by Lea Nolan
By all rights, he should be ecstatic about what he’d just accomplished. Most guys he knew would rent out a bar or host a weekend of golf with their buddies. He’d do that, eventually.
For now, this destination was his personal penalty box. His time out for aggressive play.
“Turn right in one hundred feet on Beach Drive,” the GPS’s British accent directed.
Jack squinted through the fog and rain to find his turn, then pulled into the driveway behind a white BMW. The house was exactly as his friend, Lark Donovan, had described. She’d mentioned that the neighbors sometimes used the driveway as overflow in the offseason. A large weeping willow tree marked the property line between the houses. The porch light was on, and the inside was illuminated, too. It was a nice welcoming touch. Very Lark. He’d have to remember to thank her.
Yes, this house would do just fine. Presuming the beach was as beautiful as she’d promised, he’d get his shit together and be back to the hunt in no time. He was Jack Fucking Baines, after all. He couldn’t afford to be out of commission for more than a long weekend.
Jack turned up the collar on his overcoat and ducked against the rain as he grabbed his bags, then ran up the porch steps. He keyed in the code, and stepped into the foyer. Dripping wet, he set his bags down, then stripped off his overcoat and hung it on the old-fashioned coat rack. He’d go exploring and settle in, but first, he needed to wash up.
He headed down the hall, and paused at a closet door that was slightly ajar. A tote bag lay sideways on the floor, its contents scattered all around. It must have fallen from the overhead shelf. Jack scooped it all up, tucked the bag back into the closet, and shut the door. After he found the bathroom, he headed to the kitchen, then stopped short when he registered the food that Lark had delivered for his arrival.
His head tilted as he surveyed the landscape of candy, chocolate, and what the fuck, sweet beef jerky, which covered the countertop.
Whenever they saw each other, Lark rode his ass for eating anything that wasn’t vegetarian, organic, non-GMO, free trade, and blessed by nuns living in a tenth-century abbey. Okay, so that last part was an exaggeration, but it was hard to believe she’d indulge his worst food tendencies, even on vacation. Unless that spiritual sixth sense of hers had keyed in on why he needed to get away so badly.
Maybe she’d sent this stuff to screw with him. The joke was on her. He’d brought his own food with him. He had more than enough to get him through the long weekend, especially if he went out to dinner on the island or onto the mainland.
Jack headed down the main hall, past a formal dining room and then a library, toward the living room. The house was warmly appointed in what his artist and designer friend, Andre, would call “beach house chic,” white walls and sand-colored area rugs over straw-stained wood floors. The furniture complemented the rooms in shades of camel, teal, and linen.
Jack laughed at himself for noticing that shit. There was a time he couldn’t tell the difference between green and blue, let alone jade and seafoam. Back then, his ex had wanted to collect art, and since he didn’t know his ass from his elbow when it came to painters, he’d hired Andre to advise him on what to buy. When he and Alannah split, she got the art, and he got Andre. No question, he got the better end of the deal.
Jack noticed a ruby red stiletto lying on its side in the hall, all alone, as if discarded. He stooped to pick it up and cradled it in his hand. Four-inch heel. Sexy as hell.
Whoever the cleaning service was, they needed to step it up. And whoever the last renter was must be missing this baby.
Turning his head, Jack saw a crumpled piece of black fabric on the floor.
It was a soft, silky blouse, and it smelled like lavender and vanilla.
One stray shoe might be understandable, but a blouse too, that couldn’t be a coincidence.
Jack turned, surveying the room. Another stiletto lay on the opposite side of the carpet. He stepped deeper into the living room. Amid the large pillar candles and silk flower arrangement on the coffee table stood an open bottle of tequila and an empty wrapper.
What the hell was going on here?
He strode toward the sectional to grab the bottle, then stopped short. There, on the sofa, lay an exquisite, nearly naked, and definitely unconscious woman. She was tucked in the corner of the sectional on her back; her head lifted just slightly. Her chest rose and fell in an easy rhythm under her cherry red bra, which, he was ashamed to admit he’d noticed, perfectly matched her panties.
