Taming Tess (The St. John Sibling Series)

by Raffin, Barbara

  The concentration of odor-trapping fabric in the walk-in closet made it impossible for her to spend much time in the enclosed space. Everything would have to be laundered. The task seemed overwhelming even with neighbor Kitt's help. There must be professionals she could hire to do the work, even in little Pine Mountain.

  She folded a few blouses and her favorite linen slacks into a bag. She added a pair of dress shoes and dumped the drawer of her undies onto the bed for sorting.

  Fortunately, her personal belongings consisted primarily of clothing. Everything else was still in her Chicago condo. After all, The Castle had been meant only as an investment that was to have provided her a fast turn around and showcase photos for a new portfolio.

  No portfolio pictures now.

  No return on her investment.

  Tess picked up a puzzle box from the nightstand beside her bed. She had kept this piece close because its enigmatic construction had inspired her and Honey to create endless stories about its use. Like all of Aunt Honey's collected antiques and memorabilia on the lower floors, it was coated with a greasy film. Everything on the top floor was likely a pile of ashes. She should have hired a moving company and put everything in storage. But she'd wanted to go through it all before disposing of it; and there was the matter of expense. Moving everything to the center of the massive space herself so the crew could drywall the "bonus room" had seemed the most reasonable choice at the time.

  Regret balled in Tess' throat. Maybe her father was right. Maybe women were sentimental fools.

  "Like hell," Tess muttered, carefully setting the piece back on the nightstand. Wanting to check out what if anything of Aunt Honey's attic storage had survived wasn't being sentimental. It was being a property owner who wanted to survey the damage done.

  The hell with her father, the Boy Scout contractor, and any yellow Keep Out tape. She was entitled to see how much damage her house had suffered.

  #

  Roman had emptied the fresh food compartment of Tess' fridge, gone into her basement to her electrical box and pulled the breakers to the attic, then called the power company on his cell to reconnect the electrical service to The Castle. He'd even chitchatted with Mrs. Antonetti from across the alley when she brought over a casserole for Tess. Still, Tess hadn't come down from upstairs. If he wanted to get to his other job site today, it looked like he was going to have to search out Princess The-World-Waits-on-Me to let her know about the electricity.

  Even before he saw the yellow tape across the third floor stairwell fluttering loose, he knew the breeze sliding over him wasn't from the numerous fans doing drying duty. Someone had opened the door at the top of attic stairs. Three guesses who it was and the first two didn't count.

  He found Tess on the third floor, a trim silhouette in bike shorts and Bargain Mart tee framed by charred beams and backlit by blue sky. He knew what those gentle curves felt like beneath his hands now.

  An involuntary groan rumbled up from his throat. She spun toward him, her foot tangling in a pile of rubble. She stumbled backward into the shell of a towering hall rack constructed of wood and wrought iron. For a second, she seemed to have come to a safe landing on its seat. Then the charred front legs of the chair-rack snapped and the looming structure pitched forward, pinning Tess to the floor.

  Roman bolted to her side. "You okay?"

  One dark eye glittered out at him from a framework of iron coat hooks. "Sure, St. John. I'm just peachy. Would you mind getting this thing off me? I think it skewered me."

  He hefted the rack off her and helped her to her feet.

  "Where'd it get you?" he asked, scanning her back.

  "The back of my shoulder," she said.

  "Uhuh," he murmured, fingering the tear in her shirt.

  "How bad is it?" she asked.

  "You're not spurting blood."

  "Thank you for your medical opinion, Dr. St. John."

  "I suppose that means you want a second opinion and that you expect me to drive you to the hospitable for it."

  "I need to go to the hospital?" she asked with some alarm.

  "Only for your wounded ego," he muttered and clamped a hand over her shoulder, trying to hold her still while he explored the injury beneath the rip.

  "Hey," she huffed, squirming beneath his hand, creating enough friction between them to re-ignite the attic. "You're the one who brought up the hospital."

  "Stand still so I can get a good look at the injury," he commanded, tugging at the collar of her shirt.

