TAMING TESS
Book 1: The St. John Sibling Series
by Barbara Raffin
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Copyright © 2013
All rights reserved by author. The reproduction or other use of any part of this publication without the prior written consent of the rights holder is an infringement of the copyright law.
Cover Art/Design by Cover to Cover Designs
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. People and locations, even those with real names, have been fictionalized for the purposes of this story.
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CHAPTER ONE
Lady, if I don't finish your remodeling job by the end of the week, you can move into my house.
The words Roman St. John had spoken only days ago to Tess Abbot ricocheted around his brain as he stared into the flames devouring the third story of her house, the construction project he'd been within hours of finishing before it caught on fire. Whatever had possessed him to make such a ridiculous boast to the woman?
From the curb behind him, his truck horn blared. He glared over his shoulder at his client who sat in his truck leaning on the horn. Six weeks of that woman's constant haranguing, that's what had goaded him into being stupid enough to gamble on the reliability of his crew and to propose the ridiculous, that she move into his house if he didn't get her job done on time.
Besides, it hadn't seemed such an outrageous boast at the time he'd made it. He had a reputation as a contractor who got his jobs done on schedule, even when the client was a pain in the behind control freak like Tess Abbot.
Now, here he was, less than twenty-four hours away from getting rid of the client from hell and his doofus cousin Raymond goes and sets fire to The Castle, by which the Victorian mansion of a house was known. If the man ever stuck another cigar in his mouth, Roman vowed to cram it down Raymond's throat, ash end first.
Honk. Honk. Hooonnnk.
And if his client didn't stop honking his truck horn in his ear, he was going to super glue her fingers to her harpy tongue. He stepped around to the driver's side of the truck and jerked open the door.
"What now?"
She squared her shoulders, folded her arms across her compact breasts flattened further by the tight weave of a skin-tight, spandex tank top, and lifted her pert chin to the imperial angle he'd come to know all too well in the weeks working for her. "I smell like the bottom of an ash tray. I want a bath and clearly my bathroom is no longer usable, thanks to your crew's carelessness."
"What do you want me to do about that?"
The strobe lights of the fire truck filling the Castle's driveway flashed through the evening dusk and across a face that was flawless save for a smudge of soot on one cheek and the flecks of ash salting her dark hair. She'd pulled her dark mane back into a tight ponytail high on the back of her head, as she always did for her daily run. But, the day she'd opened her front door to him so he could begin renovations on The Castle, her hair had been loose, a glorious dark mane cascading down over her shoulders. Until that day, they'd communicated via phone calls, emails, and texts, her voice lush and inviting, her ideas and plans smart. Their conversations had had him thinking beyond an architect/contractor relationship. Given finding a wife and starting a family ranked at the top of his latest five-year plan, falling in love would have been an appropriate course of action. But…
"St. John. You do have a bathroom in your house, don’t you?"
And there she went with another of her endless digs. Good thing he hadn't voiced his feelings the day they met, because six weeks of working with Tess had proven her to be anything but the type of woman with whom he wished to spend the rest of his life. The woman he'd come to know via phone had disappeared behind one who kept looking over his shoulder--second guessing him and always there because she lived on the construction site.
Not that he didn't respect her point of view. She was a good architect, knew her stuff. But, even when a sub-contractor dismissed her opinion and he backed her up, had she appreciate his support? No. She'd curtly informed him she was capable of handling her own problems.
The red light washed across her face again, making him think less than charitable thoughts about his client. A crime, that's what it was for a woman to have a body that wouldn't quit and a tongue to match.
"Please let me put you up in a nice motel for the night," he said, hoping the woman had cooled off enough by now to realize the absurdity of moving into his house with him. They squabbled like cats and dogs.
"Your idea of nice no doubt rents by the hour in this town," she lobbed back at him.
And now another of the never-ending digs for the small community in which he'd chosen to build a business and raise a family. No doubt about it, she was two horns shy of a she-devil. There wasn't enough water in all the Great Lakes framing the state of Michigan to wash that fact away. He swung himself up into the driver's seat.
"Pine Mountain may be a small town in a forgotten corner of Michigan's Upper Peninsula," Roman said through his teeth, "but--"
"--It has clean air and quiet living," she simpered back at him, "not to mention it's a great place to raise kids. Yada, yada, yada. Personally," she droned on, "I find quiet vastly overrated."
"Some quiet right now would be vastly refreshing," Roman grumbled, throwing the truck into gear.
"Look, St. John, I'm the one who's been burned out of her house with nothing more than the clothes on her back. And whose fault is that?"
Roman winced. Of all the people to have screwed up with, why did it have to be with the harpy from hell?
Then again he should be more tolerant of the woman since she'd come home from her evening run to find her house on fire--a fire for which he likely was responsible? He owed her more than a little compassion.
"Look," he tried one last time as he pulled away from the curb and edged around the backend of the fire truck that blocked Tess' car in her driveway. "We may not have any hotels in the area, but there are several Triple A motels."
