by Lyla Dune
She waved back and mumbled, “Cheerio, old chap. I miss you already. I’m sorry I flipped you off.”
Finally, the engine revved at the base of the bridge. Thank God. One more wink from the hottie and she would’ve invited him home. Based on her morning, that would have ended in disaster.
BROCK KNIGHT KNEW better than to push the truck uphill, but he couldn’t help himself. The irresistible, damp-damsel-in-distress had required his assistance.
He eased into the car, his rugby injuries aching in protest of the rain. The sharp pain stabbing his left shoulder—still swollen from surgery—was the worst of the ailments. The doctors had told him it might take several more surgeries before the pain subsided.
A bottle of Vicodin sat in the ashtray of his vintage convertible. He popped a pill in his mouth and reached for his thermos, only to find it empty. When he bit the tablet in two, a bitter chalk coated his tongue. It took several swallows, but he finally choked down the dry medicine.
He removed the Map Quest printout tucked behind the visor and double-checked the address of his newly acquired residence. Nineteen Lunar Avenue. Had a nice ring to it. He fired up his Mustang and glanced in his rearview mirror. The old woman behind him toyed with her phone, not seeming to mind the wait. He stuck his hand out the window and caught her eye in the mirror as he gave her an appreciative wave for her patience.
Lunar Avenue was the first road on the right at the base of the bridge. On the corner sat The Sand Dollar Lounge, a bright blue pub with a neon open sign that was not lit. Since Vicodin and beer didn’t mix well, he was fortunate the pub was closed. Rarely did he drink before lunch, but if prescription meds weren’t in his blood stream, he’d have made an exception today. Even with the narcotics, he was tempted.
Aside from a restaurant called Reel to Real Good across the street from the pub, no other businesses lined the road. Lunar Avenue appeared to be one long row of fluorescent houses, making him grateful for his sunglasses.
He leaned forward and strained to make out address numbers while his windshield wipers swatted back and forth. The number five came into view. The next house read seventeen. He slammed on the brakes when he read nineteen on a mailbox shaped like a big-mouthed, ugly fish.
A Gatorade yellow, three story house on stilts with pink plastic flamingos dotting an almost nonexistent front lawn, this would be his much needed escape from the other side of the pond, where everyone he knew wished only to relive his rugby days. Here, no one knew him. Without well-meaning family, friends, and fans offering a constant stream of unsolicited advice, he’d figure out what to do next with his life.
He turned into the driveway where a familiar Chevy sat on a cement slab beneath the stilted house. The bass still stuck out the side window, a floral beach-bag acting as its rain bonnet.
His pulse raced. The blonde bombshell from the bridge was here. She was either his tenant’s girlfriend or a cleaning lady, and since she had no visible cleaning supplies in her vehicle, he was going with option one. Meaning—she was taken. Also meaning—she would soon hate him when he had to kick her boyfriend, Sam, out of the house.
THROUGH THE WINDOW in the laundry room door, Sam watched the red convertible pull into her driveway.
Ray Ban Man followed her home? Every muscle in her body stiffened.
Only one other guy had ever done that, and she’d called the cops on him. He’d busted down the door to get to her, and she’d bludgeoned him with the oar that hung on the wall over the washing machine. He’d been a serious psycho.
Was this hottie a psycho too? If he didn’t expect something for his trouble, why had he followed her home?
The hooks that once held the oar were now empty. A beach umbrella leaned against the wall near the doorframe. The umbrella was pretty big. The extension pole that went with it was a thick, metal pipe. Prepared to grab it, she hesitated, and told herself to calm down. Maybe something had fallen out of her truck, and he’d come to return it.
Like a predator, the sexy stranger crept up the stairs. She patted her front pocket, checking for her phone.
