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Authors: Kate Angell

No Strings Attached (10 page)

BOOK: No Strings Attached
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He admired a 1713 Casque Normand or Norman helmet forged with a nasal guard displayed on the coffee table alongside a preserved medieval fiddle.

“You live in a museum,” he finally said.

Her smile was small. “I’m a collector. Sometimes I feel I was born in the wrong era.”

He surprised himself by saying, “I like the Wild West.” He’d never shared his affinity for cowboys with anyone prior to Sophie. He figured she’d understand.

She did. “Outlaw or U.S. Marshal?” she asked.

“I’m law abiding,” he said.

“I have a pearl-handled six-gun.”

That he wanted to see. He followed her through another arch and down two steps into her sunken private library. Dune was surrounded by books on all three sides. There were floor-to-ceiling shelves and individual glass-front bookcases, too. He’d never seen so many novels outside a public library.

A three-tiered glass curio cabinet showcased the six-gun along with a 1760 single-shot flintlock and a set of dueling pistols. A pair of silver Celtic knot-work earrings appeared delicate and out of place amid the firearms.

“Impressive, Sophie,” he said as he walked around the room. Two crescent-shaped couches faced each other to form a circle. An enormous ottoman sat in the middle. He could picture her sinking into the deep burgundy leather sofa, a book in hand, her orange reading glasses low on her nose.

An antique bookcase with a curved front caught his eye. Original clothbound first editions were kept under glass. On the top shelf sat her volleyball trophy from the previous summer. It was small, yet visible from all angles of the room.

Dune smiled to himself. She hadn’t thrown the trophy away. She’d given it a place of honor instead. His own tiny prize could be viewed among his two hundred tournament trophies. He’d placed it front and center. Meeting Sophie was a good memory for him.

“The kitchen’s at the back of the house,” she said, stepping out into the hallway. “The tea’s brewed.”

He trailed behind her. Their height difference amused him. He liked watching her walk. Her hair swept her shoulders. Her posture was perfectly straight. Every few steps and the rubber sole on her Keds scuffed the marble floor. She pitched forward, but caught herself. Dune would’ve grabbed her from behind before he’d let her fall.

Her house went on forever. He glanced in several more archways and came across her office, a space decorated with a heavy oak refectory table darkened with age. A medieval laird’s chair stood nearby, the wood smoothed by centuries of use and carved with a square-sailed galley. It was magnificent.

Historical banners and medieval clothing adorned the walls. He admired a Crusader’s cape and Templar’s tunic along with a long, but color-faded Celtic Dragon and Great Griffin banner.

He paused in the doorway of her TV and entertainment center. Jigsaw puzzles were one of her leisure activities, he noted as he stepped into the room. Several large, complicated puzzles were in progress simultaneously on different tables. He read one box top: twelve thousand pieces went into Michelangelo’s
Creation of Man.
The puzzle was nearly completed. The
Dalmatian
jigsaw made his eyes cross. There were so many black spots on the dogs. They all looked alike.
The Earth from Space
had so many blue pieces, he’d never have the patience to match them.

He returned to the hallway and asked her, “Do you live here alone?”

She nodded. “I inherited the house from my grandparents on my mother’s side of the family. They felt Florida was too hot and moved back up north. I remodeled and moved in.”

A second wide hallway curved right toward the kitchen. Dune figured the bedrooms were off to the left. He wondered about her bedroom. Would there be more books and weaponry? Would it be simple and elegant, or a lot of frills? Did Sophie sleep in a nightgown, cami and bottoms, or nude?

The thought of her nude had him nearly walking into a wall. He stopped just short and shook himself. He had no business thinking about her sleeping arrangements. His visualizing left him hard. Damn, he was uncomfortable.

He paused near the sliding glass doors that opened off the kitchen and into the backyard. Dune’s jaw dropped when he saw a small Civil War cannon anchored beneath an arbor. Three iron cannonballs were placed by a wheel. The barrel was pointed right at him. It was so realistic he expected it to fire.

Beyond the cannon was a large swimming pool, oval in shape with a short diving board and a separate Jacuzzi at the shallow end. A cabana provided shade. Dark blue patio furniture surrounded the deck. A red air mattress floated on the crystal clear water.

“Has the pool ever been used?” he asked.

