by Ginny Glass
“The power went out.”
He said nothing.
She looked past him into his house. He followed her gaze toward the lights hanging in the living room. “How come yours is still on?”
“My place is hooked up differently. Miss Dolly always had trouble with her electricity. Every time the weather acted up, she’d lose power for a few hours. I assure you, once this whole thing passes, the lights will come right back on. You’ll get used to it.” He wished he hadn’t said the last bit. She didn’t need to adjust. She’d be rid of the place before the next storm. No doubt the developer who razed the place would upgrade the service. Wouldn’t want the strip-mall shoppers to lack fluorescent lighting.
Her silence unnerved him. He shifted his weight and tried not to stare at her breasts, their rounded form accentuated in the glow of the porch light.
Still nothing.
“Is there something I can do for you?” He assumed she hadn’t showed up simply to point out the fact that his lights were on.
“So they all just sat over there in the dark, waiting for the lights to come back on every time there was a storm?”
Clearly they weren’t going to move on to the real reason she was there very quickly. “It only rains around here a few times a year. Besides, darkness never really inhibited the business. In fact, I hear it sometimes helped.” He winked at her. He shouldn’t have, but he couldn’t help it. He knew it would set her off and he liked her when she was mad. The way she pressed her lips and scowled at him made her more attractive.
He was enjoying watching her scowl so much he’d completely forgotten his manners. “Do you want to come inside?” He took a step to the left and motioned for her to enter. She’d started to shiver violently and he worried she’d end up with hypothermia if she stayed out there any longer. Still, she pondered his request for some time before taking a deep breath and agreeing.
As soon as she was inside, he closed the door and jumped into action. “Wait here. I’ll be back with some towels.”
“But—” She started to protest, but he ignored her. Upstairs, he located two oversized towels and carried them down to the entrance.
She wrapped the first around her body, but it didn’t seem to do much good. If anything, she looked even colder. “You need to get out of those wet clothes.”
“But—”
“No arguing. You’ll end up with pneumonia if you don’t get warm. I’ll turn around and let you get them off. Leave them in a pile on the floor and take the towels upstairs to the bathroom. You can have a long warm shower and I’ll find something for you to put on after.”
Clive turned around without giving her a chance to respond. Though his jeans had certainly been a little tighter around the groin since she showed up, he didn’t have any intention of muddying the waters of their business agreement with a proposition of anything more than a lit place to stay warm and safe in the middle of a storm. His father had always said that business and pleasure didn’t mix. It’d been one of the few things he and his old man had agreed on.
“Okay.” Her voice carried a mixture of defeat and exhaustion.
He turned back around slowly, in case he’d misunderstood her. She’d managed to wad her clothes up into a tiny stack that she held in front of her. The towel was wrapped tightly around her body with the edge tucked neatly between her breasts, accenting her cleavage.
She cleared her throat.
“Give me those. I’ll stick them in the dryer while you’re showering. They should be dry in an hour or so.”
She didn’t move.
He waited. For what, he wasn’t exactly sure. “Up the stairs, first door on the right. I’ll find you something to wear until these are ready.”
She handed over her ball of clothing, the fabric squishing as he tucked it beneath one arm. She slipped past him and up the stairs, barely making a sound.
He shifted, trying to find a comfortable position that allowed his jeans to accommodate his growing cock. God help him, this was going to be a long evening.
*
Jane pressed her back against the solid wood of the bathroom door, her toes curling on the tile floor. She clutched the towel knotted between her breasts, her heart hammering against her breastbone. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t wrap her mind around what had just transpired. Never in a million years would she have thought she’d strip off every stitch of clothing in front of a man she hardly knew. But she had. And now she couldn’t help but wonder if she might be able to blame genetics for this particular aberration.
“Maybe I am my mother’s daughter.”
Before she could mutter another word, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth and closed her eyes, hating herself a little for being so damn judgmental. Until that afternoon, Jane would have sworn she was a live-and-let-live kind of girl. But she wasn’t. If her run-in with Clive Boland that afternoon proved anything, it was that she was far more narrow-minded than she cared to admit.
Concentrating on each shallow, shaky breath, she tried to center herself just as she would if she found herself on a narrow, rocky ledge with no handhold within reach. At the moment, she wished she were. If she were clinging to some boulder somewhere, she’d feel like she was in control of her next move. Here, she felt like the dead mother she never knew was just jerking her strings.
If she had a shred of sense left in her head, she’d grab her soggy shirt and book it straight back to California. Blinking back a fresh rush of the hurt and confusion that’d been chasing her all day, Jane pushed away from the bathroom door. Shame and stubbornness battled it out inside her as her hand closed around the knob, but she couldn’t bring herself to twist it. She didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want to have to brave the storm all on her own. That was why she hadn’t turned back when she spotted the name painted on the mailbox. The moment she’d peeked through the window and seen Clive lean down to give the cowering beagle at his side a reassuring scratch behind the ears, she’d known she made the right choice. Disconcerting as he was, Clive Boland might have the answers she needed. Even if she managed to escape his house, she couldn’t outrun her past. Not when it might hold the key to unlocking her future.
