Brock took a deep breath and repeated. “I’m not hungry, Dad.”
“But your mother worked very hard on this meal, so even though you aren’t hungry, we need to still be respectful of the time she put into making the food so you grow big and strong, yes?”
Brock nodded his head.
“Now, how about that hug?” His dad’s arms opened wide.
Brock ran into them and his dad twirled him around on the grass one last time.
It was impossible to see the actual patch of grass that they’d so often played on, but Brock knew it was there, fifteenth tree in, to the left.
Brock briefly closed his eyes and slowed the car to a stop. With shaking hands, he put the car into park and sat there listening to the rain. He still had a mile or so to get to the house but he needed a minute. Just one goddamn minute to get his head on straight.
Finally, Brock sucked in a long soothing breath, put the car back in drive, and pressed down on the accelerator. Only to have the tires squeal in protest.
“What the hell?” He tried again but got the same response. Muttering a curse, he slammed his hand against the leather steering wheel.
Brock grabbed his coat and stepped out into the cold, wet rain. Lightning sizzled across the sky followed by the bellow of thunder as he made his way to the back of the Audi and inspected the damage. The tire was caught in the mud, which would have been fine if he’d had someone who could hit the accelerator while he pushed.
“Damn it.” He was going to have to walk.
Chapter Twelve
Jane giddily walked around the property, her shirt attaching itself to her body like a second skin. Rain slid down her cheeks, thunder rolled, and she was deliriously happy.
She’d left her sisters a note.
A freaking note.
She laughed out loud again at the freedom she felt. They were going to be so mad, but it was only three weeks. She imagined their clothes would be pink from their trying to figure out how to do the laundry, and they’d probably lose weight because they didn’t even know how to pour milk into a bowl for cereal.
Arms spread wide, she twirled, over and over again, then nearly ran smack dab into one of the large oak trees that had been planted on the property.
The owner must like trees, because there were hundreds lining the long driveway and a forest behind the ranch, with trails leading around the thirty acres.
In all reality, the house was a dream.
Her dream.
Judging by what she was getting paid to get the place ready for the new tenants, she assumed the man who’d called her had money, but the house didn’t shout money. Sure, the kitchen was gourmet and immaculate, but every single wall had pictures of a family that she’d suddenly, very desperately wanted to meet.
Three little boys.
Two smiling parents.
And a grandfather in a cowboy hat.
They were lucky, that family.
Lightning streaked across the sky. She should probably go inside. After all, she had to meet the elderly ranch hand first thing in the morning, and she was tired.
Escaping prison did that to a person.
With another giggle, she started making her way back to the house.
* * *
He’d walked more than a mile before Brock finally made it to where he could actually see the house.
He was soaked.
Pissed.
Exhausted.
Damn it, he’d do anything for a whiskey.
And a nice crackling fire.
Maybe he’d steal one of his grandfather’s cigars like he had that time when he was a kid. Only, that adventure had ended with him puking hits guts out on the back porch while Grandfather made him smoke the rest of the stash to teach him a lesson.
He smiled at the memory and picked up his pace.
The porch light was on. Hunh. Well, Grandfather did say that George, the ranch hand, would have things ready for him. He hoped that included a hot meal by the fire.
When he finally reached the porch, he sighed in relief, took one step, then felt the barrel of a shotgun shoved up against his back.
“What the hell?” he hissed, waving his arms in the air.
The gun bobbled back and then a gunshot rang out, hitting the porch light and blanketing him and the intruder in darkness.
“St-stay where you are.” The feminine voice was shaky, uncertain. “I have a gun.”
“No shit.” She’d nearly taken off his head with it!
“Don’t talk!”
“Fine.”
“I said”—she shoved the barrel of the gun harder into his spine—“no talking. Now…” Her breathing was ragged. “I want you to take two steps backward and turn around. And go back to wherever you came from. This isn’t your house!”
“Actually—” He coughed, trying to clear his throat. “It is.”
“Crap!” The gun fell to the ground in a clatter then went off, sending dirt and pieces of rock all over his feet.
“Fuck!”
“George!” the woman yelled. “I’m so sorry! You poor thing!” Warm hands wrapped around his shoulders. “Oh no, and you’re so old.”
What the hell? “I’m not—” He barely got the two words out before she started babbling again.
“Old. No, of course not, how rude of me to say that. Come on, up you go.” As soon as he’d picked up the gun and straightened to his full height she scooted around him and made her way up the front steps.
“I mean, of course you’d want to greet me and make sure I got settled in!” She laughed nervously as she pushed open the door and stepped into the shadowy foyer. He put the safety back on the gun and set it on the entryway table.
“Stay here, and I’ll just…” Her pert ass moved back and forth as she jogged in the general direction of the kitchen. He’d just managed to find a lamp—that flooded the room with light when he turned it on, thank God—when she came back with a large ugly black purse and dug through it, finally pulling out a bottle of pills.
