Authors: Elle James
Jillian hoped to recreate similar decor in her home. She'd choose each piece of furniture with care. But first, she had to get the house livable. After sitting empty for seventeen years, it had quirks, like the bird nests they'd found in the attic and the kitten in the basement.
Standing in the warm spray, Jillian let the stress of the day wash down the drain. The house would be fine. The kitten would be a welcome companion, and the man she'd nearly kissed downstairs would be gone once the wedding was over.
No use getting excited about a man who wouldn't be around in less than a week. Never mind his broad shoulders, dark good looks and those incredibly blue eyes a woman could fall into and never want to come out of.
Jillian rinsed shampoo out of her hair and turned off the water. A good night's sleep would help her put thoughts of ghosts and one hunky man out of her mind. Determined to get back on track with all she had to accomplish in the next week, she dried off, combed the tangles out of her hair and slipped into her nightgown and robe.
She wished she'd brought one of her less revealing robes instead of the one that matched the baby-doll nightgown beneath. Too much of her legs showed beneath the short, diaphanous robe.
With a sigh, she gathered her things and carefully balanced them while managing to unlock the door. Pushing it open with her hip, she backed out of the bathroom and into a solid wall of naked muscular chest.
The items she'd been carrying exploded out of her arms and scattered across the floor. Flustered, she bent to collect them, but strong, warm hands reached for them first, bumping into hers, sending little shock waves through her body.
“I didn't mean to startle you.” He handed her a brush and her toiletries bag, holding on to her discarded clothing with one hand. With the other hand, he helped her to her feet, cinching her to his warm body until she had her balance.
Holy hell.
He felt so good and smelled of the outdoors, naked skin and 100 percent male. Jillian's brain synapses fired off in every direction, scrambling her wits. “I'm okay,” she said, more to ground herself than for him. She had to remind herself to breathe in and out.
So what if she stood in her short nightgown and robe, her legs visible from just below her bottom to her toes painted with pretty pink polish? She was wearing more than anyone would see in a bathing suit. And Chance... Holy hell, he looked so big, strong and handsome with all that lovely tanned skin stretched tight over incredibly solid muscles.
Short of breath, Jillian managed to push words past her vocal cords. “I was just finishing up. You can lay those across the rest.” She held out her arms, mortified when she realized he was carrying not only her jeans and shirt, but her lacy black bra perched on top of the pile, in plain sight.
“I'll carry them. Which room?” He turned, as if looking for the right door.
With a silent groan of resignation, Jillian said, “Second on the right.” Then she followed, her gaze drinking in every inch of his bare back, marked with a few disturbing scars that only managed to make him even sexier.
“Next door to mine,” he commented as he walked to the door and reached for the crystal doorknob. He pushed the door open and stepped inside, filling the room with his size and presence.
Jillian stopped in the doorway, her mouth dry. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. Seeing him wearing nothing but blue jeans and standing beside her bed made her knees weak.
Chance set her clothes on the bed, his fingers lingering on the black bra. When he turned to her, his blue eyes were a steely shade of gray, his face dark and brooding. His gaze slipped for a brief moment to the deep V of her filmy robe. “I hope you sleep well.” Before Jillian could respond, Chance brushed past her, closing the door behind him.
What did he mean by
I hope you sleep well
? She felt as though a heated whirlwind had blown past her, leaving her hot, dry and in need. Of what, she didn't know.
Actually, she did, but she wasn't ready to admit she needed him. With every red blood cell in her body. She needed that man to come back into her room, take her into his arms and kiss her to show he meant it. Then kiss her again. Hell, he could have had her with just a crook of his finger.
Jillian went through the motions of patting the kitten, turning back the covers and crawling into the antique bed. But sleep was the farthest thing from her mind. Not with Chance standing naked in the shower a few short steps down the hallway.
She listened, though she couldn't hear the shower. Eventually, a door opened and closed, and the wooden floors creaked ever so slightly outside her room.
Jillian held her breath, straining to hear the footsteps, but realized he'd been barefoot, just like her. She didn't hear the floorboards creak for a few long seconds, and then they sounded again, the creaking moving away from her door and farther down the hallway. A door opened and closed.
As tired and achy as she was, she willed her body to relax. Sleep would help fix what hurt and hopefully give her a fresh start in the morning, free of wickedly sexy thoughts concerning a certain groomsman.
Staring at the clock for an entire hour, her eyes remained wide-open, with not a hint of the fatigue she'd felt earlier. No matter how hard she tried, she wasn't going to force herself to go to sleep. Jillian gave up. Perhaps a cup of hot cocoa would help to settle her nerves and make her drowsy.
She threw back the covers and shivered at the chill in the air. Wrapping the worthless but sexy robe around her, she draped a hand-crocheted throw over her shoulders like a shawl and headed down the stairs for the kitchen.
