by Sandra Brown
she was tired of having to maintain the house, that she hated being shackled to it,
that she wanted the freedom to travel without being liable for the upkeep of the
property.
She would travel, all right, straight out of town to find herself a job as soon as the
property was sold.
She got into bed and switched out the light, staring, as she always had, at the
magnolia tree outside her second-story window. Time was running out. She barely
had a month before the bank's deadline. Declaring bankruptcy and having
everyone in town know about her father's failure was unthinkable. Above all else,
she didn't want her family's sterling reputation scandalized. She must sell the
house, and soon.
But she'd be damned before she'd let a reprobate like James Paden move into it!
Chapter 2
Laura woke up late and groggily, not having slept well after it had taken hours for
her to fall asleep in the first place. She sensed that she had had a disturbing
dream, too, but didn't want to recall it. Instinctively she knew that she didn't want
to know what – or rather whom – the dream had been about.
Waking up with pessimistic doldrums wasn't something new to her. Through her
father's lengthy illness, his death, and the discovery of her financial dilemma,
Laura had kept up a brave front, but she scarcely remembered what it was like to
look forward to getting up in the morning. Recently, new days only promised new
problems.
She trudged into the bathroom adjoining her bedroom and took a shower, first
scalding, then as cold as she could stand it, in an effort to perk herself up.
Unhappiness made her lethargic, but the shower remedied it somewhat.
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She pulled on an old pair of denim cut-offs and a T-shirt with "So Many Men, So
Little Time" printed on it. The T-shirt had been a gag gift from a friend, who had
picked it up on a trip to New Orleans. Barefoot, with her hair still wrapped in a
towel, she went downstairs to brew a pot of coffee, which she needed badly.
The sound of the doorbell roused her out of the trance the dripping coffee maker
had induced. Her feet barely sounded on the hardwood floors and antique Persian
rugs as she made her way to the front door. When she peeped through the diningroom
drapes to see who the early caller was, she squeezed her eyes shut, clenched
her fists, and cursed beneath her breath.
Hazarding one glance in the entrance-hall mirror, she groaned and wished she
hadn't even looked. No makeup, barefoot, wet hair wrapped in a towel. Great.
Terrific.
And, dammit, he looked gorgeous.
She pulled the door open, but said nothing, only greeted him with a look as sour
as her mood.
He took in her attire and had the unforgivable audacity to laugh. "G'morning."
"Hello."
She had to stand there and watch him as he read the slogan on her T-shirt. Then
she had to endure his smirk, which was skeptical. She wanted to slap it right off
his face. Instead, she kept her expression blasé and bored.
Glancing past his impressive pair of shoulders, she saw that he had traded the
motorcycle in favor of a silver sports car, the make of which she didn't even
recognize. It was so low and sleek, she wondered how he had folded his long
frame into it.
"Are you going to invite me in?"
"No."
"May I come in?"
"What for?"
"Didn't Mrs. Hightower call?"
"No."
Even as she spoke the word aloud, the telephone rang. He winked. "Bet that's her
now." Laura only glared up at him, her body still acting as a barrier at the door. "I
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suggest you answer the phone," he said after several strident rings had failed to
budge her.
Maintaining her poise despite her dishabille, Laura turned her back on him and
went to the telephone, tucked into a nook beneath the stairs.
"Hello… Oh, good morning, Mrs. Hightower." She looked at James, who was
coming through the front door uninvited. As he closed the door behind him, he
returned her look and grinned complacently. "He's already here," Laura said
crossly. "I wish you had… Oh, you did? … I guess I was in the shower… Well … I
really…" She sighed heavily, then said, "All right… Yes, I'm sure. No bother. Goodbye.
"
She replaced the receiver in the cradle and slowly turned to face her unwelcome
guest. "She said you wanted to see the house again. Why? You saw it last night."
"If I decide to buy it, I'll be making quite an investment. Don't you think I should
view it in the daylight?"
"I suppose so." Lord, she wished she didn't look so wretched. She wished her Tshirt
weren't so old and soft and clingy. She wished she had worn a bra this
morning. In fact, with his eyes moving over her, she wished she were dressed in a
long, dark shroud from chin to toes. Her legs felt more naked than they had ever
felt. Even her feet felt vulnerable when he glanced down at them.
"Well," she said, edging her way toward the dining room, "make yourself at home.
I was just brewing coffee—"
"Thanks, I'd love some."
