Leslie Kelly - Sultry Escapes - Waking Up to You

She lifted her cup. “Speaking of which, you make a very good cup of tea. It was just what I needed. Thanks again.”

“Tea was a staple in our house. It’s one thing I have in common with your grandfather—he does like his cuppa.”

“So he does.”

The way he said cuppa warmed her up inside. She did love an Irish accent, and while his was buried under a couple of decades of blunt Americanism, she still heard the lilt every now and again.

Another sip. The tea was cooling now, her cup nearly drained, and she knew it had to be close to 4:00 a.m. By all rights, she should be tucked in bed in one of the drafty upstairs guest rooms. But something made her stay. She just didn’t want to be alone in this big house. Especially because she still couldn’t quite reconcile it as being Grandpa’s. He’d lived in a condo in St. Petersburg when she’d been growing up, for crying out loud, about as far from this wild, untamed landscape as one could get.

“What’s he doing here, anyway?” she grumbled.

“Who, Buddy?”

“Yes. What on earth possessed him to come out here and buy this place?”

“He’s living the dream, from the sound of it. He told me he’s always loved wine.”

“I don’t ever remember him drinking anything but Riunite Lombrusco when I was a kid,” she retorted.

“I think his tastes have matured a bit.”

“Are there even any grapes growing around here?”

“Not yet. That’s my department.”

“When’s that going to happen?”

“It’s a long way off. Probably next summer.”

“Seriously? You aren’t even going to plant for a year?”

His shrug was decidedly rueful. “It takes time to prepare the soil, especially since it’s been ignored for so long.”

“Have you worked at a winery before? Are grapes your specialty?”

“Not exactly.”

“So what did you do before you came here?”

He had tensed during her questioning, and she figured she was being pushy. But asking him about his past was better than asking him how on earth he managed to find shirts that fit over all those muscles.

“Let’s just say I’ve been digging in the dirt a lot in recent years. This job makes me feel a whole lot cleaner.”

That was mysterious, but his clipped tone said it was as much as she was going to get.

“Now, your grandfather’s surgery is scheduled for 10:00 a.m. Why don’t you grab a few hours’ sleep and we’ll try to get to the hospital at around eight?”

“All right.”

Rising, she picked up her cup, and his, carrying them over to the sink. She noted that, while brewing the tea, Oliver had stuck the pots and pans in the dishwasher, as if to get them out of throwing range. Candace still couldn’t believe she’d thought a few kitchen items would stop him if he’d really been some kind of villain. With that body—those strong arms and the table-wide chest—he could pick her up and break her in half.

Or, a wicked part of her realized, just split her in half with that amazing power tool in his pants. Not having had sex in a while, she couldn’t be entirely sure her memory wasn’t faulty, but if she had to guess, she’d say that had been a good eight inches of jackhammer straining against his zipper.

“Need a hand?”

She started, not having realized he’d left the table and walked up behind her. It was bad enough to be caught thinking he had an amazing body, but even worse to be standing here wondering about the size of the man’s johnson.

“No, thank you,” she said, hearing the breathiness in her voice. He was just so close, so big and warm. All she could think about was how it had felt to be pressed against him, his hands on her hips, his salt-tinged skin against her mouth.

It had been a long time since she’d been close to anyone. Honestly, the thought of not being held in a man’s strong arms for five years was almost as upsetting to her as knowing she would not be filled and possessed by one in the most raw, sexual way.

Almost.

“Okay, meet you outside at seven-thirty?”

She nodded, turning to face him, hoping her cheeks weren’t pink. She was not the blushing type. Still, she feared the heat in her face hadn’t been caused by the steam rising off the hot water in the sink.

“Thank you. And again, I’m sorry I attacked you.”

He shrugged. “Wasn’t the first time.”

She quirked a brow. “Incite a lot of women to violence, do you?”

“Not recently.”

But he didn’t say anything else. He merely nodded good-night and left the kitchen, leaving her wondering what the real story was behind Oliver McKean.

CANDACE REID WAS as good as her word. Despite having probably only gotten the same few hours of sleep he had the night before, she was waiting on her grandfather’s front steps when he walked out of his cottage at 7:30 a.m.

She looked like crap.

Bloodshot eyes, pale cheeks sans makeup, sopping wet hair slung up in a ponytail—definitely not the Candace he’d met at 3:00 a.m. She wore a shapeless, heavy hoodie that would be much too warm in a few hours when the day shifted into typical Northern California mode, with its wildly swinging night-to-day temperature changes. The jeans weren’t designer; in fact, they looked worn and scruffy. And the functional sneakers in no way resembled the spike-heeled do-me shoes of the night before.

He knew he wasn’t seeing her at her sexy best, but couldn’t help thinking he liked this not-so-put-together version of the Hollywood costume designer. In her real life, with all the feminine trappings women relied on, she probably would have blended into the stylish crowd to which he had become so accustomed when living in L.A. Hell, he’d even been a part of it on occasion. But here, out of her element, obviously uncomfortable and not making any pretentious efforts to impress anyone—including him—he found her vulnerability refreshing.

Huh. Part of him should be a little disappointed that she wasn’t making any effort to impress him, considering how thick the sexual tension between them had been the night before. It had filled that kitchen like an invisible fog. He’d definitely thought about her long after he’d gone back to his bed.

But he hadn’t come to Sonoma to get caught up with a woman. He’d chosen this area because it was his favorite place to vacation—he loved the scenery, the pace and the people. He’d needed to reevaluate, to recover a sense of peace and tranquility that had been lost during his years running in the rat race with some huge rats. This period of solitude was about regrouping, finding his focus and doing penance for the shitty things he’d done to get ahead in the Orange County D.A.’s office.

Taking a sabbatical from the spotlight hadn’t been a bad side benefit, either. The press had had a field day with him when he’d blown the lid off some of the shenanigans taking place in the courthouse. Rising young stars in the prosecutor’s office weren’t supposed to refuse to railroad an innocent man in order to close a big case, and they definitely weren’t supposed to blow the whistle on the misconduct of others. Oh, yeah, he had definitely been front-page fodder, which made him persona non grata with the legal types in L.A., and would for quite some time. Frankly, that was fine with him. He wanted to forget about that period of his life, and wanted everyone there to forget about him.

So, no, having a hot affair just didn’t fit in with his plan of atonement. It was just as well Candace had dialed her sex appeal down a notch, even if nothing could really eradicate the beauty of her face or the curviness of her body.

If her appearance today was meant to send him a message, he’d gotten it. Loud and clear. She wasn’t interested.