Getting Lucky

by Susan Andersen

  Zach strung obscenities in creative combinations as he prowled the hacienda-style house, locking up as he went. Irritation rode him hard, and he decided that this was just one more crime he could lay at Lily Morrisette’s dainty little feet—the fact that she had simply waltzed off without bothering to secure the house.

  Then the absurdity of the notion brought him up short. Yeah, right. That was kind of like worrying that the fox hadn’t locked up the hen house, wasn’t it? Trouble from without was the least of his problems when it was already entrenched with a capital T right here inside the compound with him.

  But he stood foursquare by the fox analogy, since that was exactly what she reminded him of. Wily, slick, and shrewd. Dangerously intelligent. All pink and gold and built like a—

  He gave his head a furious shake and headed for his room. He wasn’t going to accomplish anything tonight when he was so damn tired he could barely see straight. Might as well catch some zs and figure out in the morning how to get little Ms. Morrisette out of here.

  That left him Glynnis to fret about. Where was she? And just when the hell did he get to quit worrying about her, anyway? It wasn’t as if she were a kid. Or that he wasn’t a liberated kind of guy—hey, he firmly believed that women were every bit as capable of looking out for themselves as men were. More so, many of them.

  Only…Glynnie was different. There had always been something sort of sweet and innocent and a little bit clueless about his baby sister that made it just plain impossible not to worry. She’d been nineteen years old to his thirty when she’d come to live with him at Camp Lejeune in North Carolina, where he’d been stationed at the time. She’d never known their parents, Grandfather had just died, and she’d been in need of someone to bolster her emotional fragility. Since he was all the family she had left, that job had fallen to him, and he’d been happy to oblige—when he was available. But he’d been in and out of the country on a pretty regular basis, so he’d had to leave her on her own quite a bit. She’d hardly been a child, though. Hell, she’d been a year older than he had been when he’d left that cold mausoleum of a mansion in Philadelphia to join the Marines, so he refused to feel guilty about his inability to be there on a constant basis. He did sometimes wonder, though, if she might not have become a little more savvy during the past six years had he been around more to ride herd on her.

  Especially when it came to money. Glynnis was dead hopeless in the finance department. He couldn’t remember a single month since she’d moved in with him that she’d managed to live on the allowance from her trust fund. Maybe that was his fault for always bailing her out. He probably shouldn’t have let her get away with “borrowing” from him, particularly when nine times out of ten she’d just turned right around and shelled out his money to one of her lost causes. She was too damn trusting for her own good.

  Which brought Zach’s thoughts swinging right back to the very curvy little Lily. Ruthlessly cutting them short, he ripped his clothes off and padded naked into the bathroom, ditty bag in hand. Don’t even go there. He washed up and brushed his teeth, then headed back to the bedroom with the full intention of getting some much-needed rest.

  But exhausted as he was, sleep was slow in coming. He had a month’s leave, and his plan had been to use the time to catch up with his sister and figure out how to hang on to the only billet he’d ever cared to have for the final two years he had left in the service. Now Glynnis wasn’t home, he was struggling with the fact that he needed to worry about his career at all, and to top it all off he was half hard from the scent on his pillow left by some Marilyn Monroe lookalike out to bilk his sister of her fortune. This wasn’t the way he’d envisioned his homecoming.

  He flipped over onto his back, cradled his head in his clasped hands, and stared up at the ceiling. Big deal, so he was suffering a random surge of lust—that would get the zero attention it deserved. And since he wasn’t willing to go pound on Lily’s door to demand his sister’s whereabouts, there wasn’t much he could do about Glynnis tonight. But the remainder of his military career was a subject he could devote some attention to.

  Nothing was the same as it used to be. He was the only one left from his original unit, for starters. His closest friends, Coop Blackstock, whom he’d met his first day of boot camp, and John “the Rocket” Miglionni, whom he’d met not long after that, had both been out of the service for several years now. Since their discharge, Coop had gone on to become a best-selling author of military-techno thrillers and Rocket was a private detective with his own agency. And all the other grunts in their unit had either retired, transferred, or died.