Her mouth fell open slightly as she stared at him. She hadn't invited him to have
coffee with her. James Paden had absolutely no manners. Any other man would
sense her embarrassment and go about his business as unobtrusively as possible.
She should have known not to expect that kind of consideration from him.
"In the kitchen," she said ungraciously.
"Fine. I need to see it again anyway. "
He followed her through the formal dining room and into the sunny kitchen. The
aroma of fresh coffee greeted them. "Won't you sit down?" Her lips fashioned a
stiff smile, but she made the invitation sound discouraging.
"In a minute," he said absently. He was assessing the kitchen with the
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thoroughness of a master chef. "Will all the appliances stay?"
"I hadn't thought about it." She reached overhead into the cabinet for cups and
saucers and became aware of several things at once: how the reaching motion
stretched the T-shirt even more tightly across her breasts, how short and snug the
cut-offs actually were, and how good James Paden smelled. His skin smelled of
soap and spicy aftershave. His mouth would taste like peppermint.
Heaven forbid that she should ever have an occasion to taste it, but—
"Well?"
"Well, what?" She did her best to fill two coffee cups, though her hands were
shaking. Always before she had cursed this kitchen for being so large that it
required unnecessary steps to reach things. In the last few minutes it seemed to
have shrunk drastically.
"The appliances. Thanks," he said, taking one of the cups and saucers from her
hand.
"Oh, well, I guess they stay. They'
ve been here since the kitchen was remodeled
and modernized. I certainly won't have much use for them and they probably
wouldn't bring much if I tried to sell them. Cream or sugar?"
"No, thanks." He sipped his coffee. "Where are you going?"
Her eyes followed the trail of steam rising out of her coffee cup. Eventually they
dashed with his. "Going? When?"
"When you sell the house?"
"Somewhere else," she answered obliquely.
They studied each other for several seconds. Laura was the first to look away. "As
you can see, all the appliances are in good condition and perfect working order."
He went over everything with a fine-tooth comb. Laura much preferred his
looking at her house and its furnishings to his looking at her, but his
meticulousness was unnerving and aggravating. He found a knick in the tile
grouting and picked at it with his index fingernail.
"That's just loose grouting," she said impatiently.
"I know. I could fix that myself." He looked down at her breasts, making no
attempt to hide his fascination. His gaze stayed fixed there for a long time before
crawling back up to her face. "I'm very good with my hands."
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She was held captivated by his steady green stare for the length of several
heartbeats, then she turned away angrily. I'll just bet you are, she thought
scathingly.
Even though it burned her tongue, she finished her coffee in one huge swallow
and set her cup and saucer on the counter top with a solid thump. She didn't want
him here. He unsettled her and made her nervous and defensive. But she couldn't
just throw him out. He was Mrs. Hightower's client. The only choice Laura had
was to conclude their business as soon as possible.
"What would you like to see?"
Crossing his ankles, he propped his hips against the counter and leisurely sipped
his coffee, all the while keeping his eyes on her. "I haven't seen much so far. What
do you feel like showing me?"
The double-entendre didn't escape her, but she ignored it. Didn't he ever think of
anything else? His reputation as a womanizer wasn't an exaggeration. If all that
was said about him was true, it was a miracle to Laura that he could get his pants
zipped.
And with that thought, her eyes moved down to check it out. Which was a
mistake. Because his jeans fit. Well. Very well. And though they were properly
zipped, they couldn't camouflage his gender. If that bulge behind his fly weren't
enough to convince her that this person was all man, consummately male, then
the hard, trim thighs that framed his sex would have.
No paunchy torso this. Oh, no. His casual shirt didn't even wrinkle over the flat
plane of his stomach, but it was stretched somewhat to accommodate his chest.
She pretended, even to herself, that she didn't see that intriguing crop of goldtipped
brown hair in the V of his shirt.
Nevertheless, after her survey of him, she was powerless to speak, and it was he
who broke the silence. "What about the cellar?"
"What about it?"
"You mentioned it last night, but I didn't see it. Does this door lead down to it?"
He went to the door across the kitchen and tried to open it. "The key is hanging
there on a nail," Laura informed him, forcing her feet to move over the tike floor.
She had to stand close to him to reach the key, which was hidden between the
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refrigerator and the wall.
"Do you always keep it locked?"
"Yes."
"Why? Is this the closet with all the family skeletons?"
She gave him a dirty look over her shoulder as she unlocked the door. "No, but
this is the only part of Indigo Place I've never liked."
"Why?"
