Taming Tess (The St. John Sibling Series)

by Raffin, Barbara

  She raised an eyebrow at Roman. "Your woman?"

  Roman forced a hopeful smile. "Yeah. My woman. What do you say to that?"

  What should she say? Don't start getting all possessive with me? Or, yes, make me yours? Which did she want?

  His thumbs stroked the pulse points of her wrists, sending delicious ripples up her arms, down through her chest, straight to her--

  "Don't you want me looking out for your virtue, Princess?"

  "That sounds like the sort of thing a man would do for the mother of his children," she murmured, swaying in time with those sweeping thumbs. She was in heaven and she wanted never to leave.

  His brilliant blue eyes gleamed. "Would you like to be the mother of my children, Tess?"

  Tess went still. Children? His? Was he proposing?

  He gave a tight chuckle. "Hey, Princess, quit with the panicked look. You're the one who brought kids up."

  She was. She had. Sounds like the sort of thing a man would do for the mother of his children.

  So, did she…want to be the mother of his children?

  Though the grin fixed on Roman's lips, his thumbs had gone still on her wrists. She looked into his eyes, those brook blue eyes that asked the question in earnest even as he said, "Forget it."

  She could see he wanted to know the answer to that question, even as he released her wrists and climbed to his feet. He was too much a family man not to want--to need to know.

  Most of all, Roman deserved to know her answer.

  He finished fastening his pants and turned toward the hall, muttering, "The Fire Marshal is waiting."

  "What if our daughter wanted to be an architect when she grew up?" she called after him.

  He stopped, faced her, his head canted to one side as though he wasn't sure he'd heard her right. "Our daughter?"

  "Or a doctor, lawyer…mud wrestler?"

  A grin tugged at his lips. "I'd expect nothing less of any daughter of yours, Princess."

  "And sons, of course," she went on, "would have to have their father's blue eyes."

  He advanced on her and took her in his arms. "Sons, as in plural?" he said softly. "You don't want to stop at just one of each?"

  "I thought you wanted a big family, St. John."

  "I do. But I didn't know what you wanted."

  "Shut up and kiss me, St. John, before I change my mind."

  He pulled her close and kissed her. He kissed her long and hard and deep. And when he finished kissing her, he hugged her close and whispered in her ear, "A mud wrestler?"

  Tess levered herself back in his arms and gave him a mock serious look, "If a daughter of mine can't be a mud wrestler if she wants, it's a deal breaker."

  He threw his head back and laughed. "Princess, if any daughter of ours wants to be a mud wrestler, I'll get her the finest grit mud to be had in the state of Michigan."

  Then he kissed her again, a sweet parting peck on the lips. "I'll go occupy our Fire Marshal while you get yourself straightened up."

  Not wanting to be apart from him, she tugged the hem of the t-shirt down over her hips and said, "There. I'm straightened up."

  He rubbed her chin with the pad of his thumb. "Make that cleaned up, too. Much as I find your theatrical make-up adorable--"

  "Theatrical make-up?" Her hands flew to her face. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

  "What, and ruin a great spontaneous moment?" he asked, tapping her on the tip of her nose with a bent knuckle.

  She swiped his hand away and wrinkled her nose at him. "Go entertain the Fire Marshal."

  #

  In the bathroom, Tess looked at herself in the mirror and laughed. There'd been a time she wouldn't have been able to laugh at herself. But Roman made her feel good about everything, even a soot smudged nose and chin.

  She dampened a washcloth and began scrubbing her face. She wanted to make Roman feel good in return. No more hiding behind the shrew. What a fool she'd been.

  Been? Or was?

  She stopped scrubbing and stared at herself in the mirror above the vanity, watching her grin fade away. Was she being a fool? Had she fallen into the trap of love? Is that why she'd tested Roman's idea of kids as she had?

  She dropped the washcloth and looked herself in her mirrored eye. The mere mention of children should have sent her screaming.

