Craving a Hero: St. John Sibling Series, book 3 (3 page)

"Did I miss a bite?" she asked, trying to stifle a grin.

He took the swab she held up to him, cupped her chin, leaned in closer, and dabbed at her forehead. "Yeah. You missed one all right. But that's okay because I didn't."

There was a husky tone lacing his words, something that implied he meant more than he was saying. It was in the way his dazzling blue eyes met hers and in how his less-than-Hollywood polished fingertips held her chin. It was in the way he smelled of the woods rather than pricey aftershave and the way his broad shoulders blocked out the sun as he hovered over her. Damn, but was she finally falling for his charm?

"Has anyone ever told you how amazingly bright your eyes are?" he asked.

"They're brown," she murmured, still caught up in his gaze, his touch, his smell.

"Pale with a hint of green and oh so bright," he returned, his face lowering towards hers.

Instinctively, her eyelids lowered and her mouth tilted up to meet his. His kiss was gentle, warm, just a hint of tongue testing the line of her lips. Then his lips were gone and she was left with hers slightly parted, expecting—wanting more.

She opened her eyes to find him frowning down at her. All at once, the words rushed from both of them at the same time.

"Why aren't you slugging me?" he asked.

"Why'd you stop?" she asked.

"You didn't want me to stop?"

"You expected me to slug you?"

Their words tangling, they laughed together.

She noticed he no longer held her chin. Instead his hands filled the space between them, one still holding the used sting stop stick, the swab looked dwarfed between his long fingers, fingers in perfect symmetry to his large, masculine hands. Why was she noticing such stuff about him
now.
She better change the mood here real quick.

She side-stepped him and gathered up the used swabs.

"I still can't believe you didn't slug me," he said, propping a lean hip against the lowered tailgate of the truck where she dumped the used swabs into a waste bag.

"Why?" she asked, pleased her voice sounded reasonably normal.

"To say you haven't been receptive to my charms would be an understatement. You've been downright prickly toward me."

She shrugged. "You were a job."

"Babysitting job, I seem to recall overhearing you say."

As if her cheeks weren't already warm enough, a fresh flush of heat flooded them. "I didn't mean for you to hear that."

"Even if I hadn't, you made it pretty clear I wasn't welcome."

"It wasn't personal," she said, putting her emergency kit in order.

"Glad to hear it."

"Being the token minority hire, I get all the jobs nobody else wants."

"Didn't know I was such a bother."

She closed the lid on her kit and gave him a chastening look. "You could listen better—follow instructions better. If you had, you wouldn't have fallen into that ground hornets' nest."

"At least I got your attention…finally."

She studied him for some sign he was making fun of her, that what he'd said earlier about trying to impress her was just some ploy to charm her. But
damn
, the man looked so blasted sheepish. Or maybe he looked vulnerable because his Hollywood face was studded with welts.

"You didn't want me to stop kissing you?" he asked, this time with less astonishment and far more wonder.

"It was a nice kiss," she said, stowing her kit—keeping her voice as neutral as she could manage.

The cocky, movie star smile stretched across his lips. "Just nice?"

Good grief, of course not! The kiss had been wonderful, but much too brief, she wanted to say.

Instead, she cleared her throat,
back to business. "I better get you to where a doctor can look at those bites."

"I'm fine," he said, adding the swab he'd used on her to the bag she was about to tie up.

"Sure you are," she said, closing the tailgate he still leaned against and making him jump away. "But I'm not taking any chances."

She headed for the driver's side door. He headed for the passenger side but stopped dead, eyeing himself in the oversized side mirror.

"That doesn't look good," he said.

"Maybe now you'll listen to reason—understand why I want you to see a doctor."

He climbed into the truck. "I don't need a doctor. But I'd sure like to avoid being seen by the paparazzi booked into the motel room next to mine."

"Isn't that just typical of you Hollywood types, more concerned about your looks than your health," she said, inserting the key in the ignition.

One man-sized hand covered hers, stopping her from starting the truck. "Kelly—"

It was the first time he'd called her by her given name and it made her stomach do flip-flops. Or maybe it was his touch, or the quietness, the sincerity with which he spoke her name. Or maybe he was a better actor than she had expected him to be.

