What a Woman Gets

by Judi Fennell

  Her smile disappeared.

  His stomach clenched. He needed to let go. Step back. Get away.

  He didn’t.

  She slicked her tongue over her lips then tilted her head, exposing a long line of tempting skin from beneath her ear, down her neck, and along her shoulder to where the shirt barely clung to the curve to her arm. If he took just a bit of it in his teeth and tugged . . .

  “I, uh . . .” She let go of his shoulders. One finger at a time, perhaps, but still, she let go.

  He’d better, too.

  He took one last lingering look at the curve of her neck and removed his hands from her waist. Took a step back, too. “I’ll get your stuff.”

  Then he got the hell out of his bedroom before he did something they both might be happy with for a few moments, but would ultimately regret in the long run.

  * * *

  SHE’D almost kissed him—and she was pretty sure he’d wanted to kiss her, too. If that didn’t just make this all that more complicated . . .

  She was attracted to him. Talk about the wrong place and time. Her goal was to move out on her own. Be on her own. Make it on her own. Staying here was temporary. Just until she sold a piece of furniture or two and had enough money for an apartment. She just needed a little time to get on her feet, and him sweeping her off of them was not part of the plan.

  “Come on, Titania.” The dog had been curled up on the pillow and hadn’t even barked when Liam had come in, the traitor. “Let’s get out of here before he gets back.” And before she lost whatever strength it was that had made her let go of his shoulders. His big, broad shoulders—

  Yep, she got the hell out of there.

  He wasn’t any less appealing when she met him in the living room.

  “The room looks good. You did a nice job.”

  “Glad you approve.” If only he knew the effort she’d put into getting it that way. She’d almost had to pick up cracked glass from the sofa back table when Titania had tried to help out by pushing the mop around. Then there were the three times she’d had to polish that table.

  Yes, three. First, there’d been streaks on the glass, so she’d cleaned it again. More streaks. She finally read the fine print on the back of the cans only to find out she’d been using wood polish that wasn’t designed to be used on glass.

  So then she’d had to find the glass polish in that scary thing he called a mud room that was filled with gadgets and hoses and way too many chemicals for her sensitive skin, until she’d gotten lucky and found a box of rubber gloves and glass cleaner.

  Then there’d been the whole what-to-use-in-the-bathroom-and-does-it-work-in-the-kitchen-as-well investigation, followed by wet mop/dry mop analytics. The whole mold/mildew thing had turned her stomach. When she had her own place, it was going to require only three bottles of cleaning solutions, one mop, and one vacuum. Anything else was overkill. Who had the time or the money for six different bottles, a mop for tile, a vacuum for a hardwood, a vacuum for carpet, and some weird attachment for steps? Thank God his steps were wrought iron and the dust mop worked for them because she wasn’t quite sure how all those attachments hooked together.

  “So where do you want this?” He held up the bag that’d been in her closet. Good call on his part, because Dad wouldn’t know those clothes were missing.

  She just wasn’t sure she’d be able to wear them around Liam and not feel self-conscious, though. They were her painting clothes. Ones Dad would never sanction her being seen in, which was half the reason she’d bought them. The other half had been because they were completely opposite of what she usually wore and she’d been feeling rebellious. That whole trip to the flea market with Stacey one weekend had been rebellious and a hell of a lot of fun. Wearing the clothes had made her happy.

  She could use that feeling right now.

  “I guess my bedroom.” Whichever one that was. There was one more downstairs next to his and two upstairs. Common sense would dictate that she use the one downstairs, since it was on the main level, but self-preservation said to head upstairs.

  He didn’t help matters by just staring at her.

  “Or . . .” She’d already asked for the truck; she ought to get everything out in the open. “What about the empty side of your garage? I was hoping I could use it for storage and a temporary studio. I have a few more pieces in a warehouse, and once my father finds out about its existence—if he hasn’t already—he’ll have it sealed and I’ll be out of luck. Hence, the need for your truck. I’ll put a tarp down so you won’t have to worry about the floor, plus the smell and mess would be outside. The sooner I can start working on the furniture, the sooner I can sell something and begin paying you for taking me in. You won’t even know I’m here and I’ll be out of your hair, so it really won’t be that much of an imposition—”

  “Stop.” Liam held up his hand. “Take a breath before you pass out on me. I don’t need a trip to the hospital on top of everything else.”

  Instead of taking that breath, she swallowed her panic. She’d sounded desperate, spewing everything to him all at once, but she needed his cooperation with the plan or she’d be stuck here for a long time.

  “Fine. You can borrow the truck. But I’m going to put pads in the back. I don’t need the bed scratched. Are you going to be able to get the furniture in without my help?”

  Oh crud. She hadn’t thought about that. “Well . . .”

  He exhaled and wiped his forehead with his arm. “Yeah, that’s what I figured.” He set the bag on the floor by the wall and stuck his hands on his hips. “And how many pieces are we talking? Am I going to be able to park the truck in the garage if it’s your art studio?”

  “You will. It’s not that many. Maybe half a dozen.”

  “Okay. Fine. Let’s go after dinner.”

  “Dinner?”

