She patted her dress pockets, finding the pen gone. Somehow in all the commotion she must have lost it. But where? A sinking feeling hit her. On the top step of the entrance to the roof. When Tiger surprised her, she must have dropped it.
She clenched her eyes shut. Damn, damn, damn! Now Mr. Jones would know she’d been spying.
On second thought, was that necessarily a terrible thing?
After a few seconds of silence, Armand wrapped the towel around his waist and went to investigate the noise that had sounded suspiciously like a woman’s cry, as well as the hasty retreat of footfalls on the steps. He found a yellow tomcat batting his writing pen about on the top of the stairs, the one he’d planted downstairs in the foyer for Miss Reece. Apparently she had taken the bait. He smiled, pleased. So she’d found the pen and come upstairs to catch him sunbathing nude. Would she return tomorrow, or had the naughty little vixen satisfied her curiosity? He chuckled. He hoped she did come back. He’d ask her to join him au naturale.
Yes, he should have realized he had company when his man-snake reared its head to taste the air. A woman had been about—a certain sensual beauty named Mira Reece.
He scratched the affectionate cat behind the ears, then picked up his pen.
“Sorry, chap, but this is mine,” he told the cat, then gathered his things on the roof and returned to his room to dress for dinner.
Armand drove a few blocks away to a restaurant with an outdoor dining patio that overlooked the Atlantic, a rustic, yet moderately priced establishment with fish nets hanging from the roof and oversized fishing tackle adorning the walls. He ate at a small round table near the rail, watching seagulls dive toward the foam-capped, turquoise water for their meal.
Somewhere in the distance, jazz music drifted on the breeze from one of the many nightclubs along the boardwalk and his thoughts drifted to Mira Reece, all alone at the bed and breakfast. Perhaps he should have asked her to join him for dinner tonight. Or would that have been presumptuous of a boarder?
What was her story? Had she been married before? Was she divorced or widowed? Apparently she had no children, for he’d seen no photographs or items about the house to suggest children ever lived there.
He finished his fish and fries—a bit greasy—then ordered a dark, imported beer to wash away the aftertaste.
Next to his table sat a young couple, their twin toddlers dressed in matching orange T-shirts. Mom and dad were enthralled with one another’s company, sitting close, whispering and laughing. They reminded him of his parents, hopeless romantics who’d always doted on one another.
His parents met in Paris while his mother was studying art at Sorbonne. His father, also an art student from England asked her to marry him the day they met. Love at first sight, his father claimed. Was it possible to know a love like his parents had so long ago, one that lasted until death? He didn’t know, never having been in love before.
One of the children at the neighboring table stuffed a French fry up his nose and the other one laughed loudly, breaking the romantic spell between their parents.
Armand chuckled as the father removed the fry from his son’s nostril.
“Sorry about that,” the man said, catching Armand’s gaze. “The boys are usually better behaved in public.”
Armand waved a hand. “Not a problem. You’ve a fine looking set of young gentlemen there.”
Their mother smiled sweetly. “Thank you. They just turned two.”
“It’s our wedding anniversary,” the man offered as he wiped smeared ketchup from the face of one child. “Our sitter cancelled so we had to bring these two little monkeys with us.”
Deep longing squeezed at Armand’s heart. What he wouldn’t give to have what this man and woman had—a happy family with children. He wondered if they realized how lucky they were.
Not wanting to ponder the thought of his own single status a moment longer, he downed his beer, totaled his bill and placed the cash on the table, plus a generous tip, then rose from his chair. He nodded to the couple on his way past their table. “Have a wonderful evening, and congratulations.”
He took a leisurely stroll down the historic streets that were lined with an eclectic mix of antique stores, boutiques and smoky nightclubs, feeling the loneliness settle deep into his soul as he meandered through the small crowds of tourists and inebriated partygoers.
