Get a Clue (4 page)

Had he thought her adorable, even for a second? “I'll be right back.”

He left her and loped up the dark, dark stairs, feeling his way along the hallway toward the bedroom, thinking the only way he'd want her in his bed was with a gag over that lovely, full, smart-ass mouth.

The image alone began to warm him up.

Breanne watched Cooper walk away and concentrated on breathing through her panic. There was also the fact that the firelight gilded his broad shoulders and sleek back, highlighting the worn Levi's that fell low on his hips, intimately cupping his tush, which she had to acknowledge was absolutely worth intimately cupping.

He had a way of moving, and a way of taking in his surroundings as he did.
Intensely aware
, she would have said. As if he was a predator.

And maybe he was.

Gulp
.

Then he vanished entirely, was simply swallowed up by the dark house, the only person she really had in this Alice-in-Wonderland place. Too proud to speak up, she sat there, heart in her throat, staring into the dark, gaping doorway that she couldn't see beyond, wondering what, or who, else besides Dante was out there.

A loud thump came from nowhere, and she leapt to her feet. The vibrator fell to the floor. Sweeping up the still-glowing thing, she clutched it to her chest as the thug/butler came back into the room.

Dante's hood was low over his face, but he carried a tray with two steaming cups of something, and suddenly she didn't care if the beefy, scary guy was Hannibal Lecter, he had something
hot
.

“Here,” he said, and handed her one of the cups with surprising grace for a tough, built guy who looked as if maybe he wore a cape and wrestled in his skivvies for a living. Or whacked kneecaps.

She stared at the offering, thinking of every bad movie she'd ever stayed up too late watching. Not only was she the stupid heroine alone in the house with two potential bad guys, she was about to be poisoned—

“If I was going to do something to you,” he murmured, “it wouldn't be poisoning your drink.”

She looked up at him and caught a surprising flash of humor in his eyes. “Are you laughing at me?”

“Nah, that would be rude.” He pushed her mug toward her mouth. “Drink. You're shivering so much you're making
me
cold.”

“Fine.” At least she'd die warm. She tucked the vibrator back into her waistband, grateful he hadn't made fun of her makeshift flashlight. Then her fingers closed around the ceramic mug, and at the blessed heat of it, she nearly burst into tears. “What was that noise before?”

“What noise?”

“I heard something bump. Or crash.”

Dante turned away, his wide shoulders completely blocking the fire's warmth for a moment as he set the other mug down on the small table by the couch. “I dropped something. Drink before you freeze to death.”

Or something to death, anyway. She sipped and, despite herself, moaned aloud at the frothy, thick, melting chocolate on her tongue. “Oh, my God.”

“Good?”

“Amazing.”

“Shelly made it, the cook here. She had water going on the stove before the power went out, luckily. I'll tell her you like it.”

Eyes closed, Breanne sipped some more, savoring the heat of it as it slid down her throat. Lifting her head, she went to smile at her mysterious butler, meaning to ask about the rest of the invisible staff, but he was
gone
.

Without a sound.

Yikes. Real or Memorex? She'd have sworn she'd imagined the whole thing—except she was holding the hot chocolate. Lord, she was losing it here. She looked around uneasily, the only sound the crackling of the flames and her own heartbeat echoing heavily in her ears. No sign of her hooded, right-out-of-a-thriller butler.

Or, for that matter, Gorgeous Naked Guy.

She sucked down more of the hot chocolate, wishing it was liquid courage, then stood and moved closer to the fire. She was tired of shaking, and damn tired of being wet and cold, so she tugged off her iced-over sweater. That left her in just a white tank top, and, crouching down before the flames, the warmth of the flames danced over her torso and arms, and she wished she could shuck out of her wet jeans, too.

“Miss me?”

Whipping around, she faced one tall, dark, and slightly attitude-ridden Cooper Scott. Still sockless and shoeless, he smiled grimly, and she did her best not to drool or stare.

His gaze touched on the sweater she'd spread across the mantel to dry, then swiveled back to her standing there in her little white tank top. She'd worn it because it sucked her in and pushed her out in all the right places, and because after competing with Dean's cell phone and long hours at work for months, she'd decided
no more
. She'd wanted to make sure he noticed her tonight, every inch of her.

