Chapter One

The vintage rental house was old, but Ginnie didn’t expect it to fall in on her. Houses didn’t do that. Not even during Portland, Oregon’s famous rainstorms. And not even when stupid exes marched back and forth on roofs, making stupid, macho points.

Still, when the ceiling began to crack and sag ominously, weighted down by debris Rick kicked loose, she had a sudden premonition. “Get off my roof!” she yelled again, but this time louder—good and scared. “It’s going to fall in!”

“Say you’ll come back to me, then!”

To Ginnie’s relief, she heard his voice moving toward the edge of the house, toward the trellis he’d climbed in his misguided attempt to harass her into returning to Los Angeles with him. As if she’d ever consider it, no matter what embarrassing, intimidating tricks he tried. But he’d always been a mule-headed idiot, and mean to boot. Good thing she’d finally figured it out before marrying him.

“I’ll be back, Ginnie! You’d better reconsider!” She could just see him through the front window, sodden and hunched against the rain as he scurried to the pricey gold Cadillac Sport Wagon he loved so much.

She didn’t breathe easily until she saw the glow of its taillights move away. Then, exasperated, she knocked her long, unruly curls off her face. Her fingers caught in the damp brown frizz caused by the wet weather. Or was it the humidity?

A large, cold drop of water hit her forehead, splattering wetly over her nose and cheeks. She wiped at it and stepped backward, looked up.

The rental broker’s voice haunted her: “It’s a great find for the neighborhood. They don’t build ’em like this anymore. Better pounce quick, before someone else gets it.”

Ginnie laughed, watching as the wet stain on the ceiling spread. She knew she’d been a bit naïve in her eagerness to start a new life without Rick. The cute little Craftsman bungalow had charmed her, despite its evidence of neglect. Heck, the neglect had charmed her! The gently peeling paint, the unfinished basement, the foliage-shrouded porch, the untouched original ceilings, the dusty hardwood floors, the yellowing crystal doorknobs… It was everything Rick’s modern mansion wasn’t.

The rain pelted down with a thunderous sound. Ginnie’s gaze went again to the large window above her thrift-store couch. All she saw now was a gray sheet of water.

The rain pounded, a steadily increasing roar.

“It rains all the time in the Northwest,” Ginnie murmured nervously, backing out of the wet living room to the kitchen. “It’s famous for it. That’s all this is. A typical rainstorm. The landlord will repair the roof and everything will be fine.”

Her house groaned.

Suddenly, with a bone-rattling crack, the floor tilted.

Ginnie looked down and couldn’t believe her eyes. Her kitchen’s quaint vinyl floor ripped open, and the pressed wood beneath separated into two jagged edges.

Earthquake? Ginnie looked for a table to crawl under, then remembered she hadn’t saved up enough money to buy one yet.

And she was no longer in California, land of earthquakes. She was in Oregon, away from everything she’d known. Things would be different here. They had to be different.

More of the floor sank, making her stumble backward. She threw her arms out for balance, trying not to panic. So, not an earthquake. What was it? It felt as if the bungalow was actually coming apart.

It might crush her, along with everything that gave meaning to her world.

She panicked after all. “The puppets!”

Ginnie ran, skidding across the living room’s slick wood to the door leading to the basement. She flung it open and raced down the narrow stairway, even as she heard a window breaking above.

How long did these crazy rainstorms last, anyway?

Nothing could happen to her marionettes.

She flung her body over one of the trunks containing her precious marionettes.

Pieces of plaster and sheetrock particles pricked her skin.

Her puppets and marionettes would not be destroyed.

“Over my dead body!” she shouted furiously at the house.

As if in answer, a subfloor support beam cracked loudly enough to hurt her ears.

Suddenly more nervous than she’d ever been, she called out, “Kidding?”

Then the house collapsed.

 

Harry flicked the wipers on his Aston Martin up to full speed, but he could still barely see the road before him. It wasn’t safe. If he wasn’t so familiar with the area, and if this task wasn’t so urgent, he’d turn right around and head home.

But the house in question wasn’t far from his more upscale home farther up the hill. And after getting that outrageous news from Todd about Harry’s recently acquired property management firm, the situation demanded immediate investigation.

As a millionaire a few times over, and by now the owner of so many real-estate-centric companies he didn’t bother tracking them anymore, Harry Barrett Sharpe normally enjoyed involving himself with the down-and-dirty work. Necessity required sequestering himself in the catbird seat at the very top more often than not, so he appreciated touching base with the Joe Blows, joining the construction gang on occasion to work with his hands, reminding himself of his roots.

But this was different. Normally, middle-management matters didn’t sink to such levels of dangerous incompetence. Normally people’s lives weren’t at risk.

Not to mention leaving him wide open for a devastating lawsuit.

The woman running the property management firm had been criminally negligent. Sure, the administration, marketing and financials of all his rentals were technically handled and in the black. But the physical maintenance of his structures required capital expenditures she’d chosen to pocket instead. If her assistant Lara hadn’t clued in his assistant, Harry wouldn’t now be driving through one of Portland’s worst storms in a decade to check on the tenant—one Ginnie Anderson—who should never have been offered a lease on the small bungalow.

A half-hour ago, Harry had seen the home’s pictures, seen the state of it. He’d seen the copies of advised repairs. So many major repairs. The roofing and chimney problems worried him most, especially in this rainstorm.

He cursed the rain. He cursed the irresponsible woman he’d just instructed Todd to fire. He cursed the silly twit who’d moved into the ramshackle home. He cursed again as his car slid through a corner, but he corrected easily, some instinct making him drive even faster.

When he reached the street, skidded to a halt behind the small Volkswagen parked before the house and jumped out, his first thought was that he’d overreacted. The house seemed fine.

Harry wiped rain out of his eyes, his gaze focusing on the sharp line of one section at the juncture of the flatter roof to the steeply pitched dormer section. Was it darker? Sagging? It was!

And that wasn’t all.

As he watched with growing horror, the chimney crumbled as if it were the subject of a controlled demolition. Then a thick section of wood trim ripped loose, the wind guiding it through the yellow-lit kitchen window.

Lit. The tenant was home. The tenant was inside the house!

Without thinking, Harry immediately charged to the front door, used the master keys he’d brought and ran inside.

He heard her cry out, “Over my dead body!” right before pieces of the roof began to fall and an enormous thud from somewhere below jarred his feet with a deep bass that rattled his bones.

The basement.

Harry ran downstairs.

“Wake up. That’s it. Open your eyes.”

The face that swam into her focus was unfamiliar. More’s the pity, she thought woozily, smiling at him.