The happy family at the restaurant only served to remind him of the one thing missing in his life. The love of a good woman. A home filled with happy children. Good God. He was almost forty years old and alone. He should begin a serious search for a wife, and soon. But where was he to find his soul mate? On the internet? In one of the noisy bars he’d passed? He scowled. No, in one of his novels. That’s where real heroines lived. The kind men died for. They only existed between the pages of his books.
Exhausted from the long day’s events he drove back to the Inn and parked his car on the beach a few yards from the house. He watched the ocean turn a shimmering electric blue as the sun set and wondered if Mira were watching from the house. He’d have loved nothing more than to share this moment with her.
He sighed and shook off the thought. He was here for business, and it was best to keep things that way.
Tomorrow morning after breakfast, he’d begin again on Passion’s Storm. Tonight, however, he’d lie alone in bed and drift off to sleep while he fantasized about Mira Reece.
Mira knew she should feel guilty for what she was about to do. She really, really should.
But she didn’t.
This was the first opportunity she’d had to snoop in Mr. Jones’ room since his arrival. And she was darned well going to make the most of it.
After Mr. Jones slipped out for an early morning jog on the beach, she carted a small television from the first floor sun porch upstairs to his room, thinking he might prefer watching a program in privacy. Ahem. Well, at least the lie sounded plausible.
Afterward, she quickly armed herself with a full basket of cleaning supplies and fresh linens and hurried back to his room. Once inside, she sprayed the lemon scented air freshener to make it appear she’d been cleaning. She then shut the door and went to work. Snooping work.
His room was immaculate, the bed made, so there was little to be done. The towels, although used, had been folded neatly across the rod in the bathroom. She replaced them with fresh ones. There wasn’t even the teeniest speck of toothpaste in the sink. Not a water spot on the shiny chrome faucets. The bathroom mirror was as sparkling as the day he’d arrived.
Okay. So the man wasn’t a slob. There was no crime in being a neat freak. Perhaps other dark secrets lurked in one of the bureau drawers.
With polishing rag in hand, she buffed the bureau top, quietly opening each drawer. Clothes were folded neatly and toiletries tucked into clear travel cases. His bags and the lap top case near the bed were both locked. So much for that idea.
On her hands and knees she checked beneath the mattress for a porn magazine, prescription pills or illicit drugs—perhaps a bottle of liquor. Nothing. Two quarters fell from between the edge of the mattress and box spring and spilled across the polished wood floor before rolling beneath the bed.
Thinking he’d lost them from his pant’s pocket, she got down on all fours and took a swipe under the bed for the coins. Unable to reach them, she flattened her upper body partially beneath the bed and stretched out an arm. Still too far out of reach. Sliding further in, her fingertips barely touched the coins.
The door creaked open. Mira froze. She heard Mr. Jones curse softly under his breath.
“Miss Reece?”
Oh, this was bad. Really, really bad. She wriggled out from beneath the bed, her backside greeting him first. On her hands and knees she turned to face him. “Um…Mr Jones. You’re back.”
“May I inquire as to what you’re doing, madam?”
Mira stood, certain that her guilty expression must have given her away. Her pulse pounded out a near deafening tempo in her ears.
It became hard to breathe. Dear God, how could she possibly explain?
A thick, white towel was slung around his neck. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of navy jogging shorts and sneakers. A sheen of sexy sweat covered his sleek, bronzed body. A look of concern shadowed his face. On second thought, it might be suspicion.
“I’m waiting, Miss Reece.”
Mira struggled to find her voice above the pounding of her guilty heart. “I . . . I found these when I was cleaning,” she said, holding up the coins. “They must have fallen from your pocket when you dressed.”
But the look in his eyes told her he didn’t believe she’d simply been cleaning. Oh, no. He knew she’d been snooping. Then it dawned on her. She’d been had. Big time. The sexy son of a gun had planted the coins. But why?
Because he knew she’d been spying on him. That soon, she’d come to his room.
To his bed.