"What?" she snapped.

"This business I'm in, it's focused on looks way more than I like. But, worse, it feeds on gossip. One front page tabloid picture of me looking like this, and it'll set off a firestorm of outrageous stories."

She thought of the tabloid papers her mother religiously read, of how they filled the racks at every checkout in the grocery store and gas station in little Copper Ridge—how, whenever she picked her mother up at the beauty shop, the content of those rags was all anyone was talking about. She'd always thought it better than their gossiping about their neighbors. But, now, with one of the popular subjects of the tabloids sitting next to her in her truck, she had to wonder.

"The headlines will read everything from Action Star Brought Down By Hornets to Action Star Struck With Career Ending Virus," he said.

She settled back in her seat, pulling her hand out from beneath his. "You sure you feel okay?"

"Yes," he said.

Still, she took one more shot at convincing him to let her take him to a doctor. "I thought the saying was better any notice rather than no notice."

He motioned to his welted face. "I know this is hardly a career ending story. I'm just not accustomed to being in the spotlight so much."

She gave him a you-chose-the-career look. "Comes with the territory, no?"

"Yeah. I just never expected that every little move I made, every little mistake I make would be front page news."

"So you admit you made a mistake in not listening to me."

He threw his head back and laughed. "Didn't I already say I did?"

She smiled. "How badly do you want to avoid that paparazzi?"

He sobered and settled his head against the headrest. "Real bad."

"Bad enough to rough it for a day or two until those welts disappear?"

He tipped a roguish grin at her. "I can rough it with the best."

She snorted and started the truck. "We'll see about that."

His grin stretched. "Guess not everything I did today was a mistake."

CHAPTER TWO

What had he meant by,
not everything I did today was a mistake?

More to the point, what did she want his words to mean? That kissing her
wasn't
a mistake?

Those were the questions haunting her as she'd driven Dane St. John deeper into the woods to her family's camp, as she'd unlocked the cabin for him, and muttered apologies for the sparse accommodations.

"It's a great place," he'd said, not a hint of mocking in his tone or his eyes, as they'd taken in the one room cabin with double-wide bunks built-in on one end and kitchen and living area on the other.

"Outhouse is out back," she said, almost challenging him.

He didn't gasp in horror, just nodded.

"I'll prime the pump for you before I leave and show you how to do it in case it loses its prime," she'd said.

"I know how to prime a pump," he'd said, increasing her curiosity of the man. She was beginning to realize she knew very little about him beyond the tabloid gossip.

"If you want to wash up, you can heat water in the kettle on the gas stove." She turned a knob on the stove and the burner flamed to life. "Stove's good to go." She turned off the burner and found him peering out the back window between the cook stove and free-standing wood stove.

"Is that a shower set-up?" he asked.

She didn't need to join him at the window to know what he'd spotted out by the wood shed.

"Yeah. It's pretty basic," she said. "Just a cistern to collect rainwater and four slab-wood walls."

His long legs took him across the room and out the door before she'd taken two steps after him. By the time she cleared the door, he had disappeared around the corner. She caught up to him out back examining the rustic enclosure.

"I'd love to shower off all this sweat and bug juice," he nodded and peered up at the cistern. "Think there's enough water in there for a shower?"

"Probably, but it'll be cold."

"Wouldn't be the first cold shower I've taken," he said, giving her a wink.

What was that supposed to mean?

He climbed onto the frame of the wall and tapped his way up the cistern. "There's plenty of water in there."

"It
has
rained a lot lately," she said.

He hopped down.

"If you're seriously considering showering," she said, taking hold of a rope draped over a nail on one wall, "you pull this to open the spout. I suggest you use just enough water to wet yourself down, soap up, and save the rest for rinsing."

"Got it," he said, looking at her through eyes that suggested he already knew how to take a field shower. Who was this man?

"Soap's on the back of the kitchen sink and towels are on the shelf opposite the bunks."

He nodded. She headed back into the cabin. He followed and, snagging the soap and a towel, headed back out to the cistern.

What possessed her to peek out the back window she hadn't a clue.