  Zach had somehow ended up as the old man in a new recon unit full of eighteen-, nineteen-, and twenty-year-olds. Jesus. He scrubbed his hands over his face. How the hell had that happened? In any other business a thirty-six-year-old in his physical condition would be considered in his prime. But reconnaissance was a young man’s game and the brass was beginning to hint he should think about giving up field work to teach the younger men its finer points. To teach, for crissake!

  Sure, the younger men could go for days on end without sleep and never have it catch up with them, and at some point during the last year or so he had lost that ability. And yes, this last assignment in South America had been a bitch. But, hell, it had been a hundred and ten fucking degrees with humidity to match. Even the day-care kids, as he sometimes thought of them, had gotten their asses kicked.

  So, screw it. He could keep up with them any day of the week. Maybe lately he hadn’t liked being in the field as much as he used to, but that was surely temporary. He was just a little discouraged over the way the last assignment had shaken out.

  All he needed was a little R&R and he’d be back in fighting trim. He’d always seen himself in a recon unit right up until the day he mustered out of the service for good, and that’s exactly what he planned to do until he had his twenty years in and was eligible for retirement. How to get the brass off his back in the meantime was the question.

  He realized, though, that there was no use worrying about it tonight. Flipping onto his side, he pounded the pillow into submission, and stuffed it under his head, only to have another subtle waft of fragrance rise to tease his nose. An image of Lily immediately popped to mind and this time refused to be dislodged.

  She was such a little thing—he’d be surprised if she topped out at five-two. But inch for inch, pound for pound, she was pure sex on the hoof. It was more than the sum total of that froth of blonde hair, those blue eyes, and that golden skin. It was the way she moved and the sheer femaleness of her. It was the pheromones she exuded. And it was those curves.

  Man, oh, man. Those curves.

  She had what used to be referred to as an hourglass figure: round breasts, tiny waist, and full, lush hips. Like a top-of-the-line Cadillac, hers was a chassis designed for a smooth ride—a guy only had to take one look at it to get all sorts of ideas.

  The wrong kind of ideas. Zach whipped the pillow out from under his head and hurled it across the room. He rolled onto his other side and pillowed his head on his biceps, swearing another blue streak beneath his breath when the scent he’d thought to rid himself of merely drifted up from the sheets instead. It had been a long couple of days, and he was beat—no doubt that was why he was feeling so susceptible.

  But he didn’t try to fool himself. Lily Morrisette was the type of woman who could tie a man’s thoughts in knots without lifting so much as one single, dainty, rose-tipped finger. And that made her more dangerous than a field full of land mines.

  So first thing in the morning, after he’d had a decent night’s sleep and his brain was once again working at its usual brisk pace, he’d find a way to send her packing.

  2

  LILY STOOD IN FRONT OF THE MIRRORED CLOSET door the next morning and studied her naked body. The longer she looked, the closer together her eyebrows inched. Who invented the full-length mirror, anyway? She’d lay odds on a man with a sadistic streak.

  Okay,
maybe that wasn’t fair. Perhaps he was a perfectly nice fellow—one so moon-faced in love with his sylphlike wife that he’d invented the thing so she could admire her svelte and no doubt hipless body from head to toe whenever her little heart desired. Besides, it wasn’t as if the reflection looking back at her was that bad. If she were seeing it strictly through her own eyes, in fact, she’d probably think, Not fabulous. Could definitely stand improvement. But, all in all, not bad for a thirty-five-year-old who’s fond of food.

  Unfortunately, her observation was tainted by the remembrance of Zach Taylor’s cool gray eyes tracking over her, as well as the knowledge that he had clearly never had to sweat cellulite. Sucking in her stomach, standing as tall as she possibly could, she turned side to side, scowling at the not-much-improved-upon reflection. She was simply so darn…round.