Cool rainwater dripped from her sodden hair, pooling in the hollow of her collarbone. Jane padded to the vanity. The straggly, frightened-looking woman she caught in the mirror’s reflection was a stranger. Straightening her spine, she tipped her chin up, challenging the uptight chick staring back at her to do the same.
This was the same tactic she’d used to muddle her way through six different foster homes. The bravado she’d cultivated since she was a kid would see her through this too. She had a goal and a plan. All she had to do was see them through. And avoid thinking about her hot neighbor too much. Gradually, her grip on the towel relaxed. She blinked once, then again, holding her own gaze until recognition seeped in and for the first time since she stepped off the plane that morning, she started to feel like herself again.
Rivulets of water raced down the slope of her breast. Wetting parched lips, she pushed back the plastic curtain that shrouded the bathtub and twisted the taps. Goose bumps rippled her skin. The damp towel fell to the floor with a soft thwush. She shimmied out of her damp panties, the one piece she’d chosen to leave on. There was no way in hell she was letting him walk off with those. A heartfelt groan of thanks escaped her lips when she ducked under the warm spray.
Jane rolled her shoulders in an attempt to ease the knots of tension coiled at the base of her neck. Slicking her hair back from her face, she blinked droplets from her lashes and groped for the bar of soap on the shallow ledge. Holding the water-softened cake to her nose, she inhaled deeply. No fruity, flowery bodywash for Clive Boland. No shower puffs, loofahs or spring-green bars layered with swirls of moisturizing cream. Nothing but a plain beige bar of soap that smelled like…soap.
Her hum of pure feminine pleasure undercut the hiss of the spray. Steam billowed toward the ceiling as she ran the bar down one arm
. The thin film of lather the soap left in its wake rinsed away clean and easy. She smiled as she stepped out from under the stream. Frothy white bubbles seeped from between her fingers when her hands slid over her breasts. She raised her chin to the ceiling and arched her back. Hot water prickled her scalp. Her nipples puckered. The mental image of water gathering on Clive Boland’s gold-tipped lashes as he suckled them drew an involuntary moan from the depths of her belly. One soap-slicked hand drifted down between her legs. She grazed her clit with the tip of her middle finger and her breath tangled in her throat.
A sharp rap on the door jolted her from her sensuous reverie. She looked down and caught herself with one hand gliding the cake of soap across her breast and the other cupping her pussy.
“Miss Jane? I found a couple things you might be able to wear.”
The image of Clive covering her wet, slick body with his filled her mind. The soap she’d been choking spurted from her hand and landed in the bottom of the tub with a clatter.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine,” she yelped, doubling at her waist to scrounge for the wayward bar.
“I’m hanging a dry towel over the doorknob for you. I’ll leave the clothes on the floor out here.”
Cradling the soap in both hands, she slowly straightened. She shook her head, dislodging the drops of water that blurred her vision. Heat rose inside her, but this time it didn’t stem from the scalding burn of mortification or the sear of desire. This time, she flushed with the pure pleasure that came from being the recipient of unexpected thoughtfulness.
Steam rose in puffy clouds, spilling over the shower bar and into the room. The warm mist and his simple kindness joined forces to loosen the tangled knot of mixed emotions she’d been battling since she stepped off the plane. “Thank you.”
Clive seemed to hesitate for a moment. “I’ll put a pot of coffee on.”
The heavy fall of boot heels on wood floor marked his retreat. Jane sagged against the tile wall, shivering as her superheated skin made contact with cool ceramic. Lacy strings of bubbles coursed down her arms, oblivious to the pounding of her heart. She wet her lips, closed her eyes and turned her face into the spray, letting the steady stream of water wash over her until she managed to boil her roiling thoughts down to two simple facts.
Clive Boland wanted her ranch, and she wanted Clive Boland.
Perhaps it was time to see if they could reach an agreement.
*
Dressed in a pair of blue Nevada Wolf Pack sweatpants and the faded flannel shirt he’d left outside the bathroom door, Jane followed the smell of fresh-brewed coffee into the kitchen. The storm had blown through as quickly as it’d stirred. Only the patter of rain dripping from the eaves hinted at the unrest that had brought her to his door. But here she was in a tall, handsome stranger’s house, contemplating making the most indecent proposal she’d ever dreamed.
His clothes tormented her damp, flushed skin. The flannel brushed against bare nipples, teasing them until they grew achingly tight. The tails of the shirt skimmed midthigh, making her feel tiny and delicate. It was a sensation she’d never allowed herself to savor. Growing up as she had, Jane had learned early to compensate for her lack of stature by refusing to acknowledge it. Survival meant living a life much larger than the one she was dealt. She never gave ground, she never backed down.
Jerking the collar, she hiked the shirt up onto her shoulder and cast a despairing glance at the sweatpants. In pulling the drawstring tight enough to ensure decency, the fabric bunched in a thick roll atop her hips. Excess yardage of wash-worn cotton gathered in folds at her ankles. Jane gave a half second’s thought to ditching them altogether, but she wasn’t feeling quite ballsy enough. Yet. She needed to be sure she wasn’t mistaken about him first.
