The sound of snaps and pops from the crackling fire surrounded her.
“I’m trying to protect you, Priscilla King.” His words were so soft she barely heard them.
“From who? You? I already told you.” She came up beside him, holding out her hands to warm them.
“I know.” He heaved a breath. “Not every man will be honorable. In a bedroom or a boardroom.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Do that.”
She took a small side step toward him; somehow she felt safer near him.
***
“It’s not letting up,” he said, nearly an hour later as he sat behind his desk and leaned his head back against the desk chair. The lights had flickered, and then gone off for good right after he’d started the fire.
He’d scraped up his files on the King family and tucked them in the top drawer of his desk long ago. But still he couldn’t shake the feeling he betrayed this woman he’d just met by having them in the same room with her.
He gazed at her, lying on a blanket he’d yanked from his bedroom and spread out in front of the roaring fire. In her stocking feet, she rested on her forearms on his pillow, staring at him. He could so easily lose his mind just looking at her, this lovely foreign creature inhabiting his nearly empty house, anticipating what it would feel like to touch her skin again, kiss those lips, see her naked body, and feel flesh on flesh…
“No radio, no little portable TV, no cell phone connection?” She shook her head. “Just a laptop that doesn’t work.”
“The Internet service is knocked out from the storm,” he corrected.
“So we’re stuck,” she said, resting her chin on her hand.
Why did he think staying behind his desk, separated by yards from her, would stop his imagination from running wild? It didn’t.
He shoved away from the desk and rose. Before he knew it, she jumped up. “Show me around?”
“Hmmm?”
“Your house.”
“My house?”
“You do have a flashlight, right?”
Griff nodded.
“Then, come on.” She grabbed his arm, tugging on him.
He bit down on a groan. Yes, he was right: her skin felt so soft against his.
***
Prissy swung the flashlight beam around the large, dark room. “Look at that,” she whispered in awe. “I love the arches, crown molding, the mantel above this fireplace.”
“The previous owners restored it all a few years ago.”
“And look! There’s a chandelier. Does it work?”
“I’m sure it does.”
“What, you don’t even know for certain?” Turning, she walked toward him, keeping the beam of light low. But she could see him leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded. “You don’t care what your house is like?”
“I didn’t say that.”
She waved a hand to encompass not just this room, but all the rooms he’d shown her on the first floor already. “No, but it shows.”
“Why does that bother you?”
His question pulled her up short. Why did it? “A home reflects the heart of a person,” she said softly.
“My heart is dark and empty.”
A wave of empathy crashed through her. She cared. “Who hurt you?”
Griff stiffened. For a long time, he didn’t answer. The storm turned to thunder and lightning a few minutes ago. Now a flash of lightening lit up the room and revealed his stony expression. “A long time ago…both my parents died. One when I was a baby, the other when I was a child, brought on by a series of misfortunes.”
Even this little piece of information seemed a lot coming from someone like Griffin. “How sad. I’m sorry. Where did you go? Who took you in?”
“First an elderly aunt.” She could sense his movement, a shrug. “When she died, foster care.”
She didn’t have to be a genius to understand the outcome. “Not good.”
“An understatement.”
Tears stung the backs of her eyes. “I don’t know how you survived it all.” Swallowing hard, she said, “At least I had a parent, not a very good one, but my mother kept us after my father left her before I was even born. She tried. Francie, my older sister, took care of me for the most part. Then, when I was five, Charles King came into our lives. It was like a fairy tale. He was a very good man. I’m grateful I had him, even for such a short time.”
“He gave you hope.” Griff understood.
“Yes. I knew there was something better than what I had gone through. Life wasn’t just about the bills not being paid and threats of eviction, or no food to eat at night, or even shabby clothes to wear to school and be made fun of day after day.” She stopped, her memories haunting her. “I said more than I should have.”
“It explains some things.” His odd statement puzzled her, but she let it drop.
“You survived yours, by all accounts. You showed them. You’re a gazillionaire, right? You can do anything you want, go anywhere you like, most likely have any woman you desire.”
His chuckle came out choked. “Really? You make it sound much more exciting than it really is.”
“Life is what you make it, Griff.” She went to him, stood on tip-toes and gently kissed him on his cheek. Before he could react, she scrambled away to explore some more. The feel of him lingered and her lips tingled.
***
Griffin lounged in his bedroom doorway. He didn’t dare step inside the room while she looked around. And she thought he was lethal.
Her innocent questions had turned to a much more serious conversation. Her revelations about her earlier life stunned him.
Nowhere in any file or report had he uncovered the former life of Mrs. Agnes King. It was as if she’d erased that part of herself. Now, he could see why. The stain of her first husband leaving her pregnant and with a toddler along with living in poverty conditions soon after would have been a great deal to overcome, most likely impossible, in the wealthy society she so desperately clung to all these years.
But now he stared at the part that poked at him, stirred his emotions enough to melt another piece of his sheltered, guarded heart. Priscilla King surprised him. With her sunny disposition and caring gestures, he would never have guessed at the dark moments in her past.