Too bad Dean hadn't told her that
he'd
also decided
no more
. No more
her
. Now she was standing there, probably looking like a coed after a wet T-shirt contest.

Cooper's gaze lingered on her chest for a beat before lifting to her face. He didn't say a word, but jaw tight, dropped a duffel bag at her feet. In that oddly graceful and yet utterly masculine way he had, he hunkered down and began to go through it, the long, sleek muscles of his back and shoulders bunching and releasing with his every movement. “I couldn't see upstairs,” he muttered. “Or I'd have—Here.”

She reached for what he offered, a dark pair of plain sweat bottoms. Elastic around the ankles and the waist. He tossed her another dark item as well, a matching sweatshirt.

Her job in the accounting firm required her to dress up on a daily basis, which was amusing given that in school she'd never met a math class
or
a dress she'd liked, but years later she'd developed a taste for both.

Sweats hadn't figured much in her life. But then again, this wasn't her life, this was some alternate universe she'd stumbled into. So what if the sweats were going to make her look both short
and
fat; this was about survival, not looking good. Or so she told herself. “These are too long.”

“Roll 'em up.”

Spoken like a man who'd probably never given his appearance a single thought. And why should he—she'd seen him naked. He had
nothing
to hide, not a damn thing.

“Hurry up,” he said, and for a split beat his gaze dropped, running over her body. Specifically, her nipples, which could surely cut glass. “You're turning blue.” He straightened and took a step toward her, maybe even to do it for her, and suddenly hurrying seemed like a good idea. She pulled the sweatshirt over her head; then, with her arms still up, she paused. Holy smoke, the inside of his sweatshirt smelled good, like . . . like rough-and-tumble man. She stood there and inhaled some more, thinking they ought to bottle this smell—

“You okay in there?”

She yanked the sweatshirt into place. “Fine. Just got stuck for a minute.”

“Uh-huh.” His expression said he knew exactly what she'd been doing, but he sat on the floor without a word and pulled on socks, then running shoes, making her realize she wasn't the only one freezing.

And yet he'd seen to her comfort first. That did something she hadn't expected—it tugged at her.

Whoa. Stop the lust train.
Had she already forgotten?
No more men. Not even tall, built, bossy ones with an oddly thoughtful nature.
Especially
not even tall, built, bossy ones with an oddly thoughtful nature!

His hair, fawnlike with its myriad colors, stuck straight up in spots. Probably because she'd gotten him out of the shower and he hadn't had time to so much as comb it. His shoulders were still bare, and wide enough to withstand a lot, she'd bet.

He covered them up with a T-shirt he pulled from the bag, and then added a thick black sweater that looked deliriously soft and warm. “Better,” he sighed, then leveled his eyes on her. The firelight gleamed over his chiseled features, reflecting in his eyes. There was so much intensity there. And heat. Looking at her like that, he seemed impossibly handsome, and far too sexy for her own fragile frame of mind.

“Change your pants,” he said, and turning his back, jammed his hands in his pockets. “Hustle.”

His sexiness forgotten, she shook her head even though he couldn't see her. “I'm not going to change right here.”

“You're going to go somewhere else to do it? Into the dark house and maybe an even darker bathroom? You with your phobia of the dark?”

Damn. Good point. “Okay, but don't peek.”

“Because you didn't peek at me?”

Did he always have to be right?
“What about Dante?”

With a long-suffering sigh, Cooper moved around the couch to the huge double doors that led to the hallway and foyer. Shutting them, he turned back to face her, waggling his finger in a circle as if to say,
Go ahead
.

Breanne crossed her arms tighter over herself and shifted her weight from one frozen foot to the other. “Why can't you be on the
other
side of the door?”

“So you can lock me out and away from the flames? Don't think so.”

Another good point.

“You're stalling, Princess.”

Princess?
She'd show him princess! If she could move without trembling like a baby, that is. Since she couldn't, she just stood there in a rare moment of indecision, feeling oddly close to tears.

“Just do it,” he said, sounding tired. “This place is supposed to be some sort of exclusive hideaway, famed for its privacy.” Pushing away from the doors, he came close again, but then turned and faced the fire, holding out his hands to the flames. “Plus, I don't think Dante's exactly eager to have us demanding to know what the hell happened, booking two guests at the same time. He's probably in hiding.”

