Taming Tess Read online

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  Atlantic Bridge

  www.atlanticbridge.net

  Copyright ©2007 by Roxi Romano

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Published by Liquid Silver Books, Imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana. Copyright 2007, Roxi Romano. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the authors.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  Lady, if I don't finish your remodeling job by the end of the week, you can move into my house.

  Roman St. John's words, spoken only days ago to Tess Abbot, played through his mind like an endless loop as he stared into the flames devouring the uppermost level of her house. Whatever had possessed him to make such a ridiculous boast to the woman?

  Behind him, the horn on his truck blared. He winced and glared over his shoulder and through the broad windshield at Tess Abbot ... who was leaning on the horn. That woman and her constant haranguing, that's what had goaded him into being stupid enough to gamble on the reliability of his crew—to propose the ridiculous, that she move into his house if the job didn't get done on time.

  Besides, it hadn't seemed such an outrageous boast at the time he'd made it. He had a reputation as a contractor who got his jobs done on schedule ... even when the client was a pain in the ass like Tess Abbot.

  Now, here he was, less than twenty-four hours away from getting rid of the client from hell, and his doofus cousin Raymond goes and burns her place down. If the man ever stuck another cigar in his mouth, Roman vowed to cram it down his throat, ash end first.

  Honk. Honk. Hooonnnk.

  And if Tess Abbot didn't stop honking his truck horn, he was going to superglue her fingers to her harpy tongue. He stepped around to the driver's side of the truck and jerked open the door.

  "What now?"

  She settled back in the passenger seat, folded her arms across her compact breasts—flattened further by the tight weave of a skin-tight, spandex tank top—and lifted her pert chin to the imperial angle he'd come to know all too well through weeks of working for her. “I smell like the bottom of an ashtray. I want a bath."

  The fire truck flasher strobed through the early dusk and across a face that was flawless save for a smudge of soot on one cheek and the flecks of ash salting the close-cropped, jet-black hair spiked against a high, broad brow. Twin flames reflected off the pupils of her wide eyes with their enticing upward slant at their outer corners. The day Tess Abbot had opened her front door to him so he could begin renovations on her Victorian-era house, one look into those waifish brown eyes and he'd almost proclaimed himself a man in love. Given that finding a wife and starting a family ranked at the top of his latest five-year plan, falling in love would have been an appropriate course of action.

  But six weeks’ worth of illusion-shattering criticisms later and he'd written her off his list of potential mates. A crime. That's what it was for a woman to have a body that wouldn't quit and a tongue to match. Those palm-sized breasts, every inch of which were detailed by her spandex sports bra, had been the focus of numerous wet dreams these past weeks—a condition he hadn't suffered from since his teen years. Damn, but he wanted to fit his lips around those plump nipples and tongue her—

  "St. John. You do have a bathroom in your house, do you not?"

  The blood gathering in his groin retreated. No doubt about it, she was two horns shy of a she-devil. There wasn't enough water in all of Michigan's Great Lakes to wash that fact away. He swung himself up into the driver's seat.

  "How about I put you up in a nice motel for the night?” he ventured one more time, hoping that, by now, the woman had cooled off enough to realize the absurdity of moving into his house ... with him ... and her and her firm, runner's body. Just the thought of all that temptation within his reach made his head ache.

  "Your idea of nice no doubt rents by the hour,” she lobbed back at him in a tone as effective as a cold shower.

  Okay. Maybe resisting her even in close quarters wouldn't be such a chore, especially given her underlying insult to the place he'd chosen to call home. That he couldn't ignore.

  "Pine Ridge may be a small town in a forgotten corner of Michigan's Upper Peninsula,” Roman informed through his teeth, “but..."

  "It has clean air and quiet living,” she simpered back at him. “Not to mention it's a great place to raise kids. Yada, yada, yada. Personally, I find quiet vastly overrated."

  "Some quiet right now would be vastly refreshing,” Roman grumbled, throwing the truck into gear.

  "Look, St. John, I'm the one who's been burned out of her house with nothing more than the clothes on her back. And whose fault is that?"

  Roman winced. Of all the people to have screwed up with, why did it have to be with the harpy from hell? Hadn't he always been considerate of women? Respectful? Then why wasn't he more tolerant of Tess Abbot, who'd come home from her evening run to find her house on fire—a fire for which he likely was responsible? He owed her some compassion.

  "Look,” he tried one last time as he pulled away from the curb and edged around the fire truck blocking Tess’ car in her driveway, “we may not have any hotels in the area, but there are several triple-A motels..."

  "I'm used to five-star accommodations."

  The woman was unrelentingly stubborn. No wonder his usual fair-mindedness failed him. No wonder he couldn't help but spar with her at every turn.

  No wonder trying to be a nice guy to Tess Abbot wasn't working.

  "Nothing less than five stars, huh?” he grunted.

  "That's right."