Dark brown hair framed a strong brow, sapphire eyes and a mouth wide but thin with a cynical twist to it. He had a ruggedness and vital power that attracted her. She especially liked his lips. His face and his lips floated closer, tilted for kissing, shaped like heaven.

“No, keep your eyes open. Damn it…”

She enjoyed the rich, deep voice that came from him as much as his warm, musky-male scent. She could feel the tickle of his sweet breath on her lips, nearly a kiss, a wonderful kiss… Wanting to touch him, she attempted to move her arm.

He slapped her.

“Hey!” she shouted, or tried to. Her eyes fluttered open. She could barely hear her own voice. She tried to shift away from him, feeling sluggish. Why did his warm blue eyes spark with anger? It disturbed her she’d disappointed him.

Her heart spasmed with the old ache. Her body didn’t hurt, though.

She tried to move again. She couldn’t feel her limbs. She couldn’t move.

Alarm flooded her.

He moved toward her again, and she cringed.

An enormous weight lifted off her arm, and she winced at the pain. Still, she welcomed the sensation. At least she wasn’t paralyzed.

“Move, now, get out of here!” he shouted, the roar of his voice hoarse. “This place is coming down. Please!”

Relieved she could move at all, she tried to concentrate. Her mind felt swimmy and had to play catch-up with his words. She frowned. She hated when people bossed her around.

But he’d said please. Rick would never have said please to her. Ginnie focused on the man, marshalling her strength, her focus. The man crouched over her, his arms bulging with muscle and his face reflecting strain. He struggled to hold up the support beam that pinned her arm.

With an effort that grayed her vision, she scrambled sideways, out from under the beam.

A second later, it crashed back down.

“Now, up and out.” He herded her, not gently.

Ginnie shook her head, as much in refusal as to clear her vision. She squinted with the pain it caused, but at least she was able to see. “Oh no.” Her basement was a maze of debris. The puppet clothes and fabrics that had hung on racks now protruded in unsightly heaps, and wigs and cracked-open plaster heads made new terrain of the sealed basement floor, as did the smaller puppet stages, a pile of clip-on lamps and more scattered piles of painstakingly collected picture books and DVDs. How had the spare wood, metal, leather and string gotten spread around everywhere? The mold-making equipment leaned against fallen speaker stands.

A mess.

Some of it was replaceable. Still, she’d worked days to get the pirate puppet just right, and he was little more than wooden splinters, his metal sword buried under cinder blocks.

What about her irreplaceable marionettes?

She wheeled about, searching. There! Under a diagonal sheet of particleboard and behind the extension cord and reel, next to an ugly crack in the basement’s concrete floor, were the two large trunks.

They gleamed with the sheen of lovingly polished wood.

She moved toward them.

The man grabbed her arm. “Are you insane?”

She considered. “Nope.” She shook loose and hurried to the trunks.

He spoke to her slowly, as if to someone of limited intellect. “You are in danger. The house’s ceiling is crashing in. The chimney already did. The foundation looks bad. The walls, the subfloor—they’re falling apart. There are gas and electrical risks. And you, you’re rummaging for keepsakes as if you were at an estate sale?” There was no mistaking the anger in his voice.

She spoke over her shoulder. “I understand time is short. So, help me with these, please.” She tugged at a trunk, trying to drag it out from underneath where it was wedged. It wouldn’t budge. “Pretty please?”

“This is for your own good.” It was all the warning she got before strong arms picked her up by the waist and slung her over a broad shoulder.

He’d just made a mistake. The side of her head bounced against one of his firm jeans-covered butt cheeks before he started to pull her to a mid-back position. The automatic outrage she felt at being manhandled, plus the resulting stabs of pain to the various parts of her bruised body, not to mention the sight of her precious trunks being left behind, made her seriously cranky. “Put me down immediately,” she warned.

He kept moving.

Clearly he didn’t know about a puppeteer’s hand strength.

She smiled grimly as she applied a muscular grip right where he’d least enjoy it.

“Sorry,” she told him after he dropped her and staggered back with a curse. And she meant it. He was only trying to help, after all. “I have to get my marionettes out. They aren’t keepsakes. They’re my career. My life. What’s left of it.”

He glared at her through slitted eyes.

She stared back. He was a lot better-looking when his features weren’t all scrunched up. She remembered from when he’d leaned in to kiss her.

Not that it was actually a kiss except in her imagination.

She sighed and moved toward her marionettes.

“What makes them worth risking your neck?”

She turned to see his mouth had compressed into a thin, pale line of displeasure.

“I crafted them all over a period of years. No one believed I could or should get into puppetry. But I did and I’m not leaving them behind now.”

First she had to drag the heavy trunks out from under the particleboard.

There was a lot of crap in front of the first trunk, and on top. She’d need to shift a broken cabinet door, chunks of paint and plaster, sagging wires and other random bits of house debris. She just hoped she didn’t electrocute herself. Or get crushed. Asphyxiated. Blown up.

“Right, then,” she muttered, beginning to clear away the blockage.

She stumbled when his hard body shoved hers to the side, but caught herself before falling. “Keep out of the way,” he commanded, large hands grabbing and throwing debris, clearing the trunks faster than she could have.

He uncovered destruction.

Ginnie inhaled sharply. One of the trunks had broken open, and the painstakingly wrapped and packed marionettes had spilled out. From where she stood, she could see one small, laboriously crafted puppet hand jutting from the crack in her basement’s foundation as if reaching for help.

At her sound of dismay, the man turned. “What now?” he snapped.

“I can see Little Jeffrey.”

He froze mid-throw. His voice was more low and dangerous than she’d yet heard it. “There’s a kid down here?”

“Not a kid.”

He turned around to face her fully. She blinked, the sight of his wine-colored sweater fitting a heartbreakingly broad chest, and those jeans encasing one strong, perfect-looking lower half distracting her momentarily. A movement drew her attention back up. His hand, filthy with the dirt and dust of her wrecked house, raked through dark brown hair. He left a smudge on his forehead.

“What, then? A pet?” He scanned the area around the trunks, impatient. “Where?”

Ginnie blinked again. “A special marionette.”

“A special marionette.” He blew his breath out in an exasperated whoosh. “We don’t have time for this conversation.” He turned his back, grabbed a trunk handle and lunged. He managed to slide one trunk out. Plaster rubble skidded off, hitting the hard floor with small thuds. The particleboard stayed wedged. It blocked access to the second, more damaged trunk.