Maybe. Another shiver shook her body. Her jaw was sore from all the chattering her teeth were doing inside her head, and she felt so weary she could have curled up into a tiny ball in front of the fire and slept for the rest of the week.

“You done yet?”

“
No
.”

“
Jesus
. Just do it, would you?”

She reached for the zipper on her jeans. “You always this patient?”

“It's a special gift.”

“Betcha it gets you a lot of women.”

“Yeah, they're beating down my door.”

In direct conflict with those confident, cocky words, he hunched his shoulders, stretching the sweater taut across the muscles there as he stared into the fire.

She didn't have the time, nor could she spare the energy, to wonder about him, but she did. “Are you married?”

A rather harsh laugh escaped him. “No.”

“Committed?”

“No.”

With or without the attitude, she imagined he did have women beating down his door. It was all that disheveled hair calling to a woman's fingertips, that come-sin-with-me expression, those drown-in-me blue eyes.

And then there was the rest of him, which would have a weaker woman begging him for a distraction from this cold.

But she wasn't weak, and she had enough problems at the moment. She didn't need to be courting more. Hitching his oversized sweatshirt up to her chin to see, she reached for the zipper on her jeans, trying like hell not to inhale the delicious scent of the soft material again. Eyeing him carefully, she began to peel the wet jeans off her hips, not an easy chore because they'd practically iced themselves to her skin. She had to do the shimmy shake, and finally,
finally
got them to her knees, stopping to adjust her wayward panties.

Cooper turned around.

“Hey!”
she squealed, crossing her hands over her tiny scrap of white satin—worn for the rat bastard Dean.

Cooper ran his gaze from her undoubtedly wild hair to his own sweatshirt stuffed up to her chin, exposing her belly button piercing and the panties that hadn't been meant to cover much, and didn't. “I figured fair's fair,” he said very softly.

Literally caught with her pants down, Breanne stood frozen to the spot, unable to move or even breathe. In that horrible beat of time she became painfully aware of how she must look, sweatshirt high, pants at her knees, her barely there bikini bottoms askance . . .

Cooper's deep blue eyes sparked,
flamed
, and the oddest thing happened to her. In spite of everything, a little ball of heat swirled low in her belly.

She had to be delirious. From the cold. From exhaustion. From her life sucking big-time. Awkwardly she hopped again, trying to pull her jeans back up, but they weren't going anywhere. Then she made one too many hops and caught her boot heel on the hem of the jeans. Waving her arms wildly, she struggled for balance.

Cooper merely stepped forward and caught her.

Fine. He could help her and she could die of mortification later.

But he didn't help. He put a hand to the middle of her chest and gave her a little push, making her fall gracelessly to the couch. Once again, the pink vibrator hit the floor and rolled to a stop at his feet.

They both stared at it for one beat before Breanne tried to bounce back up.

“
Stay
,” he commanded.

Oh, no.
Hell, no
. She scissored her legs, meaning to kick him, either in the chin or the nads, she didn't care; she was going to take him down.
Now
.

But he just laughed low in his throat, and then again when she struggled to karate-chop him with her legs caught together by her own jeans.
Laughed
, as he crouched beside her, a big hand on either of her thighs and said, “Give in, Princess.”

“I never give in.”

Holding her down with ease, he reached for the fallen vibrator, lifting it up. The obnoxious thing still glowed neon-pink. “Never say never.” Then he grinned at her in the firelight, looking just like the devil must look in the dead of winter with no one to torture. “This thing keeps showing up. Maybe you should claim it.”

“It's
not
mine!”

“I don't know . . . earlier you were gripping it like it was your long-lost best friend.” With a flick of his wrist, he turned it on.

The low hum filled the air, and with it came a buzzing in Breanne's ear—the sound of her brain coming to boiling point.

“Ready for use,” Cooper said, suggestively waggling it in her face.

“Good.” She struggled to get free, trying not to think about the picture she was presenting him with. “You can shove it up your—”

“Oh, no,” he said. “Ladies first.” He dropped the thing to the couch next to her, where it rumbled against the soft, buttery leather while he slid his hands down her legs to the jeans pooled between her knees.

“Don't even
think
about it,” she choked out.

But he wasn't only thinking about it, he was doing it, fisting his fingers into the wet denim and yanking them past her knees to her ankles, where they caught on her boots.