  One corner of Roman's mouth twitched involuntarily. If the woman demanded five-star accommodations, he was a free man. One look at his modest digs and she'd beg him to take her to a motel ... any motel.

  * * * *

  The minute they left the city limits, she should have demanded Roman St. John turn his truck around. But who could tell where city ended and country began? Not a Chicago-bred girl like her, that's for sure. Even downtown Pine Ridge seemed underlit to her.

  Worst of all, after all she'd done to keep Roman St. John at arm's length, here she was driving into the descending gloom of nightfall with a man way too tempting. Him with her favorite hue of sandy blond hair and eyes the shade of a Chicago morning sky. He was way too delicious, way too testosterone laden, way too tempting. And this just wasn't the time to play around with some guy.

  Correction, make that this particular guy. When she'd first set eyes on him, lust had kicked in big time. A few days of working together and he'd earned her respect. A week into construction and she'd found herself eager for each workday and dreading weekends until...

  Until she'd overheard his crew goading him into asking her out. Her heart had done a little tap dance against her ribs. Then came his response.

  "No way. The woman is too headstrong."

  Headstrong? So they'd had a disagreement about turning the nursery into a walk-in closet.

  "Too citified."

  And just what was wrong with that?

  "Too career-minded. I'm looking for wife material."

  Wife. There it was. The one thing that made Roman St. John trouble with a capital T. Her worst nightmare.

  St. John loved the old, small town of Pine Ridge. He and his great place to raise kids attitude would fit right in with her father ... who still lived by the antiquated standards of the fifties. Daddy Dearest believed women belonged in the bedroom, not the boardroom. He would likely canonize St. John's crew for setting fire to the house she'd intended to use to prove her father wrong.

  Never mind that it wasn't her fault the refurbishing job went up in flames. Not her fault she no longer had a photographable project for her portfolio—that her flip had flopped.

  Not her fault her investment had been reduced to ashes.

  Her father would only see that she'd failed to complete her first solo project. Her father who'd promoted lesser men ahead of her, men being the operative word. Her father who'd refused to give her a recommendation to present to other architectural firms when she'd left his.

  Her father who'd informed every loan institution within a hundred-mile radius of Chicago that they could not rely on him to underwrite any loan they gave his first-born child who, being female, would undoubtedly default on the loan because no woman could succeed on her own.

  "You'll come crawling back to me before the year is out,” he'd shouted as she'd stormed out of his office the day she'd finally realized the extent to which her father would go to keep her at heel.

  Fortunately, she had Aunt Honey—great-aunt to be precise—to turn to. Aunt Honey who had never let any man get in her way. Aunt Honey who'd been a career woman before it was fashionable and traveled her own flamboyant path in life undaunted by naysayers.

  Aunt Honey who owned a house
three hundred miles away from her father's influence—the kind of house whose renovation would be a shining star in any architect's portfolio. Tess had bought the house from Aunt Honey at fair market value even though Honey had offered it to her for less. It was only fair since there had been another interested buyer. Besides, anything less and her father would dismiss her success as having been subsidized by family.

  She'd even gone the conventional route by financing the purchase rather than taking Aunt Honey up on her offer of a land contract. A bank loan kept Tess independent, but it also meant she had to turn a profit ASAP or shell out mortgage payments that could bankrupt her. And now that her project seemed nothing more than a charred dream, her father was going to give her big smug, “I told you so."

  And St. John had been on the brink of meeting her deadline. A defeated sigh escaped her.

  "You say something, Abbot?"

  "I was just thinking about the mess your crew made of my flip."

  He winced and turned his attention back to the road. Damn, but the man had himself a jaw line that could slice open an envelope and a chin so strong she wanted to nibble on it just to see it quiver. Why did the contractor with a reputation for getting things done on time, a contractor known for his quality and reliability, also have to have a killer profile? Maybe Aunt Honey had something other than building credentials in mind when she recommended St. John for the job.

  No. Not independent Aunt Honey. Not the woman who'd beaten men at their love-em-and-leave-em games. No way.

  Though, given St John's broad shoulders, trim hips and muscled thighs framing an impressive bulge around the zipper area, Aunt Honey's ulterior motives might have been for Tess to jump his bones and smile her way through her home renovation project. Unfortunately, the desire to prove herself to her father meant she'd had to ignore St. John's physical attributes these past six weeks. Working on the big Victorian had to be all about business for her.

  A lot of good her self-control and St. John's qualifications did her now that her house was a charred ruin. When her father found out, he'd reel her in like one of his trophy game fish, bragging about how right he'd been about a woman's inability to stand on her own. And all because St. John's crew had all but burned her house to the ground. Her one chance to prove her father wrong, now gone up in smoke.

  The truck hit a pothole and Tess bounced against her seatbelt. If St. John knew the extent of the damage he'd done her, he'd probably get an I told you so in there as well ... even if her failure was his fault. Their endless arguments regarding the renovation of The Castle, as the locals fondly called the Aunt Honey's Victorian, was proof St. John gave no credence to her opinion.

