Taming Tess (The St. John Sibling Series)

by Raffin, Barbara

  She wanted to rewind the past ten seconds. Wanted to replay what she'd said and how she'd said it. She wanted to take time to analyze the guarded look in his eyes. But she couldn't help but feel she'd run out of time and she couldn't take back the last few seconds any more than she could change the past several weeks.

  Maybe this was the way he wanted it--needed it to be. Maybe, in her heart, she too knew this was how it should be. Hadn't she reverted to the shrew when she'd walked out on him…as she had every other time she'd needed to push him away? Maybe this time he needed her to push him away because sometimes parting on friendly terms was just too painful.

  She should sign the papers here in the lobby so he could get back to the life he deserved…and she could go upstairs to her high-rise condo alone and cry her way through a chocolate fudge brownie. But she didn't have any brownies.

  She nodded toward the elevators. "Let's do this upstairs."

  #

  He'd given her time and space. He'd thought that's all she needed. But she hadn't come back to Pine Mountain, hadn't come home. So he'd come to her.

  Roman stood staring out the expanse of windows that made up one wall of Tess' condo, the view of the waterfront reflecting the city lights spectacular. Nothing like that in Pine Mountain.

  Nothing like her straight out of the pages of Architects' Digest condo, either. His heart sank. The place fit her princess style.

  Correction. The condo fit the style of the talented architect she was.

  She personified the upwardly mobile type in her navy pumps whose heels were just high enough and pin-striped suit-skirt's hem just short enough to say professional yet remind him how sinfully good those legs could feel wrapped around his hips. The minute he'd seen her, he'd wanted to scoop her up in his arms and kiss her silly. He'd wanted to tell her he loved her and beg her to give them another chance. But, she'd looked so happy when she'd walked into the condo lobby that he'd realized he had no right to ask her to leave all this. Not if this was what made her happy.

  So he'd given her a sale's contract instead of a kiss.

  He turned from the windows--faced where she sat reading through the contract on a white couch. Not exactly kid friendly furniture.

  Tess' world. So she'd hit it off with his nephew, cooed at her neighbors baby, and gone all maternal over an injured dog. Maybe she even wanted kids.

  Of course she wanted kids. With me, even. She'd talked about our kids--about a mud wrestling daughter. But that didn't mean she wanted to raise them in a burg of a town. And here he'd gone and given her enough time to figure that out.

  Better to figure it out sooner than later, echoed the voice of reason between his ears. Not that sound reasoning made him feel any better.

  He should leave while he still could with some dignity. He should leave before his feelings overrode his good sense and he begged her to come back to Pine Mountain--leave her at peace in the city where she belonged.

  But, he hadn't driven three hundred miles just to walk away without fight, ego be damned. Time to lay all his cards on the table.

  "What do I need to do to convince you to give us another chance, Tess? Rebuild my contracting business here in Chicago?"

  The air went out of Tess as though she'd been punched in the stomach. He hadn't written her off, and she all but gasped, "You'd move your business for me?"

  "For us."

  All the doubts, hopes, and questions that'd been tumbling through her brain as she'd pretended to read the contract vanished. "But you've worked hard to build your business, your reputation in Pine Mountain."

  "I can easily rebuild the business here. My references won't disappear and, I assume, I'd have your endorsement."

  "Of course, but The Castle…"

  "You haven't signed the papers yet. We could finish the renovation and sell it like you planned."

  "But, you wanted to raise a family in a small town."

  His eyes narrowed at her. "You trying to talk me out of moving to Chicago, Princess? Because if you've moved on, just tell me and we can end this right now."

  She rose from the couch, the contract slipping from her fingers. "No. I… It's just… In the lobby you were all business when you handed me the contract. I thought it meant you'd moved on."

  "You looked so happy when you entered the lobby…" He shook his head. "In that moment, I knew I could never take from you anything that makes you that happy."

  She took a step toward him, her heart hammering. "I was happy because I had an incredibly good day. A great week, in fact."

  He eyed her narrowly. "What happened this past week that made you so happy?"

  "Remember the project my ex-fiancé stole from me that won my father a big contract?"

  "Yeah."

  "Seems the government wanted some modifications and Harry and my father couldn't figure out how to make them and still keep the project profitable."

  The tension in his posture gave and a ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Enter Tess Abbott, girl architect to the rescue."

  Her heart skipped a beat and she chanced a quippy, "I'll overlook that girl reference this once because I did indeed rescue the project."

  "Do you feel vindicated?" he asked, taking a step toward her, further narrowing the space between them.

  "Very much so," she said, her heart pounding a far more hopeful rhythm. "Especially after telling my father I'd mail him my consulting bill."

  He closed the space between them. "Good for you."

  She looked up into his face, her heart pounding so hard surely he had to hear it. "Best of all, I no longer feel the need to prove anything to him."