"I'm used to five star accommodations."
The woman was unrelentingly stubborn. No wonder he couldn't help but spar with her at every turn. No wonder he'd dubbed her Princess by the end of the first week working with her.
Still, early evidence indicated he was responsible for her predicament. Maybe if he offered an olive branch of help, she'd be more reasonable.
"I know a clean-up crew I can get in here as soon as the Fire Chief clears the scene."
"You burn up so many of your projects you have a cleaning crew on stand-by?"
His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. "I just happen to know them. They've got topnotch water extraction equipment."
"How nice of you to recommend your friends to clean up your mess. This is beginning to sound like a scam."
Okay. Trying to be a nice guy to Tess Abbot wasn't working. Time to try a different tact.
Turning hard from the side street onto the main thoroughfare, he said, "You'll accept nothing less than five star, huh?"
"That's right."
If the woman demanded five star accommodations, he was a free man. One look at his modest digs and she'd beg him to take her to a motel, any motel.
#
The minute they left the city limits, Tess should have demanded Roman St. John turn his truck around and take her back to town, but who could tell where city ended and country began? Not a Chicago bred girl like her, that's for sure. Even downtown Pine Mountain seemed sparsely lit in comparison.
Yet, here she was, driving into the descending gloom of nightfall with a man who was trouble with a capital T. All hunkness aside, Roman St. John and his great place to r
aise kids attitude sounded too much like her father, who still lived by the antiquated standards of a fifties’ man. Daddy-Dearest believed women belonged in the bedroom not the boardroom.
She scowled, recalling the moment she'd realized her father had never intended for her to take over the family architectural firm. That the only way she would ever be recognized for her talent as an architect would be if she went out on her own.
And now the refurbishing job she'd intended to use as the jewel in the foundation of her business with was in flames. She no longer had a salable property ready to flip into the hands of a couple of potential high-end buyers-in-waiting let alone a photographable project for her portfolio. Her father would declare that she'd failed to go it on her own--the father who'd promoted lesser men ahead of her, men being the operative word. The father who'd refused to give her a recommendation to present to other architectural firms when she'd left his.
The father who'd informed every loan institution within a hundred mile radius of Chicago that they could not rely on him to underwrite any loan they gave the youngest of his three daughters. He'd probably even warned them that she, being a female, would undoubtedly default on the loan because he believed no woman could build a business on her own.
"You'll come crawling back to me before the year is out," he'd shouted after her as she'd stormed out of his office the day she'd finally realized the extent to which her father would go to keep her at heel.
Fortunately, she had great-aunt Honey to turn to. Aunt Honey had never let any man get in her way. Aunt Honey had been a career woman before it was fashionable and traveled her own flamboyant path in life undaunted by the naysayers.
Aunt Honey owned a house three hundred miles away from her father's influence--the kind of house whose renovation would be a shining star in any architect's portfolio. A smile tugged at the corner of Tess' mouth. Honey's reign as the grand dame of the local community players had lasted a decade and a half before the wanderlust had once again beckoned her. But fifteen years of summer visits had been long enough for Tess to learn an appreciation for fine old houses.
She'd bought The Castle from Aunt Honey at fair market value even though her aunt had offered it to her for less. It was the only fair thing to do since there'd been another buyer interested. Besides, anything less and her father would likely dismiss her success as having been subsidized by family.
She'd even gone the conventional route in financing the purchase rather than take Aunt Honey up on her offer of a land contract. A bank loan kept her independent, but it also meant she had to turn a profit before year's end when her balloon payment was due.
That end-of-year deadline is partly why she'd hired St. John, a contractor with a reputation for getting things done on time--a contractor known for his quality of workmanship and reliability. That and the fact Aunt Honey had recommended him herself. Between the tight timeline and Aunt Honey's high praise, she'd actually hired him sight unseen to renovate the Victorian era mansion. When she found out he was the other buyer she'd bought the place out from under--
"No hard feelings," he'd assured her. "I understand Honey selling to family."
It also meant he already knew the place well and that saved her a five hour drive from Chicago to show him the job. She faxed him her blueprints for the changes. They hammered out pre-job details via email, texting, and phone calls. That deep, assuring voice on the other end of the phone line had made her wonder far too much about the man it belonged to. She was still a woman with needs, after all, even if she weren't looking for happily-ever-after with any man.
And, when she'd opened the mansion's front door and looked into Roman St. John's chiseled-by-thirty-something years face, she knew he was everything his telephone voice had promised and more. Visions of a hot tryst danced in her head.
But, the first words out of Roman's mouth, once he'd determined she was indeed the Tess Abbot who'd hired him, took him down to the level of every man who'd ever doubted her.
"You're a lot younger than I expected."
"Don't let my looks fool you, Mr. St. John," she'd leveled back at him in her best authoritative tone. "I graduated top of my class and am board certified architect in three states. Got those certifications on my first try at each test. I know what I'm doing."
