Christie Ridgway - Can't Fight This Feeling

No, there it winked on again.

A prickly sensation skittered down his spine.

Putting his truck in Reverse, he slowly backed up the street and parked twenty-five yards away. There was more iron fencing at the sides of the property and it didn’t prevent him from seeing that light moving again, a firefly behind the glass and the briefest outline of a familiar figure. The hair on the back of his neck rose. All his nerve endings were awake now, and the weariness from the day’s endeavors were replaced with something else—curiosity, anticipation, maybe some dangerous combination of the two.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, he climbed out of the truck.

He didn’t bother pulling out his cell phone. This wasn’t a police matter. It was something else—the someone skulking about the inside of that mammoth house was none other than its mistress.

Don’t think of the word mistress .

His instincts were certain it was her because, since first seeing her, his body reacted in just this way when she was anywhere in his proximity. His skin would twitch, his scalp would tingle and he’d turn around and Angelica Rodriguez would be there in one of her witchy outfits—jeans, a pair of hiking shorts, a voluminous beach cover-up, it didn’t matter what she wore—and he’d have to steel his spine to be as hard as that other part of him was becoming.

No, I don’t want lemonade. Or a cookie. Or to spend endless nights in bed with you.

“Liar,” he muttered again. He’d wanted it all.

But she was doing something shady, he could feel that, too, and so he made his way around the side of the house; his aim, that moving light. There was no fencing between the house and its lake access and soon he was prowling toward that window.

Then he was right outside it. In the minuscule glow of the penlight she had in her hand, he could make out parts of her as she moved about the den. The dark pools of her eyes. The elegant line of her small nose. The dip above her bowed upper lip. Without a hesitation, he rapped on the glass.

Jumping, she shrieked. He could see the sharp sound of surprise on her startled face, which jerked his way, feel the vibration of it in his fingers, which were pressed flat on the pane.

She trained the light on him. He smiled at her. Toothily, he supposed, because she came toward the window at a wary pace until there was only a couple of inches between them.

And yet they were still worlds apart.

“Hey, baby,” he said. “Why don’t you let me in?”

* * *

ANGELICA RODRIGUEZ STARED through the glass into the early evening darkness and cursed fate.

She’d been doing a lot of that lately, as the very foundation of her life had cracked and then fallen away in the past few days. Some cheery—and at times annoying—inner voice kept reminding her to see this situation as an opportunity, but it sure didn’t feel that way when the man who had disliked her at first sight was now staring her down.

The man who, from first sight, she’d liked entirely too much.

“Let me in,” he said again.

Um, no. It didn’t seem wise to be too close to him when all her defenses were in this rocky state. So she smiled and waved both hands in a gesture that was supposed to communicate that she didn’t need him around or that she couldn’t exactly hear him or perhaps she was just too busy for a chat...anything that would get him moving along so she could sneak out of the house where she wasn’t supposed to be in the first place.

She turned away from the window to scoop up the papers she’d left on the desk and he rapped again.

Like a demand.

Holding on to her cool, she glanced over her shoulder. There he was, thirtyish, muscled and a bit threatening-looking, even though in the darkness she could only see his bulk and not those very fascinating scars on his face. One slashed through his brow to his hairline. Another crossed the bridge of his nose.

Angelica had never found the courage to ask him about them.

He jerked his thumb in the direction of the back door that led to the lake-view terrace. “Open up.”

The sounds of the words were not hampered by the glass, but she sure as heck wasn’t going to obey! Past June she would have opened up to him. She’d wanted to, and she’d been rebuffed enough times that it embarrassed her to count them. It had been amazing to her, how drawn she’d been to him then. For a woman who had a lousy history with the opposite sex—lousy enough that she was relatively inexperienced when it came to them—she was surprised to find Brett Walker brought out a different side of her.

The idea of kissing him had consumed her instead of making her cringe. The sensation of his arms around her was something she’d wanted, not wanted to run away from.

Now she didn’t have time for fantasy. She had a real life she needed to build for herself.

His mouth moved again, four syllables that she thought he might never have said aloud before. “Angelica—”

Twisting away from the sound, from him, she moved forward at the same time...and tripped over a trash can beside the desk. That sick sense of falling lasted only milliseconds. Then her palms slammed to the hardwood, preserving her nose from a flattening. The penlight she’d held rolled away, dashing light on the floor and baseboards.

Adrenaline was still shooting through her system when she heard him knocking on the window again. Ignoring it, she got to her knees and breathed, trying to slow her heartbeat. She shook out her hands.

Cursed fate. Her own clumsiness.

The knobs on the back door rattled. She glanced through the den’s open doorway, past the kitchen to the terrace. He was standing out there now, looking even bigger than before. More menacing. Impatient.

His fist pounded on the glass and it sounded so loud she worried the noise of it might carry across the lake and alert the sheriff’s department or the private security force. On a sigh, she clambered to her feet and approached the French doors.

She turned the lock and inched one open, prepared to tell him to go away.

He pushed, forcing himself inside.

In retreat, her feet tripped again, and she thought she might go down once more. Brett Walker grabbed her by the elbow to steady her. “Are you all right?”

She wrenched her arm away. “I’m fine.” Deciding offense was the best defense, she scowled at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I saw your flashlight moving around and decided to investigate. Power out?”

“No—” she started, but it was too late. He’d flipped on the closest switch. She squinted as the overhead lighting blazed on. “Please turn that off. The glare gives me a headache,” she lied.

He instantly turned it off, surprising her. “Sorry,” he said, his voice going softer. “Do you get migraines? My mother did. I know it’s hell.”

Guilt stabbed. “Um...well.” She couldn’t think of what else to say as her brain became occupied with the notion that handsome, sexy, manly man Brett Walker had a mother . It seemed as if he should have been carved from a giant redwood. Hewn from a granite mountain outcropping. Fallen from the sky like a meteor to dazzle humanity.

Of course, she’d met his sister Shay—beautiful—but to think of Brett with a parent meant he’d once been a boy. It boggled the mind.

Her eyes had grown accustomed to the dimness again and she saw one corner of his full mouth hitch in a sort-of semblance of a smile. “Cat got your tongue?”

“I’m having a hard time picturing you as someone’s little kid.”

“I was a typical one. Too loud, hated taking baths, relished teasing my younger sisters.”

It was the most conversation he’d ever had with her. She resisted the urge to hold the words close to her chest. The time for being thrilled over a tête-à-tête with Brett Walker was gone. More important matters should be occupying her mind.