Stormbound With A Tycoon. Shawna DelacorteЧитать онлайн книгу.
who knew who she was and where she was going in life as another potential bed-mate.
Dylan took a deep breath, then slowly expelled it. He tried to clear his mind of the wayward thoughts, but he could not clear away the memory of her body snuggled next to his and his hand sliding across her silky skin. Nor could he erase the sight of her standing next to the bed, her mussed hair and scantily clad body giving her a look of sexy, uninhibited abandon. A tightness pulled across his chest. He took another deep breath in hopes of breaking the restrictive feeling, then threw back the covers, climbed out of bed, dressed and headed toward the stairs.
Dylan stopped short at the bottom step. He could see Jessica through the kitchen door. A scowl marred her otherwise beautiful face. She seemed to be staring at something. He entered the kitchen, walked up behind her and peered over her shoulder in an attempt to see what had captured her attention and caused her to frown like that.
“Is something wrong?”
The sound of his voice startled her. She jerked around and found her face almost touching his. For a long moment she looked up into the intensity of his green eyes, or more accurately, he seemed to be pulling her into the depth of those eyes as he searched her face for some sort of explanation.
“Uh—” she took a couple of steps away from his uncomfortable nearness “—wrong?”
“You were scowling at the stove. Is there something wrong?”
She took yet another step farther away from his disconcerting presence, coming to a halt when she bumped into the kitchen counter. Her voice held the same uncertainty that coursed through her veins. “Wrong?” She knew she sounded like an idiot, parroting the same word over and over. She gathered her composure and projected as much confidence as she could muster, but she couldn’t quell the disturbing sensations playing havoc in her stomach.
“There isn’t any gas…the stove burner won’t light, there’s no hot water and the floor furnace in the living room won’t light. There must be something wrong with the propane tank.”
“I didn’t use any hot water and didn’t even try to turn on the furnace or the stove when I arrived last night. I went right to bed. I was going to read for a while, but then the storm knocked the electricity out.”
“The tank shouldn’t have been turned off. It was just filled a week ago and was supposed to have been left on.” She glanced toward the window, then looked up at the ceiling and the sound of the rain pounding against the roof.
An exasperated sigh accompanied her words.
“Damn…there doesn’t seem to be any way to avoid going out into the rain to see what’s wrong.”
“Where is the propane tank?”
“It’s behind the garage.”
Dylan glanced out the window. “It’s raining pretty hard. I’ll go out and check it. You stay inside where it’s dry.”
“Forget it.” She snapped out the words. “I’m capable of taking care of it myself.”
“Whoa…” A slight edge of irritation crept into his voice. “I didn’t say you weren’t capable. I merely offered to help.”
Jessica grabbed a jacket from the coatrack by the front door. “You weren’t offering to help, you were telling me what to do.” She shoved her arms into the sleeves, turned up the collar, then opened the front door.
She paused long enough to shoot a contemptuous look in his direction. “I don’t need your help.” Then she stepped out onto the porch prepared to brave the elements.
She bit at her lower lip in a moment of contemplation. Perhaps she had been a little harsh with her comments. He really hadn’t said anything wrong. She clenched her jaw in determination. Dylan Russell had totally unnerved her and she didn’t like it. She hunched her shoulders against the chilly air and ran out into the rain.
Dylan stared after her, his annoyance overriding her show of irritation. She had literally dismissed him as if he had made some sort of disparaging comment rather than a sincere offer of help. He was not accustomed to being treated in that manner, especially by a beautiful woman. He allowed a brief instant of reflection. Of course, he wasn’t accustomed to dealing with independent, self-sufficient women who would even know what a propane tank was let alone what to do with one.
He followed her out into the rain, catching up with her just as she rounded the corner of the garage. He stood by as she bent down and checked the gauge on the tank, then made sure the connection was tight. She glanced up at him, raising her hand to shield her eyes from the rain. “The valve’s closed. The tank has been shut off.”
She opened the valve to start the flow of propane to the cabin, then she straightened up and took a couple of steps forward until he blocked her way. They stood very close together, almost as close as when they had been in the kitchen.
The tightness spread across his chest again as he stared at her. The rain matted her hair against her head. Rivulets of water ran down her face and formed her long, dark eyelashes into spiky clumps. He started to reach out and touch her, but managed to resist the urge. He wanted to wipe the water from her cheek and kiss away the droplets from her all-too-tempting lips. It was the kind of delicious-looking mouth that would drive any man to distraction. He forced down the desire and reluctantly stepped aside.
She remained rooted to the spot, unable to move. Every fiber of her being screamed out for the physical contact that was almost there but not quite. She swallowed down the lump lodged in her throat and tried to still her racing pulse. She finally managed, with difficulty, to break away from the invisible hook pulling her into the realm of his masculinity. She broke into a run, quickly covering the ground back to the cabin.
He followed closely behind. When they reached the covered porch she removed her rain-soaked jacket and shook off the excess water, then pulled off her muddy boots and left them on the porch before going inside. Dylan followed suit by kicking off his shoes, too. Once inside she hung her jacket on the coatrack to dry.
He pulled his wet sweatshirt off over his head, revealing a wet T-shirt. She tried not to stare at the way it clung to the well-defined planes of his hard body, but her attempts were useless. Her breathing quickened and, much to her dismay, her pulse started to race again. Somehow she had to put a stop to the physical effect he had on her.
He hooked the sweatshirt over the doorknob, then ran his fingers through his wet hair before turning toward her. “I guess that answers the question about the heat and hot water. Where do you keep the matches?” He glanced around the large open expanse of the cabin’s living room and dining room, then toward the kitchen door. “In the kitchen?”
She forced a calm to the inner turmoil running rampant through her body, at least enough to hopefully fool him with a neutral outer manner. “The propane company must have turned the tank off when they filled it last week, then forgot to turn it back on.”
She retrieved the matches from the fireplace mantel. “It’s lucky for you I showed up when I did to fix things.” Her thoughts had slipped out without her meaning to say them aloud.
He bristled at her words. “Turning on a propane tank and putting a match to some pilot lights is not beyond my capabilities.”
The heat of embarrassment spread across her cheeks. What was wrong with her? She didn’t seem to be able to stop herself from taking a cheap shot at him. “I didn’t mean to imply—”
A sharp edge of sarcasm surrounded his words. “Since you obviously have everything well under control, I’ll leave the work to you to finish. I’ll take this opportunity to get out of these wet clothes. If you’ll excuse me—” He turned and walked away from her.
Jessica watched as he climbed the steps. This man that she remembered as being larger than life had suddenly been reduced in stature to that of the ordinary guy next door wearing wet clothes and dripping water on the floor. Well, perhaps ordinary was not the correct word. There was nothing ordinary about Dylan Russell, nor about the