I walk to it, place my handbag on the bar counter, next to a wall clock that’s turned face down. I turn it face up; realize it’s stopped. Huh? Guess it ran out of batteries. I replace it on the counter, turn around. That’s when I hear the low sound of whistling again. I gulp. Guess I hadn’t imagined it then?
It’s a whistling, and of the human variety. This is not from an animal or a bird. The hell? I glance around the comfortable space. Everything looks undisturbed, though how would I know? I hear the sound of something sloshing from the direction of the back door… What the—? Did the intruder decide to take a bath?
Is there a hot tub of some kind on the patio at the back?
I take a step forward, then stop. I need a weapon. I am not going out there alone. Shit, why had I thought it was a good idea to come here on my own, remind me again? I hadn’t been running away, I hadn’t… Yeah, right. I’d needed to take myself away from all of those shiny, happy, faces celebrating bloody Christmas, which honestly, I do love… I do… Just not this year. This year, I need to catch a break… And hell, if I haven’t caught something, alright. A burglar, more like it. I unclasp my satchel of baking tools, reach in and remove a—spatula? The humming sound increases in pitch, then a full-blown song reaches me. The hell? I squeeze my fingers around my weapon… Don’t laugh; a spatula can do plenty of damage when it connects with someone’s balls.
I lower my chef's satchel to the ground, then unbutton my coat and shrug it off. I stalk toward the door at the far end.
The sounds of water splashing reaches me through the patio door. Huh? Maybe there is a hot tub out there...
Then a male voice breaks into a rendition of Nothing Else Matters by Metallica. What the—? There's someone out there, all right, and the singing’s not bad, actually. My thief, has a thing for classic rock, and can carry a tune. I hum the lyrics in sync with him… The hell? I pause, draw in another breath. Now or never. Do it, Amelie. Go for it. Whoever it is, he has no right to be here. Shit, should I have called the cops?
The singing stops abruptly. What the—? Did he hear me approaching?
I half angle my body, turn to leave; the door to the patio flies open.
I pivot around, raise my weapon, and find I am confronted with a wall of muscle. Naked chest, water running in rivulets down those sculpted abs that narrow into a concave belly which points to his thick, long—
"My face is up here," he drawls.
Heat flushes my cheeks; I jerk my gaze up. Grey eyes clash with mine—stormy clouds that boil in a sky which hints at oncoming snow. Sleet. Hail. An uncompromising will to get his way, no matter what. A shiver runs down my spine and moisture pools between my legs.
The skin between his eyebrows crinkles and his nostrils flare. No way. He can’t smell my arousal, can he?
That mean upper lip thins further. His pouty lower lip juts out above a chin that wears days’ old growth of beard. Thick dark hair covers his jaw. How would it feel to have him draw those rough whiskers across my inner thighs? Right before he dips his head, darts out his tongue, and licks my innermost secret place. Goosebumps dot my skin. Shit, what’s wrong with me? Why did my mind go there? You know why… Because this handsome piece of 100% male goodness is, quite simply, the most wickedly delicious piece of dessert I’ve ever laid my eyes on. My throat dries. Also, I happen to know him.
"You?" my voice comes out breathless.
"What are you doing here?" he snaps at the same time.
"What are you doing here?" I retort. "And in a hot tub, on the patio of this house, no less?"
"I am not in the habit of answering queries posited by women who look like they’ve been dragged in from a storm."
"What?" My jaw drops. I am gaping, and it’s not only because the words complete the image of the man I’ve loathed from the moment I first saw him at the wedding of one of my best friends. "Dr. f'ing Weston," I snarl.
"That’s Doc Kincaid to you." He yawns.
Of course, his surname would have to have the word kink in it in some form. "And are you?" I scowl.
"What?"
"A real doctor?"
He raises his hand, stabs the air with a cigar I only now realize he holds between his fingers. "Do you want to find out?" He looks me up and down, waggles his eyebrows. "I could give you a thorough examination." His gaze settles on my breasts, slides down to my core. "Make sure everything is in working order.” He snickers.
Heat fizzes low in my belly. Hell, with that kind of hotness, this man could clearly get my cake batter to rise in seconds… Wait, did I just think that?
I make a gagging noise in my throat, "Does that line actually work?"
"You’d be surprised." His lips curl.
Oh, that smirk. My stomach seems to bottom out… Or maybe that’s because I haven’t eaten since breakfast.
He draws on his cigar, cheeks hollowing for an instant, before he puffs out smoke. Cherries, cloves…cinnamon. Yum. My mouth waters, "How would it be to bake a cigar dessert?"
"What?" He frowns.
Shit, did I just say that aloud?
"Nothing," I mumble, "and you haven’t answered my question."
His voice lowers to a hush, "I’ll answer yours if you answer mine." Another shiver ladders up my spine. How did he manage to make that seem like an innuendo?
"Is everything a trade to you?"
"You should try it." He smiles, a full-blown grin that highlights the laughter lines that stretch from the corners of his eyes. I mean, could this guy be any more perfect? I allow my gaze to take in the breadth of his shoulders, that gorgeous neck, the swell of those hard biceps, the smattering of hair on those forearms—No, do not look lower; don’t do it—to the splint that he sports around middle finger of his right hand.
"What happened to you?" I scowl.
"This?" He raises his middle finger to show me the bird by default, "I fractured my middle finger a car accident."
"How convenient," I scoff. "You can announce your jerk-face nature without speaking a word."
He chuckles, "You always this nice to injured men?"
"You always go around flashing women?"
"You enjoyed the view." He raises that goddam cigar again to his mouth, wraps those beautiful lips around the smoke stick.
And I'd love to get my mouth around his fat, juicy cigar too.
No, no. Enough with the terrible metaphors. But, hello, can you blame me? I am only a woman standing in front of a man—a naked, gorgeous-as-hell, stud muffin of a male who pulls the cigar from his mouth, and blows out a cloud of fragrant smoke from between pursed lips.
Moisture melts my core. My toes curl.
Jesus, there should be a law against him using his mouth like that. Of course, I could find other uses for that mouth of his too… No, no no. Why are you insisting on going back down that route?
"Nothing I haven’t seen," I toss my head.
"Unlikely." He lowers his right hand—the one with the splint and the default flip-me-off-bird to his crotch.
What the—? Don’t look there, bitch— Don’t bloody watch him grasp himself and squeeze.
I gulp, the sound audible in the small space. And damn him, but I can’t take my gaze off of that gorgeous part of his anatomy.