Anything For Love

by Melissa Foster

  “And doing that.” He pushed to his feet and sucked down his beer.

  Her eyes flew open. “What?”

  He waved his beer at her. “That whole close-your-eyes-make-those-noises thing.”

  “Oh,” she said as innocently as she could muster. “You mean this?” She slowly placed a piece of meat on her tongue, closed her eyes, and made the most sensual, erotic sounds she could.

  “Fuuuck.” He drew the word out so long she had to suppress a giggle.

  She made what she hoped was a dramatic, seductive show of licking her lips as she went to him. This was research at its best. His jaw tensed as she stepped closer and dragged her finger down the front of his shirt. She liked doing that to him. Not only did his body tense up, but it warmed beneath her fingers, and his eyes took on a greediness that she had a hard time looking away from.

  “You mean that? Because I like the way it makes you sweat.” She brushed against him like a cat in heat, getting lost in the intensity of his stare and the heaviness of his breathing. “I like seeing you grind your teeth and feeling your body get all revved up, like a champagne bottle ready to explode.”

  She lifted his beer from his hand and took a long, slow drink before setting it beside the grill. Feeling even bolder, she touched the center of his strong chin and sighed. “It’s a shame you refuse to uncork all that energy, because I can only imagine the sheer power and raw passion behind all those corded muscles.”

  She sauntered away.

  She hadn’t taken two steps before Beau grabbed her, hauling her into his arms and smothering her lips with his, giving her no time to think. His tongue snaked into her mouth. He tasted of lust, fire, and the unique flavor of Beau. His hand pressed against her back, their bodies pulsing and grinding. His other hand pushed into her hair, and he cupped the back of her head as he intensified the kiss. She was right there with him, grasping his shoulders, his head, his neck, wanting to touch all of him at once. She was his willing captive as he explored her mouth and shifted his weight, wedging his leg between hers. She stumbled back into something unforgiving. The railing. He’d buffered the blow with his hand on her back, and Lord. That he could think about protecting her when he was turning her brain to mush and her body to liquid heat was even more of a turn-on. He kissed her harder, more demanding. This wasn’t the kiss of a lover. This kiss had grit and fervor. Gone was the ruse of research, replaced with reckless desire, as Beau reclaimed the upper hand, kissing her breathless. It wasn’t enough. When he eased his efforts, she amped up hers, not ready for their connection to end. She wanted his grit, his fervor, his passion, but he tore his mouth away, leaving her noodle-legged and fuzzy-brained.

  An arrogant smile formed on his lips as he picked up his beer and said, “That loose enough for you, shortcake?”

  Chapter Five

  BEAU WOKE WITH the sun the next morning, hot, bothered, and feeling guilty as hell after another fitful night’s sleep filled with erotic fantasies of Charlotte and nightmares of Duncan Raz. In his dreams, he’d stripped off Charlotte’s clothes and quickly lost himself in her sweet, sexy sassiness. Until Duncan appeared like a villain in black, a stark reminder that the last person to deserve someone like Charlotte was Beau. He took a cold shower and headed down the hall for coffee. The lights were on in Charlotte’s office, and he heard her fingers flying across the keyboard.

  “You’re up early,” he said as he came to her side. Several newly empty Twix wrappers had joined the other chaos on her desk.

  She held up one finger, then finished what she was writing and saved her work before tipping her face up sleepily. Dark crescents underscored her half-closed eyes, and she was wearing the same slinky outfit she’d had on last night. “Hi.”

  “Have you been writing all night?” After their kisses, which had left him hard as stone, she’d run inside, claiming she had to write, leaving him hot, bothered, and alone with his tangled thoughts. He’d wrapped up her dinner and put it in her fridge, and then he’d pounded out his frustrations by handling a few more repairs. She was still writing when he’d turned in just before midnight.

  “Mm-hm.” She reached for a bottle of water.

  “Wouldn’t your mind be fresher if you got some rest?”

  She shrugged as she drank, her eyelids fluttering closed. They blinked open as if she were startled. “I’ve got to write when my muse speaks.” She yawned and said, “I should get the eggs.”

