She opened the first door to the right outside of the bathroom and knew without a doubt it was Chad’s bedroom. Everything was scrupulously tidy. She padded across to the closet, where she found everything organized by color. It also immediately struck her that the guy didn’t even own a T-shirt. Collared golf shirts hung next to a couple of button-downs—who wore button-downs at a cabin in the woods? Obviously Chad Malone did. But there wasn’t a single T-shirt to be found. Okay. Never mind.
She closed the closet and moved on to the next bedroom. It wasn’t exactly a disaster area but the room certainly qualified as being messy. Sneakers and water shoes sat piled in one corner. Scott would definitely have T-shirts. That was all she wanted—a warm, dry shirt to cover her. She opened his closet and wrinkled her nose at the faint odor of sweat. Er…no.
Okay, throw in another qualifier. A warm, dry, non-stinky T-shirt. Come to think of it, Scott did sort of always smell as if he needed a shower. She’d pass on his shirts.
Which left her one choice. Needy nutcase or not, she was going to have to turn to Jake—well, at least his room for now.
She opened the third bedroom and every nerve ending in her body sensed his energy. It was as if her inner radar was tuned into his particular frequency, which was just flat-out annoying. Nonetheless, she opened his closet and yanked out the first T-shirt she saw, a worn cotton advertising a 2006 blues festival. It hit her midthigh. And dammit all to hell, his T-shirt smelled like him. Maybe she’d be better off walking around naked. But sitting bare-bottomed on the furniture just seemed…well, tacky.
Feeling unusually defiant, possibly—make that probably—due to drinking two brews on a nearly empty stomach followed by feeling the slide of Jake’s cotton T-shirt against her bare skin, she marched back to the den. Her wet clothes were piled on the front porch but what did it matter? She was warm and dry now. Why fool around with wet, cold clothes? After all, she’d already let herself into their cabin, drank their beer, used their bath and helped herself to Jake’s T-shirt—why not traipse back to the den and check out more than the Weather Channel on the television while she was at it?
If a little karma happened to be coming her way, they’d have satellite and she could catch reruns of The Tudors. Heaven help her and the rest of the women in TV Land, but Henry Cavill was hot, hot, hot.
She stopped midway down the short hallway. Jake. That was who he looked like—Henry Cavill as the Duke of Suffolk. Why hadn’t she made the connection before? A shiver ran down her spine. Was that why she liked watching The Tudors so much? Was that why that scene between Henry Cavill and Gabrielle Anwar turned her on? Could she watch it over and over and over again because it was Jake she was plugging in there?
Absolutely not. She was just being weird because she was in the man’s space wearing his T-shirt and she’d recently pleasured herself in his bathtub. But she was not addicted to The Tudors because of him. Definitely not. That would mean she had some kind of thing for him and she most definitely did not. Nope. She had too much sense to have a thing for Jake Malone.
Feeling a little strange at rummaging through the Malones’ cabin, Goldie nonetheless heeded her stomach’s rumbling and checked out the fridge contents. Deli ham, turkey and roast beef. Sliced swiss and cheddar cheese. Deli potato salad. Eggs. Precooked bacon. A container of fresh fruit. Wings.
Goldie paused. She loved wings but she almost never ate them. They were too fattening. She should prepare an omelette and haul out the fruit for a nice healthy dinner. She reached for the fruit container and then hesitated. The wings looked so good and this was like a little mini-vacation, wasn’t it? Okay, mini-vacation was a stretch, but she was stuck here for the night, so maybe she could bend her normal rules a bit.
Temptation tapped her on her shoulder. She always did the right thing, made good choices. And after all, she had burned a few calories hiking up here. The wings and beer called her name. Spying blue cheese dressing next to carrots and celery sticks, she was a goner. She gave up the ghost of a healthy, low-fat dinner and hauled out the wings, dressing and carrots. Life was good. She hoped the wings weren’t plain, or worse, hot enough to burn your mouth off. She dipped her finger into a smidgen of sauce on the container bottom. Yum. Just right.
