Taming Tess (The St. John Sibling Series)

by Raffin, Barbara

  And now, after their lunch of bread and cheese, she was even joining him to inspect a property Brody was considering converting into a sports camp for handicapped kids. She simply couldn't turn down Brody's invitation, especially when smoke had all but spewed from Roman's ears.

  But she was having second thoughts now that she was seated between the two men in Brody's truck. The truck hit a bump in the road. Even with its super absorbent shocks, Tess was jostled into Roman.

  "Maybe if you belted yourself in, you would stay put," Roman grumbled.

  "I am belted in," she fired back at him. "Maybe if your arm wasn't in the way, I wouldn't bump into it."

  "It's attached to me. I don't have a lot of options of where to put it."

  "I know where I'd like to put it," she muttered, folding her arms across her chest in an effort to create more space between them.

  Brody chuckled.

  Roman grumbled something about betting he could guess where that would be and placed his arm along the back of the seat. The move reminded her of the night of the fire when Roman had driven her to his house. He'd slung his arm across the back of the seat then, too. Only this time, it was the crook of his arm close to the nape of her neck instead of his fingers. This time, he was closer to her.

  The truck hit a pothole and Roman's arm bumped her shoulder. Tess' whole body went on alert. She'd had a taste of how thoroughly Roman could touch a woman. He, on the other hand, seemed to be experiencing a different reaction. Judging by the crunch of leather in her ear, Roman had gripped the back of the seat to avoid touching her.

  Aggravating him was one thing. Tormenting herself was another. She should have taken her own car, or stayed at his house.

  "Do you ski?" Brody asked her as they lumbered down the blacktopped country road.

  She nodded, distracted by the lingering yeasty scent of bread that clung to Roman’s clothes and the notion all that bread kneading had been because of her.

  "The property we'll be looking at is adjacent to the local ski hill," Brody went on. "That way we can use the resort facilities for our downhill ski program."

  "Sounds like you've thought this out pretty well," she said, distracted by that strong, hairy arm behind her head that had cradled her from the hard floor at the foot of her bed and held her when she'd confessed her greatest fears.

  "I may even have Roman talked into being my ski instructor."

  Tess gave Roman a sidelong look. "I didn't know you skied."

  "There's a lot about me you don't know."

  That was true. She knew little about Roman other than that he was a reliable and excellent contractor, a diehard family man with a bunch of siblings, a pretty good cook who baked great bread, a nice guy, and hot.

  "He's a world class ski instructor," Brody supplied.

  "World class? Really?" she questioned, openly studying Roman.

  Roman stared out the front windshield, muttering, "She doesn't want to know about my past."

  "What's the matter, St. John, got something to hide?" she goaded.

  He regarded her through narrowed eyes. "My past is an open book. How about yours, Princess? I've never heard you talk about your life in the big city, though you've said plenty about how Pine Mountain lacks in comparison to Chicago."

  "Maybe if you'd ever lived in a city, you'd understand my frustration with repair services that don't work nights or weekends, taxicab companies that have only one vehicle, and mosquitoes that suck the lifeblood out of a person."

  "As opposed to high-priced repair services, parking shortages that make a person dependent on taxis, and roaches big enough to carry off your first born?" Roman countered.

  "You have no Chinese takeout, no sushi bars, no Starbucks--"

  "No winos, muggers, or graffiti, either," Roman leveled back at her.

  "You have no night life," she retorted. "No all-night restaurants. No singles bars. No live entertainment."

  "Sometimes--"

  "The city hums with life."

  "Small towns are safe and quiet," he grumbled.

  "Oh, yes. All that quiet you can't shut off."

  "Many people like quiet, Princess," he muttered.

  She rolled her eyes. "There's only one thing worse than the silence. That blasted bird that sings me awake before dawn every morning."

  "That's a whippoorwill." Roman said.

  "I don't care if it's the goose that lays the golden egg. If I get my hands on it, I'm going to wring its scrawny neck."

