Читать книгу Addicted to Nick - BRONWYN JAMESON, Bronwyn Jameson - Страница 8

If the night hadn’t been so still, silent but for the occasional swoosh of straw under restless hooves, T.C. wouldn’t have heard the faint creak of gate hinges.

Or the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path leading from the house-yard to the stables.

She could have made her way back to the stable hand’s quarters at the far end of the barn and crawled back into bed, convinced her sleep had been disturbed by an unfamiliar and unforgiving mattress rather than the audible signs of a midnight intruder.

The footsteps paused, and a chill of fear shivered across her skin. “Turn around and go back the way you came. Get in your car and drive away. Please.” Her entreaty was a whisper of breath that barely pierced the thick night air. She closed her eyes, counted to ten—slowly—but no car door clicked shut, no starter-motor engaged. With her heart lurching painfully against her ribs, she edged to the end of the stable row and peered out into the night.

Nothing moved except some ghostly strands of autumn fog—strands that seemed to slither up from the Yarra River to wrap the house in the promise of winter. T.C. retreated a step, drew a long breath. The air was cold enough to sting in her nostrils, but it was also rich with leather and horsehair, sweet molasses and fresh clover hay, familiar bracing aromas that lent strength to her weak knees.

Someone was out there—maybe the jerk who had dialed her number over and over these past weeks, only to hang up without speaking a word. She pictured him standing on the path, head lifted to test the air as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Most likely a burglar who thought the place would be easy pickings with only a woman in residence, knowledge he could have gleaned in a casual chat with any of the locals in nearby Riddells Crossing.

Her fingers tightened around the gun in her right hand. It weighed next to nothing yet it felt curiously reassuring, considering it was useless. She switched it to her left hand and wiped her damp palm on her thigh…her pajama-pants-clad thigh, she amended. A semihysterical giggle bubbled up, and she pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle the sound.

Some scumbag was stalking her stables, and she intended taking him on dressed in oversize flannel pajamas and armed with nothing but a kid’s toy cap gun. She would take him while he was rolling around the floor laughing!

The footsteps started again, approaching rapidly this time and without any pretense of stealth. She had no time to consider this, no time to consider anything, no time to plan. A dark figure came through the barn entrance less than a pace away, close enough for her to absorb the soft tang of his aftershave on a swiftly drawn breath.

Close enough to touch, in the ribs, with the toy gun.

“Don’t move, mister, and I won’t have to shoot you.”

The phoney tough-guy line rolled from T.C.’s tongue without conscious thought. She closed her eyes and grimaced. Had she really said that? With such cool calm strength, when her insides were quivering like half-set Jell-O? The quaver transferred to her legs and started them trembling. She prayed the hand holding her make-believe weapon wouldn’t follow suit.

The stranger slowly raised his hands above his head. “Take it easy, sweetheart. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I have the, um, gun, so you should be the one avoiding stupid moves!” T.C. hated herself for that stumbling pause, but before she could do more than wince, she sensed him start to move and jabbed him with the gun. Hard.

“I get the picture. I’m not to move, right?” He eased out the words in a deep, soothing monotone—the exact same voice she used to settle a nervous horse. That gave her pause. Why was he trying to mollify her? She wasn’t the one creeping about someone else’s stables in the dead of night.

“Right,” she clipped out, irritated as well as confused. “No…wrong.” She circled about him, transferring the gun from his ribs to his back, as she regathered her composure. “I do want you to move. I want you to turn, slowly, and put your hands up against the wall.”

Surprisingly he complied, although his posture looked way too casual for T.C.’s liking. “You want me to spread ’em?” he asked. A hint of amusement colored the rich depth of his voice.

“That won’t be necessary,” she replied, absolutely unamused. The guy acted like having a gun—okay, a toy gun, but he didn’t know that—pointed at his back was more an entertainment than a concern. She needed to assert some authority, but how on earth did she go about doing that? This was not a small man. At least six foot and, unless her night vision was severely impaired, most of it muscle. Her only advantage was a handful of plastic imitation weaponry.

What if he had a real weapon?

The alarming thought caused her throat to tighten. She had to clear that solid lump of dread before she could ask, “Are you armed?”

“And dangerous?” he mocked.

T.C. cursed herself for expecting to learn anything from such a foolish question. In order to find out she needed to search him…to put her hands on him….

She steeled herself by drawing a deep breath but found the air edged with his disturbingly appealing scent. She let the breath go with a snort. So even bad guys can find their way around a bottle of Calvin Klein, she told herself. So what? Get on with it!

