She plugged the drain, turned on the hot water, and scanned the back lip of the tub for bath supplies. She wanted bubbles. Not that she expected to find bubble bath among her reluctant host's paraphernalia. A man like Ro--
Whoa. What was this?
Between a nondescript lump of soap and a Value Size jug of shampoo stood a bottle whose label identified it as bubbling bath crystals. Before she could censure herself, an image of her contractor popped into her head, his brawny arms draped along the sides of the tub while one hairy leg protruded from a pile of iridescent suds. Maybe the man was right about her coming home with him being a bad idea. She was attracted to him. She lusted after him. Of course it was a bad idea.
But she refused to admit it to him. That would be like admitting defeat to her father.
Tess scowled, dumped a hefty amount of bath crystals under the stream of water spilling from the spout, and turned toward the open shelves above the toilet stacked with towels. They were a motley collection of odd sizes and dark colors, mostly burgundy. She wouldn't have pegged him for a man with enough imagination to waver from the standard blues she expected of men who wore plaid. Then again, he had surprised her a few times in the past weeks.
Curious if she'd find other surprises in the personal space of his bathroom, she opened a set of bi-fold doors opposite the tub and sink and found a washer and dryer. Compact and orderly with a shelf of laundry supplies above the appliances. Even the dirty clothes hadn't been tossed willy-nilly. They were in a laundry basket atop the washing machine, Roman St. John's white, rumpled shorts and sweaty, navy tees.
What was she doing fingering his t-shirts? She should be repulsed. They bore the sweat of a man who labored hard. And he did. She'd seen him, swinging his hammer and hefting massive beams, making the muscles bunch across his back beneath the tight weave of his t-shirt.
She shook off the image and concentrated on the reality at hand…like smelly shirts. But his tees didn't reek of stale sweat. They smelled of the male essence of the last man on earth to whom she dared be attracted.
"What are you doing?" she muttered, holding one of his t-shirts to her nose and inhaling.
Torturing myself, that's what I'm doing.
She tossed the shirt back into the basket and paced the narrow bathroom. Steam wafted from her filling bath, inviting her into the water. Yet, she couldn't resist snooping further.
The cabinet under the sink held the usual cleaning supplies. The medicine cabinet above housed a spare supply of bandages, aspirin, floss--which accounted for Roman St. John's brilliant white teeth--and shaving cream and razor.
She picked up the razor and turned it between her fingers. Her father used the electric version. No raw stainless steel blades threatening his pampered cheeks, unless the blade was wielded by a barber whose business it was to know the definitive cutting angle of a straight razor.
She had the distinct impression that her contractor had never wasted a minute of his time worrying about a little razor burn. At least he and her father differed in that way.
But in other ways…
Once he questioned the wisdom of knocking out a wall between two bedrooms to make a grand master suite. Like she didn't know downgrading from five to four bedrooms meant value lost. She'd promptly pointed out she was no rooky architect. That she knew what she was doing--knew her target market and they wanted big masters. He'd complied with her design plan in the end. Not that he had a choice, as she'd also pointed out. She was the client.
She slapped the razor back on the shelf and all but slammed the medicine cabinet door. She knew what she was doing and why, even if her contractor didn't approve of her design. But she didn't have the luxury of time to wait for a buyer who'd appreciate the integrity of small, Victorian era rooms. She needed that house remodeled to the upscale esthetic preferred by the modern day buyer, and she needed it on the market ASAP.
A whiff of smoke wafted up off her clothes. With The Castle a charred, water-logged ruin, there would be no sale, speedy or otherwise. So much for proving to her father that a woman was as capable in this business as a man, thanks to Roman St. John and his band of merry men.
"Forget St. John," she muttered, stripping off her clothes. "Forget him and his amazing blue eyes, muscled arms, and…and his damn burgundy towels."