A concrete block the size of a refrigerator had flattened a full quarter of the box. Shards of wood fanned out from underneath, pinched securely. Puppets and their broken body parts lay at awkward angles. Small, still victims of disaster.

Little Jeffrey’s hand seemed to summon her.

Before the man could object, she darted into the space where the first trunk had been. She grabbed Little Jeffrey’s meticulously crafted fingers and pulled him up, careful not to scrape his paint. Placing him safely to the side with one hand, she reached into the crack to see if any more marionettes needed rescuing. She saw none. Reaching, stretching her muscles until they ached, searching, she winced when thick trunk splinters drew blood. The block of concrete didn’t even budge.

“You’re lucky you weren’t killed by that,” her would-be rescuer said, stalking toward her. “Dumb luck. This house has always—”

Something crunched under his foot.

“No!” she shrieked, but it was too late.

He froze, looking down. “Uh oh.”

They both stared at the remains of Little Jeffrey.

He grimaced, lifted his foot. “Whoops.”

Her eyes were locked on her crushed marionette. “If it’s not too much trouble, take the closed trunk upstairs. Now, please.”

She raised her eyes to his. For a moment, he seemed about to apologize.

Then her house shifted with a deep groan. He moved fast, with more grace and speed than her old martial arts instructor, carrying the trunk before him up the stairs. After quickly filling her arms with as much as she could hold, she raced after him.

When she ascended to the hallway, she felt another bass thump beneath her feet, followed by a displacement of air that blew her hair sideways.

“Out. Now.”

This time she obeyed. She trod on his heels getting out the front door, down her porch steps and into the rain. He carried one trunk with difficulty.

He let it drop onto the sidewalk next to an Aston Martin. His, presumably.

She opened the wooden trunk, placed her own armload inside as gently as if it were roses inside a casket, then closed it before the rain could damage things more.

At the sound of wrenching wood and plaster, they both turned to stare at her home.

The steeply pitched roof sagged, opening a gaping dark canyon that bisected her kitchen. One wall tilted to an unlikely angle, jagged holes appearing where its double-hung window had torn free, one windowsill jutting up like a broken tooth. The chimney had vanished.

“Get in the car.”

She looked at him doubtfully, though the rain still pounded. The car would be welcome shelter.

He looked at her with exasperation. She began to think it was probably his usual expression. “I won’t hurt you.”

“How’d you get into my house?”

He jangled his keys in front of her, clearly impatient, and nodded to the car. “I’m getting in,” he announced. “You do what you want.”

So he was her landlord? He seemed far too arrogant, too handsome, rich and confident to be a mere landlord. It had been a woman who’d shown her the place and initiated the paperwork. And another woman who’d answered the phone when Ginnie had called for repairs—repairs she never got. Maybe this handsome man was those women’s boss at the company? Ginnie shrugged, opened the door, slid inside. “I’m ruining your seats.”

“Damn the seats.” He inserted a key into the ignition, turned it. He looked at her, then cranked up the car’s heat. “Are you okay?” The man touched her shoulder. “You look…”

Ginnie knew how she must look. Probably almost as good as she felt.

She peered out the side window. The rain had eased up. She focused on one of the small iron rings set in the sidewalk. The neighborhood was so old it used to accommodate horses. The house probably hadn’t been repaired since before the cars replaced the horses. She was lucky to be alive.

She waited until she felt capable of speech. Then she straightened her shoulders and extended her hand to him. He enclosed it with a warm grip that seemed to impart much-needed strength to her.

She felt an answering heat surge through her body that owed nothing to the car’s efficient heater. She smiled up at him. “You saved my life, I’m pretty sure. Thanks. My name’s Ginnie. Oh, I guess as the landlord, you knew my name already.”

She looked at him expectantly. He stared back. She could almost hear the click as her gaze locked with his. The spark of interest in his eyes warmed her. His grasp lingered too long.

She tilted her head, fascinated and feeling more than a little giddy. All the stress, she told herself. “You know…there’s an old Chinese proverb that says if you save a life, you’re linked to it forever.”

Harry stared at Ginnie. Linked to her life forever? Her direct gaze distracted hiim. What was she talking about, linked to her? Her tilted head gave her a severely flirtatious look, especially with her reddish-brown curls sticking wetly to her too-thin sweater. He glanced down her body, just long enough to verify her seductive shape. One of her shoes had come off.

Her hazel eyes glinted with humor.

She’d been joking about the linked-to-her-forever comment, of course.

He’d like to be linked to her, he suddenly realized with a surge of heat. Just not forever, and certainly not just by the hand.

He withdrew his hand, the air in the car chilly compared to her warm palm. “You’re welcome.” For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what to make of her. Or what to say. Unusual. She was a ditz, risking them both the way she had. She was also cute, distractingly so, actually, and he didn’t need that particular complication.

He glanced at her body, just to check.

She had “complication” written all over her.

“I believe my link with you ends…” He checked his platinum Rolex, waterproof thank God, “…right about now. Glad to have met you, Ginnie. Where can I drop you off? Do you want me to call someone for you?” Harry reached for his cell phone.

He almost made it. Her feather-light touch stopped him. “I don’t have anyone. No money. Nothing valuable except my puppets. And there’s an ex-fiancé who’s probably on his way back to stalk me some more since the rain let up. He was stomping around on my roof. I think he was trying to scare me.”

The protectiveness and anger that flashed through him took him by surprise. Someone was stalking her? Unacceptable.

He stared at her, having trouble imagining her scared. She’d handled her home falling in pretty well, all things considered.

“There has to be someone. Everyone has someone.” Except him, but she didn’t need to know that. His solitude was by choice, and he certainly had the means to take care of himself. “Look, I have to drop you somewhere.”

“I heard Portland is a pretty good city for homeless people. Soup lines and shelters.” Ginnie smiled, an uncertain quirk of the lips. Her eyes sparkled. It had better not be tears.

She spoke of the city as if she was new to it. Maybe she truly didn’t have anyone.

His need to return to his isolation tugged at him. But he couldn’t move. Harry felt a stab of lust at the way her sweater tightened over her chest. It didn’t, however, keep him from noticing the unnatural brightness in her eyes, or the tremor in her voice. Or the way she leaned a little too heavily on her armrest. “I just don’t want to abandon my gear. The puppets,” she clarified in a pained, soft voice.

His heart thudded once, hard. She looked so hot, and so lost. And there was a stalker after her too? He glanced past her, at the house. The rental was demolished. Had it hurt her when it came down? He spoke gently. “Were you injured?”

She looked down for a few long moments, as if considering her physical state for the first time. She kicked off her remaining shoe. When she met his gaze again, her eyes showed no trace of tears.

