For a brief moment, Sebastian was tempted to rest his head on the steering wheel. But that would have been just one more sign of weakness, and he was pretty much tapped out in that area.
He glanced in the rearview mirror and noticed the freckles across his nose were growing. The only thing on his body with the power to increase, apparently. The first one had appeared the morning after his little encounter with witchy poo, with a new one every day since. And with each new freckle that grew, his dick shrank.
With the same determination he’d used to pull himself out of the slums of L.A., he sucked up the self-pity and climbed out of the car. Straightening his shoulders, he promised himself when he took that hell-ride back down the mountain, he’d have a game plan. He eyed the ever-widening black puddle dampening the dirt under the front end and could only shake his head. He must have punctured the oil pan on that last rock.
Figured.
Not able to dredge up enough energy to care, he grabbed his duffle and laptop bag from behind the seat and strode up the flower-lined path to the front door. Fishing around in his pocket for the key, it wasn’t until he reached the front steps that he noticed the lights on inside.
He glanced around, noting that there were no other cars anywhere.
At the front door, he heard the noise—crashing sounds, like an animal or a clumsy burglar.
Adrenaline drowned out exhaustion as Sebastian’s senses hit full alert. Moving with slow precision, he leaned down to set his bag on the wide-planked porch floor as he slid the house key out of his pocket. A quick snick and the lock opened.
The noise didn’t abate. Grateful that Olliver’s fancy-assed house came with well-oiled hinges, Sebastian slipped quietly down the hallway. He briefly recalled his cell phone, tossed in the console of the ’vette.
His back to the wall, he edged his way toward the open door at the end of the hall and all the noise. With a deep breath, he turned and leaped through the doorway into the semidark room. The dim hall light glinted off metal as a hammer arced, midswing.
Sebastian growled, diving forward to grab the figure by the upraised arm and tackle him to the floor. A screech temporarily deafened him, then the intruder’s body bucked, like a wild horse, beneath him. He snagged the guy’s arm before it could send the hammer into his skull, tugging the tool away and tossing it behind him.
He grunted as an elbow jabbed him in the eye. Stars exploded painfully. Pissed, he anchored the body with his hips and cussed. It took another thirty seconds before the stars faded from his vision and he realized the squirming figure pressed against his groin was actually female.
Figured.
Then she smacked him in the ear.
“Cut it out,” he ordered with a growl, dropping his body to lay flat against hers and quickly catching both hands over her head before she swung at him again.
Her struggles grew frantic. God, what a wild woman.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he ground out, trying to reassure her as he strained to keep his hold.
She stilled. Panting, her breasts pressed in miserable temptation against his chest, making him painfully aware of how well her curves fit beneath the hard length of his body.
“Lane?”
Huh?
Sebastian squinted through his one good eye, trying to make out the woman’s features. The meager hall light didn’t reach them here on the floor. He risked the rest of his sight and leaned closer.
Doing so pressed him tighter against those glorious curves. He almost groaned at his body’s reaction. Instant heat. The hard, oh-yeah-you-like-this kind of heat. His nostrils flared. His pulse sped up. His dick, bless it for trying, hardened.
With one eye, he glared at the woman’s face in the dim light.
Shit.
“Princess?”
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped. Her voice wasn’t as clipped as usual. She sounded more breathless, probably due to his throwing her on the floor and pinning her there.
Pinning her. As in, he was lying flat on top of his boss’s daughter, manhandling a coworker and seriously pissing off a woman who always looked at him as if he was a slimy toad. All at the same time.
If he let her loose, he figured she’d probably beat the hell out of him. He couldn’t stay pressed against her warm, tempting body, though. That was pure masochism.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, carefully shifting to one side so his leg was still wrapped over her body, but his weight was resting on his side on the hardwood floor.
“This is my cabin.”
“Olliver’s cabin,” he corrected absently.
“Duh,” she growled breathlessly. “I’m an Olliver.”
