Taming Tess (The St. John Sibling Series) (10 page)

"Very funny, St.
John," she snapped, dropping the brick into his hand as she strutted past him into the kitchen.

Tess
strode away from him. He wanted to strangle her. He wanted to staple her carping lips together.

He wanted to wrap her long legs around hi
s waist and take up where they'd left off last night…
before
he'd gone condom hunting. Why hadn't he just dropped her off out front of The Castle like he'd planned and gone to his other job site? Why'd he feel compelled to wait around to make sure she got inside okay?

And w
hy the hell did he still want to make love to her?

He knew the answer to the first two questions.
He felt responsible for her being burned out of her house. But that last question… He didn't have an answer to that one, at least none he was ready to face.

He tossed the brick out the door and trailed her into the kitchen.
She was squatted low, rummaging around under the sink, the bike shorts tight across her behind. Memory of that backside bare beneath his palms sawed through him.

He turned away from her
and the memory of last night. A carton of milk sat open on the countertop beside the fridge. He picked it up, sniffed it, and recoiled. "Whew. That's rank."

"
My housekeeping skills not up to your standards, St. John?" she asked, coming up behind him.

"If the spoiled milk fits."

She shoved a heavy-duty garbage bag into his hand. "Here, Mr. Neat. Make yourself happy and empty my fridge before its rotting contents ruin the appliance."

"I didn't plan on sticking around."

"I don't imagine you planned on burning my house down, either," trailed her words as she disappeared into the next room.

Roman grumbled, opened the refrigerator door, and began scooping the contents from the darkened shelves into the plastic bag.
Being responsible for the fire that gutted Tess Abbot's top floor was the only thing keeping him from stuffing her into the garbage bag, too.

#

Tess strode through the butler's pantry, the formal dining room, and the front parlor, the commercial sized fans drying her floors drowning out her curses. Damn Roman for following her into the house. Damn the man his take charge attitude.

Damn him for noticing she'd forgotten to put away her milk before she'd gone
out for her evening run the night of the fire.

"Damn him," she howled at her gaping front door.
The door she'd opened to him a mere six weeks ago when he'd come to start the renovating job. The door they'd both admired that day for its aged beauty.

Tess stroked the exquisitely hand carved door
hanging lopsided from one hinge, the other shattered from the woodwork, a casualty of equipment laden firemen rushing to extinguish the third floor blaze no doubt. The woodwork could be repaired and the door had survived nearly unscathed. It reminded her of Roman. Solid. Reliable. Crafted for the long haul.

I
ronic that she should find the one man who could reduce her dreams to ashes at Aunt Honey's home; flamboyant Aunt Honey whose example had given Tess the strength to confront her father and leave the firm. Tess could still hear her father's 'the-old-lady's-gone-over-the-edge' tirade when he'd learned Honey had bought an antiquated house in a remote corner of an out of the way state because it was where her Bentley broke down. Like Aunt Honey, she wasn't about to let any man get in the way of her career dreams.

Tess
sighed and climbed the grand stairway dividing the house, the new but no doubt water-logged carpeting having been stripped away. The smell of smoke permeated the air, scratching her throat. She'd mortgaged herself deep into debt in order to buy the old place; she had sacrificed six weeks of her life and her fingernails to sanding, varnishing, painting, and repapering.

On the second floor landing, a table and vase she and Honey had found on
one of their antiquing forays had been trampled. Like the first floor, the second hummed with fans. A quick tour revealed none of the rooms had been spared the greasy film of soot. It coated furnishings, clung to drapes, and bedding. It stained the hall walls dark where the smoke had been forced down from the attic before finding escape through the burned out roof.

She was tempted to follow the funneling pattern of stains up to the third floor.
She'd like to see if any of Aunt Honey's boxes of memorabilia, racks of costumes, or stored furniture had survived the fire. If it had been only Roman St. John barring her from the uppermost level of her house, she'd have gone up there in a heartbeat. No man ordered her about. But the yellow
Keep Out
tape reminded her a higher authority than Roman barred her admittance.

W
ater damage in the master suite left the ceiling sagging over the bed and plaster had collapsed onto her desk and laptop. She brushed the plaster aside and lifted the dented lid of the computer. It didn't look good. Still, she packed it up in its travel case along with her cell phone and several soggy rolls of blueprints. Clothes and toiletries were the next priority.

The concentration of odor-trapping fabric in the walk-in closet made it impossible for her to spend much time in the enclosed space.
Everything would have to be laundered. The task seemed overwhelming even with neighbor Kitt's help. There must be professionals she could hire to do the work, even in little Pine Mountain.

She
folded a few blouses and her favorite linen slacks into a bag. She added a pair of dress shoes and dumped the drawer of her undies onto the bed for sorting.

Fortunately, her personal belongings consisted primarily of cloth
ing. Everything else was still in her Chicago condo. After all, The Castle had been meant only as an investment that was to have provided her a fast turn around and showcase photos for a new portfolio.

No portfolio pictures now.

No return on her investment.

Tess picked up a puzzle box from the nightstand beside he
r bed. She had kept this piece close because its enigmatic construction had inspired her and Honey to create endless stories about its use. Like all of Aunt Honey's collected antiques and memorabilia on the lower floors, it was coated with a greasy film. Everything on the top floor was likely a pile of ashes. She should have hired a moving company and put everything in storage. But she'd wanted to go through it all before disposing of it; and there was the matter of expense. Moving everything to the center of the massive space herself so the crew could drywall the "bonus room" had seemed the most reasonable choice at the time.