Plunging forward, she patted down his jacket, found two outside pockets and two sets of keys—nothing unusual there. Her hand stilled on the jacket. Not cheap vinyl but real, malleable, high-quality leather, which did strike her as unusual.

What kind of burglar was he?

“There’s an inside pocket you’d better check. And one in my shirt.”

Obviously a helpful one.

Stung out of immobility, she took another C.K.-imbued breath before sliding her hand inside the jacket. His shirt was incredibly warm and the fabric so fine that she could feel the muted texture of his chest hair against her palm. And beneath that…holy toledo! she felt the rippling curves and indents of some exceedingly fine pecs. It was like stroking the finest horseflesh, all supple and deceptively languid, while underneath the slow, steady beat of his heart pumped all that heat into her hand, her blood, her belly.

Stroking?

She pulled her hand back sharply, and a shimmer of sensation skimmed across her fingertips, settled in her skin. “Static electricity,” she muttered, shaking her fingers.

“Pardon?”

“I wasn’t speaking to you.”

“Then who?”

“None of your business.” T.C. spoke through clenched teeth. “I’m going to search your pants now.”

“Be my guest.”

It was amazing how much amusement he managed to pack into that short statement. Enough to really rile T.C. She prodded him in the ribs with sufficient force to cause him to flinch. Good—maybe now he would show some respect!

His pants were jeans of the close-fitting variety. One rear pocket housed a slim leather wallet; the other contained nothing more than finely hewn muscle. She took a half step back and wiped her palm against her thigh, then scrubbed it harder. Somehow she couldn’t erase the imprint from her skin.

She jumped clear off the ground when he drawled, “Don’t stop there, sweet hands. There are more pockets around the front.”

“I have a better idea. Why don’t you just tell me where your weapon’s hidden?”

He laughed, a low rich belly-laugh that did strange things to T.C.’s insides. “Why don’t you slide that soft little hand around here and find out for yourself?”

Heat blazed into her cheeks. How dare he be so…so… Words failed her. She did the mental equivalent of spluttering and told herself the warmth in her cheeks was not due to his softly purred suggestion. She transferred the gun from left hand to right, stretched her tight tendons finger by finger, and inspected the hand that was indeed little but hadn’t been soft for more years than she could remember.

“Don’t,” she said, her voice as crisp and chill as the night air, “make the mistake of associating my size with softness.”

And with the strength of those words ringing in her ears, she did exactly as he’d asked. She reached around and checked the front pockets of his jeans. Very quickly. Then she slid her hand up and checked the waistband. Neat fit, hard to hide anything there, she noted. She also noted when he drew breath. She could tell by the sudden tautness of his abs beneath her hand.

What she didn’t realize was that the breath was taken in preparation.

His turn was quick, as was the hand that dislodged the gun. It clunked against the wall, hit the floor, then slid a long long way before clattering to a standstill. It took the stranger less time to twist her arm behind her back and right up between her shoulder blades.

“I’d like to think you were touching me up for the sheer pleasure of it, but something tells me that’s not it. How about you tell me what is going on?”

He stood close behind her, close enough that the words washed over her nape in a warm wave. She shook her head to rid herself of the sensation, and he stretched her arm further.

“Ouch,” she breathed. “You’re hurting me.”

“You think that piece of plastic you were brandishing hasn’t bruised me?” He released the pressure on her arm, although he didn’t let it go. Long fingers manacled her wrist. “Well?” he prompted.

T.C. frowned. If he knew the gun was fake, it explained his casual attitude, but why hadn’t he called her on it? And why had he asked her to explain? She wrenched her arm and found herself hauled backward, right up hard against his body, so when he spoke his voice hummed close against her ear. “All right, sweet hands, if you don’t want to tell me why you’re skulking about in the dark, I’ll have to start searching for clues.”

His hand slid over her hip. T.C. yelped and tried to swat it away, but he pulled her nearer by banding an arm around her chest. Her back was pasted to his front, so close that when he laughed, the low sound vibrated from his chest into her body. It set up a resonant buzz along her spine, like a tuning fork perfectly pitched.

Or maybe that was in reaction to the hand cruising down one thigh then back up again, inch by leisurely inch. Omi-gosh, now it was inside her pajama coat, sliding across her belly. She wriggled frantically, needing to escape his touch—but wriggling was a big mistake. It brought her backside up hard against his thighs. All the breath left her lungs in a rush.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart? Not used to having a perfect stranger run his hands all over you? Intrusive, isn’t it?”

