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International travel was always draining, but this trip had been especially so. India had only fallen asleep for little fifteen-minute, neck-straining naps on the plane, despite spending the hours before her flight not sleeping, but instead gathering up every single thing Gerard-Pierre had littered around her house. The books she’d stacked neatly in the hallway outside her apartment door. She respected books; they hadn’t done anything wrong. The rest she’d dumped into a pile in the hallway.
The bra she’d hung on the century-old doorknob. Explanation enough in any language.
India checked the pickup truck’s gas gauge. Her body wasn’t the only thing rapidly running out of energy. She’d found Helen and Tom’s pickup waiting for her at the airport, right where their text had said it would be. The tank had been almost half-full, surely enough to cover the distance from the Austin airport to the countryside beyond Fort Hood. She’d passed a dozen gas stations leaving Austin. A half dozen through Georgetown. More in Killeen...but when Helen had said her house was out in the middle of nowhere, India had forgotten how big nowhere could be in the States. She’d been driving for ninety minutes, enough to have gone to another country from Belgium, but she was still in Texas, driving past miles of land occupied only by grazing cattle and the occasional barn. Sheesh.
She had just decided it would be wise to turn around and head back to the last gas station she’d passed when she saw a mailbox, the standard American kind, a black metal shoebox with a rounded top, mounted on a wood four-by-four. When she’d been a little girl, she’d thought the shape looked like the Road Runner tunnels that the Wile E. Coyote was always trying to enter—with no luck. He was shut out, denied, every time.
Gold letters on the black metal read 489. Who opened this mailbox every day without even thinking about how easy it was? India slowed the truck as she passed the driveway. Its single lane of asphalt ran for at least a quarter mile, unwaveringly straight, to a classic two-story brick home. The colors of the bricks were distinctly Texan, though, gold and beige and cream that reflected the afternoon sun, which was bright even in December in this part of the world.
She didn’t need to turn back, after all. Helen’s house number was 490. Her mailbox was up ahead, a little sentry on the side of the road. India hit her turn signal, then scoffed at herself. Who was there to signal? Her truck was the only vehicle on the road. But as she slowed and started to turn, she looked down Helen’s straight driveway—and tapped the brakes.
Someone was there.
The garage door was open and, even though a red pickup blocked most of her view, India could see that someone was moving around. A thief.
She didn’t turn in, but kept driving. Tom and Helen had a dog, but Helen had texted her that the dog would be at the neighbor’s house, so India could sleep off her jet lag without having a dog wake her. A barking dog might have scared off a thief, but the house was empty.
Don’t be crazy, India. Why would a thief go to an empty house when the owners are out of the country?
Not so crazy. India could dial 911. Maybe. She’d turned off cellular data on her phone to avoid astronomical international roaming charges. Wasn’t 911 supposed to work from all phones, regardless? But she didn’t have an American phone. Maybe it wasn’t programmed for that emergency service. How long would it take a sheriff to get out here, anyway? The thief would have plenty of time to help himself to whatever he wanted and then drive away with a flat-screen television in the back of his pickup.
She stopped the truck on the road’s shoulder. Think about this, India girl; stay awake. She scrubbed her hands over her face, then dug in her bag for a peppermint. The bracing flavor woke her up. She turned the truck around and drove by one more time, slowly. The parked red truck was awfully nice, shiny and new, hardly the getaway vehicle of a criminal.
She pulled in the driveway of 489 to turn around and head back, feeling exceedingly stupid. She was just tired. And emotional—she’d failed to protect her own home. Hadn’t that thought been relentlessly circling in her head as she’d kicked out Gerard-Pierre? Well, kicked out his stuff, anyway. That was why she was thinking of homes being invaded.
Damn. She’d passed her own driveway again. With a sigh, she made a U-turn in the middle of the empty road. Helen’s house wasn’t finished yet. The truck probably belonged to the general contractor who’d been building the house, supervising all the subcontractors. The truck could belong to one of the subcontractors, too. Maybe to an electrician. A tile layer. Who knew?
