Waking Up to You: Overexposed Read online

Okay. At some point in that litany of woes, between the boogers, the liquor and the big-n-bad, he got the picture.

  She was hysterical.

  He understood the reaction. He’d worked with witnesses whose terror had revealed itself via uncontrollable laughter and knew that deep inside, she was churning with anxiety. The laughter had held a tinge of frenzy, her fear and reaction to his presence had been a bit extreme, and now she looked like she was going to... “Oh, hell, please don’t,” he muttered.

  But she did. She segued from snickers to sobs in the drawing of a breath. Before he could even take a second to remind himself how utterly useless he felt around crying women, he saw big fat tears roll from her eyes and drip down those soft cheeks.

  “Is my grandfather okay?” Sniff. “And are you?” Sniff sniff. “Do I need to take you to the hospital? I can’t believe I attacked you. Believe me, it was my first assault and battery.”

  She literally wrung her hands in front of her, clenching and gripping them, as if needing something to hold on to. He had to imagine she was running on empty emotionally and was imagining the worst.

  He knew of only two ways to calm her down, to make her stop trying to maim him with kitchen utensils, snort herself to death laughing or sob until she had no tears left.

  He started with option one. Reason.

  “Buddy is going to be fine, I promise. His doctor said he’ll need surgery and then rehab, but when I left the hospital he was high as a kite on pain meds and pinching the nurses.”

  Her lips twitched, and she managed to lift them a tiny bit at the corners.

  “And I’ll be fine, too.” He eyed the kitchen sink and tried for humor, hoping to coax another laugh, or even a tiny snort out of her. “Just don’t ever flash a pot at me or I’ll go into post-traumatic shock and instinctively dive for the floor.”

  The lips curled a wee bit more. But he didn’t get his hopes up yet.

  “How did it happen? My mother didn’t give me any details, just that he’d broken his hip.”

  He hesitated, before admitting, “He fell down the front steps off the porch.”

  Another sniff. “Such a short fall and so much damage.”

  “It happens,” he said, knowing brittle bones could easily be broken. “But he’s going to get a brand-new hip and come home better than ever. Before you know it, he’ll be running marathons.”

  “Oh, great, then it’ll be his other hip or his knees.”

  He wished he’d quit while he was ahead. She was obviously now picturing her grandfather’s much-loved arms and skull being shattered. Sure enough, to prove it, the bottom lip began to stick out the tiniest bit and she welled up again. Those churning emotions just weren’t going to let her go without a fight.

  “C’mere,” he said with a sigh, knowing he had to move on to option two.

  Not giving her a warning or a chance to get away, he gently took hold of her shoulders and pulled her closer. She resisted for the briefest moment, as if unsure of his motives.

  He reassured her, sighing deeply as he wondered what on earth he’d done to deserve this. Having to act like a wailing wall for a gorgeous woman who was totally off-limits, considering she was his employer’s beloved granddaughter, simply wasn’t fair.

  “Just let it out, darlin’. You’ve already maimed and injured me, so you might as well use my one good shoulder to cry on.”

  That elicited a sob that verged on a giggle and she gave in to the invitation. The tall, soft woman melted against him. Burying her face in his neck, she wrapped her arms around his waist, as if it was the most natural thing in the world that she should snuggle up against a half-naked stranger in her moment of need.

  He stroked the small of her back, felt the wetness of her tears against his neck and murmured consoling words in her ear. She calmed—her slow shudders growing further apart as she took what he was offering. They swayed a little, as if dancing, and he mentally acknowledged that needing a shoulder to cry on wasn’t just an expression. Sometimes that was just exactly the right solution to a problem. Not for nothing was he known as the best brother in the world to his two sisters.

  Only this woman was not one of his sisters. Oh, no. She was a beautiful, vulnerable stranger, who, he soon realized, felt incredibly good in his arms. Soft and pliant, warm, all curves and skin and heat and sex appeal. He could feel her gentle exhalations against his bare skin, feel the faint brush of her lips on his nape and was slowly going crazy at the scrape of her nipples through her silky blouse against his chest. He had never been more aware of being shirtless in his life.

