When Good Things Happen to Bad Boys
Page 17
H ARDHATS AND
S ILK S TOCKINGS
HelenKay Dimon
To Lori Foster for providing the opportunity.
To James for encouraging me to take it.
One
“Just like a man to show up after all the hard work is done.”
Not the warmest welcome Whit Thomas had ever received from a woman, but then this woman had been sending him the big chill for weeks. Her brown eyes, the color of rich caramel, sparked with anger every time he had the nerve to ask her a question.
“I got tied up on another job.”
“Whatever.” She shrugged her slim shoulders.
A weaker man would have given up, written Hannah Bridges off as frigid, and moved on. Not Whit. Not after that day last week when he caught her peeking over her metal clipboard at his shoulders with barely disguised hunger.
“Good afternoon, Hannah. I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”
“Glad to hear it. So, did you want something or did you just stop by to say hello?” She asked the question without lifting her head.
“I need your help.” He figured an hour or two between the sheets should do it.
“Lucky me.”
Whit had enjoyed his share of women over the years. Success on that front had never been a problem. Until Hannah. She had a voice as smooth as aged whiskey. And the stinging tongue of a viper.
“Hannah—”
“Look, Thomas, it’s been a long day. I’m sure I can pencil in some time for us to argue tomorrow, but not now.”
“I never argue. Suggest and help. Cajole, even. Never argue.”
“I think you’re proving my point.”
Her sunny blond hair and soulful brown eyes covered a growl fierce enough to send jaded and scruffy men twice her age scrambling for the nearest exit. The sexy sweetie was all of five-five but wielded a power over burly men who could throw her spinning into the air with one little finger if they were so inclined.
On the job site, she hid her petite frame under some of the ugliest oversized flannel shirts he had ever seen. Today’s version was a hideous shade of yellow-brown. Every now and then one of the overly large sleeves slipped down her slim shoulder, revealing a tiny white tank top that hugged her sleek midsection and framed her high round breasts.
He lived for those sightings.
The stubborn woman was so damn hot his insides flamed into a raging inferno every time she swept by him with her perfect button nose pointed in the air. A light fruity scent hovered around her, wrapping around his balls and squeezing tight.
For the first and only time in his life a hardhat turned him on. Watching her move, toting that battered metal clipboard around like a shield, sent blood rushing to his groin and his brain cells packing for vacation. Of course, the object of his lust liked to pretend he didn’t exist.
He planned to change all that today.
He pushed away from the doorframe and stepped into the dismantled kitchen of the historically protected house, careful not to trip over an unopened box or one of the pieces of heavy equipment scattered around the refurbishing project. “There’s something you need to see.”
“Look, Thomas, if you want this job to come in on time, you have to give me some space.” She kept her intense gaze centered on the thick wedge of papers clipped together in her hands. She tapped her pencil against her front teeth then perched it behind her ear.
“You can call me Whit. Everyone else does.”
“I’ll call you Toaster Oven, if you want. The problem’s still the same. I don’t have time for chitchat today.”
Chitchat?
She continued. “Maybe one of your wealthy friends can keep you entertained until I can finish these calculations.”
“Ahh, there it is.”
Her head snapped up. “What?”
“The subtle ‘you’re a rich asshole’ crap you always pull on me.”
She smiled. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Right. You just don’t like architects, I guess.”
“Actually, I like most of the architects I work with.”
Subtle as usual. Never mind that the National Trust handpicked him to oversee this job. Never mind the fact she wasn’t supposed to lift a hammer without his approval.
Never mind the fact he owned the damn house she was ripping apart and piecing back together again.
The little vixen had worked her way into his brain until all he could think about was working his way into her tiny silk panties. And it was time to do something about it.
“Since this is my property—”
“Your family’s property.”
He mentally grabbed for his last ounce of patience. “Last time I checked, I was vice president of Thomas Properties, the group that owns this house.”
This time she actually snorted, an unattractive sound that only stoked the heat running through his veins.
“As such,” he continued over the offensive noise, “I’m in charge. Not you.”
That did it.
Those stunning high cheekbones of hers seemed to fall flat. If he was bothering her before, he was clearly pissing her off now. She emphasized her displeasure by dropping her clipboard on the table and letting it land with a loud clank.
He finally had her attention. He wasn’t so sure he wanted it anymore.
“Please go on. I’m hanging on every word.”
Definitely not good. “Hannah, we have a problem.”
“You mean in addition to an ancient electrical system, walls so thin they’re peeling off like tissue paper, and a plumbing mess bad enough to warrant consideration of a permanent Porta-Potty off the library, something more than that?”
“Yeah, in addition to all that.”
“If that’s the case, maybe this should wait until Monday. I’m not sure I can take another setback.”
“Sure you can.” Whit suspected Hannah could handle almost anything. He was ready to see if she could handle him. “This problem is downstairs.”
“Up until now the basement was the only floor of this three-story disaster you call a house that didn’t require a major overhaul.”
