Sultry Escapes: Waking Up to You

He said the words in a cheesy down-under accent, and she couldn’t help laughing. The whole thing was absurd, ridiculous.

But, craziest of all, she was seriously thinking about it.

Not just because she loved Tommy, or because it might be fun playing Hollywood wife. No, because she could really use the money. Her parents were happy in the Florida home where she’d grown up. But since her dad’s heart attack two months ago, they’d been stretched thin financially.

Her sister had just finished grad school and had a mountain of debt. And her wonderful, willful grandfather had, indeed, been struck by some wild notion and bought an old run-down winery in Northern California a year ago. The place had nary a grape in sight, and Grandpa had no clue how to grow them, much less turn them into wine. But he was determined to make a go of it.

So, yeah, the money would come in handy. Tommy had offered to help out, but she wouldn’t accept charity. She always earned what she got. And frankly, if she had to give up sex for five years, she would earn every penny. Because, no matter what he said, she’d never risk having an affair after their engagement was announced, a time when she’d be more under the paparazzi spotlight than ever. This sowing-her-wild-oats-in-France thing would be it, the full extent of her sexual activity for five long, lonely, vibrator-filled years.

Could she do it? For Tommy? For her family? For the money?

“So what do you say? Pretty please?” he asked, flashing those baby blues and his amazing smile. That grin, that wicked sense of humor and his innate kind streak always made her give in. He deserved the brilliant career within his grasp. No creepy blackmailer should have the right to take it away from him.

“Oh, hell.” Farewell penises of the world. “I guess I’m in.”

“Yes! You are the best friend ever.” He pumped both fists in the air, then dropped to one knee. Taking her hand, he stared at her adoringly, playing the man-in-love character. Put him in a Nick Sparks film opposite Emily Blunt and nobody would ever guess he’d once seduced the star football player of their high school.

“Candace Eliza Reid, will you be my bride?”

“Yes, I will. Now get up, idiot. And get your travel agent on the phone because I am so taking you up on that Paris thing.”

“Or maybe Italy for some spicy pepperoni?”

“Dork,” she said as he wagged his eyebrows suggestively.

“Wait…Ireland! I know you’ve always dug Irish guys.”

“Nope, French will do. I don’t want my sex toy to speak English. I don’t need him for conversation, and I definitely don’t want him talking to any reporters who come around.”

She doubted she’d come across an absolutely amazing superhunk who would give her five years’ worth of orgasms in two weeks, but it was worth a shot. She’d do her damndest, anyway, and nobody was going to stop her from gorging herself on one last sexual feast before settling in for five hungry years of celibacy.

Before Tommy could make the call, however, her own cell phone rang. She answered, listened and realized that she’d been wrong. Somebody could stop her. Something could happen that would totally change her mind and her plans. Because, when it came right down to it, her need to stockpile some sexual memories couldn’t even begin to compete with family, especially when somebody she loved was hurt and needed her. And her grandfather—whom she adored—was hurt and needed her.

So, within a few hours, Candace was at the airport, waiting to board a plane, not for France and orgasms, but for San Francisco and family. She’d be by her grandfather’s side for as long as it took…even if she had to sacrifice any chance she had of meeting a man who might make her most wicked dreams come true.

LYING IN BED in the small groundskeeper’s cottage that he now called home, Oliver McKean suddenly found himself wide-awake, wondering what had roused him from his slumber. He was exhausted, his body aching after a long day of hard work, followed by an evening in a hospital. After twenty hours on his feet, he’d been totally wiped. When he’d gotten home, he’d showered, hit the mattress and been sound asleep in minutes.

Until now.

He lay there in the stillness, blinking, looking up at the ceiling that still didn’t look familiar, though he’d slept beneath it for four months now. A long silent moment stretched out, broken only by the faint far-off howl of a coyote. Coming from L.A., he still hadn’t grown used to the silence up here in Northern California. Sonoma was known for its famous wines, but its landscape was pretty spectacular, with thousands of acres of untamed wilderness. The estate on which he lived sometimes felt like it was in the middle of a deserted island.

Which was exactly the reason he’d come here, chucking his old life and heading north, choosing the wine country both because of his family’s ties to the area and his own love of the region. Being away from the seething mass of humanity in L.A. had sounded like a good way to regroup, regain his sense of self. He also wanted to regain his sense of right and wrong, which had started to slip away as he’d fallen further into the trap of career and ambition. He needed to take a year or so, to drop out of the world, do penance for the wrongs he’d done and to figure out what he was going to do next. One thing was for sure—it wasn’t returning to the Los Angeles County D.A.’s office.

“Been there, done that, never going back,” he whispered. his job as a prosecutor had demoralized him, savaged his optimistic streak and left him with a strong distaste for his chosen profession.

Glancing at his clock and seeing it was almost three, he settled back into his small, lumpy bed, which had come with the furnished cottage. But right before he closed his eyes again, he noted the shadows playing across the ceiling. That’s what had awakened him. Not a noise, a light.

When he’d gone to bed at 1:00 a.m., it had been pitch-black outside. The sky had been overcast for a couple of days, leaving the stars and moon—usually brilliant up here away from the city lights—hidden behind a bank of clouds. He could hear the soft fall of rain now. But there was light coming from somewhere. It was noticeable against the utter blackness, and sifted in through the uncurtained window.

He got up, walked over and looked toward the main house. A warm, golden beacon shone from within, shattering the darkness.