Life is what you make it.
Thankfully, she’d overcome it. For that he would always be grateful.
At least one of them had thrived.
“Just a bed? Really, Griff, you need some serious help here.” She poked her head into the bathroom. “Nice,” she murmured. But when she made her way to his closet, he halted her.
“Off-limits.”
She swung the light to focus on the half-opened door. “What, in there? Secrets? Come on, you can’t have much, if the looks of the rest of the house is any indication. Or, wait maybe you’re a clothes-horse and you’re embarrassed by that fact. You know, my friend, Rico, would like to see. He’s a clothes-horse to the max.”
Griff frowned. “Who’s this Rico you keep mentioning?” Is he that important to you?
“He works at King’s. He’s the wedding consultant. He took over for my sister, Francine, who is now a wedding dress buyer for the store since she and Marcus married. And she trains more employees for the wedding boutique.”
Now he knew who Rico was. “Used to be the beauty salon manager?” Relief shot through him. That feeling concerned him. Why should he care who she was close to or if there were a man in her life?
“Yes, he’s funny, throws the best parties, and a dream to pull pranks with.”
The smile in her voice caused warmth to spread in his veins.
“He’s my best friend.” Coming close, she said, “And my mother hates him!”
“She’s met him?” He thought since her and her sister’s departure from the family home that she’d had nothing to do with the woman.
“No. That’s the problem.” She sighed heav
ily. “She calls and begs me to listen to reason. She’s all about appearances. He doesn’t fit into her neat and tidy ideal. Plus, I don’t either.” He could see her shrug. “Her loss.” Her voice caught.
It bothered her that her only remaining parent couldn’t accept her for who she was. His chest tightened.
“So are we sleeping in here tonight?”
Chapter 5
The innocent question rushed back to him now. He bit back another groan.
Hours had passed, the storm still raged, and she slept beside him, both of them fully clothed under the blankets, in his king-sized bed. Sleep eluded him.
He turned to his side, away from her. She snuggled closer. “Cold,” she muttered, pressing her body along his. She murmured approval. “Nice. Warm.”
How many ways and in how many languages could he curse? Maybe if he began, it would stop him from thinking about turning over and having his way with her. “Damn, Pixie,” he grunted.
She giggled. “I heard that.”
Griff clamped his eyes shut, counting to ten before he answered. “Go back to sleep.”
Her non-answer eased his mind; maybe she’d dozed off. But when she put her hand on his side and reached around to rest it on his middle, he sucked in a sharp breath. “Relax,” she soothed. “I don’t bite.”
“Funny,” he said, trying to remove her hand, but she laced her fingers with his and held it against his thumping heart. She didn’t bite, but she could do a whole lot more damage than leave teeth marks. She already had.
***
The sound of rushing water woke Priscilla. She blinked her eyes open, and then frowned. Recollection returned. “Drat!” She bolted upright. “Griff,” she whispered, realizing he was in the shower.
Gray light peeked in the windows. The rain had eased up to a soft drizzle.
The alarm clock on the floor beside the bed flashed twelve. Well, the lights had come back on, she reasoned, but she had no idea what time of the morning it was.
Looking down, she checked to make sure all her clothes were still on. Prissy shouldn’t have been concerned; he didn’t even try to kiss her. Half of her was relieved. What would she have done if he’d tried anything? The other half was disappointed. What would it feel like to kiss him on the lips?
The water stopped running. She scrambled out of bed. Looking around for a mirror, she mumbled under her breath. “Who doesn’t have a mirror?”
Gazing at the rumpled covers, she wondered if she should make the bed. Was there etiquette for adult sleepovers?
Rustling from the closet cued her into the fact he must have another door connecting the bathroom to his off-limits space and he was in there now. She smiled at that. What could be so secretive?
Prissy made her way to the bathroom, knocking softly on the door just in case. No answer. “The coast is clear,” she whispered and snuck in. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. “Good Lord, what in the world?” Her strawberry blonde hair stuck up in strange directions. “Rico would have a fit if he saw me looking like this.” Quickly, she raked her fingers through her bangs, taming them to the side, and then finger combed the layers so the length curled under to rest along her neck and fluffed up the crown area. She splashed water on her face. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted his toothbrush and toothpaste.
She shook her head at the toothbrush. I don’t know him that well. But she did grab for the paste and within seconds squirted a dollop on her index finger. Scrubbing her teeth and then rinsing her mouth made her feel almost human again.
After using the facilities, she came out of the bathroom. No sign of McGruff. Maybe he’d gone downstairs.
More sounds came from the closet. Curious, she tip-toed to it, easing the door open. His bare back was to her as he tugged up the zipper on his jeans. “Wow,” she mouthed at the sight of his broad shoulders. The overhead light beamed down on his skin; the area near his left shoulder seemed shinier. Then she looked closer, seeing the long, jagged scar running from his shoulder to shoulder blade. “Griff,” she gasped.