  "Even better." He cupped her cheek. "And now that we've determined we both suffered a near fatal moment of misunderstanding in the lobby, does my offer to relocate here provide a compromise we both can live with?"

  She wanted to settle into the comfort of his hand. But she needed to know whatever he proposed wouldn't turn into resentment. She looked him deep in the eye. "I can't take away from you what makes you happy, either, Roman."

  His fingers stilled on the hinge of her jaw, the lobe of her ear. "I've lived all over the world, Tess, mostly in cities. One of the best lessons my mother taught me was home is where you make it. I won't be unhappy."

  "Even though you wanted to raise a family in a small town?"

  "Kids grow up fine in cities. I'm a good example of that, no?"

  She smiled up at him. "Yes."

  "Then we've got a deal?"

  She draped her hands over his shoulders and threaded her fingers behind his neck. "Not quite."

  He arched back against her hold fingers. "What do you mean, not quite?"

  "We don't need the city. We already have a home in a quiet, safe little town. A big home with wonderful neighbors."

  He eyed her skeptically. "But you love the city."

  "Yes, I do. And we can always visit. But a city can't love me back the way you can." She leaned in, kissing him just below the ear and murmuring, "So, are we ready to start a life together in a castle of house surrounded by a neighborhood full of friends?"

  He pressed his lips to her temple. "Are you sure. Tess?"

  She settled her head against his shoulder. "Yes, I'm sure. Are you sure you want to marry a woman who's a domestic disaster?"

  His arms tightened around her. "There's not a doubt in my mind you're the woman for me."

  "I'll turn our children's underwear pink."

  He kissed one corner of her mouth. "It'll teach the boys to be tough."

  "You're neat and I'm messy."

  He kissed the other corner of her mouth. "If you think you're messy, wait till we have kids."

  "I'll burn their food."

  She felt his smile stretch against her ear lobe as he whispered, "They won't know the difference. Kids think whatever they grow up with is normal. Besides--" he nipped her earlobe. "--who's to say you have to do all the cooking?"

  She pulled back from him and looked up into his fa
ce. "They'll know the difference when they compare my cooking to yours."

  He grinned. "They'll grow up nostalgic about it, then. I get misty-eyed over the aroma of singed food."

  She cuffed him on the shoulder.

  "Are these negotiations going to take all night?" he asked, slipping a hand between them and popping free the top button of suit jacket.

  She slid hand down over his backside, purring, "Maybe."

  His grin stretched and button two popped free. Desire pinched at Tess' stomach. But she sobered.

  "Kids aren't anything to mess around with. How can you be sure I'll be a good parent?"

  "Because you have the right parenting instincts where it counts." he murmured, his hot finger pressing the cool, silk camisole under her jacket into the valley between her breasts. "You'll be better than good. You are going to be great."

  She sighed. "You deserve a woman who's a domestic goddess."

  He laughed, his amazing blue gaze meeting hers. "Boring. What I want is the woman I need, Tess. A woman who spices up my life--who makes me use my heart more and my head less."

  "And I need you, Roman St. John. I need you to tame away my stubborn reactionary ways."

  "Just promise me one thing, Princess," he murmured as he lowered his mouth toward hers.

  "Anything."

  "Don't get too tame on me."

  The End

  * * *

  Excerpt from NO PLACE LIKE HOME

  Book 2: The St. John Sibling Series

  By Barbara Raffin

  "That woman's not fit to raise my grandson!" The old man slammed his palm down on the mahogany desk behind which he stood.

  Sam Ryan shifted in the ancient leather chair on the one-who'd-been-summoned side of the desk. So much for pointing out the old man's son had wed that woman.

  "As for Michael's good judgment," the old man growled, bracing both hands against the broad desktop and leaning toward him.

  And strike two.

  "She seduced him. Trapped him into marriage."

  If the old man was implying she'd gotten pregnant to force a proposal, then the pregnancy would have been a record at thirteen months post wedding.

  Not that Sam was going to make the mistake of pointing out yet another flaw in the old man's reasoning. He'd been properly reminded how futile it was to argue with Stuart Carrington. Twenty-five years since he'd first sat in this chair under the scrutiny of an uncle who had it within his power to decide his future and he still felt every bit the six year old boy he'd been then.

  Which brought Sam to the question that had nagged him ever since his uncle had summoned him back from the banished lands abroad. Why welcome the family black sheep back into the fold now? It couldn't be to replace Mickey. Hell, Mickey had died over two years ago. If the old man wanted a replacement son, he'd have called him home sooner.

  Not that Sam wanted to replace Mickey…not that he could. Mickey had been the big brother he'd wanted--needed, giving him the sense of family his globetrotting mother hadn't and buffering him from his uncle's wrath when he screwed up…which was most of the time. He'd idolized Mickey--loved him. The one thing his uncle ne surrogate father and he had in common. They both loved Michael.

