Taming Tess (The St. John Sibling Series)

by Raffin, Barbara

  She glanced back at him just then, one hand on the bathroom doorframe, and called, "You cook a mean potato, St. John."

  "Am I to take that as a compliment?"

  "Take it however you like," she said through puckered lips. Then she was gone, the bathroom door closed between them.

  Take it however he liked, huh? Well, what he liked might not be quite what she had in mind. But then, he wasn't thinking about the potatoes. He was thinking about that towel slipping off her high, rounded breasts and sliding down her forever long legs to pool on the floor around her perfectly painted toenails. He was thinking about her stepping into his shorts, and about his t-shirt sliding down over her head, her shoulders, and her--

  He smelled smoke.

  Tess had bathed. She clearly wasn't wearing her smoky clothes. The scent of smoke couldn't possibly have come from her. Maybe it was him.

  But, before he could sniff his shirtsleeve, a curl of smoke drifted past his nose from the direction of the stove. With a curse, he pulled the steak charring beneath a blistering broiler from the oven. What more could go wrong for him today?

  #

  Tess closed the upstairs bedroom door behind her, leaned back against it, and smoothed Roman's t-shirt down over her full stomach. They'd eaten without talking until she couldn't bear the silence. So, she'd complimented him again on his potatoes.

  "It's the sweet onions and minced garlic that give them a bite," he'd replied.

  Sweet onions? Minced garlic? She was only vaguely aware of there being a variety of onions as she'd rarely joined her mother and sisters in the kitchen. The man not only knew about onions, but he minced garlic as well. A domesticated man. Her father would not approve of that.

  But did she?

  She tugged the neck of Roman's t-shirt up to her nose and inhaled the tangy aroma of seared beef. He'd taken the worst burnt piece of sirloin and given her the choicest piece. Trying to impress her? Or was he just being a good host?

  The t-shirt he'd given her to wear wasn't one of the thin, blue undershirts he normally wore under his plaid shirts, either. Instead he'd given her a sturdier, navy blue version with a whimsical figure of a carpenter stamped on the front. She'd have called such an act chivalrous, were she a romantic woman.

  But she wasn't.

  Tess slid the ribbed neckband of the t-shirt across her lips and contemplated the man to whom the shirt belonged, a man who did not own a robe. Why did that make her smile?

  Because men in robes tended to look stuffy and Roman St. John was anything but stuffy. Besides, he had far too wonderful a chest as defined by those thin blue tees to hide beneath a robe.

  Or a pajama top.

  As if what he wore or didn't wear to bed should matter to her. He was not for her, plain and simple.

  Then why was she relishing the differences between him and her father? Why couldn't she stop searching for his scent among the navy blue threads of the t-shirt? Why was she contemplating how best to find out what Roman St. John wore to bed…if he wore anything at all?

  Her gaze fixed on the double bed tucked under the peak of the roof. Stomach full, bubble bath fresh, and feeling quite toasty in Roman's over-sized t-shirt, it was only natural that her mind wander to the one area where she remained yet unsated.

  And to be sated, all she had to do was descend the steps to the bedroom directly beneath hers. Yep. Bat the eyelashes a few times and give him a come-hither look or two, and her reluctant host would be at her mercy.

  Yeah, right. His eyes could have bugged out of head and his tongue rolled on the floor when he'd seen her in that towel like some lusting cartoon wolf. She doubted Roman would welcome any invitation from her. She'd tweaked his ego far too often. Never mind she'd done it to keep him at bay. A woman who intended never to marry hadn't any business tempting a man looking for a wife. Business being the operative word here. And the only business that should be on her mind?

  How she was going to repair The Castle in time to sell it before that balloon payment at the end of the year. Six months wasn't a lot of time, especially when she had no idea how much damage had been done to The Castle.

  Yawning, she shucked the bulky shorts and kicked them aside. The bottom of the t-shirt tumbled halfway down her thighs, its caress reminding her of Roman's broad hands with their callused fingers--fingers whose firm yet unbruising grip had earlier on the porch kept her upright. How nice it would be to enlist his help with the repairs.