  He stiffened. Some parts more than others.

  He should never have let his mind wander from her mood. Because, while the embrace had started as a comforting offer to a stranger, now he was much too aware that he hadn’t had sex in months and a woman shaped like a centerfold had curled up against him like a vine around a trellis.

  Shifting back a little, he hoped like hell she wouldn’t realize he was getting hard while she wept. But she didn’t let him make a gentlemanly getaway. Instead she edged close again, pressing even harder against him. He could feel the warmth at the apex of her thighs, which, with her deliciously long legs, was lined up just perfectly with his groin.

  She noticed. She had to notice. Because suddenly, she lifted her head and stared at him. Her soft face was tearstained, but her eyes were wide with shock, confusion and awareness.

  Her lips trembled. She licked them, and he held his breath, wondering what on earth she was going to say. Was she about to snap at him and slap his face or issue an invitation? What?

  In the end, his wild guesses didn’t even come close. Instead, with a soft, regretful sigh, she drew away and whispered, “Why, oh, God, why did I not meet you in Paris?”

  * * *

  A SHORT TIME later, after Candace had asked the sexy stranger a dozen questions about her grandfather’s condition, she finally allowed herself to think about something else. She now knew for sure that Buddy would be all right. She’d see him tomorrow, but for tonight, she could do nothing else.

  Slowly, her fear and worry began to ease away and she let her thoughts drift in another direction. Enough so that, as she sat at the kitchen table and slowly sipped sweet, hot tea with the sexiest man she’d ever seen, she found time to wish two things: that she’d left the pots in the sink, and that she’d never even thought about him in connection with her canceled trip to France.

  If she hadn’t seen him, reacted like a high school virgin defending her hymen from a horny football team and attacked him to the point of bloodshed, she wouldn’t have gotten all giggly, weepy and hysterical. If she hadn’t gotten giggly, weepy and hysterical, he wouldn’t have taken her into his big strong arms. If he hadn’t taken her into his big strong arms, he wouldn’t have drawn her against that rock-hard, rippling, sweat-tinged, powerful male body. If he hadn’t drawn her against his body, she might not have felt the rigid proof of his virility pressing deliciously against her sex.

  And if he hadn’t gotten hard, she wouldn’t be sitting here vacillating between worrying about her grandfather and wondering when this hot stranger would wake up and smell the estrogen, and realize she was sitting in damp panties.

  She shifted in the hard chair. Seriously damp.

  Of course, fair was fair. He’d been seriously hard.

  Yum.

  No. Not yum. You can’t have him.

  Sighing, she inhaled the fragrant tea and murmured, “If you give a mouse a cookie...”

  “I don’t think your grandfather has any milk,” he replied, hearing her. “He’s lactose intolerant.”

  She had to smile that this strong, rugged-looking man understood the reference to a popular children’s book. Especially since his voice was all deep and gravelly, sultry and alluring, and completely inappropriate for uttering rhymes to a little kid.

  Uttering sexy, needful growls to an adult woman would be much more up his alley.

  “I have a niece. She’s four,” he explai
ned with a shrug. “You?”

  Are you asking if I’m single?

  She curled her left hand around the cup. The bare left hand. The left hand that was not yet weighed down with the five-carat diamond she suspected Tommy would put on it the minute she got back to L.A.

  Remembering Tommy, and everything that ring would entail, she gave a guilty start and dropped her hand into her lap, reaching for the cup with her right one.

  “Younger cousins,” she finally replied.

  There was no point in letting this man know she was single. No possible reason to want him to realize she had gotten all gooey inside the moment he’d pulled her into his arms to offer her some warmth and human comfort. And it would be pure insanity to hope he’d figure out that the goo had boiled into lava once she’d felt the volcanic rock in his pants.

  She didn’t allow herself to feel terribly flattered. Any bare-chested, slick, hard, virile—stop with the adjectives—man would probably stir at the feel of a woman pressing herself against him like she wanted to climb into his skin. That’s what she had done, she realized with embarrassment. She might as well have asked him if he could pretty-please comfort her on top of the hard, broad table, or up against the refrigerator. And wouldn’t it be nice if the comforting didn’t include clothes?