  "There. I'm standing still. What's your final verdict?"

  He released her and straightened. "It's a scratch that even a monkey could clean and bandage."

  "A monkey, huh?" He didn't like the way she canted her head at him as she turned, or the self-satisfied smile she gave him as she started for the steps. "Come on, St. John. Let's test your theory."

  Tess had liked the feel of Roman's hands on her shoulders. She'd liked it way too much. Goading him to tend her injury was just frosty on her cake of retaliation. Unfortunately, it back fired. They were now bumping elbows and hips in the narrow aisle between the bathroom vanity and raised Jacuzzi of the master bath, the door closed behind them reducing the roar of the fans to a low drone. He stretched the ribbing of her shirt back from the nape of her neck.

  "You trying to choke me, St. John?"

  "I'm trying to get a better look at that scratch."

  "Can't you do that without choking me?"

  "Apparently not."

  "Let go of me." She twisted out of his grip, grabbed the bottom of her shirt, and peeled it off over her head.

  He raised his eyes to the ceiling.

  "Like you didn't see me in a whole lot less than a sports bra last night," she said, instantly regretting the reference to that incident where close quarters, lightning, and hot bodies had conspired against her better judgment.

  "I was trying to be a gentleman," he said, lowering his gaze to her--letting it slide down over her, checking every inch she'd bared to him. His pupils flared, turning his eyes a sexy smoke-blue.

  "Just check the cut," she said, giving him her back and trying not to look at him in the mirror and failing miserably.

  "How long since your last Tetanus shot?" he asked, studying her shoulder.

  "Less than a year," she answered, sounding far too breathless.

  He grunted.

  "What's that grunt supposed to mean," she demanded, letting her ready defensiveness put the edge back into her voice.

  "Nothing. Turn your back toward the window. I need to get more light on the cut."

  "That grunt meant something," she insisted, shifting toward the window for him.

  "Maybe it just means I was impressed that you're up to date on your shots." His fingers framed the cut and stretched the skin around it. She started, but not because his touch hurt.

  "Up to date on my shots?" She huffed. "You make me sound like a dog that needs rabies tags."

  That got a smile out of him. Something she really hadn't meant to do. He had way too nice a smile. It showed his straight, white teeth and animated his face in far too appealing a manner.

  His eyes met hers in the mirror above the vanity and his smile faded. "You got something to clean this out with, something sealed and still sterile?"

  She pulled a first aid kit from a drawer at her hip, announcing, "Brand new. Figured I'd better have a stock of bandages with a building crew hammering about."

  "You bought this for me and my men?" he asked, accepting the kit from her. Briefly, both their fingers held the case and a charge tingled up from Tess' hand.

  "Don't get a swelled head, St. John," she said, releasing the kit to him. "We princesses sometimes look out for the little people."

  "Smart princess, to take care of her subjects."

  He set the kit on the vanity top next to her hip and popped it open. She should say something in response to what he'd just said, especially since it sounded suspiciously like a compliment. But his long fingers s
tirring through the contents of the first aid kit beside her hip just wouldn't let her think of any smart comeback.

  He selected a package of gauze pads and bobbed his chin toward the medicine cabinet above the sink. "You got any peroxide in there?"

  She nodded and retrieved the bottle before he could reach for it himself. She didn't need him leaning any closer than he already was.

  "Ready to test that theory about monkeys?" he asked, holding up a peroxide soaked gauze pad in his hand.

  She met his bemused eyes in the mirror. "Just do it, St. John."

  He dabbed at her shoulder with the pad. Cold liquid dribbled down her back and she arched away from him.

  "You had your belly button pierced. This can't hurt worse than that," he contended.

  "I didn't jump because the peroxide burned. I jumped because it's cold and you dribbled it down my back."

  "Ah." He dabbed her shoulder with a freshly doused pad, catching the excess this time with a dry pad. "Why'd you do it?"

  "Do what?"

  "Pierce your belly button."

  "To aggravate my father."

  "That was grown up of you."