“My knee’s weird.” He watched her bend her right leg. She flinched, then laughed, bewildered. “I don’t remember hurting it. I remember my arm being trapped, though. And then you slapping me.”

“I didn’t slap you. Well, okay, I did, but—”

“Slapped me awake. Lifted that beam like Superman. Saved my life.” She looked at him.

“I’m not Superman.” Harry wasn’t at all comfortable with the way she was looking at him. “If you’re feeling better now…”

“I think I might be in shock. Look.” She lifted her arm, pulled back her sleeve to reveal an ugly red weal seeping droplets of blood. He could see the flesh around it darkening. She would have a hell of a bruise. Her fingers trembled slightly, as if she were cold.

Or in shock.

“I should take you to a hospital.”

“All I need’s some antibiotic ointment and a bandage.” She looked at him hopefully.

“I have some in my upstairs bathroom at home. I’ll have to check, but it’s been awhile since—” He cut himself off. He would accomplish nothing by telling her his life story. Or by describing the layout of his house. Or by taking her home. What the hell was he thinking?

Directing a pointed look at her, he asked, “Seriously. Is there someone I can call? I’ll be happy to phone your family. I can take you to them.”

She just looked at him with a strange, sad smile.

“A friend? A colleague?”

“There’s no one local. I know the telephone numbers to literally no one here. I just got a job a few days ago. I only moved from California last month. Well, there’s the property manager who rented me that house. But I don’t really want to talk to her right now.”

Harry gazed at the ruins of the house. “Can’t say I blame you.” The reminder of the irresponsible property manager he’d fired stirred feelings of guilt. He should’ve kept a better eye on the company. He’d spent too much time up there in that catbird seat. Too much time alone and aloof.

When he didn’t say anything else, she seemed to draw herself inward, contracting. The evidence of a protective shell surrounding such a forthright woman piqued his interest. She was a complex one, all right. And really cute. And no boyfriend. Not that it was relevant, of course.

She scooped up her single shoe. “If you don’t want to help me, I’ll manage.” She grabbed at the edge of the seat, as if lightheaded. “Whoa. Sparkles.”

He had a vivid mental image of her getting out of his car only to tumble right back down onto the sidewalk in a faint. Breaking her neck. Suing him. She might already have grounds for a lawsuit. He’d have to consult his legal department. He could afford it, of course, but didn’t enjoy being sued.

He really wouldn’t enjoy watching this woman crack her silly head open. With a curse, he revved the engine and whipped the steering wheel to the left in a tight and illegal U-turn. “My house is nearby. I’ll patch you up, then we’ll figure out where you’ll stay, and it won’t be with me.”

“My puppets!” Her hand clutched glass. “We can’t leave them there!”

“I’ll use the truck to pick them up. That wood trunk will fit on my porch. As I said, my house is nearby.”

“My hero,” Ginnie told him while still clutching her shoe. He could hear the smile in her voice.

He snorted his exasperation. She’d manipulated him as neatly as any scheming woman. She started by squeezing his nuts in her basement! And now this latest display of getting him to do what she wanted. He was beginning to remember why he’d chosen to remain alone and aloof.

At least her dangerous hands were occupied, now.

She sat as still and obedient as a schoolgirl.

He remembered how warm and right her body had felt in his arms.

Harry felt something in him loosen, even as new dread and misgivings raced up and down his spine, settling in his stomach. What was he doing, taking her home with him? For more than a year, his humble home’s secret location had kept him out of the prying public eye. He was bringing her to his only unviolated shield against the greedy world, and he was doing it because she’d played him like one of her puppets.

As soon as he patched her up, he was tossing her out on her dirt-streaked butt.

Her handsome rescuer helped her inside only to push her unceremoniously onto a couch. The moment her grimy hands touched the whisper-soft material covering it, she froze.

As a connoisseur of material, from the rarest European velvet stage curtains to regional tailored silks from India to clothe her marionettes, she knew shoddy from fine. The couch she sat on was the finest. Expensive. And cream-colored?

Too late. She brushed at dirt and blood streaks surreptitiously.

“Don’t bother.” Her landlord circled the metal-studded dark leather recliner diagonal from her, his eyes taking in every movement she made. “Lie back. Relax.” He looked anything but relaxed himself.

She certainly wasn’t going to just lie back and relax. She scrubbed with an edge stretched from her still-damp sweater. “Blood stains are tough to get out.”

“Forget it. And stay there while I get the bandages.”

“If I’m obedient, do I get a doggie biscuit?” She looked up at him with all the charm she could muster. After all, her little injuries were in his hands. He was so cute, the way his brows knit together, half in puzzlement and half in exasperation.

No sense of humor.

She still liked him. After all, the first thing he’d done when they pulled into the impressively large Craftsman bungalow’s two-car garage was kill the Aston’s engine, instruct her not to move and immediately jump into a beat-up old truck to fetch her huge trunk full of puppets and equipment.

He was pretty bossy. A take-charge man, the very worst kind. Too bad he looked so incredible.

She looked instead at the ornate, leaded-glass front door, taking comfort that the trunk was sitting just on the other side, safe from the rain on the enormous wraparound porch. The man had good taste in houses. He had his priorities right. In fact, she liked his honest, gruff demeanor far better than Rick’s belligerent mannerisms. And far better than her mother’s sly machinations.

She shuddered, the old ache still big enough to seize her heart and squeeze.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” But his penetrating gaze made her feel oddly naked. So did his thoughtfulness. She struggled against believing it, but found herself responding to that masculine tone of caring.

She resisted, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. “I just realized I don’t know your name.”

She waited, then raised her eyebrows at his silence.

“You can call me Harry.” Then he was moving, disappearing up the stairs.

Ginnie finally leaned back into the sofa with a sigh.

Her gaze fell on the high ceiling, picture moldings bisecting the ivory color of the higher, curved section of wall and ceiling from the matte light moss of the lower living room walls. A lovely polished mahogany wood fireplace matched the original-looking woodwork and the heavy front door. Arched doorways and gleaming hardwood floors gave the large room an airy feel, warmed by new and antique furniture and area rugs in different, eye-grabbing textures and patterns. Even the doorknobs, Ginnie noticed, were made of the same original crystal as her rental’s had been, only his weren’t yellowed and chipped. And his leaded glass windows on the front of the house seemed in new condition as well, and perfectly in keeping with the architecture.

The only jarring note was one of the pictures on the wall. The gilt frame was elaborate, but the picture itself seemed oddly modern compared to the rest in the room.

