Читать книгу: «Saying Yes to the Boss»

CHAPTER ONE

REGINA BELLINI WAS expecting company.

When she heard the knock at the door, she set aside her glass of Chianti, slid her feet into the soft leather heels she’d picked up during a trip to Italy and stood. Anticipation hummed through her body as she smoothed down the fabric of a slim-fitting skirt and carefully retucked her white silk blouse.

As she passed the gilt-edged mirror that hung in the foyer, she paused to check her appearance. She fussed for a moment, pushing the tumbled mass of dark curls back from her face. Humidity had made a mockery of the hour she’d spent that morning blow-drying her hair straight. Still, she looked presentable.

And so she picked up the shotgun.

It wasn’t loaded, which was a pity she decided as she eyed the man’s silhouette through the oval of stained glass on the old Victorian’s front door. The double barrel, however, made quite a statement. Raising the gun, she swung open the door and pointed its business end directly at the man’s broad chest.

“For the last time, I’m not selling,” Regina said, hollering to be heard over the storm that had turned the July night chilly and inhospitable.

“And I’m not buying, lady,” the man promised, stumbling back a step.

It was not quite nine o’clock but it was nearly pitch-black outside thanks to dark thunderclouds. Lightning cracked as he spoke, illuminating the scene more clearly than did the meager light that burned overhead on the generous expanse of porch. In that brief flash, the shock on the man’s face was unmistakable. It registered right along with the fact that he was handsome as sin and not the pesky developer Regina had been expecting.

“I thought you were somebody else,” she sputtered in surprise.

“Yeah, I got that.” The stranger’s deep voice sounded strained, but it held a hint of amusement. He motioned toward the gun. “Mind pointing that thing someplace else?”

Regina hesitated. He was soaked to the skin, short dark hair plastered to his head. Yet even wet he exuded that same cocky sense of self-assurance she had come up against a little too often lately. She tilted her head to one side and asked, “Are you a developer?”

His dark brows tugged together in an incredulous frown. “Are you going to shoot me if I say yes?”

“You’ll have to answer the question to find out,” she challenged.

The man divided a considering look between Regina and the lethal weapon she still gripped.

“No, ma’am,” he said solemnly and held up a hand as if he were giving an oath.

It was then that she noticed the blood. Bright crimson, it leaked down his arm from a gash across his palm.

“My God! You’re hurt.” Regina quickly set aside the gun and reached for him, tugging him partway into the foyer for a better look. “What happened to you?”

Despite the fact that the stately home was perched on a narrow point of land that jutted into one of the Great Lakes, his reply was the last thing she expected.

“Shipwrecked.”

Then his eyes rolled back and he stumbled forward into her arms in a dead faint, the weight of him taking them both to the floor. More than six feet of man lay on top of her—more than six feet of a wounded and unconscious man. His bulk made it impossible for Regina to scoot far enough inside the house to kick the door closed with the leg that wasn’t trapped between his thighs.

The rain was coming down in a furious assault now, the wind slanting it sideways so that it marched with ruthless precision across the covered porch’s wood floor and then doused them both with its chilly spray.

The man moaned and, coming to, raised his head slightly from where it had come to rest after their fall: facedown between Regina’s breasts. He stared into the gaping V of her blouse for a long moment before transferring his gaze to her face.

Concussed or not, he had the nerve to smile.

“Given my position, I probably should introduce myself,” he said, the words slightly slurred.

Was that a dimple denting his cheek? She fought the urge to be charmed by either it or the bemused humor lighting his otherwise bleary eyes. How could he laugh at a time like this? A year from now, ten years from now, she might recall this bizarre situation and find it funny. Right now she had to settle for being mortified.

That was an emotion that didn’t sit well with Regina, which is why her tone was clipped when she replied, “No, given the position of my left knee, you probably should get off me. Now.”

He slipped obediently to the side, grunting with the effort. Once on the floor, he rolled onto his back and groaned in earnest.