Wrong
. She knew exactly why she did it. Dane St. John peeling his t-shirt up his trim six-pack abs and off over his broad shoulders was a sight any woman would enjoy. She wanted another look at that manly back she'd seen as she'd applied sting stop to his body. And such a fine back it was. Then, in one fluid movement, he pushed his jeans and shorts down his long legs.

Her jaw dropped and she stepped away from the window. Spying on people was normal for a CO, but
this
was not CO business. Better she survey the cupboards for supplies.

But, even as she declared the non-perishables adequately stocked, she couldn't erase the image of Dane St. John's naked body from her mind.

A yowl from the back of the cabin told her he'd doused himself in cistern water and was safely hidden from view by the shower's slab walls. She took quick note of the contents of the gas powered refrigerator. A few condiments, some cheese, and a questionable carton of eggs. She wrote up a grocery list in record time and exited the cabin.

As she stepped around the back corner of the cabin, a second yowl warned her he was rinsing.

"Warned you it would be cold," she said as she neared the makeshift shower.

"Bracing," he called back as though he'd enjoyed the shock of cold water against his heated skin. At least she assumed all that tan, muscle-stretched skin she glimpsed between the ill-fitting wood slabs of the shower stall was hot. Wouldn't she just love to step around those boards and find out? Wouldn't she just love to check out where the tan lines ended on Dane St. John's fine body?

But he was no doubt the add-another-notch-to-his-belt Joe Hollywood type; and she called, "I'm heading into to town to get you some groceries. Be back in a couple hours."

#

So, here she was, three hours later, bouncing along the two rut road through the woods to the cabin, the back of her personal SUV loaded with grocery bags and still thinking about Dane St. John's bare butt. Worse, his,
not everything I did today was a mistake
comment still nagged her, mostly because she knew what she wanted it to mean—still wanting there to be more to that whisper of a kiss he'd given her behind her DNR truck.

But she was a plain-Jane, boondock living, Conservation Officer, who'd taken the time to shuck her company gear, shower every hint of insect repellent from her body and brush out her hair…which had looked like a frizzed out bird's nest so she'd re-braided it. She'd even added lip gloss before she'd headed back to the camp. Lot of good it did, since she'd eaten it off halfway into the thirty minute drive.

She powered her SUV up the final incline to where the camp sat atop the bluff, thinking she could reapply the lip gloss before she hauled the groceries inside and came face-to-face with
him
. But he was outside when she arrived, sitting atop the picnic table on the point beyond the cabin, feet on the attached bench overlooking the valley and woods beyond. All she saw, though, was that he hadn't put his t-shirt back on.

She braked to a halt, licked her lips, and stepped down from the truck.

He hopped off the table, gait loose as he approached. "That's a helluva view."

"It's the highest point around," she said, fixated on the view she was getting of his bare, broad shoulders, tapering hips, and everything in between.

He stopped in front of her and peered over his shoulder as though he couldn't get enough of the view behind him. "Is there a name for this place?"

"Angel Point," she said, staring at his muscle-sculpted chest well within her reach.

He nodded. "Someone got the name right."

She blinked and lifted her gaze just as he faced her.

"Must be spectacular when fall colors peak," he said.

"You know about the leaves turning color here in the fall?" she asked, partly surprised, partly frazzled she'd even fleetingly thought about touching his naked chest.

He smiled that smile Kelly was beginning to recognize as a mix of amusement and scolding. "I wasn't cloned full grown in Hollywood. I've seen a fair share of the world, and long before I ever set foot in LaLa Land."

Flushing with embarrassment, she turned toward the SUV. "I have the groceries."

He was instantly at her side, crowding her as he reached past her into the vehicle to grab a couple of large paper bags. His naked shoulder brushed her thinly-shirted one, making her fingers fumble on the plastic handles of the smaller bags, and her stomach feel as if butterflies had just taken flight.

Bad, bad, bad.
No matter his reference to his past life, he was still Joe Hollywood, a babysitting job…a mere annoyance.

"Do you have any idea how great the air smells here in comparison to L.A.?" he stated more than asked as he led the way into the cabin. "God's country," he said as he put the bags on the countertop. "Isn't that what the locals call it up here?"

She nodded dumbly, still reeling from those butterfly wings inside her stomach. He unthreaded the plastic bags from her fingers, leaving her yearning for more contact.