She sank into the hot bath, trying not to think about his very broad shoulders in bubbles. She needed to unwind so she could think this latest problem through without letting her emotions muddle the process. Any decision emotion based could only prove her father right about women not belonging in business.
#
Roman stared at the wall above the stove as he sliced an onion into a hot skillet, the wall that partitioned the kitchen from the bathroom. The water had stopped running and he swore he could actually hear her sinking into the bathwater. But that was impossible. He'd insulated these walls himself. Had to be his imagination and under-used of late libido picturing Tess Abbot in the buff climbing into his bathtub.
The knife slipped and sliced into the pad of his thumb.
"Damn!"
He scowled at the blood bubbling along the thin cut. First aid kit was in the bathroom…where the inhospitable Miss Abbot soaked naked in his tub. He wondered if she'd used his bath salts, if she was buried up to her stubborn little chin in suds.
He cursed again and tossed the knife and onion remnant onto the countertop next to the stove. If his thumb were hanging by a cord and blood spurting from an artery, he wouldn't knock on that bathroom door for her help. Nope. No way. No how.
"Get that notion out of your head right now, Roman my man, because the acid-tongued Tess is strictly off limits."
He wrapped a paper napkin around his thumb then retrieved a platter of meat from the fridge. All day he'd anticipated eating the sirloin steak he'd seasoned last night and left marinating. He'd planned to celebrate the end of working with the impossible Ms. Abbott with that hunk of meat. That is until her third floor caught on fire, flames devouring her roof and the billowing smoke making her house look like a smudge pot.
That quickly, a job done had turned into a new nightmare. Instead of putting the client from hell behind him, he now had her as a houseguest. To add insult to injury, he had to cut his steak in half and share it with his uninvited houseguest.
A loud splash drew his attention back to the wall behind the stove and spurred his imagination into a space it had no business visiting, not when that space involved soapy bubbles and a fresh-faced harpy. Had she slipped? He banged the platter down next to the knife and cursed yet again, a speech pattern he seemed to be using with far more frequency since starting work for the tyrannical Tess.
She could drown in there for all he cared, considering what she'd put him through. Still, he listened for movement, just in case. Given their none-too-private verbal sparring, an accident might not be the first cause of death the local sheriff suspected. And her family? They'd want to know what she was doing naked in his tub first then they would sue him for so much he'd owe them his soul.
But, if he scooped Tess Abbot's unconscious body--slick with soap--from the tub and breathed life into it, he'd be a hero. Tess might even say something nice to him.
Running water trickled beyond the wall between bath and kitchen and his fantasy evaporated.
"You are pathetic," he muttered into the stinging vapor of frying onions and potatoes.
His stomach rumbled in protest. He hadn't eaten all day. He'd been too busy scrambling to finish the last minute changes her royal pain in the butt had wanted. For a woman who found his company so irritating she couldn't say a nice word to him to save her soul, she sure found ways to keep him on the job longer.
His stomach growled again and he eyed the steak. What if she was a vegetarian?
If she were, he might as well go ahead and cook the steak for himself. No sense his starving while she took her sweet time soaking her pampered backside.
An image of Tess Abbot's skin flushed from steamy bathwater
popped into his head. Immediately, he shook his head, shaking away the image. He had no business knocking on that bathroom door just to find out her food preference. Besides, it would be nice to eat with someone for change.
Was he nuts? He was talking about the vixen with a tongue like a switchblade. Better he eat alone.
#
The knock on the door jolted Tess from her peace.
"What?" she demanded.
"How long are you going to be in there?"
Wasn't there a man on earth capable of giving a woman five minutes of peace?
"You got a hot date to get ready for, St. John?"
"I want to know when to put the steak on."
"Steak? Swell. My house burns down and you barbecue. What is it with you men and your barbecues?"
"If you don't eat meat--"
"My father barbecues a few hamburgers and hot dogs," she ranted, "and he expects the world to stand up and applaud."
