Kitabı oku: «Sultry Escapes: Waking Up to You»

To Julie Thank you so much for helping me figure out how to make this story work.

You really pulled me out of the fire.

Prologue

The Hollywood Tattler- Superstar No Longer A Bachelor?

Pay attention, ladies, it looks like Thomas Shane, hottest young leading man to come out of Sundance, might be ready to trade in his bachelor digs for a cozy cottage for two. The handsome actor, who set female hearts throbbing in his very first picture, is reportedly in the market for a home in the Laguna Beach area.

Shane, who is rumored to be starring in the next big superhero reboot, has been notoriously picky about his lady friends. But he was recently seen house shopping with a hot brunette who, sources say, was the costume designer on his last film.

If it’s true that Thomas Shane is leaving the realm of available men, hearts are breaking all over the world.

Don’t go, Shane! Don’t go!

1

“WAIT, YOU’RE ASKING me to marry you?”

Her mouth open, Candace Reid stared into the beautiful, sky-blue eyes that were the dominant feature of the most perfect male face she had ever seen. Thomas Shane, handsomest man on the planet, hottest young up-and-comer in Hollywood, subject of fantasies and object of obsessions, had just said the words every other woman in America would kill to hear from his lips. And he didn’t appear to be joking.

“Yes, I am. Marry me, Candace. Say yes.”

“But…but…you’re a movie star.”

“So what? You’re a movie costumer.”

She grunted. That so didn’t count. Her check on their last film was smaller than his by at least four zeroes.

“We’ve known each other since kindergarten.”

“Nursery school. Say yes and I will at last forgive you for stealing my Fruit Roll-Ups during nap time the day we met.”

She growled. She hadn’t taken the damn Fruit Roll-Ups. “That was Joey Winpigler…don’t you remember his green teeth?”

“That kid’s teeth were always green.”

She groaned, realizing they were getting off topic—off this insane topic. “I can’t marry you…you’re my best friend.”

“And you’re mine. That’s why it’s so perfect.”

Throwing her arms up in frustration, she exclaimed, “But, Tommy, you’re gay!”

He waved an unconcerned hand. “Oh, that.”

“Yeah. That.”

“It’s really no big deal.”

“I disagree. I don’t have a penis, and they’re right up there with raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens for you.”

“Well, I’ll admit they are among my fav-o-rite things.”

Of course Tommy would get the show-tune quip—he’d starred in every musical in their high school and could tapdance his way around a chorus line of Rockettes. Not that anyone who had seen him in his last film, taking out an entire terrorist camp single-handedly, would believe that.

“But really, penises schmenises, most men are jerks,” he insisted. “I adore women.”

“Not sexually.”

He plopped down beside her on the buttery-soft leather sofa in the living room of his Malibu condo. “Sex isn’t everything.”

“Yeah, right.” For him maybe it wasn’t, since his career was his entire focus right now. But for Candace, who liked sex a lot, even if she seldom got it, it was kind of a biggie.

“I think maybe I’ll just be asexual from now on.”

She snorted and rolled her eyes.

“What? I can love from afar. It’ll be all tragic and shit.”

“Like the mad crush you had on that guy who played your grandfather in your second film?”

He pursed his lips, looking prim. “Every serious actor has a crush on Sir Anthony Hopkins. He’s a God.”

“But not every serious actor goes trolling for a little strange cock when he’s out of town, away from the cameras.”

“Big strange cock,” he retorted. “And that’s a secret.”

“This is nuts. Stop playing around.”

“Babe, I’ve got to keep my personal life on the down-low for now,” he said, growing serious. “If I don’t, my superhero action-movie days are over. It sucks, but you know it’s true.”

Part of her wanted to urge him to be true to himself and stop hiding the man he was. She’d known about his sexual orientation for as long as he had, having realized it in middle school when Tommy had gotten pissy about her landing a date with the hottest guy in their class. It hadn’t been hard to figure out who, exactly, he was jealous of. The two of them had talked about it, acknowledged Tommy was gay and that was that.

Her sister, Madison, the only person in the world to whom she was closer than Tommy, hadn’t figured it out quite as quickly. But once she had, the three of them had become like the Three Musketeers, fighting for Tommy’s right to be himself.

And now he wanted to hide who he was for good.

“There have been rumors,” he said, not meeting her eye.

She shrugged. “There are always those kinds of rumors about movie stars.” Tommy wasn’t the first Holly-wood celebrity to worry about in-the-closet stories, and he wouldn’t be the last.

He rested his head on the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling. “I’ve also gotten a few veiled threats.”

Oh, hell. “What do you mean? Threats from who?”

“Just somebody I had a fling with last year.”

“Blackmail?” she said, indignant on his behalf.

“Not yet. But it could get there. He’s making rumbles about supposedly having some kind of proof.”

Candace glowered at him for being careless. “Tell me you didn’t let some dude take pictures.”

“Do I look mentally challenged?” He sounded indignant.

“Sorry.”

“And before you ask if I left DNA on a Gap dress, let me explain. It was just some text messages.”

“They can be faked,” she said, waving an airy hand.

“Yeah, but look at what happened to Tiger.”

True. Text messages could definitely come back to bite you. She made a mental note. Next time you’re about to break up with someone, borrow his phone to destroy the evidence first.

He turned to face her. “So you see why this is so important? With that tabloid article hinting I was going to settle down with you, I think I can put out the fires for a while. Once I nail this franchise, I can get haughty and walk away to do high-minded indie films.”

Haughty wasn’t hard for Tommy, although she knew it was a pretense. He was almost always in character. Right now it suited him to act the part of spoiled Hollywood star. But playing the role of her husband? That would take some Oscar-worthy skills.

“Please, Candy, I’m begging you,” he said. “Just give me a few years—five max. You and I both know it wouldn’t be the first five-years-to-hide-the-fact-that-I’m-gay marriage in Hollywood.”

Five years. Could she really give up five years of her life? Okay, so she was only twenty-six, she wasn’t seeing anyone and had no interest in settling down and having babies until she was in her thirties. Still…it was quite a commitment.

“And there’ll be no prenup. You’ll get half of whatever I earn.”

Her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.

He saw her reaction and pounced. “You know you could use the money, since you won’t let me lend it to you. You can help out your parents and your sister, give your grandfather the money to get that broken-down winery he bought last year up and running.”

That was all true. Curse him for understanding her well enough to know exactly which buttons to push.

“And it’ll be fun. We’ll walk the red carpet together.” He dropped an arm over her shoulders and pulled her close. “I’ll be all romantic when I give my Oscar acceptance speech and thank the wildly sexy woman who made it all possible.”

Hmm. That sounded like fun.

“There is still one big problem,” she finally said. “I like sex. Five years is a long time to go without it.”

“You don’t have to,” he insisted.

“Eww,” she said, shoving his arm off her. “That’d be like having sex with my brother. My gay brother.”

“I wasn’t talking about me! You can have affairs.”

“Tacky. Besides, that’d really cause some gossip. I’m already on the radar of those leeches.”

She hated that, truly. Being the subject of gossip was infuriating, and she doubly hated the idea that some people might have decided she got her start in Hollywood because of Tommy. If anything, he’d gotten his first break through her. He’d come to visit her at work at one of the studios one day, met a casting director and the rest was history.

“Look,” he said, “we both know you’ve got a gazillion gigabytes of internal memory when it comes to sex. You’ve already stored up experiences that helped you through dry spells in the past.”

She couldn’t argue that, but did stick out her tongue at him. It wasn’t nice of him to point out all those dry spells, usually caused because Candace had a bad habit of going out with guys who were far more focused on material things and their own ambitions than they were on her. “Your point?”

“My point is, I’ll send you on a trip to France for two weeks. You can boink your way from Bordeaux to Paris, free from the paparazzi. Once you back up some orgasms on your libido’s hard drive, you can come home and we’ll announce our engagement.”

He always managed to make her laugh. “And what if my vaginal computer crashes? Am I supposed to zip off to a bordello to do an emergency dump onto my flash drive?”

“I bet you’d make it two years. Then, when you’re crawling out of your skin, I’ll pay for you to go to Australia and you can throw a few shrimp on your barbie.”

He said the words in a cheesy down-under accent, and she couldn’t help laughing. The whole thing was absurd, ridiculous.

But, craziest of all, she was seriously thinking about it.

Not just because she loved Tommy, or because it might be fun playing Hollywood wife. No, because she could really use the money. Her parents were happy in the Florida home where she’d grown up. But since her dad’s heart attack two months ago, they’d been stretched thin financially.

Her sister had just finished grad school and had a mountain of debt. And her wonderful, willful grandfather had, indeed, been struck by some wild notion and bought an old run-down winery in Northern California a year ago. The place had nary a grape in sight, and Grandpa had no clue how to grow them, much less turn them into wine. But he was determined to make a go of it.