“Not by me,” she said, “but my grandparents were strong swimmers.”

“You need to learn to swim,” he stated.

She shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe someday.”

“Someday soon,” he surprised himself by saying. “I’ll teach you.”

“I wouldn’t make a good student,” she said. “You know I’m afraid of water.”

“I’ll help you overcome your fear.”

“We’ll see.”

Dune let her slide for the moment. The topic wasn’t dead. He just didn’t want to push her and have her panic.

The thought of her in a swimsuit, slick and sleek and clinging to him, stiffened him further. He stuck his hands in his pockets and did some shifting.

With her back to him, she motioned toward the kitchen table. The legs were thick stainless steel and the top was pale gray glass. “Have a seat,” she offered.

Dune slid onto a café chair, glad to be seated. He soon realized anyone looking through the glass top could see he’d pitched a tent beneath his zipper. He didn’t want Sophie knowing she’d turned him on. He needed to calm himself.

Big word to shorter words. He looked around and found a plaque above a wooden shield that hung on the wall beside him. Richard the Lionhearted. He concentrated on Richard: rich, char, rid, chair, rad, chirr . . .
hard
. The game emphasized his erection. He sucked air. His dick was alive and stirring.

He watched as Sophie moved around the high-tech kitchen. The stove was touch-screen with a glass top. One side of the Sub-Zero PRO refrigerator was stainless steel; the other had a glass door. He could see the raspberry tea inside.

“Summer captured in a jar,” she said as she removed the gallon container along with a tray of sliced fruit.

A brief knock on the sliding doors announced a woman in kitchen whites. “Miss Sophie, are you home?”

“I’ve just arrived,” Sophie said from the counter. “I’m fixing tea.”

The older lady quickly crossed to her. “Let me help you,” she said.

Dune saw Sophie’s shoulders stiffen slightly. She shook her head. “I can handle the tea.” She made the introductions. “Marisole, this is Dune. Mari is our household chef. Dune is my friend.”

Marisole looked him over. A woman in her late forties, he guessed, dark-eyed and slender. Her hair was braided. Her expression was mother-hen. “A much older friend,” she said, making it sound like he was robbing the cradle.

“Not that many years separate us,” Sophie said. She set the jar of tea down on the gray slate countertop, then reached in a low cupboard for two tall cranberry glasses.

Marisole took the glasses from Sophie and crossed to the refrigerator. “Crushed, cubed, or ducks?” she asked Dune.

Ducks?
Very expensive refrigerators froze designer ice. Sophie’s fridge was one of them. “Ducks,” he said.

Marisole gave Sophie ducks, too. The chef stood close by as Sophie poured the tea, as if she anticipated a spill. Dune frowned slightly. Marisole was overly protective. Sophie was twenty-four not four, and even if she made a mess, she was capable of cleaning it up. Both a sponge and paper towels were in arm’s reach.

Sophie next squeezed slices of orange, pineapple, and lime into their tea. The final touch came when she added fresh blueberries. She found an iced-tea spoon in a drawer and stirred briskly, then passed him a glass.

The ducks seemed to paddle in his tea. He took a long sip. It was fruity and refreshing and the best red raspberry tea he’d ever tasted.

“You make good tea,” he praised Sophie.

Her cheeks pinkened. “The sun did all the work.” She brought her glass and sat down beside him.

Beside him,
Dune noticed. Not across from him. Their shoulders bumped and she didn’t seem to mind their closeness. He rather liked it, too. Her scent warmed from an afternoon in the sun, innocence beneath the heat of the woman.

The chef kept an eye on them as she puttered around the kitchen. She ran her hand over the buccaneer pirate musket preserved on a shelf between the stove and refrigerator. He was glad the antique could no longer be fired.

He looked at Sophie. “Do you have something you should be doing?” he asked.

“She requested an early dinner,” Marisole answered for her. “She has volleyball tonight.”

“Practice or a game?” Dune asked.

“Practice only,” said Sophie. “Our team gets together two nights a week. The official games are Sunday afternoons.”

“You said you were improving.”

She gave him a self-deprecating smile. “Practice has not made me perfect.”

“You have heart.” He knew that to be true.

“But no height,” she said. “I see more under the net than over.”

“I’m glad you’re sticking with it.”

“Shaye’s urged me to be more social.”