  Wrong, said the brown eyes looking back at her. You've always liked kids.

  "Other people's."

  Explain that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach whenever you hold a baby.

  "But I want a career."

  You can have a career and babies.

  "But, to get married is to prove my father right."

  A woman doesn't have to marry to have babies.

  True. She didn't have to marry. But Roman St. John would never settle for fathering a child without being married to said child's mother. Not that diehard family man.

  And you? asked the brown eyes in the mirror.

  Until she'd finally gotten the message about the extent of her father's antiquated chauvinism, marriage and children had been part of her life's equation. Her fingers curled into the hem of her t-shirt, the t-shirt Roman had given her to wear the first night she'd invaded his home. She'd clung to Roman's shirt as a way to be close to him.

  Roman, whom she'd trusted enough to confess her deepest, darkest fears. Roman, to whom she'd made love, and he to her. Roman, with whom she'd discussed children, that ultimate element that would bind them forever together…because she did want to have his children.

  And to spite her father, she was considering denying herself the love of her life? Was she nuts?

  #

  Tess raced up the attic stairs. She could hear the Fire Marshal talking, but she wasn't listening to what he was saying. She had one thing and only one thing on her mind. Find Roman and tell him she loved him.

  Her head cleared the stairwell. She could see Roman's back. The Fire Marshal was facing him and both had their heads bowed as though they looked at something between them.

  She cleared the last step and Roman turned toward her, concern creasing his brow for an instant before a smile smoothed it away. It wasn't quite as bright or as broad a smile as he'd left her with in the bedroom. She wanted to make that smile bright again. She wanted Roman to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless. She headed toward him.

  "I take it you're the homeowner," the Fire Marshal said, reminding her he was there.

  She couldn't help but smile at his Cheshire cat grin as she sidled up beside Roman. When Roman didn't automatically sling an arm around her, she peered up at him. His smile had turned sad and he lowered his eyes toward the object at the Fire Marshal's feet.

  "That's our culprit," he said. "Our fire starter."

  Tess looked at the melted glob of orange rubber that vaguely resembled a heavy-duty electrical cord. Her heart skipped a beat. Her gaze traveled up from the glob to the outlet into which it was still plugged then jumped to the black air conditioner cord still linked with the orange extension cord.

  "It can't be," she said on a thin breath.

  "Don't let the unscathed ends fool you," the Fire Marshal said, toeing the orange glob at their feet. "This is the culprit."

  She gaped at the Fire Marshal and stammered, "B-but it's a heavy-duty cord."

  "Like I was explaining to your contractor here, even cords rated for heavy-duty use get hot when they draw maximum wattage for an extended period of time. When a cord is coiled up like this one is there's no way for the heat to dissipate."

  Tess stared at the cord that looked like something out of a Salvador Dali painting, her toes and fingers suddenly numb.

  "We'll check the cord out back at the lab," the Fire Marshal said. "But I've had fires start like this more often than you might think." He gathered up the rest of his test samples, commented that the burn pattern didn't indicate anything out of the ordinary, and said she was free to access her attic then left.

  Free? She wasn't free to do anything, not
now that she'd seen exactly which cord had caused the fire. Cousin Raymond may have plugged that cord into the air conditioning unit the morning of the fire to cool himself while he labored beneath the eaves to cut and cap an old vent. But she was the one who'd switched the air conditioner back on when she'd come up to the attic to pick through Aunt Honey's storage boxes. She'd been the one who'd left it running all day, overheating the electrical cord…and starting the fire.

  Now was not the time to tell Roman she loved him.

  But it was the right time to tell him she was at fault for her own fire. "Roman--"

  He cut her off with a light kiss. "I need to get back to the job site." Then he kissed her again, a little longer, a little deeper, his lips parting from hers reluctantly and he murmured, "We'll continue this later at home."

  It was so tempting to let him go. To put off telling him what was sure to…

  Sure to what? Bring on a repeat performance of his pink underwear reaction? Sure to turn him into the raving male chauvinist her father was?