So, yeah, the money would come in handy. Tommy had offered to help out, but she wouldn’t accept charity. She always earned what she got. And frankly, if she had to give up sex for five years, she would earn every penny. Because, no matter what he said, she’d never risk having an affair after their engagement was announced, a time when she’d be more under the paparazzi spotlight than ever. This sowing-her-wild-oats-in-France thing would be it, the full extent of her sexual activity for five long, lonely, vibrator-filled years.

Could she do it? For Tommy? For her family? For the money?

“So what do you say? Pretty please?” he asked, flashing those baby blues and his amazing smile. That grin, that wicked sense of humor and his innate kind streak always made her give in. He deserved the brilliant career within his grasp. No creepy blackmailer should have the right to take it away from him.

“Oh, hell.” Farewell penises of the world. “I guess I’m in.”

“Yes! You are the best friend ever.” He pumped both fists in the air, then dropped to one knee. Taking her hand, he stared at her adoringly, playing the man-in-love character. Put him in a Nick Sparks film opposite Emily Blunt and nobody would ever guess he’d once seduced the star football player of their high school.

“Candace Eliza Reid, will you be my bride?”

“Yes, I will. Now get up, idiot. And get your travel agent on the phone because I am so taking you up on that Paris thing.”

“Or maybe Italy for some spicy pepperoni?”

“Dork,” she said as he wagged his eyebrows suggestively.

“Wait…Ireland! I know you’ve always dug Irish guys.”

“Nope, French will do. I don’t want my sex toy to speak English. I don’t need him for conversation, and I definitely don’t want him talking to any reporters who come around.”

She doubted she’d come across an absolutely amazing superhunk who would give her five years’ worth of orgasms in two weeks, but it was worth a shot. She’d do her damndest, anyway, and nobody was going to stop her from gorging herself on one last sexual feast before settling in for five hungry years of celibacy.

Before Tommy could make the call, however, her own cell phone rang. She answered, listened and realized that she’d been wrong. Somebody could stop her. Something could happen that would totally change her mind and her plans. Because, when it came right down to it, her need to stockpile some sexual memories couldn’t even begin to compete with family, especially when somebody she loved was hurt and needed her. And her grandfather—whom she adored—was hurt and needed her.

So, within a few hours, Candace was at the airport, waiting to board a plane, not for France and orgasms, but for San Francisco and family. She’d be by her grandfather’s side for as long as it took…even if she had to sacrifice any chance she had of meeting a man who might make her most wicked dreams come true.

LYING IN BED in the small groundskeeper’s cottage that he now called home, Oliver McKean suddenly found himself wide-awake, wondering what had roused him from his slumber. He was exhausted, his body aching after a long day of hard work, followed by an evening in a hospital. After twenty hours on his feet, he’d been totally wiped. When he’d gotten home, he’d showered, hit the mattress and been sound asleep in minutes.

Until now.

He lay there in the stillness, blinking, looking up at the ceiling that still didn’t look familiar, though he’d slept beneath it for four months now. A long silent moment stretched out, broken only by the faint far-off howl of a coyote. Coming from L.A., he still hadn’t grown used to the silence up here in Northern California. Sonoma was known for its famous wines, but its landscape was pretty spectacular, with thousands of acres of untamed wilderness. The estate on which he lived sometimes felt like it was in the middle of a deserted island.

Which was exactly the reason he’d come here, chucking his old life and heading north, choosing the wine country both because of his family’s ties to the area and his own love of the region. Being away from the seething mass of humanity in L.A. had sounded like a good way to regroup, regain his sense of self. He also wanted to regain his sense of right and wrong, which had started to slip away as he’d fallen further into the trap of career and ambition. He needed to take a year or so, to drop out of the world, do penance for the wrongs he’d done and to figure out what he was going to do next. One thing was for sure—it wasn’t returning to the Los Angeles County D.A.’s office.

“Been there, done that, never going back,” he whispered. his job as a prosecutor had demoralized him, savaged his optimistic streak and left him with a strong distaste for his chosen profession.

Glancing at his clock and seeing it was almost three, he settled back into his small, lumpy bed, which had come with the furnished cottage. But right before he closed his eyes again, he noted the shadows playing across the ceiling. That’s what had awakened him. Not a noise, a light.

When he’d gone to bed at 1:00 a.m., it had been pitch-black outside. The sky had been overcast for a couple of days, leaving the stars and moon—usually brilliant up here away from the city lights—hidden behind a bank of clouds. He could hear the soft fall of rain now. But there was light coming from somewhere. It was noticeable against the utter blackness, and sifted in through the uncurtained window.

He got up, walked over and looked toward the main house. A warm, golden beacon shone from within, shattering the darkness.

Strange. He didn’t think he’d left a light on, and the house was supposed to be empty. The owner, Buddy Frye, was lying in a hospital waiting to have surgery for his broken hip. Frye lived alone, with Oliver occupying the groundskeeper’s cottage nearby. Nobody else was within a few miles. Oliver had talked to his boss’s daughter earlier, and she’d said she would try to catch a flight from Florida in the next few days. But no way could she have made it this soon. So who was skulking around in the house?

He hadn’t been away from L.A., and his job prosecuting some of the most violent criminals in the country, long enough to assume the visitor was simply a friendly, concerned neighbor. Huh-uh. Buddy was pretty new to the area. He didn’t socialize a lot; much of the community thought he had to be crazy to buy an old ruin of a vineyard estate that had been on the market for three years.

There had been reports in the news lately about breakins in some of the outlying areas, even some squatters taking advantage of the abandoned foreclosures. And while Buddy didn’t have a lot worth stealing in that glorious old ruin he called a home, no way was Oliver about to let the man get victimized while he was lying helpless in a hospital.

He reached for the jeans he’d taken off a few hours ago. They were crusted with dirt from the long day he’d put in yesterday. He hadn’t even had time to change into something else before racing after the ambulance that had taken his kindly old boss to the emergency room. But hell, if they were good enough for the doctors and nurses at the Sonoma Valley Hospital, they were good enough for Mr. Prowler.

He left his small house, following the illumination. His bare feet slipped in the wet grass, and the cold rain jabbed his chest since he hadn’t bothered with a shirt. Passing the toolshed, which stood between his place and the main house, he reached out and snagged a rake. He didn’t want to have to protect himself, but better safe than sorry.

Strange that anybody would choose this house to rob. The place might once have been a showplace—Oliver had seen pictures of it from its glory days, when it had been owned by his own family. It had been passed down from a great-grandfather who’d been a silent movie star. His uncle had sold it a decade ago, and that owner had gone bankrupt. Now Buddy Frye, its current owner, was trying to restore it. Oliver hoped he succeeded—the bones of a beautiful mansion were still there. As for right now, though, it was a falling-down heap, held up as much by the layers of paint on the walls as by any remnants of a foundation.

The porch creaked—the third floorboard being the loudest—so he avoided it as he approached the door. He reached for the knob, which twisted easily in his hand. That wasn’t a good sign. He remembered locking it tonight before heading to his place. Buddy often didn’t, feeling safe out here in the country, but Oliver hadn’t lost that big-city need for security.

Stepping inside, he almost tripped over a small carry-on type suitcase, and was immediately curious about this burglar who carried Louis Vuitton.

Clanging emerged from the kitchen. So the prowler had decided to make himself a sandwich? A little ham and Swiss to go with the breaking and entering?

Nothing about this added up.

The kitchen was at the back of the house. Edging toward it, clueless about what to expect, Oliver paused at the doorway. When he peeked in, he froze in uncertainty.

It wasn’t a prowler. At least, it wasn’t the sort of prowler he’d ever seen or envisioned, unless prowlers now came disguised as tall young women with thick masses of honeybrown hair that hung in a wave of damp curls halfway down a slender back. She stood at the sink, filling two things: a glass with water, and a pair of jeans with the most amazingly perfect ass he’d ever seen.

His breath caught, his heart lurched and all parts south woke up, too. As he watched, she lifted a shaking hand and swept it through that long hair, weariness underscoring every movement. Her slumped shoulders reinforced that.

He ran down a list of possibilities and lit on the most likely. A granddaughter. Buddy had mentioned that one lived in L.A. She must have come up when she heard about her grandfather’s accident.

Welcome to Northern California, sweetheart. And thanks for improving the view by bringing that gorgeous ass with you.

He blinked, trying to clear his mind. He’d done enough staring for one night, especially at the posterior of a woman whose grandfather was one of the few men Oliver truly respected.

“Ahem,” he said, clearing his throat.

She dropped the glass. It fell from her hand onto the floor, exploding into a volcano of tiny slivers, splashing water on her pants. Spinning around, her eyes wide and her mouth falling open, she saw him standing there and let out a strangled cry of alarm.

“Whoa, whoa,” he said, realizing what he must look like, shirtless, wearing dirty jeans and, he suddenly realized, still holding a sharp, threatening-looking rake. The woman, who was beyond sexy, with a pair of blazing green eyes and a beautiful face surrounded by that thick, honeycolored tangle of hair, was eyeing him like he’d popped up in front of her in a back alley.

