by Robin Kaye
The dim glow of a streetlight outlined the shadowy figure lying facedown on the carpeted floor between Bree and Nicki. Dropping the skillet, Bree skirted the body before grabbing Nicki’s arm, pulling her off the bed, and shoving her toward the door.
The man groaned, and, like something out of a horror flick, a viselike grip closed around Bree’s ankle. She landed hard, kicking and screaming. She reached for the frying pan, only to be flipped like a tortilla on a hot griddle and covered with one extralarge serving of man.
“Get off me!”
He held her hands on either side of her head as his breath washed her ear. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m going to hurt you.”
“You already have.”
Light flooded the room, causing temporary blindness. When Bree’s vision cleared and she saw he wasn’t an intruder, she wanted to crawl under the pink princess canopy bed and hide. Instead, she dove right into the turbulent ocean blue eyes of an enraged Storm Decker—the past occupant of Nicki’s room. Storm Decker—a man Bree had known since before she started wearing sexy underwear. Storm Decker—a man who epitomized the reason women bought the uncomfortable lacy stuff in the first place.
“Breezy, a frying pan? That was the best you could do?”
Bree hated that nickname—maybe because Storm was the only one who dared to use it. It didn’t help matters that the sound of it rolling off his tongue had always been enough to make her breath catch. She struggled, trying to slide from beneath him, but succeeded only in pressing her body against his. His heat scorched Bree through her Mr. Bubble boxers and matching tank top. She couldn’t believe Storm would be a witness to the remnants of insanity caused by a wild shopping spree at the Walmart in Secaucus. Women built like her shouldn’t wear tank tops—not even to bed.
Storm didn’t move a muscle, keeping her pinned beneath him. He didn’t behave like a gentleman should and get off her, help her up, and make sure she was all right—not that she was surprised. Storm Decker was a bad boy, and he had the rap sheet to prove it.
He had the nerve to shoot her his guaranteed-good-time grin, the one that made any woman in the vicinity want to remove the sexy underwear she’d purchased with him in mind. “If I were out to hurt you, you’d be in a real tight spot right about now.”
“No, she wouldn’t.”
Storm’s attention snapped to Nicki standing in the doorway, holding the phone in one hand and the frying pan in the other.
“You’d be out cold again, and the cops would be on their way. Now, do you want to get off her, or am I gonna have to use this?” She waved the frying pan and did her best to look menacing.
Nicki was too cute to manage that, but Bree gave her points for trying.
Storm turned back to Bree, their noses almost touching. “Who’s the kid?”
“Storm, this is Nicki. Nicki, meet Storm Decker, Pete’s son.” She tried not to think about Storm’s proximity and concentrated on the pained and confused look on his face. He wasn’t the only one confused. “What are you doing here?”
Storm rolled off her. She thought she’d be able to breathe better without two hundred pounds of man crushing her, but she was wrong. No, the breathlessness was still there. Crap. She was twenty-eight and a far cry from that seventeen-year-old caught in Storm Decker’s wake.
“Logan couldn’t get away from the vineyard—something about harvest season. He got ahold of me and told me Pop was sick. Since Logan was unable to make it, I was elected. I’ve been traveling for”—Storm glanced at his watch—“twenty-three hours, and this is the welcome I get? No wonder I haven’t been home in years—”
“Eleven years.” Bree sat and hugged her knees to her chest.
“So you did miss me.”
“Yeah, like a rash.”
“I might not have seen you, but I’ve been home a few times. The last time was five or six years ago. You were probably away at school.”
Bree rose and brushed herself off, just to have something to do with her hands. “You must have left quite an impression. Funny, no one mentioned it to me.” She took the phone and the pan from Nicki. “It’s late, sweetie. Go back to bed.”
“Aw, Bree.”
Dropping a kiss on Nicki’s forehead, Bree cut her off. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Storm rose to his feet. He’d looked a lot smaller when he was out cold. He picked up his duffel bag with a grunt, one hand held against his head over what must have been one hell of a lump.
Bree waited for Nicki to climb into bed and curl around a big teddy bear before pulling up the light cotton blanket and brushing a hand over her hair. “I’ll be in the next room if you need me.”
“Okay.”
Bree followed Storm out, doused the light, and closed the door behind her. Without looking at him, she headed straight to the kitchen, grabbed a bag of frozen peas, and tossed it at him. “Are you okay? Do I need to take you to the emergency room to have your head examined?”
He sat on a barstool and winced when he placed the bag against his head. “I’m fine.”
She looked him over—his pupils were equally dialated. “Any nausea?”
“Why, Breezy, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you cared.” The side of his mouth quirked up.
“I don’t. I just don’t want to be charged with murder. Now answer the question.”
“No, I’m fine.” His phone rang, sounding like a foghorn. Pulling it off his hip, he checked the caller. “I’m sorry. I have to take this.”
“Fine.” Bree started out of the kitchen, but he wrapped his fingers around her wrist and held on. The tingle shot straight to her breasts. She didn’t dare look down.
