Dammit. He wasn’t pissed off that she hadn’t approached him since the night she’d blown his … mind. He didn’t want to be her gigolo.
“How can I help?” The words clawed their way up his throat.
She tilted her head and considered him for several seconds. “If you’ll mow, I’ll handle the Weed Eater.”
Rand studied the machine. He knew nothing about lawn-mowers or mowing grass. Kincaid Manor had always employed a team of gardeners. Since moving out of the family house more than a decade ago, he’d lived in high-rise urban condos surrounded by concrete. If there had been any plants in his complexes, he hadn’t noticed them.
But he’d spent one summer working in the engine room of a 160,000-ton cruise ship. He could handle one small push mower. “Okay.”
Tara’s gaze drifted over his shirt and khaki pants. She did that often—looked him over from top to bottom. And his body reacted predictably. Every time. He resented the ease with which she pushed his buttons when no other woman’s come-hither looks did a thing for him—unless he allowed it. Fighting the unwanted response, he shoved his hands in his pockets.
“You’ll need to change first. You’ll roast in long pants.” Without waiting for his reply she walked away.
His gaze remained riveted to the sway of her behind until she disappeared into the shed that looked like a small chalet in the back corner of the property. Cursing silently, Rand returned to his bedroom, changed into an old sleeveless T-shirt, gym shorts and running shoes and went back outside.
Even before he finished reading the instructions printed on the machine’s handle, he’d sweated through his shirt. He peeled off the soggy, clingy cotton and tossed it onto the patio, then bent and pulled the mower’s cord. The motor sputtered but didn’t start. He cursed and tried again. Another sputter. Another curse.
A slender leg entered his peripheral vision. He tracked that sleek, lightly tanned skin upward, past a shapely thigh, a hip, the indenture of her waist and the swell of her breast. Tara stood beside him carrying a Weed Eater and wearing safety goggles on her brim-shadowed face. She looked like a model from the pages of a handyman’s sexy calendar—the kind a guy would hide in his gym locker or his garage. Any red-blooded male would want to roll in the grass with her in that getup.
“Have you ever used a lawnmower?” she asked, her eyes raking over his bare chest.
“No. But I can handle it,” he said through clenched teeth.
She smiled and squeezed the two handles together. “Safety feature. If you let go and the handles separate, the mower shuts off. Now pull the cord.”
He did, conscious of her nearly naked body beside him and of those blue eyes tracking his every move. The engine roared to life. He fastened his fingers around the vibrating bar. Tara nodded and leaned forward until her breast bumped his elbow and her lips touched his ear. Fire sparked in Rand’s groin. His hand slipped and silence once again descended on the yard as the engine died.
She dropped back on her heels. “Stick to the grass and stay out of the flower beds. I’ll get the hard to reach stuff.”
And then she sashayed away, leaving him to master the machine. She fired up the Weed Eater. The alluring play of muscles beneath her skin as she whirred her way along the fence enclosing the yard held him captive. She hadn’t had those muscles five years ago. He knew, because there wasn’t an inch of her he hadn’t explored. With his hands. His lips. His tongue.
Rand blinked and pivoted away from her distracting presence. He restarted the mower and shoved it forward, focusing on plowing straight lines through the thick emerald carpet of grass. If he didn’t pay attention, he’d probably cut off his foot.
The contradictions in Tara’s behavior nagged him as he worked. She still drove the same car she’d owned when they dated. She wore old clothing better suited to a rag bag, did her own yard work and paid her mother’s bills.
He glanced once more at the woman who’d blackmailed him into being her house and bedmate. Had he been wrong about Tara in the past?
No, dammit. He’d seen her coming out of his father’s bedroom with a hickey on her neck, a flushed face and messed-up clothing. Regardless of what lie she’d concocted, she’d been intimate with his father.
Add in that she hadn’t accepted the KCL job until Rand offered a salary that was quadruple the industry standard and agreed to play house, and it was clear Tara Anthony was up to something. The question was what?
She had to be looking for a sugar daddy.
But she wouldn’t find one in him.
For Mitch’s and Nadia’s sakes Rand would be smarter this time around. Because he had a hell of a lot more to lose.
“Good morning, Rand.”
Tara caught the almost imperceptible hitch in Rand’s step and the brief flash of surprise in his eyes when he turned the corner into their office suite and realized she’d beaten him to work Monday morning.
Mouth tight, he nodded and resumed his course. He had to pass her desk to get to his office. “You’re in early.”
He’d hibernated in his room for most of the weekend. She’d barely seen him except for the time he’d mowed her grass Saturday evening. They couldn’t build a relationship that way.
He looked delicious in a taupe suit and light blue shirt. A fresh tan from that hour of yard work darkened his lean face, and the memory of how he’d looked shirtless and sweaty made her temperature spike.
She rose. His pace faltered again as his hazel eyes roved over her new wraparound dress. She loved the way the fuchsia fabric hugged her breasts and waist and floated just above her knees. But she loved his nostril-flaring reaction even more.
Working primarily from home since she’d left KCL meant she had an extremely limited professional wardrobe. Most of that was too big. She’d spent Sunday afternoon shopping because she needed both work and cruise wear. By the time she’d returned from the outlet mall last night Rand’s door had been securely shut. He’d left a note in the kitchen telling her he’d already eaten dinner.
He snapped his head forward and stalked toward his inner sanctum, but not before Tara noted the appreciative expansion of his pupils. Encouraged, she gathered her notepad and followed him.
“We have a ton of stuff to get through before we leave for the cruise on Friday. The first brand’s most recent financials are waiting on your desk, and the president and VP are due at eight-thirty.”
Four more nights and she’d have him all to herself … along with 2800 people on the ship, that is. She almost danced in her new d’Orsay pumps with anticipation.
Rand stopped so quickly she plowed into his back. His heat and scent enfolded her, but she righted herself and smoothed the spot where her pen had touched his suit coat, checking for a stain. None. Good.
He stiffened and stepped out of reach. “What is that?”
She tracked his gaze and stated the obvious, “A coffeepot. When you’re not using it the roll-down door will conceal it.”
He