CHAPTER TWO
Landlord
Brock paused midway up the stairs and took in the oceanic view. Miles of blue water lapped the shore. Pelicans swooped low and caught fish in their beaks, while seagulls and terns filled the sky with gleeful cries as joyful as squeals from happy children at play. He inhaled several deep breaths of the ocean-scented air before continuing his ascent up the oddly gouged steps. The side entrance was painted a hideous shade of crimson, identical to the waxy lipstick his mother once wore.
When he was a kid, he nearly drew blood trying to rub that lipstick off his cheek before school. If his mother’s kisses had been sincere, he may have felt differently. But they were for show, so others would label her a loving mother, instead of the cold woman she was.
The red door flew open before he knocked. The blonde beauty from the bridge guarded the threshold with her arms folded across her chest and face pinched into a warrior-scowl.
She stood eye to eye with him in her pink flip-flops. He fancied tall women. Her tresses cascaded to her waist. He especially fancied long hair. She had a youthful quality to her, but her intensity suggested she was in her thirties. He liked that. In fact, he loved that.
Being a man approaching forty, he had difficulty connecting with women half his age. This woman was someone he’d relish the chance to connect with from head to toe and everything in between. Especially the bits hidden beneath her denim shorts.
She bypassed hello. “I suppose you want payment? I should’ve known chivalry came with a price-tag.”
“Payment?” Payment for helping her? Is that how they did it in America? “No. Of course not. I’m insulted that you’d—”
“Insulted? Insulted that I’d think you followed me home with some sort of expectation? I’ll have you know—I have the local sheriff on speed dial….” She dug in her front pocket and pulled out her cellphone, index finger poised above the display.
Where was this hostility coming from? She seemed so charming on the bridge. Why had she morphed into a cornered animal?
“What are you on about? Hang on.” He handed her his Map Quest printout. “Here. Your being at this residence is coincidence. I’m looking for Sam.”
She studied the map. When she read the departure location, “New York City,” something flickered in her eyes, something nervous or fearful.
“What do you want with Sam?” Her once turbulent, ocean-blue eyes turned to ice.
If he only knew what he’d done to set her off. But he couldn’t divulge too much information about his reason for being here. It wasn’t his place. This was Sam’s business, not hers.
“It’s confidential. I assure you it has nothing to do with helping you at the bridge. I was glad to be of assistance.”
She gritted her teeth. “I said…what do you want with Sam?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that with you. I apologize if that seems rude.”
She held his gaze a few more seconds, and then rolled her eyes and spat, “I am Sam, so spill it.”
What? How could the Marshalls have failed to mention Sam was a woman? “I wasn’t expecting—“
“You weren’t expecting what?”
“Did the Marshalls contact you?” God, he hoped so. He could handle laying the bad news on a bloke. If the bloke became argumentative, that wouldn’t bother him one iota. But a woman? One never knew how a woman would react to such news. She could do something horrid…like cry.
“I received a phone call from Irene Marshall while on the drawbridge this morning. How does that relate to you?”
“I’m the new home owner, Brock Knight.” He gave her a semi-bow.
She glared at him, wordless.
A black and gray tabby cat wove around her ankles and bared its teeth.
A shiver ran up his spine.
“It’s okay, Princess.” She picked the cat up and held it to her bosom.
Lucky cat.
The creature hissed at him. Its evil amber eyes glowed. That was no Hello Kitty, more like kitty from Hell.
He shuddered. He hated felines. The way the creatures hissed unnerved him. A dog’s growl he could handle. A cat’s hiss terrified him. Knowing every cat had the capacity to hiss was reason enough to fear them all.
With the beast close to her angelic face, Sam whispered, “Good girl.” She nuzzled this demon called Princess and cooed before turning her attention back to him. Her eyes were no longer set to battle-mode. In fact, her eyelids sagged, giving her a weary and defeated appearance, which was worse, because it meant he’d wounded her somehow.
“She’s not fond of strangers.” Sam’s voice softened. Her drawl was more pronounced and sweeter than before.
It was true what they said about an American woman’s southern drawl being able to melt a man.
“I see that.” He wondered if the cat’s owner shared the same sentiment.
