Leslie Kelly – Sultry Escapes: Waking Up to You (страница 4)

He left his small house, following the illumination. His bare feet slipped in the wet grass, and the cold rain jabbed his chest since he hadn’t bothered with a shirt. Passing the toolshed, which stood between his place and the main house, he reached out and snagged a rake. He didn’t want to have to protect himself, but better safe than sorry.

Strange that anybody would choose this house to rob. The place might once have been a showplace—Oliver had seen pictures of it from its glory days, when it had been owned by his own family. It had been passed down from a great-grandfather who’d been a silent movie star. His uncle had sold it a decade ago, and that owner had gone bankrupt. Now Buddy Frye, its current owner, was trying to restore it. Oliver hoped he succeeded—the bones of a beautiful mansion were still there. As for right now, though, it was a falling-down heap, held up as much by the layers of paint on the walls as by any remnants of a foundation.

The porch creaked—the third floorboard being the loudest—so he avoided it as he approached the door. He reached for the knob, which twisted easily in his hand. That wasn’t a good sign. He remembered locking it tonight before heading to his place. Buddy often didn’t, feeling safe out here in the country, but Oliver hadn’t lost that big-city need for security.

Stepping inside, he almost tripped over a small carry-on type suitcase, and was immediately curious about this burglar who carried Louis Vuitton.

Clanging emerged from the kitchen. So the prowler had decided to make himself a sandwich? A little ham and Swiss to go with the breaking and entering?

Nothing about this added up.

The kitchen was at the back of the house. Edging toward it, clueless about what to expect, Oliver paused at the doorway. When he peeked in, he froze in uncertainty.

It wasn’t a prowler. At least, it wasn’t the sort of prowler he’d ever seen or envisioned, unless prowlers now came disguised as tall young women with thick masses of honeybrown hair that hung in a wave of damp curls halfway down a slender back. She stood at the sink, filling two things: a glass with water, and a pair of jeans with the most amazingly perfect ass he’d ever seen.

His breath caught, his heart lurched and all parts south woke up, too. As he watched, she lifted a shaking hand and swept it through that long hair, weariness underscoring every movement. Her slumped shoulders reinforced that.

He ran down a list of possibilities and lit on the most likely. A granddaughter. Buddy had mentioned that one lived in L.A. She must have come up when she heard about her grandfather’s accident.

Welcome to Northern California, sweetheart. And thanks for improving the view by bringing that gorgeous ass with you.

He blinked, trying to clear his mind. He’d done enough staring for one night, especially at the posterior of a woman whose grandfather was one of the few men Oliver truly respected.

“Ahem,” he said, clearing his throat.

She dropped the glass. It fell from her hand onto the floor, exploding into a volcano of tiny slivers, splashing water on her pants. Spinning around, her eyes wide and her mouth falling open, she saw him standing there and let out a strangled cry of alarm.

“Whoa, whoa,” he said, realizing what he must look like, shirtless, wearing dirty jeans and, he suddenly realized, still holding a sharp, threatening-looking rake. The woman, who was beyond sexy, with a pair of blazing green eyes and a beautiful face surrounded by that thick, honeycolored tangle of hair, was eyeing him like he’d popped up in front of her in a back alley.

“I’m not going to…”

He was going to say hurt you. But before he could say a word, a pot flew toward his head. He threw up an arm to deflect it, groaning as the metal thunked his elbow, sending him stumbling back into the hallway. He barely managed to stay upright. If not for the rake on which he suddenly leaned, he might have fallen flat on the floor.

But the rake couldn’t help him when the frying pan followed the pot.

One second later, he was flat on the floor, rubbing the middle of his chest. He focused on trying to catch his breath, which had been knocked out of him as if he’d been KO’d by the love child of Ali and Tyson. That skillet must have been made of cast iron, and she’d flung it like a discus wielded by an Olympic champion.

He held his hands up in surrender, trying to form words, though his body had forgotten how to breathe and his ribs were screaming for her head on a platter. Meanwhile, the rake, which he’d been clutching as he fell, toppled forward. Just to add a little insult to the injury, it landed on his shoulder, then clanged to the floor beside him.

