The Renegade

by Jennifer Bernard

Lyle got back to Rocky Peak just past sunset. The peace of the forests and the snowy faraway peaks relieved some of his tension. The vastness of the wilderness, its grand scale made his own worries seem trivial. When he’d decided to stay here, he hadn’t thought about that sort of thing, but right now, it was just what he needed.

  The quiet was almost unnerving, since he’d always lived in cities. The first trip he’d taken into the wilderness—hunting with a prospective business partner—had been a revelation. No car alarms, no engine noise, no brawling neighbors. He’d loved the experience of being surrounded by the purity of the wilderness. That trip had sparked his passion for the environment, which had led Nicole to contact him about investing in the lodge, which led him back to Isabelle, so…nice work, trees. I owe you one.

  He went straight to his guesthouse without seeing any of the Rockwells or the staff. Even though it wasn’t the most deluxe of accommodations, its quaint, unpretentious quality relaxed him.

  At the five-star hotels he usually stayed at, he felt like an imposter. He always had the sense that the concierge and staff knew what he really was and that the only thing protecting him was his money.

  Money was such a great shield. What would life be like if Drew succeeded in winning the CEO job? He’d still have money, of course. His own personal accounts were just fine, and he was still the majority shareholder of Guero Enterprises. But if Drew went through with that merger, he could ruin the company—Lyle’s gut told him so. Without Guero Enterprises adding to his net worth, he wouldn’t be a ‘billionaire’ anymore. Not even close.

  He’d be a permanent de-billionaire.

  After a round with his punching bag, he showered off and slid under the duvet of the queen-size bed.

  He drifted off, thinking of the old cot he used to sleep on in the backroom of the boxing gym, after he left the Claytons’ home. Drew used to laugh at him, even offered to buy him a real bed.

  “No, I don’t want to be comfortable,” he kept telling Drew. “I don’t want to waste time.”

  Then, after the Boxr app had taken off, he bought his first condo. The woman he was dating at the time insisted he needed to upgrade. She’d hired a “sleep consultant,” who’d interviewed him about his sleeping habits and preferences. The consultant had ordered top-of-the-line everything for him. One night he came home and there it was. His new bed.

  He’d poured himself some whiskey, stretched out on the floor next to the bed, and gotten deadass drunk.

  “Listen, you,” he’d told the bed—out loud because of all the whiskey. “You’re not my type. Don’t go thinking I want things soft and easy. I don’t believe in soft and easy. I believe in fighting until I drop. I believe in blood, sweat and tears. I need you to know where I stand. I’m still going to get up at four in the morning to work out. I’m still going to have nightmares. I won’t have much time for you. Just ask the women in my life. Are we clear?”

  Eventually he’d crawled drunkenly into the bed. The perfect give of the mattress, the heavenly silkiness of the sheets, the perfect feather lightness of the comforter—it all surrounded him with outrageous luxury. You deserve this, it seemed to whisper to him. You deserve nothing but the best. Trust me.

  He’d slept on the floor that night.

  It had taken him weeks to get used to that bed. Once he did, he rarely invited women to stay overnight. As a child he’d slept very lightly, always alert for someone sneaking near his bed. As a grown man with more and more money, he didn’t want distractions. He still struggled with trust.

  Until he’d gotten stranded in an airport with a vibrant, down-to-earth, idealistic doctor who had no idea who he was.

  A sound broke through his half-doze and brought him wide awake.

  Someone was trying to break in. They weren’t even being especially cautious about it. The sound came from the bathroom; it sounded as if the window was being opened.

  Had Drew sent someone here? Would he go that far? For what purpose?

  Silently, he swung his legs out of the bed and padded to the bedroom door. The next door down belonged to the bathroom, so if he stationed himself just outside the door he’d be able to pounce on the intruder as soon as he stepped into the hallway. It wasn’t even a real hallway, it was too small to be called that. It was more of a landing, a square of floor space from which to access all the rooms in the guesthouse.