  You’re engaged, remember?

  Right. Engaged. Which meant the Candace Volcano was going to be all Mt. St. Helens from here on out—i.e., dormant. There might be rumbles, but there would be no eruptions for a hell of a long time. Five years, at least. Oy.

  She would be staying here to help her grandfather for as long as he needed her, which meant there would be no time for a trip to Paris. No chance for a wild fling. Tommy wouldn’t want to wait too long to announce their engagement, and she couldn’t blame him. She’d have no time to sow any wild oats and bank some sexy memories. But she couldn’t truly be upset about it. She adored Grandpa and would do anything for him. Including missing out on her one-and-only chance to be a sex tourist.

  So go for the gardener.

  She flicked the thought out of her head, not for the first time. That wasn’t going to happen. A spring fling in Paris had sounded ideal, but there was no way she was hooking up with someone who worked for her grandfather. She’d wanted someone from out of the country, preferably a stud who didn’t speak English. Gorgeous, hung, with a penchant for oral sex and dumb as a rock would have suited her just fine.

  This man—as far as she knew right now—had only two of those qualities. He was gorgeous. And oh, had he felt hung.

  As for the rest? Well, that mouth looked like it could give a woman incredible pleasure. But he certainly didn’t appear dumb. He spoke the language. And, worst of all, lived in her own state. Once she became fodder for the paparazzi, they could easily track him down. They would be very interested to hear that Tommy Shane’s beloved fiancée had been having a wild, outrageously sexual affair with a man right before she’d said, “I will.”

  Mmm. Wild. Outrageously sexual. Oh, did she suspect it would be.

  Just her luck that she’d met a man who appealed to her on such a deep, powerful level on the very night she’d agreed to give up sex for five years and marry her best friend.

  “Warming up a little?” he asked.

  She had been, sip by sip. Grandfather’s house was old, damp and chilly, and she hoped her suitcase got here soon with her warmer clothes. “Yes, thanks.”

  “The nights’ll get warmer soon,” he said. “Or so I’ve been told.”

  “You’re not from around here?”

  “No.” He hesitated, then added, “I moved up from L.A. a few months ago.”

  Ahh! The plot thickened. Had he been some kind of gardener to the Hollywood elite? She suspected any number of starlets would have been happy to have him trim their hedges and do some deep planting in their gardens.

  “Why?”

  “It was just time,” he explained, his expression and tone telling her that was all he was going to say.

  Talk about cryptic.

  The silence between them resumed, though it wasn’t an uncomfortable one. They both merely sipped their tea, as they had been for the past few minutes. Oliver—that was his name, Oliver, and what a strong, solid, sexy, old-fashioned name it was—had gently pushed her into a chair and insisted on making her some tea. He obviously did know her grandfather well. A cup of Earl Grey was Buddy Frye’s solution to soothe all the ills of the world. Tea had cured Candace’s scraped knees and hurt feelings, broken hearts and hangovers. And now, it had made her finally relax and brought her tension down a few notches.

  She wondered if Oliver had adopted the habit from his employer, of if he was a similar type of man—a calm, deliberate man who always seemed to know how to offer comfort in exactly the right way at the right moment. Whatever the reason, like the hug that had gone from sweet to smokin’, it was a nice gesture, one she appreciated.

  Of course, she would appreciate it more if the man would put a damn shirt on so she wouldn’t have to keep shoving her eyeballs back in their sockets every time he moved.

  Deltoids and pectorals and biceps, oh, my!

  The last thing she had expected to find when she’d let herself into her grandfather’s house, which she’d only ever visited once before, was a hunk of masculine sex appeal showing up in the kitchen. Her mother had, indeed, mentioned a groundskeeper when she’d called earlier today. But she hadn’t said anything about a groundskeeper with nearly jet-black hair, thick and wavy and hanging a little long around his stubbled, two-days-past-needing-a-shave jaw. Nothing could have prepared Candace for the dark dreamy eyes, the strong brow, the slashing cheekbones or the powerful body. Absolutely nothing.

