Anything For Love

by Melissa Foster

  Mm. That jaw clenching is hot.

  “You need to lighten up, baffled and burly Beau,” she said. “The dolls are for research purposes only. Fully dressed, mechanical research. Just like you might investigate how to build something, I need to explore positions for the stories I’m creating. I don’t use them for gratification purposes. Got it? I’m not that lame.” Unfortunately, she was even lamer. She wasn’t about to tell him that she had a drawer full of adult toys or that there had been a time when she’d used them seeking satisfaction. But like with men, they’d let her down every time, and she’d given up on anything other than fictional sex.

  “What you heard in my office was me acting out a scene so I could nail it down.”

  His lips quirked up in amusement. “Alone?”

  “No, not alone. With Hugh Jackman.” She dropped to her knees and peeked under the bed for the key to the handcuffs.

  “Christ,” he mumbled. He grabbed the back of her shirt, hauling her up to her knees.

  “What?”

  “You don’t even know me and you stuck your ass up in the air like that? What if I was a creep?”

  She folded her arms over her chest and smirked. “Hal and Josh Braden are the ones who asked you to come here, and they would never send a creep to my house.”

  He took her by the arm, helping her to her feet. Then he climbed onto the bed and grabbed one handcuff. “That’s not the point.” He squeezed the doll’s hand and pushed it through the metal.

  “Be careful,” she pleaded. “Those dolls are expensive.”

  He slid her a be serious look. “Don’t worry. I’m good with my hands.”

  “I bet you are,” she said under her breath, earning another look that made her feel like a twelve-year-old scolded for cursing. The guy needed to lighten up. She coughed to cover her amusement as he pushed the other hand through the cuffs.

  “Done.” He climbed off the bed.

  “But now you’ll have handcuffs attached to your bed.”

  He clenched his jaw, and his serious eyes turned volcanic. A second later they morphed to restrained. It was freaking hot, and she wanted to remember every single detail for her book.

  Maybe he would make the perfect research partner after all. Hot, hard-bodied, and best of all, temporary.

  Chapter Two

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON Charlotte stared at her computer screen, unsure if she should be thankful or irritated at her new muse. She usually wrote about five thousand words a day, many days even more than that. But over the last few weeks she’d written only twelve thousand words, four thousand of which she’d written after meeting über-serious and insanely handsome Beau. She’d never had to rely on anyone else to fill her creative well before, and the fact that he’d uncorked whatever had stopped up her pipes was bothering her.

  She leaned back, propped her toes on the edge of her desk, and twisted her chair from side to side, trying to analyze the situation. After returning Chris Pine to her toy room, she’d shown Beau around the property. He’d remained just as serious and had taken pages of notes. She couldn’t imagine what he’d seen that needed fixing. There hadn’t been anything sexual about their interactions, although she had to admit she’d stolen a shameful number of glances at his gorgeous body. For research purposes, of course. And she’d come away with four thousand words worth of inspiration.

  She gazed outside at the setting sun, and Beau came into view. He was carrying a ladder up from the workshop. Shirtless.

  “Good Lord.”

  Her feet smacked the hardwood as she scrambled over to the window. Her eyes swept over the hard set of his chin, those ever-serious eyes focused on the path before him, and heaven have mercy, gorgeous planes of olive skin stretched tight over his muscular torso. She breathed faster with each of his determined steps. As he neared the corner of the building, she pressed her cheek to the glass, eking out the very last second of her view before he disappeared around the corner.

  Turning her back to the window, she pressed her hand over her racing heart and closed her eyes. It had been years since a man had affected her this way. Although she didn’t get many visitors, she opened the inn for a few weddings and charity events. During those times, the grounds were crawling with athletes, actors, and other wealthy, sharply dressed men. None of them had stolen her concentration for more than a passing glimpse of appreciation, but images of Beau taunted her—his pulsing jaw muscles, the weighty intensity of his eyes, and that curt nod that should turn her off but piqued her interest even more.

  Was it him that had her so flustered, or was it that he’d provided the missing inspiration for her writing? Writing was not only her career, but it was her emotional lifeline. It had pulled her through the most devastating times of her life.