“Are you okay?” she asked, feeling slightly guilty about her less than sympathetic treatment of him. “Do you think you can sit up?”

He ignored her questions, pointing out instead, “Do you realize that you’ve threatened me with great bodily harm twice and I don’t even know your name?”

Oh, yes, she definitely felt guilty.

Generally speaking, she wasn’t an insensitive woman, much less a violent one. But the persistent badgering and—lately—veiled threats from a local developer had definitely taken their toll on her manners. Still, this man needed medical attention. At the very least, he deserved to be brought in out of the damp night air.

Oh, what Nonna Benedetta would say if she were still alive. Regina’s Italian grandmother had been such a stickler when it came to offering hospitality to house-guests, whether they had come to her door invited or not.

“I’m Regina Bellini. Friends call me Ree,” she said as she stood and attempted to adjust her clothing.

Blood was smeared across the sleeve of her now soggy blouse, the top button of which hung by a useless thread. She pulled the lapels together in an attempt at modesty, which seemed absurd given the fact that the man’s face had been pressed into her cleavage mere minutes ago.

He must have read her mind. His gaze dipped low before he made eye contact again. Awareness sizzled, as dangerous as the electrical storm blowing in off Lake Michigan. Maybe it was only the man’s supine position that made the situation seem so intimate.

“It’s nice to meet you, Ree. I’m Dane Conlan.”

He struggled to sitting with her help, and she was finally able to close the door, which he then leaned against, looking thoroughly exhausted from the effort.

In the foyer’s more generous light she could see that his plain white T-shirt was covered with grime and blood, and the jeans he wore were ripped, exposing one battered knee. He’d apparently lost his shoes and socks, assuming he’d worn them in the first place. His feet were bare and covered in sand and other natural debris from his hike up the dunes that bounded the lake. What she could see of his toes appeared puckered from his time in the water.

“You said you were shipwrecked,” she said, crouching beside him.

“In a manner of speaking, yes. My boat hit some rocks, went down about half a mile from shore. I was coming across from the island, but I got blown off course a bit.”

“I’ll say. The main dock is five miles south of here as the crow flies,” she said. Her own paralyzing fear of water had her asking sharply, “What were you thinking, taking a boat out in a storm?”

He shrugged, but looked chagrined.

“The weather wasn’t that bad when I started out and Trillium is only a few miles out from the mainland,” he said, referring to the large island visible from the docks in Petoskey. On a clear day, it could be seen from the point on which Ree’s house stood sentinel. “I figured I could make it to shore before things got too ugly.”

When she merely raised an eyebrow, he said defensively, “I would have, too, if the engine hadn’t quit on me. I started to drift. I radioed for help, but by that time the boat’s hull was already kissing rocks, so I decided to swim for it.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t drown.”

He regarded her intently for a moment.

“You saved me.”

“What?”

“I saw your lights and kept swimming toward them. I thought I was having a near-death experience.” One side of his mouth lifted in a grin, mitigating the soberness of the moment. “Is this heaven?”

Despite the frightening picture his words conjured up, she couldn’t help herself. She smiled in return. The man’s charm was downright lethal.

“No. And neither is it an emergency room. I think I’d better call an ambulance.”

“Don’t. I’m fine.” He attempted to stand and then sank back to his knees on a groan. “I just need a minute,” he muttered.

Ree was a bit more pragmatic in her assessment of the situation. “You’re bleeding and you passed out. You need to see a doctor.” Raising an eyebrow for emphasis, she added, “It’s obvious you’ve hit your head. You appear delusional.”

“God, you’re something else.”

He wasn’t the first man to tell her so. In fact, the developer she’d been expecting that very evening had used the word “unbelievable” modified by a most foul expletive when she’d spoken to him by telephone earlier in the day. But Dane Conlan’s tone seemed to turn the words into a compliment.

“Just let me use your phone,” he said. “I’ve got friends in town. I’m sure one of them can come get me.”