  Or maybe it was his own ideas about the old house that she battled. Roman St. John had turned out to be the very person she bought The Castle out from under. Maybe ensuring that she failed wasn't such an accident after all.

  The truck bounded over another of the defects bad weather and poor maintenance had gouged into the country road. She grunted and grabbed the dash to steady herself. St. John's eyes glittered in the low light off the instrument panel, and he pressed his foot to the accelerator.

  "Having second thoughts?” he all but crooned. “I'll gladly turn around and drive you back to town."

  "You wish,” she fired back at him, automatically contradicting anything suggested by this latest man hell-bent on dictating to her. Even if what he suggested was more reasonable ... safer. She was beginning to feel badly in need of a hug, and any hug from St. John could only lead to hot, animal sex. The image of him shirtless as she'd seen him many times on the job, his yellow hard hat atop his wheat-colored hair and his jeans unsnapped in anticipation, made her groan.

  "You being used to five-star accommodations,” he countered, apparently missing the hungry inflection escaping her throat, “I wouldn't want you to be disappointed.” The corner of his mouth twitched.

  No doubt about it. Roman St. John enjoyed tormenting her. But he was in for a surprise if he thought a little mocking would send her running, tail tucked. Take over and take care of the little woman type of men had mocked her all her twenty-nine years.

  Granted, none with as manly a physique as Roman St. John. Certainly none with piercing Norse-God-blue eyes, chiseled-by-thirty-something-years-of-experience cheeks, and a resolute, jutting chin ... and faded jeans molded over the most enticing of bulges. Definitely, there'd never been one she'd had to fight to resist. Damn this man, his amazing looks, and smug comebacks ... his ability to aggravate her ... to keep his hands off her. She folded her arms across her chest.

  "Just keep driving, St. John."

  He wheeled the truck hard off the county road onto a dirt driveway and hit the brakes. Tess lurched against the restraint of her seatbelt.

  "Is it necessary to take every turn as though we're trying to outmaneuver someone tailing us?"

  "My driving not five-star enough for you, Princess?"

  She scowled through the dim dash lights at the man tilting a self-satisfied smile her way. “No one calls me Princess."

  "I'd have bet everyone did."

  "Then that's a bet you'd have lost, St. John."

  He shifted toward her and draped an arm along the back of the seat ... an arm that was bare below the rolled-back cuff of a plaid flannel shirt. Damned if she couldn't feel the heat emanating from that almost naked limb ... sprawled across the seatback ... across the space between them. What would it feel like to be wrapped up in those strong arms, to be touched—caressed—by a working man's callused hand ... to be explored by work-worn fingers?

  Safer to go to a motel.

  Involuntarily, her head tilted toward that heat. She wanted to know the cradle of that arm. She wanted to be possessed by its strength—wanted to be possessed by the strength of the man who'd looked her in the eye and seen clear to her soul the first time they'd met.

  Definitely safer ... a motel.

  Why hadn't she, in all their weeks of working together, not once given in to nature's lusty dictates?

  "Here we are,” he all but sang in his deep baritone, sweeping one broad hand toward the small structure caught in the arc of the truck's headlights. “Home sweet home."

  That patronizing smugness. That's why she refused what her body craved. That's why she'd declared Roman St. John off-limits.

  That, and her father with his condescending patriarchal ideas. She was, above all else, a woman who intended never to be subjugated by any man. Never to marry.

  * * * *

  She was scowling. She was looking at his house and scowling. He should be glad. Surely now she'd admit she'd rather stay in a motel. But part of him resented her attitude. He built this house.

  "Finding it a little small for your five-star tastes?"

  "It's ... smaller than my father's garage."

  "It may not be a castle,” he growled, biting his tongue to keep from adding, Like the Victorian you bought in town—no sense reminding her of the house that he was likely responsible for making uninhabitable to her, “but it's livable enough for us common folk."

  Her eyes narrowed at him. “You think I'm spoiled, don't you?"

  "If the glass slipper fits."

  "Don't know your fairytales very well, either, do you?"

  A man didn't grow up in a family of five kids and dote on a preschooler nephew without learning his fairytales. The fact was the woman pushed his buttons, made him forget to use reason ... made him act like a Neanderthal. It was that ever-complaining mouth of hers ... and that lean, firm body. Even shaking a finger at him as she now did, nothing jiggled. But then, he'd never seen her naked. If he could get her out of her duds, he'd bet he could get something jiggling.

  "Cinderella wasn't rich,” she railed. “She wasn't indulged and she wasn't a princess."

  "Then make it a Gucci pump,” he barked, coming back to his senses. “Whatever. Just tell me you've punished me enough for one evening, and I'll drive you to the best motel in town."

  "You think this is about punishing you?"

  "You could probably buy out the total occupancy of any local motel. Why else would you insist on moving into my house?"

  "Because it's your crew's fault my house went up in flames tonight."

  "Your house didn't go up in flames. Only part of it burned."