The disparate pieces clicked together in his brain. The car in the driveway. The lights on the porch and in the house. Snacks in the kitchen. The overturned bag in the closet. Clothing items strewn around.
He had his very own Goldilocks.
Except this glorious interloper was all grown up, with curves in all the right places. With her rosy glow and dark brown hair, she looked a hell of a lot more like Snow White waiting for Prince Charming to come and kiss away her curse.
Too bad that he was the villain.
Fuck off with that thinking. You’re just biding your time until you’ve got the power to turn all of this around.
Jack gazed at the woman on the couch and considered his next move. He had every right to wake her and demand to know why she was in his rental, even to toss her out on her very pretty ass. But if he disturbed her now, considering her state of undress, she’d likely freak, especially when she sensed his size, looming over her on the sofa.
Women were often overwhelmed by his brawny frame. They’d talk a good game, make jokes about the size of his feet and hands, fantasize that he’d beat up other men for them. But when it came down to it, most women were scared by his strapping, six foot four frame.
There was a quiet violence to being so huge, a vast reservoir of potential energy just waiting to spring. Bigger muscles meant bigger movements, more force, harder impacts. He’d lost count of the number of women who were attracted to the inherent danger of simply being with him.
And then there were the mundane, inconvenient realities of being with someone so tall. The sheer volume of sound a body as immense as his could generate. The mass that it took up in a bed or car. The shadow it cast. The strength it held—or sometimes couldn’t hold back.
What people didn’t realize was that being this large required constant vigilance and attention to other people’s concerns. Ever since he’d hit his growth spurt at thirteen-years-old, Jack had been conscious of the need to hold back his potential. It was like tiptoeing through an ant farm and trying not to squish any of the ants.
So while Jack had every right to rouse Snow White and demand some answers, it was late. After his day from hell and the drive from whatever-was-worse-than-hell, he was beat. All he wanted was to find a bed. He’d put off his interrogation until the morning.
He spotted an afghan draped over an armchair. His lengthy legs got him there and back in two seconds flat. Standing behind the sofa, he leaned down and unfurled the blanket over her body. She moaned softly, and her hips shifted appreciatively under the weight of the soft chenille fabric. Andre would be so proud that Jack even knew what that was.
Jack drew the blanket up over her chest and covered her shoulders. He should stop looming, leave her a note in the kitchen, then lock himself in a bedroom until the morning, but he couldn’t pull himself away.
She was so goddamn pretty. Delicate features, long luscious lashes, bow-shaped lips. Together with that peachy pink skin, she looked like a porcelain doll.
The mystery woman beneath him drew a deep breath, and then those gorgeous lashes fluttered open, revealing alluring, deep brown eyes. They were pools of melted fudge, and he was a spoon longing to dig in.
Jack froze, anticipating her scream.
Instead, a smile bent her lips. “It’s you.”
He nodded, stunned. “I’m . . . me.” How could she know him when he’d never laid eyes on her before? If he had, he’d have remembered. This woman’s image would’ve been indelibly branded into hi
s brain.
She propped herself up on her elbows. “You have no idea how much I need this.” Her words were as grateful as they were urgent.
She reached for the lapel of his suit jacket and pulled his upper body down toward her. Her mouth closed on his. The kiss was instant heat and passion, need, and want. Under her power, all reason and thought left him, and he gave in, yielding to her spell. Her tongue swept across his lips then into his mouth. She tasted like frosting and an edge of something bitter and flowery at the same time—the tequila.
Snow White arched her back to edge even closer to him and fisted her hand through his hair.
Alarms blared in Jack’s head. He didn’t know this woman. He shouldn’t be kissing this woman. But he didn’t care. He wanted to kiss this woman. After the shitty day he’d had, he needed to kiss this woman.