She relented with a nod and then helped him to his feet.

“I would offer to drive you, but my car is in the shop,” she said.

“That’s okay. I don’t want to be any more trouble than I’ve already been.”

A man who didn’t want to be any trouble. In Ree’s personal experience members of the opposite sex only rarely had been anything but.

When he stood, Dane weaved precariously for a moment before finally leaning against her for support. He wasn’t overly tall. In her heeled shoes she was only half a head shorter than he was, putting him just over six feet. Nor was he thickly built, edging more toward wiry than stocky. But the hand she placed around his waist as she helped him into the Victorian’s parlor was touching taut muscle.

A fire burned cheerfully in the hearth. She guided him toward the wing chair positioned closest to it, and forced herself not to think about what the man’s wet, grimy clothing would do to the upholstery. She had more pressing problems than soiled cushions or Dane Conlan, who would be gone from her home soon enough. Then she picked up the telephone and bit back an oath.

“Don’t tell me,” he said, apparently noting her grim expression.

She set the receiver back in the cradle. “Storm must have taken out the line.”

“I don’t suppose you have a cell?”

“It’s in my car.”

“The car that’s in the shop?”

“That would be the one.”

It galled her to think about her yellow Volkswagen Beetle—a refurbished original rather than one of the newer models—sitting uselessly on a hydraulic lift at Hank’s Collision & Repair. Regina had argued with Hank earlier that day over having to pay for a loaner when this was the second time in a month her car had been in because of its faulty starter. Finally she’d stomped out and caught a ride back to Peril Pointe with one of the mechanics. Temper had cost her the rental of a cheap replacement vehicle as well as the use of the cell phone she’d left stowed in the car’s glovebox.

“How far is town? Maybe I can walk.”

“Seven miles by road.” She crossed her arms over her chest as she regarded him. “On a night like this and in your present condition, I don’t think it would be wise.”

“Neighbors?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Nearest house is three miles south of here. I’m afraid Peril Pointe is rather remote.”

Which was precisely why developers were clamoring to buy it. The house was situated on the most western tip of seven acres of premium property fronting Lake Michigan. It was prime real estate. The yearly taxes alone put a strain on Ree’s currently limited budget.

He blew out a gusty breath and settled back in the chair. “Well, then, unless you’re going to turn me out into the storm, it looks like I’ll be spending the night.”

She watched his gaze detour briefly to her ruined blouse. Once again awareness lit his eyes as he offered that charming smile that had a single dimple winking low in one cheek. The man could have been on his death bed and she would bet he’d still find the energy to flirt with the nurses.

Ree glanced at the framed photograph of Nonna Benedetta that was perched on the mantel. Her grandmother had been a delightful woman with a firm belief in duty and enough patience to deserve beatification.

With a sigh of resignation, Ree replied, “I guess so.”

I guess so. Not exactly a gracious invitation. Dane noted the furrow between the woman’s neatly arched brows and the tight compression of her mouth, which still somehow managed to look sexy and inviting. Regina Bellini wasn’t happy with the arrangement.

He wasn’t certain he was, either.

He did need medical attention. Not necessarily the trip to the E.R. she had suggested, but the gash on his hand could use a few butterfly bandages—okay, maybe a stitch or two—and his head felt as if the entire drum section of the high school’s marching band was using it to pound out a cadence.

But those weren’t the only reasons for his trepidation when it came to staying the night. The rest had to do with the woman standing before him. She made him nervous as hell and it didn’t have anything to do with the fact that she’d leveled a double barrel at his chest.

He’d never responded to any woman quite the way he was responding to Regina Bellini. She was beautiful, lushly so with that cloud of dark hair, generous mouth and a pair of heavily fringed eyes that held enough secrets to keep members of the opposite sex curious.

And he was curious, although some things he already knew. She had a body built to complement a man’s: not quite slim, not overly curvaceous, but definitely soft and yielding in the places that mattered most.