She turned away from him and stomped into the house with her wet shorts plastered to her perfect heart-shaped bum. She’d left the door wide open. He took that as an invitation and brushed his feet on the doormat. As he entered the narrow laundry area, he bumped a basket sitting on the washer. Folded lingerie fell to the floor. He knelt to pick up the items and put them back.
Bloody Hell. Bras, panties, lacy black thongs. Images of Sam with her naughty bits barely covered by flimsy pieces of cloth raced through his mind.
He grew hard.
Down, Boy. Yeah. Like that’s gonna work. Who was he fooling? His willy had never attended obedience school.
Princess, the fuzzy monster, slashed his hand with her sharp claws. “Bugger.” He winced at the tiny bead of blood rising to the surface on his knuckle.
Sam crouched beside him without establishing eye contact, her face red, but stoic as she stared at the panties in his hand. “I’ll get this.”
Knee to knee, their faces inches apart, he admired her plush, moist mouth. Her top teeth pressed into the satin bed of her lower lip as she frantically tossed her knickers into the bin.
Sinful thoughts refused to leave his mind. He pushed himself to his feet. She remained kneeling before him.
Crikey. He now knew precisely what to call his willy—Rebel. It did the opposite of what he told it to do. His crotch aligned with her face, and Rebel decided to say hello. How did the lovely Sam respond? She let out a dreamy little sigh. Rebel began to pant and drool.
Brock’s current embarrassed state trumped the time his high school teacher caught him gawking at the Page Three titty queen he’d clipped from the paper and hidden in his math book.
Sam’s gaze was fixed on his zipper. He folded his hands in front of his fly and tried to channel his inner Beckham, hoping to gain back a few cool points with this woman before she labeled him a total pervert.
She stood and reached around him, placing the basket on the washer. Ribbons of her blonde hair swept over his forearm.
He clenched his fists and pictured Margaret Thatcher nude. That usually worked. Nope. Not today. Rebel was hard-headed in every sense of the term. And it didn’t help that Sam smelled like summer rain and honeysuckle. No doubt her own nectar was delicious.
Princess ran between her ankles. Sam lost her grip on the basket. When she pitched forward to catch it, her body collided with his.
Instinctively, he grabbed her hips. She stilled, her breathing shallow. The laundry puddled about their feet.
“Leave it. I’ll get it later,” she murmured against his throat. When she pulled back, she looked up at him through lowered lashes, her lips slightly parted.
For the first time in his life, he wanted to give a cat a high five. It’d been far too long since he’d held a beautiful woman in his arms.
Save the Queen—Sam was thoroughly kissable.
SAM WANTED TO jump his bones right then and there. Bad idea. Getting involved with a hunk never turned out well for her. But that didn’t stop her from fantasizing about straddling his concrete thighs as her fingers trekked across his chiseled chest.
It’d been five years since she’d had sex. She’d tried to convince herself she no longer craved such intimacy. But leaning against Brock with his package bursting at the seams had proved that theory wrong. Way wrong.
Her eyes searched his.
Is he feeling what I’m feeling?
A large, warm palm pressed against her bare lower back, just below the hem of her t-shirt. His pinky slipped into the waistband of her shorts mere inches from her crack.
Whoa. Her buns clenched.
He whispered, “Don’t move. Give me a moment.” Unexpected tenderness edged his raspy voice.
At the sound of his exquisite British command, her heartbeat raced to presto.
They sustained their romantic, living-statue pose a few moments. She breathed in the faint scent of his cologne. Sensuous, masculine notes harmonized perfectly with cinnamon undertones.
He buried his face in her hair. “Honeysuckle. One of my favorites.”
He shook his head as if shaking off a dizzy spell. “Nine times nine is eighty-one, eight times eight is sixty-four…” His voice escalated in pitch, like a cello string tightened to the brink of snapping.
A nervous laugh bubbled out of her. She reined in her laughter and whispered, “Seven times seven is forty-nine.”
