A note? But where was Sandro? Not that she expected him to continue his vigil over her—of course not!—but she had, inexplicably, gotten used to having him around.
Fighting a sinking feeling of disappointment, she read the note.
Skylar—
Eat. Rest. Read. Use the old set of crutches to go to the bathroom. Behave. Those are orders.
A
P.S. You won’t be getting out of here for another day or two at the earliest. The roads are a mess. Sorry.
Aaaaaaand…that was it. No word about where he was or when he’d be back. The disappointment blossomed.
Disgruntled, she flopped back against the pillows. Now what?
Well, she wasn’t going to mope around in this gloomy sick room, waiting for Mr. Warm and Fuzzy to reappear and bless her with his caustic presence, that was for sure. Some sunshine would do her good.
“Hey,” she said.
Nikolas, who was on the move again and had almost made it to the door, paused, head cocked.
“Could you please open the shades for me?”
“Sure thing.”
He went to work on the cords and she turned back to her cereal, digging into it like a rabid wolverine. It was a good thing she’d had the whole week scheduled off; this way she wouldn’t miss any appointments and make her staff crazy trying to find her. As soon as the cell towers were back online—or maybe the electric would come on first—she’d send a couple texts or emails just to let everyone know—where she was.
“There you go,” Nikolas disappeared out the door. “I’ll get you more cereal.”
“Thanks.” She looked up from her cereal. “I really appreciate— Oh, my God.”
The view outside her huge windows was spectacular. Breathtaking. A stretch of green lawn yielded to a covered pool surrounded by swaying sea grasses that were trimmed, brown and dormant for the winter. More grasses formed a wall, on the other side of which was a debris-strewn stretch of beach that extended farther than her eyes could see. Beyond that was the sparkling ocean, still turbulent after the big storm, but a blinding blue that reflected the day’s clear skies and bright sun.
Light flooded the room, making it so cheerful that she couldn’t believe how last night’s forbidding and dark mausoleum could inhabit anything this warm and lovely.
And she wondered, again, about the many sides of Sandro Davies, the man who’d almost become her brother-in-law.
Chapter 6
She showed up at ten-thirty that night, which was later than Sandro had expected. On the other hand, he’d prayed she wouldn’t come at all, so maybe this was the best outcome he could hope for.
He’d known, on some gut level, that giving Skylar the widest possible berth until she left his house—he hated to think he was avoiding her; that made him seem like such a coward—wouldn’t take care of the problem she presented. Actually, problem was the wrong word.
Temptation. That was the right word.
The good thing was, she gave him plenty of warning that she was on her way. Hobbled with her bad leg and the crutches, she’d thumped down the staircase like a kangaroo on a Pogo stick, and then roamed up and down the long hallways, tapping on the various doorways with her discreet knock, looking for him in the dark and quiet house. Now here she was.
He looked up from his book and stared at the fire’s dancing flames, waiting, his pulse a hard beat of anticipation in his throat.
She knocked.
He paused, torn between the right choice and what he wanted, which never seemed to be the same thing. Why should tonight be any different?
“Come in,” he called, choosing what he wanted, which was to see her. Just for a little while, and only because he hadn’t seen her today. Where was the harm?
The door swung open, and there she was, in all her injured glory, her face flushed with effort and her eyes bright with excitement.
God, she was beautiful.
He studied her under cover of the shadows, approving of what he saw. Her hair was in what looked like a damp ponytail, with curls falling across her forehead and over her ears. She’d changed into a long-sleeve T-shirt and a pair of those sleek black exercise pants (for yoga, weren’t they?) that emphasized the lean curves of her hips and thighs. Her pretty bare feet, with dark polish, were in black flip-flops, and her injured leg was pulled up, so that only her toes grazed the floor. Her leg didn’t seem to be unduly swollen or painful.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi.”
“Can I come in?”
“Could I stop you?”
Grinning, she didn’t bother to answer, but swung all the way into the room, shutting the door behind her. It took her a few hopping steps before she made it to the chair nearest his spot on the sofa and collapsed. Her restless gaze touched everything in his den: the neutral upholstery, the glass tables, the brass floor lamps, the fire, the flat-screen TV mounted above the mantel, the candles, his battery-operated book light, his book.
Her curiosity satisfied, she turned back to him. “Man cave, eh?”
“Apparently not.”
Skylar was, he’d discovered, impervious to hints and verbal darts, and this one, naturally, rolled right off her protective shell.
“Good news,” she announced. “I’m doing better.”
“I heard.” He’d had regular updates on her progress from Mickey.
“And even though you couldn’t be bothered to come see me all day—”
“I was outside, clearing the smaller branches from the road.”
“—I thought you’d want to know that I don’t have a fever and the stitches are holding. And my leg isn’t that swollen, which is good.”
“Excellent.”
“I took a nap and a shower.”
“Great.”
“Mickey brought me dinner.”
“The peanut butter and jelly was to your liking?”