She swallowed hard. What an idiot she’d been! Heat suffused her cheeks at having been caught in a lie. She laid the coins on the bed, trying to look innocent but knowing she’d failed miserably.
He clucked his tongue at her. “You’ve been very naughty woman.”
It was the way he said it—not in an angry tone, but in a sensual, breathy voice that made her body tingle all the way to her toes. Yes, it had been wrong to peek in the bureau drawers. At first, it had seemed like a good idea. After all, he was too mysterious for her comfort and they were all alone together on the isolated end of the island. He probably was a decent, normal guy, not a serial killer or pervert. Just someone who wanted time alone. Guilt tore at her for having betrayed his trust.
“Mr. Jones, I can explain.”
He removed the towel from around his neck and laid it aside. His gaze never left hers. “There is nothing to explain, Miss Reece. I understand quite well what has transpired in my absence.”
Mira stared guiltily at her feet. He was right. How could she possibly justify her devious behavior with a lame excuse? Well . . . she wouldn’t. She’d confess everything. Hopefully he wouldn’t leave. She was about to speak when he brushed past to the bureau and removed his watch.
“On second thought, perhaps you should make a full confession.” He gazed at her in the mirror’s reflection, his face somber.
Mira gaze was drawn to his back, his deeply tanned broad shoulders and narrow waist. She almost wished he were naked, that she could get a gander at his fine ass.
“Go on. I’m waiting,” he prompted.
“I . . . ” Words would not form in her mouth.
He spun to face her. “I cannot believe you brought that . . .that thing into this room.” He pointed to the television set on the stand in the corner. “Good heavens, woman, you could have injured yourself lugging that behemoth upstairs by yourself. Why didn’t you ask for my assistance?”
Mira blinked. Wait. He was upset because she’d moved a television into his room? A smile began to tug at the corner of her lips. A threat of a giggle bubbled up. He was angry about the television!
His brows knitted together as his mouth turned into a frown. “I do not find this amusing in the least, madam. What if you’d taken a tumble down the stairs while I was out? You could have been seriously injured—or worse—broken that pretty little neck.”
Mira bit down on her lip to keep from smiling, but her eyes must have given her away.
“What am I to do with you?” he asked, shaking his head as he moved within arm’s length.
Mira trembled, not from fear, but from desire. She smelled the salt of the ocean on his skin, the scent of wind and sun in his hair combined with the musky scent of sweaty man, which she oddly found pleasantly arousing. She boldly drank in the sight of him remembering how he’d looked nude on the roof the day before.
He reached up and brushed his knuckles against her cheek, then tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
She shuddered at the contact.
“You had a speck of dust in your hair,” he offered. “Not to worry. It’s gone now.” He stared deep into her eyes. “Don’t worry about changing the linens. I’m quite capable of making my own bed.”
“I should probably go.”
“Why?”
It was the way he said it, as if he didn’t want her to leave. And she didn’t. Well, part of her didn’t want to leave—the parts between her waist and her knees. But her brain screamed, “run like hell!” With everything she had in her, she moved away from him and collected the basket of cleaning supplies.
“Miss Reece—Mira,” he said quietly once she’d reached the door.
She paused, turned around, her heart thumping so violently in her chest she was almost certain he could hear it.
“You needn’t fear me, dear lady.”
So he did know what she’d been up to.
She nodded and closed the door behind her.
Two nights later Mira awoke with a start, her night clothes drenched with sweat. She tossed restlessly in bed, sending the bedcovers sailing to the floor. It was late September and the island’s humidity low. Why was the room stifling?
As the haze of sleep began to dissipate, she realized exactly why she’d awakened. She’d been having sex in her dream. Magnificent sex with a stallion of a man—her boarder, Mr. Jones. It shouldn’t have surprised her that her daytime fantasies of the mysterious man invaded her nightly dreams now. The previous morning at sunrise she’d watched him jog shirtless and barefoot again on the beach in a pair of well-worn cut offs. At noon he’d been on the roof again, sunbathing nude as far as she could determine from her covert vantage point in the dunes.