"If you're not a meat eater," he growled through a door with too flimsy a lock to keep out a strapping contractor if he wanted in, "I should tell you I don't have an ounce of tofu in the house."
"Like you'd know what to do with bean curd if you had any."
"Care to bet on that?"
Tess frowned and muttered above the grumble of her stomach, "Something tells me that would be a sucker bet."
Why was she wasting time arguing with this guy when a steak sounded so good to her? A big, thick, rare steak.
"When you hear the water draining from the tub, St. John," she shouted at the door, "you can slap the meat on the grill."
"Helpful," he muttered. "Real helpful."
Tess heard his footsteps as he departed and sank back into the suds with a groan. Why were men so quick to take offense of a woman who knew her own mind? Why did men think they had to run her life?
Why couldn't her father see she was as capable an architect as any of the men in his firm? But no, Dad refused to see women in any career but that of a homemaker and mother.
"A woman's duty is in the home," he'd said so many times she couldn't believe she'd not recognized the futility of fighting his closed mind earlier.
She should have at least caught on when she'd graduated from college with honors and he'd said, "Wasn't there one man in the whole architectural department you could have married?"
She'd thought he merely needed educating. So she'd begged her way into his firm and accepted every menial task he'd assigned her, or rather he'd had other architects in the firm assign her. She'd bitten the bullet, telling herself he didn't want to show favoritism, that he was testing her--making her stronger. She thought she would be the woman to prove to her father that women could do it all.
By the time Harry Dawson joined the firm, she'd started to notice that draftsmen with less experience and lesser schooling were getting promoted ahead of her. Over Manhattan Iced Teas, she and Harry had commiserated over her father's lack of support of her and Harry's less than stellar design skills. The next thing she knew, they were in bed together and Dad was inviting Harry to Sunday dinners.
She finally had her father's attention. The day Harry produced a diamond engagement ring he couldn't possibly afford on his salary, it had taken very little investigation on her part to uncover why Harry had gotten a substantial raise, and why he was being lauded as the firm's newest rising star. The design Harry had presented to her father, the design that landed the firm a large government contract had been hers. He’d stolen her work.
But Harry's betrayal was minimal next to her father's. When she'd presented him with the evidence of Harry's double-dealing, the least she'd expected her father to do was fire Harry. Instead, dear old dad chastised her for undermining her future husband, pointing out Harry had people skills. He had connections. So, what was the big deal if she helped her husband-to-be with his designs now and then?
What was the big deal?
The big deal was that daddy-dearest saw her only as a means to bring a son-in-law into the family business when he should have been grooming his daughter to take over. That's when she ended her engagement to Harry and resigned from the firm, refusing to comply with her father's twenty-first century version of an arranged marriage.
Just her luck the man she'd hired to renovate her first project seemed to have the same outdated inclinations about family and marriage as her father. A man with forever etched all over his baby blues. A man with an outdated bias was no man for her. Besides, she wasn't looking for forever with any man.
The gall of Roman St. John pounding on her door when she was trying to unwind from the catastrophe for which he was to blame. And for what reason? To demand she give him a time when she'd be done so he could cook his steak.
"Inconsiderate, self-serving--" Opening the drain, she climbed out of the tub. There’d be no more relaxing, thanks to Roman St, John. Never mind that her stomach growled with the ferocity of a lioness five days from her last meal.
She grabbed up her clothes and the smell of smoke slapped her in the face. She threw the garments back on the floor and scanned the small room for something else to wear. There was nothing…unless she wanted to don one of St. John’s sweaty t-shirts.
"Men! They expect us to be at their beck and call, to look our best and smile pretty. To make sure their shirts are pressed and their three-minute eggs are cooked to perfection! But can even one of them have the forethought to set out a robe for a woman?"
#
She entered the kitchen in a puff of steam and a pair of towels, one wrapped around her hair and the other around her torso, barely covering the most intimate parts of Tess's personal terrain.
"The least you could have done was put a robe in the bathroom for me," she said none-too politely.