  He put a hand on her shoulder, and her soft, warm skin hit a note of familiarity. “I was heading out for a walk anyway. I’ve got it. You need to rest.”

  “Rest is for the weak,” she said halfheartedly. “Do you walk every morning?”

  “When I can. Your property is too gorgeous not to enjoy.”

  She glanced out the window. “Yeah, I guess. Thanks for getting the eggs. There’s a basket under the sink in my kitchen.”

  She guessed? He had a feeling she’d never gone too far past the chicken coop.

  As he headed for the door, she said, “Hey, can you grab me a protein bar while you’re in there?”

  “You shouldn’t put that processed crap in your body. How about I make you an omelet when I get back inside?”

  She held up one finger, yawning as she set her water bottle on the desk. “You don’t have to go to that trouble. My body thrives on processed crap.”

  He gritted his teeth. “Well, not today it doesn’t. I’m making you a real breakfast.”

  She was stubborn as sin and so ridiculously comfortable with short-changing herself. He wanted to take care of her as she should be taking care of herself. Okay, maybe not in the same way, but that’s how he rationalized the burgeoning, unfamiliar feelings messing with his head as he made coffee and then headed out for his morning walk.

  Beau drank his coffee as he walked around the lake. He couldn’t imagine a more beautiful location, and he had no idea how Charlotte resisted the call of nature. And what was she doing to herself, pulling an all-nighter? For all he knew, she did it often, out here alone with no one to remind her that there was a world outside her office and that her health mattered.

  He set his empty mug on the front porch and went to collect the eggs, thinking about following Charlotte into the woods the previous day. He felt himself grinning, baffled by the way she made him feel. Not just the way she turned him on, because she was the sexiest woman he’d ever met, in a chaotic, ten-directions-at-once kind of way. But it had been a long damn time since he’d wanted to protect anyone outside his family, and he liked it that way. No ties meant no chances for heartbreak, or for hurting others.

  When he reached the bushes where he’d first had her in his arms, his body flooded with heat. Jesus. She’s not even here and she turns me on.

  He pushed through the bushes, glad to see her chickens pecking around inside the pen. Bandit would have had a field day chasing chickens. Chickendales. Charlotte’s voice rang through his mind as he collected the eggs and cleaned out the nesting boxes. Who named their chickens after actors and male dancers?

  The brown chicken stepped into the coop and stared at Beau.

  “Don’t look at me like that. You’re only a chicken,” he said to Duncan, who scampered back into the pen. He’d have to find another name for the damn thing. Either that, or Duncan would become dinner. His gut twisted with the memory of Charlotte’s frantic expression and the fear in her beautiful eyes when she’d realized the chickens had gotten loose. He had a feeling she’d love them even if they didn’t provide eggs.

  He stood outside the pen and glared at Duncan. “You’re one lucky bird that that incredible woman loves you.”

  When he got back to the inn, he washed the eggs and his mug, then stopped in Charlotte’s office to see what she liked in her omelets. She was fast asleep at her desk, her head resting on her outstretched arm beside her keyboard.

  He crouched beside her and said, “Charlotte?” She didn’t flinch. “Char?”

  Aw hell. He scooped her into his arms, and she n
uzzled against him, resting her cheek against his chest. She smelled sweetly feminine and felt good and right in his arms. Like she was made for the cradle his body created.

  Why the hell was he noticing that? I’m here to work, not to play research games.

  He carried her into her suite, struck again by how wrong her furnishings were, all bland creams and dark browns. The heavy curtains looked like all the others throughout the inn, cheerless and uninteresting. Charlotte was anything but bland, cheerless, or uninteresting.