Just this one kiss.
His arms reached for her. One hand cradled her head while the other held the small of her back. She felt so good in his touch. As soft as a peach, and she smelled even better. He broke the kiss and ran his tongue along her neck, placing a trail of kisses behind her ear. From the sound of her breath catching and the way her nails dug into his shoulder, she was enjoying this as much as he was.
Her fingers slid down his arm and squeezed the muscles through his suit sleeve, inching their way around to his triceps first, then clawing at his biceps. She slid her hand inside the jacket and nudged it off his shoulder. She seemed to want him. Badly.
This was wrong. He had to put on the brakes. Snow White was clearly drunk and had mistaken him for someone else. A kiss was one thing, but he couldn’t let this go any further.
Jack peeled himself away from her luscious neck.
Snow White purred. “This is the best sex dream I’ve ever had.”
What. The. Fuck. She wasn’t just drunk. She was half-asleep.
Jack lurched away from the sectional. “Whoa.”
Snow White reached for him. “What are you doing? Don’t stop. Come back.”
Jack’s hands shot up defensively. “This isn’t a sex dream.”
“Of course it is, you’re Mr. Perfect, and I’m horny as hell.”
“Lady, you are definitely horny, but I am not Mr. Perfect. Trust me on that.”
Snow White’s expression shifted from dark lust to dazed confusion to abject horror as the situation appeared to crystalize in her muddled brain. Her brown eyes shifted into focus. “What the hell is going on?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Jack said, his hands still up to convey he wasn’t a threat.
Snow White sprang off the sofa. The afghan slid to the floor as she staggered backward, then knocked into the coffee table and the laptop on it. The screen awoke, and a video started playing. A frat boy and a co-ed in pigtails were getting down and dirty.
“Shit!” Snow White slammed the laptop shut. At that moment, she must have registered her near nakedness because she uttered a strangled sound and snatched the afghan from the floor and held it up to her chest. Then she grabbed one of the pillar candles from the coffee table and held it out toward him.
Fierce fire blazed in her eyes that, frankly, scared the shit out of him.
But she was maybe five-four, tops, and standing there with that teal blanket and candle sword, she kind of looked like a sexy, miniature Statue of Liberty.
“Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?” Her voice growled low and ferocious, which was hot as fuck.
He took a giant step back and dropped his hands to his sides. “I’m Jack Baines, and this is my rental.”
She shook her head. “Impossible.”
“I have an email to prove it.”
Her head tilted. “With a rental confirmation number?”
“No. Just an email. It’s on my phone, which is in my pocket.”
“You’re lying. The management company always sends a confirmation number.”
Jack pulled out his cell and opened his email app to search through his messages. “I don’t think it went through the management company. I booked it through Lark.”
Her head tilted. “What did you just say?”
Jack glanced up from the phone. “Lark Bay. She owns the house.”
Snow White’s dark eyes narrowed. “Lark Bay is her artist name. Her real name is Lark Bay Donovan, and she’s one of three owners of the house. I’m one of the others.”
He pressed Lark’s number from his contact’s list. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’m pretty sure we can come to some sort of accommodation—“
“What’s going on is that my sister screwed up, and she’s going to have to fix this.”
“And by fix this you mean . . . ”
“Find you another place to stay.”
He laughed. “Lady, I have a place to stay. Here.”
“No, you don’t. I’m staying here. Which means you can’t.”
“I booked this place three weeks ago. I’ve rented it through Monday afternoon, and I have an email confirming my payment. That’s a contract. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Don’t be unreasonable.”
“Hello? Jack?” Lark’s voice rang through the phone.
Jack hit the speaker button. “Hey, Lark. I’m here at the beach house.”
“Hey! How do you like it? Didn’t I tell you it’s gorgeous?”
“It’s gorgeous, all right. And so is your sister.”
Chapter 4
“Huh? How do you know my sister?” Lark’s voice was filled with confusion.