“It was delicious. But I prefer blackberry jam over grape jelly.”
“I’ll make a note. Anything else? Before you head back to your room, where you belong?”
“Yes. I met Nikolas. I like him. He seems like a great kid.”
Was she joking? “Really?”
“Really. You don’t agree?”
“Let’s just say that the headmasters of the last two schools that expelled him didn’t agree.”
“So he has some issues, but what teenager doesn’t? He’ll be fine.”
“And you base this on… What? Your experience raising your goldfish?”
“I don’t have a goldfish.”
“And you don’t have kids, either, so I’m not sure you know what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe not,” she said brightly, “but this is America, where everyone’s entitled to an opinion.”
“Ah, but I don’t have to listen to it. Especially in my own house.”
“The thing is,” she continued, “I’m wondering if he wants to spend more time with you. Maybe that’s what he needs. You know?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think maybe the reason you don’t get along is because you don’t spend enough time together. I know it sounds counterintuitive, but I really think that could be the problem.”
“Who says there’s a problem?”
She stared at him with those clear, dark eyes, saying nothing but seeing everything. If there was judgment there, she didn’t show it, but it didn’t matter. He was his own harshest critic, and he’d already condemned himself to hell and back for screwing up on the fatherhood thing. Between his long stints overseas and his complete inability to understand anything about his own kid, he was a regular paternal genius. Hell, if he kept doing such a great job, the boy would be in prison by Christmas.
Finally, he had to drop his gaze. Discomfort made him scrub his hand over his jaw, which she undoubtedly noticed.
“I’m thinking that being a single parent to a surly teenage boy is harder than leading a company of soldiers,” she said softly, catching him off guard.
He
was good at a lot of things, but admitting weakness and showing emotion weren’t on that particular list and probably never would be. After all, what soldier was touchy-feely? Except that there was so much gentle understanding in Skylar’s expression that he couldn’t stop himself from opening up to her. Or maybe he was merely accepting the hand of friendship she’d extended him. The bottom line was: it was hard not to meet her halfway.
“I’m thinking you’re right,” he admitted.
She nodded. “Can I ask you a question?”
He shrugged.
“You love his hair, don’t you?”
One stunned beat passed, and then he grinned. Before he knew it, the grin had progressed to a chuckle, and then he and Skylar were laughing together. At least until she abruptly stopped laughing and started staring.
“What?” he demanded.
“I didn’t think you could smile, much less laugh.”
She was right, but the observation still irritated him. Unsettled him. Because why was his dead brother’s former fiancée so attuned to him and his moods?
Why did everything about this woman throw him off-kilter?
Was she feeling this…this attraction thing between them like he was? Did he affect her breathing the way she affected his? Why did the desire to touch her feel like it would suffocate him if it wasn’t satisfied soon?
Why couldn’t he explain the hold she had over him?
Maybe she knew his thoughts were spiraling out of control, because she pointed to his book and changed the subject. “What’re you reading?”
His memory failed him, forcing him to look at the spine. “It’s about Crazy Horse and Custer.”
“So you like biographies?”
“I like military histories.”
“Figures. I didn’t think you were the science-fiction type.”
Well, she was right about that, too. Damn woman. What did she like to read? More importantly, why did he care about the minutiae of her life? His mouth opened, ready to ask her, and that was when he caught himself.
What did he think he was doing here with the woman Tony had loved? Was his honor so depleted that he could now justify spending time alone with her in this cozy little nest? And if he reached for her…kissed her…touched her…would he justify that, as well?
What kind of a man had he become?
Unbidden and unwelcome, a memory of Tony barged into his mind.
Sandro stared at Tony, trying to analyze his crazy grin. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”
Tony turned several shades of purple, dropped his head in a hangdog gesture, and ran a hand over his nape. “I, ah—I’m seeing someone.”
Sandro snorted. Was that all? Was her shit made of emeralds, or what? “And?”
Tony looked up again, serious now, sporting the kind of ecstatic inner glow that could only mean one thing. Sandro felt the kick of understanding in his gut even before Tony spoke again.
“I’m going to marry her, man.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know. You’d have to meet her. I can’t explain it.”
“Sandro?”
Sandro blinked and there she was, the woman who’d enthralled his brother, staring at him with concern in those incredible eyes.
The woman who, let’s face it, enthralled him.
Which made him a twisted SOB.
He stood abruptly, desperate to get rid of her so he could clear his mind and, hopefully, breathe again. So what if he was being rude? Striding to the door, he opened it for her.
“It’s time for you to go back to bed, and I need to find out how the Battle of Little Big Horn turned out,” he announced. “So don’t let me keep you.”
Hurt flashed across her face, and he felt a responsive squeeze of pain in his chest. “You’re not subtle, are you?”
“Subtle wouldn’t work with you, Skylar.”
Maybe she knew she was showing too much emotion, because she looked away, nodded and made a production out of getting to her feet and balancing on the crutches. He felt the strong urge to help her, but keeping some distance between them seemed like a good idea right now. And, anyway, she would demand to do it herself. She was stubborn that way.
