She opened her eyes to find his focused intently on her, and for a long moment she could do nothing but stare back. His eyes weren’t obsidian dark like all the Corellis she had met but the pure cerulean of a summer sky. So unexpected, so unusual, so giddily, perfectly beautiful. Finally she remembered to take another breath, to close the mouth she feared had fallen open in gobstopped awe.
“You know me?” He sounded startled by that, and there was definitely surprise lurking in those amazing eyes. Surprise and something more. Interest? Or merely curiosity?
She shook her head, as much to clear her stunned senses as in reply. “We’ve never met, but I recognize you. From photographs. Your father showed me photographs.”
“You recognized me instantly from a couple of pictures?”
More than a couple. T.C. felt herself color as she recalled how many…and how often she’d pored over them. Good grief, she had actually freeze-framed a video of his sister’s wedding on one spectacular shot. It was a wonder she hadn’t pegged him as Nick the Gorgeous One in the total dark!
“I take it you aren’t a burglar. Do you work here?” He glanced down at where Ug lay at his feet—almost on his feet—and grinned. “Let me guess. You’re security, and this is your guard dog.”
T.C.’s heart did a slow motion flip-flop as the effect of that lazy drawl, the warmth of that slow grin, rippled through her body. She couldn’t help her automatic response. How could she not smile back at him? How could she watch one quizzically arched brow disappear behind the thick fall of his hair and not think about combing it back from his face?
Belatedly she realized that the brow had arched in question. Asking what? Something about her working here? “Um…I’m the trainer. I train Joe’s horses.”
His expression changed from quizzical to startled in one blink of his dark lashes. “You’re Tamara Cole?”
“That’s me.”
He inspected her with unnerving thoroughness, starting at her boots and working all the way up her legs and body. When he arrived back at her face, he let out a choked sort of snort that sounded like equal parts disbelief and suppressed laughter, and the warmth suffusing T.C.’s veins turned prickly with irritation. She knew she wasn’t looking her best, but that was no reason for him to shake his head and grin as if he couldn’t quite believe what his eyes were telling him. She folded her arms and regarded him as coolly as the hot flush of mortification allowed. “What are you doing here, Nick?”
“Apart from being attacked by a crazy little horse-training woman dressed in pajamas and boots?”
“I mean,” she said tightly, as he continued to grin down at her, “I’ve been waiting to hear from someone for weeks and weeks, but I didn’t expect you. Last I heard, you were lost in the wilds of Alaska.”
The grin faded. “Who told you that?”
“George mentioned it. After the funeral.” She shrugged off the memory of that short, unpleasant meeting. Who-told-who-what didn’t matter when important questions remained unanswered. Like, what was Nick doing here, and why had he arrived unannounced in the middle of the night? “You should have let me know you were coming.”
“I’ve been trying to do that for the last six hours.” With disturbing accuracy he homed in on her telephone and picked up the receiver she’d left off the hook. “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with the constant busy signal?”
“I must have bumped it. Or something.”
He stared at her for a full ten seconds, then gestured with the instrument in his hand. “Is this on the same line as the house?”
T.C. cleared her throat, told herself it was ridiculous to feel such a sharp frisson of apprehension at the sight of a phone, at the thought of it being able to ring and ring and ring…. “Yes. There’s only the one line.”
“Then if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer we keep that line open.” As he cradled the receiver, the meaning behind his words gelled. If he needed a phone, he must be staying.
“Why are you here, Nick?” she blurted. “I expected George, or that solicitor with the bullfrog eyes.”
The corners of Nick’s mouth twitched. “We used to call him Kermit.”
T.C. tried to ignore the mental image of Kermit in pinstripes but failed. And as they smiled in shared amusement, as she had done so many times with his father, T.C. knew why Nick was here. It made perfect sense that Joe would leave the place of his heart to the son of his heart, the one he had spoken of with such obvious love.
It also explained the delay. Nick—self-indulgent, freewheeling Nick—had disappeared on some wilderness skiing jaunt the day his father was hospitalized. Joe lingered ten more days, but Nick didn’t come home.
As she collected Ug from the floor and hugged the dog’s furry warmth close against her chest, T.C. felt the tight twist of pain for the man who had been her boss, her mentor and her savior—and the strong sting of resentment for the son who had let him down.
Nick watched as a sheen of moisture quelled the sea-green intensity of her gaze, and he felt a sharp kick of response, a need to ease the pain he glimpsed in those spectacular eyes. He actually took a step forward, but she nailed him to the spot with a fierce look that reminded him of his bruised ribs and scraped shin. He gave himself a mental tap on the head.
What was he thinking?
Jet lag must be kicking in if he thought she needed comforting. The pale cap of baby-soft hair, the cute little nose, the huge eyes—they were all a deception. This little firebrand had a tough streak a mile wide. His gaze slid to her lips for at least the tenth time since he’d flicked the light switch. Full and soft, with a distinct inclination to pout, there was absolutely nothing tough about them. They looked downright kissable…until they tightened savagely. Nick cleared his mind of all kissing-thoughts as he cleared his throat. “So, Tamara…”
“What did you call me?”
“Tamara. That is your name, isn’t it? Or would you rather I kept on calling you sweet hands?”
“You can call me T.C.”
“That’s hardly a name, just a couple of initials. I think I’ll stick with Tamara.”
Her lush lips compressed into an angry bow, and Nick felt a sudden spike of stimulation. It was the kind of buzz he’d chased across continents, from challenge to challenge and from woman to woman. The kind he hadn’t felt for too many years, and he didn’t understand where the feeling was coming from.
Apart from her mouth and the way those big eyes sparked green fire, Tamara Cole didn’t come close to his type. He liked women who slid out of bed with silk clinging to their curves. He liked women who knew they were women. Must be jet lag—that was the only explanation. That and the fact that George had got her all wrong. From his description, Nick had imagined big hair, a big blowzy body, an even bigger attitude. She surely had the attitude, but her blond hair was cropped boyishly short, and, frankly, there wasn’t a whole lot of body.
Just a nice little handful.
He allowed that sensory memory to drum through his blood for a whole
