Taming Tess (The St. John Sibling Series)

by Raffin, Barbara

  She blinked at him. "What kind of bachelor are you that you don't have condoms?"

  He winced, memory of a promise made to himself invading the present.

  "I get it," she said, sitting back on his thighs. "You thought you were going to abstain until Ms. Right came along. But, like most men…"

  "You're a liberated woman, every bit as hot and ready as me," he fired back, irked that she'd so easily seen through him. "Don't you have any condoms?"

  The next instant she was on her feet, towering over him in all her naked glory. God, she was beautiful. He twitched painfully.

  "Hello," she howled, jamming her fists against her hips. "Did you see me arrive here with an evening bag? Everything I own is burned up or locked up in the charred ruin of my house."

  He closed his eyes and groaned. At least that voice deflated some of the pressure building in his groin.

  "No raincoat, no shower," she sang. "No glove, no admission. No safety, no holster for your gun."

  "I get the picture," he growled, waving her aside and climbing to his feet.

  "Where are you going?" she demanded as he opened the door.

  "I'm going to get the price of admission."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Roman was right. She was every bit as hot and ready as he. Like a desire brought to boil then left all steamed up without a way to vent. That's the state Roman had left her in when he'd put on his jeans and t-shirt and blown out with the storm. That's the state he'd been in when he'd gone out in the middle of the night to search out protection in a town that rolled up its sidewalks promptly at 10:00p.m.

  Tess paced back and forth between the kitchen and living room, the power back on. He hadn't liked when she'd guessed right about why he didn't have protection on hand. The more she thought about it, the less she liked the reason as well.

  She turned away from the front of the house, the slick fabric of The Bargain Mart robe slipping across her thighs reminding her of his caresses.

  She advanced on Roman’s bedroom where reality faced her head on. That dominating piece of furniture shouting Marriage Bed told her what kind of bachelor Roman really was. Roman was the marrying kind.

  And she wasn't.

  Sweat trickled down Tess' spine. She fled the room--the bed that was both temptation and trap. Trap she understood. But temptation? Of what? To finish what they'd started on the floor upstairs? Or was she tempted by something else Roman St. John represented--something that would trap her? She had to think this thing between them through before he returned.

  Back at the front door, she pressed her forehead to the cool glass. She stared out into the blackness, into a night closed in by a storm that hadn't broken, but had instead passed, leaving in its wake a sticky humidity. If only the storm of hormones coursing her body would likewise pass.

  They would have at least been sated had Roman had the proper protection. They'd have finished what they'd started and that would have been that.

  Or not.

  Maybe Roman not having condoms was a sign. Aunt Honey would have said it was. And it was a sign as bright as neon spelling out how badly she needed to rethink this whole thing before proceeding. It was her father's I told you so in giant, flashing letters.

  It was a billboard broadcasting the fact that the man she lusted for sought a wife.

  Tess groaned against the dark glass, knowing the ramifications of the mistake they'd already made. Knowing they couldn't make another deeper, more costly mistake.

  Truck lights slanted across the driveway. Tess backed away from the door, cinched closed the front of the sateen robe, and sat on the kitchen chair at the end of the table furthest from the door. Cold chrome touched the backs of her thighs and she jerked back onto her feet.

  She should have chosen a robe that covered more than a modicum of thigh and was closed with buttons rather than a slippery tie. She should have shooed him out of her room the minute he volunteered to get her that lantern.

  She should have kept her hands to herself.

  But she hadn’t.

  He came through the door like a bull, a hot, sweaty, aroused bull. Dark circles of sweat plastered his t-shirt against his ribs and his chest. Sweat sheened his skin and made his hair cling in wavy rivulets against his forehead. There was an intensity in his eyes as he strode toward her. A purpose. A determination. She knew exactly what it was without even reading the label on the small box caught between his fingers. She spoke before he could take her in his arms, because, once he touched her, she would be lost.

  "We made a mistake," she said.