His gaze met hers, intense and raw, and along with it a heart-stopping heat.

Did he have to pack such a sexual energy?
She felt her entire body clench with a punch of shocking yearning.

“High-heeled boots,” he murmured. “Ever so practical out here.”

She stared down at the top of his head as he worked on stripping her. Her little triangle of white satin had not only slipped sideways, it was now riding up into parts unknown. She'd had a bikini wax two days ago—again for the rat bastard Dean—and judging from the very soft, very rough sound that escaped Cooper at her movements, he'd caught an eyeful up close and personal. “If I wasn't so tired,” she murmured, sagging back, suddenly exhausted, “I'd kick your ass.”

“Next time,” he said, trying to untie her boots. The laces were iced. “I guess you were all prettied up for the honeymoon.”

No. She'd prettied up for herself, to feel sexy, but she was not going to argue with a man when her pants were around her ankles; when she had a vibrator bouncing on the couch next to her, taunting her; when she had bigger worries, such as her panties, and what they still weren't covering. Shoving the sweatshirt down as far as she could, which was to the tops of her thighs, she leaned forward to hurry the process along.

While she worked on one boot, Cooper continued to work on the other, his fingers managing to work faster and far more efficiently than hers. His bowed head was close enough to her thighs that he could have lifted his head and drunk his fill, but he kept his gaze on her boot, pulling it off, pushing her hands aside, then removing her other as well. Finally he hooked his hands into her jeans again and peeled them away. Her legs were pink and mottled from the cold, and when his knuckles brushed against her, she flinched. Without a word he stood, once again turning his back to her, staring into the fire, looking a little more tense than he had a moment ago.

“A little late now,” she muttered, pulling on the sweat bottoms.

He didn't respond to that.

“Done,” she said, and stood.

Only then did he turn back to face her, his gaze sweeping from top to bottom, taking in the way his sweats looked on her. The only sign of strain was a tic in his jaw. “You want the couch in front of the warm fire?” he asked. “Or the cold honeymoon suite? We can start you a fire there.”

She couldn't concentrate with the vibrator continuing to hum and jump on the couch, but she knew she didn't want to go further into the depths of the dark house. With an annoyed sound, she reached for the vibrator, desperate to turn it off.

Cooper beat her to it, turning it off himself before handing it back. “Keep it. You never know when you might need a friend.”

She rolled her eyes, but the thing provided a tiny bit of light so she grabbed it. Plus, given that she was off men, it might be sooner than later before she'd need a friend of the battery-operated variety.

“'Night,” he said with an irritating, knowing smile. He began to walk away.

“Wait!” When he turned back to her, she had to come up with something to say. “We . . . can't both really stay here.”

He just raised a brow.

“And I think you should be the one to leave,” she said, lifting her chin.

“Why me?”

“You said it yourself—I had a bad day.”

“Hell, Princess, I've had a bad year, and you don't see me whining about it.”

She wondered how bad was bad, and if it could possibly match hers.

“You want to trudge out in the snow and try to get into town?” he asked.

With the coyotes, bears, and God knew what else? “No. I thought . . .”

“That I'd do it.” He shook his head. “I was here first.”

“That's gentlemanly.”

He laughed. “Yeah, well, you're not stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, in the storm of the century, with any sort of gentleman.”

For some insane reason, that caused another flicker of heat to spiral through her.

Which proved it, really. She
had
lost her mind.

“We both know the roads are closed by now,” he said. “And I for one am not snowshoeing into town. In fact, I'm not going anywhere.”

“This is not how it was supposed to be,” she said softly.

“No kidding. But shit happens, and we deal with it. Now are you going to pick a spot, or am I?”

There weren't many people who'd argued with her. Not her four older brothers, or the father she'd long ago wrapped around her finger. Fact was, she'd been getting her way since birth.

Aside from her family, the other men in her life had also let her get away with just about anything. Her first fiancé, Barry, had spoiled her rotten. Even Dean, King of Rat Bastards—whom she hoped had choked on his own tongue—had never so much as crossed opinions with her, but that was probably because he'd been too busy.

So the fact that this strange man was not only quarreling with her, but telling her how things were going to be, surprised her into momentary silence.

“Nightie-night, Princess,” he said.

She looked around and once again panicked at the thought of being alone. Damn him, but he truly was the lesser of two evils. “Wait!”