Right. He knew that. His brain was obviously on a trip south of his belt. Sebastian shrugged, muttering, “I forgot.”
“Do you want to get the hell off me?” she asked, her tone snide now. “Or are you planning to give me a little personal peek into your rumored sexual brilliance?”
God, wouldn’t that be a pleasure. He’d like to start with that gorgeous, wild mouth of hers and spend half the night teaching her other things to do with it besides smart off at him.
As always, he told himself to pull his mind out of his pants when it came to Jordan.
Much harder to do when she was lying beneath his body. Oh, the reasons were all the same. She wasn’t some do-me-and-leave-me gal. Despite her mouth, she was a good girl. The kind who deserved a guy who’d stay past breakfast. Besides, she was his boss’s daughter, a rival journalist and from the way she acted, she hated his guts.
But none of the reasons mattered much when her lush body, unfettered by her usual repressed outfits, was pressed against his gloriously hard dick.
A dick that would shrink to the size of a tadpole the minute he made a move. And didn’t that ruin the mood faster than an ice-cold shower.
Sebastian wanted to beat the floor in frustration. He was up here to solve his problem, not add another layer of suffering to it. How the hell was he supposed to research with Jordan there? Given how competitive she was, and how unfairly she was treated at work, he was sure if she had an inkling, she wouldn’t hesitate to announce his situation on the front cover of Machismo.
That’s what he’d do.
Knowing that, and Jordan, he bypassed defense and went on the offensive. “What are you doing here?”
“GETTING JUMPED, apparently,” she muttered.
God, she was one sick puppy. When she’d realized it was Lane pinning her between his rock-hard body and the miserably solid floor, she’d gone from terror to lust in two seconds flat. The excitement zinged through her system, making her thighs quiver and her nipples tighten.Furious with her body for reacting so predictably, Jordan glared up at the man straddling her. The backlight from the hallway made him look huge. Not as huge as he’d felt against her thigh, though. Her gaze traveled down his body to his belt-buckle. And the intriguing swelling beneath it.
Her fury ebbed, interest taking its place. Well, well. After a year of either ignoring her or treating her like an irritating little kid, it looked as if she was finally getting hottie playboy Sebastian Lane’s attention.
And from the tight thrust of his clenched jaw, he didn’t like that idea. Well used to irritating the men in her life, Jordan shrugged off his attitude. More important was how she felt about this very growing…development. Hot, intense desire flashed, warm and tingly through her body, assuring her that she was definitely intrigued.
Nothing new there, though. She’d gotten turned on watching the guy sharpen a pencil before. The real question was, now that he’d proved he could return the interest, what did she want to do about it?
Her body screamed for her to strip naked and jump his bones. The practical, ambitious side of her warned that’d be the stupidest thing she’d ever done since she’d waved the red flag in front of her father’s face by telling him that she’d prove her worth as a reporter at his toughest publication.
“I didn’t mean to hu
rt you,” Sebastian apologized quietly, looking shamefaced. “I thought you were a burglar or something.”
“And yet, you’re still on top of me,” she pointed out.
“Shit,” he muttered, jumping to his feet so fast the rush of air fluttered her hair around her face.
Why was he here? The cabin was about as far from his posh San Francisco lifestyle as it was possible to get and still be paid for with her father’s money. Yet here he was, trapping her on the floor.
Now that reality—and the lack of him on top of her—had dulled the sharp edge of her lust, she realized her entire body was screaming in pain. She’d be covered in bruises within the hour. She shifted, wincing as both her butt and her knee protested.
It was her scheduled weekend at the cabin. She’d counted on the peace and privacy to immerse herself in her favorite form of distraction—creating mosaics—instead of stressing over Garret’s column. The last thing she needed was anyone or anything that reminded her of Machismo and the suspicion that she was wasting her time there.
That was why she was there. She wanted to ask why he was, but she wasn’t stupid.