  Surely her heart was racing because of the return of her muse. Of course that was it. She’d been so upset about having writer’s block, her body was just celebrating the reprieve from it. That made perfect sense, except now she couldn’t stop thinking about him and how virile he looked carrying that stupid ladder.

  She needed to capitalize on it.

  She slipped into writer mode, sat at her keyboard, and went to work creating a scene to go with the ladder—and that man. As she hammered it out, she feared her muse would disappear again, and her pulse skyrocketed.

  Yup. Definitely the muse and not the man.

  She couldn’t afford to lose this inspiration. She needed to keep feeding her muse so she could make up for lost time and write this book. The idea behind the four thousand words she’d written had hit her like a sensual slap in the butt when she’d made that comment about the handcuffs and his bed. Her fingers stilled over the keyboard as an idea formed. A little harmless flirtation might lead to an incredible story.

  She grabbed a pen and paper and scribbled titles as they popped into her mind. Nail Me. Hammer Time. Climb Me, Baby.

  Okay, maybe her muse was still a little off, but she was coming back! Now that she had a plan to keep her muse alive, she focused on creating the story of the sexy contractor and his enormous tools.

  BEAU PRESSED HIS phone to his ear, pacing the lobby of the inn as he listened to his sister, Jillian, beg him to get an autograph from Charlotte. Jillian spoke a mile a minute, which reminded him of the sexy innkeeper.

  “I heard that Charlotte has a new series coming out. Tempest said Riley told her Charlotte never leaves the inn…” Tempest was their cousin who lived in Peaceful Harbor, Maryland, and Riley was married to their cousin Josh.

  Beau tuned Jillian out while she gossiped. She switched topics like a hummingbird flew from flower to flower seeking nectar.

  “Jilly,” he interrupted.

  “What? You’re such an outdoors guy. I bet you can get Charlotte to go out…”

  He stuffed his dirty shirt in his back pocket, waiting for her to take another breath as she offered suggestions of places for him to take Charlotte. He hadn’t seen Charlotte since she showed him around hours ago, and he was starting to wonder if he’d imagined her altogether. The kitchen was completely void of food, which almost made sense, since Charlotte was the size of a pixie and probably existed on air.

  “Tell me the truth, boo,” Jillian said, pulling him from his thoughts. “How are you doing? Are you okay?”

  Shit. He’d thought he’d avoided the interrogation. When she called him by the endearment she’d used as a little girl, it was hard for him to ignore her questions. This was his cue to get off the phone.

  “Because I’ll fly out there tomorrow and—”

  “No, Jilly,” he said firmly. “I’m good, and I really need to go, but I appreciate the call. I’ll ask for her autograph.” Even though he’d feel ridiculous doing so.

  “Did you call Jax?”

  Beau sighed. “Yeah. Jax, Mom, Dad…” He adored his family, but this time of year close-knit really meant smothering.

  “I’m Skyping with Zev tonight. Want me to have him call you?”

  “No.” A spear of guilt
sliced through him. “I mean, if he wants to talk to me, sure, but don’t tell him to call me because…for any other reason.” There was no need to mention the tenth anniversary of Tory’s death. The whole fucking town had been affected by it.

  “Fine,” she said, a little clipped. “Are you really going to L.A. when you leave there, and not coming back for months?”

  Beau had been offered a two-year contract as host of a reality television show called Shack to Chic, where he would travel around the United States renovating unique properties. He was flying out the week after the Mad Prix celebration, an annual wilderness race in which his brother Graham, an extreme sports fanatic, and their cousin Ty, a world-renowned mountain climber, were competing. The finish line was on the grounds of the inn, and the awards ceremony was scheduled for three weeks from Saturday. The week after the celebration, Beau was flying out to Los Angeles to sign the contract and meet the crew. If all went well, he wouldn’t be coming back for a very long time.

  “Because you should come back, you know,” Jillian urged. “Duncan will be in town, and he always asks about you.”