“Because I’m standing right here. In the living room. Of the beach house,” Raven answered before Jack had a chance. She clutched the afghan tighter to her chest.
Jesus, how mortifying.
This man, her sister’s supposed friend, Jack Baines, was inhumanly attractive. It was nearly impossible not to stare at his almost too-handsome face. He had deep-set eyes the color of dark maple syrup, a straight nose, perfectly sculpted lips, and a thick, square jaw. Plus, he was a giant. He had to be close to six foot four. He looked like the human embodiment of Superman. Even a lock of his thick, dark hair curled in the front. Although right now, standing there in his bespoke suit and loosened tie, he looked more like Clark Kent.
And he’d seen her nearly naked. Worse, she’d been sleeping and having a sex dream. How long had he been standing there? Had she called him Mr. Perfect—out loud? The potential indignities were endless. Thank God she was still too drunk to grasp the enormity of her humiliation.
“Raven?” Lark squeaked.
“Uh-huh.”
“What are you doing there?”
“Until about three minutes ago, I was sleeping. But then your . . . friend woke me up.”
“But why are you there?” Lark demanded.
The idea of admitting she’d been fired, especially to Lark, nearly made Raven break out in hives.
Raven had never screwed up in her life—except for the one time when it had actually mattered—but never again after that. She’d worked her ass off to make sure of it. Throughout school, she’d meticulously applied herself, exploiting her innate intelligence and work ethic to graduate high school four years early. Then she’d excelled in college, and headed straight to graduate school, and finished her MBA by the time she was twenty. Her career had been one steady climb ever since, racking up bigger and better achievements.
It was the only way to redeem herself.
Now she’d stumbled for the first time ever, losing not only her job but the company, too. With private equity involved in the leveraged buy out, Paulson Diagnostics could be destroyed, and its employees would pay the price. It was her fault. She must have missed some clue that could’ve tipped her off to what Tiffany and her brothers were up to.
Raven would’ve rather shoved a white-hot poker in her eyes than confess her defeat to Lark or anyone else. She set the candle on the coffee table, then grabbed Jack’s phone. Gathering the afghan around her breasts, she maneuvered around the sectional.
“Hey, that’s my cell,” Jack protested.
“I’ll bring it back,” Raven said over her shoulder as she padded toward the study. Once there, she shut the French doors. “I’m here because it’s my house. The better question is why he’s here.” She thrust a pointed finger toward the hot colossus in the living room.
“Are you sure you’re okay? You sound way out of balance.”
Lark was the youngest of the Donovan sisters, who lived in an artists’ colony in Vermont. She spent part of the year traveling in her RV, visiting festivals, and teaching workshops. She was also into chakras, meditation, and other New Age stuff.
“I’m not in the mood for your healing arts tonight, Lark. Just answer my question.”
Lark huffed. “Fine. He’s here for the same reason anyone comes to the beach house. He rented it.”
“No, he didn’t.” Raven sank into a big leather armchair in the corner of the room. It had been their father’s favorite spot to read his birding books.
“Of course he did. I booked it myself three weeks ago.”
“Then why wasn’t it on the schedule when I looked this afternoon?” Raven ran her hand along the smooth grain of the leather.
“Um . . . what?” Lark said, her voice suddenly less sure.
“I checked the schedule before I drove two and a half hours to the beach.”
“But you never make an impromptu visit like that. You always plan your trips.”
“When I decided to come isn’t the point.”
“It kind of is. Why did you decide to come this afternoon? It’s November. The weather is crappy. I mean, I could understand if it were summer. Last-minute trips totally make sense, especially if we get a cancellation. But today? There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“Lark, can we please focus on the fact that you booked a renter and didn’t log it on the schedule?” Frustrated, Raven rested her head against her palms.
“That can’t be right. I remember doing it.”
“If you had, it would’ve been there. And I promise you, it wasn’t.”