that it really mattered. To Janine, he was simply another tenant. Yet as she absently stripped sheets from the mattress, she couldn’t suppress a bit of curious speculation. She wondered if he was married. He wore no wedding ring but that wasn’t necessarily proof that he had no wife. And if there was a woman in his life, what was she like?
Obviously the fortunate woman would have to be very special. Since nothing about Quinn Coulliard was ordinary, Janine couldn’t imagine he would be attracted to someone plain, a woman with—she glanced at the mirror—mousy hair, dull brown eyes, a flat chest and a flabby bum.
Disgusted, she turned away from the mirror, angrily dragged the soiled sheets from the mattress and tossed them in a heap on the floor. The notion that a man like Quinn Coulliard could ever be attracted to her was ludicrous. After all, Janine was well aware of her physical limitations. Once, she had believed herself to be reasonably attractive—a fantasy that Charles had effectively quashed on their honeymoon. Now she no longer deluded herself and reluctantly accepted the sad fact that she had the sex appeal of road kill.
But since Quinn Coulliard had entered her life, Janine had found herself staring into the mirror with an increasing sense of disappointment. Last night she’d actually pushed her drab hair on top of her skull, wondering if a fluffier coiffeur would make her more attractive. She’d caught herself, of course, and had been both embarrassed and depressed by such futile speculation. She was a plain woman. Everyone said so. At least, everyone who mattered.
But there was something in the way Quinn looked at her that didn’t make her feel the least bit plain, and she’d been bothered by strange sensations, an undefinable longing that made her restless and itchy.
Janine was still considering the implications of these odd feelings while she shook out the fresh sheets and absently continued her chore. She tucked in one side of the bed-clothes then rounded the bed and accidentally bumped the goosenecked lamp, sending Edgar into an indignant flurry. Janine whirled and grabbed at the tilting perch. The bird squawked and aimed a painful peck at her wrist.
“Ow!” She yanked back her hand.
Although the weighted base kept the lamp from falling, Edgar continued to screech and frantically flap his good wing.
“Oh, good Lord.” Fearing that the frenzied animal would reinjure itself, Janine attempted to calm the bird by emulating Quinn’s soothing manner.
“There, there,” she cooed.
Edgar cocked his head, beak ajar, and regarded Janine with an expression that could only be described as one of absolute disdain. The bird did seem calmer, though, so Janine was encouraged enough to extend a tentative hand. The creature emitted a raucous shriek and instantly attacked. Before she could so much as gasp, a flapping ball of feathered fury leaped at her face, pecking and screeching.
Folding her arms as a shield against the raven’s needle-sharp beak, she stumbled backward. The bed blocked her way. “Ouch! You stupid bird. Stop it!” She swatted wildly. “Do you hear me? Stop!”
She finally fell onto the bed, then rolled frantically until she fell off and hit the floor with a painful thump. Panting, she rose to her knees and shoved a wad of hair out of her face. The raven gave her a hard look, apparently decided that she posed no further threat to his perch and placidly began to groom himself.
Standing shakily, she blew out a breath. If Quinn wanted the left side of his bed made, he’d damn well have to do it himself. No way was she going to get within pecking distance of that blasted bird again.
She scooped up the soiled linens, piled them in the hallway, then dragged in the vacuum and began cleaning the carpet. The nozzle struck something under the bed. After bending to investigate, she pulled out Quinn’s deflated duffel, tossed it onto the mattress and finished vacuuming the room.
As she was cleaning the base of the dresser, she noticed the white square that had fallen while Quinn was tending the raven’s wounded wing. After retrieving the scrap, she turned it over and took a sharp breath. It was a tattered, finger-smudged photograph of the most stunning woman Janine had ever seen.
The woman in the photograph had sparkling, ice blue eyes shaded by lashes long enough to braid and a sensual mouth puckered into the kiss-me pout favored by models in fashion magazines. As if those endowments weren’t enough, a thick blond mane framed her perfect oval face. The woman was gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous.
Janine was so engrossed in studying the image that she didn’t hear the bedroom door open.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
She jumped and whirled around. “I…cleaning.”
Quinn stood in the doorway, taut as a gate spring with his right arm twisted strangely behind his back. After a moment, his hand emerged from beneath the loose khaki vest and he slammed the door. His narrowed gaze swept the room, lingering briefly when he noticed the floppy duffel on the bed, then moving to the oversize key ring on the dresser and finally settling on the photograph clutched in Janine’s rigid fingers.
She moistened her lips and held out the picture. “It was on the floor,” she explained lamely, more annoyed by her own embarrassment than by his accusatory stare. All she’d done was rescue the photo from being sucked into the vacuum yet she felt guilty enough to have been caught snooping through his underwear drawer.
With one more glance at the half-made bed, Quinn crossed the room slowly and, she thought, with forced casualness. When he was close enough that she caught the stimulating scent of pine soap, he reached out, but instead of accepting the proffered picture, he captured her bruised wrist.
Startled, she tried to pull away but he held her firmly, examining the blue welts and bloody scratches scattered across her inner arm.
Perhaps it was his nearness that made Janine’s heart race wildly; perhaps it was the warmth of his strong palm encircling her wrist. The reason didn’t matter. She was aware of him. Acutely aware—of his maleness, of his distinctive scent and of the radiant, almost incandescent energy that seemed to be emanating from every pore in his body.
Her lips parted, allowing more oxygen into her suddenly starved lungs. A prickling sensation from her captive wrist crawled up her arm, teased her nape like a lover’s kiss, then slid down her spine with a violent shiver. Janine would have stepped away, except that her legs felt like lead pillars and her feet seemed to have been soldered to the floor.
Without releasing his grip, Quinn slid the index finger of his free hand delicately over her wounded flesh. “Did the raven do this?” There was an edge to his voice that gave her chills.
“It wasn’t Edgar’s fault,” Janine assured him. “When I was making the bed, I accidentally hit the lamp. He…was upset.”
“Was he?”
Quinn brushed his knuckle over an ugly puncture mark at her elbow and the look in his eyes frightened her half to death. For a brief moment, she had the horrible image of a raven roasting on a spit but she shook off the awful thought, reminding herself that Quinn had rescued the bird in the first place.
Still, this hard-eyed person bore little resemblance to the gentle man who had tended a wounded bird less than two hours earlier. The ominous transformation was unsettling.
Janine gestured weakly toward the half-made bed. “Edgar seems to be rather protective of his perch. He wouldn’t let me finish.”
“I
