I don’t need a workout for that. Watching him look at me that way is enough to make me sweat.
“But, but, but—”
He raises his bruised eyebrow. “But what?”
“Your ribs,” I blurt.
He shakes his head. “I don’t expect to do a workout myself. My ribs won’t stop me from training you.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Immensely,” he says, wearing a broad smile.
My shoulders slump. “Fine, you win. Eight o’clock. For the record, I still like the cooking trade better.”
He chuckles, takes my hand, and pulls me into the hallway. “What else did you want to show me?”
I perk up. “Do you like to watch movies?”
“Sure, who doesn’t?”
I redirect him two doors down, past my studio, to the home theater.
“Wow, this is great!” he says and scans the room, taking in the rows of cushioned movie seats, and the large projection screen against the back wall. Decorated in red and purple velvet, the room has the feel of an old-time theater, complete with a full-size popcorn cart and a beverage refrigerator.
“Robert was a movie buff. He built a complete library of films with over three thousand titles,” I say, feeling like a tour guide. I pick up a small portable tablet, which is part of the built-in entertainment system, and hand it to him. “You can browse through the films on here.”
“Jillian, this is incredible. I could stay in here for days,” he says, awestruck.
I smile. “Then this will be the first place I look for you when I can’t find you upstairs.”
His eyes light up. “You wanna watch a movie? We could bring our snack down here. You know, that masterpiece you volunteered to cook,” he teases.
I poke him gently on his good side. “Don’t be a wiseass.”
He laughs and folds his arms around his ribs to protect them.
“I was thinking something closer to cheese and crackers,” I say.
“Sounds good.”
This time I take his hand and lead him to the door. “Come on. Let me show you the rest of place before we come back.”
There’s nothing else on the lower level to show him except the utility room, which I skip, and I lead the way back upstairs.
He already knows how to get to the kitchen, so I show him the rest of the 2,500 square feet on the first floor: the great room, a formal living room, dining room, laundry room, and my office.
I walk into Robert’s old office last. Darkness fills the large bank of floor-to-ceiling windows along the back wall. The rest of the walls are painted white and contrast with the ultramodern black leather furniture. Huge, framed black-and-white architectural photographs hang on the walls. The only splash of color is provided by some pillows on the sofa. After Robert died, I packed up all of his work-related items, and stripped the room down to its essentials to give it a “just decorated” feel. It made it easier for me to walk by when it didn’t look lived-in.
Raine stands frozen in the doorway. “This is amazing.”
I smile. His reaction warms me, and I’m struck with a thought. “You can work in here if you’d like.”
His eyes focus on the desk as his fingers tightly grip the doorjamb. “Was this your husband’s office?” he asks softly.
I nod.
“What did he do? I love the artwork,” he says, standing frozen, like he’s hesitant to enter.
“Real estate developer. And thank you. Robert’s father hired me out of college. Those photographs were my first project for his real estate conglomerate.” I arch a brow. “You can come in, you know.”
“They’re amazing,” he says, his feet slowly traveling over the threshold as he looks around. “If you’re serious, I’d really like to work in here.”
Clapping my hands together, I say, “It’s settled. Now, let’s go get that snack.”
I walk past him, and his hand grasps my arm to stop me. He gazes into my eyes and swallows. “Thanks, Jillian. This means a lot to me.”
His emotions are palpable. They take me by surprise, and I wonder why it means so much. It’s only an office. I suspect his reactions will continue to surprise me for a while until he’s willing to open up and let me in.
By the time we finish with the second floor tour, he knows where my bedroom is and has seen the three remaining guest rooms. On our way back downstairs, I show him where to put his dirty laundry.
He throws up his hands and shakes his head. “No way. You’re not doing my laundry. I’ll do it myself.”
I shrug. “Have it your way.” I pull down an extra laundry basket from the shelf and hand it to him. “Here. At least take something to put it in.”
“Thanks.” He takes the basket from me.
Confident he knows where to find everything now, I say, “Drop that off in your room and meet me downstairs . . . if you still want to grab a snack and watch a movie.”
His mouth twists into a smile. “See you in three.”
When he enters the kitchen, I’m already putting some cheese and crackers on a tray. I grab a glass of wine while Raine takes a bottle of water, and we head back down to the home theatre.
I choose a seat in the middle, and Raine settles in next to me. When I hand him the tablet for the entertainment system, he puts it on his lap and looks at me. His expression is pained. “Jillian . . . my ex-girlfriend, Vanessa, called me before.”
“Oh?” I brace myself, thinking I might not want to hear what he has to say. I’m enjoying his company and don’t want anything to ruin it.
“My father called her.”
The hairs on my arms stand up. That wasn’t what I expected. “And?”
He looks at me, and there’s fear in his eyes. “He knows I was admitted to Memorial, and they told him a woman claiming to be my aunt signed my release.”
My throat tightens and I gulp. “Are you afraid he might try to find you?” Even as I ask the question, I think of the Beretta I have locked in my desk drawer. But I don’t think it will be necessary.
His body appears to close in on itself, and he looks away. He dips his head and nods. “But I’m more afraid of him getting close to you.”