  Roman's footsteps echoed up from the stairwell.

  Stop him. Tell him now.

  She turned, poised to go after him. But her feet seemed stuck in the ash of Aunt Honey's attic. She was normally a woman of action. Why wasn't she running after Roman?

  Because, one hint he was anything like her father and she'd be gone before Roman could utter the first syllable of Princess.

  There it was. The reason she, woman of action, stood rooted to the sooty floor of a burned out attic rather than facing up to a problem of her own making. She didn't want to find out Roman was like her father.

  She hugged her arms across her stomach, an ache the size of the Sears Tower pressing down on her chest. Roman had every right to know it wasn't his fault her assets had gone up in flames. That it was her fault he'd spent even one moment worrying about being sued. Her fault he'd been forced to let her invade his home…his life. Sooner or later, she was going to have to tell him.

  But, how to tell him.

  Honey Buns, don't get mad. I burned up my own attic.

  Hey, Roman. Here's something you're going to get a laugh out of.

  Look here, St. John. Nobody's perfect.

  But plaintive wasn't her style. She didn't feel funny. And she had no business being snippy, especially with Roman.

  Straight forward. That was the way to be with him…just like he'd always been with her.

  Stop delaying, commanded the little voice in her head. Go after him and tell him. Now.

  She bounded down the attic steps. He'd reached his truck by the time she hit the front porch.

  "Roman," she called.

  He turned, the smile on his face wide as a Chicago expressway, and called back at her, "Can't get enough of me today, huh, Princess?"

  The toe of her tennis shoe caught in the overgrown lawn as she sprinted across the yard and she almost stumbled. If he went ballistic over what she had to tell him, she'd never get enough of him because she couldn't--wouldn't abide any man dressing her down like a child.

  Her heart pounded in her chest. She'd never been so scared in her life, including the night on the lake when she'd nearly drowned. But never before had she so much to lose.

  She skidded to a halt just beyond his reach. She didn't dare chance his touch or she might lose her nerve. How Roman handled this kind of news was something better learned sooner rather than later. He glanced at the space she left between them and his grin faded.

  "If this about my insurance coverage, I've already called the company."

  "It's not about your insurance. At least not in the way you're expecting."

  His eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, not in the way I'm expecting?"

  "I mean you don't have to involve your insurance company."

  He blinked, confusion knotting his brow. "I don't understand."

  She drew a deep breath. "It wasn't Raymond's fault that cord over-heated."

  The lines in Roman's brow curved a less confused more perturbed expression. "If my doltish cousin wasn't such a wimp, he wouldn't have needed air-conditioning for an hour's work under the eaves."

  "He shut it off."

  "It wouldn't have over-heated if he'd shut it off."

  "No. It wouldn't have."

  The corners of Roman's mouth pulled downward. "Tess, what are you trying to tell me?"

  "I went up in the attic after Raymond left. I turned the air-conditioner on…and forgot to shut it off when I left that day for my run."

  He blinked. He looked up at the house, stared at it as though seeing it for the first time. He continued to stare for what seemed an eternity. She held her breath, until…

  "So you have nothing to sue me over? And my insurance isn't going to have to shell out big bucks to repair your house? My insurance rates won't go up?"

  "That's a good way to look at it," she said.

  His gaze dropped to hers. He wasn't smiling. Tess' heart tripped against her ribs.

  "I'm sorry, Roman. I'm sorry I invaded your home and your life. I'm sorry I inconvenienced you. I'm sorry for every moment of misery I caused you."

  In one long stride, he had her in his arms and was swinging her in a circle. Tess clung to him for dear life, all but shrieking, "Aren't you angry with me?"

  He set her down between him and his truck, his fingers lingering on her waist reassuring. "I'm relieved, Princess."

  "Relieved. That's good."

  But, if it was so good, why did she still feel like the ground could drop out from under her at any moment? Why wasn't she sinking into the delicious play of his fingers on her back?