“Storm Decker.” He listened for a moment, and a smile spread across his face as her cheeks ignited. His black hair was cut short, much shorter than she remembered. It only served to accentuate the chiseled features of his face, while his strong square jaw covered with dark stubble added to his dangerous look. Blue eyes watched her and changed color with his mood. When he’d been on top of her, it had been like looking into an angry sea, and now his eyes were the color of a summer sky—deep blue and full of promise. When he smiled, his perfect teeth gleamed white against his tan skin. His voice was as soothing and buttery as a bottle of Macallan’s fifty-five-year-old single malt scotch. At $17,500 a bottle, she’d bet a case of it that the person on the other end of the line was female.
“Hi, Sandy.”
Bingo. Bree twisted her wrist and pulled away, breaking his grip.
“How are things at home? Any problems today?” Storm’s gaze lingered on Bree’s chest before moving to his pricey watch. She wondered if they sold cheap knockoffs on the street corners in Auckland. She doubted it. It looked more expensive than the run-of-the-mill Rolex. They probably charged extra for the dive watch to withstand the pressure of the ocean’s depths or the corner office. Then again, maybe his watch had been a prize for winning the Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race. So okay, she’d Googled him and found a picture of Storm and his team holding the Rolex Cup. It was just her luck the photo hadn’t done him justice.
“Tell Laurel I’ll be back in plenty of time to go to the yacht club dinner. This should only take a week, two tops.”
Bree did a quick boob check while she wiped the already clean kitchen counter and tried to look as if she wasn’t listening to every word of his conversation. Unfortunately, the girls were standing at attention. Still, it didn’t keep her from wanting to smack him upside the head with the damn frying pan again on general principles. A one-or two-week visit was no help. She had called Logan because she needed someone responsible to stay for the next couple of months at least. It sounded as if Storm’s plan was to blow in, stay just long enough to assuage his guilty conscience, then leave for the next eleven years or until Pete’s funeral, whichever came first. It was disappointing, but not unexpected. He probably had Peter Pan tattooed on his incredible ass.
Storm snapped his phone shut. �
�I guess I should thank you for the great homecoming. Now, do you want to tell me just what the hell is going on and who that kid is in my old bedroom?”
“Who are you to walk in here and start demanding answers? You ignored Pete for years, and now . . .” Storm was . . . God, he was here. Her energy level bottomed out, and she leaned against the counter for support. “Why couldn’t Logan have come? And if he had to send someone, why couldn’t he have called Slater?” After all, Slater was safe. “Slater’s in Seattle. And last I checked, Seattle is a hell of a lot closer to Brooklyn than New Zealand, if you’re still in New Zealand.” With the Storm Chaser, one never knew.
“I get that you’re not happy I’m here. Deal with it, Breezy, because like it or not, I’m all you’ve got.”
“Lucky me. When it comes to helping someone other than yourself, you were always as useless as an inflatable dartboard.”
Storm’s head snapped back, and his chin followed, as if Oscar De La Hoya had hit him with a right cross. “People change.”
She’d won this round. She’d pinned him against the ropes with the two-ton weight of her gaze, willing him to explain his disappearance years ago, but his eyes told no tales. “Pete collapsed at the Crow’s Nest. Heart attack. They did bypass surgery, and he’s not handling it well.” She threw the sponge into the sink and wiped her hands on a towel. “I have a hard enough time managing the restaurant and Nicki single-handedly. I can’t take care of Pete too. I need help. I’m surprised Logan called you, but I’m even more surprised you came.”
“Why wouldn’t I have come? Just because I moved away doesn’t mean I’m not close to Pop.”
“Oh yeah, I heard you friended him on Facebook. I’m sure that means so much to him.” Bree took a deep breath and released it slowly. “He’s at Methodist Hospital, and with any luck, he’ll be out in a few days. He needs to heal, and I don’t know how much he’ll be able to do once he’s back on his feet.”
Storm stood and in two steps was around the breakfast bar. “Breezy? Is Nicki yours?”
“Mine?” She stepped back. “Why would you think that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Bree ran her hand through her hair and tucked it behind her ear. “No. Nicki is Pete’s.”
“Pop’s? Since when?”
“It’s been a few months now.” If Pete hadn’t told him about Nicki, it wasn’t her place to do it. “Look, I’m tired. I’m going back to bed. Help yourself to whatever you want. There’s beer and leftover pizza in the fridge. The guest towels are in the linen closet. I’m in Logan’s old room. You can stay in Pete’s room tonight—the sheets are clean. Good night, Storm.” She brushed by him on her way out of the small kitchen.
“Good night, Breezy.”
Bree felt his eyes on her the whole way back to her room. She closed the door and thought about locking it—not sure whether it would be to keep him out or keep her in. Climbing into bed, she fought the searing memory of the last time she’d seen Storm Decker. He’d been running out that same door and leaving her behind.
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