  “Yeah, you know. The meal that comes at the end of the day? The thing in the Crock-Pot?”

  The Crock-Pot. Oh. Crud. She’d forgotten about that. “Um, Liam, about that—”

  He held up a hand and exhaled. “I’ll make the rice. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner we keep your father from finding your secret stash.”

  Was this the same guy who’d mocked her by calling her Princess? The same one who believed all the hype about her life? Yet here he was, being nice to her, taking her in, and wanting to one-up her dad. That could be career suicide for the guy should Mitchell ever find out.

  If he wasn’t careful—hell, if she wasn’t careful—she could find herself falling for Mr. Liam Manley.

  * * *

  THIS is what you wanted to salvage?” Liam stood in the doorway of her storage facility with his mouth hanging open after their hurried meal. “Princess, I hate to tell you this, but no one’s going to buy this stuff. It’s . . . well . . . it’s junk.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t mean to be harsh, but this stuff looks like shi—uh, crap. Old. Run down. You’re not going to make money with any of this.”

  “I’ll have you know, the piece I just sold was in worse shape than most of these, and it sold for five figures.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “So where’s that money? Why can’t you use that to get your new lease on life going?”

  Now she did take that breath. And a second. “I deposited the check. In an account with my father’s company’s credit union. You know, the one my debit card is attached to. And since Dad didn’t think painting and—heaven forbid—selling what I painted were dignified pursuits, he bought the piece back when he found out about it. And demanded that I forfeit my commission. So, yeah, that account’s closed.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding? Would I move in with you, a virtual stranger, if I were kidding?”

  He dragged his palm down his face. “I guess not, but shit.”

  She exhaled. “I know, right? I can’t believe he did that.” Or that she hadn’t seen it coming. Why oh why ha
dn’t she opened her own secret bank account? Hindsight truly was twenty-twenty. All her frivolous pursuits keeping up with her friends and their families . . . If only she’d thought ahead.

  If only she’d seen her father for who he truly was.

  “I can’t believe he thought the furniture wasn’t a good idea. People love that sort of thing.”

  “I know. There’s a market for my work. A few hinges, a hammer or two, and a good coat of paint can transform an old piece of furniture into something useful and decorative. Just because it’s old doesn’t mean it’s out of the game.”

  “I hear you. I buy old houses, fix them up, and flip them. Make a decent living doing so, too.”

  That was how her father started out. “What about cleaning? I thought that’s what you did.”

  “Uh, well, yeah. I do that, too. To help my sister out.”

  What a nice guy. Hardworking, too. And then there was the good-looking thing.

  Yeah, she better watch out or she could get attached very easily, and then where would her grand plans for her future be? Liam had come along at both the right and the wrong time.

  “So did you do your own house?”

  Liam’s back got a little straighter, his chest puffed out a little more. “I did.”

  He had a right to his pride. “You do great work, Liam. I mean, I don’t know what your place looked like before you bought it, but you have great taste.”

  A flash of something crossed his face, but he covered it with a shrug before she could figure out what it meant. “I just pick out what I like.” He cleared his throat. “So shall we do this before your father shows up?”

  Big fat yes on that one. “Let’s grab the credenza first, but be careful of the front leg. It’s hanging on by one thread of the screw.”

  He arched his eyebrow at her. “And you thought you were going to get this in the truck by yourself?”

  “I wasn’t thinking, okay?” About a lot of things, obviously. “Besides, I’m imposing on you enough as it is and didn’t want to ask. I would have figured something out.”

  “And broken it while doing so. Then where would you be?”

  She flicked open the cabinet door and it thunked lopsidedly open. “It couldn’t be any worse than it already is.”

  He stared at it for a second or two, then looked at her. There was something in that look . . . Dare she think it might be admiration?

  “I can’t wait to see this when you’re finished. If you can turn this piece of junk into something worth five figures, I owe you dinner.”

  “You’re on.”

  “That means that if it doesn’t, you owe me dinner.”

  “I’m not worried.” She wasn’t because either way, she’d have dinner with Liam Manley.

  Though maybe that ought to worry her.

  * * *

  LIAM kept his eyes glued to the rearview mirror as he drove away from his home for the third time today. The princess was ensconced in his garage, tarp on the floor, her furniture strewn around her, and the look on her face was one he would’ve expected to see on a sale day at the mall, not for a bunch of broken hunks of wood and marble that were going to require some decent carpentry skills, not to mention a hell of a lot of talent in the artistry department. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that the reason she’d gotten five figures for that other piece had to have had more to do with her father’s name than some finishing-school art class.

  He hoped she wasn’t living with him when the realization sank in. He didn’t want to test his resolve against a woman’s tears; he doubted he was as immune as he’d like.

  He definitely wasn’t immune to her smiles. Or her frowny looks as she studied the chest of drawers from every angle. Or the sexy tilt of her chin as she tapped a paintbrush handle against it.

  Luckily, he looked out the front window then—just in time to avoid a tree that was about six inches from his bumper.

  He swerved, cursing himself for getting distracted. He needed to have his head examined.