  He waited patiently as the intruder landed with a thump on the bathroom floor. A pause followed—he was probably trying to orient himself in the dark. Lyle debated whether or not to charge into the bathroom and turn on the light, blinding him and identifying him in the same moment. But he had such a perfect position where he was, it would be simple to grab the burglar as soon as he came through the door.

  So he stayed right where he was, still and silent.

  The stranger stepped across the tiled bathroom floor—again, making no effort to be quiet—and emerged from the doorway, a dark figure wrapped in a puffy parka. Lyle pounced. He grabbed the intruder and wrapped one arm around his neck, applying pressure to his windpipe.

  His very slender neck, come to think of it.

  A high squeak came out, and frantic hands scrabbled at his forearm. Small hands, though strong, with short clipped nails. Good God. This was a woman.

  Lyle dropped his arm in horror. “Who are you?”

  The figure coughed and spluttered. Lyle reached to the wall and hit the light switch. He spun the intruder around and met furious eyes spitting green fire at him. “Isabelle?”

  “I thought you were gone!” She coughed again, her voice still raspy.

  Suddenly he was furious. He’d just had his arm around her throat. “I could have fucking hurt you. Are you insane?”

  “You did hurt me.”

  “I mean really hurt you. All I did was immobilize you. What the fuck, Isabelle?” He dug his hands into his hair and looked down, afraid he’d really go off if he kept watching her cradle her throat.

  Which was the exact point at which he realized he was stark naked.

  He whipped his hands away from his head and crossed them in front of his crotch. Nothing she hadn’t already seen, of course, but this wasn’t that kind of nighttime visit.

  “If you wanted to come in, all you had to do was ask,” he told her.

  Her gaze flitted here and there, everywhere except his nude body. He felt huge and exposed, standing here like this, naked as a Greek statue. “I didn’t know you were back,” she said stiffly. “And I couldn’t wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “Do you think you could maybe put a shirt on? You must be cold.”

  Her gaze snagged on his torso, and suddenly he wasn’t sleepy or exhausted or frustrated at all. Energized came to mind instead.

  Inspired.

  And actually, a little turned on. Having Isabelle tumble through his bathroom window was like something out of a fantasy.

  Which meant he could probably use some pants right about now, or something to cover up his privates. His cock was stirring, hardening, and it would be all too obvious any second now.

  “Shirt. Right. Be right back. Don’t go anywhere and don’t steal anything.” He turned his back to her and strode into his bedroom.

  “I’m not going to steal anything,” she called indignantly after him. He felt her gaze on his ass and grinned into the darkness.

  “I might believe that if it wasn’t coming from a home invader.”

  “I only broke in because I didn’t have a key.”

  “Ah, now it’s all making sense.” He pulled on a pair of his workout sweatpants but didn’t bother with a shirt. If she wanted to come into his private space, she’d just have to put up with his bare chest.

  When he came out, she wasn’t in the hallway anymore. He found her in the little kitchenette pouring herself a glass of water from the faucet.

  “I’m sorry if I hurt you,” he said gravely. “I was aiming for stopping a burglar without injuring him. If I’d know you weren’t a him…�
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  She shook her head. “I’m fine. You didn’t hurt me, you mostly just surprised me.”

  “You should never, ever do that again. I’m aware of my strength so I’m cautious in how I move. But most people, when they’re scared, they go overboard. I can teach you a really easy move to get out of that hold.”

  “No, sorry. Not unless you put a shirt on.”

  “I just had a shower.”

  “Not what I’m worried about.” She downed the water and put the glass down with a click.

  He grinned. It was so good to be around her again, even if the circumstances were a little strange. “Maybe later. So why’d you need to get in here so badly?”

  “I’m looking for something. It might be in your closet. I honestly didn’t know you were back yet, or I would have just asked you. There’s no extra key for this suite, but I know how to break into all the guesthouses. We used to have the most epic hide-and-seek battles you ever saw. One time we didn’t find Gracie for three hours. She’d fallen asleep in the storeroom.”