She shut her eyes quickly, tried to reclaim the dream. Oh yes… it was all coming back now. So good…sooo very good….
She lay panting on top of the bed covers, a small post orgasmic twinge spiraling through her lower belly as she recalled everything…the way he kissed her, the way his hands skimmed over her naked skin.
She rolled onto her side and drew her knees closer to her chest, stunned that a mere dream could cause such pleasure. Perhaps it was a sign of things to come. An uncomfortable thought, considering it had been a while since she’d been with a man.
As her body cooled from its dream-induced passion, she listened to the ticking of the grandfather clock outside in the hallway. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
But another sound drifted through the room, a repetitive clicking noise.
Mira sat up in bed and strained to listen. Was that a computer keyboard?
Her PC downstairs was turned off. Then she realized it was coming from above her room on the third floor. Mr. Jones had apparently taken the bedroom directly over hers. Was that the click of his laptop’s keys? What on earth was he doing typing—her gaze swung to the bedside alarm clock—at three twenty in the morning?
Climbing out of bed, she shimmied out of her sweat soaked camisole and panties, then pulled on a light satin robe and crept upstairs to investigate.
The door of his room was ajar. A wedge of yellow light illuminated the hallway. She tiptoed toward his room, suddenly feeling as though she shouldn’t be here. What if he caught her trying to peep on him? She’d already had two other near misses, having been caught red handed the last time.
This was ridiculous! She was afraid to check on a guest for fear of being thought of as a snoop. After all, it was her Inn. She’d simply explain a noise awakened her and she’d come upstairs to investigate.
A chair in his room scraped across the floor. She froze. Heavy bare feet plodded on polished oak flooring that creaked beneath his weight. Oh, damn! He was coming to the door!
Holding her breath, she pressed her spine against the wall in the shadows and prayed he’d return to whatever he’d been doing.
This had been a stupid idea. Instead of ringing his room and telling him to knock off the noise, she’d snuck up here with the intention of catching him in the act.
But in the act of what?
Checking his email? Paying bills online? Browsing internet porn sites?
>
She drew in a calming breath and shook off the notion. This was ridiculous, sneaking about her own house, spying on Mr. Jones. If that even was his real name. Besides, whatever he was doing, it was his business, not hers. As long as he behaved himself around her and any other guests who might arrive impromptu, she could care less how he whiled away his nocturnal hours.
She’d turned on tiptoe to hurry back toward the staircase when his door swung open and the light from the room illuminated the entire hall. Mira wheeled about and froze. She squinted against the onslaught of unexpected light, then lifted a hand to half shield her eyes.
When she could focus again, she watched Mr. Jones move into the doorway, completely nude. A breathtaking silhouette of a man. His private parts were concealed in shadow. His perfectly sculpted physique, backlit and outlined in a halo of buttery lamplight almost took her breath away. The man was true perfection.
“Miss Reece?”
“You’re naked.” She hadn’t meant to say something so stupid, but the words tumbled out barely above a whisper.
“That I am.” His voice held a tone of amusement.
Mira swallowed the hard lump in her throat as her pulse quickened. She glanced away, not wanting to stare, but….She couldn’t help herself. Her gaze swung back to the delectable, shadowed, and very male form in the hallway. “I . . . I heard a noise and came to investigate,” she offered. “I didn’t mean to intrude upon your privacy.”
He took one step toward her and the light cast from his room bathed one side of his face. He looked positively devilish. Sinister. Sexy.
And the look he gave her made her body warm with desire. Not that it took much effort to take her already charged libido from 60 to 120 mph. His nakedness wasn’t helping matters either.
Aware that her nipples had puckered into tight beads beneath the thin robe, she folded her arms across her breasts in the hopes of concealing her secret. From the knowing expression on his handsome face, she knew he hadn’t missed a thing.
Midnight Craving (Contemporary Romance) Page 3
