Get a Clue (3 page)

“Where were you when I first arrived?” she asked, trying to control her shivering but having no luck. Instead she continued to tremble, mixing up her innards like a shake.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Dante said.

“There's someone in my suite.”

He gave a palms-up gesture. “A mixup with reservations. Don't worry.”

Oh, okay. She wouldn't worry, then.
Not
. Unsatisfied with the vague answers, she stayed where she was in the doorway, still freezing, wondering what the hell to do.

“You going to get any closer to the heat?” her thug butler asked.

Heat
. Her entire body craved it more than her next breath, but there was still the matter of the Naked Guy and his status, and much as she didn't want to be
alone
in this house of horrors, she really,
really
didn't like the idea of being here with these guys, either.

“Suit yourself.” With a shrug, Dante faced the burgeoning fire, holding his hands out as if he was cold, too.

On the other hand, Breanne thought, if these guys were going to hurt her, it was probably best that she be warm so she could fight back, right? But before she could move, from above came the unmistakable sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. Breanne tipped her head back, but in the dark couldn't see. “Um, Dante?”

“Relax,” he said from his perch by the fire.

Sure. She'd just relax.
After
she died of nerves. From the stairs, a pair of bare feet emerged, then denim-covered legs, long and tough with strength.

Her heart jolted unexpectedly into her throat. She knew those legs; she'd seen them with water and soap raining down the length of them. They'd been tanned and well defined, as if he used his body for more than sitting behind a desk balancing other people's checkbooks for a living as she did.

And he didn't wear underwear
.

The unbidden thought caused an inane hot flash. All those male . . . parts, nestled against the denim.

Naked.

She began to sweat some more but didn't bother to say a word to Dante, because if he told her to relax again, she was going to come unglued.

Then a bare chest materialized, still gleaming from the shower, but no less jaw-dropping for it. She already knew the guy had a nice body, muscular without being beefy, lean without being scrawny.

His belly was ridged, carved into a six-pack she envied, since sit-ups were something she occasionally thought about but never actually did. He had a very light smattering of hair between his pecs that narrowed into a line down his belly that vanished into the loose waistband of his jeans, like an arrow toward the hidden prize—

He held up his hand, and in it was . . .

Oh, God.

The neon-pink vibrator, glowing in the dark now.

It was following her, stalking her, all the way down the yellow brick road to hell.

Naked Guy—not quite naked now—came the rest of the way into view, and unerringly turned his head in her direction, and though it was dark in the shadows where she stood, she knew his eyes landed right on her.

He had an odd awareness to him, as if he could see in the dark. As if he knew exactly what was going on around him at all times, a skill she'd never mastered in the best of times, to which today absolutely did not belong.

He also had the look of a man thinking things—things that, even with fear coursing through her, made her face heat and other parts tingle.

He smiled grimly, a lopsided smile that did nothing to dull the fact that he was amazing to look at—and terrifying, all at the same time.

With a pathetic little whimper, Breanne pressed back closer to the wall, swallowing hard, trying to decide if that had been an anticipatory “all the better to eat you with” smile . . .

Or simply a trick of the flickering firelight.

Cooper took the last step and came face-to-face with his voyeur for one brief flash before she backed up into the darkness. All around them it closed in, except for the low glow of light from the fireplace—and, of course, from the vibrator.

Then he caught a movement and tensed as a shadow to his left materialized into a man.

“Welcome,” the man said in utter contradiction to his urban street clothes. He eyed the vibrator in Cooper's hand but whatever his thoughts were on a guy wielding a vibrator, he kept them to himself. “I'll get some candles.”

“Who are you?”

“Dante, your butler,” he said, without a hint of laughter, indicating he was serious.

A butler? Cooper watched Dante vanish into the darkness. He'd been dressed more like any of the punks he'd encountered over the years on the job, but if the punk had candles to share—

“Unbelievable.”

This from the woman somewhere in the dark, beyond him in the foyer.

Turning, Cooper located her faint outline against the foyer windows. She had sunk to the floor, her back to the glass. There was a low-light digital display in front of her face, and she appeared to be entering something into a handheld digital device.

“No groom,” she muttered as she entered. “Flight from hell. More snow than the Arctic Circle. A serious lack of electricity. Oh, and a gorgeous naked guy.”

Cooper blinked. Gorgeous naked guy?
Him?
As bad as things had been lately, he'd take it.

“Next up,” she said, thumbs furiously hitting the keys. “Is getting knocked off on your honeymoon.”

Cooper held up the glowing vibrator to see her better, filling in some of the details he'd only caught glimpses of before. She had long, wavy hair, most of it in her face, and huge, wide eyes. Hard to tell if she was pretty, but something about her grabbed him. Her sweater was pink, snug to her full breasts, and she was damn cold if the hardness of her nipples meant anything. As he moved closer, she gasped.