"So, what'd you get me?" he said, digging through the bags. "I'm so hungry I could eat a bear."

"Not bear," she said through a weak chuckle, her attempt at levity.

"Looks like you bought enough to last a week."

"I didn't know what you liked. Beef, pork, chicken." A horrible thought struck her. "I didn't think to ask you if you were vegetarian."

"So many of us Hollywood types are, is that it?"

She blinked at him, not sure if she should be offended or amused by his mocking.

He laughed, breaking the tension. "My first morning in the DNR office I brought in a bag of
sausage
and egg biscuits for everyone. Maybe you remembered that."

"Maybe I did…subconsciously."

His smile stretched—that perpetual smile that gave him the boyish looks that belied his reported thirty-something age. "I think you notice everything."

She all but dropped the gallon of milk into the fridge. "What do you know about what I notice?"

"Those of us who play-act characters find it useful to pay attention to the mannerisms and speech patterns of people around us, especially those who we might emulate, or we won't get the details right."

She turned within the open fridge door so she faced him. But whatever she was about to say was lost as he leaned in and set a carton of eggs on the shelf behind her. He lingered, his body inches from hers, peering down at her with that enigmatic smile she couldn't seem to ignore. She should be trying to read whether he mocked her, not recalling how those lips had touched hers and awakened something in her she wasn't sure she was ready to explore.

"Maybe you should have kept the eggs out," she managed in a voice that sounded reasonably level…at least in her ears. "Hungry as you are, nothing cooks up quicker than a couple eggs."

"A couple eggs aren't going to satisfy the hunger I have," he said, still standing too close. Then he winked and turned back to the bags on the counter.

There he went again, implying something…or not. But his words as much as his tone was thick with innuendo.

"Steak," he said.

"Huh?"

"If that grill outside has gas in its tank, it'll make quick work of a steak. Add a salad, throw a little garlic on this crusty bread—" He lifted a loaf of bread from one of the bags. "—brown it on the grill, and we've got a meal."

"We?" The word came out as a squeak. "I wasn't planning to stick around and—"

He handed her the packages of chicken and chops to put in the fridge. "You bought me a big sirloin. More than I can eat on my own. Besides, I owe you for hiding me out and grocery shopping."

"You can repay me for the groceries and the cabin is sitting here empty," she said, busying herself with stowing the extra meat. "No sweat."

"I'd like the company."

She straightened, her heart skipping a beat. He wanted
her
company?

No. No. No.
Determined to remain immune to the man, she shot back, "What's the matter? Lost without your entourage?"

"Did you see me arrive in town with an entourage?"

"I wasn't among the bevy of fans welcoming you to town," she said, closing the fridge to find he'd taken the sirloin from its package and placed the slab on a plate.

"There was no
bevy
of fans gathered to greet me," he said, taking a garlic powder shaker from the cupboard. "There wasn't a crowd at all. I just drove into town in my rental and registered at the hotel all by myself…except for that paparazzi who trailed me here."

She sliced the crusty bread lengthways and buttered it. "We're pretty grounded here in the Upper Peninsula."

He handed her the garlic powder. "So
movie stars
don't turn heads much around here, huh?"

She thought of the plethora of local tabloid-gazing inhabitants, her mother included, as she seasoned the bread, but knew better than to bring it up.

"In small towns, everybody knows everybody and half the populace is related to the other half. We've learned discretion…or at least to keep our gossip close."

"Sounds like my kind of town," he said, flipping the steak over for a second round of seasoning.

Okay, a lot of guys knew how to season and grill a steak. That didn't surprise her. But what was this
'my kind of town'
remark supposed to mean? And why did she want it to mean Copper Falls was a place he'd like to live? He was a movie star for heaven's sake. Probably lived in a Hollywood mansion with servants.

She shook off the thought and headed outside to turn on the grill before she said…or did something stupid in front of him.

#

His shorts were on the picnic table, spread out like he'd put them there to dry. Boxer-briefs, the kind that she doubted any store within fifties miles of Copper Falls kept in stock. She lived in boxers
or
briefs country. No fancy hybrids in this neck of the woods. And his were blue, navy blue, but still blue. Her father definitely didn't wear colored underwear. He was black and white from undies to attitude.