  A-list actor Duncan—“Raz” to his fans—Raznick, Tory’s older brother, had been Beau’s best friend before Tory was killed. Beau hadn’t seen him since her funeral, but he knew that just as Beau escaped Pleasant Hill around the anniversary of Tory’s death, Duncan returned to spend time with his family.

  “I can’t, Jilly. I’ve got to be in L.A.”

  “How convenient,” she said sarcastically. “Oh shoot! I’ve got to go. I’ve got a date.”

  “I thought you were Skyping with Zev tonight. Who are you going out with?” Even though Jillian was in her midtwenties, Beau’s protective claws still came out.

  “I’m Skyping with Zev at midnight because of the time difference from wherever he is this week. The guy I’m going out with is one of Tempe’s friends. We’re going to see Nick’s show, so you can stop worrying. If he’s a dick, after I give him hell, Nicky will get rid of him.”

  Beau laughed. Nicky. Nick was a year younger than Beau and well over six feet tall, with muscles on top of muscles. He hadn’t been Nicky since he was a toddler, except to Jillian.

  “Good. I love you, sis, but I need to go find Charlotte and figure out where to get some grub.”

  “Take her out to dinner!” Jillian suggested. “All girls love to go out to dinner. Did you bring any nice clothes?”

  “I’m here to work, Jilly, not entertain.” Although there was no denying that despite being the first woman he’d ever met who actually owned blow-up dolls, Charlotte intrigued him. And it was more than just the way she’d awoken his body. He hadn’t stopped thinking about her all day, wondering why a gorgeous, successful woman would want to hole up on this mountain so far away from civilization. And why the hell does she need blow-up dolls? Hell, if she strolled into a bar, she’d have more takers than she could ever want.

  “What’s that old saying about all work and no play?” Jillian asked, bringing him back to their conversation. “Oh yeah, it makes for wicked blue balls.”

  “Jesus, Jilly.” He shook his head as she roared with laughter. “Nice talk from my baby sister.”

  “I heard Nicky say that to Jace,” she said with barely restrained giggles. Jace Stone was a family friend and a tough biker who owned a custom motorcycle business. “At least try to have fun, okay? I worry about you.”

  “Thanks. And, sis?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t have too much fun tonight. And for the love of God, don’t talk like that on your date.”

  She was still laughing when they ended the call.

  Beau shoved the phone in his pocket and inhaled a deep, calming breath. Jillian always made him feel like he’d barely survived a hurricane and left him smiling despite it.

  He headed downstairs to find Charlotte, slowing as he neared her open office door. The lights were off, and he listened intently for moans or other sexy sounds, trying not to envision her with a blow-up doll. Christ. What had he gotten himself into? And why was he so fascinated by her?

  The clickity-clack of a keyboard came into focus, and he exhaled with relief. Why are my hands sweating? He wiped them on his jeans as he stepped into her office.

  “Hey there.”

  She jumped up with a gasp. “Ohmygod! Beau!”

  “Sorry. But um, what are you, a vampire? It’s so dark in here.” He flicked the light switch, but no lights came on.

  “You scared the heck out of me.” She leaned over her keyboard, giving him an eyeful of her narrow hips and the tiny cutoffs he hadn’t been able to see earlier. She was still wearing the man’s dress shirt, and he wondered whose button-down it was.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He flicked the switch up and down again. “What’s up with the light?”

  “It’s been burnt out since Christmas,” she said absently, her back to him as she typed.

  “It’s been blown out for five months?” He looked around the room, and the blown lightbulb seemed to be the tip of the iceberg. Several of her book covers, each touting #1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER, hung framed and crooked on the walls. One of her book covers graced the cover of Literary Focus magazine. The frame dangled from a thin piece of string coiled around a large pushpin. Bookshelves were littered with stacks of papers, books, and photographs, interspersed with handcuffs, a ball gag, and a silk tie. Stacks of notebooks and loose papers lined the floor between the couch and the shelves. Two anatomically correct blow-up dolls lay on the couch.

  He scoffed. They had nothing on him.

  “No, not five months.” Type, type, type.