  No, Stuart Carrington would never replace his son with his sister's mongrel whelp. But a grandson…

  Sam sighed in resignation, having known deep down all along the reason he'd been summoned. The specifics were what he didn't know. "Why am I here?"

  His uncle's flinty eyes narrowed at him. "I need you."

  Sam's heart lurched in his chest before his brain could intercept the reflex. To be needed by the only father figure he'd ever known fed into the hunger of the lost boy still inside him. He hated it because he knew whatever his uncle asked of him, he would do.

  #

  So here he was, two hundred plus miles north of Chicago sitting in an empty parking lot under a darkened restaurant sign, the Ducati bike engine rumbling with a throaty purr between his legs. Another perk of doing the old man's bidding, getting the keys to whatever vehicle he wanted from his uncle's collection along with the promise that when he finished the job and headed back to Paris the bike went with him. But, did he love the bike enough to ruin a woman's life? That was one of the questions that had sent him riding aimlessly along country roads rather than sticking to the highway and its direct route to his destination.

  Sam peered up at the white-washed farmhouse gilded by a setting sun. Its multi-gabled upper floors cast soft shadows across the scalloped shingles of the inviting wrap around porch. Beneath the overhang, warm yellow light filtered from the curtained windows of the Victorian era farmhouse's first floor. Even the sidewalk was flower lined. Currier and Ives couldn't have painted a more idyllic scene. Hardly the setting he'd expected of a gold-digger.

  But appearances could be deceiving. He knew. For all the mischief and decadence of his thirty plus years, for all the running away from his uncle he'd done, all he coveted was family acceptance. Yup, all he had to do was dig up some dirt on a woman who'd never done him any wrong and he'd be back in Stuart's good graces.

  He flicked off the bike's engine, dismounted and stepped out from under the free-standing sign that read The Farmhouse. Appearances indeed could be deceiving, he thought as he gazed into the warm glow of the windows of a home turned into a restaurant.

  With his Ducati-silver and red helmet tucked under his arm, he climbed the broad front steps. A figure moved beyond the first floor curtains, a distinctly female figure. Mickey's widow cleaning up after a day of diners? He hesitated ever so briefly at the top of the porch stairs, doubt still niggling at him. Would Mickey approve of what he was about to do?

  He would if it saved his son from a mother who used the boy to gain his trust fund. And Stuart was certain she was holding his grandson as collateral against the inheritance he denied her. Ransom had been the kindest of the words his uncle had used to describe his daughter-in-law's refusal to give the boy up to his care--his very money-advantaged care.

  Sam stood there facing the leaded glass panel of the front door--facing his dilemma. Was he really doing this for Mickey's family or for himself? Mickey, after all, had chosen her--married her--fathered a child with her; and Mickey had never been fooled by womanly enchantments.

  Then again, perhaps he could do right for both family and self. What harm would there be in visiting Mickey's wife and kid if there was no dirt to dig up? After all, Uncle Stu's army of detectives hadn't ferreted out anything he could use in court. What were the odds he, the family screw-up, would find anything?

  And if he did?

  Mickey would want his kid protected. The kid was all that mattered.

  Still, Sam opened his silver windbreaker with the red Ducati emblem and let in the balmy breath of the summer evening. As if anything could warm him--make him feel less reptilian about introducing himself to his cousin-in-law as a friend.

  "Simon Legree had more heart," he muttered and raised his hand to knock on the door.

  Yet something stilled his hand. Mickey, who'd raised a child with this woman for two years? Mickey, who'd emailed him pictures of a happy family and written endlessly of his love for them? Was the memory Mickey's way of trying to give him one more chance to do the right thing--the honorable thing? And was the right thing to leave?

  Sam began to back away from the door. That's when he heard the clatter of toenails coming fast toward him from the side porch--when the vibration of the heavy footfalls reverberated up his legs from the old floorboards. He turned for the stairs just as the biggest dog he'd ever seen skidded around the porch corner, ears flying, jowls flapping, strings of drool trailing from a fang filled mouth.

  He flung his helmet at the black and white blur of a dog coming at him, turned, and threw his body against the front door. But the door didn't budge. The next thing he knew, he was plastered against the leaded glass panel of the door and a pair of massive paws pinned him by the shoulders.

  * * *

  A
bout the Author

  An obsessive writer who’d rather write than breathe, Barbara Raffin wrote her first novel at age twelve in retaliation to the lack of female leads in the adventure stories she loved reading. But it was a love of playing with words, exploring the human psyche, and telling stories that kept her writing.

  This award-winning author lives on the Michigan-Wisconsin border with her Keeshond dogs Katie and Slippers and her avid outdoorsman husband who has always supported her love affair with reading and writing. Learn more about Barbara Raffin and her books, or contact her through her web site at www.BarbaraRaffin.com