  Was she babbling? It certainly sounded like a babble to him. “You’re welcome to look in my closet. I don’t remember anything in particular being in there.”

  “I can come back tomorrow. It’s late and you were probably sleeping.”

  Speaking of sleeping…he noticed that she was wearing something that could be considered pajamas—soft flannel pants, with a loose black wool sweater hanging down to her thighs. How had he missed that particular delicious fragrance that was all Isabelle? Like spiced pears, sweet, but with a punch.

  “I’m awake now, and it’s obviously important to you. Be my guest.” He smiled wryly. “Technically I’m the guest, but you can be the guest of the guest.”

  “They usually call me the ‘best of the best,’ but that works too,” she said cockily.

  He laughed. “Do you know that’s one of my favorite things about you? You’re not ashamed to say how good you are.”

  “Why would I be ashamed? I worked my ass off to be that good.”

  “I hear you. I got called “arrogant” just this morning for sounding confident. But of course I’m confident. Why wouldn’t I be? Same goes for you.”

  She ran her fingers through her hair, getting snagged on a tangle. His hands itched to help her, to sort through the silky strands and breathe in her scent. “My mother always told me to stand proud. She had this saying, ‘the world’s a big place and there’s nothing wrong with trying to conquer it.’ I always thought it was kind of funny that she said that from this lodge in the middle of nowhere. Like, why didn’t she go out and conquer the world?”

  He gave up the battle and offered his hand, palm up, as if he was trying to tempt a cat with a treat. “Need some help with that knot?”

  She laughed, apparently finding that hilarious. “I’m famous for my sutures. I think I can handle a hair tangle. And your hands are about twice the size of mine.”

  “Yes, but I’m famous for my dexterity.” His voice deepened to a husk. He watched Isabelle’s pupils darken and the color rise in her cheeks. This was dangerous, the two of them facing each other in sleepwear in the middle of the night.

  The good kind of dangerous.

  “Okay,” she said, taking a cautious step toward him. She bent her head at an angle, displaying the tangled nest of knots. “I ran out of my favorite conditioner and my hair tends to get crazy when I don’t use it. A few days on skis, the wrong kind of knitted cap, and I’m doomed.”

  Gently, he lifted the hank of hair and examined it. “Wow. I think you might have to shave your head.”

  She laughed. “No joke, I did that once. I got so mad at my hair, and even madder at my mother, that I cut it all off, down to like half an inch. Then Jake used his electric razor to shave the rest. My mom freaked—” She broke off.

  He waited for her to continue as he gently tried to loosen the strands of her hair. Gradually he realized that she wasn’t going to; that some kind of emotion had stopped her.

  “Hey. You okay?”

  She gave a jerk of her head, but he caught the bright sheen of tears in her eyes.

  “Is it about your mom?”

  “Why should it be about my mom when you’re the one pulling my hair?” She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, and he knew she was struggling against tears. He hadn’t cried since he was maybe seven or so; after that he’d trained himself not to give in to tears. A boy who had no one couldn’t afford to show weakness. And too many people interpreted tears that way.

  But Isabelle was plenty strong, and that was definitely a tear running down her cheek.

  “Okay, it might be a little about my mom. I’ve been having these dreams about her lately, and I’m trying to find her stash of journals.”

  She tugged her hair out of his grip and ran her hands through it. “You actually got it unsnarled a little.”

  “Told you.” He dropped his hands, immediately missing the silky sensation of her hair between his fingers. “I have a knack for knots. Most people don’t have the patience, but I like it. It’s kind of Zen-like.”

  “So you’re patient and nimble-fingered. Sounds like you should be a pickpocket.”

  He flashed her a grin. “How do you think I became a billionaire?” He stepped aside so he was no longer blocking the entrance to his bedroom. “Go ahead and check the closet.”

  “You really don’t mind?”

  “Of course not. Sounds like you’re on a mission. Go for it.”

