Stranger in Paradise

by McIntyre, Amanda

  “Not anymore.”

  The waitress appeared at the table, her disposition bright. “And what can I set you up with this fine morning?”

  “Sanity?” Kacey offered, resting her forehead on her hand.

  “She’ll start with coffee.”

  Kacey glanced through her fingers at the man across from her. Probably ate like a beast continuously and still maintained those washboard abs. She hated him.

  “I understand.” The waitress nodded, sending a conspiratorial wink toward Zack. “I’ll be right back while you think on that menu in front of you.”

  “Do you have that effect on all women?”

  “What do you mean?” He stuffed a forkful of pancakes in his mouth, catching a drop of syrup with the tip of his tongue.

  Kacey watched in mesmerizing wonder. He really had no idea that he was like walking candy on a damn stick?

  “You should try these, they are…for lack of a better term, fantastic. No…orgasmic.”

  She blinked, wondering when, exactly, it was that she’d lost control of her life.

  “Orgasmic. You know what that is, right?” He had the decency to swallow before he smiled.

  She narrowed her gaze on him. “I’m beginning to think I’ll take my chances with the crazed stalker.”

  “Aw, now. Come on. You’re here. You obviously love the place. It has a unique sort of rustic charm, I admit. You come every year. Why not enjoy it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’ve got Mr. Yuk-it-up as the guy who’s supposed to be protecting me.”

  Zack set down his fork. “Listen, rest assured that if it’s warranted, I’d protect you with my life if necessary.”

  Her gaze met his and he saw the desire to believe him flash in those eyes the color of a Minnesota summer day.

  The waitress returned with the coffee, effectively ending the moment--or what he’d perceived as a “moment.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sure you’re very good at what you do. It’s just the whole thing—it’s thrown a kink into my plans.” Kacey sighed after taking a sip of her coffee.

  “Hey, I draw the line at kink, unless you ask nicely, of course.”

  “Not funny.” She rolled her eyes and drank more coffee. At least the java was helping to ease the tension on her face, if only for a nanosecond. She clutched the mug between her hands. Her death grip alerted him to the level of her stress. Nothing that a little wild monkey sex she wrote about wouldn’t cure. Though the offer was on the tip of his tongue, he decided that he wanted to live through breakfast.

  “Sorry. Listen, did you find a way to get me out of your bed…er…house?” He attacked his previous thoughts with greater determination.

  She sighed. “Unfortunately, no.”

  His lip curled that she’d not caught his slip. Or maybe she had and just chose to ignore it? He decided evasion was more her style.

  “Seems there was a mix-up, and indeed they are booked solid through the end of the month.” She glanced at him over the rim of her cup. He’d just as soon she stop looking at him altogether. He had a soft spot for women with beautiful eyes and hers were spectacular--the kind you find yourself staring into after making love.

  “And I did catch your asinine remark, by the way.” She cocked her head and studied him. “What is it about people--and by people, I mean, men--that gives them the idea that just because a woman writes erotic fiction, she has uncontrollable sexual urges twenty-four-seven?”

  Wishful thinking? Zack shrugged. “What is it they say? Write what you know?”

  Her cold hard gaze held his as she lowered her cup. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief when she released it. “Do you assume that thriller writers go out and kill people?”

  Yeah, they’d already touched on that. “I’ve never met a thriller writer.”

  “It’s fantasy.” Her expression indicated she thought he was an idiot and maybe he was, because right now he wanted to head back to the cabin and start researching. No, that wasn’t at all what he wanted to do. That thought just very cleverly entered his mind as he found himself mesmerized by her eyes. He cleared his throat and dropped his focus to her hands. Safer view. Her nails were trimmed short, so as not to require frequent manicures, he’d bet. She wore a plain silver band on her left thumb, some Celtic–looking rings on the left hand. No wedding band. No telltale signs there’d ever been one. Damn. As much as he wanted to delve deeper into this conversation just for the sheer entertainment value, an elderly couple at the next table were giving them the hairy eyeball.

