she had only the vaguest idea how to operate a washer and dryer. A few forays to the Laundromat during her college days and the novelty of doing her own wash had worn off. Too bad she couldn't as easily forget about Roman touching her.
She fingered one of the dials on the washer panel. But she wasn't thinking about water temperatures. His asking her about her navel ring, what was that all about? Plenty of girls had pierced navels. Didn't they grow up and keep wearing navel rings?
Of course, they did. Roman St. John just wasn't the sort of man who hung with the kind of woman who wore anything so hip, so sophisticated. Never mind she'd confessed to him that her initial motivation for piercing her navel had been anything but grown-up. Damn, but that man had a knack for getting confessions out of her. Another reason to steer clear of him.
Why, then, had she taken Roman up on his offer to do her laundry at his house?
Because of ego. She didn't want him to know that her experience with washing machines and dryers didn't exceed single digits. Or that he could get under her skin.
Though she'd have declined his offer had clean clothes not been a top priority.
Sure you would have.
Much as she wanted to deny what her inner voice argued, she knew better. She was hot for the man who wore worn-in-all-the-right-places jeans, a yellow hard hat and a tool belt that hung low in just the right places. But her immediate problem remained a bag of smoky clothes.
She sighed and forced her attention back to the washer. Now, how to accomplish this feat with a contraption that had entirely too many dials?
Did she use hot, cold, or warm water? Full capacity, small load, or somewhere in between? Gentle wash, regular, or heavy duty?
At least the detergent boxes gave directions. She just needed a couple of hours to sit and read all the fine print.
Tess fingered the silk blouses and lingerie she'd dumped from the garbage bag onto the dryer. She gave her favorite linen slacks a nudge. Gentle wash for sure. That probably meant no hot water, either.
But did she put everything in all at once? Was Roman's extra strength laundry detergent too harsh for silk and linen? If she ruined her clothes, how long would it take for her favorite boutique to send replacements? She'd really had enough of the pretending-to-be-silk panties currently sticking to her butt.
She frowned at the appliances in the bathroom closet and fingered her delicates protectively. If only she knew her way around a clothes washer as well as she did a drafting table. If only she hadn't been too embarrassed to confess to Roman her limitations as a laundress. If only she had some items made of hardier fabric to practice on the first time out.
Her gaze wandered to Roman's dirty laundry in the clothes basket on top of the dryer. Jockey shorts, T-shirts, and towels. They certainly looked to be made of sturdier stuff. Tess smiled. She could practice using the washer and dryer with those shorts, tees, and towels and, as a bonus, Roman would get clean laundry. If she put the load on heavy duty, she'd even have a nice, long stretch of time to spend snooping.
"Sounds like a winner to me,” she chirped as she scooped Roman's laundry into the top loader.
The water temperature dial was already punched on hot. Seemed reasonable to her, at least for sturdy cotton blends.
"Maximum water level, heavy duty wash, and a cup of detergent. Just like riding a bike,” she murmured, watching the steamy water pour over Roman's white shorts, navy tees, and burgundy towels.
* * * *
It took an extra rinse cycle to get enough soap out of the towels and tees that they stopped sudsing. But even a third rinse didn't wash the pink out of Roman's jockey shorts.
Tess tucked the stack of pink underwear into Roman's dresser drawer, under his last two pair of white ones. Maybe he wouldn't notice. They were a very pale shade of pink. Hardly noticeable ... except next to the bright white shorts.
She smoothed the dazzling white underwear over the faded pink shorts. Somehow, she knew her misguided laundering would not go unnoticed by her eagle-eyed host.
* * * *
Roman had a dead cell phone battery and a headache that measured in at about five foot six named Tess Abbot. It seemed his houseguest had gone directly back to his house after leaving hers and planted herself on his phone. Apparently, she had done the same thing all day yesterday as well.
Or so he assumed, given the endless string of complaints he'd gotten from clients and potential clients who'd tracked him down via his cell phone all afternoon. Every one of them told the same story. They hadn't been able to get through to his home phone to leave a message on his answering machine.
Whatever had possessed him to invite Tess Abbot back into his home?
Long legs, perfect palm-sized breasts, and a full bottom lip with the slightest cleft dead center, meandered the answer through his over-taxed brain.