She was getting so sleepy, she didn’t care. If it did turn out to be a thief, she’d at least get a license plate number as the truck drove away, before she fell asleep waiting for the sheriff to show up.
She drove up to the house and debated parking behind the truck to block it in, just in case this person had no reason to be here. But then she caught a better view of the man in the garage. His back was to her, but the width of his shoulders was enough to make her decide to park out of his way. She was a soldier, but she’d spent the last four solid years tied to a desk. She was super rusty when it came to close quarters combat. She wouldn’t want to take on this guy, anyway, not without a stick or a bat or something. Gee, I’m fresh out of ninja staffs.
He wasn’t a thief, anyway. He wasn’t moving in a sneaky, furtive way. As she parked, he walked calmly over to a refrigerator in the garage. She’d forgotten how Americans not only had giant fridges in their kitchens, but they often kept one out in the garage, too, the good old beer fridge that held the leftovers when holiday dinners called for a mammoth turkey. The man with the buff shoulders opened the door and took out a beer. He wore a leather tool belt around his waist, a hammer hanging from it. Someone in construction, of course.
She was an idiot and she wanted to go to bed, but she supposed she’d have to make small talk with this contractor and hope he was almost ready to leave for the day. She opened the door and practically fell out of the cab, dropping the foot from the cab to the ground, landing with all the grace of a tired elephant. She slammed the door. This man was all that stood between her and a soft bed with fluffy pillows.
The man in the tool belt turned around.
Oh, my.
India abruptly felt awake and alert. Just the sight of that man, that tall, dark and handsome man, sent a jolt through her system better than a whole roll of peppermints.
* * *
Aiden had shaken his head as he’d watched his neighbors’ pickup drive by, drive by and drive by again. She couldn’t read the numbers on the mailbox, maybe. Poor little old lady, he’d thought.
Aiden looked at the woman standing in the driveway.
Poor drop-dead gorgeous woman.
He didn’t let the beer bottle slip out of his grasp. That was something, anyway, but he sure as hell was knocked speechless. This woman was the definition of a knockout. Literally, the sight of her knocked the sense out of his brain—because she looked rumpled and sleepy, and all his brain could think about was that he’d like to be rumpled and sleepy with her.
Enjoy being a bachelor, his sister had written.
He’d thought about milk cartons and sippy cups.
He wasn’t thinking about sippy cups anymore. He was thinking about the brunette standing in front of him, looking at him with gray eyes. Gray. Beautiful. All grown-up and beautiful.
Okay. Right. He should speak now. Right.
“Are you almost done here?” she asked. “I’m dying to get in bed.”
The beer bottle in his hand slipped an inch.
Okay. Right.
She tilted her head at his silence. “I’m going to be staying here while Tom and Helen are on their honeymoon. Did they tell you that?”
“Right.” One word. He sounded like an idiot. It may have been a long time since he’d been a bachelor, but he was thirty-four years old and a battalion S-3, not thirteen and in middle school. He gestured toward her with the bottle in his hand. “Would you care for a beer?”
He’d meant there were more in the garage fridge since he’d just put a six-pack in there, but she huffed out a tired sigh and plopped her overnight bag on the concrete floor, then took the beer from his hand. “Actually, I would.” She wiped off the mouth of the bottle with a quick swipe of her sleeve, then tilted her head back and chugged the whole bottle right down that graceful, womanly throat with long, sure swallows. She finished it and gave him a polite, sleepy smile. “Thanks.”
Okay. That was...provocative. “I take it you like beer.”
She scrunched up her nose a bit. “Actually, that tasted horrible. I just ate a peppermint.”
He laughed.
Her smile turned a little more genuine, but still tired. “I needed the calories. I haven’t eaten much more than airplane snacks for the past twelve hours. That beer was my dinner, because I will be asleep in two minutes. I suppose Tom and Helen gave you a house key?”
“Right.”
She pondered that for a moment. “I won’t ask for it back, but could you make yourself scarce for the next ten hours?”