  “Well, if you’re finished, maybe we should get back to the house. According to the weather radar and the good word of Hazel--”

  “Who’s Hazel?” Kacey asked.

  “The waitress. She says the storms can blow up very fast on the lakes and can get wicked. Oh, thank you, Hazel,” he acknowledged the pleasant woman who placed his ticket on the table and began to clear the dishes. He glanced at the ticket and then stood. “Part of the contract.”

  Kacey blinked as though it took a moment to register that she was to pick up the tab. “Let me just get this.” She wrote her name on the receipt. “Ready?”

  Her smile resembled a dog baring his teeth before he bites.

  “After you.” He ushered her through the restaurant, past the lobby where he gave a jaunty wave to the clerk as he grabbed another caramel and hurried to open the door for his housemate. He sensed another storm brewing and not just via weather radar. “Hey, come on, don’t look so sour. Who knows, this might even be fun.”

  She shot him a look designed to kill.

  “Or not.”

  ***

  If she paced in front of him once more he couldn’t be held responsible for tripping her, could he? He tossed aside his game controller and sighed. He’d already died three times since starting the game. No thanks to Miss Restless. “You’ve been pacing around here for the past two hours like a caged animal. Why aren’t you writing?”

  Her expression was drawn. She paused, staring out beyond the picture window with her arms folded protectively over her chest.

  “I can’t concentrate.”

  “Because of me?”

  She acknowledged him with a wry look. “Give the man a prize.”

  “Hey, no problem. I’ll just go upstairs and play my game. Take a nap, maybe catch up on my reading. Are we dining in or eating out tonight?”

  Her eyes formed into icy slits.

  “We can decide later,” he said with a shrug. He grabbed his game and a magazine he’d found in her mailbox, then tromped up the stairs. “Holler if you need any research assistance.” He grinned, not bothering to look back.

  Chapter Four

  The man was infuriating. Sexy as hell, which was not the point. But a pain in the—well, he was intercepting her chi at every turn. How in the world was she supposed to write with the likes of him underfoot? Days of lounging in her pj’s--sans bra, eating gelato at will, and daydreaming about her favorite scenes--were slowly dissolving into a wisp of smoke. She was afraid her muse was about to pack her bags and head out the door. Problem being that she had a bestseller on her hands with the first book in this series and her agent, her publisher—nay, the world, it seemed—were all waiting with bated breath for her to knock the next book out of the park. And she had a drop-dead gorgeous man sleeping in her house.

  Not in her bed.

  Which was probably a good thing. Though just for an instant, she swore she heard her muse whisper, “Hell, yeah.”

  She plopped down in the overstuffed easy chair near the window offering a full view of the short stretch of rocky beach and the endless lake beyond. She stared at the stormy sky, its colors casting an eerie green into the water below. The sound of rain tapped against the pane. The birds were still. All was silent except for the drip, drip, drip of the rain from the eaves of the cabin.

  She wrapped her arms around her and stared out at the desolate shore. No families, no reunions with bonfires on the beach tonight.
No being lulled as she went to sleep by the distant sound of laughter wafting up from friends sharing a beer until the wee hours of the morning.

  Just silence.

  It was hard to judge the exact time. The clouds, thickening since breakfast, had grown dark, giving a sense of dusk for the number of hours that she’d tried to tap out a few words on her laptop. The creak of a floorboard above grabbed her attention and she pondered whether her roommate was awake. The truth was that she’d spent most of the day thinking, and the rest re-reading the emails sent to her by her alleged stalker. She believed in facing challenges head on, and she told herself that was why she opened the folder. Maybe she could find a connection, or maybe there would be something there she could use in her writing.

  That was just sick.

  The floor creaked again and though she’d never admit it to his face, as annoying as he was, part of her was secretly glad that Zack was there. Especially on a day that looked tailor-made for a murder mystery in the mind of a writer. She needed a distraction. Inspiration for her muse.

  Plenty of inspiration upstairs.

