Determining she had better check on things, Charlotte unlocked the door and stormed in. The place was a wreck. Papers and books were everywhere. A state-of-the-art laptop computer and portable LaserJet printer sat on the table. Charlotte frowned. What caretaker could afford that luxury? Furthermore, what caretaker had ever been this incredibly handsome, even when sprawled on a sofa, apparently fast asleep?
Even in repose, every inch of him was tantalizingly, ruggedly male. He had dark coffee-colored hair that fell away from his face in thick rumpled waves. A full mustache emphasized rather than hid his sensually chiseled lips. High cheekbones and the squareness of his jaw added to the rakish appeal of his straight-blade nose and rectangular face.
He had to be at least six foot four of solid male muscle and was probably in his mid-thirties. He wore faded jeans, a sparkling white T-shirt and a light gray sweatshirt bearing the Yale insignia.
Some caretaker, Charlotte thought irritably, as she ran her hands through her dark curly hair. She could be a robber, ready to steal Camellia Lane blind and he would never know.
She stepped closer, put a hand out to touch his shoulder.
The next thing she knew she was flat on her back, beneath him, one of his hands circling her waist. The other held both her hands above her head.
“You’ve got two seconds to tell me what you’re doing breaking into my cottage,” he warned mildly.
Charlotte had thought he was handsome when he was sleeping. It was nothing compared to the way he looked when he was awake. His lashes were long and thick, his eyes a vivid electric blue. His mouth was soft but firm beneath the thick mustache. True, he needed a shave. She could see the eighth-of-an-inch bristles of his beard against the suntanned hue of his skin, but he smelled of Old Spice. Charlotte had always loved that cologne.
“Unhand me this instant!” she demanded, wiggling furiously and feeling every soft, slender inch of her torso and legs brush up against every hard, unyielding inch of his. Heat started at the base of her throat and swept up into her face.
“Not,” he bargained wickedly, settling more comfortably between her thighs, “until you tell me who you are.”
The mischievous glint in his eyes indicated he knew his sensual tussling with her was completely unnecessary, if entirely pleasurable. Charlotte glared up at him, fighting the tingles of awareness with every ounce of fortitude she possessed.
At her response, he did everything to suppress a grin. He knew, of course, that he could let her go now that they’d quickly established she was no threat. But the feel of her beneath him, her silky hair spread out on the sofa cushions, the feistiness in her emerald green eyes, was hard to resist. This woman presented a challenge for any man brave enough to take her on. And he never had been able to resist a challenge. Particularly the beautiful, hot-tempered, female kind.
“Your name first,” he demanded again and was rewarded with another burning flash of her emerald eyes.
Charlotte’s breasts rose and fell with each agitated breath she took. She regarded him imperiously. “I am Charlotte Langston, you fool!”
Finally, it seemed, she had gotten through to him.
“Charlotte Langston,” he repeated, stunned. He loosened his grip on her slightly. His electric blue gaze swept the band collar of her starched white shirt and the navy-and-gold tapestry vest before returning to her face. “You’re Miss Charlotte?”
“Yes, I am Miss Charlotte,” she bit out, her face flooding with telltale heat as her formidable temper rose another notch. She couldn’t believe she was wrestling on the sofa with the new caretaker, never mind almost enjoying it. “Now let me up before I do something we’ll both regret, like punch you in the nose,” she snapped.
He grinned at that, as if he were thinking he’d like to see her try. Wordlessly, he stood and offered her a hand.
Aware her trouser legs had hiked up almost to her knees in the struggle and one of her heels had fallen off, Charlotte struggled to get herself together.
Her composure restored, she bent to rummage for her shoe.
He scooped it up first, then knelt in front of her and slipped it on for her. “I apologize for flipping you onto your back like that,” he said as he continued to kneel like an errant knight paying homage to his queen. “But you shouldn’t sneak up on people.”
Charlotte stood. Not surprisingly, after what she had just been through, her knees felt a little wobbly. “I knocked,” she defended herself sharply, irritated that their brief tussle on the sofa had left her feeling so unsettled. “You didn’t answer.”
Again, that slow, sexy grin that wreaked havoc with her insides. “That’s ’cause I was asleep.”
Charlotte arched a brow. Her dark green eyes glinted with a deep disapproval she made no move to hide. “At two in the afternoon?” she asked.
“Give me a break.” Irritated, he pivoted away from her and began to gather up the papers he had strewn across the table. He shoved them all in a brown accordian envelope and secured them with a string. “I was up all night working,” he continued with a beleaguered frown.
“On Camellia Lane?” she asked in patent disbelief.
He shook his head and corrected her. “My dissertation. Didn’t your sister Isabella tell you? Guess not, from that scowl on your face. I’m a doctoral student. I’ve been working on my dissertation for several years now—”
“You’re a little old to be a student, aren’t you?” Charlotte interrupted suspiciously. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something about this guy just didn’t ring quite true to her.
“I’m thirty-five.” His glance skimmed her wickedly from head to toe. His lips curved in a teasing smile. “How old are you?”
Thirty-three, Charlotte thought, but she had no intention of telling him that!
“Uh-oh. That look means you’re over thirty for sure. But not to worry,” he drawled with an exaggerated Southern accent as his bold glance slid over her heart-shaped face. He was standing so close she could feel the warmth of his body, but she didn’t move away as he whispered in her ear. “You still look damn fine to me, Miss Charlotte. Damn fine!”
Irritated to find herself secretly pleased at his approval, Charlotte planted both her hands on her hips and glared at him wordlessly.
His roguish grin widened, as if he knew he had annoyed her every bit as much as he meant to. “Besides,” he continued lazily, rubbing the underside of his chiseled jaw, “no one’s too old for an education.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Charlotte shot back. She looked him up and down in the same manner he had just surveyed her, taking in his ruggedly handsome face. Ignoring the rapid pounding of her heart, she said, “By the time you’ve hit your mid-thirties, if you don’t have a real job…” She let her words trail off sarcastically.
To her frustration, he looked not the least bit offended by her tone. Eyes twinkling with unstinting humor, he said lazily, “Being a caretaker is a real job, Miss Charlotte.”
Charlotte thought of the condition of the grounds, and rolled her eyes in a demonstration of exasperation.