"I don't know," she said shrugging. "It's spooky."
"Then maybe I'd better go first."
He wedged past her. She flattened herself as best could against the doorjamb, but
he touched her anyway. Everywhere and all at once. His front dragged across
hers. Her entire body surged to life, as though she'd just been plugged into an
electrical socket. She wouldn't have been surprised to see sparks fly.
On the second step down, he turned back. "Are you coming?"
She had heard that leading line in a movie once, and the heroine had supplied an
equally glib and suggestive response. All Laura could do was curse herself for
thinking along those channels and stammer, "Uh, no, you go ahead. I think I'll
have another cup of coffee while you explore."
"Please. It is kinda spooky. Besides, I need you to show me around. What if I get
lost? And if I have a question—"
"Oh, all right," Laura said irritably. She tentatively laid her bare foot on the
wooden step.
"Here, let me help you."
Before she realized what he was going to do, he had clasped her hand warmly in
his. Slowly he led her down the dark steps. "Watch your step," he cautioned.
"There's a light switch on your right at the bottom," she said, her voice echoing
eerily off the walls. He found it and switched it. Nothing happened. "Sorry. I guess
the bulb is burned out."
"That's okay. With the door open I can see well enough."
She had hoped that without the light he would have called a halt to the tour of the
cellar. She had even made a partial turn back up the stairs, but he had kept her
hand firmly imprisoned in his. Now she had no choice but to follow him as he
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stepped into the underground room.
The floor was damp on her bare feet. The cellar smelled like freshly turned dirt. It
was musty. She envisioned spiders and mice and all things unpleasant.
"What's in all those jars on the shelves?"
"Preserves and jams. Canned fruits and vegetables. Gladys put them up before she
left."
"Are they any good?"
"They're delicious. She's a wonderful cook."
"Pity you had to let her go."
Laura was instantly defensive. "I didn't have to. I chose to."
He didn't comment, but asked another question, then another, until his curiosity
about the cellar was satisfied. He had held her hand the whole while, but she
didn't realize how hard she'd been gripping his until they headed back toward the
stairs. Light spilled onto them from the kitchen door overhead. She eased her grip
considerably.
"You really don't like this cellar, do you?" he asked softly, pausing at the bottom
step.
"No, I don't."
"And you're cold."
He began rubbing her upper arms vigorously. For a moment Laura was stunned
by his touch. She just stood there and let his hands briskly slide from her elbows
to her shoulders and back, again and again, until she began to warm. Or did her
returning warmth stem from embarrassment? Because James wasn't looking at
her face, or even at her chill-bumped arms. He
was looking at her breasts. That
was how he had known she was cold.
Swiftly she threw off his hands and clambered up the steps. "I think I need
another cup of coffee." As soon as she cleared the door, she rushed to retrieve her
cup and pour more coffee into it. "How about you?"
"I'm fine, thanks." He methodically relocked the cellar door and returned the key
to its hiding place. "But I think I know something that would make you feel a
whole lot better than coffee ever could."
She came around slowly, and just as slowly lowered the coffee cup from her lips.
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His voice was low and deep. It hinted that there was a high level of intimacy
between them. His eyes were suggestive, his walk self-assured, as he moved
toward her. Knowing she should run, Laura couldn't move. Not even when he
raised his hands and reached for her.
Slowly he worked the knot out of the towel wrapped around her head and
removed it. Her wet hair tumbled around her face and fell to her shoulders.
Dropping the towel, James raised both hands again, plowed his fingers through
her hair, and raked it away from her face. He dragged his fingers through the
damp strands, pushing against the tangles until they worked free. When he had
combed through to the silky ends several times, he closed his hands around her
throat and massaged the vertebrae in the back of her neck with his fingertips.
"Now, didn't that help relieve some of the tension in your neck?"
It certainly had. It had also robbed her knees of the strength to support her. It had
also built a fire deep in her belly. It was spreading heat through her middle and
melting her thighs.
"Yes, thank you." Her primary goal now was to escape him before falling victim to
his undeniable charm. She shook off his hands and forced herself to step around
him. Somehow she managed to set her cup and saucer on the table before she
dropped them. "Why … why don't we go through the rooms downstairs first? Then
if there's anything else you want to see, I'll show you. "
"All right. Lead the way. "
Having the towel off her head did nothing to restore her confidence. Wet hair
fresh from a shampoo seemed far too personal. She felt exposed and violated each
time he looked at her, but she relied on her inbred composure to get her through a