  She slipped past him with a quick ‘thank you.’ He strolled into the living room area to give himself a moment to collect himself. Having her under his hands, allowing him to work on her hair like that, was wildly arousing.

  How could knotted hair be a turn-on?

  It wouldn’t be with anyone else except Isabelle. That moment of emotion that had seized her, the way she talked about her mother, even the way she’d climbed through his bathroom window—all of it, every bit, turned him on.

  He wondered if any of this had the same effect on her.

  9

  Isabelle blocked out the sight of Lyle’s mussed bedcovers as she hurried to the closet. Her scalp still tingled from the sensation of his hands in her hair.

  It brought to mind that night in Rome, when he’d cradled her head in his hands, tilting it for his kiss. The strength in those hands had made her weak in the knees. As a surgeon, she valued hands greatly and always paid attention to them, especially in men. If hands expressed personality, then Lyle’s revealed a lot. They were big, broad, and scarred, with prominent knuckles. In a word, his hands had suffered. They were strong, able to bear burdens, able to battle, able to disentangle a knot in her hair.

  Able to arouse her wildly.

  Don’t think about that.

  She threw open the door of the closet and scanned the contents. Lyle had hung a few items of clothing on the hangers—a suit jacket, a parka, some shirts. It smelled like him, that elusive manly scent of leather and expensive aftershave.

  She blocked that out too and focused on the shelf at the top of the closet. There, all the way in the shadows of the corner, was a large sandalwood box, almost the size of a banker’s box.

  She stood on tiptoe as high as she could, but the box was pushed all the way back, out of reach. Even jumping, she could barely graze it with her fingertips.

  “Need another hand?”

  She registered Lyle’s deep voice in her ear, his hands around her hips, his chest against her back. Then he was lifting her up, high enough so she could reach the box, as if she were performing in Swan Lake or something. The sensation of his hands on her body sent wild waves of heat along her skin.

  She snagged the box and held on to it tightly while he lowered her back to the floor. “Um, thanks for the boost.”

  “No problem. I’m good at opening jars too.”

  “Handy guy to have around a kitchen, are you?”

  He just smiled. That was probably a ridiculous thing to say to a billionaire, come to thi
nk of it. How much time did Lyle Guero spend in a kitchen, opening jars and reaching things on the top shelf of the pantry?

  She chuckled at the thought—or maybe because of the sense of giddiness that still clung to her from that ballet lift. “If the billionaire thing doesn’t work out, you should look into being a ballet dancer.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Those guys who lift ballerinas into the air. They’re crazy strong and graceful and have…” she gestured at his chest, “impressive musculature.”

  Impressive musculature. Good lord. She sounded like an idiot salivating over his torso.

  “Hm. Good tip. I’ll think about that.” He pointed at the box. “Are you going to open it? Do you want me to leave?”

  “It’s your bedroom.”

  “I’m aware. Very aware.”

  Her mouth went dry at the invitation in his eyes. A subtle electricity made the hairs rise on her scalp. Right here, right now, she could take him up on that delicious unspoken offer. They could pick up right where they’d left off, and she had no doubt it would be just as spectacular as she’d been imagining ever since.

  But this time it was different. They weren’t strangers crossing paths at an international airport. They weren’t buzzed from three bottles of wine. She knew who he was now, and had a good idea of the baggage that went with him. International investors were not her type.

  “I’ll, um, take it with me. You probably want to get back to sleep.”

  “After all this excitement? Not happening. Come on, bring it to the living room. I’ll make you some scrambled eggs while you open your Pandora’s box.”

  “Scrambled eggs?”

  “Or fried. Something involving eggs, because that’s all I have.”

  “Big fan of eggs?”

  “It’s easy protein.” He shrugged. “The truth is, I don’t care much about food. I’ve always seen it as fuel, nothing more.” She followed him out of the bedroom, still holding tight to the box. She should probably take it back to her own room and sort through it there. But if it didn’t hold her mother’s journals, there was no point in carting it around. It made sense to stay long enough to check it out.