his voice smooth, silky. Close.
She spun around, to find him standing directly in front of her on the other side of the counter. “Uh, hi. How’s it going?”
“How is what going?”
She took a deep breath and tried again, wondering why this guy so easily flustered her. She’d never had trouble talking to a man before, but Philip left her unsure of herself and a little dizzy.
“How are you doing? Is everything all right upstairs?”
He nodded once. “All is well. Quite comfortable, though I did have to bring someone in to fix the heating apparatus.”
Oh, great. Something else she owed him for.
“Shelby is most happy that it is working now.”
“How could anyone survive this climate without it?” called Philip’s companion—Shelby?—obviously overhearing. Then he went back to flirting with Jeannie, whose attention appeared to have drifted from her original hottie to the inferno who was now speaking to Claire. She was staring back and forth between them like a kid in a… well, whatever.
“Sorry about that,” Claire said. “If you give me the receipt for the service call, I’ll pay you back.”
“No need, it was quite inexpensive. And I wasn’t truly bothered by the cold, though we do come from a warm climate,” Philip said, that purr in his voice making her think of all kinds of warm, sweaty things.
“Oh. Well, I can see how that would be different. It does get pretty cold here,” she mumbled.
Reduced to talking about the weather? Was this really the best she could do? Her late mother, once a noted femme fatale, would be rolling over in her grave.
Her mom had given up on Claire having any grace or feminine wiles by the time she was ten and hit five-eight. Claire had been all lanky build, clumsy feet, gangly arms and legs. Nothing like her petite, delicate mother, the ballerina, who’d been adored by men all over the country once upon a time. That was when Claire had finally been allowed to quit ballet lessons—which she’d loathed. She’d then focused on the one thing she’d loved to do since she’d been old enough to beg her grandmother to let her help in the kitchen: bake.
“And you? You are well?” her tenant asked.
“I’m fine.”
“There have been no… incidents?”
“Incidents?”
“No strangers bothering you?”
Realizing what he was talking about, she shook her head. “No. I don’t think there’s anything to worry about anymore.”
“Not even this Mr. Nutcracker?”
Claire chuckled under her breath as she remembered she’d thought this man could be a thug. She replied, “He’s not going to be a problem. Your rent money took care of that issue.”
“As long as your brother paid off the people he owed.”
Her jaw dropped.
“It truly wasn’t difficult to figure out what had happened, and why he would have rented your property without your permission,” Philip said, touching his index finger to her chin and pushing her mouth closed.
Claire swallowed hard, affected by that simple contact far more than she should have been. Shaking off the reaction—Mexican jumping beans in her stomach—she spoke: “He made a mistake. He’s young and stupid.”
“That much younger than you?”
No, not really. Only five years. But in terms of maturity? She and Freddy had been worlds apart. Claire had had to grow up quickly the first time she’d found their mother passed out from having taken too many pain pills. She’d called 911, then had to go alone to drag her father home from a nearby bar to tell him about it.
She’d been eleven.
“Maybe not in terms of years.”
“The real question is, did your brother use the money to pay back his creditors?”
“I’m sure he did.”
“Positive?”
“Of course.” Oh, she wished her voice held more conviction. Clearing her throat, she added, “Why wouldn’t he?”
“Maybe he wanted to use it to go away, escape his problems?”
She gulped. She hadn’t heard from Freddy, but assumed it was because he was too much of a chickenshit to face her. Not that he’d… He wouldn’t have… Oh, God, would he?
“Sorry.” Philip sounded sincere. “You hadn’t thought of that.”
“No, I hadn’t.”
“You haven’t spoken to him?”
“Not a word.”
“Then I’ll just continue keeping watch.”
“Keeping a… You’re watching me?”
“Watching over you,” he grudgingly admitted.
“What? I’m not some kid who needs protecting.”
“Yet protect you I will,” he replied, his tone silky, brooking no argument, the words an utter promise. He wasn’t asking her, he was telling her. The man was going to look out for her whether she liked it or not.
She was left speechless, simply did not know how to respond to that. Most men she knew barely remembered to hold a door open for a woman, and this one wanted to be her bodyguard because somebody might come around looking to collect her brother’s debt?
Her independent, free-minded, chicks-rule-and-guys-drool side wanted to tell him to take his protection and his alpha male bullshit and shove them.
But another part of her, maybe the part that went to bed every night thinking of the way this man had held her, kissed her, caught her when she’d nearly fallen on the floor, went all gooey and warm instead.
This would never do. Gooey and warm didn’t fit her personality or her life. She was tough and strong. She needed to focus on making her business succeed, on paying her bills, on keeping her brother on the straight-and-narrow.
Claire was the caretaker; she always had been. She wasn’t a weeping heroine, a fair maiden who had heroes wanting to look after her. She had no time for overprotective men or fantasies of Prince Charming.
But oh, did he make it tempting.
She cleared her throat and slapped a hand down on the glass countertop. “Is there something you want?”
Me, for instance?
His dark eyes glittered to near black, his mind probably going right where hers had the moment she’d said the words.