Strategically placed night-lights illuminated her way on the steps and through the great room. In the kitchen, she switched on the light and rummaged through the cabinets until she found a mug and a package of premixed hot cocoa powder. A minute in the microwave and she had a steaming cup to wrap her fingers around.
She was halfway across the great room when she decided going back to her room wasn't an option. The room was too small for an armchair. She'd have to sit on the bed and risk spilling chocolate on the beautiful quilt. The great room was cozy with the embers of the dying fire giving off a welcoming warmth and glow. Though it was tempting, Jillian had been feeling claustrophobic since her trip to the basement of her derelict house.
In need of air, she opted to go outside and sit on the wide front porch. There she wouldn't be reminded that Chance was on the other side of her bedroom wall, possibly sleeping naked.
Barefoot, she stepped out the front door and walked across the cool boards, which were damp with the heavy fog cocooning the B and B in darkness.
A single porch lamp gave just enough light to dispel the creepy, horror-movie feeling of the devil's shroud and illuminated the swing on one end of the long porch. Holding the warm mug between her hands, she settled on the swing, tucked her legs beneath her and wrapped the throw around her entire body as best she could with one hand.
When she'd shored up the gaps allowing cold air to touch her skin, she burrowed into the warmth and sipped the sweet cocoa, swaying back and forth with little effort.
She had to remember to save enough money to add a porch swing to her house. This was heaven, and so relaxing she could fall asleep out in the fog.
With no one to bother her, she forced thoughts of ghosts and Chance out of her mind and concentrated on how good the cocoa felt going down, warming her insides. She licked sweet chocolate from her lips, wondering what it would be like to have a man like Chance do the job for her.
Jillian closed her eyes and groaned. There she went again, thinking about a man who wasn't for her. The slight squeak of a hinge made her open her eyes.
The man she'd been trying to erase from her mind stood on the porch, as if conjured by her imagination.
Swallowing a curse, Jillian bit down on her tongue to keep from blurting out something utterly stupid.
He wore nothing but a pair of jeans, his hands dug into the pockets. He walked to the rail and leaned against one of the posts, staring out into the fog.
That was when Jillian realized he hadn't noticed her sitting in the swing at the end of the porch. She sat very still, studying every curve and edge of the man, hoping he'd go back inside without seeing her.
Chapter 6
A
fter an hour of tossing and turning, jumping at every sound and lying in the dark, staring at nothing but reliving everything, Chance gave up. He was afraid to go to sleep. Afraid of going back into the same dreams that plagued him every night.
What he feared most was what he might do when caught in the throes of his nightmare battle. Would he wake up before he caused damage to the place, or before he hurt someone? When he'd still been on active duty and stuck in a barracks before going home, he'd woken up slugging the hell out of the guy who'd been sleeping in the rack below his. It took four men to pull him off and shake him awake. The man he'd beaten had been taken to the hospital, suffering a broken nose, a concussion and a broken rib. And he'd been a friend.
Granted, the nightmares still came, but the violent reactions had dissipated. He hadn't hit a man in over a year. He had punched a couple of walls and a multitude of pillows, which indicated he still wasn't fit to sleep with anyone else in his room.
Tonight he'd dared to think about taking a woman to bed. Hell, he'd had sex since he'd deployed, but he hadn't stayed the night, hadn't allowed himself to fall asleep beside a woman.
He couldn't risk what might happen if he got caught up in another violent dream. Chance couldn't forgive himself for hitting a woman, even if he did it in his sleep.
When he'd run into Jillian in the hallway, he'd nearly lost his grasp on reason. She'd worn that incredibly sexy nightgown, displaying long, beautiful legs, and the mysterious and sexy swell of her breasts. Chance had almost thrown caution out the window.
He'd barely been able to stop himself from taking her into his arms and kissing her not once, but several times that evening. Though he'd kissed her at her house, he couldn't let it happen again. He was afraid he wouldn't stop at just a kiss. Jillian deserved a man who'd treat her right. Someone who didn't have a crap load of drama going through his head 24/7.
Unwilling to let himself sleep while Jillian lay in the room next to him, Chance had gotten out of his bed, pulled on his jeans and left the house. Out on the porch, he stared out into the fog, unable to see a single star. If it weren't so dangerous, he'd have gotten into his rental and driven until he was so tired he wouldn't have a chance to dream. Then he rememberedâthe SUV he'd rented was parked in front of Jillian's dilapidated house.
Metal scraped on metal nearby. Chance spun toward the sound, dropping into a fighting crouch, his fists bunched, ready to throw the first punch.
A shadowy lump swayed on what appeared to be a porch swing at the end of the porch.
“Who's there?” he demanded.