He turned quickly, revealing the wound continued and ran down the front of his shoulder and ended near his heart. Reaching out, he yanked a soft blue denim shirt off its hanger. The wooden object swung wildly, and then fell on the floor. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
Priscilla came all the way into the barely filled walk-in closet, halting in front of him. “No, don’t cover it.”
Something in her tone must have stopped him. He stilled.
Lifting her hand, she touched the wound, gingerly running her fingers over the slightly puckered skin. In the back of her mind, she noted the straight line with pricks on either side. Surgery. But there were places where the edges blurred, weren’t as neat. Something had torn through his flesh. “How?”
His hooded stare watched her. “In combat.”
Those two short, clipped words spoke volumes. She shook her head, stemming a sudden rush of tears. “So much pain.” Without thinking, she leaned forward, kissing him there.
His swift, sharp breath whizzed past her cheek. But he didn’t push her away.
She rested her head against his chest, closing her eyes and wrapping her arms around him. His heart thumped beneath her ear.
For long moments, he did nothing. Then he surprised her by holding her close, hugging her back.
Warmth surrounded her. His fresh scent tickled her senses. The sensation of soft skin covering hard muscles seemed at odds with each other.
But it was the feeling of being sheltered and cared for that stayed with her long after he pulled away.
His strange mixture of gentleness and gruffness stirred something in her heart. Who was this man and what was he doing to her?
***
A few minutes later, she found him in the kitchen, fully dressed now.
“Coffee?” he asked as he poured milk into a bowl.
“Can’t stand the stuff.” Her attempt at eliminating any awkwardness between them did gain a slight smile from him.
“You’d be surprised at how it comes in handy some days.” He waved to the fridge. “Help yourself to Chinese leftovers or whatever else you can scrounge up.” Picking up the bowl, he went to the back door, unlocked the bolt, and then opened it. Bending down, he placed the milk on the back stair.
“Do you have a cat?” Prissy followed him, sticking her head out the door to watch him.
“No.”
“So, you’re feeding what, may I ask?”
“Cat.” He stood, turning to face her.
Frowning, she stepped back as he moved toward her, and then closed the door behind him. “I don’t get it.”
He sighed. “It’s not mine. It started showing up about a week ago.” He shrugged. “She’s expecting.”
“Ah, how sweet. Little kitties.” She grinned at that tender side of him.
A meow pierced the air. They both turned, peeking out the window in the back door. He let her move in front of him. “She’s skittish around people.”
“You named her Cat,” she whispered, liking how his chest brushed against her back. Spotting the big orange cat licking at the milk made her smile.
“What else is there?”
“Tabby. Isn’t that what orange cats are? It can be short for Tabitha. What are you going to do with the kittens?”
“She’s not mine, so they’re not mine.”
“I think she may have adopted you, whether you like it or not,” she said, turning to face him.
He scowled. Moving away, he muttered, “No one stays.”
Priscilla’s heart tugged. Is that what he thought?
***
Griffin James had two choices: call her a cab or take her home. Something in him had already decided. “Ready?” He nodded to her empty glass of juice and half-eaten toast.
“I’ll clean up.”
“No need.” He wanted her out of his house. She disturbed him, upending his usually solid blockade at letting people in. He’d already revealed too much.
Priscilla King was too damn sexy and dangerous.
She grabbed her pink tote bag and hopped off the stool. “Uh, do I get to ride in the Vette?” Her enthusiasm couldn’t stay contained.
He nodded, trying to hold onto any shred of what she liked to call McGruff. He failed.
A few minutes later, he directed her into the attached garage. The overhead motion detector light came on. She stopped short. He bumped into her. “No way! Tell me I’m dreaming.”
What was she talking about? Before he knew what happened, she rushed to the blue tarp, pulling up a corner and trying to get a peek.
“It’s a Harley, isn’t it? I saw one in a magazine once.”
“Whoa, now!” He stepped between her and the bike.
“Come on, let me see.” She shifted to the right to look around him, and then to the left. But it was when she reached out and put her hands on his waist that he caved. He had to stop her from touching him like that or any other way.
“You can look,” he warned, gently, but firmly taking her hands off him. Within minutes, he rolled the tarp off.
She tried to whistle. It came out in a sputter.
He chuckled.
“What do you call it? Black Beauty?”
“Why does everything have to have a name with you?”
Her pink flush and shrug sent a rush of heat through him. “I don’t know. I just like to. Names are important. They help define who you are, I guess.”
“How so?” He never put much merit in a name; he dropped his when he left foster care. Like a suit of clothing, Griff shed the outer persona of his grueling, lonely lost years of his boyhood. Once he exited the system, he refused to allow any remnants of doubt to strangle him or any chance he had left. His survival and success depended on creating a new life and forging ahead. Losing was never an option. Even if that meant dismissing his last concrete, public link to his father.
“I’m still trying to live up to the King name. Someday I hope I can.”
Taming McGruff (Book 3, Once Upon A Romance Series) Page 3