  He glanced at her desk, which was littered with empty water bottles, a half-eaten protein bar, candy wrappers, and a plethora of sticky notes and notebooks. Her trash can was overflowing, and a half-empty water bottle with a big purple straw sticking out of it sat precariously on the edge of a credenza beside her.

  Charlotte straightened her spine, tossed her long dark hair over her shoulders and, still facing her computer, said, “It’s been blown out since the Christmas before that.”

  “Wiring issue?” he asked, wondering if she had a critter problem and the wires had been gnawed through.

  She shrugged as she turned to face him. The dress shirt she wore was open, revealing a tight T-shirt beneath. Her gaze landed on his chest, reminding him he was shirtless. Her eyes widened, as if she’d only just noticed he was a living, breathing person and not a doll.

  “I’ll take a look at it,” he said to distract himself from how incredibly beautiful she was.

  “The bulb died,” she said a little breathlessly.

  She couldn’t change a lightbulb? Maybe she kept her lightbulbs in the same place she kept the handcuff key.

  Her eyes trailed down his body, hovering around his groin before moving lower. She went doe-eyed, and her lips curved seductively. Thoughts of the lightbulb disappeared. Her gaze climbed slowly up his body, leaving a trail of hot pulses in all the areas where they lingered. She strolled toward him, those doe eyes locked on him. His body heated as she approached, stopping a few mere inches in front of him. She was at least a foot shorter than him, and when she tipped her face up, passion simmered in her eyes.

  Fuuuck.

  “Will you have to use your big ladder?” she asked in a sultry voice, emphasizing the last two words, which he heard as big cock.

  What the hell kind of game was this?

  She touched his cheek. Her fingers were warm and soft. He missed warm and soft. She studied his face as if she were noting every twitch.

  Look lower, babe. You’ll see a damn big twitch.

  “Well?” she asked much too innocently. “Are you as good with your ladder as you are with your hands?”

  He was skirting a dangerous line, wanting to throw her hot little body on that couch and show her how good a real man could make her feel. But he wasn’t there to get mixed up with a woman who played with dolls and toyed with men. Not when she was frien
ds with his relatives. And definitely not when painful memories could turn him into a raging asshole over the next few weeks. Temporary raging asshole, but a jerk all the same.

  Jillian’s blue balls joke trampled through his mind. She hadn’t been far off.

  Charlotte’s fingers trailed down his neck to his chest, sending heat south. He grabbed her wrist, and heat or amusement sparked in her eyes. He couldn’t tell which, and that pissed him off. He didn’t like to be messed with.

  “I only came in here because I was going to offer to whip something up for dinner,” he said, more as a reminder to himself than for her benefit.

  Her eyes narrowed seductively as she leaned forward, speaking just above a whisper in the dimly lit room. “I could eat…”

  Jesus…His cock hardened at the thought of those rosebud lips wrapped around it. He forced his voice to work before he did something stupid. “I forgot to stop at the store on my way in. You’ve got a beautiful barbecue on the terrace. Looks like it hasn’t been fired up in a while.” Damn, that’s how he felt about her, too. She had this innocent-minx thing going on, and it was killing him. “Do you have a couple steaks or something I can throw on?”

  “Or something,” she said with a daring grin.

  Her eyes moved slowly over his face, openly assessing him. She placed her hand flat over his heart, and her pretty brows knitted in concentration. Just as he realized he was still holding her other wrist, she twisted out of his grip and hurried to her keyboard. She began typing even before her ass hit the seat, leaving him hot, hard, and fucking confused.

  She waved her right hand without turning around and said, “Food’s in my freezer. I figured we’d share my kitchen.”

  Gone was the heat and the seductive voice. She’d morphed into a typing machine, her fingers flying over the keys.

  What the hell was that?

  “Share your kitchen?” he said absently. “I’ll knock before coming into your suite.”

  “Don’t bother,” she said as she typed. “Nothing good ever happens in there. You only need to knock on my office door if it’s closed. Oh, and you won’t find steak or anything. But you might find a can of soup and some crackers. Check the expiration dates. I’ll put steak on the grocery list. I need to write, so you can go.”