  "And there's the local ski hill," Brody interjected, as though she and Roman weren't about to wring each other's necks.

  "And those are the condos I told you about," Roman said, pointing at a cluster of buildings at the base of the forested hill striped with wide vertical clearings. "Probably no whippoorwills around here."

  "Is that a hint?" she asked.

  "Looks like the parking area is well lit," he said.

  "I'm not moving out," she said.

  "And that towering structure visible above the tree line ahead," Brody supplied like some single-minded tour guide, "is our world famous ski jump."

  "Just to aggravate me, you'd rather suffer whippoorwills and mosquitoes," Roman countered, ignoring Brody's travelogue.

  And a contractor who wears happy face pajama bottoms. Just the memory of what she'd found beneath those happy faces made her stomach pinch with desire. What was wrong with her, wanting a man who insulted her at every turn?

  What was wrong with her that she stayed just to spite him?

  "Dammit, St. John," she snapped in frustration. "The fire was your responsibility. I'm staying."

  "I've never known a woman as stubborn as you." Roman said.

  "That ski jump," Brody went on as though she and Roman weren't waging their own personal war, "hosts an annual world class event right here in little old Pine Mountain."

  "You just don't like that I'm holding you to your word," she huffed at Roman.

  "I used to ski jump," Brody continued. "So did Roman."

  In unison, Roman and Tess looked at Brody.

  "That's how Roman and I met." Brody said.

  Tess looked up at the scaffold-like structure looming into view at the top of a very steep hill. "Roman used to jump off that?"

  Roman let out a low, warning growl. Clearly, Brody wasn't listening to him as he continued with, "Once or twice. Though Pine Mountain wasn't exactly our old stomping grounds."

  The last thing Roman needed was for Brody to give Tess more ammunition to use against him. "She doesn't want to hear about my ski jumping days, Brody."

  "The hell I don't," she said. "This is an entirely unexpected side of you."

  "It's not a side of me. It was just something I tried when I was young and foolish."

  "Foolish, huh?" She studied him with a smugness he didn't like. Then she turned to Brody. "Continue."

  Brody grinned over Tess' head at him. He didn't like Brody’s smugness, either.

  "I'd just finished a jump by skidding face first down a hill almost as big as the one we have here."

  "Ouch," Tess intoned.

  Roman groaned and turned his face to the side window.

  "I rode the gondola back to the top with Roman. The whole way, he tried to talk me out of taking my second jump. You'd have thought he was my father, the way he carried on."

  Tess snorted. "Roman patronizing. Who'd a thunk it?"

  "You were dazed," Roman muttered. "You should have pulled out for the rest of the day. You could have had a concussion."

  "I thought he was trying to get me to quit because I was his toughest competition." Brody snorted. "He just wanted to keep me from scrambling my brains."

  "Are you sure that was his motive?" Tess asked.

  "Always quick to doubt me, huh, Princess?" Roman countered.

  Brody accelerated around a long sweeping curve, the centrifugal force pressing Tess into Roman's side. Every muscle in Roman's body tightened against the assault of her body on his, and he glared at Brody.

/>   Brody went on as though Roman and Tess hadn't been on the verge of starting World War III and he'd just maneuvered them into no-man's land. "I was a hotshot nineteen year old riding the testosterone bullet. I was sure I could win that competition because I wasn't afraid to ride the hill out."

  "You mean you were foolish enough to think you could ride the hill to the bottom," Roman argued, trying to shame Brody into silence.

  "You see, if you ride the hill too far," Brody explained for Tess' benefit, "if you land where the angle of the hill begins to break, the impact is harder. A sSkier's injury risk rises dramatically."

  "And Roman didn't want you to out ski him, right?"

  Roman cursed under his breath.

  "Not exactly," Brody said.

  "Leave it be, Brody," Roman muttered.

  "When he saw that he couldn't talk me out of riding the hill beyond its limit, he gave me some advice about how to handle landing close to the break."

  "And?"

  "I followed his advice. I didn't fall even though I out-rode the hill."