“My name’s not sweet anything!” She kicked out, and the sudden flurry of legs and boots caught him unaware. The arm holding her slipped, and she swiveled sideways; his free hand grabbed…and closed over her left breast.

For a long second they both went completely still. T.C. heard the rasp of her own breathing, not quite steady, over the heavy thud of her heartbeat. Then she kicked out again, and this time her booted heel caught him in the shin.

He swore succinctly, and T.C. felt a rush of vindictive satisfaction. This was his fault. He shouldn’t have been touching her at all, let alone in that deliberate way. She swung her feet again, and he grunted as he shifted sideways to avoid her heels.

He cursed again. “What are you, half mule? Stop kicking, for Pete’s sake!”

“Then…let…me…go!”

“I’ll let you go when I can see what you’re up to. Where’s the light switch?”

When she didn’t answer his arm tightened. “Down there…straight ahead…last door on your left.” T.C.’s instructions came out in reluctant grunts against the arm crushing her diaphragm.

He frog-marched her the length of the breezeway, pushed open the door to her quarters and flicked the switch. T.C. squeezed her eyes shut against the sudden brightness. Dazzling yellow figures danced across the backs of her lids. She heard Ug yap a greeting, the scratch of her nails as she scampered across the concrete floor, then felt the little dog bouncing around her legs…no, make that their legs.

Oh, great. First my dog doesn’t even hear him arrive, then she greets him like a long-lost friend!

“Down. Sit.” His instructions were so do-not-argue that T.C. almost sat herself.

Needless to say, her traitorous dog subsided.

The stranger’s grip eased. His hands moved to her shoulders, swinging her around until she stood staring into his broad chest. Her nose almost touched the front of his shirt and the chest hair revealed by two open buttons.

She swallowed with difficulty and raised a hand to push against the solid wall of his chest. It didn’t budge. Beneath her palm beat the steady pulse of his heart. She tipped her head back, found herself too close to see anything beyond a chin dark with regrowth and centered with a faint familiar-looking cleft.

Oh, no, it couldn’t be….

She backed up until the full lips and long, straight nose came into focus; then she closed her eyes.

Oh, yes, it most definitely was!

“Tell me I didn’t just kick Nick Corelli in the shins,” she said on the end of a long tortured groan. Tell me I didn’t just run my hands all over Nick Corelli’s body. Except she knew she had—the knowledge still tingled in the palms of those hands.

She opened her eyes to find his focused intently on her, and for a long moment she could do nothing but stare back. His eyes weren’t obsidian dark like all the Corellis she had met but the pure cerulean of a summer sky. So unexpected, so unusual, so giddily, perfectly beautiful. Finally she remembered to take another breath, to close the mouth she feared had fallen open in gobstopped awe.

“You know me?” He sounded startled by that, and there was definitely surprise lurking in those amazing eyes. Surprise and something more. Interest? Or merely curiosity?

She shook her head, as much to clear her stunned senses as in reply. “We’ve never met, but I recognize you. From photographs. Your father showed me photographs.”

“You recognized me instantly from a couple of pictures?”

More than a couple. T.C. felt herself color as she recalled how many…and how often she’d pored over them. Good grief, she had actually freeze-framed a video of his sister’s wedding on one spectacular shot. It was a wonder she hadn’t pegged him as Nick the Gorgeous One in the total dark!

“I take it you aren’t a burglar. Do you work here?” He glanced down at where Ug lay at his feet—almost on his feet—and grinned. “Let me guess. You’re security, and this is your guard dog.”

T.C.’s heart did a slow motion flip-flop as the effect of that lazy drawl, the warmth of that slow grin, rippled through her body. She couldn’t help her automatic response. How could she not smile back at him? How could she watch one quizzically arched brow disappear behind the thick fall of his hair and not think about combing it back from his face?

Belatedly she realized that the brow had arched in question. Asking what? Something about her working here? “Um…I’m the trainer. I train Joe’s horses.”

His expression changed from quizzical to startled in one blink of his dark lashes. “You’re Tamara Cole?”

“That’s me.”

He inspected her with unnerving thoroughness, starting at her boots and working all the way up her legs and body. When he arrived back at her face, he let out a choked sort of snort that sounded like equal parts disbelief and suppressed laughter, and the warmth suffusing T.C.’s veins turned prickly with irritation. She knew she wasn’t looking her best, but that was no reason for him to shake his head and grin as if he couldn’t quite believe what his eyes were telling him. She folded her arms and regarded him as coolly as the hot flush of mortification allowed. “What are you doing here, Nick?”

“Apart from being attacked by a crazy little horse-training woman dressed in pajamas and boots?”