Strange. He didn’t think he’d left a light on, and the house was supposed to be empty. The owner, Buddy Frye, was lying in a hospital waiting to have surgery for his broken hip. Frye lived alone, with Oliver occupying the groundskeeper’s cottage nearby. Nobody else was within a few miles. Oliver had talked to his boss’s daughter earlier, and she’d said she would try to catch a flight from Florida in the next few days. But no way could she have made it this soon. So who was skulking around in the house?

He hadn’t been away from L.A., and his job prosecuting some of the most violent criminals in the country, long enough to assume the visitor was simply a friendly, concerned neighbor. Huh-uh. Buddy was pretty new to the area. He didn’t socialize a lot; much of the community thought he had to be crazy to buy an old ruin of a vineyard estate that had been on the market for three years.

There had been reports in the news lately about breakins in some of the outlying areas, even some squatters taking advantage of the abandoned foreclosures. And while Buddy didn’t have a lot worth stealing in that glorious old ruin he called a home, no way was Oliver about to let the man get victimized while he was lying helpless in a hospital.

He reached for the jeans he’d taken off a few hours ago. They were crusted with dirt from the long day he’d put in yesterday. He hadn’t even had time to change into something else before racing after the ambulance that had taken his kindly old boss to the emergency room. But hell, if they were good enough for the doctors and nurses at the Sonoma Valley Hospital, they were good enough for Mr. Prowler.

He left his small house, following the illumination. His bare feet slipped in the wet grass, and the cold rain jabbed his chest since he hadn’t bothered with a shirt. Passing the toolshed, which stood between his place and the main house, he reached out and snagged a rake. He didn’t want to have to protect himself, but better safe than sorry.

Strange that anybody would choose this house to rob. The place might once have been a showplace—Oliver had seen pictures of it from its glory days, when it had been owned by his own family. It had been passed down from a great-grandfather who’d been a silent movie star. His uncle had sold it a decade ago, and that owner had gone bankrupt. Now Buddy Frye, its current owner, was trying to restore it. Oliver hoped he succeeded—the bones of a beautiful mansion were still there. As for right now, though, it was a falling-down heap, held up as much by the layers of paint on the walls as by any remnants of a foundation.

The porch creaked—the third floorboard being the loudest—so he avoided it as he approached the door. He reached for the knob, which twisted easily in his hand. That wasn’t a good sign. He remembered locking it tonight before heading to his place. Buddy often didn’t, feeling safe out here in the country, but Oliver hadn’t lost that big-city need for security.

Stepping inside, he almost tripped over a small carry-on type suitcase, and was immediately curious about this burglar who carried Louis Vuitton.

Clanging emerged from the kitchen. So the prowler had decided to make himself a sandwich? A little ham and Swiss to go with the breaking and entering?

Nothing about this added up.

The kitchen was at the back of the house. Edging toward it, clueless about what to expect, Oliver paused at the doorway. When he peeked in, he froze in uncertainty.

It wasn’t a prowler. At least, it wasn’t the sort of prowler he’d ever seen or envisioned, unless prowlers now came disguised as tall young women with thick masses of honeybrown hair that hung in a wave of damp curls halfway down a slender back. She stood at the sink, filling two things: a glass with water, and a pair of jeans with the most amazingly perfect ass he’d ever seen.

His breath caught, his heart lurched and all parts south woke up, too. As he watched, she lifted a shaking hand and swept it through that long hair, weariness underscoring every movement. Her slumped shoulders reinforced that.

He ran down a list of possibilities and lit on the most likely. A granddaughter. Buddy had mentioned that one lived in L.A. She must have come up when she heard about her grandfather’s accident.

Welcome to Northern California, sweetheart. And thanks for improving the view by bringing that gorgeous ass with you.

He blinked, trying to clear his mind. He’d done enough staring for one night, especially at the posterior of a woman whose grandfather was one of the few men Oliver truly respected.

“Ahem,” he said, clearing his throat.

She dropped the glass. It fell from her hand onto the floor, exploding into a volcano of tiny slivers, splashing water on her pants. Spinning around, her eyes wide and her mouth falling open, she saw him standing there and let out a strangled cry of alarm.

“Whoa, whoa,” he said, realizing what he must look like, shirtless, wearing dirty jeans and, he suddenly realized, still holding a sharp, threatening-looking rake. The woman, who was beyond sexy, with a pair of blazing green eyes and a beautiful face surrounded by that thick, honeycolored tangle of hair, was eyeing him like he’d popped up in front of her in a back alley.

“I’m not going to…”

He was going to say hurt you. But before he could say a word, a pot flew toward his head. He threw up an arm to deflect it, groaning as the metal thunked his elbow, sending him stumbling back into the hallway. He barely managed to stay upright. If not for the rake on which he suddenly leaned, he might have fallen flat on the floor.

But the rake couldn’t help him when the frying pan followed the pot.

One second later, he was flat on the floor, rubbing the middle of his chest. He focused on trying to catch his breath, which had been knocked out of him as if he’d been KO’d by the love child of Ali and Tyson. That skillet must have been made of cast iron, and she’d flung it like a discus wielded by an Olympic champion.

He held his hands up in surrender, trying to form words, though his body had forgotten how to breathe and his ribs were screaming for her head on a platter. Meanwhile, the rake, which he’d been clutching as he fell, toppled forward. Just to add a little insult to the injury, it landed on his shoulder, then clanged to the floor beside him.