Saying Yes to the Boss. Jackie BraunЧитать онлайн книгу.
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