More than her array of appealing physical attributes, however, he admired her sheer nerve. This was no shrinking violet, no damsel in distress. She’d answered the door toting a gun, for God’s sake. He grinned at the recollection. Who knew that having his life threatened would prove to be such a turn-on?

And he was turned on. Despite the brutal physical abuse Mother Nature had meted out during the past couple of hours, his libido was humming along in overdrive. Amazing. Absolutely amazing.

“Is it a private joke or are you going to clue me in?” Regina asked, apparently having noted the slight quirking of his lips.

“Just can’t get over my luck today,” he replied smoothly. “I cheated death. Twice.”

Her expression turned contrite as she knotted her fingers together. “About that. I want to apologize for the way I answered the door.” She cleared her throat. “I’ve had a little…trouble lately.”

“With developers?” he guessed, recalling her questions about his occupation.

“Yes.”

“Apology accepted.” When he started to ask about the trouble, though, she shook her head.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Lightning flashed then, followed by a serendipitous clap of thunder. When the sky was dark once again, so was the house, except for the flickering fire. Dane was beginning to think the woman could handle anything. Other than muttering an oath in what sounded like Italian, Regina Bellini didn’t miss a beat. She found a box of matches, lit a couple of candles in the hurricane lamps on the room’s antique tables and rolled another fat log onto the fire.

Dane decided the only thing left to do was joke about their lousy luck.

“I must have done something to tick off the gods. Do you believe in fate?” he asked.

The woman apparently wasn’t in a joking mood. She regarded him for a moment before answering his question seriously.

“I believe we’re responsible for our own situations, our own destiny. No matter what life throws at us, it’s ultimately up to us to find a way to deal with it and make the best of it.”

“Lemonade from lemons?” he asked and she nodded.

That had long been Dane’s philosophy as well. Too many people he knew expected something for nothing or complained copiously rather than rolling up their shirtsleeves and getting down to business to change what they didn’t like.

Dane put his faith in hard work and perseverance. Both yielded results. But, thinking back on the hour he’d spent bobbing around in the waves of Lake Michigan before being spat onto the shore at Peril Pointe, he decided maybe luck played a role, too. How else to explain his presence in the beautiful Regina Bellini’s front parlor?

Lemonade from lemons.

“I like lemonade,” he murmured. His gaze lingered on her pursed lips. “Sweet is nice, but tart is better.”

She shook her head and sighed heavily in exasperation. But when she spoke, her request had his mouth going dry.

“Take off your clothes, Don Juan.”

He blinked and on a startled laugh replied, “Well, that certainly would be making the most of a bad situation, but gee, Ree, I hardly know you. I like to take a woman out to dinner first, maybe see a movie, before we spend the better part of the evening—”

He wasn’t able to finish the sentence before she tossed a crocheted afghan in his direction. It wound up draped half over his head.

“Your clothes are wet and filthy, Mr. Conlan,” she said. “You need to get out of them, and I’m afraid that afghan is about the only thing around here that’s going to fit you unless you’d prefer to wear my bathrobe.”

“Call me Dane. And, just for the record, I prefer to remove women’s garments, not put them on.”

She made a little humming noise that might have been the result of annoyance or reluctant amusement.

He scooted to the front of the chair and peeled off the damp shirt, using the cleanest edge to wipe up the blood drying on his arm.

“I’m messing up your upholstery,” he said and grimaced. “And your clothes. Hope that blouse wasn’t one of your favorites.”

Her expression seemed to soften. “Well, it’s not as if you planned to faint in my arms.”

Planned? No. He considered that a little side bonus given his lousy day. Still, he cleared his throat, feeling the need to clarify, “Men prefer the term ‘passed out.’”

He was pretty sure she was smiling when she turned her back to him.

“The rest of your clothes, please.”