“So…” She took a few steps toward him. “I just need to grab you water and—”
With a gasp, she dropped the pills as she uttered a dumbstruck “You?”
His mouth dropped open. “Just Jane?”
“Just Brock.” A smile formed around her sensual mouth. “Clearly not pushing seventy.”
“God, I hope not,” he joked. “Though it feels like it. My car got stuck in the mud. Then I got stuck in the mud. I left my pride about a mile back, highly doubt I’m going to get it back now.”
She made a face as she eyed the mud he was dripping all over the floor.
“What are you doing here?” Jane’s features softened. “Were you the old man who called me about this job?”
“I’d really like it if you could stop leading every sentence with the word ‘old.’” He gave a half-shrug. “You know, pride and all.”
A flush broke out across her neck. “Sorry.”
“An old man called you?” He sat in the nearest chair and tried not to laugh at Jane’s wince over his obvious destruction of said chair. “Why don’t you start at the beginning? Why are you here?”
Her mouth formed an O as she crossed her arms, uncrossed them, then placed them on her hips. It was damn near impossible not to stare at her breasts as they were perkily directing all their attention at him. Never had he been so thankful for wet white T-shirts.
“Well, this old…”
Brock sighed.
“Sorry, this man called and asked for my services—”
Brock’s eyebrows shot up.
“No, no, no.” Her blush deepened. “Not those types of services. That is, I clean houses and offices. I own a business. Cinderella Cleaning Company. He, um, he needed someone to serve as a maid for the house for the next few weeks, get it ready for the tenants and honestly it’s not my normal job but…” She swallowed and looked down. “Let’s just say I needed to get away.”
“Mafia?” He said in a deadpan voice
.
A giggle escaped her lips. “Close.” Her eyes met his. “Sisters.”
“Ah, well. I have twin brothers. Pain in my ass, both of them.”
“I, uh…” She tucked a piece of wet hair behind her ear. “Remember.”
“Old man, you say?” His eyes narrowed. “And I imagine he’s paying you handsomely?”
She broke eye contact and then nodded.
“If I were a betting man I’d say my grandfather called you. So I guess, just a happy coincidence that Cinderella left her shoe at the dance club and now she’s here…in my house.” He frowned. How the hell had his grandfather been able to find her when Brock hadn’t even seen her on the guest list?
“Your grandfather,” she said slowly. “Your house…” Her eyes narrowed. “New tenant?”
He stood, towering over her small frame, and her lips parted as she took a step backward, away from him.
What the hell was his grandfather up to? And how the hell was he supposed to survive being in the same house as the one woman he wanted—but couldn’t have? Goddamn his grandfather!
Brock took one look around the room—at the dozens of pictures of his once happy family—of his parents— lining the walls—and dead center—a picture of his Grandfather.
His vision tunneled to black as the meaning of his presence at the house settled fully on his shoulders.
Another man would be able to raise his hand and brush away the streak of mud from her cheek. He’d kiss the frown from her face and ask her how it was possible that she’d gone so many years without knowing how devastating an effect she had on the male population.
On him.
But his reality had never been more clear.
“It’s my house,” he said finally. Needing to say the words out loud so that she understood and maybe so he would, too.
“Okay.”
They stood in tense silence. He wasn’t sure what else there was to say so he defaulted—to the familiar.
“You probably have things to clean.” Apparently being a jackass was how he was the most comfortable. He inwardly cursed himself as he saw her hurt expression.
“Yes.” She nodded, breaking eye contact. “Yes, um, of course. Yes sir.” Was it his imagination or was she shaking?
“I’m going upstairs to take a shower.” He called over his shoulder and stomped off.
Leaving the ghosts of his family behind.
Leaving Jane.
Chapter Thirteen
Jane let out a loud exhale once she was sure that Brock was out of hearing distance. He seemed bigger than before, more masculine, if that were even possible. At the club he’d done nothing but give her the impression that he was a kind, generous man. But here…here they were on his turf. And it was glaringly obvious they were from vastly different worlds.
This was his house. And she was cleaning it.
She’d physically flinched, as if he’d punched her in the stomach when he’d basically told her to clean up after him.
Stupid. She was so stupid to think he would be interested.
Just because he’d done a nice thing for her at the party did not mean he wanted to sleep with the help.
A laugh built up inside her chest, threatening to escape. But of course she’d be attracted to someone like him, someone who embodied security, beauty, family, everything she’d always wanted wrapped up into one shiny package. Prince Charming he was not.
Sighing, she moved down the hall and into her bedroom. Thinking she’d be the only one staying at the house, she’d taken the master. Embarrassed, she managed to stuff most of her belongings back into her suitcase and roll it down the hall to the next available room. If Brock was going to stay here, she had no business being in the master suite, although she’d been dreaming of taking a bath in that tub—heck, more like swimming in it. But she’d be fine; all of the guest rooms were beautiful.
