by Jill Shalvis
Griffin took in the classic Spanish style dwelling that to Lyndie’s critical eye could use some work. Still, the comfortably cozy inn with its low flower-lined windows, the cream walls built of all natural materials including lots of Mexican stone, had stolen her heart. She knew there were spots that needed patching, that the yard needed help as well as the courtyard the inn had been built around, but the Old World charm drew her, soothed her like few other places had, and inside she’d found her own personal haven.
Griffin parked near two other trucks and two unidentifiable cars. Dust rose up, choking them. He looked at the hanging sign that read RIO VISTA INN. “Not quite the Hilton,” he noted with a smile.
Inexplicably, she felt her defenses rise. “Look, it’s real life, all right? Maybe the rooms are small, and maybe half of them don’t even lock. You might even see the occasional large and unwelcome roach. But the food is spectacular and the ambience genuine. The owner is saving up her cash to remodel. You just go on inside and let them take care of you.”
He blinked, clearly surprised at her passion. “I was just kidding, Lyndie.”
She sighed. “Yeah.”
“Who’s the owner?”
Oh, no. He didn’t want to share himself with her, and neither did she. “Ownership is a rather odd issue,” she finally said. “But it’s open to any weary traveler, which you certainly are.”
They both looked at the inn, at the stucco that needed patching again, at the brick in the arches that were the color of dirt, thanks to the latest dust storm. Due to the drought, the plants out front, the ones that got direct sunlight all day long, had long ago begun to wilt.
But there were lights on inside, and she could already smell dinner—real food, not fast food—that would fill their empty bellies. Far better than any fancy hotel.
Griffin got out of the Jeep and grabbed his gear. “Hey, as long as there’s running water…” he said with a teasing grin she ignored because he had a way of wearing her down, of turning her defenses into something else entirely. “Running hot water,” he added. “I’d do just about anything for a shower.”
“A bath is closer to what you’ll be getting.” She eyed him beneath the lights coming from the inn. He’d do “anything” for a shower? He really shouldn’t have told her that. “What do you hear?”
He cocked his head and listened. “Water.”
“You’re quick, Ace.”
She moved toward the sound, which led them to the side of the inn. There was a small creek running there, around back, disappearing into the vast, dark wilderness beyond. Above them the moon struggled to light their way through the smoke, as around them, oblivious to the wildfire raging not too far from this very spot, insects hummed and a coyote howled off in the distance.
The banks of the creek were mossy and thick, the trees hanging over the water creating a private little haven. “Don’t tell me,” Griffin said, looking dejected. “This is my bath?”
“Okay I won’t tell you.” Oh yes, she definitely had replaced her defensiveness with something else. Mischievousness. “I also won’t tell you that the soap is hanging from the vee of those two branches to your right.”
He eyed the hanging soap, then looked down at his filthy body. “I suppose I need to clean up before going in.”
She lifted a negligent shoulder. “I suppose.”
Dropping his bag, he looked her over. “Do you bathe in here, too?”
“When it suits me.” She didn’t mention that she’d only done so once, in the thick heat of summer, and she’d been giving Rosa’s dog a bath with Nina. They’d gotten a nice tan that day, too.
But for a good, hot shower, nope, she’d go inside and use the communal bathroom.
Which had perfectly fine running hot water.
Griffin was still looking at the water. She imagined that creek—snow melt—was still pretty darned chilly for this time of year.
He lifted his head. “I don’t suppose it suits you to bathe in here now…”
At the look of unexpected heat in his eyes, the one that sped up her heart rate for no good reason except that he looked like wicked fun standing there with a challenging gleam in his eyes, she bit her lip and slowly shook her head.
“Yeah. Thought not.” He kicked off his shoes. Lifted his hands and began to unbutton his shirt. “How is it I got more dirty than you did?”
Oh, she was plenty dirty, and she’d have her shower.
Hot.
Private.
And inside.
