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There was no question that the house itself was amazing. Set back away from all the ranching activities, the single-storied structure was surrounded with a manicured lawn of dark green grass that probably took up an entire acre, creating a buffer between the home itself and the working environment of the ranch.
The house had all the creature comforts known to man. There was even a TV with a VCR and DVD player in her suite, and the attached bathroom was a godsend. It was like she had her own tiny apartment within the house, except without a kitchen.
Yes, the house and property were perfect, even though the amount of money in evidence made her uncomfortable, and not in a good way. The owner himself made her uncomfortable as well, in an altogether different way. Jeff McIntyre was—troublesome. He watched her all the time, silently, moodily. His dark good looks flustered her continuously. It wasn’t really his looks per sé, it was the way he watched her, as if he were detailing everything about her with an eye to find something wrong. A reason to declare their set-up a failure, but maybe that was just her insecurities rearing up.
He hadn’t seemed to notice her lack of experience in the kitchen, or else his need for help was so pronounced that maybe her lack of skill was something she didn’t need to worry about so much. But she was worried. A week wasn’t long enough to get in the groove. Maybe if the house had been clean to begin with, but it had been a disaster. And finding time to clean and cook and do laundry, all while trying to take care of a baby was almost impossible.
It was nerve wracking to know that she was on such a short trial—but it was damn near debilitating the way Jeff McIntyre watched her all the time.
He always hid what he was thinking, and that made her situation worse because her imagination was running wild with possible scenarios.
Was he watching her, ready to fire her on the spot for any small misstep? Did he pay such close attention because he thought she was a thief or some kind of threat to Zach? Or was he watching her with hooded eyes because he … because he wanted to take her to bed?
A river of both unease and curiosity assailed her as she let herself think about that possibility. What would it be like to be in his bed? He had to be ten or twelve years older than she, and she’d never been exposed to someone of his ilk before, certainly not on a one-on-one basis.
And she’d never been watched as he watched her.
As she pondered the situation, she remembered a warning her mother had given her several years before when they’d been having a conversation about men and their rampant sex drives. ‘Honey, when you’re out in the big bad world, if a man is giving you looks that appear to be of a sexual nature, you can bet your bottom dollar they are of a sexual nature.’
So, the dark, almost menacing looks that Jeff McIntyre gave her—should she consider them sexual? The answer that came swiftly was a resounding yes. A provocative shiver ran down her spine with the acknowledgment; she knew she was right. There was no question—his focused perusal smoldered with a contained heat, but a heat nonetheless. The neutral expression stamped on his features was usually negated by a clenched jaw or fisted hands that were telling.
As she really let herself think about him in a sexual way, her nerves were impacted with a jolt and she was shocked to feel moisture bloom on her panties. Yeah, the man was good-looking. Good-looking and built like a brick wall, and he was at that age in life—nothing boyish left at all—just pure man. He was tall with chiseled features that were roughened, which only added to his attraction. No, his craggy features didn’t detract from his appearance, not in the slightest. His rough good looks held a masculine bent that made her long-dormant sexuality wake up and take notice.
Not that she was going to do anything about it—heck, no. All she wanted was to bury the inappropriate curiosity that threatened to overwhelm her and do the housekeeping job that he’d temporarily hired her to do.
She decided, right then, that the best way to deal with the situation was to pretend it wasn’t there. Maybe if she pretended the feelings didn’t exist, they’d go away. Maybe, if she remained oblivious to the electric current that ran between them, it would detach and dissolve.
Fat chance. With her heart beating a mile a minute, she suddenly felt as if she was on borrowed time.
****
Her third full day fell on a Thursday, and after Jeff had slammed out of the house and Zach had caught the bus for school, Janet thought she’d made it home free—a few blissful hours alone with her own thoughts without anyone scowling at her. With relief, she laid Hannah down for her nap and put the monitor on, so she could hear when her daughter woke up.
She’d washed and put away both Jeff and his son’s clothes during the prior two days, and now, with a feeling of anxiety, she again entered the private domain of the rancher himself. Knowing he wasn’t far away, but on the ranch somewhere, she almost tiptoed into his room, determined to finish cleaning his bathroom.
The bedroom itself wasn’t so bad—she’d already stripped his sheets and washed them. But she hadn’t had time to do more than a swift swish of the brush around the commode.
Half an hour later, she was congratulating herself on a job well done as she walked from his room. Two seconds later, she ran into a large, solid object that almost knocked the breath from her.
Hard hands came up and clenched around her upper arms.
The feel of Jeff McIntyre touching her for the first time made her knees go weak as she practically swayed where she stood. He must have felt her moment of weakness, because he used the opportunity to bring her closer; she lost her breath completely when she found her torso pressed against his.
She glanced up and found him looking down at her—close—so close she began trembling, the heat from his eyes almost melting her bones and sending a tiny, fevered tremor between her thighs.
She felt him suck in a breath as his hands tightened around the fleshy part of her upper arms. They stared at each other, both semi-shocked to be this close together, but he wasn’t letting her go, so she stood in half-panicked indecision as she tried to control the wildly beating cadence of her heart.
One large, masculine hand left her arm and encircled her chin, lifting it. “What were you doing in there?” he asked, the thread of primal fire in his voice so intoxicating that it almost drugged her.
She swallowed, trying to find the answer to his question. She’d been doing something … “Cl—cleaning,” she stammered, “Your bathroom.”
His eyes narrowed and she could feel his muscles tighten as his callused fingers gripped her chin. Her heart jolted as he devoured her, watching her with an intensity that was producing a whirling in her head. Against her stomach, she felt the buckle of his jeans press into her—and—and something else that made her throat seize up, forcing her to hold what little oxygen she had left in her lungs.
“You need to stay out of my bedroom,” he advised in a low, deadly voice as his grip intensified around her chin.
Butterflies exploded in her stomach as her brain took a walkabout. “What?”
“You need to stay out of my bedroom,” he repeated as his work-roughened thumb pressed into her flesh.
“I’m not—I don’t—I was just cleaning,” she mumbled, confused by his proximity and his touch. The situation seemed almost surreal. This confrontation wasn’t about her stealing something out of his bedroom or stumbling onto his secrets. This was a sexual warning, no question about it.
As she tried to get her brain to unfreeze and do something, his gaze dropped to her neck, down to her shoulders, and then up again to settle with unwavering heat on her lips. As the air turned molten around them, a dangerous sizzle of temptation brought on near hysteria—what the hell was she doing staying in the lion’s den? Surely to God she could find a better situation—a safer situation.
As she blinked up at him, almost trance-like, his gaze became riveting. His eyes flared and then narrowed, he sucked in air audibly through his nose as he braced his legs, only subtly, yet she felt the ch
ange come over him as he seemed to steel himself for something.
As she stood almost captivated, waiting on his next move, one muscled thigh pushed against hers, forcing her to take a step backward, into his room. His hand left her chin and sank into her hair as he moved forward again, almost as if on automatic pilot.
As she took another stumbling step backwards, her heart began banging in her chest as lights began dancing in her head. The look etched on his features was raw, feral—and out of control.