  Wrong.

  Even if St. John wasn't exactly like her father, he was the second to last man on earth to whom she should turn for help, her father being the first.

  She yawned again and eyed the double bed with its fluffy comforter. Clearly she was overly tired if she was contemplating asking Roman's help fixing The Castle. First thing in the morning, she'd inspect the house and determine the extent of damage.

  She flicked off the switch beside the door for the overhead light and the room plunged into blackness. Immediately, Tess' body reacted. Her heart skipped a beat then began a familiar jack hammer dance. Her throat tightened. Sweat popped out along her spine. She switched the light back on.

  Roman had warned her the nights were dark out here in the country. Maybe if she opened the drapes.

  But the room's dormered window wasn't covered with draperies, curtains, or even a shade. She scowled, torn between the lack of privacy that bare window presented and its isolating blackness. She needed a nightlight.

  But there was no reading lamp on the nightstand beside the bed or on the dresser beneath the window, just that harsh, glaring overhead fixture. How was she supposed to sleep with a hundred watts of light shining in her face?

  #

  Roman was aware of Tess the moment she stepped into his open doorway. He should have closed his bedroom door. He would from now on for as long as she insisted on inhabiting his spare bedroom.

  But, at the moment, she stood in his doorway in his t-shirt but clearly no longer wearing his shorts. Did she know what she did to him, standing on the threshold of his bedroom with all that bare leg showing?

  He lowered the book he'd been reading and demanded, "What?"

  "There's no reading lamp in my room," she said.

  "Can't you read by the overhead light?" he asked.

  "I wasn't planning on reading."

  "Then why do you need a reading lamp?"

  She blinked, frowned briefly then peeked up at him through a heavy fringe of lashes. "In case I have to get up during the night." One corner of her mouth twitched. "You wouldn't want me tripping over anything, now would you? You wouldn't want me to have any additional reasons to sue you?"

  Was she goading him, or flirting with him? Whichever, he refused to rise to the bait.

  "Then leave the hall light on and your door open," he said.

  She swept her little, round chin into its ever familiar imperial angle and pursed her lips. "I don't want to leave my door open."

  He half expected her to stomp her foot…her little, perfect, bare foot with its painted nails. She should have stuck with the seductive approach. He might have succumbed to that. But the harpy tempted him to show her he could give as good as she gave.

  "What's the matter, Princess," he said, bringing his gaze back up to her face, "you afraid an open door is more than my male libido can resist?"

  She folded her arms over her chest, the cock of her chin more challenging now than imperial. "I should point out, St. John, I have a killer uppercut."

  "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

  "Because I'm a woman who can take care of myself, perhaps?"

  "Or maybe because you're a lot like the woman in these pages." He wagged the book he held loosely in his lap. "She has a wallop that would stop any man in his tracks, too." And a tongue to match.

  She looked at the book, no doubt curious to know who he was comparing her to. He palmed the book, hiding its faded title from her.

  "I don't have a spare reading lamp," he said.

  "How about a table
lamp from the living room?"

  "How about a flashlight?" he retorted.

  Her shoulders drooped, a crease scored her broad brow, and her gaze dropped to the floor. She looked so uncertain he had the urge to gather her in his arms and promise everything would work out, and this wasn't the first time he'd had the urge to protect her. How did she do that, flip from harpy to vulnerable in a blink of the eye?

  "Okay, St. John," she said, looking him in the eye. "Here's the facts. I need a nightlight. It's pitch black up there, and I've never slept without one."

  The eyes blazing at him dared him to make something of her revelation. Little did she know he couldn't kick an opponent when she was down, harpy or not.

  Roman tossed his book aside, threw back the covers, and slid out of bed. She glanced down the front of him and, for an instant, looked startled. Then a smile spread across those lips he'd have liked to sample, were she a sweeter sort of woman.

  "What's the matter, Princess? Don't my pajama bottoms live up to your royal standards?"