I rest my hand gently on his shoulder. “I asked the nurse to make sure that my ‘ex-brother-in-law’ didn’t get my new address. She told me the hospital’s privacy policy prohibits that anyway.”
His head pops up and his face fills with relief. “Really?”
Before I can stop my hand, I run it over his hair and kiss the side of his head. “Really.” Times like this I’m torn between wanting to protect him and wanting to make love to him.
When his eyes meet mine, it’s clear he’s thinking something more romantic. An unmistakable look of desire blazes in his eyes. He curls his hand around my neck and draws me into a kiss. A thrill shoots through me. His lips start firm and gentle and then build into a fiery insistence. I melt into him with growing urgency. His fingers work into my hair and cradle the back of my head; while he twists his body into me, his other hand touches my cheek. His tongue dances with mine, and my body ignites with burning need.
I want to wrap my arms around him and pull him closer, but I’m afraid to touch him where he still hurts. Instead, I touch my hand to his leg.
He moans and pulls his lips away. “Let’s pick a movie before I start something I can’t finish without puncturing a lung,” he whispers and his breath warms my cheek. “Jillian . . . I meant what I said today. I don’t want to screw this up. I want to take you on a real date.”
I release a deep sigh and brush back a piece of his hair. “What do you want to watch?”
He sits back in his seat, touches his ribs, and grits his teeth. “Something where they blow things up.”
“Ribs hurt?”
He squeezes his eyes shut for a second and nods. I wonder if I would’ve let him go further if he had tried. I can’t deny that I want him, but I like the idea of knowing there’s a date ahead of us. The an
ticipation excites me. The kind of excitement that’s been absent from my life for longer than I can remember . . . The kind held within the pages of my purple diaries.
“I’m game for whatever you choose,” I say. We settle on a classic Bruce Willis Die Hard movie, and I transfer our snacks to the flip-up trays attached to each seat.
I darken the lights using the remote. Before the opening credits roll, Raine takes my hand, and entwines his fingers through mine. My heart flutters. He doesn’t let go until the movie ends.
Chapter 20
Raine
A DAMP TOWEL WRAPPED around my hips, I stand in front of the mirror and groan as I study my injuries. The rainbow around my eye is fading, but not fast enough for my liking. I still look like shit and can’t believe Jillian can look at me without feeling revulsion. Before my shower, I popped another pain pill and removed the tape from my ribs, revealing the multicolor hue that’s glaring back at me from the mirror.
I’ll have to take it easy when I train Jillian this morning. I feel a little less like road kill today than I did yesterday, but maybe that’s just the meds.
It took all my willpower not to follow Jillian to her room last night. Waking up with her yesterday morning spoiled me, and I secretly hoped she would want to stay with me again last night. But I keep telling myself that it played out as it should have. Now that I’ve kissed her, I’m not sure I could’ve just stuck to sleeping next to her.
As impulsive as I want to be, I need Jillian to recognize I’m not just some horny young guy looking to get laid or that I’m out to use her. She needs to choose me . . . To be sure. I can’t afford for her to think she’s made a mistake while I’m living here.
Selfish? Maybe. Stupid? Definitely not. She’s my only good option for the next four weeks, and we both know it. That means leveling the playing field as much as I can by paying my own way even if it’s only through cooking and personal training duties. I also can’t deny that I need her in more ways than one. As wacked as it sounds, and as much as I need her roof over my head, I want her company and to feel her touch even more.
I put on my workout clothes—a T-shirt, shorts, and sneakers—and then search through my drafting tool kit until I find a ruler. One of my other boxes contains my clipboard. All I need now is some string. I find that in the kitchen, make myself a mug of tea, and head down to the gym. There’s no sign of Jillian.
The clock on the wall says seven fifty-five. I glance at the equipment and jot down a quick thirty-minute routine. Once I figure out her level of fitness, I can increase it to an hour. Four times a week should be more than enough.
“Hi,” she says.
I look up and see her standing in the doorway with her arms crossed. She’s wearing some stretchy-type biker’s pants, a T-shirt that falls below her hips, and sneakers. Her lush brown hair is tied in a ponytail.
“Morning. You’re right on time.” I drain my mug.
She takes a deep breath and comes inside. “How’d you sleep?”
I capture her gaze. “Not as good as the night before. You?”
Her cheeks turn pink, and she tries to hide a smile. “Same.”
“Maybe we should do something about that,” I say, unable to resist my urge to flirt.
She shifts on her feet. “Maybe.”
I pick up the ball of string. “I want to take your measurements so we can track your progress in inches as we go.”
Her jaw drops and a look of panic crosses her face. “Measurements?” She shakes her head vigorously. “Nope. No way.”
“Why not?”
“That’s too intimate. No, I don’t want you to see . . .” her voice trails off, and she turns away.
I toss the ball of string to the ground, and stride over to her. I spin her around to face me. “Jillian? What did I tell you last night?” I ask calmly.
She won’t look at me.
I tip her chin up. “There’s nothing I’d like more than to gaze at your naked body. Now, don’t be ridiculous, and let me take your measurements.”
With a deep sigh, she says, “Fine.”
I smile in triumph.