  Tess frowned. Roman was right. She'd done more than a few silly things in her youth to get her father's attention. No wonder the old man was certain she'd fail. He probably still saw her as that rebellious child motivated by all the wrong reasons.

  She sighed. "A lot has changed since those days."

  "Like what?" Roman asked, studying Tess' reflection in the vanity mirror.

  Her gaze broke from his, the angle if her eyes seemingly fixed on the sink and she shrugged. "I grew up. Chose a career path."

  Given the way she hugged the t-shirt to her stomach and puckered her brow, he'd bet dollars to doughnuts Tess Abbot had some unresolved father issues.

  He spread an adhesive strip over the wound, wanting to know more but fighting the urge to press for more. Look where comforting this woman had taken them last night. It was a mistake he wouldn't make again.

  "There," he said, removing his hands from her back, so far surviving the temptation she presented him. "Now all you have to do is stay out of places where you can get hurt."

  "I was safe enough in the attic until you snuck up on me and startled me," she said, pulling the t-shirt on over her head.

  Damn, but didn't he want to fit his hands around her…

  She faced him and leaned back against the counter, her hands braced to the edge of the vanity on either side of her hips. It was a challenging pose that almost took his mind off how inviting her bare skin had been just before it disappeared beneath the t-shirt--almost made him forget how, only moments ago, her shoulders had curled protectively in on her. She'd had the same defensive look about her last night as she'd recited the details of her near drowning. Damn, but the woman confused him.

  "I didn't sneak up on you," he said, wanting to comfort her and throttle her all at the same time.

  "You came checking up on me," she accused.

  He rolled the bandage wrapper into a tight ball between his fingers. "You obviously needed checking up on."

  "Afraid I was going to tamper with evidence?"

  He leaned in close to her in spite of the danger she presented. "Is that something I need to be concerned about with you, Princess?"

  "No."

  She didn't shrink from him. She didn't flinch. She didn't give an inch. And that single syllable word she'd spoken shaped her mouth into the most alluring circle.

  He dropped the remaining gauze pads into the first aid kit, snapped its lid shut, and eased back from her. "I came up to tell you that I was leaving."

  "Good-bye," she said with effusive joy.

  "And that I pulled the power to the attic and called the electric company to reconnect you."

  "I bet you were a Boy Scout when you were a kid, one of those boys with all the badges."

  Roman bit back a retort, refusing to rise to her baiting. "I'll come by later with Ray and we'll tarp your roof."

  "Should I be concerned about you crossing that yellow tape?"

  "We won't need to get inside the house to do it."

  "Uh huh."

  "And one more thing. Mrs. Antonetti brought you a casserole."

  Tess' face brightened and her defensive pose disappeared. "A casserole? From Mrs. Antonetti?"

  "Yeah."

  "She's a really good cook." Tess licked her lips.

  "Prize winning," he murmured, distracted by the pink tip of her tongue sweeping across the cleft in her bottom lip.

  She looked up at him and the brightness dimmed from her features. "You take the casserole. I won't have any way of heating it up in a motel room."

  "Get a condo at the ski hill with a kitchen. Make that a kitchenette. No sense wasting a full kitchen on you."

  "Just because I had a little mishap in your kitchen--"

  "You call nearly setting fire to my kitchen a mishap?"

  "You didn't even suffer smoke damage. Take a whiff of my house."

  He nodded. "You need an ionizer. The people I recommended with the water extraction equipment do air purification also. Shall I give them the go ahead or do you want to handle it?"

  "Yeah. Tell them to take care of everything." She waved him out of her way, but paused with her hand on the doorknob. "Can you recommend a professional cleaner being you seem to know everyone in town? Every piece of clothing I have here reeks."

  "Any of them will do a good job. But they're open only until noon today."

  "Another charm of Small Town USA. Businesses close early on Saturdays. I'll be lucky if I see my clothes by midweek."

  "You could take them to the Laundromat yourself."