“My sister knows everybody and their brother,” he said ruefully. “She’s never met a stranger.”

“She’s fortunate to have so many friends.” Sophie sounded wistful.

“Who do you hang with?” he asked.

“Mostly with myself.”

Sophie needed to get out more.

“She has Luis and me, too,” said Marisole as she returned to the refrigerator and selected an assortment of vegetables. She laid them out on the butcher-block island. She selected a knife from the slotted cutlery block. She went on to chop lettuce. Rather aggressively, he noticed.

Dune was mildly amused. Apparently, the chef didn’t like him much. He had no idea why. She remained as their chaperone.

Sophie was his primary concern. He focused on her. “What’s going on in your life besides your adventures?” he asked.

“Shaye recruited me to help decorate the pier for the Sneaker Ball,” she said. “There are only two days before the event and lots to do.”

Marisole glanced at them over her shoulder. “No need to string lights,” she said. “There’ll be a full moon on Saturday. The sky will sparkle.”

Dune hadn’t taken the chef for a romantic, yet her face softened when she looked at Sophie. He realized Marisole was quite fond of her. “Your brother Trace asked me to oversee the buffet,” she said. “I think it will be delicious. I created the menu. The dishes will be catered by the Sandcastle Hotel.”

“Lobster in sweet butter? Salmon steaks?” asked Sophie. Dune swore she moaned.

Marisole nodded. “I’ll be sure to bring a plate home for you,” she said. “Unless you have a date?”

Sophie shook her head. “I bought a ticket, but I have no plans to go.”

Dune felt Marisole’s stare and met her gaze. The chef leaned against the island counter, one hand on her hip. She raised one eyebrow, as if to challenge him.

What the hell? He clutched his glass and let the condensation cool his warm palms. Mari’s initial welcome hadn’t been friendly. Yet somewhere between adding duck ice cubes to his glass and chopping lettuce, her opinion of him had improved. She wasn’t very subtle.

The chef was a matchmaker.

Dune’s chest tightened. He was aware of the dance; it was an annual event. The Sneaker Ball kicked off summer. Shaye always twisted his arm and sold him a ticket whether he planned to attend or not.

“Black tie, fancy dresses, and sneakers,” Marisole said as she diced a green pepper and a stalk of celery. “A night to remember.”

She reached for a carrot peeler and shredded a fat carrot. “Miss Sophie has three pairs of Keds and so many pretty dresses. Some still have the sales tags.”

Dune ran one hand down his face. He’d received Marisole’s message, loud and clear. Could the chef be any more obvious?

Sophie wasn’t quite so quick. It took her several seconds to realize what Mari was suggesting. She looked horrified when it soaked in. She put her hands over her face and spoke through her fingers. “I apologize for Mari. She didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

The chef’s look said otherwise. She shrugged, selected a small, sharp knife and turned three turnips into tulips.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I haven’t finalized my plans.”

Marisole might have done him a favor. He’d received dozens of text messages from women seeking him out. Many dated him for his popularity, while others wanted him only for sex. All claimed they had sexy sneakers for the ball.

Then there was Sophie and her Keds. She was an entirely different story. She was cute, kind, considerate, and into weaponry. But friendship was one thing, dating her was quite another.

She reminded him of someone who decorated for the prom and volunteered to serve punch. She was the wallflower no one asked to dance. She’d be a bridesmaid twenty times over before taking her own walk down the aisle.

Perhaps it was her turn to be the center of someone’s attention.
His
attention. He’d leave her memories to last a lifetime. He would make sure of it.

He gently circled one of her wrists with his fingers and lightly squeezed it. She lowered her hands. Still, she couldn’t look at him. “The dance might be fun,” he admitted.

“I’m sure you’ll have a great time.”

“I wasn’t planning on going alone.”

 

Dune would have his choice of any woman in Barefoot William, Sophie Saunders thought. Shaye had offered to set her up, but Sophie had declined. A special night deserved a special man. There was no one in her life who qualified for the gala.

Marisole tossed the salad ingredients in a wooden bowl. She placed Sophie’s first course in the refrigerator, then quickly cleaned up. “Your parents wanted Feta Chicken for dinner. It’s in the oven at the main house. I’ll return shortly.” She eyed Dune. “One plate or two?”

BOOK: No Strings Attached
11.24Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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