Her palms smoothed over wet hair, slicking back against her skull and attempting to tame the flyaway tendrils curling against her throat as they dried. She peered around the doorframe and her focus zoomed in on the long, lean cowboy leaning against the counter. Their eyes met and locked. A hint of a smile lifted the corners of his mouth and her bare feet curled against polished plank flooring.
“Better now?”
His question drifted across the room, his lazy drawl stretching the syllables until they swirled around her like a dust devil. Drawn by the intensity of his stare, she stepped into the room. His posture remained easy and relaxed. He didn’t move as she approached. Slim hips remained propped on the edge of the counter, one ankle stayed crossed over the other, and the long fingers laced through the handle of a heavy pottery mug showed no inclination to let go. But his eyes grew watchful and wary, and a hint of tension flattened the line of his mouth.
Stopping within arm’s reach, Jane tilted her chin up a notch. “Why do you want my land? Don’t you have enough of your own?”
The question seemed to surprise him. “I want to turn this place into guest ranch, and Miss Dolly’s place has the creek bed. Plus, her side of the pond is prettier. I want to put cabins there.”
Staggered by the knowledge that they wanted nearly the same thing, she blurted, “There’s a pond?”
Clive raised a shoulder in a half shrug. “Not much of one, but yeah.”
Her mind reeled. Visions of sunset rides and crackling campfires filled her head. Jane chose not to dwell too hard on the fact that she’d never been on a horse in her life. She climbed mountains and kayaked down rivers, how hard could it be to learn to ride? “And we share that pond?”
His wariness returned in a flash. “The pond, yes. The creek, no.”
“And if I sell to the developers?”
The light in his eyes switched out like a lamp. “Well, then it looks like I’ll have no choice but to sell up as well.”
Jane barely swallowed her gasp of surprise. Taking a hasty step back, she frowned as she searched his face for some sign that he was joking. She found nothing. “You’d sell?”
“If I had to.”
“And you’d have to if I don’t sell my land to you?” It felt like they were going round and round without ever coming to a conclusion. She understood his need for more land, but that he’d be willing to give up his entire property just because he couldn’t get his mitts on hers made no sense.
“Not necessarily,” he conceded. Before she could wrap her head around the evasion, the coffee mug hit the counter with a decisive thunk, and he pushed to his full height. “But I will.”
Bewildered by his all-or-nothing attitude, she wagged her head. “Why?”
“I’ve lived all my life on this land. I know every rise and dip.” He flashed a crooked smile. “I like that my nearest neighbor is three miles away. That won’t be the case out here soon. Those developers will build on every square inch of land. I refuse to wake up every morning to a vista of vinyl siding.”
Jane opened her mouth to argue, but snapped it shut. Everything he said was true. She’d seen the plans and envisioned the dollar signs, but they weren’t enough to make her give up her dream.
Clive cocked his head as if trying to read her mind. Uncomfortable, she smoothed her expression but refused to fidget. He swayed toward her but caught himself with a chuckle. He drew a deep breath, and his features relaxed. His smile softened as he leaned back again, his fingers wrapped around the edge of the counter.
“You don’t understand, Miss Jane,” he said with a wry little laugh. He ducked his head and gave it a rueful shake. The look he shot her from under his lashes was direct enough to melt her panties. “Miss Dolly understood what it meant to be torn between your reality and your dreams. She did the best she could to make both happen.”
“Why do you insist on calling her that?”
“Calling her what?”
“Miss Dolly. It’s a ridiculous stage name. For that matter, why do you keep calling using it for me? I am not some madam.”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t about her job. I was raised to treat all ladies with respect.”
She hated that his explanation ma
de sense. “Tell me about my father.”
The demand didn’t seem to faze him. “He was a good man married to a good woman, and in love with another.”
“Is he dead?”
He nodded. “Killed in the line of duty five years ago.”
“And his wife?”
“A traffic accident in her twenties left Mrs. Richardson a paraplegic. Your mama helped take care of her until she got too sick to take care of herself. Now she lives with a niece on the other side of Tahoe.”
Jane swallowed the lump in her throat. “They knew each other.”
“All their lives from what I understand.”
“But she…” She sputtered to a halt, disbelief mucking up the obvious logic. “They all knew.”
“There was nothing underhanded in your daddy’s relationship with your mama.” He cleared his throat. “To hear my mama tell it, the only thing Marlon Richardson ever regretted was allowing your mama to let you go. I guess he felt he had no right to stop her.”
Turning away, she muttered, “Like a soap opera.”
“It’s life,” he countered. “Life is messy.”
His assertion tripped a trigger in her. Meeting his eyes again, she searched their depths. “Except for yours. You want to wrap yours up nice and neat. You buy or you sell, and that’s that.”
“As far as I can see, those are the only two options. If you see a third choice, I’d love to hear about it.”
Fixing her gaze on the window just past his shoulder, she stared out into black desert night. The feathery ends of her drying hair curled up to tickle her ear. She wet her lips and tried to brush it away with her hand. “And being an innkeeper is your dream?”