  Blowing out a breath, she studied the various components that comprised the whole. It wasn’t all bad news. She liked her shoulders, and her arms had nice definition. She had good skin, and her breasts were fairly decent. They were a bit larger than she would’ve chosen had it been left up to her, but they weren’t show-stopper huge, thank goodness. And they were still right up where they were supposed to be—there was something to be said for that.

  That was the plus side of the ledger; then things got a little dicey. She was short-waisted and her hips and bottom were the bane of her existence, both being several inches fuller than she cared to contemplate, never mind acknowledge. And being only five feet, three inches tall (well, darn near—five-two and three-quarters, anyhow) her legs obviously weren’t the kind that reached to heaven. Thank God for nicely squared shoulders or she’d look like one of those roly-poly punching-bag dolls that always popped right back up no matter how often one pushed the thing down.

  And God bless, too, the benefit of cosmetics and all the other accoutrements of being a woman. Heck, she thought, as she reached for one of her favorite lingerie sets, everyone looks better in clothing, anyway. She stepped into the tiny electric-blue panties and pulled them into place, then shimmied her breasts into the lace demi-cups of its matching bra. She adjusted the straps and swept up a pair of freshly ironed designer jeans. Donning them, she then stepped into a pair of strappy, red spiked heels that added three and a half inches to her stature, and pulled a color-coordinated sleeveless V-necked tunic on over her head. She added a narrow gold chain belt over the slinky jersey material, made a few adjustments until she was satisfied with its loose drape between hip and waist, then stood back and nodded. The glitter of gold was always a welcome addition to any outfit, and the belt helped hint at her contours while maintaining the always stylish, straighter silhouette.

  She sashayed into the bathroom and plugged in her hot rollers. While waiting for them to heat, she applied liquid foundation with a light hand, powdered her T zone, added a hint of blush to the apples of her cheeks, then carefully made up her eyes with neutral colors, all to achieve a luminous no-makeup look.

  The light that indicated the rollers were ready blinked off a few minutes later, just as she was tossing her eyelash curler and mascara back into the vanity drawer. She threw a few rollers into her hair, brushed her teeth, applied a nice cheery, rosy lipstick, and took the rollers out. After waiting a sec to let her hair cool, she pulled a brush through it, then tossed the brush in the drawer, bent from the waist, and mussed her hair vigorously with both hands. Straightening, she tweaked the ’do here and there, then walked back into the bedroom. She stopped in front of the mirror once again to give herself another appraisal.

  “Much better,” she murmured. “I swear, only the airbrushed look truly good stark naked.”

  Still, she mused as she made her way to the kitchen, it certainly wouldn’t hurt to get back on the diet wagon. Perhaps she’d cut up a little fruit and limit herself to that for breakfast.

  It was a worthy goal—and one that lasted until she opened the refrigerator a moment later and spied the full carton of eggs. She did get out an orange, but along with it retrieved two eggs, a large crimini mushroom, a green onion, and half a small tomato. She set them all on the counter next to the stove. Remembering there was a nice smoked Gouda in the dairy drawer, she grabbed that, too, and cut off a small hunk. She drizzled olive oil into a frying pan, set the pan on the burner, and turned the gas on beneath it. As blue flames licked the rim of the pan’s bottom, she broke the eggs into a bowl she’d grabbed out of the cupboard. Adding a splash of half-and-half and a dash of salt and pepper, she whipped them to a froth with a wire whisk, then set them aside to quickly chop the rest of the ingredients.

  She adored good food. She loved everything about it: its scents, its tastes, its textures. Reverence for the world of edibles and everything that could be done with them had sent her first to a culinary academy straight out of high school, then through advanced training and a series of apprenticeships with some of California’s most prestigious chefs.

  She hummed as she poured the egg mixture into the hot pan and evenly distributed the vegetables, tomato, and finely cubed cheese on top of it. While waiting for it to set up enough to fold, she set the table with a pretty plate, a linen napkin, and silverware. Then she made herself a cup of tea, cut two thin slices from the middle of the orange, and arranged them in decorative twists on either side of her plate. She ate the remainder leaning over the sink.