Humming Michael Bublé’s “Call Me Irresponsible” beneath her breath, she found aluminum foil and turned the oven on. Then she wrapped the wings up, popped them inside and set the timer. Reheating wings in a microwave was just wrong.
While she was waiting, she decided to check out the rest of the cabin. She felt more than a little invasive, but she was here and her curiosity outweighed her conscience. Heck, it wasn’t as if she was riffling through drawers or reading personal correspondence. She was just checking out the general decor.
Framed photos hung on one of the timbered walls. There was one of the Malone brothers all hoisting white-water paddles with a raft “parked” on a riverbank behind them. Her gaze lingered on Jake. He wore an exuberant boyish grin, his enthusiasm a near palpable force.
A familiar tingle coursed through her and she wondered, for about the fifty-millionth time, what had soured him on marriage. And for the fifty-millionth time she reminded herself that the reason didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was as set against commitment as she was determined to have it.
In another frame, an older couple who had to be the Malones’ parents stood against the backdrop of the Grand Canyon’s south rim. Hmm. Jake had his mother’s facial shape but his coloring was his father’s. She leaned her head to one side, studying the photo. Something wasn’t quite right. Then it hit her. Both of his parents—make that their, Chad, Scott and Jake—were smiling, but Mrs. Malone’s eyes were sad and Mr. Malone’s eyes portrayed anger. Despite the smiles, Goldie would guess they weren’t a happy couple.
Another photo featured a wet dog—some type of lab/retriever mix—sitting on the edge of a lake wearing a lopsided canine smile. Goldie felt herself returning the dog’s infectious grin. She’d been thinking about getting a dog. When she’d worked for Young, Blarnsworth and Felders Marketing, Inc., she’d traveled too much to have a dog. Then when she’d started her own consulting business she’d been gone too much, as well. But now, Goldie’s client base was right on target with where she wanted to be and didn’t necessitate nearly as much travel. And recently, she’d been thinking of checking out the local animal rescue to find her own furry friend.
She glanced back to the photo of Jake, Chad and Scott. Technically Scott was better looking, but Jake owned the sexy element hands down. A tight knot of desire clenched low in her belly. He had the most beautifully sensual mouth she’d ever seen on a man—firm, sculpted lips that looked as if they could kiss a woman and her various parts insensible. Best not to go there.
She turned her attention back to the remaining photos—three “nature shots.” One of the fall leaves in shades of golds, reds and oranges; one of a hawk circling and the third a mountain stream with heavy-laden boughs of mountain laurel dipping almost to the stream’s edge. It wasn’t even a conscious thought—instead there was a “knowing” inside her. These were Jake’s photographs. Chad was too focused on all things work-related to be into nature photography and Scott would be too busy hiking or mountain biking or kayaking a whitewater river. These had to be Jake’s.
She turned away abruptly, almost sorry she’d seen them. She didn’t want to know this about him. It was like taking an intimate peek into his soul. And Jake’s soul was none of her business.
She crossed the room and checked out the chairs arranged in a semicircle in front of the fireplace and television. It was sort of cool there was no sofa in the room—just three recliners. She plopped into one. Nope. Too big, and the fabric was sort of itchy against the backs of her legs. The darn thing practically swallowed her. She moved on to the second one. Uh-uh. It had some funky lumbar-support thingy that hit her awkwardly and the leather was cracked along one side. She sank into the third chair—big, but not too big. And the microfiber m
aterial felt soft and cozy. Nice. Just right.
The timer went off and she retraced her steps to the kitchen. Five minutes later, she was settled in the comfy recliner, eating wings, drinking another beer and watching The Office. No Tudors for her tonight. She finished up her dinner and realized that between the hike, the food and drink and the warm bath, she was ready to call it a night.
Exactly how it happened, she wasn’t sure, but she grabbed the handle on the side of the recliner to lower the footrest and the thing came off in her hand. Horrified, she stared at it for a second. She was no mechanical genius but surely she could fix it.