  She’d met a lot of handsome men in Hollywood. Probably some who were more handsome than Oliver—Tommy among them. But in terms of raw, masculine sex appeal, she’d seen nobody better.

  “Better?”

  “Not a single one,” she mumbled.

  “What?”

  Realizing she’d spoken aloud, she quickly backtracked. “Sorry, I mean, I am better. Much. Just tired, that’s all.”

  “So, you said you came up from L.A.?”

  “Yes. I headed for the airport right after I got my mother’s call. I figured I should come and see how Grandpa was doing myself. I’m really hoping I can handle things so Mom won’t have to fly out here.”

  His brow shot up. Knowing he’d been on the receiving end of her mother’s telephone panic, he had to be wondering about that.

  “My father had a heart attack two months ago,” she explained. “He needs Mom there with him in Florida. So if I can be here for Buddy and set my mom’s mind at ease about my grandfather, that’s what I’ll do.”

  He frowned, encircling his teacup in his hand. “Buddy might be in rehab for weeks.”

  Weeks. Well, that wasn’t great, but it was doable. She was an independent contractor and was in between movie projects right now. She’d been asked to submit some preliminary sketches for a depression-era drama that could be a major motion picture in a few years, but that was still in the early stages. She didn’t have the assignment yet, and she could work on the prelims here. Besides, Leo DiCaprio, who was supposed to be starring in the film, was the easiest guy in Hollywood to dress. The only thing that might call her back to Southern California earlier would be her famous—infamous?—engagement.

  “I’ll work something out,” she mumbled, wondering how long Tommy would be willing to hold off. She wouldn’t want to announce anything while she was taking care of her grandfather. The last thing the elderly man would need once he got home was reporters and photographers knocking at the door. “I don’t have to be in L.A. right away.”

  “What do you do?”

  Oh, I’m in the movie business. Costume design. Did you see the last Cameron film? That was me.

  That was the standard reply, often said with a slightly superior tone, just because that’s how everybody in L.A. rolled. But she just didn’t feel like pla
ying that game. Not here, in the middle of the night, with a stranger. Not after the day she’d had. “I’m involved with fashion design.”

  His eyes didn’t immediately glaze, the way most men’s would. “My sisters would probably love to meet you. I think they were each born holding a copy of Vogue.”

  She ran the tip of her finger across the rim of her cup. “Not that kind of fashion. I work for some of the production companies doing costuming.”

  He grunted. “Movies, huh?”

  Her back stiffened as he reacted just as she’d expected him to. Most people were awed by her connection to Tinseltown. This one, this earthy, swaggering man, just didn’t seem the type. He looked like he could live out some macho, shoot-em-up action film rather than having to sit through one. Of course, what such a man was doing working as a groundskeeper, she had no idea.

  “What’s wrong with the movies?”

  He shrugged.

  “You don’t like films?”

  “Sure I do. I just don’t have much respect for the people who make them.”

  The vision of him being at the beck and call of some spoiled, rich-bitch movie star popped into her head. She had a hard time envisioning this man taking orders from anyone and wondered if he’d gotten tired of being propositioned by his clients. “Interact with a lot of Hollywood types, do you?”

  He eyed her then shifted his gaze away, muttering a cryptic, “Not anymore.”

  Meaning, he had once upon a time?

  Something suddenly occurred to her, which could explain why he seemed like such a fish out of water. “Wait. Tell me you’re not a method actor up here in the wilds of Northern California getting ready to audition for some back-to-nature film,” she said, horrified at the very idea.

  He barked a harsh laugh. “Not likely.” His lips twitching as he lifted his glass, he added, “What about you? Did you come out here all starry-eyed, looking for your big break, and end up shifting gears into costuming when the acting thing didn’t work out?”

  “I couldn’t act my way out of a speeding ticket if my car was on fire and the cop who pulled me over was my uncle.”