Taming Tess (The St. John Sibling Series) (12 page)

So he was well-liked enough to sometimes head home at the end of the
day with a plate of Mrs. Antonetti's ravioli or a cannoli or two. Mrs. Antonetti also gave her ravioli and cannoli. Then again, her sweet, old neighbor had called her and Roman the perfect couple when Roman had reinforced the lintel above her back door after Tess had diagnosed why it was sagging and causing her door to stick in wet weather.

The perfect couple.
Tess shuddered. That's exactly why she had to ignore Roman's current frustrated state and her own. As long as she didn't want to be coupled with any man least of all one looking for a wife, abstaining was in both their best interests,

Though, clearly, Roman wasn't thinking about how their abstaining affected her.
Wasn't that just like a man? Leave him a little frustrated and he acts like you castrated him. Like he's the only one suffering. The only one with urges. Needs.

Desires.

Dreams of love.

Tess groaned and shoved the box of condoms aside.
She didn't have time for love. Not with her father breathing down her neck, waiting for her to fail. She had no time for Roman St. John, real or fantasized. She would dress in her hand-washed silk panties and go for a run, which should clear her head of all this sexual temptation and enable her to think out a timeline for getting The Castle back up for sale. If she was lucky and worked fast, she might even get it back on the market and sold before the bank repossessed it.

Yep.
A cup of coffee and a long run. That would get Roman out of her head.

#

The sweet tang of almonds wafted past Roman's nose. Tess had invaded his kitchen. The woman didn't even cook, yet she wore…flavors. Vanilla, strawberry, almond. He must have worked for her two weeks before he'd figured out those scents had nothing to do with baking. That in itself should have warned him away from her. The future Mrs. Roman St. John should be a woman who smelled of flavors because she knew her way around a kitchen, right?

H
e dug his knuckles into the bread dough on the counter in front of him, kneading the dough and, hopefully, the tension from his shoulders. The fact that those enticing scents came from the bottles, jars, and tubes lined up on the dresser in his guest-bedroom should be a warning as pungent as a skunk that pretty little packages shouldn't always be invited into your home.

The Harridan Princess was in for a surprise if she thought the local populace had surrendered
itself to her subjugation. If she thought for a moment he'd relent to this latest invasion of his space and let her stay, she was in for a big surprise.

She moved to the counter beside him.
For all his determination, the assault of her nearness worked on him like yeast stirred into warm water. He punched the bread dough.

"That coffee still hot?" she asked, her little chin bobbing at the coffee maker on the back of the counter
beside where he worked, her tone suspiciously congenial.

"Yeah."

She inclined her head toward the cupboard above him. "Think I could have a mug?"

"Help yourself."

"Gee, St. John, don't sprain a wrist getting a cup for me."

Finally, a tone he was familiar with.

She reached past him into the cupboard for the mug, her breast brushing his elbow. He should have gotten the mug out for her. He should have moved aside and given her room. But she had a knack for making him dig his heels in, for making him resist giving her so much as an inch of leeway.

It was a
tactical error, pitting stubbornness against stubbornness. She was the Princess of Pig-headedness.

And he was the court fool, standing there suffering the contact of her curves as she reached around him for a coffee mug. He'd mapped those curves with his eyes, his hands
…his mouth. He'd climbed their enticing slopes and free-fallen into their valleys. He'd been on the brink of the Promised Land only to be barred entrance.

He punched the bread dough again.

As she lifted the pot from its heating tray, he gave her a sidelong glance. Skin tight running shorts. Over-sized t-shirt knotted up at her waist. Sleep tousled hair and naked lips. Damn she looked sexy.

He took a travel mug from the cupboard and banged it down on the counter in front of her.
"Here."

"A travel mug?" she asked, coffeepot poised over the stoneware mug she'd chosen.
"Am I going somewhere?"

"To The Castle?" he said hopefully.

"Can't," she said, filling the stoneware mug. "It's being ionized today."

"Lucky me," he muttered and punched the bread dough yet again.

She jammed the coffeepot back onto its hotplate. "Look, St. John, I'm trying to be nice here."

"Haven't had much practice at it, have you?"

Her mouth popped open.

He flipped the dough over with such force it raised a cloud of flour.

She fanned the flour dust away from her mug. "Just because I rejected you the other night--"

"Rejected me?"
He rounded on her. "Somebody here has an inflated ego and it's not me."

She snorted.
"Get real, St. John."

He shook the lump of dough in her face. "I'll tell you what's real.
Real was
you
stripping off my pajama bottoms. Real was
you
sliding
your
hand into my crotch. Real was
you
begging me to stay."

Something glinted in her eyes, something that made him
think of…yearning. Or was it passion he saw in those dark depths? Or fight? Fight would make sense. More sense than the suggestion of fright he thought he glimpsed before she blinked away everything but her usual princess-like glare.

With the backs of two fingers, she pushed the lump of dough away from her face and raised the coffee mug toward her lips. "Must you rant
on before I've even had my first cup of coffee?"

