What an ass, both of us. It served me right. I went looking for a quick and easy pleasure to muffle the guilt for not feeling miserable enough. What did I think would happen when I slept with a man who called himself Hard?
A clang echoed in the halls.
I jumped up. It wasn’t the air-conditioning or a bag of money thunking against the floor.
I pawed through my pockets for my cellphone and readied to dial.
Another thud. My heart stopped then tried to crack out of my ribs.
Who was in my house? How would someone even get in? We dismissed the serving staff while the estate settled, the community was gated, and I thought the alarm system was set.
Or maybe it wasn’t? The damn system went off the instant I walked inside, and the security company calling my cellphone was not happy that I didn’t know my paternal grandmother’s maiden name. Apparently My Dad ran out on me turn this freaking siren off haven’t I suffered enough! was not in their set of passwords.
I needed something to defend myself. Fortunately, whoever Dad hired to decorate the mansion loved tucking vases in arbitrary places. I snagged a crystal centerpiece on the way to the kitchen, raised it over my head, and braced for an attack.
I peeled the corner.
The vase ripped from my hands.
And Zach laughed.
Especially as the chrysanthemums exploded in a plume of white petals and showered me with blossoms and water.
I shrieked, mainly from terror but also because I couldn’t think of a profanity strong enough for my outrage.
“Easy there, sis.” Zach pushed the vase onto the counter. “Death by peonies is not a good obituary for a SEAL.”
I stared.
Didn’t mean to.
Couldn’t help it.
How the hell did Zach get into my house?
And where were his clothes?
Zach strutted in my kitchen wearing nothing but dripping-wet swim trunks. They clung to his trim and deliciously toned waist by virtue of his self-declared best feature. His body rippled hard, muscle over muscle. The scars shone over his skin, but whatever was once injured had been stitched back together. Something terrible happened to him. I knew better than to ask. Hell, I wasn’t even going to look.
No matter how badly I wanted to peek.
I turned, spinning from the magnificently sculpted form flexing his way to the fridge. He removed a Gatorade and chugged the bottle, crushing the plastic in his hand.
Why was he drinking from my fridge?
Wait...who even stocked the damn thing?
“What the hell are you doing?” I probably shouted too loudly.
“I’m thirsty.”
I had no response. I sputtered over too many questions and unreasonable demands. Zach didn’t care. I choked on my words and stewed in silence.
He tossed the empty bottle in the recycling. I glanced over him again. Scars upon scars. Just…everywhere. Not only that, he favored his left arm, even if he didn’t outwardly show it. Something nearly crippled and broke him.
He said he was on leave. I guessed I believed him, but why would a Navy SEAL want to live in a Versailles inspired mansion north of Atlanta when he could be out saving the world from extremists, dictators, and the computer nerds who hosted websites that pirated movies?
“How did you get in here?” I demanded.
Zach caught me looking at him. He grinned. “Through the patio.”
He did it on purpose. “Not into the kitchen, smart-ass. Into the house!”
“The underground garage.”
I’d pitch the nearest mixing bowl at his head. I spun to face him, wishing he’d put on a shirt and regretting once licking every taut muscle on his chest.
“That isn’t what I mean…” My rage blitzed into a sharp huff. “There’s an underground parking garage?”
“Two levels. Only one’s underground. But the elevator takes you to the roof where the tennis courts are.”
I stared at him. He arched an eyebrow. Tennis courts?
For as much as I wanted to squeal in delight for my newfound palace, Zach Harden was still half-naked and dripping in my brand new kitchen.
Well, one of my kitchens. But I liked this one. I’d probably use it the most. Which meant I preferred it puddleless.
“Why are you here?” I tossed a tea-towel at him. It hardly covered his palm let alone the rest of his six-foot-four, monstrous bulk. “How’d you get in?”
“I have a key.”
“Impossible.”
He brushed the towel over his muscles. His tempting, sea-foam eyes studied me, made greener only by the stacks of cash that insulated the walls of my new house. “My name is on the deed too. I live here.”
“You do not.”
“Just moved in.”
I heard a fizzle. I hoped it was the last shred of my patience burning up and not a snap of an aneurysm.