“I’m not going to…”

He was going to say hurt you. But before he could say a word, a pot flew toward his head. He threw up an arm to deflect it, groaning as the metal thunked his elbow, sending him stumbling back into the hallway. He barely managed to stay upright. If not for the rake on which he suddenly leaned, he might have fallen flat on the floor.

But the rake couldn’t help him when the frying pan followed the pot.

One second later, he was flat on the floor, rubbing the middle of his chest. He focused on trying to catch his breath, which had been knocked out of him as if he’d been KO’d by the love child of Ali and Tyson. That skillet must have been made of cast iron, and she’d flung it like a discus wielded by an Olympic champion.

He held his hands up in surrender, trying to form words, though his body had forgotten how to breathe and his ribs were screaming for her head on a platter. Meanwhile, the rake, which he’d been clutching as he fell, toppled forward. Just to add a little insult to the injury, it landed on his shoulder, then clanged to the floor beside him.

Pain, meet agony, pull up a chair why don’t you?

“Get out, I’m calling the police!” she ordered as she scrambled to grab another pot out of the sink.

“Whoa, lady, cool it,” he finally gasped. “I’m not…going to…hurt you.”

“That’s what any sick, raping, ax-murdering psycho would say.”

If his chest didn’t hurt so damned much, and if he wasn’t afraid she would reach for the knife block next, he would have mulled that one over, wondering which she thought him to be: sick, raping, ax-murderer or psycho. All of the above?

Active imagination on that one.

“I’m the…groundskeeper,” he said with a groan as the ache in his chest receded, only to remind him of the ache in his elbow. Funny bone, my ass. “I work here.”

She froze, another pot in one hand, a cell phone in the other, and stared at him from a few feet away. “You work here?”

“Yeah, for Buddy. My name’s Oliver McKean. I saw the lights and was afraid somebody had broken in.”

She eyed him, her stare zoning in on the blood he could feel trickling down the side of his arm. Obviously she’d broken skin, if not bone, with her mad pot-slinging skills.

Nibbling on the corner of a succulent lip, she whispered, “Oh, dear.”

“Yeah. Oh, dear. That’s some swing you’ve got there.”

“I’m so sorry. I’m Candace Reid.”

“Oliver McKean.”

“You said that.”

“I know,” he mumbled, realizing he wasn’t making any sense. The one place she hadn’t hit him was his head, but his thoughts were still a whirl as he tried to figure out why on earth he was reacting so strongly to a woman who’d just tried to kill him.

“Are you Irish?” she asked with a deep frown, sounding more concerned than when she’d thought him a maniacal ax-killing rapist.

“My father is. We lived in Cork for a few years when I was a kid,” he admitted, wondering if his voice still held a hint of an accent. Also wondering why it mattered.

Not seeing the need to discuss his ethnicity, he staggered to his feet. He was none too steady on them, and his lungs still burned. She’d practically knocked him senseless. Dizzy or not, he was incredibly lucky neither of those flying missiles had hit him in the head. They really could have done some damage. But worries about what might have happened dissipated as he stared at her from across the room. Now that he wasn’t afraid for his life, he found himself struck into silence by the beauty of her gently curved face. Dark brows arched over expressive jewelgreen eyes that were still widened with fear and surprise. Beneath a pair of high cheekbones were soft hollows that invited tender exploration. Her amazing lips were made for lots of deep kisses. Her chin was up, determined and strong, as if she wasn’t about to let down her guard completely. He liked that…he especially liked that she remained firm even though her long slender throat quivered and worked as she swallowed down her instinctive anxiety and mistrust.

She wore a delicate, filmy blouse, all cloud and color. It clung to the edge of her slim shoulders, revealing a soft expanse of chest and collarbone. Her skin was creamy, smooth, and his fingers curled together as he imagined touching that softness. The scooped neck of the blouse fell to the tops of her full breasts, revealing a hint of cleavage that left him more breathless than he’d felt after taking a frying pan to the chest.

He continued his perusal, seeing those curvy hips from the front—just as delightful—and the thighs clad in tight denim, on down to the high-heeled boots. Hell, she should have used those things for a weapon; the spiked heels could have carved out a hole in his heart.

Hmm. He suspected this woman could carve her name on any man’s heart. If, of course, he had one still capable of opening up and being carved.

“You’re Buddy’s granddaughter, I presume?” he finally asked, once his brain started working again.

His words snapped her out of her long moment of decompression. Apparently realizing she wasn’t about to be raped, ravaged by a maniac or ax-murdered, she nodded quickly. “Yes. I’m such an idiot. My mother told me that Grandpa’s groundskeeper had been the one to call with the news that he was in the hospital. I can’t believe I took you for a home invader.” She spun around and grabbed a handful of paper towels, striding toward him, her eyes glued on his bleeding arm. “I really am sorry. Let me help you.”

When he saw that she was still armed, he took a step back. “Drop the lethal weapon first, would you?”

Looking down at the pot, she nibbled her lip sheepishly and did as he asked, opening her fingers and dropping the pot to the floor.

Well, not quite to the floor. It had his bare foot to land on first.

The pot fell to the floor with a bang, crushing his toes, then rolling onto the linoleum. “Ow, Jesus,” he yelled, grabbing his flattened foot and hopping on the other.

Her beautiful green eyes saucered as she realized what she’d done. With a strangled sound, she reached for him, but he leaped out of striking range and leaned back against the wall.

“Stay back. Please. Just stay away from me.” His entire body throbbing, he added, “Jeez, lady, you ought to come with a warning label.”

She threw her hand over her mouth in dismay, and bent over at the waist. Sounds like tiny sobs were bursting from her lips and her body trembled.

Great. Just great. Tears.

He quickly shoved away his instinctive reaction, realizing she’d had a hell of a night. Obviously she’d raced up here from Southern California to be with her injured grandfather. She’d been high on fear and adrenaline even before she’d thought she was about to be attacked by a shirtless stranger wielding a rake. Anyone would be a little overwrought.

Realizing she was really mortified, Oliver dropped his foot, praying there were no broken bones, and tried not to wince as he tested his weight on it. “It’s okay…I’m all right. Accidents happen.”

She straightened and peered at him, those green eyes assessing. But she didn’t lower her hand, and her shoulders were now shaking as she made muffled sounds. Funny, her eyes weren’t glossy, as if filled with tears. In fact, if he had to guess, he’d say they were almost twinkling instead.

A sneaking suspicion entered his mind. He reached out, yanked her hand away from her mouth and realized the truth.

She wasn’t crying. She was giggling almost uncontrollably.

2

“WAIT, YOU’RE LAUGHING?”

Oliver couldn’t contain his indignation, not sure whether to retaliate by dropping a pan on her foot or shaking the laughter off her oh-so-kissable lips. She was damned lucky he was not the violent sort, because the shaking thing was definitely winning the internal battle in his mind.

She was also lucky he wasn’t the ax-murdering-maniac sort because wringing her neck was a close second.

Then his gaze landed on those kissable lips, and he thought of something else he’d like to do with them. A few somethings, in fact.

She sucked them into her mouth, obviously trying to control herself. “I’m so sorry,” she said, her laughter deepening and sounding a little frenzied. “That was just so…so Three Stooges!”

“You break my arm, smash a few ribs, crush my shoulder, pulverize my toes and you think it’s hilarious?” His voice was tight with anger. Maybe tomorrow he’d look back and think the situation was funny, but right now he was too concerned about a punctured lung to join in the hilarity.

“I really am sorry,” she murmured.

“Yeah, I can tell.”

Her laughter fading to the occasional little snort, she explained. “I laugh when I’m stressed. It’s awful, I know.”

“Awfully strange, anyway,” he snapped.

“It’s just been such a long day. I was in the middle of a surreal moment even before I got the call about my grandfather. I have been so afraid for him.” She swept a shaking hand through her hair, which looked like it had been swept through a lot recently. “The flight up here was a jam-packed nightmare. The kid beside me spent an hour flinging Cheerios and boogers at my head.”

Eww.

“The cab ride to the house was an exercise in nausea. I needed a drink, but Grandpa appears to have hidden his stash the way he did when I was a kid. And to top it all off, you skulked into the kitchen, looking all big and bad and scared the shit out of me.”

Okay. At some point in that litany of woes, between the boogers, the liquor and the big-n-bad, he got the picture.

She was hysterical.

He understood the reaction. He’d worked with witnesses whose terror had revealed itself via uncontrollable laughter and knew that deep inside, she was churning with anxiety. The laughter had held a tinge of frenzy, her fear and reaction to his presence had been a bit extreme, and now she looked like she was going to…“Oh, hell, please don’t,” he muttered.

But she did. She segued from snickers to sobs in the drawing of a breath. Before he could even take a second to remind himself how utterly useless he felt around crying women, he saw big fat tears roll from her eyes and drip down those soft cheeks.

“Is my grandfather okay?” Sniff. “And are you?” Sniff sniff. “Do I need to take you to the hospital? I can’t believe I attacked you. Believe me, it was my first assault and battery.”