“Okay.”
“Make that twelve.” She turned her head away and put the back of her hand to her mouth and burped the tiniest, ladylike burp. “Sorry.”
He laughed—again—and took the empty bottle from her. She was all grown-up and beautiful, but also surprising and adorable. And rumpled and sleepy, which was a sexy damn look on her. Oh, hell yeah. It’s all coming back to me now.
She picked up her overnight bag. “I’ll be here all week, so even though you have a key, knock first. I’ll let you in.”
“Promise?”
“I—Oh.” She looked at him, startled.
He winked. Just joking. For now.
She looked away, but her lips quirked into a smile. She had just a touch of a dimple in one cheek. How easy it was to imagine her smiling at him as they shared a pillow.
“So.” She gestured toward his truck. “If you’re done here...?”
“I can come back. I just have to have this project finished by Christmas.” He nodded at the planks he’d stacked on the floor.
“What are those for?”
“Bookcases.”
“Nice. Well. Goodbye.”
But they stood there, staring at one another. He unbuckled his tool belt without breaking eye contact. She bit her lip.
He shook his head to himself a little bit as he turned away to set the belt on the stack of planks, trying not to be bowled over because a sexy woman had done a sexy thing like biting her sexy lip.
He’d been asked to leave; time to go. He stopped at the small security box on the wall just outside the garage and punched in the code that lowered the double-wide door. It started rolling down. He looked over his shoulder at her, savoring his last glimpse of rumpled and sleepy. “I’ll see you later.”
The chain and motor were loud as the door lowered, but Aiden could have sworn he heard a one-word answer: “Definitely.”
Chapter Four (#u34d815ff-7d69-5859-b003-7b6aa34a7a08)
The contractor was so hot. Like...lava hot.
Helen hadn’t even dropped a hint about that. Maybe she’d thought India would be heartbroken over Gerard-Pierre. She hadn’t sounded heartbroken when they’d chatted, had she? But fresh from a breakup or not, a woman would have to be dead not to notice that contractor. And he’d flirted with her.
She curled her toes into the plush carpet of the master bedroom. She felt great. She’d slept without the sounds of a TV coming from another room. She’d slept without having her service uniform all laid out on the chair by her bed, a fresh white blouse and sheer nude hose ready to make their demands the second her alarm clock went off. India wriggled her pantyhose-free toes. Without setting an alarm, she’d slept until seven in the morning in this time zone. Fifteen blissful, uninterrupted hours.
That would probably not happen again, though. She had to get the dog back from the neighbor’s today. She was no expert on dogs, since she’d never owned one, but she doubted any dog would let her sleep for fifteen hours without needing to go out. She wandered into the kitchen, where Helen had left her a long note with all the information she’d thought India might need. Wi-Fi password—check. Veterinarian’s phone number—check. Neighbor’s phone number—check—followed by a list of the workers that had already been scheduled before Helen had said it was fate that they could swap houses.
Helen had left the general contractor’s name and number as the person to call if anything went wrong with the house. Nicholas Harmon. The boss. Nicholas practically oozed testosterone. She had no doubt he could keep a bunch of subcontractors in line with ease. He was probably former military. He had that posture. The haircut, too.
Nicholas had the dark coloring of many Italians, the square jaw and strong bone structure that made her think of Germany, but he was unmistakably American. There was something about Americans that she’d never been able to put her finger on, but she could always spot a countryman without hearing their accent first. She herself was rarely mistaken for any other nationality anywhere she went, although she couldn’t say what, exactly, made her look American.
In short, he was perfect, this Nicholas. When Helen had said your man, this guy had been who India had imagined. Helen had also said, It’s like fate.
India felt her stomach twist.
She needed food. There was half a loaf of bread in the ginormous new pantry. She put a couple of slices in the toaster and pressed the lever. She glanced around the brand-spanking-new kitchen with its brand-new appliances, then she turned back to the toaster and stared at the bread. There was nothing else to do, nothing to distract her from her thoughts.