  No, logic responded with crossed arms. A movie would be better, a sappy movie with great characters, angst, and a happily ever after. That’s all she needed to get her creative juices flowing.

  Awww, her muse pouted, and maybe some of her girl parts did, as well. Kacey was well aware of how long it’d been since she’d…well, enjoyed real-life inspiration. But she wasn’t going to dwell on that. After all, if there’d been no stalker fiasco, she wouldn’t even have a hunky detective sleeping upstairs…possibly in the boxer briefs that she’d seen him in this morning. Tingles skirted through her lower belly.

  Her muse did a happy dance.

  Stop that, Kacey mentally chided herself as her gaze landed on the duffel bag that held her favorite movies—the “go-to” flicks in times of emergency writer’s block. There was nothing, she found, like a good movie to bring her out of a slump, especially on a rainy day.

  Her muse tapped her on the shoulder and she looked toward the ceiling as another floorboard creaked. Okay, maybe there were other things probably as good, maybe better, but that wasn’t the point. Mr. hunky green-eyed detective notwithstanding, a movie was a far safer choice.

  Scaredy cat, her muse mocked.

  Kacey went through the bag, stacking each movie on the cabinet. What did she want? Maybe a light, romantic comedy? A lush, Victorian-set romance? Maybe a gritty medieval where the men were manly and the women succumbed…she paused as she came across the Karma Sutra video she’d forgotten she’d added.

  That one! That one! Her muse nudged.

  “Somewhere in Time it is,” Kacey said loud enough for her muse to hear. With any hope, that would stop the pestering.

  Aww. You’ve no sense of adventure.

  “I’m plenty adventurous,” she muttered as she snapped in the DVD. Grabbing the afghan used earlier by her unexpected-yet-pleasing-to-the–eyes roomie, she wrapped it around her and curled up on the couch, snuggling under its soft warmth. The storm had brought a chill to the air and she considered whether to light a fire in the fireplace, but decided to try to focus on being inspired. A faint male, musky scent in the blanket’s fibers tickled her nose, causing those damn tingles to flair and smolder a flame of their own. She shoved the blanket around her waist, distancing herself from whatever fabulous scent the man wore. He was annoying, rude, arrogant, cocky….

  Sexy.

  “I didn’t say sexy.”

  You said cocky.

  “It’s not the same thing.”

  I knew what direction you were heading.

  Kacey squeezed her eyes shut. She had to get a grip. This was going to be a proverbial nightmare if she didn’t get a handle on her hormones.

  She pointed the remote at the screen and increased the volume, hoping to drown out her muse and squelch the tingles.

  She was so engrossed in the movie with its magnificent scenery on Mackinac Island and the determination of Christopher Reeve to return to his true love that she’d been unaware until now that the afternoon had slipped away and that, except for the credits running on the screen, she was sitting in darkness. She glanced away from the flickering screen and looked outside. It was pitch black. Only the tiny lights from cabins across the bay gave any indication that she wasn’t completely alone on the forested lodge property. An uncomfortable feeling skittered over her shoulders as she realized all of the blinds were open. Someone could be watching her from the dark shadows outside, and she would be none the wiser. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she inched toward the end of the couch, stretching to reach the lamp on the end table. A scream tore from her throat as she stared at the startled ghostly face looking back at her.

  Dishes clattered to the floor, followed by a man’s curse as she swerved to look over her shoulder, realizing it was Zack’s face she’d seen in the reflection.

  “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” He stared at her with all the respect of a raving lunatic. Okay, maybe she’d overreacted a bit. Imagination is a good thing in a writer…most days.

  “I didn’t hear you sneak down the stairs.”

  He frowned. “I didn’t sneak.” There was definite irritation attached to the last word.

  “Then why didn’t you turn on a light?” She jabbed her finger at him as she stood to confront him.

  “You were so into your movie, I didn’t want to disturb you. I concluded that you liked watching movies in the dark. I”--he tapped his chest, --“was only trying to be considerate.”

  She snorted loudly to prove that she didn’t buy his attempt at being considerate for one minute.