  A few minutes later she slid the omelet onto her plate and sat down to her meal. For a moment she simply breathed in the aroma and appreciated the omelet’s aesthetic appeal against the blue plate and orange garnish. Then she picked up her fork, sliced off a bite, and slipped it into her mouth. Her eyes slid closed. Oh, my. She did so love good food. There was never a time she didn’t enjoy eating. Well, her appetite did disappear on those rare occasions when she was upset, but fortunately for her—or perhaps unfortunately, given the way everything that passed her lips seemed to settle directly on her hips—she was a natural-born optimist.

  A condition that threatened to die a natural death when halfway through her omelet her neck began to tingle, and she looked up to see Zach lounging in the archway.

  He stood with one big shoulder propped negligently against the stucco jamb, watching her with the oddest look on his face. Then in the blink of an eye, the indecipherable look disappeared, and he pushed away from the arch and sauntered into the kitchen. Stopping next to the table, he regarded her without favor. “You still here?”

  Lily set down her fork. “Yes,” she said. “And just so we don’t have to keep having this conversation over and over again, let me see if I can put this in words simple enough for you to understand. I. Am not. Leaving. Certainly not because you have some ridiculous notion that I’m out to cheat Glynnis of her inheritance. Your sister was kind enough to offer me a place to stay when my apartment went condo, and unless she asks me to leave, this is exactly where I plan to remain.” At least until the last week in May, when her next stint as chef for a corporate yacht was scheduled to begin—but Lily didn’t feel any burning need to share that information with Glynnis’s brother.

  She looked him over. Why did the guy have to be such eye candy? He had that flushed, moist glow of the freshly showered, and his hair was still damp, his cheeks smooth and shiny from a recent shave. He was just plain fan-yourself attractive, and lordy, didn’t it just figure that the first man to rev her engine in way too long would turn out to be a judgmental oaf? Life was so unfair.

  Never did it seem more so than when he asked in a silky baritone, “Did my sister happen to mention that the house is in my name, not hers?”

  Zach watched as Lily absorbed the news. She looked stunned for a moment, but he had to hand it to her, she recovered quickly. Her fine-boned little chin lifted, and her eyes were cool as they met his head-on.

  “And I assume you mean to challenge the legality of my contract with her?”

  “Maybe.” He crossed his arms over his chest and gazed down at her. But she looked way too good, so he transferred his attention to the plate in
front of her, which held the most delicious-looking omelet he’d ever seen. Its tantalizing scent had been responsible for pulling him to the kitchen in the first place, and actually seeing its golden-brown perfection made saliva pool in his mouth. His stomach growled.

  “Then I guess we’ll see each other in court,” Lily said, snapping his attention back to her. Cheeks flushed and eyes so bright a blue he suspected colored contact lenses, she pushed back from the table and rose to her feet. She carried her plate over to the sink where she scraped its contents, giving him a long, level look over her shoulder. “Because I’m still not leaving.”

  For one brief moment Zach didn’t care. He watched the perfect omelet disappear down the garbage disposal and wanted to howl. Just because she couldn’t finish it didn’t mean it had to go to waste. He would have taken care of it for her. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten a proper meal, but it sure as hell hadn’t been during the past twenty-four hours. Hunger, lack of sufficient sleep, and worry over his sister sent him across the space separating them. “Where’s Glynnis?” he snarled, even though he knew damn well that hotheaded demands were destined to fail.

  Lily didn’t reply, but something in her eyes confirmed Zach’s suspicion that she knew the answer, and with a lack of control that wasn’t at all like him he wrapped his hands around her upper arms and pulled her up onto her toes. Bending his head, he got right in her face. “Where the hell is she?”

  The warmth and the softness of her skin registered first. Then he saw her crystalline blue eyes go wide, and the genuine fear that flashed through them struck him like a punch to the gut. With an oath, he set her free. He stepped back and plowed a hand through his hair. “I just want to know where my sister is.” Hearing the apologetic tone in his voice, he snarled, “For all I know, finagling yourself a cushy berth here wasn’t enough to keep you satisfied.”