  "And you forgive me for being such a--" She looked him in the eye as she finished with the word "--shrew?"

  He backed her into the side of the truck, murmuring, "When did I ever call you a shrew?"

  "The first night I spent in your house."

  "I never called you a shrew." He leaned into her, all his right places lined up with all hers.

  "You implied it," she pressed, still waiting for that proverbial second shoe to drop.

  He kissed her neck, humming, "Implied?"

  "You were reading Taming of the Shrew." She gulped between passion-induced pants, still trying to see the danger but wanting so much to surrender to the moment.

  His chuckle buzzed against her throat. "Figured that one out, did you?"

  #

  Maybe it was the new state of her financial obligations that put a damper on her mood after Roman drove off whistling a happy tune. Being the owner of a burned out hulk of a house that had been vastly under-insured could turn anyone's mindset to gloom and doom, she'd bemoaned as she drove back to Roman's.

  But she was in love, she silently argued as she sat at his desk re-examining the costs to make The Castle whole again now that the expense was hers. Shouldn't love be enough to make any woman happy?

  "Any fool of a woman," she muttered, tallying how many two by fours and sheets of plywood it was going to take to patch the hole in the roof. She'd already gone the fool for love route with her father's favorite candidate for son-in-law.

  Was that what bothered her? She feared she might have once again fallen into the trap of blinded by love?

  Except she hadn't been in love with Harry. She'd been in… What? Joint frustration? Females didn't get ahead at her father's architectural firm and Harry's talents didn't quite live up to his career plans.

  She hadn't been blinded by anything. She'd been obsessed by her need for her father's recognition, and Harry's glib promise of a partnership had seemed the answer to that need. Unfortunately for her, Harry had planned on her being the silent partner who provided the talent while he claimed the glory.

  Tess slumped back in Roman's office chair. Hashing out old mistakes was not helping her figure out how to save her first solo project from financial ruin. Just what were her options?

  Aunt Honey would help her.

  But she didn't want to turn to Aunt Honey again. Aunt Honey had helped her enough on thi
s project just by letting her buy The Castle out from under Roman. Besides, she was still incommunicado on some mountain top. So, what other options did she have?

  Her father?

  When Hell froze over.

  Her mother?

  Tess grunted. The last financial decision her mother had made was to buy Daddy into the architectural firm where he worked…which he ultimately took over…as he had every penny of Mommy's inheritance.

  Except for the trust fund she'd set aside for her future children, a trust containing a marriage clause for any daughters born. She could thank her father for talking her mother into that constraint.

  A thought hit her like an electrical shock, straightening her from the back of the chair. She couldn't get her hands on her trust until she married. But her sisters were married. Maybe one of them would help.

  As quick as hope had flamed, it died. Sister one had handed over the assets of her trust to her investment manager hubby the minute that gold ring had been slipped onto her finger. Dutiful daughter number two had the sense to convert her trust to trusts for her future children. A better option but one that still made any chance of a loan beyond Tess' reach.

  With a sigh, Tess sank back into the chair. What to do? With her credit stretched as far as it could go, no bank was going to give her another loan. Another credit card? Given the interest rates, she could forget any profit. Far more likely, she'd be left deep in debt. No success to show to her father.

  She pondered the pros and cons of marrying to get her trust fund. There were a lot of pros given the groom in question was Roman. But, what did she really know about him?

  Fabulous lover.

  Honorable man.

  Reliable.

  Hard worker.

  Family man.

  A family man who'd likely turn The Castle into one giant nursery if given the chance. Is this how her father had trapped her mother? Presenting all his good traits during the courtship, not revealing his real self until after the wedding? Could she end up in the same trap--a trap where the husband takes control of your inheritance and adds marriage clauses to your daughters' trust funds?

  Besides, marry and her father would declare she'd needed her trust fund to bail her out. So much for proving her abilities as an independent architect and businesswoman to her father.