  "So you won the tournament?"

  Brody turned off the main road, chuckling. "No, I didn't win. Roman took first place."

  "But you out-rode the hill," she insisted.

  "So did Roman."

  She sniffed. "Didn't I say he wanted you out of the competition?"

  "I wasn't trying to eliminate him from the competition. I just didn't want him to break his fool neck," Roman said.

  "But you pushed the limit of the hill."

  Roman slumped against the door. "I caught a tail wind. I rode it further than I should have."

  He met Tess' steady gaze. She seemed to be measuring him. Oddly, he didn't want to be found lacking. "I had myself a few wild and rowdy days. So shoot me."

  The truck jerked to a halt in front of a squat, two-story house with peeling paint and wide wrap around porches.

  "This is it," Brody announced. "North Point. A camp where handicapped kids can come and be with other kids like them." Brody grinned at Roman and Tess. "Providing the two of you agree she's sound enough to renovate."

  "Agree? Us?" Roman wrenched open the passenger side door and jumped out. "You've got to be kidding."

  Brody leaned over the steering wheel and grinned at Roman. "And here I thought you two would make a great team. A carpenter and an architect."

  Roman slapped the truck door and headed toward the house, trying to outdistance Tess’ and Brody’s voices but failing miserably.

  "What is his problem?" Tess demanded.

  Brody's grin twitched. "Not enough bread."

  #

  Roman was at the door before he realized he didn't have the key. He cursed. He cursed Tess for accepting Brody's invitation. He cursed Brody for his big mouth. But most of all, he cursed himself for agreeing to work with her in the first place when he still found Tess Abbot so distracting.

  Muscles low in his groin tightened. His fingers flexed around the flashlight he'd brought from home and he glowered back at the truck where Tess lingered in the cab with Brody--Brody with his damnable smirk and big mouth. He was probably filling her in on some of their rowdy exploits of those early years. Or maybe he was telling her about how they reconnected years later when Brody needed his house made wheelchair friendly. He didn't need Tess Abbot hearing Brody's Saint Roman speech, either.

  "Are you two coming or not?" he yelled.

  Tess slid across the seat and out of the truck. Brody leaned through his window and called back, "You two will understand if I wait for you here."

  Him and Tess, alone again. What had he done to deserve this kind of aggravation?

  She stopped in front of him and dangled the house key in his face.

  "Be my guest," he said, stepping aside.

  She moved to the door and bent to fit the key to the lock. She still wore a t-shirt knotted up around her waist. But the back of the shirt rode up from the waistband of the jeans she'd changed into--the cheap jeans she'd bought at The Bargain Mart. Correction, the jeans he'd bought for her. They rode low on her back as she bent, rode low and buckled away from her skin.

  He had no business following the path of her spine into that space below her waistband. But something just above the edge of her panty line caught his eye. A tramp stamp? It was a tattoo of a rose. Damned if he didn't want to ease the jeans down her hips and trace each bright red petal with a fingertip.

  "Unusually wide for how old it is," she said, straightening.

  "What?" he asked, blinking.

  She indicated the door she'd swung open. "The door. It's wider than was normally used in a house of this age."

  "Good," he muttered. "That's one less we have to widen to meet code."

  "And to accommodate wheelchairs." She turned and scanned the wraparound porch. "The place could be ramped easily without losing the aesthetic appeal of the original design."

  "You weren't all that interested in aesthetics when you were renovating The Castle." He edged past her into the house. She followed.

  "The hell I wasn't."

  "You knocked a wall out between two bedrooms to make a master suite and turned the nursery into a walk-in closet," he argued, testing the floorboards beneath his feet for spongy spots.

  "That had nothing to do with aesthetics. That was about making an old house more attractive to today's home buyer," Tess countered, her gaze traveling along the seams where the walls and ceiling met, no doubt checking for corners out of square.

  "You could have maintained the integrity of the house and still sold it," he said, stroking the wide woodwork framing the archway between front room and dining area, appreciating its solidness.