Dane stripped down to bare skin, handing over the remnants of his favorite jeans with a sigh of regret, and then he wrapped the afghan around his body toga-style. When she was gone, he tried to stand without holding the mantel for support. He wasn’t quite successful, but he felt far better than he had an hour ago when he’d washed onto the beach, coughing up water, his arms, legs and lungs burning from the effort it had taken him to get there.

He hadn’t been teasing her about following the Victorian’s lights. They were all he’d seen, those and a light on some structure closer to the shore, beacons of hope that had kept him putting one arm in front of the other as waves tossed him and currents tugged at him with disorienting force. Now those lights were gone as well thanks to the storm. He shivered at the thought of what would have happened to him had the electricity failed earlier.

“I can get you another blanket if you’re cold.”

He hadn’t heard her return, but he glanced over to find her standing next to him, brows furrowed in concern. She’d changed into a pair of capri pants and a pullover that was probably some pastel shade, although he couldn’t discern its color in the firelight. Her feet were bare and the ponytail she’d swept her hair into exposed the graceful line of her neck. She looked younger, softer. And yet he still felt it, that insane blast of attraction that had him wondering if he’d struck his head harder than he’d thought.

“Dane?”

He realized he was staring and coughed. “No, I’m fine. The past few hours are catching up with me is all.”

“I’m sure. You had quite the ordeal.”

In her hands she held a first-aid kit and a bottle of painkillers.

He nodded toward the bottle. “Got anything stronger than ibuprofen?”

The smile she offered was sympathetic. “Sorry, no, but I had just opened a really good bottle of Chianti before you knocked at my door. I’m willing to share.”

“You don’t have anything with a little more…kick?”

As a general rule, he wasn’t one to wallow in the false comfort of hard liquor, but he could do with a good bracing belt of whiskey right about now.

“You probably shouldn’t even have wine,” she told him, sounding almost prim. “But I’m feeling indulgent. Sit.”

She didn’t wait for him to comply, but gently nudged him back into the chair and then knelt on the floor in front of him.

“Let me see your hand.”

Dane did as Regina instructed, deciding he could do with a little TLC and pampering after all he’d been through. Then he sucked in a sharp breath along with an oath when she dabbed the cut on his palm with enough stinging antiseptic to kill half the bacteria in the free world.

“God! Blow on it or something,” he begged between gritted teeth.

“That would defeat the purpose of disinfecting it.”

His eyes were watering. His hand was on fire. “I’ll take my chances. A nasty case of gangrene has to be less painful.”

He leaned over to blow on it himself. When he looked up afterward their gazes held. The air seemed to sizzle as he watched the firelight reflected in her dark eyes. She had questions, too. He saw them there. And it came as a huge relief to discover that he wasn’t the only one mired in this odd, instantaneous need.

The moment stretched before she finally looked away and muttered, “Men are such babies.”

“You’re not going to start in with that argument about how if it were up to us to give birth the human race would have ended with Adam, are you?”

No hint of feminine interest remained, but he felt sure he hadn’t imagined it. She smiled at him with the same smug superiority he’d often seen on his sisters’ faces.

“No. We both know which one is the weaker sex. Why rub it in?”

Then she ran the cotton swab of antiseptic over his broken skin again.

Dane decided to change the subject. To take his mind off the pain, he asked, “So, what have you got against developers that makes you keep a shotgun handy?”

“You mean besides the fact that the one I’ve had to deal with lately is greedy and unprincipled and only interested in buying Peril Pointe so he can tear down my home and put up condos or another high-priced resort that will make that snooty Saybrook’s on Trillium look like a pauper’s retirement community?”

She was affixing butterfly bandages across the ravaged skin of his palm during her vehement response and Dane grimaced. No way in hell he was going to admit to her that in the most basic sense of the word he was a developer or that he and his two sisters actually owned the resort she’d referred to as “that snooty Saybrook’s.”

So, when she finished her minidiatribe, he worked up what he hoped was a charming smile.

“I’ll take that wine now, please.”