  Anger is attraction in reverse, her muse whispered.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Kacey muttered and took a step, realizing too late that her feet were tangled in the afghan. She fell forward and smacked her cheek on the edge of the table just before she face-planted onto the rustic braided rug. In an instant, she was on her feet, Zack’s hands set firmly around her waist.

  “Are you okay? Let me see.” He gently batted her hand away.

  She swayed a little, telling herself that this wasn’t swooning--she was simply light-headed.

  “You look a little pale. Have you eaten anything all day?” His large hands cupped her face as he studied her.

  She felt foolish, awkward, but she couldn’t deny his chivalry was impressive. Short of dropping her arm over her forehead in Victorian fashion, she took advantage of her situation--albeit mildly--and leaned against his solid chest. Two seconds, what could it hurt?

  His arm slid around her waist, holding her close. It was an idyllic moment, really, until she pressed her cheek against the rock-hard plane of his pecs.

  Kacey pushed against him and stepped back, holding her face. “I think I’ve broken my jaw.”

  “You’ve haven’t,” he replied, his demeanor calm, his tone equally so. It was unsettling. “Here, let me take a closer look.” His eyes all but twinkled as he lifted her chin to look at him. His thumb and forefinger ever-so-gently slid over her cheek. She watched his studious pursuit, her lips puckered under his intense scrutiny.

  “It needs ice,” she mumbled, trying to maintain her decorum, glad that at least her muse was not currently bugging her.

  Sorry. Busy. In full swoon mode.

  “Hush. I’ve had a few classes in emergency medicine.” It wasn’t fair that his voice was like melting butter over a hot biscuit.

  He inspected her face for what seemed an eternity. “Are you about finished?” It was bad enough to have to stare into those deep forest-green eyes at close range

  Speak for yourself, her muse sighed.

  “Looks like it needs ice.” He eased his hand away, but didn’t move.

  Like the rest of me does, her muse countered.

  Kacey sighed and stepped around him, taking a few deep breaths to calm her wayward emotions. Her imagination wouldn’t let go so easily. The heat of his hand still warmed her skin; the touch of his
hard body sent her muse into overdrive. She opened the freezer door and her heart sank. Reality sucked.

  No ice cube trays. Therefore, no ice. “I need to call the restaurant and see if they have extra ice.”

  “Why not go ahead and order dinner while we’re at it.” He stooped down to pick up the sandwich and plate that had scattered across the floor. He then leaned against the cabinet, crossing his arms over his great--make that his really great--chest.

  “What a thoughtful idea.” Kacey found the number, wrote down her food choice, and handed him the list while she rummaged for something cold to put on her swelling jaw.

  “That’s it? You sure you don’t want a salad or something?” he asked.

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  He shrugged, dialed, and placed the order to go, ordering whitefish chowder for her, and for him, steak, potato, salad, and a slice of fudge chocolate cake, which he offered to share. “They said about twenty-five minutes.” He glanced over his shoulder at the stack of her DVD’s. “What other movies have you got?” He meandered over and started sifting through them. She guessed his displeasure with each grunt or groan. “Is this all you have?”

  “They’re for inspiration.” Kacey held a package of chilled lunchmeat against her cheek.

  That’s sexy, Eau de bologna, her muse scoffed.

  She watched with interest as he flipped over a few more titles, perusing the descriptions and checking ratings, no doubt.

  “Inspiration? Given what you write I was thinking more along the lines of—yes ma’am.” He held up a Karma Sutra instructional video. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

  Promising night.

  She smacked her muse upside the head--mentally, of course.

  Hey, don’t hurt the messenger.

  He held the DVD in his hand and gave her a wicked grin. “Do I dare ask if…?”

  “No.”

  His perfect eyes held hers. “Private collection?”

  “Not part of my normal collection. It’s not plot-driven. It’s…” She lost track of her thoughts. Processed meat was beginning to permeate her brain.

  He chuckled. “Yup, not plot-driven maybe, but definitely driven.”