Pain, meet agony, pull up a chair why don’t you?

“Get out, I’m calling the police!” she ordered as she scrambled to grab another pot out of the sink.

“Whoa, lady, cool it,” he finally gasped. “I’m not…going to…hurt you.”

“That’s what any sick, raping, ax-murdering psycho would say.”

If his chest didn’t hurt so damned much, and if he wasn’t afraid she would reach for the knife block next, he would have mulled that one over, wondering which she thought him to be: sick, raping, ax-murderer or psycho. All of the above?

Active imagination on that one.

“I’m the…groundskeeper,” he said with a groan as the ache in his chest receded, only to remind him of the ache in his elbow. Funny bone, my ass. “I work here.”

She froze, another pot in one hand, a cell phone in the other, and stared at him from a few feet away. “You work here?”

“Yeah, for Buddy. My name’s Oliver McKean. I saw the lights and was afraid somebody had broken in.”

She eyed him, her stare zoning in on the blood he could feel trickling down the side of his arm. Obviously she’d broken skin, if not bone, with her mad pot-slinging skills.

Nibbling on the corner of a succulent lip, she whispered, “Oh, dear.”

“Yeah. Oh, dear. That’s some swing you’ve got there.”

“I’m so sorry. I’m Candace Reid.”

“Oliver McKean.”

“You said that.”

“I know,” he mumbled, realizing he wasn’t making any sense. The one place she hadn’t hit him was his head, but his thoughts were still a whirl as he tried to figure out why on earth he was reacting so strongly to a woman who’d just tried to kill him.

“Are you Irish?” she asked with a deep frown, sounding more concerned than when she’d thought him a maniacal ax-killing rapist.

“My father is. We lived in Cork for a few years when I was a kid,” he admitted, wondering if his voice still held a hint of an accent. Also wondering why it mattered.

Not seeing the need to discuss his ethnicity, he staggered to his feet. He was none too steady on them, and his lungs still burned. She’d practically knocked him senseless. Dizzy or not, he was incredibly lucky neither of those flying missiles had hit him in the head. They really could have done some damage. But worries about what might have happened dissipated as he stared at her from across the room. Now that he wasn’t afraid for his life, he found himself struck into silence by the beauty of her gently curved face. Dark brows arched over expressive jewelgreen eyes that were still widened with fear and surprise. Beneath a pair of high cheekbones were soft hollows that invited tender exploration. Her amazing lips were made for lots of deep kisses. Her chin was up, determined and strong, as if she wasn’t about to let down her guard completely. He liked that…he especially liked that she remained firm even though her long slender throat quivered and worked as she swallowed down her instinctive anxiety and mistrust.

She wore a delicate, filmy blouse, all cloud and color. It clung to the edge of her slim shoulders, revealing a soft expanse of chest and collarbone. Her skin was creamy, smooth, and his fingers curled together as he imagined touching that softness. The scooped neck of the blouse fell to the tops of her full breasts, revealing a hint of cleavage that left him more breathless than he’d felt after taking a frying pan to the chest.

He continued his perusal, seeing those curvy hips from the front—just as delightful—and the thighs clad in tight denim, on down to the high-heeled boots. Hell, she should have used those things for a weapon; the spiked heels could have carved out a hole in his heart.

Hmm. He suspected this woman could carve her name on any man’s heart. If, of course, he had one still capable of opening up and being carved.

“You’re Buddy’s granddaughter, I presume?” he finally asked, once his brain started working again.

His words snapped her out of her long moment of decompression. Apparently realizing she wasn’t about to be raped, ravaged by a maniac or ax-murdered, she nodded quickly. “Yes. I’m such an idiot. My mother told me that Grandpa’s groundskeeper had been the one to call with the news that he was in the hospital. I can’t believe I took you for a home invader.” She spun around and grabbed a handful of paper towels, striding toward him, her eyes glued on his bleeding arm. “I really am sorry. Let me help you.”

When he saw that she was still armed, he took a step back. “Drop the lethal weapon first, would you?”