With a shrug, she pushed open the door to the room she’d chosen and wheeled her suitcase in, then pulled out some of her clothes and started putting them in the dresser drawers. The room was quaint, around two hundred square feet, with floor-to-ceiling windows on the east wall, and an attached bathroom. It was perfect for her.
Jane located a bulky sweatshirt and hurriedly peeled off her wet T-shirt, flinching at the sucking sound it made when she pulled the fabric over her head.
“What the hell are you doing?” Brock’s voice came from behind her just as the shirt got caught on one of her earrings.
Panicked, she twisted as she tried to pull the shirt back down, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Um…” Realizing she was almost facing him now, Jane turned away from the direction of his voice. “I was changing my clothes. Why are you in my room?”
“Your room?” His voice rose. “And here I thought it was my house.”
Well, that was an asinine thing to say! “So why aren’t you in the master bedroom?”
“I don’t stay there,” he barked.
How was she supposed to know that?
“It’s the bigger room, and since you’re moving in, I just assumed—”
“Is this part of the deal? You clean my house and strip for me after hours?”
Tears threatened. What a complete jackass! “I’m sort of—stuck.”
“Stuck?”
“Are you just going to repeat everything I say?”
He didn’t respond.
Whatever.
He was clearly still there. She could feel his presence, watching her. Thank God she was wearing her good bra.
She gave another tug and was able to get part of the shirt back down, but the other half was still stuck on her earring and over her head.
“I would help but…” Brock’s voice was closer. Her body buzzed with awareness. “I think I like watching you struggle a hell of a lot more.”
“I’ve got it,” she snapped, trying to put some distance between them.
“Yes.” His voice held mild amusement as she tugged harder. At this rate, she was going to pull her ear off. “I can see that.”
“Damn it!” She stomped her foot and he sucked in a breath. “Brock?”
“Yes, Just Jane.”
“I think…I need help.”
“You think?”
“You don’t have to be a jackass.”
“I know I don’t have to be…”
This night needed to be over already. Jane’s right arm was cramping, and she’d been flashing poor Brock for the past five minutes.
“Here.” Brock’s breath was warm on her neck. “Allow me.”
Within seconds he’d located the part of the shirt attached to her earring and with a soft tug, the shirt came over her head.
“Hey!” She turned to yell at him for making her more naked when she was trying for less, but she let out a little moan instead.
He grinned. “Problem?”
“You.” Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as she took in his shirtless state, and the unbuttoned pants he wore.
His body was…not of this world.
There was no way.
Without thinking, she found herself touching him, pressing her fingertips against his chest, just to check that he wasn’t a figment of her imagination.
Hard. So hard.
The planes of thick bulging muscle were in direct defiance to the smooth-talking man that had bought her shoes. When she’d seen him last, he’d been large, intimidating, and very much the businessman. Now? Now she could clearly see every muscle ripple, and felt her body react to him as she tried to keep her composure.
She could handle the single, rich bachelor who was kind.
What she couldn’t handle? A man. A man who was all man, through and through, who had a body to match all that dominance and masculine goodness.
“Jane?” Brock whispered her name.
She jerked her hand away then took two steps backward, nearly colliding with her suitcase as she folded her arms across her breasts. “Thanks.”
“If I’d known
that getting eye-fucked was going to be my thank you, I would have come to your rescue a lot sooner.”
Her eyes narrowed while he fluidly moved past her into what she assumed was a bathroom.
Before shutting the door he turned and barked, “Take the master.”
Chapter Fourteen
Take the master”. Could he be more of a dick? What the hell was wrong with him, ordering her around like she was a servant?
Damn it.
All he’d wanted was to be away from her—her and the memories of this once happy home.
And then she’d gone and touched him, and all his wants—every single one of them—had suddenly shifted into dangerous territory, one he knew wouldn’t be fair to either of them.
He would be auctioned off to the highest bidder in a few weeks.
He was basically in a committed relationship.
With a complete stranger he hadn’t even met yet.
And lusting after another.
He swore as his mind rewound images of her pert breasts, rosy peaks straining behind nearly sheer lace, and her rain-slickened skin. He’d wanted to run his tongue down the side of her neck. Just a taste, just one, maybe two, three. Hell, he’d been five seconds away from tugging her onto the bed and helping her out of the rest of her clothes.
He cursed as his body tightened painfully, and then he flipped the hot water to the frigid cold he needed to get himself under control.
These were going to be his last few weeks of peace before his grandfather decided yet another element of his future.
He wasn’t going to waste them wanting something he couldn’t have.
If there was anything he’d learned in his life, it was that the minute you got something you wanted, or cared for, it hurt that much more when it was ripped out of your hands.
He knew that firsthand.
Because everything he’d ever cared about had been taken from him in this very house.
The master bedroom.
He hadn’t set foot in that room since his parents’ deaths.
His grandfather had preferred a smaller room—leaving the larger to his parents—and God, it felt like their ghosts were still there.