Regret balled in Tess' throat.
Maybe her father was right. Maybe women
were
sentimental fools.

"Like hell," Tess muttered, carefully setting the piece back on the nightstand.
Wanting to check out what if anything of Aunt Honey's attic storage had survived wasn't being sentimental. It was being a property owner who wanted to survey the damage done.

The hell with her father, the Boy Scout contractor, and any yellow
Keep Out
tape. She was entitled to see how much damage her house had suffered.

#

Roman had emptied the fresh food compartment of Tess' fridge, gone into her basement to her electrical box and pulled the breakers to the attic, then called the power company on his cell to reconnect the electrical service to The Castle. He'd even chitchatted with Mrs. Antonetti from across the alley when she brought over a casserole for Tess. Still, Tess hadn't come down from upstairs. If he wanted to get to his other job site today, it looked like he was going to have to search out Princess The-World-Waits-on-Me to let her know about the electricity.

Even before he saw the yellow tape across the third floor stairwell flutter
ing loose, he knew the breeze sliding over him wasn't from the numerous fans doing drying duty. Someone had opened the door at the top of attic stairs. Three guesses who it was and the first two didn't count.

He found Tess
on the third floor, a trim silhouette in bike shorts and Bargain Mart tee framed by charred beams and backlit by blue sky. He knew what those gentle curves felt like beneath his hands now.

An involuntary groan rumbled up from his throat.
She spun toward him, her foot tangling in a pile of rubble. She stumbled backward into the shell of a towering hall rack constructed of wood and wrought iron. For a second, she seemed to have come to a safe landing on its seat. Then the charred front legs of the chair-rack snapped and the looming structure pitched forward, pinning Tess to the floor.

Roman bolted to her side.
"You okay?"

One dark eye glittered out at him from a framework of iron coat hooks.
"Sure, St. John. I'm just peachy. Would you mind getting this thing off me? I think it skewered me."

He hefted the rack off her and helped her to her feet.

"Where'd it get you?" he asked, scanning her back.

"The back of my shoulder," she said.

"Uhuh," he murmured, fingering the tear in her shirt.

"How bad is it?" she asked.

"You're not spurting blood."

"Thank you for your medical opinion,
Dr.
St. John."

"I suppose that means you want a second opinion and that you expect me to drive you to the hospitable for it."

"I need to go to the hospital?" she asked with some alarm.

"Only for your wounded ego," he muttered and clamped a hand over her shoulder, trying to hold her still while he explored the injury beneath the rip.

"Hey," she huffed, squirming beneath his hand, creating
enough friction between them to re-ignite the attic. "You're the one who brought up the hospital."

"Stand still so I can get a good look at the injury," he commanded, tugging at the collar of her shirt.

"There.
I'm standing still. What's your final verdict?"

He released her and straightened.
"It's a scratch that even a monkey could clean and bandage."

"A monkey, huh?"
He didn't like the way she canted her head at him as she turned, or the self-satisfied smile she gave him as she started for the steps. "Come on, St. John. Let's test your theory."

Tess had liked the feel of Roman's hands on her shoulders.
She'd liked it way too much. Goading him to tend her injury was just frosty on her cake of retaliation. Unfortunately, it back fired. They were now bumping elbows and hips in the narrow aisle between the bathroom vanity and raised Jacuzzi of the master bath, the door closed behind them reducing the roar of the fans to a low drone. He stretched the ribbing of her shirt back from the nape of her neck.

"
You trying to choke me, St. John?"

"I'm trying to get a better look at that scratch."

"Can't you do that without choking me?"

"Apparently not."

"Let go of me." She twisted out of his grip, grabbed the bottom of her shirt, and peeled it off over her head.

He raised his eyes to the ceiling.

"Like you didn't see me in a whole lot less than a sports bra last night," she said, instantly regretting the reference to that incident where close quarters, lightning, and hot bodies had conspired against her better judgment.

"I was trying to be a gentleman," he
said, lowering his gaze to her--letting it slide down over her, checking every inch she'd bared to him. His pupils flared, turning his eyes a sexy smoke-blue.

"Just check the cut," she said, giving him her back and trying not to look at him in the mirror
and failing miserably.

"How long since your last Tetanus shot?" he asked, studying her shoulder
.

"Less than a year," she answered, sounding far too breathless.

He grunted.

"What's that grunt supposed to mean," she demanded, letting her ready defensiveness put the edge back into her voice.

"Nothing. Turn your back toward the window. I need to get more light on the cut."

"That grunt meant something," she insisted, shifting toward the window for him.

"Maybe it just means I was impressed that you're up to date on your shots." His fingers framed the cut and stretched the skin around it. She started, but not because his touch hurt.

"Up to date on my shots?"
She huffed. "You make me sound like a dog that needs rabies tags."

That got a smile out of him.
Something she really hadn't meant to do. He had way too nice a smile. It showed his straight, white teeth and animated his face in far too appealing a manner.

His eyes met hers in the mirror above t
he vanity and his smile faded. "You got something to clean this out with, something sealed and still sterile?"

She pulled a first aid kit from a drawer at her hip, announcing, "Brand new.
Figured I'd better have a stock of bandages with a building crew hammering about."