“Did you come up here on your own? Or is my dad joining you at some point?” she asked, pushing herself up from her prone—and therefore weak—position and checking her scraped knee.
“Just me,” he started to say. Then he glanced down.
“Are you bleeding?” he asked, a concerned frown creasing his forehead as he bent lower to assess the damage.
“Damn, I’m sorry. Like I said, I thought you were a burglar or…” He trailed off and looked around, squinting at the opened crates of various colored dinnerware. He frowned at the table, where she’d been hammering a bright purple plate into shards. “A hammer-wielding lunatic with a grudge against dishes?”
“You’re lucky I didn’t use that hammer on your head,” she snapped. “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you knock or something?”
“I heard the crashing sounds and thought there might be a problem.”
“Of course you did.” As always, Sebastian to the rescue. Her? If she’d heard noises, she’d have hightailed it back to her phone and called the sheriff to come check. But not him. Oh, no, he had to break in, ruin her weekend and screw up her project. She had only two more purple plates left.
“What’s with the dishes?” he asked.
“Working off some frustration,” Jordan muttered, struggling ungracefully to her feet. Her knee protested. Trying to ignore the painful throbbing, she tossed the hammer onto the workbench next to the half-moon frame she planned to cover in broken dishware. In the end, it’d be a hall table with iris flowers, perfect for her aunt’s birthday. Next month. Which meant she had to get it finished.
“You need to leave,” she told him. She couldn’t work if he was here. Hell, she couldn’t think if he was here. “This is my weekend. The entire family books their time a year ahead, including guest days.”
Sebastian was shaking his head before she even finished talking. “Your dad offered me the place for the next few days.”
Her jaw clenched. Of course he had. It didn’t matter that it was her time. It never did to her father. Shoulders rigid, she stomp-limped into the kitchen, turning the overhead light on with a slap of her hand.
She felt rather than heard Sebastian follow her. He was awfully light on his feet for such a big guy. A fact that she blamed for his sneaking up on her.
“You call this a cabin?” he muttered, looking around. “Where’s the wood stove? The cast iron? The, you know, nod to rustic living?”
Jordan snorted. “My father, go rustic? Hardly.”
Sebastian strode across the Italian tile floor, past the chrome appliances and glass-topped table. He stopped at the wide bank of windows overlooking a small, manmade lake. “Getaway country atmosphere, with all the comforts of a modern high rise.”
“My sisters’ idea of roughing it is the single-head showers upstairs,” Jordan said dryly.
“One of your sisters decorated?”
Jordan nodded. “Janine, sister number four. She was playing at it until Daddy found her the right husband.”
Sebastian turned away from the view and gave her a long, curious look. The intensity of it made her feel naked. “How many sisters do you have?”
“I’m number five, the youngest,” she admitted with a shrug.
As if being labeled by a number hadn’t doomed her to always being last. Just like her father giving her his father’s name—the perfect son’s name he’d been saving through four other daughters—wasn’t a sign that he’d finally given up.
Maybe she should start writing fiction instead of reporting facts. She obviously had a knack for it.
“Ahh, yes, the five dancing princesses,” he said with a wicked grin, pulling out a chair and making himself comfortable.
Jordan ignored the way his jeans molded to his thighs as he sat, instead shoving her hair out of her eyes and glaring. “That’s twelve princesses. And I don’t dance.”
“Never?”
His look was innocent, but the underlying sexual innuendo was anything but. Jordan just crossed her arms over her chest and stared.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“I…needed a break. Your father suggested I use his place for the weekend.”
“Too bad. I’m using it this weekend,” she shot back, planting her hands on the counter and leaning forward. It wasn’t until his golden green eyes dropped and heated that she remembered she was wearing a loose, white, peasant-style dress. And nothing else.
She sucked in a breath. His eyes narrowed. The room got warmer. Jordan wanted to fan her flushed cheeks, but he didn’t need any more ammunition.