She purses her lips and pinches me. “Stop looking so smug.”
“Hey! Don’t hurt the help.” I retrieve my ball of string.
She points at it. “Where did you get that?”
“You know, that vast wasteland you call your kitchen. Now hold your arms out.”
“Don’t expect me to be happy about it.” She obeys, puckering her lips in a sour look. I wrap the string around her biceps and then measure it against the ruler. I write down the measurement on my clipboard then repeat it on the other side.
“Have you ever done this professionally?” she asks as I measure.
“No. But I’ve been weight training since high school.” My lips turn down. “Let’s just say it came in handy.” I can see in her eyes she catches my drift, so I don’t need to elaborate.
“I need to do your waist. Can you lift up your shirt for me?”
“Can’t you just feel underneath to measure it?” she pouts.
I roll my eyes. “No.”
Her jaw tightens and she lifts her shirt. I weave the string around her, and write down the number in inches.
“Hips.”
She meets my eyes. “Let me guess. You want me to push my shorts halfway down my ass?”
I smile. “Yes.”
She elbows me on my good side, and I flinch.
“Will you stop enjoying this so much!” she says.
“Hey, come on! I don’t enjoy you elbowing me, Jillian,” I say with less humor this time.
“Good. I’m trying to make this as uncomfortable for you as it is for me.” She rolls her spandex shorts down to expose her hipbones. I stand behind her and wrap the string around her. I lift the back of her shirt and pause.
“You have a tattoo.” I stare at the lacy scrollwork she has inked across her lower back.
“Um . . . yeah,” she says. “Your point?”
I mark the spot on the string between my fingers with my left hand, and use the index finger on my right hand to trace the design. “My point is that it’s sexy as hell,” I growl, and picture myself making love to her from behind. “When did you get it?”
“My thirtieth birthday,” she says. “Robert wasn’t thrilled about it, but I decided to do it anyway. I’d wanted one since I was a teenager.” She bats my hand away and drops her shirt before she turns to face me. “I was a little surprised that you don’t have any. It seems to be a trend with guys in their twenties.”
“How would you know? You haven’t seen me fully naked yet.” I give her a mischievous grin.
She raises her eyebrows. “So, you’re hiding yours someplace intimate?”
I fess up. “Nah. I don’t have any. There’s never been anything meaningful enough for me to want to mark my body with for the rest of my life.”
“Huh. Fair enough,” she says, resting her hands on her hips. “So, should we get back to the task at hand? You know, taking my measurements and then getting me into shape?”
“We’re done with the measurements, unless you want me to measure your chest? I kind of thought I’d be pushing it if I asked. Besides, I like it just the way it is.” I wiggle my eyebrows at her.
She grins. “Will you stop already? I can’t believe you’d pass up a chance for a cheap feel.”
“There’d be nothing cheap about it. But in all seriousness, let’s get to work.” I explain my plan to her. We’ll use a combination of weights, equipment, and core exercises to target her abs, arms, and thighs. “By the time I’m done with you, we’ll be able to bounce a quarter off your abs.”
A look of dread fills her features. “That sounds like a pretty tall order.”
“Nope. Not so. Give me thirty days, and I guarantee at least a couple of inches. I’m also planning on increasing the lean proteins in our diet, so that should help, too. But tell me now if I need to hunt down all the sugar in the house and put it under lock an
d key.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Don’t even think of going near my secret stash of Godiva, or I might have to hurt you.”
I laugh, and still clutching the clipboard, I throw up my hands. “I wouldn’t dream of it. You’re doing enough damage to me already.”
We start with the hand weights next to the weight bench. I discard my clipboard.
“Since I’m going for tone, we’ll start with low weights and high reps.” I flex my arm to demonstrate. “If we wanted muscle, we would use high weights and fewer reps.” I grab the three-pound weights and hand them to her.
She gives them a dubious look and sighs. “Okay.”
“I’ll take you through a full set of chest, back, and arms, and then we’ll repeat. And stop glaring at me like I’m about to torture you.” I say, addressing the daggers she’s throwing in my direction with her golden eyes.
She humphs at me and mumbles, “Sorry, I’m feeling caffeine-deprived.”
“I’ll make you a cup of coffee when we’re done, but let’s focus for now,” I say sternly.
“Meanie,” she says under her breath.
I take her through one set of upper body exercises with ten reps each and then move her onto the mat for abs. She lies down with her knees pointed to the ceiling while I hold her feet.
“Rather than sit-ups, I want you to do Pilates crunches. The secret is to protect your lower back.” I run my fingers around my middle. “You work the whole core this way. A tight core equals tight abs.”
She pouts and points at my abs from her vantage point on the mat. “Will I have a six-pack when I’m done?”
“Let’s take it one step at a time, tiger. If you’re serious, that’ll involve some serious weight training.”
After struggling through crunches, leg lifts, and roll-ups, Jillian has murder in her eyes. “Son of a bitch! You’re killing me.”
“Hey, don’t insult my mother.” I help her up, and point to the Universal gym. “Wait until you’re finished with the thigh exercises before you say that.”
An unladylike growl rises from her throat. “I think I might hate you.”
Caught Up In Raine Page 11
