Taming Tess (The St. John Sibling Series) by Barbara Raffin Page A
Authors: Barbara Raffin
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quickened her pace, determined she'd find her own way into the house.
The back door wasn't boarded up, but it was locked. And her keys were still inside. She thought again of Roman with his truck full of tools. How easy it would be for him to pry the plywood off her front door.
She muttered a curse, found a loose brick among those edging the flowerbeds, and returned to the back door. She didn't need his help.
It took her three blows to shatter the windowpane in the door. She was plucking jagged shards of glass from the frame when a deep voice rumbled from inside the house, "Get back from there before you cut yourself."
She glanced up to find Roman looking out at her, a crowbar in one hand. "You pried the plywood from the front door."
"It seemed the reasonable thing to do."
"Reasonable would have been you letting me know what the hell you were doing before I broke a window."
"Reasonable would have been you asking for help," he countered.
"Are we going to stand here all day arguing?"
He flicked the deadbolt and opened the door, warning, "Careful where you step. Looks like some doofus broke glass all over your back entryway."
"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
The back door wasn't boarded up, but it was locked. And her keys were still inside. She thought again of Roman with his truck full of tools. How easy it would be for him to pry the plywood off her front door.
She muttered a curse, found a loose brick among those edging the flowerbeds, and returned to the back door. She didn't need his help.
It took her three blows to shatter the windowpane in the door. She was plucking jagged shards of glass from the frame when a deep voice rumbled from inside the house, "Get back from there before you cut yourself."
She glanced up to find Roman looking out at her, a crowbar in one hand. "You pried the plywood from the front door."
"It seemed the reasonable thing to do."
"Reasonable would have been you letting me know what the hell you were doing before I broke a window."
"Reasonable would have been you asking for help," he countered.
"Are we going to stand here all day arguing?"
He flicked the deadbolt and opened the door, warning, "Careful where you step. Looks like some doofus broke glass all over your back entryway."
"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
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