But at the moment it was her thoughts that were the dirtiest. Leaning back against a nice, comfy tree, she crossed her arms, confident she’d come out on top of this situation, that she’d gotten the best of him, because surely he wouldn’t really strip down, not right in front of her—
He shrugged out of his Nomex shirt.
Shucked off the T-shirt beneath, and tossed both aside.
Oh boy. “Um—”
His hands went to his pants.
8
As Griffin tossed off his clothes, he was unsure which he needed most—to be clear of the dirt and grime that clung to him, or a nice bed to crash in.
Make that food. Lots of it. Someone had once figured a firefighter needed seven thousand calories a day, and he’d always thought that a huge exaggeration. But he decided he could consume twice that now. Burgers and fries. A steak. An entire chicken…His mouth watered with the fantasy, knowing the reality was going to be far, far different.
Then he looked up and caught Lyndie’s expression as she watched him strip, which immediately put a different spin on his mood.
Her gaze was caught on his chest, his stomach…everywhere, as if she couldn’t help herself, but his body had been just a shell for so long it felt like a shock to have someone be interested in it.
He adjusted quickly, and his hunger for sustenance turned in a distinctly different direction, only, just as with everything else he’d faced earlier in the day, he didn’t know what to do with it all. Yes, he’d kissed her, and yes, all that aloneness in the wilderness had combined into one ball of heat in his gut and also lower, but he didn’t plan to act on it.
Not while facing all he had to face here, because the sorry truth was, he had nothing, nothing left at all to offer a woman.
Not even sex.
So he turned his back on her and shucked off his pants, leaving him in just his shorts. That was the best show she was going to get.
The night was so full of noises—the wind, crickets, the cry of something mysterious—that he hesitated, wondering if there were mountain cats or bears he should be worried about. It was hard to believe that just on the other side of the timbered hill raged an out of control wildfire.
But he had the cold, hard memory of the day to prove it, and the grime that went along with it. With a deep breath, he stepped into the creek. Holy sh—
“Cold?” Lyndie asked sweetly.
Only freezing. “Just right.” He reached for the soap, scrubbing away at both the dirt and memories. The water went up only to mid-thigh at its deepest point, but modesty had gone out the window years ago in his crowded apartment in college, and even more so out in the wildlands for weeks at a time with a coed crew. The night remained unseasonably warm despite the wind rushing over his body like long fingers, reminding him of what Lyndie had said earlier.
He was alive. So very alive.
Dipping in the water to rinse off, he straightened, and faced Lyndie, who stood smug and contrarily beautiful at the edge of the creek. In the meager light from the inn behind her, her eyes…danced? Hmm. The night suddenly took a different spin. “What are you up to, Lyndie Anderson?”
Five feet three inches of pure trouble, she shook her head. “Nothing.”
Right. Nothing. She made him want to run like hell, she made him want to laugh.
Scary combination.
“Better?” Again she used that sweet voice, and he had no doubt. In some way he’d just been had. Ah, but he should have warned her no
t to mess with the master. “You know you have a little dirt spot…” Waggling his fingers, he gestured to her face.
“I do not.”
“You do.”
Eyeing him suspiciously, she bent, scooped up some water, and scrubbed at her jaw.
“Not quite,” he said seriously, and pointed at her chin. “There.”
Again she bent, scooped more water, scrubbed.
He made his way out of the creek, splashing with each step. “Nope, it’s still there. Here—” Cupping his hand full of water, he brought it up and tipped it over her head.
Droplets rained down her cheeks and nose, into her eyes, which she opened and stabbed him with. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” Smiling to himself, he bent to his bag for a clean pair of jeans and a shirt. No towel, but being dirty had been far worse than being wet. He shoved his legs into the pants. “I suppose you—” But his words stuttered to a halt because she was looking him over again, a long, frank gaze sliding down his wet body—a body that suddenly enjoyed remembering what it felt like to react to a woman. “Lyndie.” Against his better judgment, he stepped closer. “What’s going on?”