  Normally, he’d go visit one of his brothers to talk about what was bothering him, but he didn’t want the looks. The lectures. They’d heard enough of his bitching when Rachel had pulled her stunt; he didn’t want to go running back with his tail between his legs again because of a gorgeous smile and that damn spunky determination he’d never have thought Cassidy Davenport would have in her.

  Figured. The latest socialite he was stuck with was starting to defy the stereotype.

  Chapter Ten

  PINK rhinestone T-shirt, white embroidered capris, black yoga pants, long flowing tie-dyed caftan her father would probably order her to burn, short-shorts he definitely would, and a leather jacket that looked as if it’d come right off some motorcycle gang chick . . . Cassidy was smiling as she pulled the outfits Liam had brought her from the bag, trying to not get all tingly at his thoughtfulness.

  But when she hit the peach nightie, blue silk robe, and black stilettos with the ankle straps, she lost that battle. Only it was a different sort of tingle. There was something about the idea of him handling those silky things that did deliciously naughty things to her insides.

  Not a good idea. You wanted to be on your own, remember? No guys. Not your father, not a sugar daddy, and no boyfriend. This time is for you. About you. Remember that.

  She was trying to, but he had to go and be so darn nice on top of being so sexy.

  Titania yipped by her ankle, then jumped to her knee. The Maltese was normally a perfectly behaved little lady, except when she was hungry.

  “Is it dinnertime, Titania?” Cassidy felt naked without her cell phone. She couldn’t believe her father had turned it off. And booted the car. And let her walk out with nothing but the clothes on her back.

  She looked at the pile she’d folded into the dresser drawers in the room Liam had given her and smiled. One dilemma solved. She’d love to hug him for that.

  Among other reasons.

  Titania yipped again.

  “Okay, okay.” Cassidy tucked that thought out of the way and closed the last dresser drawer before heading to the kitchen to find the dog food packets she’d brought from home. She took inventory. There were enough left to last about a week. Which didn’t leave her a lot of time to finish the credenza if she wanted to sell it for dog-food money. A tough schedule on a normal day, and that was if Jean-Pierre would even consider taking on another piece. Which would necessitate her rounding up some courage, putting her mortification at her father’s antics behind her, and plead with him to risk her father’s wrath.

  And if he even did agree, she’d have to pray the credenza would sell as quickly as the chest had.

  Those were a lot of ifs. And her entire future—as well as Titania’s—was resting on them.

  So she stuck her rhinestone-studded protective glasses on and got to work.

  * * *

  A few hours later, she was covered in sawdust and dried wood glue, and had repaired the droopy hinges on the credenza’s doors. The wobbly leg was no longer in danger of breaking off, and after a few more passes with the chamois, the piece would be ready for the first coat of paint.

  Cassidy removed her glasses and dust mask, swiped some sweaty, sawdust-laden hair off her forehead, then glanced outside. It was dark. She was always amazed how time passed when she was engrossed in her work.

  Poor Titania had been locked up in Liam’s laundry room since she’d come out here. Good thing the dog had answered the call of nature before Cassidy had locked her in, but now it was Cassidy’s turn. And she ought to take a shower to clear this crud off.

  She looked out through the garage door. Not a sign of Liam. Good.

  She turned off the lights, then stripped off her T-shirt and shorts, not wanting to clean up a trail of sawdust all the way to the bathroom, and ran back into the house in her underwear.

  Liam sure knew how to treat his guests—or his indentured servants, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her from enjoying the luxury of a full marble
shower with an overhead sprinkler showerhead and the full body accompaniment. After the cruddy day she’d had, she could use a little pampering.

  And as she stepped into the perfectly timed pulsing spray with the toiletries she’d appropriated from her own bathroom, it felt as if she was stepping into heaven.

  * * *

  LIAM, however, was in hell.

  He’d stepped out of his truck—right onto a pile of clothes.

  Cassidy’s clothes.

  The ones she’d been wearing earlier.

  There was only one reason a woman would drop her clothes in the middle of a garage, especially when they were covered in sawdust.

  She was running around his house naked. Or in her underwear, which—seriously—was not any better.

  What had he done to deserve this torture? He’d tried to do a good thing and now he was paying the price of the dammed. God help him.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose and walked around the front of his truck and into the laundry room, making as much noise as possible, praying she’d hear him and duck into her room or the bathroom, and at least wrap a towel around herself.

  “Cassidy?” He said from behind the room door.

  Nothing.

  “Cassidy?” he said a little louder, this time peering around the door frame.

  Still nothing.

  He walked into the house and then he heard it.

  She was singing in the shower.

  Off-key.

  Well, hey, there was something Daddy’s money couldn’t buy—the ability to carry a tune. He liked that flaw in her.

  But he didn’t want to like anything about her.

  She hit a high note . . . sort of. A little pitchy, but that wasn’t making her give up.

  He liked that about her, too.

  Hell.

  He skirted the door to the hall bath as much as possible, since he had to pass it to get to his room, where he, also, would take a shower.

  There was a certain irony to the fact that the two of them would be naked at the same time, but Liam knew the best way to avoid temptation: take the coldest shower known to mankind.