Asking for Trouble - Leslie Kelly [11]
“Isn’t there any light in this place?”
“The power’s out.”
Grabbing her bag from the floor where she’d dropped it, she walked toward the study. Her heels made a funny squishing sound as they tapped against the hard tile. “So where’s that light coming from?”
“Well, yes, of course, make yourself at home,” he muttered, not attempting to hide his sarcasm.
Unable to believe he was trailing after a complete stranger—a drenched, gorgeous one—in his own home, Simon strode past her. He stepped into his office, turning in the doorway to block her way. “I have a few battery-powered lanterns. Now, would you mind answering my questions? Who are you and what do you think you’re doing barging into my home?”
“Your home?” One of her fine, dark eyebrows lifted in surprise. Here, closer to the lantern, he had a better view of her face, the redness in her cheeks and the tremble of her lips that told him she was cold.
“Yes, my home,” he muttered as he grudgingly swung out of her way and gestured her in.
“This is Seaton House, isn’t it?”
He nodded. The woman opened her mouth to continue, but before she could do so, she let out a few little sneezes. Unable to keep the gruffness from his voice, he pointed toward the fireplace. “Go over there. You look like you’re about to shatter from cold.”
She didn’t hesitate, rushing toward the crackling fire in the massive fireplace that dominated one wall of his office. She held her hands out—pale, slender hands—and Simon saw they were shaking.
Wonderful. A freezing, wet waif had landed on his doorstep, intruding on his solitude when he could least afford the interruption. He was finally getting back to work—returning to his writing after a long hiatus during his recovery. In fact, before the strange image had appeared on his computer screen tonight—or, the image he thought had appeared—he’d actually managed to churn out eight pages of the travel guide he was contracted to write.
He needed to get the book done. It was the first step in reclaiming his life. Returning to his place in the world, changed though it may be.
To do that, he needed to be alone. With no distractions. No reminders of how stupid he’d been to let physical desire take the place of common sense.
He’d nearly paid for it with his life. And in his darkest moments, he suspected he had paid for it with his soul.
But he wasn’t completely lost to the social niceties. Shoving her back toward her car—which had been his first instinct—didn’t seem very gentlemanly.
Not that he’d been accused of being a gentleman. At least not lately. “Foul-tempered beast” was, he believed, the epithet one of his unwanted guests from town had flung over her shoulder after he’d ordered her off his property a week or so ago.
Still, he just couldn’t see forcing the stranger to get out on the road again during what sounded like the most violent height of the storm. She’d leave the moment it was over. The very second.
Shivering in front of the fire, the woman wriggled out of her coat, dropped it to the hearth, then stood there and soaked up the heat.
Hmm…maybe not the very second.
Because damn, the brunette was built like a centerfold. It was bad enough that she had those big, dark eyes and that beautiful face. Did she have to have such mouthwatering curves, too? Even from several feet away he reacted, a warm flow of familiar desire washing over him and pulsing in his groin.
If she were a few feet closer, she definitely would not mistake him for anything but rock-hard man.
No, not again. You’re a different man.
And she was a different woman. She wasn’t an easy blonde in a skin-tight short skirt giving him a sultry glance across a crowded bar on a hot June night. She was nothing like that woman.
Spying his half-empty drink on the coffee table beside his laptop, he went over to it, picked it up and slowly drained the neat Scotch. The alcohol only ratcheted up the heat—it did nothing to calm him.
He couldn’t help staring at her. Her black jeans were plastered to a generous pair of hips and an incredibly long pair of legs.