He cocked his head and released a lethal smile that made her knees buckle.
“I’ve got you.” His other arm wrapped around her waist.
Basking in the sunlight of his smile and enfolded in his protective embrace, the tightness in her neck and shoulder muscles loosened. She sighed.
“You keep doing that and I’ll have to start back at twelve.” He winked and gave her a little squeeze.
What am I doing? Push away from the drug, you addict.
Sexy men should come with a surgeon general warning tattooed on their forehead that reads: Intimacy with this man could be harmful to your self-esteem, bank account, and overall health. Sexy men with British accents should have an additional warning that reads: Women prone to heart palpitations should plug their ears with cotton before coming within ten feet of this man.
She refused to become a fresh statistic among the heartbroken. She did an about-face, marched herself into the living room, and called over her shoulder, “I’ll be in here when you’re ready.”
She glanced back, surprised by his hopeful expression. “Oh, I meant—”
“I’m ready.” He growled.
She knew exactly what he meant. “I meant to talk. You wanted to talk, right?”
“Right, we can talk.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and hobbled forward like a bur pierced the bottom of his foot.
Upon lowering himself onto the sofa, he promptly put a pillow on his lap. “A moment longer, please.” He held his breath.
Wrinkles across his forehead rivaled a Shar Pei’s. He flashed her some serious sad-puppy-eyes. “Would you mind covering?” Lifting his hands chest-level, he shook them like fragile branches in a windstorm.
She glanced down at her wet t-shirt and hardened nipples in plain view. “Oh my.” She’d been so busy looking at him, she’d momentarily forgotten how she must look.
With a quick snap, she palmed her breasts.
“That’s making it worse…” His brows rose and pushed another horizontal crease into his hairline.
“Oh, right.” She flung her hands to her sides. Breasts exposed.
Their eyes locked again. He whimpered.
She glanced across the living room and spotted a lime green hoodie on the back of her favorite chair. With an embarrassingly girlie squeal, she lunged for it. Her flip-flop snagged the leg of the coffee table, causing her to stagger and fall backward into his lap.
One hot pink flip-flop sailed toward the ceiling fan, ricocheted off a rotating blade, and zoomed toward her face.
Brock reached out and caught the flying object with one hand.
With eyes closed, she willed her
self to shrink so small she could disappear between the cracks in the floorboard. Didn’t work. She remained a big-fat idiot sprawled across his lap. “I’m so sorry.”
He cleared his throat. “It’s fine…could you…shift?”
His hardness poked her in the rear, she exclaimed, “Oh my God!”
He said, “As much as I love hearing you say that…I’m dying here.”
She jumped to her feet.
He dropped her flip-flop on the floor, and she wiggled her toes back into place.
“I’m mortified.” Her hot face stung worse than a blister-inducing-sunburn.
“That makes two of us,” he said, his eyes downcast.
With tremendous caution, she stepped toward the overstuffed chair, grabbed the hoodie, and slipped it on. She flopped down onto the cushions and averted her gaze. The silence between them made her self-conscious, but all coherent words had vacated her mouth.
After several uncomfortable moments, Brock mumbled, “Twelve times twelve…” His husky voice quivered around vowels.
She closed her eyes and absorbed that cream-inducing British accent of his. Folding her lips inward, she attempted to swallow a grin.
Princess hopped into her lap and hissed at Brock. “Princess, stop that.”
Brock’s mossy-green eyes rounded.
Was he afraid of cats? Surely not. Maybe he was allergic to them and didn’t want to say so.
The hair along Princess’s spine spiked into a mohawk.
Brock shuddered and rubbed his palms on his knees. “Your pussy doesn’t like me very much, does she?”
Sam couldn’t believe he just asked that. She reared back—dumbfounded.
With no indication he realized what he’d said was downright inappropriate, he shared a death-stare with Princess.
A strange, squeaky “huh?” puffed out of Sam’s mouth like a cough.
He looked at her, his expression innocently wide-eyed.
