by Jill Shalvis
there and don’t want to have to see him every day.
—Breanne Mooreland’s journal entry
Breanne watched Cooper walk away and concentrated on breathing through her panic. There was also the fact that the firelight gilded his broad shoulders and sleek back, highlighting the worn Levi’s that fell low on his hips, intimately cupping his tush, which she had to acknowledge was absolutely worth intimately cupping.
He had a way of moving, and a way of taking in his surroundings as he did. Intensely aware, she would have said. As if he was a predator.
And maybe he was.
Gulp.
Then he vanished entirely, was simply swallowed up by the dark house, the only person she really had in this Alice-in-Wonderland place. Too proud to speak up, she sat there, heart in her throat, staring into the dark, gaping doorway that she couldn’t see beyond, wondering what, or who, else besides Dante was out there.
A loud thump came from nowhere, and she leapt to her feet. The vibrator fell to the floor. Sweeping up the still-glowing thing, she clutched it to her chest as the thug/butler came back into the room.
Dante’s hood was low over his face, but he carried a tray with two steaming cups of something, and suddenly she didn’t care if the beefy, scary guy was Hannibal Lecter, he had something hot.
“Here,” he said, and handed her one of the cups with surprising grace for a tough, built guy who looked as if maybe he wore a cape and wrestled in his skivvies for a living. Or whacked kneecaps.
She stared at the offering, thinking of every bad movie she’d ever stayed up too late watching. Not only was she the stupid heroine alone in the house with two potential bad guys, she was about to be poisoned—
“If I was going to do something to you,” he murmured, “it wouldn’t be poisoning your drink.”
She looked up at him and caught a surprising flash of humor in his eyes. “Are you laughing at me?”
“Nah, that would be rude.” He pushed her mug toward her mouth. “Drink. You’re shivering so much you’re making me cold.”
“Fine.” At least she’d die warm. She tucked the vibrator back into her waistband, grateful he hadn’t made fun of her makeshift flashlight. Then her fingers closed around the ceramic mug, and at the blessed heat of it, she nearly burst into tears. “What was that noise before?”
“What noise?”
“I heard something bump. Or crash.”
Dante turned away, his wide shoulders completely blocking the fire’s warmth for a moment as he set the other mug down on the small table by the couch. “I dropped something. Drink before you freeze to death.”
Or something to death, anyway. She sipped and, despite herself, moaned aloud at the frothy, thick, melting chocolate on her tongue. “Oh, my God.”
“Good?”
“Amazing.”
“Shelly made it, the cook here. She had water going on the stove before the power went out, luckily. I’ll tell her you like it.”
Eyes closed, Breanne sipped some more, savoring the heat of it as it slid down her throat. Lifting her head, she went to smile at her mysterious butler, meaning to ask about the rest of the invisible staff, but he was gone.
Without a sound.
Yikes. Real or Memorex? She’d have sworn she’d imagined the whole thing—except she was holding the hot chocolate. Lord, she was losing it here. She looked around uneasily, the only sound the crackling of the flames and her own heartbeat echoing heavily in her ears. No sign of her hooded, right-out-of-a-thriller butler.
Or, for that matter, Gorgeous Naked Guy.
She sucked down more of the hot chocolate, wishing it was liquid courage, then stood and moved closer to the fire. She was tired of shaking, and damn tired of being wet and cold, so she tugged off her iced-over sweater. That left her in just a white tank top, and, crouching down before the flames, the warmth of the flames danced over her torso and arms, and she wished she could shuck out of her wet jeans, too.
“Miss me?”
Whipping around, she faced one tall, dark, and slightly attitude-ridden Cooper Scott. Still sockless and shoeless, he smiled grimly, and she did her best not to drool or stare.
His gaze touched on the sweater she’d spread across the mantel to dry, then swiveled back to her standing there in her little white tank top. She’d worn it because it sucked her in and pushed her out in all the right places, and because after competing with Dean’s cell phone and long hours at work for months, she’d decided no more. She’d wanted to make sure he noticed her tonight, every inch of her.
Too bad Dean hadn’t told her that he’d also decided no more. No more her. Now she was standing there, probably looking like a coed after a wet T-shirt contest.
Cooper’s gaze lingered on her chest for a beat before lifting to her face. He didn’t say a word, but jaw tight, dropped a duffel bag at her feet. In that oddly graceful and yet utterly masculine way he had, he hunkered down and began to go through it, the long, sleek muscles of his back and shoulders bunching and releasing with his every movement. “I couldn’t see upstairs,” he muttered. “Or I’d have—Here.”