“I mean,” she said tightly, as he continued to grin down at her, “I’ve been waiting to hear from someone for weeks and weeks, but I didn’t expect you. Last I heard, you were lost in the wilds of Alaska.”

The grin faded. “Who told you that?”

“George mentioned it. After the funeral.” She shrugged off the memory of that short, unpleasant meeting. Who-told-who-what didn’t matter when important questions remained unanswered. Like, what was Nick doing here, and why had he arrived unannounced in the middle of the night? “You should have let me know you were coming.”

“I’ve been trying to do that for the last six hours.” With disturbing accuracy he homed in on her telephone and picked up the receiver she’d left off the hook. “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with the constant busy signal?”

“I must have bumped it. Or something.”

He stared at her for a full ten seconds, then gestured with the instrument in his hand. “Is this on the same line as the house?”

T.C. cleared her throat, told herself it was ridiculous to feel such a sharp frisson of apprehension at the sight of a phone, at the thought of it being able to ring and ring and ring…. “Yes. There’s only the one line.”

“Then if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer we keep that line open.” As he cradled the receiver, the meaning behind his words gelled. If he needed a phone, he must be staying.

“Why are you here, Nick?” she blurted. “I expected George, or that solicitor with the bullfrog eyes.”

The corners of Nick’s mouth twitched. “We used to call him Kermit.”

T.C. tried to ignore the mental image of Kermit in pinstripes but failed. And as they smiled in shared amusement, as she had done so many times with his father, T.C. knew why Nick was here. It made perfect sense that Joe would leave the place of his heart to the son of his heart, the one he had spoken of with such obvious love.

It also explained the delay. Nick—self-indulgent, freewheeling Nick—had disappeared on some wilderness skiing jaunt the day his father was hospitalized. Joe lingered ten more days, but Nick didn’t come home.

As she collected Ug from the floor and hugged the dog’s furry warmth close against her chest, T.C. felt the tight twist of pain for the man who had been her boss, her mentor and her savior—and the strong sting of resentment for the son who had let him down.

Nick watched as a sheen of moisture quelled the sea-green intensity of her gaze, and he felt a sharp kick of response, a need to ease the pain he glimpsed in those spectacular eyes. He actually took a step forward, but she nailed him to the spot with a fierce look that reminded him of his bruised ribs and scraped shin. He gave himself a mental tap on the head.

What was he thinking?

Jet lag must be kicking in if he thought she needed comforting. The pale cap of baby-soft hair, the cute little nose, the huge eyes—they were all a deception. This little firebrand had a tough streak a mile wide. His gaze slid to her lips for at least the tenth time since he’d flicked the light switch. Full and soft, with a distinct inclination to pout, there was absolutely nothing tough about them. They looked downright kissable…until they tightened savagely. Nick cleared his mind of all kissing-thoughts as he cleared his throat. “So, Tamara…”

“What did you call me?”

“Tamara. That is your name, isn’t it? Or would you rather I kept on calling you sweet hands?”

“You can call me T.C.”

“That’s hardly a name, just a couple of initials. I think I’ll stick with Tamara.”

Her lush lips compressed into an angry bow, and Nick felt a sudden spike of stimulation. It was the kind of buzz he’d chased across continents, from challenge to challenge and from woman to woman. The kind he hadn’t felt for too many years, and he didn’t understand where the feeling was coming from.

Apart from her mouth and the way those big eyes sparked green fire, Tamara Cole didn’t come close to his type. He liked women who slid out of bed with silk clinging to their curves. He liked women who knew they were women. Must be jet lag—that was the only explanation. That and the fact that George had got her all wrong. From his description, Nick had imagined big hair, a big blowzy body, an even bigger attitude. She surely had the attitude, but her blond hair was cropped boyishly short, and, frankly, there wasn’t a whole lot of body.

Just a nice little handful.

He allowed that sensory memory to drum through his blood for a whole minute before he reminded himself how deceptive appearances could be. George was a prime example. Just because Tamara Cole didn’t fit George’s description of the shrewd opportunist who had wriggled her way into Joe’s life as well as his bed—just because the very thought had caused his earlier guffaw of amusement—didn’t mean she hadn’t done just that.

“Why are you here, Nick?”

Her question cut into Nick’s reverie, and he pretended to consider it as he strolled over to her bed, tested the mattress, sat and swung his legs up. He picked up her pillow and propped it between his head and the wall.

“Why am I here?” He regarded her bottom lip through half-closed eyes, and the low-grade buzz in his veins intensified. “I’m here to meet you…partner.”