  "Maybe I didn't have 8time to wait around for the kind of buyer who'd appreciate small, cozy rooms." She stepped into the dining room and faced him. "Besides, it wasn't your house and, therefore, not your choice to make."

  She stood there in front of him, hands on her hips and chin defiantly cocked. He could point out that the privilege of money afforded people a lot more choices. But something in her eyes didn't match her pose. Something in their deep brown depths hinted of panic. Maybe she wasn't as solvent as he'd thought.

  "You're right," he said. "It isn't my house."

  He moved past her into the kitchen. When she followed him, he asked, "Don't you have something to inspect?"

  "I can do my walk through with you."

  "Swell."

  He opened the cabinet under the sink and inspected the plumbing. It took him longer than it should have because his attention kept wandering around the kitchen with the sound of Tess' footsteps.

  "So you were a ski jumper," she said from across the room.

  "I was a ski instructor who did some ski jumping for the thrill of it when I was young and dumb." He rolled onto his back in the confining space under the sink and shined his flashlight at the joints where sink and plumbing met.

  "And where did you do all that?" she asked from another location in the kitchen.

  "At a ski hill."

  "No kidding."

  He heard a cupboard door slam shut.

  "Was it in Colorado?" Thump went another cupboard door.

  "No."

  "Lake Placid? Sun Valley? Banff?" Thump. Thump. Thump.

  "No, no, and no."

  "Can we at least narrow it down to the North American continent?"

  Her voice was getting closer. He glanced down the length of his legs and spied hers beside his. Stubborn and persistent. The woman was not going to stop.

  "Europe," he said. "I was a ski instructor at a number of European resorts."

  "Europe, huh? There're some big hills over there. I'm impressed."

  "Big hills. Big resorts. You got it."

  "You must have been a good skier."

  "Very good."

  "How'd you wind up working abroad?"

  He slid out from under the sink, searching her face for sarcasm. All he found was genuine curiosity.

  "My parents were in the diplomatic c
orps," he said and climbed to his feet.

  "Diplomatic corps." She whistled.

  "Don't get too impressed." He opened the back door and tested the porch boards. "They were support staff."

  "Must have been an interesting life."

  He smiled to himself. "Yeah. It was interesting."

  "But you quit ski jumping," she prodded. "Why?"

  His expression turned serious. "It was the safe thing to do. The responsible thing. We should check out the attic."

  In the largest of the upstairs rooms, Roman nudged aside the small trap door in the ceiling of the closet. He stared into the darkness beyond the opening. "You didn't happen to notice a ladder or stool during our tour of the house, did you?"

  Tess edged into the closet beside him, letting the ratty drape that served as a door fall into place behind her. "Not so much as a chair."

  "You're never going to boost me up through that," he said.

  "Guess that means I'm elected," she said. "Thread those fingers together and give me a lift, St. John."

  He gave her a glum look.

  "You don't doubt that I can inspect that attic as well as you, do you?"

  "No, Princess. I'm sure you're every bit as capable as I am at spotting dry rot and stress problems." I just don't relish getting close enough to you to hoist you into the attic.

  Threading his fingers together, he squatted and offered Tess a foothold. She placed her foot in his hands. Though she wore tennis shoes, he could remember what her bare arch had felt like against his palm.

  She placed her hands on his shoulders, reminding him of the soft touch of her fingers when she had been exploring him. If he lifted his head right now, he could bury his face between her breasts.

  "Your back seize up on you or something, St. John?"

  "Just waiting for you to give me the go ahead," he grumbled.

  "Fine. I'm re--"

  He rose, launching her upward. She shrieked.

  As her head disappeared into the attic, he called up to her, "I hope you're not squeamish about bats."

  Sitting on the lip of the opening, she peered down at him. "You'd like it if I was, wouldn't you?"

  "A guy can dream."

  "Just give me the flashlight, St. John."

  He handed the light up to her. She pulled her legs up into the attic.

  "And watch where you step," he shouted up at her. "I've got enough to do with this place without having to patch ceilings."