“No one's getting knocked off,” he said softly.

“Easy for you to say.” She was shivering out of control. “You're not the one facing death.”

“Neither are you.”

She lowered her digital unit. “I really, really wish I hadn't come.”

She was scared, shaking with it, and probably chilled to the bone. Knowing how she felt, he crouched in front of her. Because he'd come running when he'd heard her cry out he was still wearing only his jeans, so he raised his hands to show that while he might be half-naked, he was harmless, forgetting for a moment that he held the glowing vibrator. “You dropped this.”

This got him a vehement head-shake. “Not mine,” she said firmly.

“But I saw you—” He broke off at the look of horror on her face. “No? Hmm . . .” Knowing damn well she'd dropped it, he pretended to ponder the ownership as he turned the thing over in his hands. It turned on, humming loudly into the silent foyer.

This drew another gasp from her, so he tried to turn it off, but only succeeded in cranking it into high gear, and it nearly vibrated right out of his hands.

“Oh, for—
here
.” Snatching it out of his hand, she turned it off and then stood up, jamming the thing into her back pocket. “Who are you? Not the butler—there's already one of those.”

“Cooper Scott.” He left out the unemployed loser part as he straightened. “You're right, I'm not another butler. I'm a guest. And you're . . . ?”

“In the twilight zone,” she said, peering uneasily into the dark around them.

“So in your twilight zone, you watch people shower?”

Without the glow of the vibrator, he couldn't see her expression clearly, but could feel the heat of her embarrassment. “I didn't intend to intrude on your privacy,” she said primly. “I just didn't realize what you were doing.”

“You didn't realize that when someone's standing bare-ass naked in the shower, rubbing soap all over their body, it means they're taking a shower?”

Her glare practically lit up the dark.

“Let me give you a helpful hint,” he said. “Knocking on a closed door is a good thing.”

“And let me give
you
a hint.” She punctuated this with a poke to his chest. The contact of her finger with his bare flesh shocked him, and given the funny hitch to her breath, it startled her, too. “Stay out of other people's honeymoon suites.”

Jerking to her feet, she jammed her Palm Pilot in the bag strung over her shoulder. “You were showering in
my
honeymoon suite.”

“No.
I
rented this house. Well, my brother did, but it's mine for the week.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, plumping her full breasts up and out. She wasn't tall, maybe up to his shoulder, but her jeans and sweater clung to her body, revealing she was quite the package. “Wrong again,” she said indignantly. “The place is mine, bucko.”

“I forgot your name.”

He stared at her, wondering how it was he felt both annoyed and . . . alive, extremely alive, a feeling he hadn't experienced in too long. He had no idea what she'd look like in the light of day. He had no idea what she really looked like in the dark, either, other than a nice set of curves with sparks of temper coming from her general direction, but it didn't matter. She was as annoying as hell, even if she did think he looked good naked.

She was also shaking like a drowning poodle. Fact was, he was damned cold himself, with no shirt and no socks. “Cooper,” he said with a sigh. “My name is Cooper. And you're . . .”

“B-Breanne,” she said through her chattering teeth.

“Look, Breanne, the fire is crackling now. Move closer to it.”

“Why?”

He sighed again at her wariness. Had he done that, or was she just defensive and cranky all on her own? “Because you're turning into a popsicle.” He put his hand on her arm, shocked at how chilled she really was. Her sweater was thin, wet, and nearly iced over, her skin beneath just as bad. “Didn't anyone ever tell you that you need to wear a coat in a snowstorm?”

“It wasn't snowing in San Francisco. Or on the plane. Or in the airport.”

Another violent shiver wracked her and he ran his hand up and down her arm, trying to give her some of his body heat. “What about when you left the airport?”

She stared at his bare chest, though he figured that was just her way of avoiding eye contact. “Lost my luggage.”

“You've lost your groom
and
your luggage?”

“Yes.” Behind her temper was a sadness that got to him. “And I hate the dark, too.”

He looked at her for a moment, wondering at the urge to touch her, to open his hand, spread his fingers and stroke her skin. “You're having a hell of a bad day all around, aren't you?” he murmured.

“You have no idea.”

“Come here.”

She went absolutely still, only her eyes cutting once again to his bare chest. “Why?”

Besides being wary and cold, she was a suspicious thing. And looking as she did, all disheveled and shockingly sexy for it, he could understand she had a good reason to feel that way. He could practically see her heart pounding at her ribs, and her belly rose and fell too quickly.
She was afraid of him
. That cut deep, as he'd spent most of his life helping people not to be afraid. “I'm not going to hurt you. I promise.”

“Like I'd take your word,” she said bravely, but then let him tug her out of the foyer and into the great room. The flames were roaring now, lighting the place with a soft glow, showing off the inviting leather couches.