  The fingers banded about the box flexed and one end popped open revealing the foil wrapped packages within. She recalled the tension in those fingers as they'd traveled across her skin--recalled how her muscles had contracted and rippled beneath his exploration. She ached to feel those deft, callused fingers play across her naked skin again.

  "We shouldn't make another mistake, Roman," she said as he stopped in front of her, so near her she had to crane her neck to see into his face.

  The dark lashes whose tips burned a fiery gold beneath the kitchen's overhead light lowered at her and he growled, "I should have known you'd pull something like this."

  "Pull something like this?" She squared her shoulders. "I didn't pull anything. I came to my senses and, if you think about it--" She poked him in the chest with her index finger. "--you will, too."

  Roman wanted to close his hand around that jabbing finger, bring it to his lips, and draw it into his mouth. He wanted to suckle it as he had her nipples, as he would other, more intimate parts of her body…if she'd give him the chance.

  But those lips that had slanted across his, that had parted in invitation, now shaped words about him needing to cool his jets, keep his fly zipped, and think with the head on his shoulders. Duct tape. That's what he needed…for her mouth.

  "My senses were just fine until you forced your way into my house," he said through gritted teeth when she finally took a breath.

  "And I wouldn't be here if you hadn't burned down my house."

  He grimaced. "It didn't burn down. Just part of it burned."

  "How nice that you were able to observe that fact for yourself," she said, folding her arms across her breasts, brushing his chest with the satiny cuffs of the robe that barely covered her thighs. He wondered if she'd put her panties back on. Wondered, if he reached into the opening of her robe, would he find the woman he'd almost made love to on the floor of his spare bedroom still wet and ready? God, he could still smell her arousal.

  "It's my place and I haven't even seen the damages," she wailed on, jolting him back to reality.

  "And how is that my fault?" he countered, irritated, frustrated. "You could have gotten up and ridden into town with me this morning."

  "If you hadn't set fire to my place and made me homeless, I wouldn't have been in the position to need a ride into town."

  "Damn it, Tess. If you weren't so bloody stubborn, you wouldn't be in my house in your skimpy underwear wreaking havoc with my senses."

  "Skimpy underwear? I'm lucky I have any underwear, no thanks to you."

  "No thanks to me? Whose credit card paid for this?" He flicked the lapel of the robe with a forefinger. A mistake. The silky fabric slipped across the tops of her breasts. No camisole lace to catch on. Was she naked beneath the robe?

  No, he didn’t want to go there. Not if she was no longer in the mood.

  She swatted his hand away. He grabbed her hand and crammed the box of condoms into her palm. "Here. You might as well take these…just in case there's some other poor soul you want to torment," he said, and walked away from her.

  "I'm the tormented one here," she shouted at his back as he strode toward his bedroom, peeling the t-shirt from his hot, sticky body. "I'm the one who was left stranded here all day!"

  He pivoted on the threshold to his room and looked at her. A mistake, looking at that leggy body wrapped up in that thigh-riding robe. It just made him want her all over again.
Never mind that she irritated the hell out him. That she frustrated him with her unrelenting mouth…and sound reasoning. She was right. They'd made enough mistakes for one night.

  Hell, they'd made enough mistakes to last them a lifetime. He really had to get her out from under his roof before she burrowed any further under his skin.

  "I'll wake you when I get up tomorrow and drive you to your house. You can get your car, pick up your things, and drive yourself to a motel. Any motel. I don't care. Just as long as you're not in my house when I get home tomorrow night."

  #

  As Mourning Doves cooed their love song, a moat-like mist shimmered off the dewy grass and streams of sunlight broke through a sentry of pines to fall across The Castle tower. But it wasn't the idyllic veneer of mist, stone, and seemingly unscathed first and second stories Tess surveyed through the broad windshield of Roman's truck.