  He slowed at the threshold to her bedroom, feeling as though he were looking at the very heart of her. Deep-piled white throw rugs covered the old hardwood floors. An ornate canopy bed, with only half the frame erected, was layered in fluffy white and pink blankets. A fancy white and gold chest sat at the foot of the bed, the price tag hanging from the latch like a forgotten child. A matching dresser decorated the far wall, and beside it, a dark mirror rested against the side, looking out of place among the lighter hues. Two pink armchairs and a white sofa with frilly pillows created a nook by a stone fireplace. Several colored notebooks lay on the floor beside an unopened box of holiday lights, and in the corner of the room was a pile of unsheathed pillow forms. Two sets of French doors sat wide open to the yard. A single white sheer hung on one of the doors, blowing in the breeze.

  He carried Charlotte to the bed, trying to calm the frustration inside him. How could she leave her bedroom doors wide open for anyone to walk in? Not to mention animals. He made a mental note to search every inch of her room to insure there were no critters hanging around.

  He pulled back the blankets and found a romance novel and a leather journal on the sheets. He set them beside a lamp with no shade on a cardboard box she was using as a nightstand, and then he gently laid her on the sheets.

  “Roman,” she whispered, and curled up on her side.

  Who the fuck is Roman? He glared at her despite the fact that she was fast asleep and wondered how many non-boyfriend boyfriends she had.

  He covered her with a blanket and she sighed, snuggling in deeper. She looked peaceful beneath her pretty blankets. He caught himself staring and ground his teeth so hard they just might crack. He quietly closed the French doors. The lock was broken on one of them. Great. He locked the other door, nearly tripping over packages of curtains and pillow shams and a single curtain rod. Job number two.

  He searched her bedroom for unwanted visitors and then glanced at Charlotte, noticing that the cardboard box beside the bed was actually a box containing a crystal chandelier. Upon closer inspection, he realized it had decorative pink crystals.

  Christ. It’s like a half-ass attempt at a fairy-tale bedroom.

  He added dead bolts to the list of things he needed to pick up in town and went to fetch his tools.

  CHARLOTTE BOLTED OUT of bed, wondering how the heck she’d gotten to her bedroom. She checked the time on her phone—4:08. Panic spread through her like wildfire at the missed hours of writing. She rushed through a shower, pulled on a pair of shorts and a tank top, and as she grabbed a sweater from her drawer, she realized her French doors were closed, and they had curtains. She looked around the room, taking in the string of holiday lights strung around the fireplace and the beautiful canopy on her bed! Beau…

  She ran her fingers over the pretty pink and white canopy that had been sitting in a box forever. She’d started putting up the canopy frame when she’d first moved in years ago but had never gotten around to finishing. Like the curtains, she hadn’t thought about them in ages. She pulled on her cardigan, realizing she still had absolutely no recollection of going to bed, and she connected the dots right back to surly, burly Beau.

  She mulled over how warm, cozy, and nervous that made her feel as she went to get coffee. What had he thought about when she was in his arms, when he saw her bedroom? Did he only see her room through his contractor eyes, or did he stand beside her bed, looking at her as a man would a woman? Her lips tingled with the memories of their kisses. Was he thinking about them, too? Had he used her image to satisfy his unsated desires last night?

  Okay, Char. Calm the heck down. He carried you to bed. No big deal.

  She found a note from Beau beside the coffee machine. His handwriting was bold and capped, kind of like him. Your chickens were all accounted for this morning. I wrapped up last night’s dinner and put it in the fridge. You should lock your bedroom doors. Beau.

  “You’re bossy even when you’re not around,” she mused.

  She tugged open the fridge and found new eggs in the egg bowl beside last night’s dinner. Before Beau arrived, she wasn’t sure how she’d feel having someone else around all the time, but she liked being around him. He was intriguing, with his seriousness and hot-flash-inducing glances. He’d definitely helped with her writer’s block, although it probably wasn’t smart to have made her hero a contractor with a serious chip on his shoulder. If he ever read the book, he’d know he was her inspiration. The trouble was, Beau had also stirred emotions she’d safely locked away for a very long time, and she wasn’t sure how to handle them.