“I’m…not sure.”
“You think being tired is making us both so…”
Her breath caught, and it wasn’t asthma, not this time. “So…what?”
Unbearably attracted? Aroused? He stared down at her mouth, which was only fair because she’d been staring at his. But while his body was able, his mind was not, and he took a big mental step back. “Nothing.”
He took a real step back as well. Disappointment flashed over her features, but she remained silent, for which he was grateful because he couldn’t possibly explain why, when he had a beautiful woman standing here, clearly wanting him, that he couldn’t give her what she wanted. But he had no idea how to explain the fact he didn’t know his mind when it came to feeling again. Bottom line, he couldn’t trust his emotions, and she shouldn’t either.
He pulled on a fresh T-shirt, buttoned up his Levi’s, and, unable to resist, he smiled and gestured to the creek. “Your turn.”
But she’d clearly sensed his withdrawal, and with a little laugh, she backed up, too. “Oh, no. I don’t bathe with an audience.” She whirled on her heels and started toward the inn. “Let’s go, Ace. I owe you a meal.”
“What you owe me is the same strip show you just got.”
She stumbled for a step but caught herself. And then kept walking as if he hadn’t spoken.
But her ears glowed red in the moonlight.
* * *
Lyndie walked up the stone tiles, under the archway of the inn, extremely aware of the silent, incredibly sexy Griffin behind her. She couldn’t remember ever having a nearly naked man this close without also being nearly naked, and she wasn’t happy about the experience.
Little lights lined the aged stone pathway, and a scattering of pine trees swayed lightly in the night breeze. The ground crunched dry and brittle beneath their feet. So different from San Diego, or any other place she’d ever been for that matter.
She opened the front door and would have entered, but Griffin stopped her with a hand on her wrist. She looked at his hand, big and tanned on hers, then up into his eyes, which were filled with heat and frustration, which made no sense for a man who’d backed off first.
Then his free hand came up, his finger stroking a gentle line over her cheekbone.
“More dirt?” she asked, a little confused at all the conflicting things he stirred up within her.
“No dirt.”
Then why the hell was he looking at her like that? “I thought you were hungry.”
“Oh, I’m hungry,” he assured her.
“No.” She let out a little laugh. “Hell, no. You had your shot, Ace.” She slapped his hand away. “Vamanos.” Heat racing now, damn him, she entered the reception room, her tennis shoes squeaking on the tile floor. She took in the beautiful aged stone fireplace, the lovely but starting to crumble brick archways leading from room to room, the soft chenille fabrics covering some of the furniture—which she knew needed replacing—and felt her heart sigh. But other than what she could have been doing on the bank of the creek with the man behind her, she had only one thing on her mind: food.
“God, something smells heavenly.”
She wondered if he knew what his low, husky voice did to a woman who was already thinking about sex far too much today. Apparently oblivious, he turned hopefully toward the hallway from which came an admittedly delicious scent.
Thank you, Rosa. Just as she thought it, the tall, curvy, dark-skinned woman appeared, wearing a multilayered skirt and matching bright, floral blouse snug to her full figure. Her jet-black hair—carefully dyed every month to cover the gray—was, as always, piled on top of her head. Her birth certificate said she was fifty-five, but Rosa scoffed at that, preferring instead to be thirty-nine.
She had an incredibly large family, all of whom had migrated out of San Puebla to Encinitas, California, years ago. Rosa spent every winter there with them, and as a result was fluent in English, though she still swore only in her native tongue—and often. Her greatest joy was bossing everyone around her, twisting them around her finger. That, combined with her gift of getting people to do whatever she wanted, made Rosa the powerhouse of San Puebla.
Lyndie didn’t know how it worked exactly, but even she jumped when Rosa said to do so. She hadn’t grown up with a mother figure, or even a grandmother figure, and yet somehow Rosa and her loving, unbendable demands were law.
