Jackie Braun - Saying Yes to the Boss

But those weren’t the only reasons for his trepidation when it came to staying the night. The rest had to do with the woman standing before him. She made him nervous as hell and it didn’t have anything to do with the fact that she’d leveled a double barrel at his chest.

He’d never responded to any woman quite the way he was responding to Regina Bellini. She was beautiful, lushly so with that cloud of dark hair, generous mouth and a pair of heavily fringed eyes that held enough secrets to keep members of the opposite sex curious.

And he was curious, although some things he already knew. She had a body built to complement a man’s: not quite slim, not overly curvaceous, but definitely soft and yielding in the places that mattered most.

More than her array of appealing physical attributes, however, he admired her sheer nerve. This was no shrinking violet, no damsel in distress. She’d answered the door toting a gun, for God’s sake. He grinned at the recollection. Who knew that having his life threatened would prove to be such a turn-on?

And he was turned on. Despite the brutal physical abuse Mother Nature had meted out during the past couple of hours, his libido was humming along in overdrive. Amazing. Absolutely amazing.

“Is it a private joke or are you going to clue me in?” Regina asked, apparently having noted the slight quirking of his lips.

“Just can’t get over my luck today,” he replied smoothly. “I cheated death. Twice.”

Her expression turned contrite as she knotted her fingers together. “About that. I want to apologize for the way I answered the door.” She cleared her throat. “I’ve had a little…trouble lately.”

“With developers?” he guessed, recalling her questions about his occupation.

“Yes.”

“Apology accepted.” When he started to ask about the trouble, though, she shook her head.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Lightning flashed then, followed by a serendipitous clap of thunder. When the sky was dark once again, so was the house, except for the flickering fire. Dane was beginning to think the woman could handle anything. Other than muttering an oath in what sounded like Italian, Regina Bellini didn’t miss a beat. She found a box of matches, lit a couple of candles in the hurricane lamps on the room’s antique tables and rolled another fat log onto the fire.

Dane decided the only thing left to do was joke about their lousy luck.

“I must have done something to tick off the gods. Do you believe in fate?” he asked.

The woman apparently wasn’t in a joking mood. She regarded him for a moment before answering his question seriously.

“I believe we’re responsible for our own situations, our own destiny. No matter what life throws at us, it’s ultimately up to us to find a way to deal with it and make the best of it.”

“Lemonade from lemons?” he asked and she nodded.

That had long been Dane’s philosophy as well. Too many people he knew expected something for nothing or complained copiously rather than rolling up their shirtsleeves and getting down to business to change what they didn’t like.

Dane put his faith in hard work and perseverance. Both yielded results. But, thinking back on the hour he’d spent bobbing around in the waves of Lake Michigan before being spat onto the shore at Peril Pointe, he decided maybe luck played a role, too. How else to explain his presence in the beautiful Regina Bellini’s front parlor?

Lemonade from lemons.

“I like lemonade,” he murmured. His gaze lingered on her pursed lips. “Sweet is nice, but tart is better.”

She shook her head and sighed heavily in exasperation. But when she spoke, her request had his mouth going dry.

“Take off your clothes, Don Juan.”

He blinked and on a startled laugh replied, “Well, that certainly would be making the most of a bad situation, but gee, Ree, I hardly know you. I like to take a woman out to dinner first, maybe see a movie, before we spend the better part of the evening—”

He wasn’t able to finish the sentence before she tossed a crocheted afghan in his direction. It wound up draped half over his head.

“Your clothes are wet and filthy, Mr. Conlan,” she said. “You need to get out of them, and I’m afraid that afghan is about the only thing around here that’s going to fit you unless you’d prefer to wear my bathrobe.”

“Call me Dane. And, just for the record, I prefer to remove women’s garments, not put them on.”

She made a little humming noise that might have been the result of annoyance or reluctant amusement.

He scooted to the front of the chair and peeled off the damp shirt, using the cleanest edge to wipe up the blood drying on his arm.

“I’m messing up your upholstery,” he said and grimaced. “And your clothes. Hope that blouse wasn’t one of your favorites.”

Her expression seemed to soften. “Well, it’s not as if you planned to faint in my arms.”

Planned? No. He considered that a little side bonus given his lousy day. Still, he cleared his throat, feeling the need to clarify, “Men prefer the term ‘passed out.’”

He was pretty sure she was smiling when she turned her back to him.

“The rest of your clothes, please.”

Dane stripped down to bare skin, handing over the remnants of his favorite jeans with a sigh of regret, and then he wrapped the afghan around his body toga-style. When she was gone, he tried to stand without holding the mantel for support. He wasn’t quite successful, but he felt far better than he had an hour ago when he’d washed onto the beach, coughing up water, his arms, legs and lungs burning from the effort it had taken him to get there.

He hadn’t been teasing her about following the Victorian’s lights. They were all he’d seen, those and a light on some structure closer to the shore, beacons of hope that had kept him putting one arm in front of the other as waves tossed him and currents tugged at him with disorienting force. Now those lights were gone as well thanks to the storm. He shivered at the thought of what would have happened to him had the electricity failed earlier.

“I can get you another blanket if you’re cold.”

He hadn’t heard her return, but he glanced over to find her standing next to him, brows furrowed in concern. She’d changed into a pair of capri pants and a pullover that was probably some pastel shade, although he couldn’t discern its color in the firelight. Her feet were bare and the ponytail she’d swept her hair into exposed the graceful line of her neck. She looked younger, softer. And yet he still felt it, that insane blast of attraction that had him wondering if he’d struck his head harder than he’d thought.

“Dane?”

He realized he was staring and coughed. “No, I’m fine. The past few hours are catching up with me is all.”

“I’m sure. You had quite the ordeal.”

In her hands she held a first-aid kit and a bottle of painkillers.

He nodded toward the bottle. “Got anything stronger than ibuprofen?”

The smile she offered was sympathetic. “Sorry, no, but I had just opened a really good bottle of Chianti before you knocked at my door. I’m willing to share.”

“You don’t have anything with a little more…kick?”

As a general rule, he wasn’t one to wallow in the false comfort of hard liquor, but he could do with a good bracing belt of whiskey right about now.

“You probably shouldn’t even have wine,” she told him, sounding almost prim. “But I’m feeling indulgent. Sit.”

She didn’t wait for him to comply, but gently nudged him back into the chair and then knelt on the floor in front of him.

“Let me see your hand.”

Dane did as Regina instructed, deciding he could do with a little TLC and pampering after all he’d been through. Then he sucked in a sharp breath along with an oath when she dabbed the cut on his palm with enough stinging antiseptic to kill half the bacteria in the free world.