A few quick strides put her right at the door, right in his face, and she’d brought all of her delicious scents with her. The apple-fresh trace of shampoo; the hint of flowers, maybe from her lotion; the indefinable fragrance that only the warmth of her skin could generate.
She paused, looking up at him. “Thank you for taking such good care of me last night.”
Why was she so close?
Agonized, he stared down at her, trying to get his lungs to work, but not too well, because if he breathed her in the way he wanted to, he’d probably become an instant addict. He also tried to stay outside the radius of her body heat and tried not to contemplate how well her tender lips would fit against his.
And then he provided them both with a badly needed reminder.
“Tony would have wanted me to keep you safe.”
She hesitated, a flare of annoyance making her jaw tighten. “Would Tony have wanted you to handle my naked body when you put me into my nightgown?”
He stilled. She was goading him, but this wasn’t second grade and he should be man enough to ignore the bait.
Should be.
Instead, he stepped closer, his voice dropping even as his pulse spiked, fully engaged in any battle she cared to fight.
“I didn’t think you’d complain about being made more comfortable, sweet Sky. And I didn’t think your modesty was an issue after that stunt you pulled last night.”
Her cheeks colored, and he awarded himself check and mate.
Prematurely, as it turned out.
Because she tipped up that stubborn chin of hers, and one corner of her perfect, perfect mouth edged back into a knowing woman’s smile. Her eyes glittered.
He stared, helpless to do otherwise.
“This is what I want to know,” she said in a husky murmur that raised the hair on his arms. “Did you enjoy it?”
He didn’t—couldn’t—answer, which was answer enough.
Skylar left. Sandro’s tortured thoughts of her lingered, as they had ever since the night he had stumbled upon her at the party here on the estate.
A woman was standing under the far end of the wisteria trellis.
She was leaning, actually, as though she needed the post’s support to keep her upright and the leafy overhang to hide her from the flickering torchlight and the other guests at the party.
Her dress was a flutter of white against her caramel skin, her legs long, bare and sexy in heels designed for the sole purpose of making men salivate. Windswept black curls brushed over her shoulders, which were heaving with silent sobs, and she kept her head bowed while she dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.
There were few things he avoided like crying women—drinking the water in a couple of the shit holes where he’d done tours came to mind—and his gut instinct was to creep back into the shadows, make a belated appearance at his brother’s engagement party and leave her to her misery, which was, after all, none of his business.
Except that the crunch of the gravel beneath his feet was like the clap of cymbals in the relative silence, and her sudden cringe was a dead giveaway that she knew he was there.
And there was something unidentifiable about her that…
Called to him? Touched him? Pulled him outside himself?
“I don’t blame you for crying,” he said. “It’s not much of a party, is it?”
That got her. To his overwhelming relief, her head came up—he realized she had a white flower tucked behind one ear—and she laughed, swiping at her tears as she turned in his direction.
Whoa.
That first glimpse of her face created an honest- to-God lightning-bolt moment, one that made his thoughts disperse and his breath whoosh out of his lungs. Her smile came and went, flashing a perfect white, and her dark doe’s eyes were so brilliant
with tears that he meant to look away. Too bad instant paralysis had shut down any possibility of movement.
Deep in his chest, his heart began to thud.
Thankfully, she didn’t seem to notice the effect she had on him. She raised her empty flute up to eye level. “I’m out of champagne.”
“Someone could probably round up another bottle for you, you know. No need to cry.”
Another fleeting laugh did crazy things to his pulse.
“I don’t think I need any more tonight. I’m not a pretty drunk.”
He’d have to take her word for it because she sure as hell was pretty. He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
He hesitated, undecided.
That was it, wasn’t it? He’d stumbled onto a crying woman and made a joke. She’d laughed. Mission accomplished, right? He’d done his random act of kindness for the day. The end.
Well, it wasn’t quite the end, but it needed to be.
He was attracted to her, yeah, but a) she was upset and vulnerable; and b) it went without saying that a woman this fine was spoken for.
Bottom line? He should leave.
But…he couldn’t leave.
They stared at each other.
“Do you…want to talk about it?” he asked after a minute.
A shadow crossed her expression. She blinked back the last of her tears, and the unexpected intimacy of the last minute or so disappeared with them, leaving two strangers who didn’t know anything about each other and probably never would.
“No,” she said. Was there a trace of reluctance in her voice, or did he imagine it? “Thanks.”
“Suit yourself,” he said again, and he knew he wasn’t imagining the stab of disappointment he felt. This time, he actually turned to go, which was progress. “Have a good night.”
“Unless—”
He wheeled back around, his entire body on alert even before the whole word was out of her mouth. “Unless?”
“Unless you’re good with advice.”
Honesty forced him to shake his head and warn her away. “The best advice I can give you is that you should ignore my advice.”
She grinned again. He stared again. He couldn’t help it.
Sinful Seduction Page 6