Roman blinked at the enticing swell of breasts visible above the edge of a maroon towel and blankly repeated, "Robe?"
"You can't expect me to put my smoky clothes back on?"
Dumbly, he shook his head. It wasn't like he'd never seen a woman in a towel before. He was a man of some experience, the sort of experience he'd recently put on hold as a courtesy to the future Mrs. St. John, whomever she might be. But, he'd never seen Tess Abbot in a towel.
Or experienced such mixed feelings at the same time. On one level, he was being chewed out and resented it. On another, he wanted her, harpy mouth and all.
He tore his gaze away from her breasts and looked at her mouth in an attempt to break the spell. Bad choice. He wanted to press his lips to hers, if only to shut her up.
Wrong. He wanted to possess those lush lips, and plunder her mouth with his tongue. To tear the towel from her body, swipe the dishes off the table, and take her right there amidst scattered utensils and spilled salad.
"A robe, St. John?" she prompted, hands on hips.
How could such terse words make those full, bow-shaped lips look so inviting? It had to be abstinence that had him lusting after the bane of his existence, and the sweetly compact breasts and forever legs within reach. He shouldn't have looked down. The woman had legs that climbed from ten red-painted toenails to eternity. And eternity was where he wanted to be right now.
He groaned and headed for his bedroom, his voice oddly hoarse in his ears. "I'll find you something to wear."
Roman breezed past her, ordering, "Keep an eye on the steak."
"You expect me to go outside dressed like this?" Tess turned after him, flipping an edge of the towel wrapped around her torso.
He paused in the doorway of his bedroom and looked back at her, a perplexed expression on his face…until his eyes followed the flick of the towel against her thigh. Something more carnal flickered across the baby blues then. Oh yeah, her contractor was definitely the typical lusting male. Men were so predictable.
"Steak's under the broiler," he said through clenched teeth before disappearing into the bedroom.
She gave him credit for not leering as she stepped over to the stove and peeked inside the oven. Two slabs of beef sizzled under the broiler. So
, he didn't exactly barbecue. Another plus?
She plucked a morsel from the frying pan on top of the stove and popped it into her mouth. As she rolled the hot potato around her tongue to cool it, she studied the table set with two place settings. Forks on the left, knives and spoons on the right. So, he wasn't a total barbarian, either.
She chewed, her mouth flooding with flavors. She plucked another tidbit from the pan, blew on it this time before sampling. There was more than just salt and pepper and potato teasing her taste buds. So, the man could cook, too.
Wanting more, she scooped another piece from the frying pan, scorching her fingers this time and dropping the potato slice. Reflexively, she stuck her burnt fingers into her mouth just as he emerged from his bedroom.
She was sucking on her fingers. Tess Abbot, razor-tongued temptress, was standing in his kitchen in a skimpy towel sucking on her fingers. Whatever had he done in life to deserve this kind of punishment?
Roman fixed his gaze on her eyes, determined not to notice how her full lips looked suctioned around two of her fingers--how they rounded in an almost surprised "oh" shape that didn't quite match the devilment in her eyes. He stopped just out of reach of the woman…a man could be tempted only so far…and dangled a t-shirt and sweat-shorts with a drawstring waistband in front of her.
"I don't have a robe," he said.
One corner of those finger-sucking lips lifted.
"Try these," he offered, hoping she didn't hear the pleading behind his words. Being how immune to him she seemed to be, he wasn't keen on her seeing how weak his libido was.
She removed her fingers from her mouth, cocked her head to one side, and smiled a crooked, little smile. Oh, she knew exactly what effect she had him. He drew a bolstering breath and waited for the inevitable smart-alecky come-back. But she said nothing. She just tugged the shorts and shirt from his fingers and sauntered off down the hall, her hips swaying beneath the thin terrycloth towel. Damn but that woman had moves that could cause a ten-car pile-up.
Taming Tess (The St. John Sibling Series) Page 3