She literally wrung her hands in front of her, clenching and gripping them, as if needing something to hold on to. He had to imagine she was running on empty emotionally and was imagining the worst.

He knew of only two ways to calm her down, to make her stop trying to maim him with kitchen utensils, snort herself to death laughing or sob until she had no tears left.

He started with option one. Reason.

“Buddy is going to be fine, I promise. His doctor said he’ll need surgery and then rehab, but when I left the hospital he was high as a kite on pain meds and pinching the nurses.”

Her lips twitched, and she managed to lift them a tiny bit at the corners.

“And I’ll be fine, too.” He eyed the kitchen sink and tried for humor, hoping to coax another laugh, or even a tiny snort out of her. “Just don’t ever flash a pot at me or I’ll go into post-traumatic shock and instinctively dive for the floor.”

The lips curled a wee bit more. But he didn’t get his hopes up yet.

“How did it happen? My mother didn’t give me any details, just that he’d broken his hip.”

He hesitated, before admitting, “He fell down the front steps off the porch.”

Another sniff. “Such a short fall and so much damage.”

“It happens,” he said, knowing brittle bones could easily be broken. “But he’s going to get a brand-new hip and come home better than ever. Before you know it, he’ll be running marathons.”

“Oh, great, then it’ll be his other hip or his knees.”

He wished he’d quit while he was ahead. She was obviously now picturing her grandfather’s much-loved arms and skull being shattered. Sure enough, to prove it, the bottom lip began to stick out the tiniest bit and she welled up again. Those churning emotions just weren’t going to let her go without a fight.

“C’mere,” he said with a sigh, knowing he had to move on to option two.

Not giving her a warning or a chance to get away, he gently took hold of her shoulders and pulled her closer. She resisted for the briefest moment, as if unsure of his motives.

He reassured her, sighing deeply as he wondered what on earth he’d done to deserve this. Having to act like a wailing wall for a gorgeous woman who was totally offlimits, considering she was his employer’s beloved granddaughter, simply wasn’t fair.

“Just let it out, darlin’. You’ve already maimed and injured me, so you might as well use my one good shoulder to cry on.”

That elicited a sob that verged on a giggle and she gave in to the invitation. The tall, soft woman melted against him. Burying her face in his neck, she wrapped her arms around his waist, as if it was the most natural thing in the world that she should snuggle up against a half-naked stranger in her moment of need.

He stroked the small of her back, felt the wetness of her tears against his neck and murmured consoling words in her ear. She calmed—her slow shudders growing further apart as she took what he was offering. They swayed a little, as if dancing, and he mentally acknowledged that needing a shoulder to cry on wasn’t just an expression. Sometimes that was just exactly the right solution to a problem. Not for nothing was he known as the best brother in the world to his two sisters.

Only this woman was not one of his sisters. Oh, no. She was a beautiful, vulnerable stranger, who, he soon realized, felt incredibly good in his arms. Soft and pliant, warm, all curves and skin and heat and sex appeal. He could feel her gentle exhalations against his bare skin, feel the faint brush of her lips on his nape and was slowly going crazy at the scrape of her nipples through her silky blouse against his chest. He had never been more aware of being shirtless in his life.

He stiffened. Some parts more than others.

He should never have let his mind wander from her mood. Because, while the embrace had started as a comforting offer to a stranger, now he was much too aware that he hadn’t had sex in months and a woman shaped like a centerfold had curled up against him like a vine around a trellis.

Shifting back a little, he hoped like hell she wouldn’t realize he was getting hard while she wept. But she didn’t let him make a gentlemanly getaway. Instead she edged close again, pressing even harder against him. He could feel the warmth at the apex of her thighs, which, with her deliciously long legs, was lined up just perfectly with his groin.

She noticed. She had to notice. Because suddenly, she lifted her head and stared at him. Her soft face was tearstained, but her eyes were wide with shock, confusion and awareness.

Her lips trembled. She licked them, and he held his breath, wondering what on earth she was going to say. Was she about to snap at him and slap his face or issue an invitation? What?

In the end, his wild guesses didn’t even come close. Instead, with a soft, regretful sigh, she drew away and whispered, “Why, oh, God, why did I not meet you in Paris?”

A SHORT TIME later, after Candace had asked the sexy stranger a dozen questions about her grandfather’s condition, she finally allowed herself to think about something else. She now knew for sure that Buddy would be all right. She’d see him tomorrow, but for tonight, she could do nothing else.

Slowly, her fear and worry began to ease away and she let her thoughts drift in another direction. Enough so that, as she sat at the kitchen table and slowly sipped sweet, hot tea with the sexiest man she’d ever seen, she found time to wish two things: that she’d left the pots in the sink, and that she’d never even thought about him in connection with her canceled trip to France.

If she hadn’t seen him, reacted like a high school virgin defending her hymen from a horny football team and attacked him to the point of bloodshed, she wouldn’t have gotten all giggly, weepy and hysterical. If she hadn’t gotten giggly, weepy and hysterical, he wouldn’t have taken her into his big strong arms. If he hadn’t taken her into his big strong arms, he wouldn’t have drawn her against that rock-hard, rippling, sweat-tinged, powerful male body. if he hadn’t drawn her against his body, she might not have felt the rigid proof of his virility pressing deliciously against her sex.

And if he hadn’t gotten hard, she wouldn’t be sitting here vacillating between worrying about her grandfather and wondering when this hot stranger would wake up and smell the estrogen, and realize she was sitting in damp panties.

She shifted in the hard chair. Seriously damp.

Of course, fair was fair. He’d been seriously hard.

Yum.

No. Not yum. You can’t have him.

Sighing, she inhaled the fragrant tea and murmured, “If you give a mouse a cookie…”

“I don’t think your grandfather has any milk,” he replied, hearing her. “He’s lactose intolerant.”

She had to smile that this strong, rugged-looking man understood the reference to a popular children’s book. Especially since his voice was all deep and gravelly, sultry and alluring, and completely inappropriate for uttering rhymes to a little kid.

Uttering sexy, needful growls to an adult woman would be much more up his alley.

“I have a niece. She’s four,” he explained with a shrug. “You?”

Are you asking if I’m single?

She curled her left hand around the cup. The bare left hand. The left hand that was not yet weighed down with the five-carat diamond she suspected Tommy would put on it the minute she got back to L.A.

Remembering Tommy, and everything that ring would entail, she gave a guilty start and dropped her hand into her lap, reaching for the cup with her right one.

“Younger cousins,” she finally replied.

There was no point in letting this man know she was single. No possible reason to want him to realize she had gotten all gooey inside the moment he’d pulled her into his arms to offer her some warmth and human comfort. And it would be pure insanity to hope he’d figure out that the goo had boiled into lava once she’d felt the volcanic rock in his pants.

She didn’t allow herself to feel terribly flattered. Any bare-chested, slick, hard, virile—stop with the adjectives —man would probably stir at the feel of a woman pressing herself against him like she wanted to climb into his skin. That’s what she had done, she realized with embarrassment. She might as well have asked him if he could prettyplease comfort her on top of the hard, broad table, or up against the refrigerator. And wouldn’t it be nice if the comforting didn’t include clothes?

You’re engaged, remember?

Right. Engaged. Which meant the Candace Volcano was going to be all Mt. St. Helens from here on out—i.e., dormant. There might be rumbles, but there would be no eruptions for a hell of a long time. Five years, at least. Oy.

She would be staying here to help her grandfather for as long as he needed her, which meant there would be no time for a trip to Paris. No chance for a wild fling. Tommy wouldn’t want to wait too long to announce their engagement, and she couldn’t blame him. She’d have no time to sow any wild oats and bank some sexy memories. But she couldn’t truly be upset about it. She adored Grandpa and would do anything for him. Including missing out on her one-and-only chance to be a sex tourist.

So go for the gardener.

She flicked the thought out of her head, not for the first time. That wasn’t going to happen. A spring fling in Paris had sounded ideal, but there was no way she was hooking up with someone who worked for her grandfather. She’d wanted someone from out of the country, preferably a stud who didn’t speak English. Gorgeous, hung, with a penchant for oral sex and dumb as a rock would have suited her just fine.

This man—as far as she knew right now—had only two of those qualities. He was gorgeous. And oh, had he felt hung.

As for the rest? Well, that mouth looked like it could give a woman incredible pleasure. But he certainly didn’t appear dumb. He spoke the language. And, worst of all, lived in her own state. Once she became fodder for the paparazzi, they could easily track him down. They would be very interested to hear that Tommy Shane’s beloved fiancée had been having a wild, outrageously sexual affair with a man right before she’d said, “I will.”

Mmm. Wild. Outrageously sexual. Oh, did she suspect it would be.

Just her luck that she’d met a man who appealed to her on such a deep, powerful level on the very night she’d agreed to give up sex for five years and marry her best friend.

“Warming up a little?” he asked.

She had been, sip by sip. Grandfather’s house was old, damp and chilly, and she hoped her suitcase got here soon with her warmer clothes. “Yes, thanks.”