Ginnie shrugged, then winced. Her scrape stung, as if to remind her not to get too comfortable.

What was she going to do now?

She’d flirted with Harry, finagled her way into his house. She knew herself well enough to know she was avoiding thinking about her situation, but it was time to start. If only he wasn’t so deliciously distracting. Sure, she was a woman in need, and he was her rescuer, but he clearly didn’t want her in his house. Or his life.

Despite what her libido was saying, she knew he probably wasn’t any better than Rick.

A sudden, overwhelming desire to leave swept through her. So what if she had nowhere to go, nobody she wanted to call. She would take care of herself. Hadn’t she always, in all the ways that counted?

She hissed with pain as she pushed off the couch, her bad leg almost buckling beneath her. She tested it; it held.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Her rescuer held the bandages and antibiotic ointment aimed at her as if they were a pair of pistols. His irritated frown seemed almost menacing.

“I, ah, just remembered. My mother.”

“You just remembered your mother?” His expression turned quizzical.

“I can call her. She’ll help me.”

Constance would too—after a few hours, or more likely days, of I-told-you-so, scorn and an enormous serving of guilt. Psychological poisoning was her specialty.

Ginnie trembled, exhaustion and dismay combining to make her feel slightly nauseated. Her mother, with her overly sweet advice and her tough-love insults, carved a little bit off Ginnie’s soul every time they spoke. Ginnie knew the woman couldn’t help it. It wasn’t her fault life had dealt her so many disappointments.

Ginnie just wished she didn’t feel like one of them.

“I can call her,” she repeated.

She could feel Harry’s intent gaze on her.

“What is it?” His voice had reverted to the low, molasses-coated tone that played so much havoc with the rhythm of her heartbeat. “You look…pale.”

“I look atrocious.” Why did he have to sound so concerned? It made her feel uncomfortable. Out of control. Nothing worse than feeling out of control.

He was too sexy for her own good, damn it.

Unlike her, with her distinctly unsexy skin itching from all the drying mud and insulation fibers from her basement. She had to look ragged as an unfinished marionette. Harry, on the other hand, looked strategically rumpled, as if he’d just stepped out of an upscale magazine ad for luxury vacation homes. It wasn’t fair.

“It was when you mentioned your mother.” His dark blue eyes narrowed. “You really don’t want to call her? Why.”

A statement, not a question.

All her senses came alert. Harry was probing, looking for her weaknesses. Like Rick. Maybe.

She made her voice cool. “It doesn’t matter. Where’s your phone?” But when she took her first step toward what appeared to be a kitchen, her knee buckled. She caught herself with a quick palm to the edge of the couch.

Harry saw and shook his head even as he closed the distance. She felt a strong arm encircle her waist and help her back onto the couch.

He sat at her side, not looking at her. “You don’t have to answer.”

His profile was dominated by his wide lips, turned down slightly in the corner, as if with cruelty. Or sadness.

She found herself wanting to answer him. “My mother. We never got along.” Ginnie put her teeth together against telling him more.

It would take too long to explain how she never felt good enough for her mother, a woman to whom the word “motherly” was a pejorative. The woman was colder and more brittle than ever now that she’d husband-hunted the rich Vernon Greenwalt.

One thing probably summed it up, though. “When I left my ex—the stalker one—my mom took his side.” Ginnie shrugged, made her voice light. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does.”

Ginnie heard the conviction in his voice. She wondered at it.

He unscrewed the top off the antibiotic ointment with a sharp twist. “Someone you counted on let you down. Someone who shouldn’t have.” His brows knit together, and his mouth was a hard slash. She stared at him. If her little summary caused such a response, how would Harry react if she told him what Rick had done to her?

“You talk about it as if you have some experience there,” she said, watching him carefully.

His control was superb. Not even a twitch. He smoothly changed the subject. “So, what brings you to Oregon?” But at the same time he grasped her arm tightly, holding it immobile while he applied the ointment. Though he gripped her firmly, his fingers where he touched her wound were gentle.

She felt trapped. Her impulse was to flee, and yet his delicate, sure touch made her want to arch her body toward him. She itched to bare more skin for him to heal.

Disconcerting.

Yanking her arm back, readying herself to make her escape, she failed to notice Harry was beginning to rise from the sofa himself. He held her a beat too long. Off balance, he fell on top of her.

Fortunately, his quick reflexes prevented him from crushing her.

He held himself just above her with his arms, as if doing a strange sofa-pushup. His warm breath tickled her face. Like in her basement.

His chest just touched hers. The space between them suddenly felt electrified. Ginnie forgot all about her superficial wounds as her hand rose to his shoulders, his neck, his face, as if the part of her body had a mind of its own. It wasn’t the only part. She arched into him, hissing with pleasure as her nipples rubbed against his broad chest.

She fingered his stubble. Fascinated with the way his quickening delicious breath and his warmth made her feel, she stroked his rough skin.

His eyes closed, then opened in a long blink.

Then he kissed her.

 Chapter Two

His kiss claimed her in a way that drove all other thoughts from her mind. Sensual lips teased her own, then firmly parted them. It felt powerful, yet skillful, with gentle rhythmic moves that made her want to give in to any desire he might have.

He bent his arms, which made his body, so large and strong, close the distance between them. The glide of his clothes against hers, his scent, his touch all conspired to excite her. He tasted of good coffee plus his own unique flavor, making her hungry for more.

She let her arms encircle his neck, encouraging him. Her body strained to be closer to his, to feel the full length of his pressed against the full length of hers. Her fingertips dug into his back with an urgency that surprised her.

He flinched, letting his breath out in a quick hiss. “Easy, there.”

She snatched her hands back. “Sorry.” Her face heated with something less enjoyable than lust. “Muscular fingers.”

He grinned, and she lost her sense of embarrassment in marveling at the way the smile transformed his face. It was those even white teeth, the sexy five o’clock shadow, the sparkling dark blue eyes and that mischievous expression.

She had the impression he rarely smiled.

“That sounds scary…and maybe also a bit promising,” he said, kissing her fingers. “But the problem isn’t that.” She felt distinctly let down when he moved away, pushing himself to a standing position once more. He turned.

Her gaze went to the spot of wetness halfway down his sweater, above his shoulder blade. The material’s burgundy color had camouflaged the patch of blood.

“You’re bleeding!” She struggled to sit up.

He pushed her back into the sofa. “Didn’t I tell you to take it easy?” he chastised. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“You should’ve said something.”

His response was a quick glance at her body and an ironically raised eyebrow.