God
, but she was maddening. And damned if he didn't want her more than ever because of it.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Sweat plastered the
t-shirt to Tess' spine and dripped down her brow into her eyes. Her calves burned from running and her hands ached from clenching them into tight fists. She'd been running for an hour and hadn't had a single thought about The Castle. Too bad she couldn't say the same about Roman St. John. So much for clearing her head of that man.

If only he hadn't thrown the details of their aborted affair in her face, especially the detail about
her stripping off his pajama bottoms. Oh those happy face pjs and the wonder of Roman St. John rising beneath them. How naturally her hand had--

"Don't go there," she panted, her feet pounding the blacktop road that wound through woods, over creeks, and past dirt driveways.

If only he wasn't such a blasted Boy Scout. Then she could have slept with the man, rid herself of this insane itch, and moved on with her life. But no,
he
had to be the one man she was attracted to, a blasted knight come to rescue the damsel in distress and, worse, marry her.

Why had she admitted her fear of the dark to him?
Why had she told him about that damned stormy night when she'd almost drowned? She hated the damsel in distress thing. It made a woman seem weak and turned men into chest-pounding rescuers. And no man had ever helped her that didn't have an agenda of his own.

So, what was Roman's?

To get her out from under his roof. She couldn't very well blame him for wanting that. She'd insulted him, wounded him, and goaded him. And he didn't seem to have a motive beyond that…except to finish what they'd started two nights ago, something that tempted her to distraction as well. She really should move out.

But who would hold her through the next storm?

Tess scowled as the corner before Roman's place loomed closer. She didn't need a man to hold her hand through stormy weather. She'd dealt with wind and lightning on her own before, though she'd usually done so by closing her drapes, cranking the volume up on her CD player, and crawling under the covers in her Chicago condo.

Make this work for you, girl.
Make leaving more attractive than staying. Yeah. I could go back to the city.

The city where she could be anonymous.

"Provided I don't run into my father, my jerk of an ex-fiancé, or anyone connected with either of them."

Where
there were no neighbors like Mrs. Antonetti who brought her homemade apple pie and told her stories about Aunt Honey. Or Kitt Delaney, the young mother across the street, whom she'd hired to help her clean The Castle. Okay, so there were some good points to Pine Mountain.

But the city is convenient
.

Except for parking shortages, traffic jams, and endless lines.

The city has plays, and art, and real people playing real music to real audiences
, she silently lamented into the fresh country air, feeling a little nostalgic for bus exhaust.

Just then, a truck lurched around the corner, its rust
-patched chrome bumper catching the sunlight and reflecting it back into her face. Its over-sized tires spit gravel as it veered momentarily off the blacktop. Tess was halfway into the ditch by the time the truck righted itself and sped off down the road, the cab full of teenagers laughing.

Muttering a curse, she climbed back onto the gravel shoulder of the road.
The ball of her foot hurt when she took a step. She must have bruised it stepping on a rock on her way into the ditch. At least in the city there were no ditches to fall into…just curbs, which a person could rely on to be gravel free. Though there was the occasional wino.

Still, in the city, a person knew what to look out for.
A person was safe there…at least from a well-muscled, protective Norse God of a man.

Tess limped around the bend towards Roman's
house. She was done running. She was done debating. The bottom line, she was too attracted to the man to stay under the same roof with him. If she stayed, sooner or later, she'd lean on him for support again. Let him support her in any way, shape, or form and her father would consider her first solo project a success only because of Roman's input, not to mention she'd most assuredly end up in his bed.

"Damn you, Roman," she muttered, swiping the sweat from her brow.
"You get your wish. I'm outa your house and outa your life."

Yep, as soon as she hobbled back to the house, she'd call around and make arrangements for a place to stay.
Decision made.

A big, shiny black truck eased around the corner behind her.
It slowed in the far lane on the narrow road.
Where was her pepper spray when she needed it?

Most likely b
ack at The Castle, discarded among a multitude of other city-born defenses.

She glanced at the highly polished vehicle with its extended cab and chrome running boards.
Not a rusted out junker like the one the teenager drove. Not the kind of truck that ran mud races. The window powered down and the driver leaned out the window, a pair of Ray Ban sunglasses obscuring the intent in his eyes while his broad grin stretched the limits of charm.

"Need
a ride, ma'am?"

Ma'am
? If he was a pervert, he was a polite one.

"I'm fine, thank you."

"You're limping. I thought you might appreciate a ride."

"I'm fine.
Really."

"I'd hate to leave a pretty damsel in distress in the middle of nowhere."

Tess gauged the distance to Roman's driveway as she answered. "I'm no damsel. Nor am I in distress."

"At least you're not arguing with the pretty part."

Her attention snapped to the driver. Clean cut, chiseled cheeks, and no requisite baseball cap covering the wide brow or the healthy crop of dark hair. Just those pricey sunglasses hiding his eyes.

"Save the flattery
for someone who's impressed by it, Bubba," she lobbed back at him without slowing her pace.

He laughed a deep, rich laugh.
"No one's ever called me 'Bubba'."

"Guess there's a first time for everything."