  Sooty stains fanned upward from The Castle's third floor windows and streaked the shingled siding. The roofline to one side of the house was interrupted where flames had leapt into the sky two nights ago. Then there was the yellow tape draping her broad stone steps warning away any without authorization to enter and a sheet of plywood nailed up where once had been a massive, hand-carved, oak door. The Castle looked about as patched together as her nerves. Why did she have to go and get naked with the tall, strong, and most assuredly not silent Roman St. John? That last was what spurred her own wicked tongue to counter his every word and deed.

  Wrong. What goaded her to fight him was that, somewhere deep inside her, she knew she was more attracted to him than she wanted to admit. Oh how her father would gloat if she fell for a man with baby-making on his mind.

  Her father who was no closer to recognizing her self-sufficiency than he'd been the day she'd bawled her way into the world as a six pound thirteen ounce newborn. His third daughter. He'd wanted a son. She knew because, whenever his parents fought, her father always threw it up to her mother that, in three pregnancies, she had failed to provide him a son. The only thing her father wanted from her now was a son-in-law.

  Tess' fingers flexed around the travel mug of now tepid coffee she'd hugged against her chest as Roman had driven her into town. The essence of the man whose work-roughened hands had played her body like a finely tuned instrument last night now crowded in on her in the small cab of the truck. Her nerves were frayed, doing jumping jacks across her skin as though she'd drunk a mug of espresso. Maybe Roman had been right to evict her from his home.

  Roman shifted on the seat next to her, stirring the air between them. "You waiting for me to open the door for you, Princess?"

  Again with the princess. How she hated that. Tess wrinkled her nose at him and jerked on the passenger side door handle. "Don't trouble yourself helping me with anything, St. John. I got this."

  "Remember what the Fire Chief said," he called after her as she dropped to the ground. "Stay out of the fire area until the Fire Marshal has had time to inspect it."

  "I know what the Fire Chief said," she retorted and slammed the empty coffee mug down on the floor of the truck, closed the door with more force than necessary, and strode purposely up to the house.

  She tore away the yellow tape and climbed the broad stone steps to the sweeping stone porch. She tested the edge of the plywood nailed across her front door…if she even had a front door any longer. The plywood was securely anchored in place. She wouldn't get in this way without a crowbar and it would be a cold day in hell before she asked Roman to loan her any tool from that industrial sized toolbox in the back of his truck. Besides, there was always the back door…provided that too wasn't boarded up.

  She descended the steps. He stayed in his truck, one elbow hooked casually through the open window. Clearly any notion to help her eluded the inconsiderate lummox. Not that she was asking for his help.

  "Wound a man's ego by refusing to have sex with him and he pouts," she muttered under her breath as she headed toward the back of the house.

  If that was a truck door she heard open and close, he was too late to make amends. Tess quickened her pace, determined she'd find her own way into the house.

  The back door wasn't boarded up, but it was locked. And her keys were still inside. She thought again of Roman with his truck full of tools. How easy it would be for him to pry the plywood off her front door.

  She muttered a curse, found a loose brick among those edging the flowerbeds, and returned to the back door. She didn't need his help.

  It took her three blows to shatter the windowpane in the door. She was plucking jagged shards of glass from the frame when a deep voice rumbled from inside the house, "Get back from there before you cut yourself."

  She glanced up to find Roman looking out at her, a crowbar in one hand. "You pried the plywood from the front door."

  "It seemed the reasonable thing to do."

  "Reasonable would have been you letting me know what the hell you were doing before I broke a window."

  "Reasonable would have been you asking for help," he countered.

  "Are we going to stand here all day arguing?"

  He flicked the deadbolt and opened the door, warning, "Careful where you step. Looks like some doofus broke glass all over your back entryway."

  "Very funny, St. John," she snapped, dropping the brick into his hand as she strutted past him into the kitchen.

  Tess strode away from him. He wanted to strangle her. He wanted to staple her carping lips together.

  He wanted to wrap her long legs around his waist and take up where they'd left off last night…before he'd gone condom hunting. Why hadn't he just dropped her off out front of The Castle like he'd planned and gone to his other job site? Why'd he feel compelled to wait around to make sure she got inside okay?