But the woman just stood there stiffly, arms still wrapped around herself, shuddering with her chill. Her long, wavy hair was the same color as her eyes—expensive whiskey. She had a light smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks, and lips that were soft and full.
Made for kissing
came the inane thought.

“You're staring,” she said.

And for smart-mouthing
. “You're cold. Come warm up.”

She just shivered again, continuing to hug herself. He knew those clothes had to be damned uncomfortable against her skin, molding her figure, which happened to be a nice one. Not chunky, but not thin, either.

Just right for holding onto. Not that he'd ever been choosy when it came to women. Hell, he hadn't had the opportunity to be choosy, not with his job that had taken up every second of his last few years.

Yet another full-body shudder wracked her and he nearly reached for her. The stupid hero in him.

Ignoring him completely, she moved closer to the flames, leaning in, revealing her backside, and the vibrator glowing from the pocket.

“That butler guy . . .” She glanced over her shoulder and caught him grinning. “What?”

“Nothing.” To swipe off the grin, he had to look away from the vibrator peeking out of her pants. “Go ahead. The butler guy . . . ?”

She narrowed her eyes. “He said the manager was temporarily unavailable. But as soon as he shows up, he'll tell you. This place is mine for the week.”

“Look, I hate to argue with a lady who's already had a pretty fucked-up day—”

“—then don't.”

“—but you're wrong.”

“Not about this.”

He might have said more, but instead frowned as it occurred to him that her teeth were in danger of rattling right out of her head. “Hey.” He put his hand on her arm, which was even icier now than it had been. Beneath his fingers he felt her tense enough to shatter, and he lifted his other hand as well, holding both her arms. She was shaking so hard she nearly shuddered free, so he tightened his grip slightly, trying to hold her steady. “You really need to change your clothes.”

She tried to twist away, but newly concerned, he held onto her, sucking in a breath when her hair brushed his own chilled skin.

“Trust me,” she said through her rattling teeth. “Given what I have in my carry-on, I can't change.”

“You have nothing?”

“Not exactly nothing.” She stopped trying to break away from him and looked at her fancy boots, the kind that were made for muddying up a man's brain, not for real use. Her hair fell forward, again against his chest. Normally he loved a woman's hair teasing him there, but these strands were frozen. He sucked in another breath and waited for her to speak.

“Just . . . honeymoon stuff,” she said softly.

Everything she'd said finally clicked in. “Are you really on your honeymoon? Alone?”

“Well, the tickets were paid for, weren't they?”

“What happened to your husband?”

“No husband. He never . . . we didn't—” Taking a step back, she lifted her head, eyes proud. “He didn't show up, all right? And there was no use sticking around to face the sympathy and barely masked glee that being dumped at the altar brings.” Another violent shiver followed this statement, along with a very disparaging sigh.

Cooper swore softly, softening in spite of himself, and he pushed her into a large leather recliner. It was entirely possible she'd actually had it rougher than he had lately, and that was saying something. “No big deal. I have plenty of clothes upstairs. I'll be right back—”

She bounced back up so fast she nearly cracked his chin with her head. “Really, don't bother yourself. I'm fine.”

“But I have a bag right upstairs.”

“Honestly, I'm good . . .” She glanced around her. “No reason for you to have to go upstairs.”

He took in the white around her eyes, the way she gripped him tight, as if maybe he was the lesser of all the evils of her day. “You're scared.”

She let out a laugh. “No.”

“Just say it. You don't want me to leave you alone down here.”

“Ridiculous,” she muttered.

“Ridiculous? You're afraid of the dark, remember?”

“Not afraid, exactly. Unhappy with it.”

“And it was only my imagination that a few minutes ago you were looking at me as if I might be a murderer?”

“Or a serial rapist.” Her lips were still blue as her teeth chattered from her chill. “B-but I've since decided you're probably neither.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Now you're just the guy standing between me and my honeymoon suite.” More bone-crunching shudders wracked her, appearing to start at her roots and end at her toes. “My w-warm honeymoon suite.”

Once again he ran his hands up and down her arm, truly alarmed for her now. “You were up there,” he said, maneuvering her closer to the fire. “You know it's not any warmer than the rest of the house. At least not yet.”

She didn't answer that but looked horribly dejected at the thought.

“Okay, listen,” he said. “You can come
with
me upstairs, or you can wait here. Either way, I'm going to get us both something more to wear.”

She plopped back into the chair and sent her chin to the heavens. “I'm not budging.”

God, she was stubbornness personified. And frustrating. And somehow, also, inexplicably adorable. “Suit yourself, but I'm going. I'm getting you a change of clothing and me some socks and a shirt, and then I'm starting a fire up there so I can hit the sack.”

“Not my sack, you're not.”