Silence met his question, and then a soft whisper drifted across to him. “Me. Jillian.”
His heart squeezed in his chest and his groin tightened as if that one word wrapped around him and constricted.
Walk away
, he said to himself.
Go back to your room. Stay away from her.
No amount of self-coaching worked. He found himself crossing the porch to stand in front of Jillian, wrapped in a blanket, holding a mug in her small hands. Her blond hair had dried, the tresses curling softly around her shoulders.
“Couldn't sleep?” she asked.
He shook his head, torn between staying and leaving.
With her free hand, she patted the seat beside her. “Then you might as well swing.”
He told himself he accepted her offer so that he didn't appear rude, but the truth was he couldn't refuse it. Being close to her was what he'd craved since he'd helped her off the floor of the basement. She was beautiful, optimistic and full of sunshine. She was everything he wasn't.
Chance sat beside her, the cool, damp slats pressing against his naked back, barely chilling his desire.
“Lean forward.” Opening her blanket, she slipped it behind him, her arm sliding across his skin.
He flinched.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” He leaned back, his arms crossed over his chest to keep from touching her.
But the blanket wasn't quite big enough for both of them. Jillian slid closer, her arm pressing against his.
He sat for a long moment, the electricity initiated by her touch pinging around his insides like a ball trapped in a pinball machine. If he didn't get away, he'd do something stupid, like kiss her again.
Chance jerked to his feet, sending the swing rocketing backward. It came back to knock him in the back of his knees, almost making him fall back into the seat beside Jillian.
“What's wrong?” Jillian asked, unfolding a long, slender leg to place a foot on the ground and stop the wild swinging.
“Nothing.” He stepped away from her and the swing and leaned his hands on the damp porch railing. If the stars were out to light his way, he'd go for a walk, a drive, anything but stay with Jillian. She was too beautiful to ignore, and sexy as hell in that nightgown the blanket did little to hide.
But he couldn't.
The porch boards creaked and a hand touched his shoulder. “What's wrong?”
How could he say that her hand on his shoulder made him want to turn and bury himself inside her, to have hot, naked sex with her until she screamed out his name? She'd call him a pervert, run screaming and tell Molly and Nova what a compete jerk he was. Or worse, she could love it as much as he knew he would and want more. From what he'd seen in her, she wasn't the type of woman who would go for a string-free one-night stand. She'd want commitment. Maybe even a ring to go with the sex.
“Don't touch me,” he said through gritted teeth.
She snatched her hand away. “Why? Does it hurt?”
“No.”
Again her hand rested on his arm. “Then tell me what's bothering you.”
He spun to face her, stalking her like an animal ready to slice into her with razor-sharp teeth.
Jillian's eyes widened and she backed up a step. “If you'd tell me what's wrong, maybe I can help.”
His lip curled back in a snarl. “You can't.”
When he started to go around her, back into the house, she touched his arm again.
Wound so tight his control vanished, Chance grabbed her arms and pushed her up against the wall. “You can't help me unless you want me to handle you like this.”
“I'm sure you have a r-reason,” she said, her hands resting on his chest, her fingernails curling against his skin.
“No reason. No control, just gut instinct.”
“Instinct to do what?” she asked, her voice a gravelly whisper.
“This.” He lowered his head and claimed her in a harsh kiss, grinding his lips against her soft, pliant mouth.
She gasped. Her mistake.
Chance drove his tongue through the gap and dragged his along hers.
At first her body was rigid, stiff against his, probably frightened by his sudden attack. Then she softened, leaned into him, and her hands slipped upward, feathering into the hair at the nape of his neck.
He pressed his hips to hers, nudging her with the rock-hard erection straining behind the fly of his jeans, desperate to take her, there on the porch, dressed in nothing but the encroaching fog.
Her leg curled around the back of his calf and slid up to his thigh.
Chance dropped his hands from her arms to her waist and lower to cup her bottom. Then he lifted, wrapping her legs around his waist. She locked her ankles behind him, freeing his hands. He dug his fingers into her gorgeous hair and tugged, tilting her head back. His mouth moved from hers, crossing the line of her jaw. He nipped at her earlobe and trailed a line of kisses and nips to the base of her throat, where her pulse pounded wildly beneath her skin.
He was on a one-way trip to heaven with a final destination in hell. With nothing but the thin fabric of her gown between him and her breasts, he could feel the last of his control slipping. He couldn't. Let. This. Happen.
He tore his lips from her skin, dropped his hands to her arms and leaned his head back, breathing like a marathon runner. Then as quickly as it began, he untangled her legs from around his waist and set her at arm's length.
She stood in that damned short nightgown, with the pathetic yet sexy excuse for a robe, and trembled. Her lips were swollen from his harsh kisses, and her hair hung in beautiful disarray.
