by Zoe York
She was on the third chapter when she heard him quietly enter the kitchen through the back door.
She had a couple of options. Ignore him being the most obvious and best one. Or she could go and stake a claim on the kitchen. If he had the running water, maybe she should draw a line at the kitchen door. You get the showers, I get the refrigeration.
Stay in her cozy little tent nest.
Go to the kitchen and poke the mysterious bear.
She set her book aside and stared up at the tent poles curving above her. They didn’t line up exactly. There were three of them, and they all fed through a nylon loop at the centre of the roof, but one was off-center. She sighed and sat up, reaching for the offending pole. She nudged it back into place. It stayed lined up with the other two for a few a seconds, then snapped back to where it had been.
It didn’t matter. The nylon loop held them all roughly in the middle of the domed ceiling.
But Cara hated disorder.
She liked it when everything was neat and proper.
She glowered in the direction of the kitchen.
She couldn’t ignore him.
But it would be rude to go into the kitchen, verbal guns blazing. Even though the thought of yelling at Mick made her palms tingle, she wouldn’t do that.
Wouldn’t do it at first, anyway. If he pushed her over the edge, it would be his own damn fault.
Go make nice, she told herself. And find out more about him.
That was smart.
She unzipped her tent and pulled on a sweatshirt. It wasn’t cool, exactly, but she was only wearing a cami and little sleep shorts. An extra layer would be like armor.
He didn’t turn around when she entered the kitchen, but he threw a quiet, “Hey,” over his shoulder as he lit the gas range.
“I thought you’d maybe ceded the kitchen space to me.” She gave a quick shrug when he threw a surprised look back at her. “Or not.”
“I was busy today. I ate stuff I’d packed up.”
“Oh.” She pinched the skin on her palm to keep herself from asking just exactly how and with what he’d been busy. It was her business, after all, but poking him wasn’t her game plan at the moment.
“Do you want eggs and tomato?”
Her stomach growled before she could say no.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“You don’t need to—”
“It’s fine.”
She moved restlessly around the kitchen while he cooked. She should do something. Would he want coffee? But as she opened her mouth to offer, the kettle started to whistle. She’d missed him filling it. He poured the hot water over coffee grounds in a simple filter, filling one mug, then another.
“You need milk or sugar or something?” He didn’t really look at her, but just in her general direction. She watched as he carefully dumped the grounds into the compost bucket she kept under the sink—man, this guy was observant—and slid her cup down the counter toward her.
He picked his own up and took a long sip, his eyes closed. He drank his coffee black. Well then, so could she.
“I’m good.” She echoed his action, and surprised herself by sighing as the smooth, rich liquid slid down her throat. “This is delicious!”
“Pour-over coffee,” he grunted, lifting one shoulder. “Something I learned to perfect in the field.”
It was an opening, and she carefully set down her cup. Take it, she told herself, but be polite. “The field?”
He laughed, almost ruefully, and stared down at his mug. “Nothing. You got anything against onions?”
“No.”
“Some people do.”
“I don’t.”
“Good.”
He set his coffee down and gave her his back as he finished cooking.
Well, so much for that being an opening to a conversation.
She grabbed two plates from the open cupboard—something else he’d apparently quietly done. The dishes had been in a box on the far side of the room. They came with the estate, and weren’t anything special. Probably had just been used by the last housekeeper.
But she still didn’t like that he’d found them, washed them, and put them on the shelf. Like he planned to stay.
Of course he plans to stay. And boot your optimistic ass out without a second thought.
She needed to get ahold of that law office in the morning.
And until then, for her own sanity, she needed to set all of that noise aside and just be pleasant.
He took the plates and divvied up the food. Eggs scrambled, light and fluffy, with sautéed vegetables and a side of toast.
Her stomach growled and he smirked at her as he handed her one of the plates. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” She glanced at the table. It was covered in work orders. She could have—should have—cleared it off while he was cooking. And they needed chairs…
“We can eat standing up, if you want.”
“Or we could go sit on the veranda?” She pointed outside. There were a couple of small table-and-chair sets from various decades out there, but they would suffice.
But once they were outside, she realized she’d made a mistake.
Having been born and raised on Miralinda, she should be immune to the romance of a hot Caribbean night.
She was not.
The warm, fragrant air surrounded them, dusk had settled and brought with it a dark drape of intimacy. The jungle provided a distant soundtrack that lent a wild and exciting vibe to a situation that was most definitely not either of those things.
You’re eating dinner with the enemy. She looked at her plate as they settled at one of the tables. If this was a movie, she’d make him prove it wasn’t poisoned. But this wasn’t an over-the-top adventure flick. It wasn’t even a laugh-a-minute comedy. It was her real life, and she hadn’t asked for any of this. Hadn’t asked to have to defend this estate against a claim of ownership by a big, hulking, good-with-food and even-better-without-a-shirt Adonis.
No, this wasn’t exciting.
It was confusing and strange.
She didn’t like it at all.
“What’s wrong?”
She jerked her head up. “What?”