She blushed, but used her recalcitrant-child voice on him. “You march upstairs and bring back some bandages. I’ll patch it up, if it’s patchable.”

“You’re kind of pushy for an invalid.”

“Never mind, then. I’ll go get it.”

“A control freak, maybe.” He’d said it gently. But at her sharp inhale, he looked curiously at her.

“Control enthusiast, then? No? Hey. Just teasing.”

“No. It’s okay. Control freak is just something my ex used to call me.”

“He did, huh?” Harry took a step from her. She thought he wasn’t aware of it—or of the impersonal mask that replaced his smile.

She missed his smile.

But Ginnie simply shrugged. “I have this bizarre belief that being in charge of your own life, being in control, is an admirable and necessary path to happiness. To self-knowledge.” She was psycho-babbling.

Harry would tune her out any moment.

She peeked at him. He shook his head, but looked thoughtful.

Encouraged, she continued. “Rick said he didn’t agree with me either. But what he really meant was he wanted to be in control of me.” Ginnie didn’t tell Harry that she still missed Rick, despite his controlling ways. Or, at least, she missed the security of having someone take care of her, ensure she wouldn’t end up destitute, the way her mother always predicted she would. It was so much easier to have one’s life laid out rather than risking everything by striking off on one’s own.

But of course, Rick had gone too far.

And she’d been doing fairly well on her own. At least until her house collapsed.

“I came to Oregon to live in a cute little bungalow and join the puppet team at Helping Hand Theatre, but the group’s grant got pulled. And you saw what happened to the bungalow. I loved that house. It had so much character. I’m sorry, I’m completely talking too much, aren’t I? I’ll shut up if you get bandages.”

Harry looked ill. “I’ll go get those bandages.” He turned and marched up the stairs, holding his shoulders more stiffly than an injury would account for.

Ginnie watched him go, her mouth hanging open at his rudeness. She closed her mouth, then her eyes.

“A deal’s a deal,” she muttered and sealed her lips over further words.

 

Harry closed the bathroom’s mirrored cabinet door and stared at his face framed by tastefully aged, antique gold-leaf edging. His complexion looked aged too, just not as tastefully. More pale than usual, deeper bags under his eyes than usual, darker scruff than usual, even illuminated by the flattering period- accurate yellow-frosted bathroom lights. Such touches abounded in his house, and why not? He had both money and an appreciation for fine things.

No one would guess he’d bypassed college, preferring to educate himself in the building trades while making the initial investments that would eventually turn into a multi-million-dollar real estate development firm.

Oh yes, he was rich. His lip curled, and so did the man’s in the mirror. Now he looked dangerous and a little cruel. It looked like the expression in his photo Newsweek ran, minus the beard. Another few days would give him the beard back, if he wanted it.

He’d been smart and he’d worked hard. He’d been generous. He’d made bequests to countless places.

Including Helping Hands Theatre.

All his do-gooding had counted for squat when Jaye Rae tried to ruin him. His beautiful ex-fiancée had nearly succeeded.

In one way, she had succeeded. She’d driven him into a solitary life.

To his surprise, he found seclusion suited him. He liked his old-fashioned house. It felt comfortable, like well-worn shoes. It felt safe.

Aside from the trips to his downtown office building to meet with the board members or more important clients, or to have long business lunches with Todd, his right-hand man, he lived a quiet life by choice.

Quiet, that was, until now.

A sound emerged from his mouth, part laughter, part groan. Ginnie kissed as if he were giving her much-needed oxygen: wanting it, demanding it, pulling at him until he’d just about ripped their clothes off and had at that tempting body of hers. What was it about her that made his brain fall out his ear? Her sensual abandon? Her big, sincere hazel eyes? That long, unruly hair he’d be willing to bet had never seen a hint of hairspray?

She had no idea she was kissing “Hairy Bear” Sharpe, tycoon and noted philanthropist. Or, did she? She didn’t seem to know it was his Sharpe Idea Foundation that had yanked donations from all his former recipients—ones like Helping Hand Theatre.

Suspicion, second nature to him by now, flamed anew. Did Ginnie know? It seemed unlikely, but he’d been fooled before. She’d picked the wrong millionaire, if it was her strategy to tug on golden heartstrings.

One way to tell.

As he descended, he heard Ginnie’s voice. She was on his phone!

Harry grimaced. She’d told him there was no one she wanted to call. He was a little surprised at the way his heart plunged with disappointment. A woman being deceiving and sneaky was no more than expected, so why did he feel so let down?

He strode forward. “Okay, game’s up, get the hell off my phone and get out.”

Ginnie was listening intently and writing something down. “Uh-huh. Five-four-two-four. Thank you very—hey!”

Harry ripped the phone from her grasp and placed into the receiver. “Out.”

Either she was an accomplished actress, or she was totally astonished. “What on earth? I didn’t think you’d mind if I used your phone to call information.”

“Information?” Harry watched her closely.

“Yes. To get the number for my property manager. She has my security deposit. They’d better give me my security deposit back. I’m going to need it. And hopefully they’ll help me get my things out. Do you have a problem with that?” Ginnie folded her arms and waited.

It could be verified. Harry swallowed. He’d made a mistake. The second in as many years, though by no means as severe as the first. Still, he’d screwed up. Ginnie certainly deserved her money back, and any help the company could provide. He’d see to it she got it, without blowing his own cover. “I’m truly sorry,” he said. “I misunderstood something. Feel free to use the phone as much as you like.”

“I’m done.”

Harry shifted on his feet, uncomfortable. “So. You’re trying to get hold of your property manager?”

Ginnie nodded.

The silence stretched. “Please.” He gestured to the phone. When she didn’t immediately reach for it, he handed it to her. “Can I get you some water? Iced tea. Hot tea? Or red wine. I have an extraordinary Cab I’ve been wanting to open.” Harry blinked at Ginnie’s small smile. It made her beautiful.

He backed away. “Cabernet,” he clarified.

“Nothing right now.”

He would bring her some hot tea, or maybe soup. She was probably cold and damp, the way her long curls still clung to her shirt, which in turned clung to her skin so that he could see the outline of her bra.

And her nipples. He’d give her something warm.

He’d like to warm her with a hug. A naked hug. He hung between her and his kitchen, oddly indecisive.

She dialed and spoke briefly. He gathered Ginnie had trouble reaching the property manager, which was no surprise since he’d fired the woman. Apparently the company’s party line was that she was taking a long vacation. However, the company was sending over an assistant immediately. Probably Lara, the one who’d tipped off Todd.

Harry nodded, approving, until Ginnie spoke to him. “I need your address.”