  "On the contrary. I think smiley faces are adorable." She grinned up at him as he stopped in front of her, her deep, brown eyes twinkling.

  "They were a gift from my sister," he said. "A gag gift."

  "And you wear them even though they were a gag?"

  "Not wearing them would be a waste."

  "Practical Roman," she said, tsking in a way that reminded him of his sister's own good-natured ribbing about his practicality. He wasn't sure he liked the shrewish Tess teasing him.

  "I'll bring you a nightlight if you go wait for me in your bedroom."

  She gave him a crooked smile, pivoted on her heel, and bounded up the steps.

  All that leg wasted on a woman too ornery to live with. He shook his head, retrieved the nightlight from the kitchen junk drawer, and headed upstairs.

  She was sitting on the bed, covers drawn up over the knees she hugged up under her chin. Thank goodness for that quilt. A man could take only so much tempting before he broke. Still, he couldn't help but speculate at what he'd find under that old quilted bedcover. How would Tess Abbot react if she knew what primal thoughts heated his blood?

  Then he realized she was taking her own time perusing his bare chest.

  Run, urged a tiny voice inside his head. Run fast and far.

  "Here." He thrust the nightlight at her, but she didn't take it. She just stared at it, eyebrows raised.

  "A Winnie-the-Pooh nightlight?" Amusement laced her words.

  "I bought it when my nephew visited."

  "You babysat your nephew?"

  "No, I eat little children. You'll find his bones in the bone pile out back. Jeez, Tess. What kind of man do you think I am? I'll plug in the nightlight for you." He dropped to one knee beside the dresser where there was an electrical outlet.

  "Aren't you the gentleman," she all but purred from the bed.

  "Anything your little heart desires, Princess," he grumbled, fighting the nightlight's bent prongs into the outlet.

  "In that case, St. John--"

  He rose and faced her, dread inching up his spine.

  "--Turn off the overhead light on your way out…please."

  That was it? No tirade about the Spartan accommodation, or the lack of curtains on the window? Even a please? He was almost disappointed.

  "Sure," he said.

  "And leave the hall light on…in case I get up during the night."

  "Anything else Her Highness requires before her humble servant retires for the night?" he parried.

  "I'll whistle if I think of anything."

  "I just bet you will."

  CHAPTER THREE

  The third time Tess opened her eyes and squinted into the sunlight streaming through the bedroom's unclad window, she knew she wasn't having a nightmare. The lumpy bed beneath her and the slanted ceiling over her head were real, as real as yesterday's fire at The Castle.

  Tess winced. She'd put everything she had into that project. She'd even had a couple prospective buyers interested, buyers expecting a livable house. Now what was she going to do?

  She could call Aunt Honey and hash out options with her.

  No, she couldn't. Not for the next three weeks. Aunt Honey had gone to a monastery somewhere in the Andes. Spiritual enlightenment was Aunt Honey's latest passion. No cell phones allowed. Besides, she needed to assess the damage at The Castle before she could determine any plan of action.

  Tess climbed out of bed, slipped on Roman’s shorts, and stumbled down the steps. Roman's door was shut. Obviously the fire for which he was responsible wasn't nagging Prince Charmless awake this morning. After all the times he'd hammered on her front door at the crack of dawn, it would serve him right if she returned the favor and knocked on his door right now.

  She yawned. Maybe she'd do just that…right after she had her first cup of coffee.

  She shuffled into the kitchen to the coffeemaker. There was already coffee in it. Just enough to fill a mug. But the pot was cold. Yesterday's brew?

  Not in Mr. Neat's domain.

  Alarm tingled at the base of Tess' skull. If the cold coffee wasn't from yesterday--

  She charged Roman's bedroom door and threw it open. No Roman. No happy face pjs. Just his made-up bed.

  She dashed out the front door. The driveway was empty as well. He'd abandoned her. That countrified version of her father had up and stranded her in the woods!