She scooted forward and stood up. Well, maybe there was a little bit of a stagger, because truth be told, that third beer had gone straight to her head. She knelt on the braided rug and tried to repair the chair, but she simply couldn’t see a way to reattach the handle. Leaving the piece on the floor next to the recliner, she stood. She’d try again tomorrow morning. She’d be more clearheaded after a good night’s sleep.
But the least she could do was put the footrest down. Goldie tried to toe it back into place, only she used a little too much force. One second the chair was fine, well, as fine as it could be without a handle, and the next, it wasn’t.
Staring as it listed drunkenly to one side, she giggled. Double oops. She’d just trashed the only comfy chair in the house. Granted, she hadn’t meant to, but it was trashed nonetheless.
What the heck? It was only eight-thirty but she thought she’d better go to bed before she screwed anything else up. After all, she couldn’t get into trouble in bed.
“FINALLY,” JAKE MALONE muttered aloud as he pulled into the unpaved driveway, the headlights picking out the cabin’s welcoming front porch.
His flight had gotten in from New York so late he’d almost changed his mind about coming up. And then there’d been the woman…
He hadn’t particularly wanted to change the minivan’s flat tire on the side of the road in the pouring rain, but there’d been no way in hell he could feel good about driving past the lady when his headlights picked her out on the side of the road in the dark. The woman didn’t look as if she knew one end of a jack from another, and her three little kids had been hanging out of the window watching her when he passed.
He’d pulled over and changed the tire for her. She’d been a single mom, newly divorced, and so damn grateful he’d practically had to get back in his truck and drive away to escape being thanked to death. He was cold, wet and hungry. And while four-wheeling through swollen Rotter’s Creek had been fun, he was relieved he hadn’t gotten stuck. He patted the dash of his trusty FJ Cruiser. Four-wheel drive on the fly was a beautiful thing, but another half hour and not even the Cruiser could’ve handled Rotter’s Creek. He was definitely here for the weekend. There’d be no crossing that creek again until the water levels receded. He was more than ready for a hot shower, a cold brew, some TV time and his own bed.
He parked close to the porch and hauled his overnight case and briefcase out of the backseat. He took the two front steps in one stride. Unlocking the front door, he damn near tripped going in. What the hell? He reached inside next to the door and flipped on the front porch light. A pile of wet clothes, most notably a pair of red-and-black panties and a matching bra, sat heaped in front of the door.
Word had circulated in their mountain community about a rash of break-ins in the last couple of months. Most of the cabins up here were weekend retreats, and while things hadn’t been stolen, there’d been vandalism. Everyone was pretty sure teenagers were behind it, but nonetheless it was breaking and entering. If some teenage boy had brought his girlfriend up here for a good time, they’d both be in for it. The idea of someone invading his retreat pissed him off to no end.
Quietly, carefully, he placed his bags on the floor and looked around. Son of a bitch. He was about to have a reckoning with someone. His recliner sat broken in the den.
Jake stepped out of his wet shoes. He could move more quietly through the house in his socks. And while everyone suspected teenagers were behind the mischief—and there was obviously a female involved—he still needed a weapon. Bottom line, he didn’t know who or what he was going to find.
Jake grabbed the fire iron by the hearth and checked the kitchen, his nose picking up the smell of hot wings.
Opening the cabinet under the sink, he caught sight of chicken wing bones and empty beer cans in the garbage. He tightened his hand around the iron poker, his temper rising. His chair was broken, his wings and beer gone…and if the culprits weren’t in here, that only left the bedrooms.
The bathroom door stood ajar, the light on, the way his mom had done for him and his brothers when they’d stayed in a hotel or their grandparents’ beach cottage. He shook his head. Just his luck to find vandals too chickenshit to sleep without a nightlight in the bathroom. Well, they were about to get a rude awakening.
He eased open Chad’s bedroom door. Empty. Scott’s room was next. Empty, as well. Which left his room.
Heart thumping, adrenaline pumping, he slipped into the room. Bingo.
In the darkness, he made out a lump in his bed. The element of surprise would be to his advantage. He flipped on the overhead light. “Who the hell are you and why the hell are you in my bed?” he yelled.
A woman jacked up in the bed, screaming bloody murder.