From thinking about the way he’d laughed. That wink.
Her stomach twisted a little more.
Fate seemed kind of heavy. It was more like a wish that had come true. A fantasy had materialized in her friend’s garage. A sexual fantasy, no mistake about it, which had awakened parts of India’s body and brain that she’d been content to let hibernate while she’d fallen into an undemanding, platonic routine with Gerard-Pierre.
Her body was making demands now. She wanted to see Nicholas again.
And then what?
Good question. She was only here for a week. On Christmas Eve day, she was going to drive three hours to San Antonio to a bed-and-breakfast. Helen had booked it for herself and Tom, and she’d insisted India use their reservation. San Antonio was a great little tourist town, Helen had assured her, with the Alamo to visit and the River Walk to mosey along for shopping and dining. The morning of the twenty-fourth, the contractor was having some polyurethane work done on the floors and grout, and they’d need to leave the windows open to let out the noxious fumes, even though it was winter. India would be warm in the B&B instead.
India would be stir-crazy after a week of isolation, anyway, and Helen had known it.
But first, India would be here for a week. A week wasn’t long enough to develop a relationship with a man. India didn’t sleep with a man unless she was in a committed relationship.
Really? Because you were in a committed relationship, but you still weren’t sleeping with Gerard-Pierre.
Things had cooled off with Bernardo after she’d met his family, too. And Adolphus? They’d slept together, of course, after a few months of coffee conversations in bookstores. He preferred Saturdays, when he could spend the night without worrying about making it on time to work the next day. They’d had some nice Saturday nights, but frankly, he’d been more excited about exploring the possibility that she was his intellectual soul mate than he’d been about actually being a bedmate.
It had been okay. Sex was not the most important part of a relationship. India was certain that was true, but...
She’d had enough relationships without any sex. What would it be like to have sex without a relationship?
Knock first. I’ll let you in.
Promise? He’d winked at her, six feet of masculinity with a wicked smile.
India stared at the toaster for a few more seconds before she realized it wasn’t toasting anything. Feeling ten kinds of stupid, she plugged in the toaster.
Nothing happened. She moved the toaster to the other side of the stove, where there was another outlet. That one was dead, too.
She went into the garage and took a quick peek at the fuse box. None of the switches had been tripped. That meant the electrical outlets were dead for some other reason, and the problem was going to require a professional to take a look at it. Like, say, the general contractor.
What a perfect twist of fate.
India went back into the kitchen and dialed the contractor’s number. Oh, Nicholas? Come over and knock on my door.
A woman answered, but she sounded like a secretary. Please be a secretary. “Could you ask Nicholas to stop by 490 Cedar Highway today? The electrical outlets in the kitchen are dead.”
Then India abandoned the cold bread in favor of a hot shower and fresh clothes and a touch of makeup, because her outlets might be dead, but her libido no longer was.
* * *
Fabio was trying to kiss him.
No—he was trying to make out with him, hot breath and slobbery tongue dragging Aiden out of his sleep.
Aiden pushed away the dog’s head. “No means no, Fabio.”
The dog backed up a step on the mattress but kept staring at him, panting.
“Don’t look so hopeful. I’ve never had a thing for blondes.” Hadn’t he been dreaming of a brunette? Aiden squinted at the clock by his bed. Nine o’clock?
He stared at the numbers a moment, as if they couldn’t be right. Aiden hadn’t slept until nine o’clock in...hell, in at least four years. Even when he was stationed stateside at a staff job, as he was now, the army required him to be up at an earlier hour. He was awake, dressed in his PT uniform and ready for PT—physical training—by six on most mornings. If there was no PT, he was in the office by seven. On the days he was off, Poppy and Olympia were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed by seven o’clock, too, clambering onto his bed and chattering about whatever they were thinking about that minute, perhaps wondering if a teddy bear could be rainbow-colored or if Daddy could make pink grapes instead of green grapes. I don’t decide what color grapes can be.
Why?
They grow on vines. Daddy can’t make vines do things.
Why?