"I didn't mean--"
She'd cut him off with a terse, "Of course you didn't."
He only diminished further her opinion of him during their first walk-through when he'd lingered in the original nursery off the master bedroom which Honey had used as a dressing room and Tess slated to be converted to a state-of-the-art walk-in closet.
"A sweet little space," he'd said. "Convenient for a young couple starting a family."
"It's not like I'm removing the house's Victorian charm," she'd countered, readily defensive. "I'm just making an old fashioned nursery into a closet more functional for today's buyer. Besides, why are you so sentimental about it? If you'd gotten The Castle how else would you have made money off it than converted it to apartments?"
"Wasn't planning to make money off it," he'd said. "I was going to make The Castle into my family home."
His answer slapped her in the face like a page out of her father’s book. Only a family man would choose nursery over closet.
The phrase barefoot and pregnant burned between her ears. How many times had those words tumbled from her father's mouth on the kind of laugh he saved for his cronies? Never mind that her mother and sisters were more likely to be found in the latest designer heels than barefoot. Then again they'd all played their domestic rolls perfectly in step with the old man, marrying and popping out babies. But not her. Subjugating herself to any man was not in her future. Especially not after her father had betrayed her as he had.
That's why, no matter how much Roman St. John tweaked her hormones, she'd vowed that day there would be no flirting with him. Just business.
Lot of good her self-control and his qualifications did her now that her house was a charred ruin. When her father found out, he'd reel her in like one of his trophy game fish, bragging how right he'd been about a woman's inability to stand on her own. Never mind it wasn't her fault her one chance to prove her father wrong had gone up in smoke.
The truck hit a pothole and Tess bounced against her seatbelt. If Roman St. John knew the extent of the damage he'd done her, he'd probably get an I told you so in there as well, even though the fire was his crew’s fault.
The truck bounded over another of the defects bad weather and poor maintenance had gouged into the country road. She grabbed the dash to steady herself. St. John's eyes glittered in the low light off the instrument panel and he pressed his foot to the accelerator.
"Having second thoughts?" he asked. "I'll gladly turn around and drive you back to town."
"You wish," she fired back at him, automatically contradicting anything this latest man seemingly hell-bent on dictating to her suggested, even if what he suggested was more reasonable…and safer.
"You being used to five star accommodations, I wouldn't want you to be disappointed." The near corner of his mouth twitched.
No doubt about it. Roman St. John enjoyed tormenting her. But he was in for a surprise if he thought a little mocking would send her running, tail-tucked between her legs. Take over and take care of the little woman type men had mocked her all her twenty-nine years.
Granted, none with as manly a physique as Roman. Definitely not one she had to fight to resist. Damn the man his amazing looks, smug comebacks, and ability to aggravate her with seemingly little effort. Though she had to admit, she'd often found sparring with Roman an entertaining exercise. The one perk to having taken on a defensive demeanor with him.
"Just keep driving, St. John."
He wheeled the truck hard off the county road onto a dirt driveway and hit the brakes. Tess lurched against her seatbelt.
"Is it necessary to take every turn as though we're trying to out-maneuver someone tailing us?" she asked.
"My driving
not five star enough for you, Princess?"
She scowled at the man slanting a self-satisfied smile her way. "I've told you before and I'll tell you again. No one calls me princess."
"I'd have bet everyone did."
"That's a bet you'd have lost, St. John."
He shifted in his seat and draped an arm along the back of the seat, an arm that was bare below the rolled back cuff of a plaid cotton shirt. Damned if she couldn't feel the heat emanating from that almost naked limb sprawled across the seatback and the small space between them.
Safer to go to a motel.
Involuntarily, her head tilted toward that heat, her ponytail brushing his skin. In spite of his offending her, she wanted to know the cradle of that arm. She wanted to be possessed by its strength--wanted to be possessed by the strength of the whole man. And therein lie the real danger of Roman St. John. She shouldn't want to be possessed by any man.
Definitely safer…a motel.
"Here we are," he all but sang in his smooth baritone, sweeping a broad hand toward the small structure caught in the arc of the truck's headlights. "Home sweet home."
That patronizing smugness that reminded her too much of her father, that was the real reason she refused what her body craved. That's why she'd declared Roman St. John off limits the day she realized he'd have made The Castle his family home. Not that he was wrong to have seen a home in the mansion. She'd seen it, too. But her target client wanted old elegance with all the modern conveniences. That was the client with the money to pay for the showcase she'd created. Yet, a tiny part of her was saddened to have taken away some of the original intent from so grand a house.
She shook off the thought because it was a sentiment she and Roman shared. Not that she'd ever admit such a thing to the man. She didn't even want to acknowledge it to herself. Such commonality only added another dimension to the chemical attraction she already had for a man. The last thing she needed was more reason to be drawn to a man who thought like her father. She was, above all, a woman who intended never to be subjugated by any man. Never to marry.
Taming Tess (The St. John Sibling Series) Page 1