  And why the hell did he still want to make love to her?

  He knew the answer to the first two questions. He felt responsible for her being burned out of her house. But that last question… He didn't have an answer to that one, at least none he was ready to face.

  He tossed the brick out the door and trailed her into the kitchen. She was squatted low, rummaging around under the sink, the bike shorts tight across her behind. Memory of that backside bare beneath his palms sawed through him.

  He turned away from her and the memory of last night. A carton of milk sat open on the countertop beside the fridge. He picked it up, sniffed it, and recoiled. "Whew. That's rank."

  "My housekeeping skills not up to your standards, St. John?" she asked, coming up behind him.

  "If the spoiled milk fits."

  She shoved a heavy-duty garbage bag into his hand. "Here, Mr. Neat. Make yourself happy and empty my fridge before its rotting contents ruin the appliance."

  "I didn't plan on sticking around."

  "I don't imagine you planned on burning my house down, either," trailed her words as she disappeared into the next room.

  Roman grumbled, opened the refrigerator door, and began scooping the contents from the darkened shelves into the plastic bag. Being responsible for the fire that gutted Tess Abbot's top floor was the only thing keeping him from stuffing her into the garbage bag, too.

  #

  Tess strode through the butler's pantry, the formal dining room, and the front parlor, the commercial sized fans drying her floors drowning out her curses. Damn Roman for following her into the house. Damn the man his take charge attitude.

  Damn him for noticing she'd forgotten to put away her milk before she'd gone out for her evening run the night of the fire.

  "Damn him," she howled at her gaping front door. The door she'd opened to him a mere six weeks ago when he'd come to start the renovating job. The door they'd both admired that day for its aged beauty.

  Tess stroked the exquisitely hand carved door hanging lopsided from one hinge, the other shattered from the woodwork, a casualty of equipment laden firemen rushing to extinguish the third floor blaze no doubt. The woodwork could be repaired and the door had survived nearly unscathed. It rem
inded her of Roman. Solid. Reliable. Crafted for the long haul.

  Ironic that she should find the one man who could reduce her dreams to ashes at Aunt Honey's home; flamboyant Aunt Honey whose example had given Tess the strength to confront her father and leave the firm. Tess could still hear her father's 'the-old-lady's-gone-over-the-edge' tirade when he'd learned Honey had bought an antiquated house in a remote corner of an out of the way state because it was where her Bentley broke down. Like Aunt Honey, she wasn't about to let any man get in the way of her career dreams.

  Tess sighed and climbed the grand stairway dividing the house, the new but no doubt water-logged carpeting having been stripped away. The smell of smoke permeated the air, scratching her throat. She'd mortgaged herself deep into debt in order to buy the old place; she had sacrificed six weeks of her life and her fingernails to sanding, varnishing, painting, and repapering.

  On the second floor landing, a table and vase she and Honey had found on one of their antiquing forays had been trampled. Like the first floor, the second hummed with fans. A quick tour revealed none of the rooms had been spared the greasy film of soot. It coated furnishings, clung to drapes, and bedding. It stained the hall walls dark where the smoke had been forced down from the attic before finding escape through the burned out roof.

  She was tempted to follow the funneling pattern of stains up to the third floor. She'd like to see if any of Aunt Honey's boxes of memorabilia, racks of costumes, or stored furniture had survived the fire. If it had been only Roman St. John barring her from the uppermost level of her house, she'd have gone up there in a heartbeat. No man ordered her about. But the yellow Keep Out tape reminded her a higher authority than Roman barred her admittance.

  Water damage in the master suite left the ceiling sagging over the bed and plaster had collapsed onto her desk and laptop. She brushed the plaster aside and lifted the dented lid of the computer. It didn't look good. Still, she packed it up in its travel case along with her cell phone and several soggy rolls of blueprints. Clothes and toiletries were the next priority.