She reached for what he offered, a dark pair of plain sweat bottoms. Elastic around the ankles and the waist. He tossed her another dark item as well, a matching sweatshirt.
Her job in the accounting firm required her to dress up on a daily basis, which was amusing given that in school she’d never met a math class or a dress she’d liked, but years later she’d developed a taste for both.
Sweats hadn’t figured much in her life. But then again, this wasn’t her life, this was some alternate universe she’d stumbled into. So what if the sweats were going to make her look both short and fat; this was about survival, not looking good. Or so she told herself. “These are too long.”
“Roll ’em up.”
Spoken like a man who’d probably never given his appearance a single thought. And why should he—she’d seen him naked. He had nothing to hide, not a damn thing.
“Hurry up,” he said, and for a split beat his gaze dropped, running over her body. Specifically, her nipples, which could surely cut glass. “You’re turning blue.” He straightened and took a step toward her, maybe even to do it for her, and suddenly hurrying seemed like a good idea. She pulled the sweatshirt over her head; then, with her arms still up, she paused. Holy smoke, the inside of his sweatshirt smelled good, like . . . like rough-and-tumble man. She stood there and inhaled some more, thinking they ought to bottle this smell—
“You okay in there?”
She yanked the sweatshirt into place. “Fine. Just got stuck for a minute.”
“Uh-huh.” His expression said he knew exactly what she’d been doing, but he sat on the floor without a word and pulled on socks, then running shoes, making her realize she wasn’t the only one freezing.
And yet he’d seen to her comfort first. That did something she hadn’t expected—it tugged at her.
Whoa. Stop the lust train. Had she already forgotten? No more men. Not even tall, built, bossy ones with an oddly thoughtful nature. Especially not even tall, built, bossy ones with an oddly thoughtful nature!
His hair, fawnlike with its myriad colors, stuck straight up in spots. Probably because she’d gotten him out of the shower and he hadn’t had time to so much as comb it. His shoulders were still bare, and wide enough to withstand a lot, she’d bet.
He covered them up with a T-shirt he pulled from the bag, and then added a thick black sweater that looked deliriously soft and warm. “Better,” he sighed, then leveled his eyes on her. The firelight gleamed over his chiseled features, reflecting in his eyes. There was so much intensity there. And heat. Looking at her like that, he seemed impossibly handsome, and far too sexy for her own fragile frame of mind.
“Change your pants,” he said, and turning his back, jammed his hands in his pockets. “Hustle.”
His sexiness forgotten, she shook her head even though he couldn’t see her. “I’m not going to change right here.”
<
br /> “You’re going to go somewhere else to do it? Into the dark house and maybe an even darker bathroom? You with your phobia of the dark?”
Damn. Good point. “Okay, but don’t peek.”
“Because you didn’t peek at me?”
Did he always have to be right? “What about Dante?”
With a long-suffering sigh, Cooper moved around the couch to the huge double doors that led to the hallway and foyer. Shutting them, he turned back to face her, waggling his finger in a circle as if to say, Go ahead.
Breanne crossed her arms tighter over herself and shifted her weight from one frozen foot to the other. “Why can’t you be on the other side of the door?”
“So you can lock me out and away from the flames? Don’t think so.”
Another good point.
“You’re stalling, Princess.”
Princess? She’d show him princess! If she could move without trembling like a baby, that is. Since she couldn’t, she just stood there in a rare moment of indecision, feeling oddly close to tears.
“Just do it,” he said, sounding tired. “This place is supposed to be some sort of exclusive hideaway, famed for its privacy.” Pushing away from the doors, he came close again, but then turned and faced the fire, holding out his hands to the flames. “Plus, I don’t think Dante’s exactly eager to have us demanding to know what the hell happened, booking two guests at the same time. He’s probably in hiding.”
Maybe. Another shiver shook her body. Her jaw was sore from all the chattering her teeth were doing inside her head, and she felt so weary she could have curled up into a tiny ball in front of the fire and slept for the rest of the week.
“You done yet?”
“No.”
“Jesus. Just do it, would you?”
She reached for the zipper on her jeans. “You always this patient?”
“It’s a special gift.”
“Betcha it gets you a lot of women.”
“Yeah, they’re beating down my door.”
In direct conflict with those confident, cocky words, he hunched his shoulders, stretching the sweater taut across the muscles there as he stared into the fire.
She didn’t have the time, nor could she spare the energy, to wonder about him, but she did. “Are you married?”
A rather harsh laugh escaped him. “No.”
