The tarp flexed as if it were alive, snapping and whipping at him as he fought the updraft, wrestling the blue beast back to the roof, where he anchored one corner with his bare foot. Tying this son of a bitch down was going to take all his ingenuity and a good deal of strength. He didn’t know why the fuck he was even bothering. He’d slept outside, cold and wet, many times and survived.
By this time tomorrow . . .
“Go back inside.”
“You won’t be able to secure that in this wind,” she shouted up at him, her skin shiny and wet and mouthwatering, even with those gorgeous curves mostly hidden in silvery shadows of slashing rain and darkness. “Get down and come into the house before you slip off that thing and kill yourself. Oso wants to come in, too.”
The dog, on hearing her voice, whined frantically to get to her. Cruz knew the feeling. Oso would be inside, standing at the narrow door, tail wagging, tongue lolling. He was male, wasn’t he? Cruz figured the only difference between himself and the dog was that his tail was in front.
He could stay up here being an ass and looking like an idiot, or climb down and go with Mia into the house and get it over with. He’d planned on waiting until she slept, but awake would be better. Not for him, but for any police investigation—if they suspected foul play. Which they never did.
Cruz climbed down. The only reason he felt leaden was because of the slipping and sliding of his bare feet on the wet metal rungs of the ladder, not because of any doubt in his mind that Mia deserved her fate. Although the absence of those three freckles stuck in his head. By the time he was on the ground, she’d sprinted back inside the house, leaving him to follow or not follow.
Fuck. He wasn’t made of steel. What red-blooded man wouldn’t follow a naked running woman? The predator drive was coded into his DNA.
He quickly checked on the dog, left Oso dozing in the camper on a dry corner of the narrow bunk with a rawhide chew sticking out of his mouth like a cigar, then raced across the wet grass to the back porch.
The open door spilled golden light onto her watery footprints on the worn wood floor, and the new patches. If he’d decided to hang around, he’d sand the deck until it felt like satin underfoot, then give it a couple of new coats of paint. . . .
But he wasn’t hanging around. He never did once the job was complete.
Running his hand through his hair, he squeezed out as much moisture as he could as he walked inside. The house still held the heat of the day—no savory smells of dinner, but something tart and sweet filled the air. She’d offered him dinner, and when he’d declined she probably didn’t bother to heat up the kitchen.
She heated him up. What the fuck was she doing, running around bare-ass naked in the middle of the night? She was just asking for trouble.
She was nowhere in sight. The stepladder he’d used earlier when applying the wallpaper steamer was propped against the wall near the foot of the stairs, the drop cloths still spread on the floor and shoved against the wall along the stairs. The unplugged steamer was filled and ready for the next round, supposedly in the morning.
When he’d be comfortable ensconced on a private jet to Brazil.
The setup couldn’t be more perfect.
“Mia?” Hopefully she’d gone upstairs to get dressed. It would be hard to dress her, but he’d have to if he wanted the fall to look accidental.
She stepped out of the downstairs bathroom halfway down the long hallway, a towel in one hand. “Just getting a dry towel. The one you used earlier is still wet, so we can share.” Padding toward him, she rubbed the towel over her dark hair, making it stand out like a dark, spiky halo around her head. She looked hot, sexy, and fucking adorable.
She wasn’t naked.
Better.
Worse.
The skimpy bit of transparent, clinging wet fabric looked as though she’d been wrapped in purple plastic wrap. Every curve, every hill, every valley, plain to see. The dark wedge of her pubic hair shadowed the juncture of her inner thighs. Cruz’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his traitorous and noncompliant dick rose uncomfortably inside the tight, wet denim of his jeans. He told his dick no, in no uncertain terms. It told him to fuck off.
Even he had a line he wouldn’t cross.
Tonight he’d do his job.
Chapter Nine
You should go up and put on something dry.” He was damned annoyed at how husky his voice was as she walked toward him like a stealthy cat stalking its prey. Slow, deliberate, sinuous steps that took her forever to get close enough to touch him. The scent of wet tuberoses made him almost dizzy with lust.
“Better grab a hot shower while you’re at it,” he instructed, voice harsh. “I’ll take one too while I’m here, then get out of your hair.”