“The nights’ll get warmer soon,” he said. “Or so I’ve been told.”

“You’re not from around here?”

“No.” He hesitated, then added, “I moved up from L.A. a few months ago.”

Ahh! The plot thickened. Had he been some kind of gardener to the Hollywood elite? She suspected any number of starlets would have been happy to have him trim their hedges and do some deep planting in their gardens.

“Why?”

“It was just time,” he explained, his expression and tone telling her that was all he was going to say.

Talk about cryptic.

The silence between them resumed, though it wasn’t an uncomfortable one. They both merely sipped their tea, as they had been for the past few minutes. Oliver—that was his name, Oliver, and what a strong, solid, sexy, old-fashioned name it was—had gently pushed her into a chair and insisted on making her some tea. He obviously did know her grandfather well. A cup of Earl Grey was Buddy Frye’s solution to soothe all the ills of the world. Tea had cured Candace’s scraped knees and hurt feelings, broken hearts and hangovers. And now, it had made her finally relax and brought her tension down a few notches.

She wondered if Oliver had adopted the habit from his employer, of if he was a similar type of man—a calm, deliberate man who always seemed to know how to offer comfort in exactly the right way at the right moment. Whatever the reason, like the hug that had gone from sweet to smokin’, it was a nice gesture, one she appreciated.

Of course, she would appreciate it more if the man would put a damn shirt on so she wouldn’t have to keep shoving her eyeballs back in their sockets every time he moved.

Deltoids and pectorals and biceps, oh, my!

The last thing she had expected to find when she’d let herself into her grandfather’s house, which she’d only ever visited once before, was a hunk of masculine sex appeal showing up in the kitchen. Her mother had, indeed, mentioned a groundskeeper when she’d called earlier today. But she hadn’t said anything about a groundskeeper with nearly jet-black hair, thick and wavy and hanging a little long around his stubbled, two-days-past-needing-a-shave jaw. Nothing could have prepared Candace for the dark dreamy eyes, the strong brow, the slashing cheekbones or the powerful body. Absolutely nothing.

She’d met a lot of handsome men in Hollywood. Probably some who were more handsome than Oliver—Tommy among them. But in terms of raw, masculine sex appeal, she’d seen nobody better.

“Better?”

“Not a single one,” she mumbled.

“What?”

Realizing she’d spoken aloud, she quickly backtracked. “Sorry, I mean, I am better. Much. Just tired, that’s all.”

“So, you said you came up from L.A.?”

“Yes. I headed for the airport right after I got my mother’s call. I figured I should come and see how Grandpa was doing myself. I’m really hoping I can handle things so Mom won’t have to fly out here.”

His brow shot up. Knowing he’d been on the receiving end of her mother’s telephone panic, he had to be wondering about that.

“My father had a heart attack two months ago,” she explained. “He needs Mom there with him in Florida. So if I can be here for Buddy and set my mom’s mind at ease about my grandfather, that’s what I’ll do.”

He frowned, encircling his teacup in his hand. “Buddy might be in rehab for weeks.”

Weeks. Well, that wasn’t great, but it was doable. She was an independent contractor and was in between movie projects right now. She’d been asked to submit some preliminary sketches for a depression-era drama that could be a major motion picture in a few years, but that was still in the early stages. She didn’t have the assignment yet, and she could work on the prelims here. Besides, Leo DiCaprio, who was supposed to be starring in the film, was the easiest guy in Hollywood to dress. The only thing that might call her back to Southern California earlier would be her famous—infamous?—engagement.

“I’ll work something out,” she mumbled, wondering how long Tommy would be willing to hold off. She wouldn’t want to announce anything while she was taking care of her grandfather. The last thing the elderly man would need once he got home was reporters and photographers knocking at the door. “I don’t have to be in L.A. right away.”

“What do you do?”

Oh, I’m in the movie business. Costume design. Did you see the last Cameron film? That was me.

That was the standard reply, often said with a slightly superior tone, just because that’s how everybody in L.A. rolled. But she just didn’t feel like playing that game. Not here, in the middle of the night, with a stranger. Not after the day she’d had. “I’m involved with fashion design.”

His eyes didn’t immediately glaze, the way most men’s would. “My sisters would probably love to meet you. I think they were each born holding a copy of Vogue.”

She ran the tip of her finger across the rim of her cup. “Not that kind of fashion. I work for some of the production companies doing costuming.”

He grunted. “Movies, huh?”

Her back stiffened as he reacted just as she’d expected him to. Most people were awed by her connection to Tinseltown. This one, this earthy, swaggering man, just didn’t seem the type. He looked like he could live out some macho, shoot-em-up action film rather than having to sit through one. Of course, what such a man was doing working as a groundskeeper, she had no idea.

“What’s wrong with the movies?”

He shrugged.

“You don’t like films?”

“Sure I do. I just don’t have much respect for the people who make them.”

The vision of him being at the beck and call of some spoiled, rich-bitch movie star popped into her head. She had a hard time envisioning this man taking orders from anyone and wondered if he’d gotten tired of being propositioned by his clients. “Interact with a lot of Hollywood types, do you?”

He eyed her then shifted his gaze away, muttering a cryptic, “Not anymore.”

Meaning, he had once upon a time?

Something suddenly occurred to her, which could explain why he seemed like such a fish out of water. “Wait. Tell me you’re not a method actor up here in the wilds of Northern California getting ready to audition for some back-to-nature film,” she said, horrified at the very idea.

He barked a harsh laugh. “Not likely.” His lips twitching as he lifted his glass, he added, “What about you? Did you come out here all starry-eyed, looking for your big break, and end up shifting gears into costuming when the acting thing didn’t work out?”

“I couldn’t act my way out of a speeding ticket if my car was on fire and the cop who pulled me over was my uncle.”

His brow scrunched. “Why would you drive a burning car?”

“I…what?”

“If the car’s on fire, why would you keep driving it? Why wouldn’t you pull over and get out?”

“Are you always so literal?”

“Do you really have an uncle who’s a cop?”

She growled, low in her throat. Seeing the twinkle in his eye made the growl louder, so she continued the game of Answer a Question with a Question with a question. “Do you always bait strange women?”

“Only women who specialize in death-by-kitchenware.” His tone was deadpan. “And those I make tea for in the middle of the night.”

The faintest hint of his smile made her spine relax a bit. He might not look like he had much of a sense of humor, and his gruff voice sure didn’t sound like it was used much for laughing, but she suspected there lurked a good-humored man beneath the superhot, strongand-silent exterior.

She lifted her cup. “Speaking of which, you make a very good cup of tea. It was just what I needed. Thanks again.”

“Tea was a staple in our house. It’s one thing I have in common with your grandfather—he does like his cuppa.”

“So he does.”

The way he said cuppa warmed her up inside. She did love an Irish accent, and while his was buried under a couple of decades of blunt Americanism, she still heard the lilt every now and again.

Another sip. The tea was cooling now, her cup nearly drained, and she knew it had to be close to 4:00 a.m. By all rights, she should be tucked in bed in one of the drafty upstairs guest rooms. But something made her stay. She just didn’t want to be alone in this big house. Especially because she still couldn’t quite reconcile it as being Grandpa’s. He’d lived in a condo in St. Petersburg when she’d been growing up, for crying out loud, about as far from this wild, untamed landscape as one could get.

“What’s he doing here, anyway?” she grumbled.

“Who, Buddy?”

“Yes. What on earth possessed him to come out here and buy this place?”

“He’s living the dream, from the sound of it. He told me he’s always loved wine.”

“I don’t ever remember him drinking anything but Riunite Lombrusco when I was a kid,” she retorted.

“I think his tastes have matured a bit.”

“Are there even any grapes growing around here?”

“Not yet. That’s my department.”

“When’s that going to happen?”

“It’s a long way off. Probably next summer.”

“Seriously? You aren’t even going to plant for a year?”

His shrug was decidedly rueful. “It takes time to prepare the soil, especially since it’s been ignored for so long.”

“Have you worked at a winery before? Are grapes your specialty?”

“Not exactly.”

“So what did you do before you came here?”

He had tensed during her questioning, and she figured she was being pushy. But asking him about his past was better than asking him how on earth he managed to find shirts that fit over all those muscles.

“Let’s just say I’ve been digging in the dirt a lot in recent years. This job makes me feel a whole lot cleaner.”

That was mysterious, but his clipped tone said it was as much as she was going to get.

“Now, your grandfather’s surgery is scheduled for 10:00 a.m. Why don’t you grab a few hours’ sleep and we’ll try to get to the hospital at around eight?”

“All right.”

Rising, she picked up her cup, and his, carrying them over to the sink. She noted that, while brewing the tea, Oliver had stuck the pots and pans in the dishwasher, as if to get them out of throwing range. Candace still couldn’t believe she’d thought a few kitchen items would stop him if he’d really been some kind of villain. With that body—those strong arms and the table-wide chest—he could pick her up and break her in half.