“You aren’t eating.”
“Maybe you poisoned it,” she blurted out.
He laughed and popped a big forkful into his mouth. “Maybe,” he mumbled. His eyes danced as he chewed and swallowed. Then he pressed his lips together and raised one eyebrow expectantly.
“Murder suicide,” she said under her breath, but picked up her fork. The first taste wiped away any grumpiness she’d been feeling. This was good. It hit the spot after a weekend of non-stop stress. She hadn’t eaten a real meal since Friday night’s dinner with Daphne and Arielle.
“This is delicious,” she admitted when she’d finally eaten enough to take the hard edge off her hunger.
“You’re welcome.”
She laughed. “I didn’t say thank you yet.”
He winked. “I figured that was as close as you were going to get. And you don’t actually need to thank me. It’s the least I could do, given the way I’ve turned your life upside down. It’s not your fault that someone messed up.”
“I’m not sure my board will see it that way.” She straightened her back. “If. If. There’s a problem. I don’t believe there is. At least not for me. You’ve come a long way for nothing, of course.”
He gave her a sympathetic look that said he knew there was a problem.
She scowled at him.
He laughed.
Her scowl deepened.
He glanced away, looking out in the dark. The path to his quarters disappeared into inky black nothing. From the distance came the crashing of waves. “It’s a beautiful place.”
“One that was long abandoned by your friend’s family.”
“His family, maybe. Not him. He didn’t even know it existed.”
“And why isn’t he here?”
Mick’s mouth tightened into a straight l
ine. “He’s required elsewhere.”
She had enough hints now that she could guess that meant he was deployed or on active duty somewhere. But she wouldn’t be doing her job if she just rolled over. “Then maybe he doesn’t want this badly enough.”
“He won’t be tied up forever. And when he’s done, he’ll need something. A purpose.”
Were they talking about Mick’s friend? Or was she getting a glimpse behind the mask, finally? He didn’t look easygoing now. He was practically vibrating with tension.
It wasn’t her place to pick at that scab, though. That would be going too far.
She returned to her meal, finishing every last crumb on her plate. He ate, too, but his gaze kept slipping to the darkness around them.
FIVE
WHEN CARA FINISHED EATING, SHE CLEARED HER THROAT. “Do you like the jungle?”
“I like the ocean,” he answered readily. Too readily. And it wasn’t really an answer to her question.
Interesting. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to file that away in the “he’s the enemy” file. Her heart beat a little faster as she tucked it away in the “boy, this man might just be human” file instead. Then she stamped it top-secret, because nobody needed their weaknesses used against them like that.
“Well, I should get to bed,” she said, pushing up from the table. They carried their dishes back inside and Mick set the kettle back on the stove to heat for dishwater.
They jostled for position in front of the sink as Mick plugged it up and Cara poured in an inch of water from the jug labeled For Washing. He dumped in the boiling water once it was ready, and she reached for the tea towel, ready to dry, but his elbow bumped it from her hand. She laughed as she knelt to pick it up, but the small sound died in her mouth as her gaze collided with his knee.
The scar ran down the side of his leg, long and straight. Surgical. Thick and still pink, although it was turning white.
Oh.
She’d thought that lazy, purposeful walk of his was arrogance. And maybe that was part of it, because no man like Mick would be comfortable with a limp.
She gripped the tea towel and told herself to set that thought from her head.
It didn’t matter if he’d been wounded. He was fine. He was in front of her, washing dishes. He was on her estate, planning a new business.
“And when he’s done, he’ll need something. A purpose.”
Cara stood between Mick and his future purpose.
At the moment, she knelt at his feet. A wobbly, hysterical laugh ripped out of her mouth as she pushed herself back up to stand on shaky legs.
“You okay?” he asked, sliding his hand, wet from the dishwater, around the back of her elbow.
“Fine.”
His fingers tightened against her skin and she tried not to shiver, but it was impossible. His nearness overwhelmed her, his size and his voice and his strange, unreadable gaze all making a most confusing package that affected her on a dangerous level.
A primitive, emotional level.
“It’s been a long weekend,” she added quietly as she took the first plate, then the second, drying them carefully. Every extra second she stretched the task out was a second she’d spend side-by-side with Mick. Tingles still skittered up and down her arm from where he’d touched her.
“Right. You said you wanted to get to bed.”
Heat bloomed low in her belly at Mick saying the word bed, then whooshed through the rest of her as her brain pictured what that would be like. He was so much bigger than her. He didn’t give much away. Would he be vocal? Or the strong, silent, commanding type?
What did she want him to be?
Stop it, she hissed in her mind. She couldn’t want him to be anything related to sex. She couldn’t want him at all. She needed him to be gone.
The swirl of water down the drain jerked her out of her thoughts. She stepped back from the sink and nodded inanely at his shoulder. “Yes. Okay. Good night.”
And she stood there.
She told herself to walk backwards. But nope, she just stood there, waiting.
Because tomorrow they’d wake up and they’d both call the law offices in New York. Tomorrow, one way or another, they’d get to the bottom of this.