  After making coffee, she grabbed a protein bar and a Twix and went into her office. She tapped her keyboard, bringing her monitor to life. Her manuscript was still open on the screen, and another wave of panic engulfed her. Did he read it? Their kisses had made it into her story, followed by a detailed fantasy in her heroine’s head. It had taken her two hours to get their kisses right, but wow. Every blazing second was worth reliving. Each time she’d revised the scene, she’d remembered something new—his scent, the way his whiskers had scratched the edges of her mouth, the feel of his fingers pressing into her skin, and the hard press of his arousal against her belly, hips, and thighs as he ground against her. She’d also recalled the little things she hadn’t realized she’d noticed, like the heady noises of appreciation he’d made, the way his big hands had engulfed every spot they’d touched, and the devastating look in his eyes afterward. He’d acted cocky as hell, but she’d seen so much more in those serious eyes. She’d been unable to speak, had needed to pick it apart to try to understand it. She still didn’t know exactly what she’d seen, but one thing was for sure. Beau Braden was hiding something in those heat-filled, sad-rimmed eyes, and she wanted to know what it was.

  She grabbed her laptop and coffee and headed upstairs to find out. Music drifted down from the second floor. As she climbed the steps, she thought about how much she loved everything about the inn, from the sweeping staircases to the attention to detail that had been put into the building of it. Even though she rarely left her wing, when she did, she was surrounded by happy memories of her parents and grandparents. The only family she’d ever had.

  Paint fumes and the song “Drunk on Your Love” sailed into the hall from the suite where Beau was working. She peeked into the room and saw him standing on the ladder, shirtless and beyond sexy, a toolbelt hanging low on his swaying hips. Ha! Burly Beau likes to dance!

  She snuck in and sat against the wall on the opposite side of the room. Inspiration Station. She opened her laptop as quietly as she could and pulled up her manuscript. As he sang about touch and fire in her eyes—yes, she pretended he was singing to her with his raspy voice that beckoned all the emotions she’d felt last night—she wondered if he had woken up drunk on her love. Or rather, lust. Her stomach flip-flopped. She’d been flat-out drunk on him last night. It would be nice knowing she hadn’t been alone in that feeling, but he was not an easy-to-read guy, and she wasn’t looking for a man in her life anyway, so it didn’t really matter if he was drunk on her, or just plain horny.

  Everything other than last night’s kisses had been about research. Pure, simple motivation. That’s my story, and I’m sticking with it.

  The song ended, and she held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t turn around just yet. A scene was forming in her mind, and she wanted to flesh it out before she lost the thread. It was strange for her to come up with ideas around him, much less be able to bring them to life in th
e same room. She always wrote alone, and she preferred it that way. Or at least she always thought she had.

  “Eyes on You,” one of her favorite songs, came on the radio.

  She pressed her lips together to keep from accidentally singing as Beau dipped his brush in the paint can that was resting on the ladder shelf. She was shocked that he knew every word to the song. His singing and dancing drove the rest of her scene. This was her favorite part of the process, when an idea sparked images so vibrant she became a part of them. Soon she was lost in her characters’ world. She laughed when they did, warmed as they touched each other, heard the hero’s deep voice and felt the fluttering in her heroine’s chest just as she did.

  Fingers snapped in front of her face, jolting her from her reverie.

  Beau crossed his arms, glaring down at her. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he said sarcastically. “How long have you been sitting there?”

  She shrugged and couldn’t resist doing a little fishing. “How long did you watch me sleep this morning?”

  His jaw clenched.

  She gasped, and that tummy flutter went full force again. “You did watch me sleep!” She saved her work and set her laptop down, then popped up to her feet.

  “I never said that,” he growled. He strode away and moved the ladder to another section of the wall.

  She followed him. “You never said you didn’t.”

  He set the paint can on the shelf and climbed the ladder. “Did you get some food?” he asked, ignoring her statement as he dipped the brush in the can.

  “Yup. Thanks for collecting the eggs. And for hanging my curtains and my canopy. Oh! And the lights around the fireplace. That was really nice of you, although I have no idea how I slept through it all.” She pulled the protein bar from her back pocket, tore it open, and took a bite. “Wait. I got distracted from your Peeping-Tom habit.”