  A shadow darkened her eyes. Before Roman could figure out what it meant, she opened the door and stepped out into the roar of the fans. But he could still her. "I have a hole in my roof big enough to drive a bulldozer through. I'm in no mood to sit around any Laundromat waiting for my underwear to dry."

  Like the underwear piled on her bed no doubt. Silk scraps of lace trimmed and frothy colored.

  The muscles in his groin cramped. She was not the woman for him. But it was his fault her house had nearly burned down…that her underwear was presently unwearable. He owed her. He sighed. He was going to regret this.

  "Take your stuff back to my place and use my washer and dryer."

  Her chin came up. "Is that an order, St. John?"

  "It's an offer."

  CHAPTER SIX

  Tess stared at the alien appliances in Roman's bathroom closet. Oh, she knew what a washer and dryer were. She even knew what they did. What she wasn't well versed in was how to operate them.

  Why then had she taken Roman up on his offer to do her laundry at his house?

  Because of ego. She didn't want Roman to know her experience with washing machines and dryers didn't exceed single digits. A few forays to the Laundromat during her college days and the novelty of doing her own wash had worn off. She simply had better things to do with her time.

  Except now. Right now, clean clothes were top priority. But how to accomplish the feat with a contraption that had entirely too many dials?

  Did she use hot, cold, or warm water? Full capacity, small load, or somewhere in between? Gentle wash, regular, or heavy duty?

  At least the detergent boxes gave directions. She just needed a couple hours to sit and read all the fine print.

  Tess fingered the silk blouses and lingerie in the garbage bag. She gave her favorite linen slacks a nudge. Gentle wash for sure. They probably should not be washed in hot water, either.

  But, did she put everything in all at once? Was Roman's extra strength laundry detergent too harsh for washable silk and linen? If she ruined her clothes, how long would it take for her favorite boutique to send replacements? She'd really had enough of the pretending-to-be-silk, Bargain Mart panties sticking currently to her butt.

  She frowned at the appliances in the bathroom closet and hugged her bag of delicates protective
ly. If only she knew her way around a clothes washer as well as she did a drafting table. If only she hadn't been too embarrassed to confess to Roman her limitations as a laundress. If only she had some items made of hardier fabric to practice on.

  Her gaze wandered to Roman's dirty laundry in the clothesbasket on top of the dryer. Jockey shorts, t-shirts, and towels. They certainly were made of sturdier stuff. Tess smiled. She could practice using the washer and dryer with those shorts, tees, and towels and, as a bonus, Roman would get clean laundry. If she put the load on heavy duty, she'd even have a nice long stretch of time to do some business via the web.

  "Sounds like a winner to me," she chirped as she scooped the jockey shorts and t-shirts into the top loader and piled the bath towels on top of them.

  The water temperature dial was already punched on hot. Seemed reasonable to her, at least for sturdy man-clothes.

  "Maximum water level, heavy duty wash, and a cup of detergent. Just like riding a bike," she murmured, watching the steamy water pour over Roman's white shorts, navy tees, and burgundy towels.

  #

  It took an extra rinse cycle to get enough soap out of the towels and tees that they stopped producing suds in the rinse cycle. But even a third rinse didn't wash the pink tint out of Roman's jockey shorts.

  Tess tucked the stack of pink underwear into Roman's dresser drawer under his last two pair of white ones. Maybe he wouldn't notice. They were a very pale shade of pink. Hardly noticeable…except next to the bright white shorts. Good thing she'd opted for hand washing her dirty clothes.

  She smoothed the dazzling white underwear over the faintly pink shorts even though she knew her misguided laundering would not go unnoticed by her eagle-eyed host.

  #

  Roman had a dead cell phone battery and a headache that measured in at about five foot six named Tess Abbot. It seemed his houseguest had gone directly back to his house after leaving hers and planted herself on his phone. Apparently she had done the same thing yesterday as well, given the endless string of complaints he'd gotten through the afternoon from clients and potential clients who'd tracked him down via his cell phone. Every one of them told the same story. They hadn't been able to get through to his land-line to leave a message on his answering machine.