The truck rolled slowly along in the far lane, keeping pace with her.
She was still several yards from Roman's driveway. Would he hear her if she screamed? Would he come running if he did hear her? Of course he would, even after how she'd treated him. He excelled in damsel rescues.

Maybe she could cut through the woods between the house and road.
She eyed the tangled foliage along the roadside.

"That blackberry brush will tear those lovely legs all to hell
," her
stalker
said.

She tilted her head toward the stranger in the truck.
"Do most of the women you try to pick up run off into the woods?"

Laughter
rolled up from deep in his chest. "That's not the usual effect I have on women."

"You can move along, now.
I'm fine and really can take care of myself."

"Even
an independent woman needs assistance now and then," he drawled.

Didn't she know it?

She shook off the image of Roman's broad shoulders and strong arms and picked up her pace, insisting, "I'm fine."

"I'm sure you are."

"I am."

"I'm just offering a ride."

"I'm not far from home." She lifted her chin toward Roman's driveway, the only one in sight on the stretch ahead. "That's my drive right there," she said.

"Right there?"

She didn't like the interest with which he noted the driveway and added, "My
husband
is expecting me."

"Husband?"

She gave herself a mental head slap. What was she doing conjuring up an imaginary spouse? She was supposed to be an independent woman capable of defending herself.

A man to lean on.

She winced at the thought. But, since she conjured him up, she might as well make use of the charade.

"Yes.
My
husband.
He took advantage of my injured state to beat me back to the house. He so seldom wins our races."

"Competitive.
I like that in a woman. Maybe we could run together sometime."

"I'm sure my husband would enjoy that."

The stranger's grin twitched. "If you're okay then--"

"I'm okay."

He gave her a nod, pulled out ahead of her and…turned the big black truck into Roman's driveway.

Tess stopped on the shoulder of the road and uttered an oath.
She doubted she'd be lucky enough that the stranger in the black truck would turn around and pull back out of Roman's drive.

By the time she hobbled up to the driver's side of the truck, the stranger had both arms folded over the window frame, his
grin crooked.

"You're a friend of Roman's, aren't you?" she demanded
.

He nudged the Ray Bans onto the top of his head.
"Guilty as charged. Brody McCain."

Mischief twinkled from Brody McCain's blue eyes.
She accepted the fingerless leather gloved hand he held out to her and confessed, "And I'm
not
Roman's wife."

"No kidding."

"I'm his…houseguest. Tess Abbot."

He stopped pumping her hand and the laugh lines around his eyes deepened.
"Abbot? The architect who hired Roman to renovate The Castle?"

"He told you about me, huh?"

He released her hand, his grin twitching. "Seems he left out a few details."

"Like the fact I don't really have devil's horns?"

"Like the fact you're the gal sharing his house."

He was thinking something else.
She saw it in his eyes. Sex. That's what any friend of Roman's to whom he might have gone in the middle of the night for condoms would think.

"You must be a pretty good friend of Roman's," she prompted.

"I like to think of myself as his best friend."

She grimaced.
"The kind a guy can turn to in the middle of the night for help…or to borrow something?"

"That's the kind."

"Uh huh."

Brody opened the truck door
but didn't jump out. Reaching behind his seat, he lifted out a folded wheelchair. Only then did she notice the additional controls on the steering wheel and the strap holding Brody's legs together.

Tess frowned at the chair popping open as it hit the ground.
"I thought you said you
run
."

"Run.
Roll. It's all the same to me." He swung himself down into the chair with practiced ease and grinned up at her. "Guess I'm kinda like the
Trojan
horse."

"Trojan, huh?"
Tess laughed. "Brody McCain, you are a man full of surprises."

"I was trying for a man of mystery."

"Right." She studied the man who claimed to be Roman's best friend. For an instant something in his eyes hinted there was a lot more to Brody McCain than glib charm. Then it was gone behind a dazzling smile.

He patted the flat black framework of his chair.
"What do you think of her?"

"Snazzy rig."

"State of the art design. Titanium frame. Composite wheels." He patted his lap. "Hop aboard. I'll give you a test ride."

"In your dreams," she retorted and
limped off toward the house.

"Roman said you had a wicked tongue," he called, rolling after her.

#

Roman watched Tess and Brody from the kitchen window.
She'd handled Brody's wheelchair well. Maybe too well. He didn't like the way the two of them laughed together. She never laughed like that with him. Though he'd seen her laugh with her neighbors and occasionally Raymond or another crew member.

He stepped out onto the porch.
"You two going to spend the rest of the day out here jabbering?"

"That depends," Brody called from the ramped end of the porch.
"Is that fresh baked bread I smell?"

"It is," Roman
said.

Brody rolled up the ramp toward Roman, chirping, "I'd have expected you to be in a good mood today
, not a bread-baking one."

"Bread
-
baking
?" Tess climbed the stairs toward where Roman stood, glancing from him to Brody. "I wouldn't call what he was doing this morning before I left for my run 'baking'. It was more like bread dough
pounding
."

"A man can work off a lot of frustration kneading bread dough," Brody
said.

"Watch it," Roman growled.
"I can still replace that ramp with steps."