  Blood pounding in her ears, she stormed back into the house. A yellow sticky note on the kitchen table fluttered with her passing. She backed up and read it. It stated simply, "Taxi," followed by a phone number.

  Okay. He hadn't stranded her.

  She drew a deep breath in through her nose then blew it slowly out her mouth, a calming technique she'd learned in some long ago yoga class. She'd overreacted. Couple yesterday's emotional roller-coaster ride with not having had her eye-opening cup of coffee yet, it was no wonder. She'd feel better after she got her caffeine fix and some food.

  She found a coffee mug, filled it from the cold pot, and stuck it in the microwave. The yellow sticky note with the cab number beckoned her from the table. It would take some time for a taxi to drive out here. She should call and set a time for them to pick her up.

  She dialed the number. One ring. Two rings. The microwave timer went off. The long cord on the wall mounted phone let her reach the mug. Gratefully, she wrapped her fingers around the steamy cup.

  Three rings.

  She popped a couple slices of bread in the toaster.

  Four rings.

  The toaster lever jammed and she wiggled it.

  Five rings.

  What kind of cab company took this long to answer its phone? The toaster lever jerked loose and the bread popped up. She hammered the lever back down and the bread with it.

  She was about to give up on the cab when a woman answered on the sixth ring, a baby squalling in the background. "I'm sorry," Tess said, "I must have called the wrong--"

  The woman shouted over the caterwauling infant.

  Tess pulled the receiver away from her ear, reiterating, "You are Penetti's Cab Company?" Small towns and their casual business practices. "I need a cab at--"

  "I have to talk to your husband?" Tess asked with more than a little confusion. "Is he the dispatcher?"

  Another shouted response, this time with the added backup of another child intoning, "Mommy. Mommy. Mommy."

  "Your husband is the cabby. Okay." Tess rolled her eyes.

  She sipped at her coffee as she waited for the husband to respond to the wife's shouts and come to the phone. These people would never make it in Chicago.

  And what was that singed smell?

  She zeroed in on the smoking toaster and tried to raise the burning bread, but the damned lever stuck again. She jerked the toaster cord from the outlet, accidentally hitting the toaster with her hand and sending it flying across the counter top. It crashed to the floor just as the cabby came on line.

  "I need a cab," she sai
d, flinging her coffee on the flaming toast now skidding across the inlaid. Just as the cabby spoke, the smoke detector in the hall squealed to life.

  "Just a minute," she shouted into the mouthpiece, dragging a chair under the smoke detector. "Let me shut this thing up."

  She tucked the phone receiver under her chin, climbed onto the chair, and dislodged the battery. But the alarm kept squealing at ear splitting decibels.

  "It's hard wired," she muttered and cursed Roman's attention to code even though she would have been every bit as safety-conscious and connected the alarm directly to the house current.

  She ripped the detector off the ceiling and the squeal gave way to an annoying blip. "Internal back up battery," she explained into the phone receiver. Roman had covered every base. "I'll just be another second."

  She dropped from the chair, set the phone down, went to the front door, and flung the alarm outside. Silence once more reigning, she picked up the phone. "Now, about that cab."

  "What do you mean, the cab is in the shop? You can't possibly have just one--"

  "You have only one cab and it's getting a new transmission today." She managed a tight, "Thank you," and hung up.

  "You did this on purpose, Roman St. John. You left me the phone number of the lamest cab company in town."

  She found a phone book in the nearest kitchen drawer and opened it to the yellow pages. Just as she thought. There were two other listings. She phoned both companies only to be informed that the only thing they had in common with Penetti's Cab Company was a listing in the yellow pages that served two other small towns. They were both fifty miles away and neither serviced Pine Mountain.

  "Damn you, St. John," she howled. "Leave me here without any way to get to town--without a change of clothes. What am I supposed to do?"

  She could wash her clothes and then walk to town…if she knew the way. Why hadn't she paid attention to how they'd gotten here last night?

  Tess thumbed the thin phone book still in her lap. At least she could call the fire department and find out what conclusion they'd drawn about the fire at her house.