His mind whirled. Reveal his address and let Ginnie tell Lara too? But Lara didn’t need to know who he was either. Decided, he told her the address.

She hung up the phone. Still with that smile, she said, “Take off your sweater. Let’s go back to the sofa.”

Harry forgot about the hot tea and soup.

Her voice was soft, almost seductive.

He grasped the bottom edge of his sweater in one hand, pulled it smoothly over his head in a single movement. The pain caught him by surprise.

He’d forgotten about his wound.

At his muttered oath, she nodded. “That’s what I thought. Sit.”

“Bow wow,” he replied sourly. But he handed her the bandages and went to the sofa. He’d possibly made the wound worse. It twinged. He felt warmth trickle.

Ginnie would take care of him. She’d touch him and make it better. Nurse Ginnie. A distracting heat shot through his body. He shifted to conceal his burgeoning erection.

He removed his undershirt. Flirting was one thing, but he wouldn’t get involved, of course. He was just being a Good Samaritan. An injured Good Samaritan. When she was done patching him up, he’d fob her off on the assistant to that irresponsible property manager. Then Ginnie’d be out of his house and out of his hair. Things could return to normal.

But as soon as her warm fingers touched him, his desire returned. How could her fingertips be so gentle, so knowing? If she knew who he was, she’d be less gentle. “I guess I owe you an apology.”

Her fingers stopped, then started moving again. “You saved my life, remember? I guess you’re entitled to be a little cranky. Hold still,” she admonished when Harry made a convulsive movement.

Cranky?

“I think you’ll live,” she declared, patting his bandage.

Harry enjoyed the way she stilled when he pivoted to face her on the sofa, as if she were an animal scenting the presence of a predator. “Thank you,” he said simply.

“Are you going to do me now? The bandage,” she clarified, indicating the roll of gauze and tape with a grin. She tugged on the edge of the gauze to illustrate. Her eyes twinkled.

“Are you flirting with me, Ginnie?” He tried to sound disapproving, but failed miserably. He supposed the grin he felt spreading across his own face spoiled the effect.

She met his gaze boldly. “I guess I am.”

Harry felt the connection between them solidify, a palpable and exhilarating sensation.

Whoa. 

He stared at her, at her frank gaze, her alluring curves. Was she daring him?

Tempting.

He was balanced perfectly between devouring her whole and shoving her out the door. How had she managed that? Manipulation, or natural allure? He was having trouble thinking, and that disturbed him to the point of falling back on his numbers.

Whenever he found himself upset or disgruntled, for any reason, he counted. Sometimes he added. Sometimes he did long division. Construction material measurement numbers, company bank account numbers, ledger numbers, it didn’t matter so long as it was just numbers marching through his head instead of whatever bothered him. Numbers didn’t change, unless he changed them. Numbers were reliable.

Unlike people.

He forced his hands to remain slow and methodical as he measured one length of gauze—eight inches of gauze, thirteen inches of tape—to wrap around Ginnie’s arm. He smoothed three lumps. He inhaled five times.

“You’re good as new.” He cleared his throat. Twice. The way she was looking at him made his groin stir with pleasure.

“No, I’m really not good as new,” Ginnie confessed. “I’m damaged and dirty and very, very bad.” Her gaze made him clench the seat cushion to either side of his legs to keep from taking her up on the challenge in her eyes.

A tattoo of knocks came from his front door.

He stood, both grateful for and furious at the distraction.

It was the property manager’s assistant. The young woman didn’t seem to recognize him, Harry saw with relief.

Ginnie welcomed her. “You must’ve absolutely raced across town! Thanks for showing up so quickly.”

“They paged me, and I was in the neighborhood. I’m Lara. Ms. Centa is away from the office. On business, she said, when I paged her.” Lara sounded skeptical. “Anyway. Your poor home! And poor you! We’ll get you sorted out.”

Lara’s long hair fell in exotic waves of a rich, dark auburn over proud shoulders and down her back.

He noticed Lara’s perfect makeup, her tapered waist and tucked-and-belted striped shirt, and the fact she had a perfect butt. An attractive young woman. But his was an impersonal observation, lacking heat.

He turned his attention to Ginnie. Heat hit him. Her pretty face had more color and an appealing hint of plumpness in all the right places: generously curved and parted lush lips, the dusky rose of her soft cheeks, the sweetly rounded chin. A curl of strawberry brown fell over her forehead. Her clothes were in charming disarray, and her hair untamed as it tumbled and twisted carelessly in gleaming red-brown locks around her neck and chest. She was light and rosy where Lara was dark and golden, and her uptilted breasts and curved hips seemed to call for his touch.

He felt jealous of Lara hugging Ginnie so casually.

He could see Ginnie’s bemusement as she returned the hug. “Wow, people are so friendly up here.”

She proceeded to tell Lara the story of her rescue, puppets and all. Harry was absurdly gratified at the heroic role Ginnie gave him.

Until Lara spoke.

“How romantic!” Lara looked as if she wanted to hug Ginnie again. Then she saw Harry’s face. “Or maybe just lucky. Lucky someone was there at just the right time. Anyway.” She glanced from her to Harry, her eyes dancing with speculation and laughter. “Let me tell you the basic facts about how this will go forward. I’ll do my best to help out, take care of the paperwork and help you through this. It will be a little complicated, especially with Ms. Centa in hiding—I mean, away on business.” Lara made a face. “But the company wants to help you. I’ll dig up all your paperwork, help you get your deposit back plus a bit extra—a settlement, really, and it’s not ungenerous—and we’ll make your things as right as they can be as soon as possible. Here, let me share what I’ve got and show you what I’m planning to do.”

“That sounds fair.” Ginnie smiled at Lara as the women put their heads together in obvious camaraderie.

Harry escaped to the kitchen. With two women talking in his living room, it felt like someone else’s house. He was distinctly uncomfortable with the interruption of his routine, but he couldn’t exactly kick them out. Well, he could, but he wasn’t such a bastard that he’d throw a destitute, homeless woman out on the street. Especially one as cute as Ginnie.

What was it about her that charmed him so? Her face, her body, her kiss? He could still feel the soft and giving hot little mouth, the inquisitive tongue. He slit his eyes against the wave of desire that hit him at the memory. He wanted more than just a taste.

At the same time, he wanted her to get her mind-spinning kisses and tempting body away from him.

She should just leave.

Ginnie had just made a local friend, hadn’t she? Lara, who seemed nice and great at damage control.

Was she nice enough to offer Ginnie a place to stay?

Would Ginnie leave?