He turned back, propping up the doorway with a shoulder as if he didn't have a care. “Yeah?”

She opened her mouth, but her pride ran away with her good sense. “Nothing.” She casually dropped to the couch but something must have given her away, whether it was the sudden panic pumping her heart loud enough to wake the dead, or the renewed tension that gripped her body, because he sighed. “Are you going to be okay?”

Was she? She wished she knew. Alone, she'd go back to obsessing about spiders and coyotes and bears, but if he stayed, she'd have new things to obsess about . . .

Still, he'd stuck by her side, even helped her when she'd needed it, and hadn't once thrown it in her face as any of her brothers might have.

Not that he was remotely brotherly . . . And yet he'd had her at every disadvantage and he'd not tried to press himself on her in any way.

“Breanne?”

Even more unnerving, she liked the sound of her name on his lips. “Seriously, I'm fine. Don't give me another thought.”

“No?”

“No. I certainly won't be giving you one.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire
.

He looked at her for a long moment, then pushed away from the doorway, moving toward her like a long, lean cat totally at ease with himself, confident that he was at the top of the food chain. He had a nice gait, the kind a woman could watch all day if she was admitting such things. Which she wasn't.
Besides, she'd given up men
. His toes touched hers, then he crouched down, his face level with her belly.

Push him away
, her feminist brain demanded.

Pull him close, her body countered
.

“You're not going to give me another thought at all?” he asked silkily, and she knew damn well he was purposely invading her space.

She managed to shoot him a smile that she'd perfected before she'd ever left her crib. It was an I'm-fabulous, I-couldn't-be-better smile, an I've-got-the-world-by-the-balls smile. “Nope. Not another thought.”

Reaching out, he settled a long finger to the base of her throat, where she imagined her pulse was about to leap right out at him. “So then what's this?” he murmured.

Only a moment ago it had been unease, even fear about her situation here, until he'd touched her.

Now it was arousal, plain and simple.

What kind of a woman was aroused by a perfect stranger?
“Nothing but a physical reaction,” she informed him.

“Ah.” His fingers stroked over her racing pulse and then again. In the glow of the fire, his expression was one of curious intent as he watched the path of his fingers. “Because you're scared.”

“I'm not scared.”

His lips curved slightly. “Then what?”

Damn it, he'd caught her. “I'm tired and hungry and still cold.”

“And that's making your heart pound?”

“Sure.” They were so close his exhaled breath warmed her breasts through the tank and sweatshirt, so close that she could see his eyes weren't a solid azure blue at all, but had flecks of midnight dancing in them, holding secret all his thoughts.

He shifted then, his big, warm hand lightly cupping her throat, skimming to her shoulder and down her arm before gliding back up again in a gesture that could have been meant to warm. And it might have, if he'd been her brother or her father.

And she did get warm. Hot, actually. But something else as well, something far more.

“Still cold?” he murmured.

“Um, no. Thanks.”

“No problem.” His gaze dipped once again to her pulse. “It's still racing, Princess. How come?”

“Don't know.”

“Want me to guess?”

Her pulse sped up even more. “No!”

“Because if you were still cold, or even afraid, we have an easy solution.”

“Really? What's that?”

“We share this fire.”

“You mean with you on the floor and me on the couch?”

His gaze didn't waver. “No.”

Damn if her nipples didn't go happy at his low, rough voice. And other reactions occurred as well: her thighs tightened, and between them came a deep tingle. “We're perfect strangers,” she reminded herself as well as him. “I'm not sleeping with a perfect stranger. I'm supposed to be sleeping with my husband.”

“But there is no husband.”

“
Good night
, Cooper.”

“Yeah.” He sighed, then shot a hopeful look at her carry-on. “You don't by any chance have any food in that bag of yours, do you?”

“No.”
Just two sexy nighties
. “But Dante brought you a hot chocolate.”

“Great. Hot chocolate.” With one last stroke of his finger over her throat, he grabbed the mug and left, shutting the doors behind him.

Breanne let out a slow, careful breath and sank back. The man was potent, she'd give him that. But he was also domineering, and just alpha enough to make her want to scream.

And yet . . . and yet there was more. She didn't know what, and told herself she didn't want to. Curling up into a ball on the couch, she stared into the flames while the weight of the day began to drag her down, along with her eyelids.