“Committed?”
“No.”
With or without the attitude, she imagined he did have women beating down his door. It was all that disheveled hair calling to a woman’s fingertips, that come-sin-with-me expression, those drown-in-me blue eyes.
And then there was the rest of him, which would have a weaker woman begging him for a distraction from this cold.
But she wasn’t weak, and she had enough problems at the moment. She didn’t need to be courting more. Hitching his oversized sweatshirt up to her chin to see, she reached for the zipper on her jeans, trying like hell not to inhale the delicious scent of the soft material again. Eyeing him carefully, she began to peel the wet jeans off her hips, not an easy chore because they’d practically iced themselves to her skin. She had to do the shimmy shake, and finally, finally got them to her knees, stopping to adjust her wayward panties.
Cooper turned around.
“Hey!” she squealed, crossing her hands over her tiny scrap of white satin—worn for the rat bastard Dean.
Cooper ran his gaze from her undoubtedly wild hair to his own sweatshirt stuffed up to her chin, exposing her belly button piercing and the panties that hadn’t been meant to cover much, and didn’t. “I figured fair’s fair,” he said very softly.
Five
I’ve heard that men are like fine wine. They begin as grapes, and it’s up to women to stomp the shit out of them until they turn into something acceptable to have dinner with. Me, I just want to do the stomping.
—Breanne Mooreland’s journal entry
Literally caught with her pants down, Breanne stood frozen to the spot, unable to move or even breathe. In that horrible beat of time she became painfully aware of how she must look, sweatshirt high, pants at her knees, her barely there bikini bottoms askance . . .
Cooper’s deep blue eyes sparked, flamed, and the oddest thing happened to her. In spite of everything, a little ball of heat swirled low in her belly.
She had to be delirious. From the cold. From exhaustion. From her life sucking big-time. Awkwardly she hopped again, trying to pull her jeans back up, but they weren’t going anywhere. Then she made one too many hops and caught her boot heel on the hem of the jeans. Waving her arms wildly, she struggled for balance.
Cooper merely stepped forward and caught her.
Fine. He could help her and she could die of mortification later.
But he didn’t help. He put a hand to the middle of her chest and gave her a little push, making her fall gracelessly to the couch. Once again, the pink vibrator hit the floor and rolled to a stop at his feet.
They both stared at it for one beat before Breanne tried to bounce back up.
“Stay,” he commanded.
Oh, no. Hell, no. She scissored her legs, meaning to kick him, either in the chin or the nads, she didn’t care; she was going to take him down. Now.
But he just laughed low in his throat, and then again when she struggled to karate-chop him with her legs caught together by her own jeans. Laughed, as he crouched beside her, a big hand on either of her thighs and said, “Give in, Princess.”
“I never give in.”
Holding her down with ease, he reached for the fallen vibrator, lifting it up. The obnoxious thing still glowed neon-pink. “Never say never.” Then he grinned at her in the firelight, looking just like the devil must look in the dead of winter with no one to torture. “This thing keeps showing up. Maybe you should claim it.”
“It’s not mine!”
“I don’t know . . . earlier you were gripping it like it was your long-lost best friend.” With a flick of his wrist, he turned it on.
The low hum filled the air, and with it came a buzzing in Breanne’s ear—the sound of her brain coming to boiling point.
“Ready for use,” Cooper said, suggestively waggling it in her face.
“Good.” She struggled to get free, trying not to think about the picture she was presenting him with. “You can shove it up your—”
“Oh, no,” he said. “Ladies first.” He dropped the thing to the couch next to her, where it rumbled against the soft, buttery leather while he slid his hands down her legs to the jeans pooled between her knees.
“Don’t even think about it,” she choked out.
But he wasn’t only thinking about it, he was doing it, fisting his fingers into the wet denim and yanking them past her knees to her ankles, where they caught on her boots.
His gaze met hers, intense and raw, and along with it a heart-stopping heat.
Did he have to pack such a sexual energy? She felt her entire body clench with a punch of shocking yearning.
“High-heeled boots,” he murmured. “Ever so practical out here.”
She stared down at the top of his head as he worked on stripping her. Her little triangle of white satin had not only slipped sideways, it was now riding up into parts unknown. She’d had a bikini wax two days ago—again for the rat bastard Dean—and judging from the very soft, very rough sound that escaped Cooper at her movements, he’d caught an eyeful up close and personal. “If I wasn’t so tired,” she murmured, sagging back, suddenly exhausted, “I’d kick your ass.”
“Next time,” he said, trying to untie her boots. The laces were