In rapid succession Jake discerned two critical pieces of information.
One: blond-haired, blue-eyed Goldie Dawkins was alone in his bed.
And two: she was gloriously naked.
3
“YOU SCARED THE LIFE out of me,” Goldie said, snatching the covers up over her bare breasts and willing her heartbeat to slow down.
“Honey, you’re in my bed. You broke my chair. You ate my wings and you drank my beer—” from the scowl drawing his dark brows together over his dark eyes, she figured that was the worst of her infractions “—but let me apologize for giving you a fright while you’re cozied up in my bed.”
She’d tried all three beds. Chad’s bed was too hard. She had no idea how Scott’s back ever survived the lack of support in his mattress. Unfortunately, Jake’s bed had felt just right. But put that way… “I can explain.”
He propped the iron next to the door and leaned against the frame, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m sure you can. I can’t wait to hear this.”
Despite what had been actually said, there was a current of powerful attraction running between them. They both knew she was naked in his bed. In fact, pertinent parts of her were tingling and tightening in response now that the initial terror of having a crazy person with a weapon invading the bedroom was over. Tingling and tightening was bad business. If he had any idea of that fantasy she’d had about him in the tub earlier this evening… She swallowed hard.
“Why don’t you put on some clothes,” he said, his voice low and strained, his dark eyes unfathomable.
“I was just about to say that very thing.” Well, she would’ve when her brain had returned to normal function, she was sure of it. “Putting on some clothes is an excellent plan. Only, all I’ve got is that T-shirt that’s on the floor, and um…it’s yours. My clothes are—” She sounded like an idiot and it was all his fault.
He interrupted her stumbling spiel. “Piled wet at the front door. I know. I damn near broke my neck coming in.”
He didn’t look happy. Well, big whoop. She wasn’t happy either. Not by a long shot. Jake Malone was the last person on the planet she’d want to be alone and naked with in this cabin. Well, except for maybe a deranged psychopath.
“Excuse me for being thoughtful. I didn’t want to drip water all over the floor. And I was assured no one would be here this weekend. You’re supposed to be in New York.” As a consultant, she technically worked for his company, but that didn’t mean she had to take any crap from him. Sheet clutched over her bare breasts, she glared back.
“Sorry to interfere with your plans.” Humph. The dry sarcasm was totally
uncalled for, in her opinion. “Now, would you please put on some clothes, even if they are mine.”
She’d never regretted anything as much as she regretted picking one of his shirts. She should’ve worn one of Scott’s stinky ones. However, she hadn’t, so… “I would be delighted to put on some clothes…as soon as you turn around. You’ve just enjoyed your one and only free show for the evening.” His surprise turned to a smirk. That had come out all wrong. God, she’d like to slap that smirk right off his sensual, well-shaped, beautiful, male mouth that would feel just right against her… “That came out wrong. You couldn’t pay me enough either.” That just made the situation and his amusement even worse. “Oh, shut up—”
“But I haven’t said anything.”
Thoroughly flustered, she felt a blush burning up her neck and face. “I’m not used to men walking in when I’m naked.”
“So I gather. Let me know if you want to practice this again some time.” The look in his eyes set her pulse pounding and that disconcerting tightening and tingling intensified as her ever-fertile imagination saw him moving across the room, shedding his clothes, and climbing into bed naked, with her. No, no and no. Of all the men in the world, how could she be so stupid as to want him?
Exasperated, she snapped, “Just pretend you’re a gentleman and turn around so I can get dressed. Better yet, step out of the room and close the door behind you.”
“I’ll be waiting outside,” he said as he turned and left.
Goldie’s hands, and her legs for that matter, weren’t particularly steady when she climbed out of Jake Malone’s bed and pulled on his T-shirt. She looked down the front of the shirt in dismay. There was no mistaking the pebbling of her nipples against the soft, worn cotton. She’d like to blame it on the cold factor but sadly enough, it was the Jake factor. She rubbed her palms over her breasts thinking she could at least mitigate the evidence of her arousal. Nope. Still no better.
Leslie Kelly, Jennifer LaBrecque Page 13