“You have to go,” she told him.
“I can’t. My car hit a rock.” He shot a disgusted glare out the window toward where he’d probably parked. She thought of his low-slung sports car and winced. He was lucky he hadn’t slammed it into a tree. These were four-wheel-drive roads. “A few dozen rocks, actually. One of them punctured the oil pan. I’m stuck. You should do something about that road, by the way.”
“It’s supposed to keep people away,” she told him with a cold smile. “I was dropped off, so I can’t drive you out of here. Why don’t you call someone to pick you up? Or a tow truck.”
“I’m staying,” he stated, his tone final.
She ground her teeth, fantasizing for a brief second about calling her father and getting Sebastian kicked out. But she knew if Dad sent anyone hoofing it down that hill, it’d be her, not the Golden Boy. Besides, she admitted to herself as she eyed the long, sexy hunk of man standing across from her, the last thing she needed to do was give her father ideas about the two of them being here at the cabin together.
“Well, then,” she murmured with a resigned shrug, pretending that her stomach wasn’t tumbling at the images, most naked and sweaty, flashing through her mind. “I guess we’re roommates.”
3
“NO WAY. WE CAN’T share this cabin. Olliver promised me peace and quiet,” Sebastian protested in an irritated growl, following her up the stairs to the guest room. “How peaceful, or quiet, will it be if you’re here?”
Jordan rolled her eyes, not bothering to glance back. Ever since Sebastian had retrieved his duffle bag he’d been pitching the same argument.“It’s a big house,” she promised them both as they cleared the landing. She pointed to the hall to the left. “My room is way down there.” She pointed to the right. “Yours is over here. We don’t even share a bathroom.”
“Are you going to do the cooking?” he asked, his voice switching to pure charm. “I mean, if I’m stuck with company, it might as well have some benefits. Of the edible kind, of course. You can cook, can’t you? I’m a fan of Italian food, if you want to start with pasta.”
Even though she knew he was trying to rile her into leaving, Jordan spun around and poked her finger into his very wide, very hard, very sexy chest.
“I am not here to serve
you,” she growled. His wicked grin, the one that said “gotcha,” only irritated her more. “I’m here to relax. So I suggest you get something straight. This isn’t Machismo and you’re not the Golden Boy here. It’s my place and I call the shots. Which means you will quit playing games and trying to egg me into leaving.”
“Or what?” he asked, not bothering to hold back his laugh.
“Or I won’t give you the network key to get on the Internet,” she threatened with a sugary sweet smile.
His grin dropped.
“You wouldn’t.”
“In a heartbeat.”
“That’s hitting a man where it hurts.”
“Oh, poor baby.” Hiding a laugh, she twisted the brass knob on the second door and led the way into the guest room. With one hand, she gestured to the space. “Here you go. Completely private. There’s even a lock on the door.”
“You know, you could be a little friendlier, princess. I’m not the one making your life miserable.”
Jordan froze. Miserable? Sure, she might occasionally be unhappy, frustrated and discontented, but that was hardly miserable.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she dismissed.
“If you’re happy, you sure hide it well. I mean, you’re definitely good at what you do, don’t get me wrong. But you don’t get nearly enough credit, never enough respect.” He sounded uncomfortable, like stating the obvious was being disloyal to her dad or something. Jordan was reluctantly touched, though. She hadn’t realized he’d paid enough attention to notice. Or that he’d care.
“Life should be fun,” he declared. “You don’t seem to be having much with your job.”
“Life isn’t a fairy tale. We can’t all love our jobs every minute like you do, Lane,” she shot back. “Especially those of us without golden status.”
“Fine.” He frowned, tossing his bag onto the bed and shoving his hands in his pockets, clearly uneasy that he’d said anything. “You know, I could talk to Garret for you. If you wanted.”
Blazing Bedtime Stories, Volume III Page 11