“This isn’t a construction problem.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
“Is the problem breathing? If so, just kill it. You don’t need me for animal control duties. It’s Friday. I’ve sent everyone home and I’d like to get out of here myself.”
“As the boss, I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.”
Boss.
A steady pounding knocked against Hannah’s temples. The second she had seen one Whitman Goodard Thomas, all wickedly handsome and perfectly groomed, the earth shifted. The usually firm ground beneath her blue-collar feet actually crumbled. No man had ever made the settled landscape move before, especially one from such a hoity-toity background.
She didn’t care for the uncomfortable sensation one bit.
Looking at the tiny dimple in his left cheek, Hannah knew one thing for certain: she was in deep trouble. The kind of trouble that led to naked panting bodies rolling across satin sheets and bare toes pointed to the ceiling.
The vision was becoming far too easy to picture. As a rule, Hannah never got involved with any man connected to her work. Right now, a sex life was out of the question. She had a deadline looming. This job was her one opportunity to prove that she had what it took to run the company without the help of some pencil-pushing male.
But Whit made her want to chuck all that responsibility for a few minutes of mind-bending passion. She looked into his piercing green eyes, the color of summer grass, and her usually fierce control took a tumble.
She didn’t want minutes alone with him. She needed hours. Long, hot, sweaty hours.
Maybe it was the soft lilt threading through his Georgia-bred voice, the same subtle accent that grew more pronounced the more frustrated he became. Maybe it was the wide expanse of his shoulders or the unruly mop of sandy brown hair framing hi
s near perfect face and square chin. Heck, even those nerdy button-down oxford shirts he wore made her insides grow all dewy.
Whatever caused the unsettling attraction had to end. Maintaining control was essential. Stripping him naked and letting her hands wander over the muscled chest she guessed lurked under those conservative clothes was an idea better left for fantasizing in the dark privacy of her bedroom.
“Show me.”
He blinked several times. “Excuse me?”
“You mentioned some huge problem that couldn’t wait two more seconds. I give up. You win. Take me to whatever it is.”
“Oh, sure. Let’s go.”
She marched around him and took the lead. The last thing she needed was a wide-open view of Whit’s tight backside. The man filled out a pair of flat-front khakis better than anyone she had ever seen.
“It’s in the basement. Right side,” he called over her shoulder.
Whatever “it” was. She walked down the stairs and entered the dank cement-lined basement. Piles of junk, boxes, and blankets littered the floor. The only real item of interest was an old coal stove in the back right corner and a new water heater off to its side.
The walls closed in on her. The confined space made her nervous. She tamped down her discomfort.
“Well, what’s the big deal?”
“I found something last night. A room that isn’t on the house plans filed with the county or on our blueprints.” He stepped over a lump of something and headed for a shadowed corner.
Like an idiot, she followed him, her trail taking her around the shapeless mound. Whatever was down here could stay here as far as she was concerned. Forever. Dark, airless rooms were not her thing.
When he stopped, she slammed into him from behind and clenched onto his cotton shirt for balance. For a few seconds, she enjoyed the sculpted feel of his back.
“You okay back there?”
She jerked away and lost her balance, nearly landing on the unidentified heap on the floor. No, she was definitely not okay. Horny and restless, maybe. Not okay.
She inhaled deep and slow, and beat down the temptation to climb on top of him and investigate what he hid under all that silly preppy clothing. She did the practical thing and peered over his broad shoulders.
The faint outline of a partially hidden door sat tucked behind a rickety old bookshelf. Without a sound, or much in the way of visible effort, he pushed the wooden structure to the side, revealing the small but sturdy entrance. Despite his boring conservative outfit, she could visualize his muscles bunching across his wide back and into his biceps.
“See,” he said.
Oh, she saw everything. He towered over her, standing somewhere around six feet three inches. Rumor was he had played quarterback for some college football program years ago. From where she stood, glancing over what seemed like miles of endless muscle, the guy still had it.
“Hannah? Are you still with me, honey?” His sly smile was a bit too knowing for her taste. “You’re staring. Not that I mind, but I thought you should know.”
She wondered if he would be as smug with a fist shoved into those rock-hard abs. “I’m trying to figure out how we’re going to fold you up and stuff you in there.”
He studied the small opening as if he were considering her question. “You could go in first.”
“That’s mighty chivalrous of you.”
“Just trying to show you my feminist side.”
“I’ll show you a side,” she muttered.
He put a hand behind his ear and leaned in. “Hmmm?”
The gesture brought his body far too close. Damn. He even smelled good. All fresh and woodsy like the mountains at the first sign of spring.
“Fine. You want me to lead, boss man? I’ll lead.”
“That’s the spirit. I love a fearless woman.” He picked up a moldy piece of wood and swung it in a sweeping arc a few times. The edge of the makeshift bat whizzed by at a safe distance from her head.
“What’s that for?”
“Whatever’s in there that needs stomping.”
“This just gets better and better.”