Or, a wicked part of her realized, just split her in half with that amazing power tool in his pants. Not having had sex in a while, she couldn’t be entirely sure her memory wasn’t faulty, but if she had to guess, she’d say that had been a good eight inches of jackhammer straining against his zipper.

“Need a hand?”

She started, not having realized he’d left the table and walked up behind her. It was bad enough to be caught thinking he had an amazing body, but even worse to be standing here wondering about the size of the man’s johnson.

“No, thank you,” she said, hearing the breathiness in her voice. He was just so close, so big and warm. All she could think about was how it had felt to be pressed against him, his hands on her hips, his salt-tinged skin against her mouth.

It had been a long time since she’d been close to anyone. Honestly, the thought of not being held in a man’s strong arms for five years was almost as upsetting to her as knowing she would not be filled and possessed by one in the most raw, sexual way.

Almost.

“Okay, meet you outside at seven-thirty?”

She nodded, turning to face him, hoping her cheeks weren’t pink. She was not the blushing type. Still, she feared the heat in her face hadn’t been caused by the steam rising off the hot water in the sink.

“Thank you. And again, I’m sorry I attacked you.”

He shrugged. “Wasn’t the first time.”

She quirked a brow. “Incite a lot of women to violence, do you?”

“Not recently.”

But he didn’t say anything else. He merely nodded good-night and left the kitchen, leaving her wondering what the real story was behind Oliver McKean.

3

CANDACE REID WAS as good as her word. Despite having probably only gotten the same few hours of sleep he had the night before, she was waiting on her grandfather’s front steps when he walked out of his cottage at 7:30 a.m.

She looked like crap.

Bloodshot eyes, pale cheeks sans makeup, sopping wet hair slung up in a ponytail—definitely not the Candace he’d met at 3:00 a.m. She wore a shapeless, heavy hoodie that would be much too warm in a few hours when the day shifted into typical Northern California mode, with its wildly swinging night-to-day temperature changes. The jeans weren’t designer; in fact, they looked worn and scruffy. And the functional sneakers in no way resembled the spike-heeled do-me shoes of the night before.

He knew he wasn’t seeing her at her sexy best, but couldn’t help thinking he liked this not-so-put-together version of the Hollywood costume designer. In her real life, with all the feminine trappings women relied on, she probably would have blended into the stylish crowd to which he had become so accustomed when living in L.A. Hell, he’d even been a part of it on occasion. But here, out of her element, obviously uncomfortable and not making any pretentious efforts to impress anyone—including him—he found her vulnerability refreshing.

Huh. Part of him should be a little disappointed that she wasn’t making any effort to impress him, considering how thick the sexual tension between them had been the night before. It had filled that kitchen like an invisible fog. He’d definitely thought about her long after he’d gone back to his bed.

But he hadn’t come to Sonoma to get caught up with a woman. He’d chosen this area because it was his favorite place to vacation—he loved the scenery, the pace and the people. He’d needed to reevaluate, to recover a sense of peace and tranquility that had been lost during his years running in the rat race with some huge rats. This period of solitude was about regrouping, finding his focus and doing penance for the shitty things he’d done to get ahead in the Orange County D.A.’s office.

Taking a sabbatical from the spotlight hadn’t been a bad side benefit, either. The press had had a field day with him when he’d blown the lid off some of the shenanigans taking place in the courthouse. Rising young stars in the prosecutor’s office weren’t supposed to refuse to railroad an innocent man in order to close a big case, and they definitely weren’t supposed to blow the whistle on the misconduct of others. Oh, yeah, he had definitely been front-page fodder, which made him persona non grata with the legal types in L.A., and would for quite some time. Frankly, that was fine with him. He wanted to forget about that period of his life, and wanted everyone there to forget about him.

So, no, having a hot affair just didn’t fit in with his plan of atonement. It was just as well Candace had dialed her sex appeal down a notch, even if nothing could really eradicate the beauty of her face or the curviness of her body.

If her appearance today was meant to send him a message, he’d gotten it. Loud and clear. She wasn’t interested.

“You sleep okay?” he asked as he walked over, already knowing the answer to his question.

“Sleep? What’s that? I feel like the princess from the fairy tale, only there wasn’t a pea under the mattress, there were cantaloupes the size of my head.”

“I don’t think your grandfather has had a chance to redecorate. A lot of the furniture came with the house, so it’s probably pretty old.”

“Who owned it before? Fred Flintstone?”

He couldn’t contain a chuckle. “The house was built by an old silent movie star, and it remained in his family for several decades until it fell into ruin. He supposedly threw some wild parties with his Hollywood buddies.”

“Huh…my kingdom for a Westin heavenly bed. I’d rather be comfortable than sleep on the mattress that once held Charlie Chaplin.” She winced and rubbed her shoulder. “And still might, given the bony lumps inside it.”

The old Oliver, the one who’d once been young and carefree and had done killer impressions that cracked up his sisters, might have tottered side to side and swung an invisible cane.

The new Oliver—hardened by the things he’d seen, the things he’d done—barely even remembered that idealistic guy.

“Ready?”

“Sure.”

She stepped into the passenger seat of the beat-up old truck as he got in behind the wheel and together, they headed toward the hospital. He could feel her tension and her anticipation. She sat forward on her seat, as if urging the old bucket of rust to go faster.

“Would you sit still?” he grumbled. “Visiting hours don’t even start until eight.”

“If we keep going negative-two miles an hour, we won’t be there until it’s time for Grandpa to go in for his surgery.”

“If we were going negative-two miles an hour, we’d be going backward.”

She smirked. “Now you’re just being silly.”

Unaccustomed to being called anything of the sort, he tightened his hands on the steering wheel.

“So how did you end up working for my grandfather?”

His grip grew even tighter. “I was just wandering. We ran into each other and he told me he was looking for help to get the old place up and running. Lucky for me, I had some time and experience.”

His experience with grounds keeping had been limited to his lawn-cutting business during high school. But that had been enough for Buddy, who, he suspected, had hired him because he wanted the company as much as Oliver’s strong back. And it had helped that Oliver was connected to the estate. He also suspected Buddy had sensed Oliver needed to be there, to work hard, not think and stay away from most of the world.

The old man had asked him if he was a criminal hiding out from the law. When Oliver had sworn he was not, they’d shaken hands and that had been that. Four months later, after studying everything he could find on the wine business, Oliver had calluses on his blisters, muscles in places he’d never known he’d needed them and the beginnings of a clear head.

“Sorry, but you just don’t look much like a gardener,” she said, obviously realizing he was prevaricating.

He cast her a sideways glance and let a faint smile lift the corner of his mouth. “You don’t look much like a fashion designer, either.”

Instead of taking offense, she barked a laugh and lifted a hand to her sopping ponytail. “Touché. I know I’m a mess. Aside from the horrible bed, a cricket kept chirping somewhere inside the house. And the water in the shower ranged from cold to frigid.”

“Devastating,” he murmured.

She continued, “There’s not a hair dryer in sight, because, of course, Grandpa doesn’t need one. I almost stuck my head over the stove but figured that might be pushing it.”

“Knowing how dangerous things tend to happen when you’re in a kitchen, that was probably a good call. And we don’t want to tax rescue services with a call about a fire. They were already out here once this week.”

“Did I mention that the airline misplaced my big suitcase? I only had my carry-on, which is why I’m wearing the old clothes that my sister left here when she came to visit a year ago.”

Judging by the clothes, the sister was a different type of dresser altogether.

“We can run by a store later if you need to shop,” he said.

“If the airline doesn’t show up with my things within a couple of days, I might have to take you up on that. I had the basic necessities in my carry-on, but I’ll be out of stuff pretty soon.”

“Are you really going to stick around for a while?” he asked, wondering if she truly intended to stay for weeks. Man, he hoped not. He was supposed to be enjoying a retreat from the real world. But this talkative, beautiful woman had brought it crashing in on him like the winds of a hurricane.

“Maybe. I’m between projects and was supposed to be going out of town for a couple of weeks anyway,” she said, crossing her arms and leaning against her window to look out at the passing scenery. “This isn’t exactly France, though.”

“You were going to France?”

She nodded but didn’t look over.

“Why would it have been better if you’d met me there?”

She jerked and swung around to stare at him. “What?”

“You said that last night.”

She bit that succulent bottom lip.

He prodded her. “Your exact words were, I believe, ‘Why, oh, God, why, didn’t I meet you in Paris?’”

She huffed. “Jeez, what are you, a transcriptionist?”

“I have a very good memory.”

“Obviously.”

“So?”

“So what?”

She was obviously trying to deflect, and he considered letting her get away with it. But something about that sad face and those slumped shoulders made him want to rile her up a little. He’d been raised with sisters, so he knew that nothing worked better to get them out of a sad slump than giving them something to be mad about.

“So, why would it have been better if you’d met me in Paris?”

“I was hysterical. I didn’t know what I was saying.”

“Not that hysterical. As I recall, you were pretty damned calm at that point. Sedate even.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Shall we talk about how you were at that point?”

