LITMIR.BIZ

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noted that, while brewing the tea, Oliver had stuck the pots and pans in the dishwasher, as if to get them out of throwing range. Candace still couldn’t believe she’d thought a few kitchen items would stop him if he’d really been some kind of villain. With that body—those strong arms and the table-wide chest—he could pick her up and break her in half.

      Or, a wicked part of her realized, just split her in half with that amazing power tool in his pants. Not having had sex in a while, she couldn’t be entirely sure her memory wasn’t faulty, but if she had to guess, she’d say that had been a good eight inches of jackhammer straining against his zipper.

      “Need a hand?”

      She started, not having realized he’d left the table and walked up behind her. It was bad enough to be caught thinking he had an amazing body, but even worse to be standing here wondering about the size of the man’s johnson.

      “No, thank you,” she said, hearing the breathiness in her voice. He was just so close, so big and warm. All she could think about was how it had felt to be pressed against him, his hands on her hips, his salt-tinged skin against her mouth.

      It had been a long time since she’d been close to anyone. Honestly, the thought of not being held in a man’s strong arms for five years was almost as upsetting to her as knowing she would not be filled and possessed by one in the most raw, sexual way.

      Almost.

      “Okay, meet you outside at seven-thirty?”

      She nodded, turning to face him, hoping her cheeks weren’t pink. She was not the blushing type. Still, she feared the heat in her face hadn’t been caused by the steam rising off the hot water in the sink.

      “Thank you. And again, I’m sorry I attacked you.”

      He shrugged. “Wasn’t the first time.”

      She quirked a brow. “Incite a lot of women to violence, do you?”

      “Not recently.”

      But he didn’t say anything else. He merely nodded good-night and left the kitchen, leaving her wondering what the real story was behind Oliver McKean.

3

      CANDACE REID WAS as good as her word. Despite having probably only gotten the same few hours of sleep he had the night before, she was waiting on her grandfather’s front steps when he walked out of his cottage at 7:30 a.m.

      She looked like crap.

      Bloodshot eyes, pale cheeks sans makeup, sopping wet hair slung up in a ponytail—definitely not the Candace he’d met at 3:00 a.m. She wore a shapeless, heavy hoodie that would be much too warm in a few hours when the day shifted into typical Northern California mode, with its wildly swinging night-to-day temperature changes. The jeans weren’t designer; in fact, they looked worn and scruffy. And the functional sneakers in no way resembled the spike-heeled do-me shoes of the night before.

      He knew he wasn’t seeing her at her sexy best, but couldn’t help thinking he liked this not-so-put-together version of the Hollywood costume designer. In her real life, with all the feminine trappings women relied on, she probably would have blended into the stylish crowd to which he had become so accustomed when living in L.A. Hell, he’d even been a part of it on occasion. But here, out of her element, obviously uncomfortable and not making any pretentious efforts to impress anyone—including him—he found her vulnerability refreshing.

      Huh. Part of him should be a little disappointed that she wasn’t making any effort to impress him, considering how thick the sexual tension between them had been the night before. It had filled that kitchen like an invisible fog. He’d definitely thought about her long after he’d gone back to his bed.

      But he hadn’t come to Sonoma to get caught up with a woman. He’d chosen this area because it was his favorite place to vacation—he loved the scenery, the pace and the people. He’d needed to reevaluate, to recover a sense of peace and tranquility that had been lost during his years running in the rat race with some huge rats. This period of solitude was about regrouping, finding his focus and doing penance for the shitty things he’d done to get ahead in the Orange County D.A.’s office.

      Taking a sabbatical from the spotlight hadn’t been a bad side benefit, either. The press had had a field day with him when he’d blown the lid off some of the shenanigans taking place in the courthouse. Rising young stars in the prosecutor’s office weren’t supposed to refuse to railroad an innocent man in order to close a big case, and they definitely weren’t supposed to blow the whistle on the misconduct of others. Oh, yeah, he had definitely been front-page fodder, which made him persona non grata with the legal types in L.A., and would for quite some time. Frankly, that was fine with him. He wanted to forget about that period of his life, and wanted everyone there to forget about him.

      So, no, having a hot affair just didn’t fit in with his plan of atonement. It was just as well Candace had dialed her sex appeal down a notch, even if nothing could really eradicate the beauty of her face or the curviness of her body.

      If her appearance today was meant to send him a message, he’d gotten it. Loud and clear. She wasn’t interested.

      “You sleep okay?” he asked as he walked over, already knowing the answer to his question.

      “Sleep? What’s that? I feel like the princess from the fairy tale, only there wasn’t a pea under the mattress, there were cantaloupes the size of my head.”

      “I don’t think your grandfather has had a chance to redecorate. A lot of the furniture came with the house, so it’s probably pretty old.”

      “Who owned it before? Fred Flintstone?”

      He couldn’t contain a chuckle. “The house was built by an old silent movie star, and it remained in his family for several decades until it fell into ruin. He supposedly threw some wild parties with his Hollywood buddies.”

      “Huh…my kingdom for a Westin heavenly bed. I’d rather be comfortable than sleep on the mattress that once held Charlie Chaplin.” She winced and rubbed her shoulder. “And still might, given the bony lumps inside it.”

      The old Oliver, the one who’d once been young and carefree and had done killer impressions that cracked up his sisters, might have tottered side to side and swung an invisible cane.

      The new Oliver—hardened by the things he’d seen, the things he’d done—barely even remembered that idealistic guy.

      “Ready?”

      “Sure.”

      She stepped into the passenger seat of the beat-up old truck as he got in behind the wheel and together, they headed toward the hospital. He could feel her tension and her anticipation. She sat forward on her seat, as if urging the old bucket of rust to go faster.

      “Would you sit still?” he grumbled. “Visiting hours don’t even start until eight.”

      “If we keep going negative-two miles an hour, we won’t be there until it’s time for Grandpa to go in for his surgery.”

      “If we were going negative-two miles an hour, we’d be going backward.”

      She smirked. “Now you’re just being silly.”

      Unaccustomed to being called anything of the sort, he tightened his hands on the steering wheel.

      “So how did you end up working for my grandfather?”

      His grip grew even tighter. “I was just wandering. We ran into each other and he told me he was looking for help to get the old place up and running. Lucky for me, I had some time and experience.”

      His experience with grounds keeping had been limited to his lawn-cutting business during high school. But that had been enough for Buddy, who, he suspected, had hired him because he wanted the company as much as Oliver’s

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