Until You're Mine. Jessica BirdЧитать онлайн книгу.
got spanked.
Courtesy of the spectacle, Gray had decided long ago never to let a woman get into his head, much less the center of his chest. He’d been called a misogynist by quite a number of them, and though that was hardly something he was proud of, he’d never denied the charge.
Gray couldn’t imagine trying out what his father had attempted and failed at. He couldn’t fathom the idea of finding a woman he could really trust and marrying her.
Ah, hell. Maybe he was just a coward.
Gray snorted as he stepped out of the shower and toweled off.
Yeah, and if he was such a pansy, why were so many members of the Senate and the House of Representatives scared of him? And the President of the United States might not be wary, but he sure as hell took Gray’s calls, no matter where the man was, no matter who he was with.
No, it wasn’t cowardice that had him pulling the I-am-an-island routine. It was a complete lack of myopia. He saw clearly the truth other men didn’t. If you gave anyone the power to hurt you, soon enough, they were going to use it.
Gray walked into his closet, picked out a navy-blue suit and a button-down shirt, and tossed them onto the bed. He pulled on the pants and was zipping them up when he caught a flash of movement outside.
His hands stilled and he leaned toward the window.
He’d know that strawberry-blond hair anywhere.
Joy Moorehouse was coming down his driveway on a bicycle, her long mane of curls streaming out behind her like a flag. She pulled up to the side of the house, looked around and seemed to realize she’d overshot the service entrance. Slipping off the bike, she walked it around to the back, away from view.
Gray’s body slammed into overdrive, his blood pumping, his muscles twitching as if he were about to run after her.
He cursed and planted his hands on his hips.
This was not happening, he thought. He was not feeling any of this.
Yeah, whatever.
And then, as if his libido were taking a potshot at him, he was subjected to a quick replay of the day he’d caught her in nothing more than a bikini.
God, that had been a couple of weeks ago, but he could picture it as clear as if it had happened this morning.
To think he’d once considered his accurate recall a gift.
After years of seeing Joy around town during the summers, and finding her pretty but otherwise unassuming, something had changed this season. And that was before he’d gone to White Caps and come upon her just as she was about to take a swim.
Lovely before, she’d become instantly a thing of legend. Those subtle curves, all that smooth skin, those eyes so startled and wide when she’d seen him.
Frankly, he was appalled with himself. She was so young. Well, maybe not that young, but there was something so pure about her. So guileless. So honest. She was fresh in a way that made him feel as though he should wash his hands before he dared touch her.
Hell, with all her innocence, she made him feel dirty and ancient. Dirty for the things he’d done. Old because he had nothing but cynicism and hard ambition to offer anybody.
Gray cursed again and yanked on his shirt. The buttons refused to behave well under his fingers and it took him twice as long as it usually did to get the thing done up. And forget about the cuff links. He actually dropped one.
As he crammed the shirttails into the waistband of his pants, the fact that he was suddenly in a rush to get dressed and go downstairs didn’t escape him.
But it sure as hell didn’t improve his mood.
Chapter Two
Joy propped her bike against the house and looked around. She’d grown up in a big place, but Gray’s mansion was huge. The three-story structure was the size of a college dorm and looked like a castle. It was also in perfect shape, the great stone walls pale and clean in the late sun, the trim painted bright white, the shutters gleaming black.
“Yea, you’re here!” Frankie’s voice came out an open screen door. “How’d you like to help make cream puffs?”
Joy swept her hair up and pinned it out of the way with a barrette as she came into the industrial-quality kitchen. “I’m your girl. Just show me—”
The force of the blow sent her reeling into the wall and nearly kicked her feet out from under her. Something hit her in a wet splatter and then there was a loud clang as a pan bounced on the floor. The kitchen went dead quiet.
Tom Reynolds’s face was the color of oatmeal. Although it wasn’t as if he’d had a deep tan to begin with.
“Oh, God. Are you okay?” He reached out. “I didn’t see you. I’m so sorry. I’m really, really…”
Joy glanced down at herself. Her white shirt and black pants were covered with tortellini and pesto. She looked as though she’d been stabbed and was bleeding brilliant green.
Right out of a Roger Corman flick, she thought with a grin.
“I’m fine.” She was more worried about Tom. He didn’t look so steady. “Trust me, I’ll recover.”
The poor guy was on the verge of another round of apologies, but Frankie’s fiancé cut him off with a hand to the back of the neck.
“Whoa, tiger. What was I telling you about slowing down?” Nate was a big, handsome man dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt. He looked about as chef-like as your average Harley motorcycle owner, but he was heaven on wheels behind a stove. “You all right, Angel?”
She smiled at her soon-to-be brother-in-law. “Fine and dandy. Just keep me away from the vampires. I could give a garlic wreath a run for the money.”
Frankie came over, shaking her head. “We’re going to have to get you out of those clothes. I think I saw some waitressing uniforms in the back room. Let me see what I can find.”
Nate got down on his hands and knees and started cleaning up the mess. “We’re going to have to get creative. There isn’t enough time to remake this batch so we’ll have to whip up something else.”
Tom sank to the floor, putting his head between his knees for a moment. His blond hair was messed up as if even his follicles were upset.
“I really need this job,” he said softly.
Nate froze. “Who said you were getting canned? Good God, you should know half the things I’ve dropped over the years.”
Joy put her hand on Tom’s shoulder. “It was just an accident. I should have been looking where I was going, too.”
The cook blushed as he began scooping up tortellini with his hands. “That’s a nice thing for you to say, Joy.”
A second later Frankie came back with a black-and-white uniform in her arms and an impish, sixty-year-old woman at her side.
“Oh, look at the poor girl,” the woman said, grabbing the clean clothes. “Come on, now, I’ll show you to a shower.”
As Joy’s hand was taken in a firm, warm grip, she let herself get swept along.
“I’m Libby, Old Mr. Bennett’s housekeeper.” They went up a set of back stairs. “I suppose I’m his butler and his secretary when he’s here, too. I’m also Ernest’s mom.”
“Ernest?”
“He’s not allowed in the kitchen when we’re cooking. Although he’d be handy at cleaning up that pasta.”
At the top of the stairs, they turned right and went down a hall. On the walls there were black-and-white photographs of sporting events hung from floor to ceiling. Joy slowed. There were staid ones from the 1920s, with men dressed formally for cricket and a woman with