“Go to bed, Jillian.”
Her chin lifted, her shoulders squared and she wrapped her arms around her middle. “Not until you tell me what just happened.”
“Nothing. And it won't happen again.” He turned his back to her so that he didn't have to see how the beaded tips of her breasts made twin tents of the filmy fabric of her nightgown. So that he didn't have to see the accusation in her eyes.
He'd kissed her, damn it. When he'd sworn he wouldn't do it again. Now all he wanted to do was to keep kissing her and take her up to his room, where he'd make love to her until the next morning. But he couldn't risk it.
“Okay. I'll go,” she said. “But this isn't over.”
“Yes. It. Is.” Without looking, he could feel her disappointment, maybe even anger at his behavior. Chance balled his fists, refusing to let himself hold her again.
“I don't know what kind of struggle you're going through, and I don't really know how to handle it. So for now, I'll go.” She touched his shoulder. “But I'm not much on leaving a battle until the war's won. So don't think this is done.”
Before he could argue the point, the door to the B and B opened and closed behind him. When he turned, she was gone.
He was left on the porch with a deep ache that made him feel even more alone than before he'd arrived in Cape Churn.
* * *
On shaking legs, Jillian walked away from Chance, closing the door between them, feeling as if the closed door was more than physical. He'd made it clear he didn't want anything to do with her.
Then why had he kissed her the way he had, stirring in her a desire she couldn't turn off like the burner on a stove? Her core throbbed with need, and she turned around twice on the stairs, ready to march back down and confront Chance. How could he do this to her?
Anger and pride got her to her room, but she couldn't lie down and sleep. Not when her pulse raced and her insides ached. She wanted him, even though he'd pushed her away.
Flopping down on the bed, she lay still, listening for his footsteps. Fifteen minutes passed, then thirty. Finally the floorboards creaked outside her door and down the hallway. She heard his door open and close and then nothing.
Jillian pounded her fists into the soft mattress.
Damn him.
Rolling over, she hugged one of the two pillows to her chest, a poor substitute for flesh and blood, but all she had available. Chance could have had her, and she'd have gone willingly to his bed. Well, he'd missed his opportunity. Her best bet was to be gone before he rose in the morning. The less she saw of him before the wedding, the better.
With her plan firmly in mind, Jillian closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep. But sleep didn't come for another hour. When it did, it was filled with erotic dreams of lying naked with the man in the room next to hers.
* * *
Before the sun rose the next day, Jillian was up, dressed and on her way to her office in town, determined to get some work done before she swung by to check on the remodeling efforts. She took the kitten with her so that he wouldn't be under Molly's feet.
She'd acquired three new listings over the past couple of days and had yet to get them up on the Multiple Listing Service. She had taken the photos but needed to upload them and create the text describing each vacation cottage in detail. For the next two hours, she worked steadily, pausing only long enough to pet the kitten in her lap. The sun had been up for an hour when she got the call. She answered by hitting the speaker key so that she could keep her hands free to continue working on the computer.
“Miss Taylor?” said a male voice.
“This is she.” She clicked a check box for fireplace and moved on to the field for garage and entered a two.
“This is Bob Greer. I'm at your house. We just got here and I...uh...think you need to come out before we get started.”
Her gut clenched, but she refused to get excited by the tone of Bob's voice. With forced calm, Jillian picked up the receiver, her full attention on the caller. “Why? What's wrong?”
“There's been some vandalism at the work site.”
“What kind of vandalism?”
“Mostly paint. Some of the supplies were disturbed, but mostly it's paint.”
“I'm on my way. Don't touch anything until I get there.” She hung up and dialed Gabe McGregor's cell number.
He answered immediately. “Hey, Jillian, what's up?”
“Are you on duty?”
“I am,” he answered in his usual cheerful tone. “What can I do for you?”
“Could you meet me at my house?”
“Sure. Why?”
“Bob, my contractor, called to say there's been some vandalism.”
“I'll be there in five.”
“Me, too.” She hung up, grabbed her purse, keys and the kitten, and headed out the office door. Who would vandalize a house that had been sitting vacant for seventeen years? It didn't make sense.
When she cleared the trees of the drive leading up to her house, her heart pinched. Bright red paint marred the exterior walls, windows and railing.
She climbed out of her Jeep and stood for a moment, breathing deeply, reining in the jolt of anger that fired up her blood. This was not a huge deal. The house had yet to be painted and the windows all needed to be replaced with energy-saving double-paned models.
But until those two things happened, the house would appear to be bleeding with one giant word sprayed in full view:
HAUNTED.
Yes, she was angry, but the house wasn't finished and this wouldn't cost her more than a second coat of primer over the red paint. She could handle this setback.