Rosanna Battigelli - Swept Away By The Enigmatic Tycoon

The boom of thunder drowned out his words, and as the rain pelted down even harder Justine motioned toward the door. Once they were inside she ran to make sure all the windows were closed. The rain lashed against the panes, obliterating any view at all. She turned on a lamp in the living room.

“Have a seat.” She gestured toward the couch. “I need to check the windows upstairs and change my clothes too.” She glanced at Luna, who was whimpering. “You might want to turn on the TV to drown out the thunder.”

* * *

After Justine had left, Casson smirked at the memory of her face when she’d turned to find him and Luna inside her porch. Her eyes had almost doubled in size, with blinking lashes that had reminded him of delicate hummingbird wings. Peach lips had fallen open and then immediately pursed. It had taken him everything not to burst out laughing.

Although laughing was not what he’d wanted to do when her pink panties had emerged from that towel... Her cheeks had immediately turned almost the same intense color, and he’d felt glad he hadn’t given in to the impulse to hand them to her.

It had been her turn to smirk, though, when he’d appeared in these painting overalls. Casson knew he looked ridiculous—but, given the situation, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

He grabbed the remote and found a classical music channel that would diffuse some of the thunder noise. Sitting back on the couch, he looked around with interest. The stone fireplace across from him was the focal point of the room, with its rustic slab of oak as mantel, and the Parry Sound stone continued upward to the pine-lined cathedral ceiling.

He drew a quick intake of breath as his gaze fell on the Group of Seven print above the mantel. Mirror Lake , by Franklin Carmichael. His eyes followed the curves of the multi-colored hills, the bands of varying hues of red, blue, purple, turquoise, green and gold and the perfect stillness of the lake, its surface a gleaming mirror.

This piece always tugged at his emotions and brought back so many memories—memories he didn’t want to conjure up right now, with Justine set to return at any moment.

Casson’s gaze shifted to the oversized recliners flanking the fireplace, one with a matching ottoman. Their colors, along with the couch and love seat, were an assortment of burnt sienna, brown and sage-green, with contrasting cushions. The wide-plank maple flooring, enhanced by a large forest green rug with a border of pine cones and branches, gave the place an authentic cottage feel, and the rustic coffee table and end tables complemented the décor.

The far wall behind the love seat featured huge windows of varying sizes, the top ones arching toward the peak of the ceiling and the largest one in the middle a huge bay window, providing what must be a spectacular view of the bay when the rain wasn’t pounding against the panes.

A well-stocked bookshelf against one wall, eclectic lighting, and a vase containing a mix of wildflowers enhanced what Casson considered to be the ideal Georgian Bay cottage. He sat back, nodding, making mental notes for his future resort cottages.

After making a few investigative circles around the room Luna plunked down at his feet, panting slightly, her ears perked, as if she were expecting the next clap of thunder. Casson leaned forward to give her a reassuring pat and she grumbled contentedly and settled into a more relaxed position.

Casson wished he could feel more relaxed, but the painting overalls were compressing him in too many places. He wondered what Miss Wintry ’s reaction would be if he stretched out on the couch. At least then he wouldn’t feel like his masculinity was being compromised, he thought wryly. He checked the time on his watch. Sighing, he lay back and rested his head on one cushion.

Ah, relief.

He closed his eyes and listened to the classical music, accompanied by the rain pelting against the windows. A picture of Justine changing into dry clothes popped into his head.

Would she be slipping on those pink panties?

What was he doing?

He was here to wait for his clothes to dry and the storm to pass, not to imagine her naked...

* * *

Upstairs in her room, Justine peeled off her clothes, dried herself vigorously, and wished she could jump into a hot shower. But that would have to wait until Casson was gone. She didn’t want to be thinking about him while she was...undressed. She changed quickly into white leggings and a long, brightly flowered shirt.

As an afterthought she opened her closet and moved a few boxes until she found the one she was looking for. Although Christmas was months away, she stashed away presents whenever she could instead of waiting for the last minute. The box she opened contained a dressing robe she had picked out for her dad. It was forest green, with burgundy trim at the wrists and collar, and she had embroidered the letters ‘WH’, for Winter’s Haven, on one side. She had wanted to surprise her dad with this as a new idea—providing a robe in each cottage, like they did in hotels.

She lifted it out of the box and its tissue wrapping and hooked it over her arm. At the door she hesitated, feeling a sudden twinge of guilt, and then, before she could change her mind, she strode downstairs.

The TV was on and Luna was lying at Casson’s feet. Justine held out the robe. “I thought you might appreciate this instead,” she said.

He stood up and took it from her, before tossing the cushion he was holding back on the couch. “Indeed I do,” he said, his jaw twitching. “Now I know you’re not all flint and arrows.”

Justine opened her mouth to voice a retort but his hand came up.

“No offence intended,” he said. “I realize we didn’t start off on exactly a positive note but, given the present circumstances, could we perhaps call a truce of some sort?”

Justine was taken aback. “We’re not in a battle, Mr. Forrester. So there’s no need for a truce. Excuse me. I’m going to put on some fresh coffee. Care for a cup?” She turned toward the open-concept kitchen/dining room.

“Love some coffee,” he replied. “Just milk or cream, no sugar. And you’ll have to excuse me as well. I’m dying to get out of these overalls.”

He smirked and headed toward the washroom. Luna lifted her head quizzically, gave a contented grumble, and promptly settled back into her nap.

When Casson came back into the living room he had the overalls neatly folded. He placed them on a side chair and then sat down on the couch. The robe fit him well, which meant it would have been a size or two too big for her dad.

“That coffee smells great,” he drawled, tightening the sash on the robe before crossing his legs.

Justine came out of the kitchen with a tray holding two mugs, a small container of cream and a plate of muffins. She caught her breath at seeing him there, one leg partially exposed. She felt a warm rush infuse her body. It was such an intimate scenario: Casson leaning back against the couch, totally relaxed, as if he were the owner of the place.

She saw his gaze flicker over her body as she approached. She wanted to squirm. Her jaw tensed. This was her place. Why did she suddenly feel like she was at a disadvantage?

She would not let him know that his presence was affecting her. She would treat him like any other cottage guest. Politely, respectfully. And hopefully the heavens would soon clam up and she could send him on his way. His clothes shouldn’t take too long to dry.

She set the tray down on the coffee table and, picking up the plate of four muffins, held it out to him. “Banana yogurt. Homemade.”

“Thank you, Miss Winter.”

He reached forward and took one. At the same time Luna lifted her head, sniffing excitedly. Before Justine had a chance to move the plate Luna had a muffin in her jaws. Startled, Justine tipped the plate and stumbled over Casson’s foot. She felt herself falling backward, and a moment later landed in the last place she’d ever want to land. A steaming volcano would have been preferable.