Hell, if she thought he was going to apologize for getting a hard-on when he’d had a gorgeous woman in his arms, she had another think coming. “I have a Y chromosome. And you’re beautiful.”

Her bluff having been called, she looked away.

“Paris,” he reminded her.

Crossing her arms over her chest and harrumphing, she said, “I just meant if I was going to end up in some hot guy’s arms this week, it should have been in the city of light, not in my grandfather’s kitchen.”

He made a mental note of the hot, wondering if she even realized she’d just revealed a little more about her thoughts of last night.

Casting him an arch look, she added, “By the way, it could have been any guy’s arms.”

“Hot.”

“What?”

“You said any hot guy’s arms.”

“It’s like I’m riding with a digital voice recorder.”

“Like I said. Good memory.”

“The point is, I was just speaking in general terms about how a run-down old kitchen can’t compare to the most romantic city in the world. That’s all.”

He wasn’t buying it. “Didn’t sound that way.”

“Would you stop interrogating me?”

There was fire in her eyes now, and color in her cheeks. Indignation wafted from her, and he congratulated himself on getting her mind off her troubles. Let her be annoyed at him, and engage in a little verbal sparring. At least it would be a few minutes less she spent worrying about her obviously deeply loved grandfather.

“Why were you going to France?”

“Did you miss the part about not interrogating me?”

“It’s just a simple question.”

“One that’s really none of your business.”

“So, not for work, then.”

She just huffed.

He speculated aloud. “If there was a possibility you’d end up in some random guy’s arms, you obviously weren’t meeting up with a boyfriend.”

“Did you also miss the part where I said it was about kitchen vs. Paris and not about a stupid man?”

“Your boyfriend’s stupid?”

“Argh!”

Defense attorneys hadn’t called him the Honey Badger of Hollywood for no reason. Oliver had been born with a persistent gene. “Was that an answer?”

“I don’t have a stupid boyfriend.”

“Well he can’t be very smart if he lets you come alone up to Sonoma to be stalked by a potential ax-murdering maniac in your grandfather’s kitchen.”

“There’s no boyfriend, okay? Stupid or otherwise!”

He’d known that’s what she was saying but was glad for the confirmation, anyway. He couldn’t say why that certainty sent a hint of relief gushing through his veins, but it did. “Well, that’s good. I’m afraid I’d lose a little respect for you if you liked stupid guys.”

“Right now, they’re sounding very appealing,” she mumbled.

“Low standards, huh?”

“No, I just wouldn’t have to be couching every word I say so it couldn’t be used against me in a court of law.”

That was striking a little close to home. “Because a stupid guy would understand you better?”

“No, because I wouldn’t give a damn if he didn’t!”

“You calling me smart, and saying you give a damn?” He wondered if she could see his half smirk. “Gee, hot and smart in one conversation. Better watch it, Miss Reid, or you’ll make my head swell.”

“Shut up, all right? Just. Stop. Talking.”

He finally started to laugh. The sound felt a little rusty; he didn’t make it very often anymore. And after a few seconds, she slowly joined in.

“You did that on purpose.”

“Maybe.”

“Women must threaten your life on a regular basis.”

“I guess.”

They were silent for a moment, then she sighed softly and said, “Thank you.”

She didn’t have to elaborate. He knew what she meant. So he merely replied, “You’re welcome.”

A few minutes later, they arrived at the hospital. Seeing it ratcheted up her tension again, and she was yanking the handle and hopping out of the truck the second he parked. He caught up with her at the hospital entrance and escorted her to Buddy’s room.

After a soft knock, they entered to find the old man dozing. He was still hooked up to machines and a morphine drip and probably looked pretty bad to his granddaughter. But compared to how he’d looked after he’d fallen yesterday, this was quite an improvement. Oliver wasn’t sure he’d ever get over the terror he’d felt when he’d heard the loud cry of pain and he’d run around the house to see Buddy lying on the ground, looking like a fragile, broken porcelain doll.

“Grandpa?”

The eyes shot open and the old man turned to stare at her, his blue eyes shining with vitality and affection. “Candy-cane, what are you doing here?” He cast a glance at Oliver. “I told you not to worry anybody.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, bending to kiss his forehead. She tenderly brushed away a long strand of silvery hair—used in the ultimate old-man comb-over to cover the sizable bald spot on his pate. “Mom was going to come herself…”

“Ridiculous! She needs to stay in Florida and take care of your stodgy old fart of a father.”

Seeing the smile on Candace’s face, and the matching one on Buddy’s, Oliver could only think theirs was a closeknit family and the joke was an old one. Buddy had to be at least eighty, but he was usually as peppy and energetic as a much-younger man.

“Well, that’s why I came, to scope out the situation and see if she needed to visit.”

“She doesn’t!”

“You certainly seem peppy.”

“I’m feeling no pain,” he admitted. “You really don’t have to stay.”

“Of course I’m staying. I’ll be here when you get out of surgery, and I’ll be at your house waiting for you when you come home.”

He didn’t argue anymore, looking visibly touched and showing just the faintest hint of vulnerability. Buddy might not want to be a bother, but when it came to being in the hospital, nothing beat having family nearby. The old man hadn’t said anything about being nervous about his operation, but considering he hadn’t been expecting any such thing twenty-four hours ago, he had to be worried about it.

“I think I’ll give you two some time alone,” Oliver said. “Buddy, I just wanted to say I’m here and hope everything goes well with the surgery. I have no doubt you’ll be kicking up clods of dirt and rocks in no time.”

His boss nodded. “Thank you for bringing my grandbaby to see me.”

“Not a problem.”

“You’ll make sure she’s okay out there at the house? It’s awfully lonely and desolate for a helpless young girl on her own.”

He saw Candace roll her eyes at the description. “I’ll be fine,” she insisted. “I certainly don’t need a babysitter.”

“Humor an old man. Promise me you’ll let Oliver look after you.”

She glanced back and forth between them, her mouth opening and snapping closed. Obviously she didn’t want to promise any such thing. However, she didn’t want to upset her elderly relative, either. Finally, she hedged. “If I need anything, I’ll be sure to ask him.”

That could range from needing a roll of toilet paper to needing a spider killed. What it wasn’t was an agreement to let him watch over her.

“Promise?”

She obviously didn’t like being pressed, and mumbled, “If there’s a dire emergency, Oliver is the first one I’ll call.”

Buddy didn’t appear thrilled by the concession, but apparently knew he’d pushed hard enough. “All right.” Then he extended his hand. “Thank you again, Oliver.”

Oliver walked over for a handshake, but when he tried to end it, the old man didn’t let go. Instead, Buddy clutched his hand, while also holding his granddaughter’s.

“So, you two are getting along okay?”

If Cupid had ever suffered from a broken hip, he’d probably have taken a day off. Not so for Buddy Frye.

“Grandpa,” she said warningly.

“She’s already tried to kill me,” Oliver said, caught off guard.

Buddy snickered. Obviously the pain meds were still in fine working order. Eyeing Candace, he said, “Did I ever tell you about what your grandma did to me once, back when we were dating? She shoved me in front of a moving car.”

“No, you didn’t tell me, and I don’t believe it,” she replied a little primly. Then she gave Oliver a look that said, Don’t you dare make fun of me about this.

“Yep. She said I was smiling too much at a waitress, so she pushed me into the street. My, that woman loved me.”

“She had a funny way of showing it,” Oliver couldn’t help mumbling. “Imagine if you’d ever really flirted with someone. You’d have been nose-to-nose with a freight train.”

Candace obviously heard and her lips quirked.

“I just want you two to get along,” Buddy said, settling deeper into his bed and arranging his covers over himself. He wasn’t looking at either of them. “I think you probably have a lot in common.”

“I doubt it,” Candace said, her tone saying the subject was at an end.

Oliver didn’t back her up, or offer her a reassuring glance. He couldn’t deny he found the idea of her grandfather playing matchmaker pretty cute, even if the very idea that she’d need him to was ridiculous. The woman was smart, beautiful, funny…she wouldn’t need an elderly relative fixing her up. He suspected she could have just about any man she wanted.

She wants a stupid, foreign one, he reminded himself. Not you.

Which was just as well. He’d already decided he was not getting personally involved with Candace Reid. So the less time he spent in her company, the better.

She could take care of herself, of that he had no doubt. He would remember Buddy’s request and help her in the case of a major emergency, like if the pipes burst or a robber turned up. But as far as spiders and toilet paper went, she was on her own, and he was steering clear.

It was better that way…for both of them.

4

IT WAS THE size of a Volkswagen.

Big, hairy, with a million eyes and fuzzy spiked legs and probably a sac full of poison hidden on its bulbous body.

Spiders. God, she hated spiders. Especially spiders who were blocking the only exit from the kitchen, where she stood, wearing a filmy, short little bathrobe, freezing her butt off because she’d come down to put coffee on right after she’d gotten out of the cold-as-ice shower.

“Go away,” she ordered in a quivery voice.