“You.” Rosa smiled, grabbed Lyndie’s face, and kissed each cheek as she spoke in flawless but heavily accented English. “You stayed. If I was older than my thirty-nine years, you would be the daughter of my heart. Now get out of my sight and shower, you are filthy. I will have food waiting.”
Lyndie’s mouth started to water at the thought. “I have to eat first.”
“Wait,” Griffin said. “You have a shower here?”
With a wince, Lyndie turned to face him. Oddly enough, he looked more amused than mad, and also just a little bit challenging, and she realized that when it came to getting the best of this man, she just might have bitten off more than she could chew.
“Of course we have a shower.” Rosa turned to Griffin. “You are our hero, si? You, I have to hug and kiss.” Never stingy when it came to affection, she grabbed his face as she had Lyndie’s, and noisily kissed both cheeks, chirping at him the entire time, telling him how happy she was to meet him, how grateful that he’d come, how much she looked forward to fattening up his skinny butt—
Suddenly she went still. She sniffed at him, and then put her hands on her hips. “Why this boy smell like my Tallulah’s soap?”
Her “Tallulah” was her precious, ridiculous poodle that one of her grandkids had given her last year, but Lyndie’s mind was still on Griffin’s “skinny butt,” because she’d seen it, in nothing but wet, clinging shorts, and didn’t think it was so skinny at all. Granted there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, but what he had was solid as a rock, and extremely…nice. But as for why he smelled like the soap they used on Tallulah…“Well…”
The poodle in question burst into the room with the momentum of a rocket ship. Barking fiercely, she launched herself toward Griffin, but once she reached him, she stopped short so fast her back end nearly tumbled over her front end. Without warning, she collapsed to her back, exposing her belly to be scratched.
Tallulah, it turned out, was fond of men who smelled just like her.
Lyndie might have laughed at the look on Griffin’s face, but Rosa was hugging them both again. “You spend all day out there? Dios mio, such hard workers.” Her eyes locked on Griffin. “Tom didn’t mention how pretty you are.”
Griffin appeared baffled by Rosa’s quick subject change, but Lyndie bit her lip. “Yes, he is rather pretty, isn’t he?” She smiled when he let out a low growl from his throat for her ears only. “And he’s hungry. What do you have to take car
e of that?”
“Much. Venga,” Rosa demanded, and gestured them both down the aged stucco hallway, which was lined with large, cool, smooth tiles and potted plants to cover up all the cracks, of which there were many. “Sure you don’t want to clean up first?” she asked Lyndie.
“Soon as I eat. I’m starving.”
The kitchen was a large, homey room. Pots and pans hung from the low stucco ceilings, and on the big scarred wooden table in the center sat enough food to feed a small army. Rosa pushed Griffin into a chair, then started loading meat, beans, rice, and freshly made tortillas on a plate. Only when it was heaping did she hand it to him. “Eat.”
Then she turned to Lyndie and repeated the entire process. “It’s spicy tonight,” she warned, and stroked a strand of hair from Lyndie’s forehead. “Spicy enough to clear out your lungs. You’re having trouble today, no?”
“I’m fine.”
“Yes, you are,” Rosa soothed, then ruined the effect by rolling her eyes at Griffin. “Pigheaded fine.”
Griffin laughed.
Rosa beamed at him. “You agree?”
“Oh, I most definitely agree,” he said, and took a big bite. He moaned—a sound that scraped at her nipples for some reason—then ate as he appeared to do everything else: with intense concentration. She already knew he worked like that, he talked like that…and he most definitely kissed like that.
Lyndie couldn’t help but wonder what else he did like that.
He kept shoveling in the food, stopping only to lick a dab of rice off his thumb with a small sucking sound that pulled at any erogenous zones that hadn’t already stood at attention. When he finally slowed down some, he shot her a challenging smile. “So, on this pigheaded thing,” he said.
“Ah, yes.” Rosa smiled. “She can’t really help it. She thinks she knows everything.”