Tomorrow they’d be enemies once again, on the opposite side of a fight, and in the balance would hang her job and his future. Only one of them could be happy tomorrow.
But tonight, she couldn’t stop thinking about the wet glide of his fingers against her skin and the hooded, tight expression on his face as he stared into the darkness. Tonight, she didn’t want to say goodnight to this man that she’d just seen for the first time, really.
She wanted him to turn around and look at her, maybe see her, too. Her made her want to be reckless and do something stupid.
But when he turned around, he just gave her a slow half-smile and dipped his head. “Okay, then. Good night.”
She rocked from side to side on the balls of her feet. “Tomorrow…”
He lifted his head. He frowned for a split second, then rolled his lower lip between his teeth, slightly off-centre. “Let’s worry about that tomorrow.”
“Thanks for dinner.”
“My pleasure.”
No, it had been hers, in a strange, unexpected way. She gave him a tentative smile, her eyelashes brushing her cheeks as she let herself—just for a second—savour the moment.
When she opened her eyes again, he was closer.
Her heart thumped hard in her chest.
He lifted his hand and, light as a feather, brushed his third finger over her cheek. “You’ve got an eyelash there,” he said gruffly.
“Should I make a wish?” she whispered, shifting closer. His own eyelashes were thick and straight, golden brown in the dim light, and she wished she had an excuse to touch his face.
His face was all hard angles and carved lines, but up close, his mouth was lush. A hidden softness in the tough guy exterior, and when he parted his lips, she caught a glimpse of straight white teeth.
Would he sink those into her skin if he got carried away? Mark her, then soothe that spot with his tongue?
“I think you already are,” he rumbled, and she blinked up at him. “Making a wish.”
She gasped. Was she that transparent? Her hand flew to her burning cheek. “I…”
“It’s okay.” He grinned as he loomed closer still. Her head swam with the delicious scent of his skin. “I won’t tell anyone.”
Her pulse thudded slow and heavy, like lust had turned her blood to sludge and it was hard to move through her body. She definitely wasn’t thinking clearly. As soon as they were done kissing, she’d make that point very clear.
Wait, what?
No. There could be no kissing.
And after at least three panicky seconds of internal back and forth, she took a very small, very difficult step back.
“I can’t do this.” She cleared her throat and slide her gaze away from his too-keen eyes.
“Do what?”
“Kiss you. Or let you kiss me.”
“Awfully cocky assumption about what was about to go down,” he said dryly, but stepped back as well, mirroring her movement.
Heat swept up her neck and curled onto her cheeks. “Okay. Well, if I’ve also just embarrassed myself—”
“Hey.” He said it quietly, but there was a commanding edge to his voice and she jerked her head up, catching his gaze before she remembered that looking at him was dangerous. His dark eyes glittered. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. I was totally going to kiss you.”
Her lips parted but no words came out. He dropped his gaze to her mouth, and she felt the phantom kiss so realistically her knees went weak.
“But you’re right. It’s not a good idea.”
“Terrible,” she whispered.
“We should probably just do our own things…”
“Yeah. No more shared meals.”
His jaw tightened, the tense pop of muscle all the more star
k because of the dim light and the ruthless play of shadows across his skin. It was like she was watching him shut himself off from her. Which was the point, right?
Distance.
Separation.
Space.
They needed a border between them, literally, or she’d push him against the counter and find out just how good that kiss would be.
Amazing. She had no doubt.
Shit.
“You should stick to the staff quarters,” she muttered, crossing her arms. “And I’ll use the main house.”
“What if I want the main house?” He again mirrored her movements, and his arms were so big, suddenly he felt close to her again, even though he hadn’t moved. She was pretty sure he hadn’t moved, anyway. Why was it so hard to think clearly. He was so close to her, she could feel the heat radiating off his chest against her arm.
Okay, he’d definitely moved closer.
“Too bad,” she said with more confidence than she really felt. “I was here first.”
“Is that how it’s going to be?”
She nodded. “Until we sort this mess out, it’s for the best.”
He didn’t say anything.
She didn’t move.
She could still feel his gaze on her mouth, hot and interested.
“Fine,” he finally muttered, back away. “Tomorrow we sort all of this out.”
Yes. Her heart plummeted at the thought. No matter what, tomorrow wouldn’t be a good day.
And there was a solid chance it was going to be the first of many awful days to come.
SIX
MICK LEFT CARA IN THE KITCHEN AND HEADED THROUGH THE DARK to the staff quarters where he’d started to make himself at home. It was a bunkhouse of sorts, although every room opened to the veranda and the ocean was just down a short path, so that beat a ranch any day of the year. He’d taken the room closest to the basic bathroom, and it was spartan.
Not like that was a problem. He was used to spartan.
What he wasn’t used to was radio silence. Not without a plan.
It hadn’t taken him long to realize that they’d been way too lax about this mission. Because it wasn’t a mission. He’d come in blind, with nothing more than a letter.
Still, he should be handling this better. Doing more.