No. No. No. He'd relented because she'd injured herself and she needed to wash her clothes. He owed her.
More like he'd been suckered in.
Roman took the turn into his driveway a tad tight and hit the pothole he'd affectionately named Goodyear after it had blown one of his truck tires. The jostling that hole gave Roman, though, didn't evoke any humor today. It only rattled his already throbbing brain against his skull.
"For your sake, Tess Abbot, that phone had better be out of order."
He stormed into the house, barely glancing at her as she descended the steps. He went to the wall phone, lifted the receiver, listened, hung up, and wheeled at her. “It's not out of order."
Tess blinked owlishly. “Did you expect it to be?"
"From the calls I've been getting all day on my cell phone, I half expected it might be. My clients and potential clients have been trying to call and leave messages on my answer machine the past two days. Who the hell do you know around here well enough to spend all day on the phone talking to?"
"I..."
"No. Don't tell me who. I don't care who you talk to. All I care about is that half the town of Pine Ridge now has my cell phone number and is using it to reach me."
She planted her hands on her hips and raised perfectly arched eyebrows at him. “And as a man who owns his own contracting business that is bad, why?"
"With my cell phone ringing all day long, I don't get a lot of work done."
"Have you ever considered hiring office staff to answer your phone?"
"The answering machine was working just fine until you came along. Besides, even if I had an office staff, how were they going to answer a phone you were yapping into?"
"You know what your problem is, St. John?"
"I have a pampered Princess tying up my phone?"
* * * *
How dare Roman call her names when she'd spent the day laundering his underwear? Through tight lips, Tess countered, “I am not a Princess. I am not pampered. And I—I..."
Didn't tie up your phone? She couldn't very well say that, not when she had tied up his phone browsing the Web. Like she had any intention of admitting to any man hovering over her with veins bulging in his neck that she'd used his computer and access codes to amuse herself. Not in this century.
"I wouldn't have had to entertain myself with your phone if you hadn't abandoned me here,” she finished.
"That accounts for yesterday,” he rumbled. “Today, you had a car."
"I had business to conduct."
"You have a cell phone."
"Which wasn't yet charged up."
He tipped back on his heels and threw his hands up in frustration. “Just tell me they weren't long distance calls."
"They weren't long distance calls."
"I'm going to go and soak in the tub,” he said, stalking off down the hall.
That reminded Tess of her laundering job, specifically his shorts and towels. She turned after him. “Roman..."
"I don't want to hear anything else from you tonight,” he called over his shoulder.
"But I washed your shorts and bath towels."
"Bully for you."
"You don't understand. The towels were burgundy and the shorts were white."
He stopped on the threshold to the bathroom and narrowly regarded her. “What? You want a medal for doing my wash or a chest to pin it on?"
Tess folded her arms across her less-than-abundant chest. He had some nerve making a comment like that after the way he'd pawed her breasts and played torturous games with her nipples.
She advanced on him in the narrow hall between the stairs and the bathroom, chin held high. “I just..."
"Wanted me to know you did something else besides talk on the phone today? Fine. Now I know."
"But..."
"Peace and quiet. That's all I want."
"But..."
He pressed the side of his finger against her lips. “Not another sound. Not a peep."
He stepped into the bathroom and let out a god-awful groan. She moved into the doorway behind him and found him tearing her panties and bras off the shower rod, towel racks, and from over the open closet doors.
"Some of those aren't dry, yet,” she protested as he dumped them into her arms.
Holding up one shushing finger, he shut the door in her face.
To hell with Roman St. John. If he didn't want to hear her out, then let him find out on his own about his shorts. Infer that she needed a chest, would he? The next time he tried to cop a feel, he might just pull back a bloody stump.
* * * *
The sunlight piercing the curtainless bedroom window hit Tess in the face. She blinked and bolted from the bed. She was halfway to the door before she remembered she didn't have to rely on Roman for a ride today. She had her own car.
She regarded the lumpy bed beckoning her, but decided her time would be better spent at The Castle itemizing what needed to be done to put the house back in order. She could start tossing out a few things that were beyond redemption.
No. Wait. She couldn't go into The Castle. She'd arranged to have the place ionized and that meant she couldn't go inside until Monday morning.