“My thoughts exactly.” He winked at her before leaning his shoulder against the solid door. The wood groaned, resisting before swinging open.
Oppressive darkness greeted them. They both stepped to the threshold and glanced inside. One hint of scurrying little feet and she was out of there. She’d run the entire distance from her current location deep in the heart of Virginia horse country to her condo in D.C., all thirty miles, if she had to.
She sniffed, expecting a musty odor. If anything, she smelled the sterile scent of disinfectant.
“Well then, no reason to wait. Let’s go in.” He shot her a triumphant look over his shoulder. “Unless you’re scared.”
“Get a clue, Ivy League boy. Nothing about you scares me.” She started moving forward, fueled by an overactive ego and little else. Certainly not by common sense.
“Vanderbilt.”
She spun around. “What did you say?”
“I graduated from Vanderbilt University. Good school but not Ivy. Third in my class, if you want to know.”
He had the nerve to look deadly serious, as if this information really mattered in some way. Little did he know it actually did. Made her feel as insignificant as the dust scattered across the floor.
“I don’t. Care, that is,” she said.
“I did graduate work at an Ivy League school. Want to know about that?”
They had wandered far enough down memory freaking lane. “Okay, Whit, I get it. You’re brilliant.”
“Not really. My brother is the smart one.”
Having struggled to reach twelfth grade before her head exploded, she knew she was way out of her league with Whit in the intellectual sense. Being reminded of her inability in this area poked at a flaming scar deep inside of her.
She was the only one in her family not to like school. She struggled through every one of her twelve years of education. Could still feel the panic tickling around the edges of her heart at the thought of taking a test. The usual feelings of insecurity and incompetence assailed her, making her even grumpier than usual.
“Are you done with your biographical data?”
He shrugged. “You asked.”
“No, I really didn’t.” She motioned toward the opening. “Go in before I take that stick and smack you with it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He ducked his head and turned sideways to fit his broad shoulders through the small doorway.
She watched him disappear. Three seconds later a soft white light flickered on inside the chamber.
“Now this is a room.”
The awe in his voice pulled her in. She stepped over the threshold. Straight into an erotic fantasyland.
The air sucked right out of her lungs. Speechless and gulping, her gaze traveled around the ten–by-ten room. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed with thin hardbound volumes lined the far wall. A metal chest sat to her right, covered with an impressive array of what could only be called sex toys. Handcuffs, tubes of heaven knew what, and a bunch of what looked like dildos and other strange-looking objects of differing lengths and widths were scattered around the countertop. She didn’t even want to know what was in all those tiny drawers.
And then there was the chair.
A padded chair rested in the dead center of the room. The handcuffs chained to the wall above it certainly were a conversation piece. Although she doubted people used the contraption for talking.
“What the hell is this place?”
She backed up until her shoulders knocked against something hard. She immediately jerked straight again, careful not to touch any surface in the room without a can of disinfectant spray.
He stopped scanning the bookshelves and turned around to face her. A gentle smile broke across his face. The sweetly sensual look sent an unnerving shiver skittering down her spine. He didn’t move but she could feel him closing in around her.
“Unless I’m mistaken, we’ve stumbled into my dearly departed uncle’s secret playroom.”
“Are you kidding?” she choked out.
“Unfortunately, no.”
“But—”
“I have some more news.” His smile widened.
“I almost hate to ask.”
His eyes gleamed. “Well, when you bumped against the door, you closed it.”
Not exactly a news flash. “Uh-huh. So?”
“You locked us inside.”
Two
To her credit, Hannah took the news better than he expected. Well, for a heartbeat or two anyway. Then she started ranting and yelling. Two of her least attractive qualities.
She said something about his family being made up of knuckle-dragging crazy people. He let her go on because she wasn’t exactly wrong. When he laughed at one of her more colorful streams of profanities, she lost what little remained of her cool.
“This isn’t funny.”
He tried to look serious. “Of course not.”
“I want out of here.”
“Hannah, look at the door. There isn’t a doorknob or any visible lock that I can see. I checked the only other door in here and it leads to a small bathroom. I’m afraid we’re stuck until my brother comes to check on the job.”
“That’s days from now!” Her voice bounced up an octave.
“The good news is we won’t have to wait until Monday. Adam’s supposed to meet me here for breakfast Sunday to go over some paperwork.”
“We’re going to die.” A green cast settled over her usually peachy-cream skin.
“There’s food in here.” If there wasn’t, Adam was a dead man. The plan was for him to stock the room with food.
“Get a clue. There is no way I’m going to eat something that’s been in this room.”
He ignored that. “Good thing Uncle Calvin installed a generator down here or we’d be stumbling around in the dark.”
She sat down on the chair then bounced up again as if her butt was on fire. There could only be one use for a chair that titled backward on two spokes and had a leg rest that split open down the middle to resemble a doctor’s examination table. From the horrified look on Hannah’s face and the red stain on her cheeks, he assumed she had figured out the purpose.