Harry walked back into the living room, where a strange sight greeted him. Ginnie crouched behind his sofa with a silk pillowcase crunched up oddly in one fist. Lara watched from a short distance as Ginnie made the pillowcase walk, then tilt its head and then talk. “It’s the cutest house I’ve ever seen!”

With merely a change in her voice and a shifting of position, Ginnie made the same crumpled pillowcase answer with a slithery, faux-enthusiastic demeanor. “This rental is a steal of a deal and will be snapped up within twenty-four hours. If I were you, I’d certainly pounce on it!” The predatory hand puppet stalked, making it clear how it wanted to pounce. And who it wanted to pounce on.

Oblivious, the more naïve puppet replied, “It’s a darling bungalow! And in such a nice neighborhood too! Lucky me. It’s perfect.”

“It suits you perfectly.” Such an evil voice. Such menace. Harry felt a thrill of distaste for the wicked puppet, and at the same time felt sorry for the innocent stalked puppet.

He stared, astonished. Ginnie had serious skill if she was able to evoke such a response using just pillowcases.

When Ginnie stood, Harry applauded. Lara quickly joined him, breaking into merry gales of laughter.

“Wow! You really are good. I could totally see Darlene—I mean Ms. Centa.”

“Thanks. You should see what I can do with marionettes.” Ginnie frowned, strode to the front door and opened it—to check on her trunk, Harry assumed. She lifted the lid and looked inside forlornly.

“Hey.” Lara walked after her slowly, then paused, apparently considering. “You know, it’s probably against the rules, but I like you and feel bad about everything that’s happened. Do you want to come crash over at my condo, so you don’t have to dip into your savings? The deposit and settlement paperwork could take a week or two. There’s an extra room you can use for that long, and I’d love to have you over.”

Mixed feelings struck Harry. They would go—Ginnie and her puppets and baggage and her tempting ways. And that was good.

Very good.

Excellent, even.

It was her decision.

Harry paced to the door, counting his steps. The women stood on his porch.

Ginnie looked fondly at Lara, then her gaze slid to the trunk full of debris Harry had helped her rescue from her basement. Her eyes lost some of the laughter from before as she looked at it and the broken props and puppet parts piled inside. She stared longest at the few damaged marionettes she’d been able to grab.

He wondered if she was remembering how he’d stepped on one back in her house. A twinge of guilt stabbed at him.

Maybe that’s why he spoke up.

“You could stay here.”

Both women turned to stare at him. He frowned. “What? I have spare rooms as well. And the location isn’t inconvenient.” It wasn’t as luxurious as his vacation home in Cannon Beach, as cozy as his ski cabin in the mountains nearby, or as efficient as the high-tech marvel of his downtown penthouse. It didn’t sit on acres like his ranch outside Denver, or have the view of his Central Park condo. But it was a perfectly adequate house.

Now both women were smiling at him. He felt his eyebrows knit together. He had to remind himself they didn’t know about Jaye Rae’s allegations and they weren’t about to mock or condemn him. He made himself wait, with as expressionless a face as he could manage.

“Do you have a basement? A workshop,” Ginnie clarified.

Harry understood immediately. “To fix the puppets. Yes, I’ve a full basement setup that will work very well for that.” Ginnie was staying. She was actually going to stay at his house. He felt both flattered and worried. Worried about his own judgment, mostly. What was he doing?

He helped Ginnie finalize with Lara, then saw the friendly young assistant out.

And then they were alone once more.

“I’ll carry that stuff downstairs, if you’d like to relax. You’ve been through a lot today,” Harry told her.

“You have no idea,” she murmured, passing the back of her hand across her forehead to smooth back a stray curl. Then her heated gaze locked with his once more. “I should relax. Or get to work. Or do something productive. But I’d rather flirt with you. Isn’t that strange?”

“Are you always this direct?” Harry finally asked. Her innocent magnetism pulled him toward her, but he resisted. “So, ah, forward?”

“Am I a slut, do you mean?” Ginnie laughed. “Oh please. I told you. I’m fresh out of a long relationship with a guy who frowned on my being a fraction as forward as I’m being with you. This is the real me.”

“What an idiot he must’ve been.”

“That’s so sweet.” Ginnie smiled, an open and honest expression that lit her up. Something in him melted further, even as second thoughts and suspicions were banished to the back of his mind. The sight of her, the sound of her, was working its magic again.

“Flirting has consequences,” he told her bluntly. A warning. “You may not like them. You don’t really know me.”

“I know. Isn’t it exciting?”

Harry was speechless for a moment. “You really are appallingly honest, aren’t you?”

“You’re very handsome. Tall but not too tall, with broad shoulders and hair on your chest—I could see when you took your shirt off. Your hair is soft and sexy. Except for the hair on your face, which is rough and grows too quickly to control with a daily shave, doesn’t it? You smell wonderful. And your kiss makes me feel…” Ginnie laughed, a seductive sound that made his erection return full-force. “Makes me feel forward. And honest. Not like the old me who kept all quiet about things until they were a mess. When do I turn into a pumpkin or wake up?” She approached him, gazing up at him with trusting, teasing eyes. “I want you. There.” She looked both pleased with herself, and a little frightened.

The combination of that plus her obvious physical attraction—and her pointy nipples, God, did they have to be so obvious?—was his undoing.

“I warned you.” He scooped her up again—it was getting to be a habit, he mused, alert for her hand positioning—and carried her into the nearest bedroom, the guest one off the living room. He lowered her until she sat at the edge of his bed.

Her fingers worked at his pants even as he removed his shirt and sweater once more. “Take off your clothes,” he commanded, more to give himself time than anything else. Her scent made him feel lightheaded. The sight of lithe curves, and her eagerness for him, made him strain for control. He was dangerously close, with those teasing, strong, skillful fingers of hers brushing against his crotch—didn’t she know that?

Her look up at him assured him she did. She spoke boldly. “I’m doing this because I want to. Not because you’re telling me to.”

He groaned and took a step back from the nimbus of her body heat. She really was the hottest thing he’d ever seen.

And the cutest. She didn’t look too much younger than he was, but she radiated a distinctly youthful, almost nymphet demeanor in the way she gazed at him with big eyes full of wonder. And desire.

“Last chance,” he gritted out. “You’re vulnerable right now, and I’m not looking for a relationship, Ginnie.”

“Neither am I.” She took her shirt off. Slowly. Then her bra. Even more slowly.

When she spent three years unzipping her jeans, he remembered to exhale. “Okay, that does it,” he growled, and helped her by yanking them right off her body, panties and all.

---

 

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