The spider ignored her and remained planted right in her path. Beady little pinpoint eyes stared up at her, red and angry—or maybe not, but they looked that way to her—and she knew if he had a mouth, it was smirking.

She edged backward toward the stove, thankful she’d glanced down before walking out of the kitchen, because if she’d placed her bare foot on that furry little beast, she would have screamed loud enough for Tommy to hear her back in L.A. Besides, the little creature looked big enough to have flung her off rather than being smashed flat.

Candace wasn’t scared by much. Snakes didn’t bother her; she had been skydiving so she wasn’t afraid of heights. She’d even bungee jumped off a bridge in Mexico once. She’d stared down more than her fair share of grubby dudes with cheesy come-on lines on the street.

But bugs? Spiders in particular?

The little bastards terrified her.

“Candace?” a voice called. A voice that was familiar, even though she hadn’t talked to him much in the past few days.

She and Oliver, as if by unspoken agreement, had spent little time together since the morning her grandfather had tried to fix them up. When they’d left late that day, after visiting with Grandpa in the recovery room, Oliver had brought her to a car rental place so she could get her own vehicle. She didn’t want to have to rely on him to run her back and forth to the hospital, which was where she spent most of her time. They ran into each other there on occasion, had grabbed coffee or a quick lunch and engaged in a little small talk. But as if they both realized they probably shouldn’t spend too much time together out at the house, where they were entirely alone, they’d avoided interaction. They exchanged mostly waves as they were coming or going, or when he was working out on the grounds, and she was watching him while pretending she wasn’t at all interested.

Any woman would be interested. It was bad enough seeing him inside at the hospital, clothed and respectable. When he worked, when he stripped off his shirt to wipe his sweaty, dirty face, and those muscles rippled and gleamed, he was male beauty in motion. The few times they had talked at home, she’d done everything she could to keep from revealing how incredibly attracted she was to him. Sometimes, though, she caught him staring at her, and suspected she wasn’t doing a very good job.

She only wished he would do something to reveal whether or not he felt the same way. So far, he hadn’t. He’d been cordial and polite, never more than that, as if she’d suddenly become his employer now that Grandpa was out of commission.

Got a task for you there, Mr. Groundskeeper. How about doing a little plowing for me?

She scrunched her eyes shut, muttering, “Not French, not stupid, off-limits.”

“Candace? Are you here?”

“In the kitchen,” she said, not sure whether she was hoping he would turn right back around and leave, or that he’d stride in and accidentally squish Mr. Spider so she wouldn’t have to (A) deal with the arachnid herself, or (B) technically ask for Oliver’s help.

“I just wanted to let you know your suitcase has finally made it. The delivery service just left it on the porch. I signed for it.”

Oh, thank goodness. She’d been fighting with the airline about it all week, fearing she would have to put in a claim to replace everything she’d packed for the trip. She’d run out of her sister Madison’s left-behind clothes and had had to wash and rewash the few items she’d had in her small carry-on bag. Especially the panties. Hmm. Funny how she’d gone through panties at a record rate since she’d met Oliver. That man ought to buy stock in Victoria’s Secret.

“I’ll bring it in. Do you want me to haul it up to your room?”

She nibbled her lip, wanting no such thing. Oliver in her bedroom, near her messed bed with the silky nightie tossed carelessly on top? Him filling her private space with that delectable, intoxicating man smell?

Hell, no. She was already having the most intense, erotic dreams about the guy without ever having to picture him near her bed. No way was she going to invite even hotter ones.

“No, it’s okay. You can just leave it in the hall.”

She waited to hear him bring in the bag and leave. Waited for an acknowledgment—something. But there was nothing but silence. Frowning, she risked edging a tiny bit closer to the doorway, never taking her eyes off her fuzzy enemy, who showed no signs of moving out of the way. She briefly considered jumping over him, but had the most horrible vision of him launching up while she was split-legged above him. For all she knew, he could be the bug world-record holder at the high jump. Considering she wore nothing but the short robe, she wasn’t prepared to even think about where he might land if he leaped. Her vajayjay might have grown cobwebs from disuse, but that was taking things a step too far.

She desperately wanted to go out and make sure Oliver was gone, then dash up the stairs and put some clothes on before he could come back, but it looked like she was going to be involved in a spider standoff for hours. Thinking, she finally grabbed the broom and tried waving it in his general direction. But it wasn’t until she got the bristles to within six inches or so that the thing began to move.

Straight toward her.

“No—get away from me!”

A hard pounding emerged from the hallway. She recognized it as running footsteps just as Oliver burst into the kitchen. He didn’t hold a rake this time, but the look on his face said he expected trouble.

“What is it?” he snapped as he scanned the room. “What’s wrong?”

“Uh, nothing,” she said, forcing a smile. Though, when she saw where he stood, she didn’t have to force it any further. Because unless the creepy crawly had moved really fast, he was right now stuck to the bottom of a man’s thicksoled work boot. Although she loved most creatures, she wasn’t about to start playing a dirge for that one, who’d looked like a mad scientist’s experimental cross between a bug and a dinosaur.

“Who were you talking to?”

“Nobody. I thought you’d left.”

“I was bringing in your suitcase,” he explained, walking closer, studying her face to see if she was lying, perhaps covering for a bad guy hiding in the pantry. He obviously wasn’t going to go away without an explanation.

Knowing she had to, she admitted in a voice a little above a whisper, “There was a spider.”

His frown disappeared. A twinkle might have appeared in those dark bedroom eyes, but he had the courtesy not to smile. “One that speaks English and follows orders?”

“Ha-ha, very funny. That thing was huge. I mean, it could have been wearing a mask, swinging from webs and looking for the Green Goblin!”

“Comic book fan, huh?”

“Movie biz, remember?”

And considering Tommy was hoping to be cast as the latest comic hero, he’d made her watch a bunch of them recently. She wasn’t a huge fan of the genre, but had to admit, some of those guys did an awesome job filling out their clingy costumes. She’d become a huge Jeremy Renner fan in the past year and fantasized about getting to dress him. Undressing him would be a mighty fine experience, too.

“So where is this huge mutant creature?”

“Gone.”

“Where’d he go?”

“I think onto the bottom of your shoe.”

“You sure? I didn’t hear anything that sounded like the crushing of a colossus.”

“Well, he’s not…” Her voice trailed off and her eyes rounded as she saw a black leg disappearing behind the table leg. She squeaked, grabbed his arm and ducked behind him. “Oh, God.”

“What?”

Keeping her voice low, as if they were facing a ravaging tiger, she replied, “He’s right over there.”

He followed her gaze and snorted. “That’s your monster spider? He’s tiny.”

“That thing’s as big as my hand!” Closing her eyes, she begged, “Please take it away, Oliver. I’ll pay you…. I’ll bake you a cake, cook you dinner. Just please get it out of here.”

“Are you a good cook?”

“The best. Excellent. Cordon Bleu. Restaurants vie for my services.”

“Are you lying?”

“Oh, hell, yes. Right through my teeth. Now would you please help me?”

“I thought you didn’t need any help except in the most dire emergency.”

“This is dire.”

“Are you an arachnophobe?”

“If that means I am utterly terrified to my bones and feel like I’m going to throw up if I so much as glimpse a spider, then yes, that’s me.”

“Gotcha.”

He didn’t tease her anymore, as if knowing she wasn’t playing the weak girlie-girl in some effort to entice him. Not, she hoped, that he would ever expect her to. Turning, he grabbed the dustpan, then unhooked her death grip from the broom. Drawing on his primal, caveman-hunter genes, he stalked the monster, deftly swept it into the pan and carried it toward the front door.

“Are you just going to let it go?” she asked, following him. “What if it gets back in?”

“I’m sure he’d be too afraid to risk it. You’re pretty intimidating.”

“Are you sure you shouldn’t squish it?”

“Bloodthirsty, aren’t you?”

She thought about it. She wasn’t, really. Still, some things were just beyond the bounds of humanity, and sharing a house with a big honking spider was one of them.

“You’ll be glad for him during mosquito season.”

“Maybe if they’re killer mosquitoes carrying the ebola virus. Otherwise, I’ll invest in calamine lotion and take my chances.”

He opened the door, walked outside and was back with the broom and dustpan a moment later. Leaning them both against the wall, he said, “All gone.”

Relieved, she drew in a deep breath and whispered, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. You okay now?”

She nodded slowly. “Oh, sure. Fine.”

Her pulse finally stopped racing and her muscles loosened. The nausea receded, as did the panic. Not for the first time in her life, she found herself wondering if an older cousin had dangled a spider in her face when she was a baby or something. Because her phobia about them had been lifelong and was, even she could admit it, a little obsessive. Now that her heart wasn’t thumping hard enough to beat out of her chest, she could acknowledge she might have overacted just a teeny, tiny bit.

Feeling almost normal, she waited for Oliver to turn and walk out the door. Considering he usually avoided her, that’s what she expected him to do. But for some reason, he didn’t leave. He just stood there, two feet away, drawing in slow, even breaths as he studied her.