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  “Or find a lovely rental—furnished condo with a view of the ocean so you can relax— Oh, wait, I forgot who I was talking to. ‘Relax’ isn’t in Amelia Wellington-Wentworth’s vocabulary.”

  No, it wasn’t. But she was trying to shoehorn it into Mia Hayward’s.

  There was a loud knock at the back door. She had a discreet parade of deliveries every day, but it hadn’t been that long ago that a bullet shattered the window in her office, and unexpected loud noises still made her start and caused her heart to race. Especially after she’d first moved into the two-hundred-year-old house tucked away on a cul-de-sac next door to the graveyard. Alone. No bodyguards. No secure building. For what either of those had been worth in San Francisco.

  And she’d still been shot at.

  The house was only ninety minutes outside New Orleans and she hadn’t been there once since she arrived almost a month ago, but it seemed half of NOLA arrived at her doorstep on a regular basis with deliveries.

  “Someone’s at the door. Either my new gardener or UPS. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

  “Check before you open the door!”

  “Yes, Mother. Love you, kiddo.” Mia disconnected, then turned the ringer off and replaced the phone back in the metal sugar canister. “Coming!”

  Chapter Three

  Wiping her hands on the dishcloth flung over her shoulder, Mia walked down the long corridor, past the stairs, to the back door. The gardener couldn’t work outside in this deluge. She’d ask him if he knew how to install wallpaper and, if not, point him to the steamer to remove the red flocked paper in the entryway until the weather cleared. She really needed a whole army of tradesmen to put the house to rights, but she didn’t relish people in her space when she was there all day herself. She wouldn’t be here long enough to worry about it. . . .

  “Hi—” she said as she flung open the front door. The dark-haired man dripping in the doorway topped her five foot six by almost a foot and made her heartbeat stutter, then race into overdrive. Long black hair clung wetly to his strong throat and brushed the rain-speckled dark T-shirt stretched over his broad shoulders. Dark stubble gave him a dangerous, sexy look, and his deep brown eyes said Been there, done her.

  He was shockingly, mesmerizingly familiar.

  Diamond droplets of water clung to his black lashes. Mia wanted to lick them off. He looked hard and dangerous, and not the sort of man who would take money for something he probably gave away for free on a daily basis. He must have women lining up around the block for his services.

  He could’ve charged her double. Hell, triple.

  She stared up at him, riveted. It wasn’t anything as simple as physical good looks, although he had those in abundance. His nose was straight, his lips chiseled and sexy as sin. He needed a haircut and a shave, yet his unshaven jaw and his intense dark brown eyes made his personal grooming habits immaterial.

  He wore jeans and a clinging wet dark blue T-shirt that showed his muscle definition. Abs, pecs, biceps . . . Mia’s mouth went dry. The fabric clung to every rippling, solid muscle on his chest and belly, and the damp denim of his jeans cupped his sex. Sex appeal oozed from his very pores.

  Every cell in Mia’s body remembered the night before in pulsing Technicolor, as if he’d imprinted himself on her body in some way.

  She had to consciously avert her gaze from the bulge behind his fly, back to his face. Say something, for God’s sake! “You came for your money. Hang on a sec, I’ll go get it for y—”

  He put his hand on her bare arm. A hot electrical current zinged through Mia’s veins at the contact, and her gaze jerked up to meet his dark eyes, making her completely forget what she’d been about to say. She felt as though her skin was magnetized to his. The energy pulsing between them was almost visible, it was so strong.

  Disconcerting.

  Intriguing.

  “I think you have me confused with someone else.” A trace of amusement tinged his voice, although he wasn’t smiling.

  Dragging her gaze away from a drop of water making its slow way down his temple to the dark, sexy scruff on his cheeks and jaw, Mia pursed her lips, then shook her head. “No. I don’t believe so. We—” She, who ran a multibillion-dollar company with an iron hand, who’d dined with the president of the United States—several times—and had tea with Britain’s queen, was at a loss for words.

  “Fucked?” he offered politely.

  “Not my favorite word, but applicable.” Since she hadn’t given Bon Temps her phone number, had his employer anticipated her wanting a repeat performance? Knowing how amazing he was, had they just sent him back because, honest to God, what woman wouldn’t want a repeat of last night’s performance?

  He didn’t look like anyone she would know in her other life. He looked real. The real that Blush’s male models strived to emulate for their ads. That rugged, raw sensuality that was hard to duplicate. He looked— Hell, sexy wasn’t a job description. “I’ll get your mon—”

  Thunder reverberated, and something large, hairy, and wet shot around her legs, causing her to stagger. The situation was already fraught with tension and she let out a small scream of surprise as she reached out for something to hold on to for balance.

  He grabbed her upper arm to prevent her from falling. His hand was large, his skin considerably darker than hers. Just seeing his fingers circling her upper arm made Mia’s brain go blank for several beats. She blinked her brain back into action. “What on earth—” Glancing back, she didn’t see anything other than splotches of wet mud in a meandering line from the door into the house.

  “Sorry ’bout that. Oso is afraid of thunder. Okay if I go get him?”

  She had no idea what an Oso was; she presumed a dog. “Wait here. I’ll find him.” Yes, he’d been inside the house before—hell, inside her—but that didn’t mean he was welcome whenever he felt like dropping by.

  She needed to establish some rules before she—they . . . before—

  She started to close the door, and felt a twinge of alarm to realize he had his foot wedged against it, preventing it from closing.

  He pushed it farther open with one large hand. His arm barring the opening now. “Oso won’t come to a stranger. He’ll hide until I find him. Let’s start again.” Dropping his arm, he stuck out his hand, which she automatically took. “Cruz Barcelona.”

  “Mia Hayward.” Her much smaller hand was engulfed by his. Muscle memory felt the electricity of his touch as those fingers cupped her breast, his thumb strumming her nipple. Get a grip!

  A person could judge a man on his firm, no-nonsense handshake. And if they were in a boardroom, Mia would’ve let go almost immediately. But they weren’t in a business situation, and the way his fingers closed around hers was more intimate than a mere handshake. She withdrew hers as quickly as though she’d been burned.

  A long dent, not quite a dimple, appeared in his cheek when he almost smiled. Mia’s heart did calisthenics as her gaze slid to the chiseled curve of his mouth. Dear God, the guy had the mouth of a fallen angel, and the deep, dark eyes of a sinner. His effect on her was disconcertingly profound. Even more so because she’d never been this aware of a man before in her life.

  “Dan Hicky at the general store told me you’re looking for some help,” he said easily, his deep voice curling through her veins like hot smoke. “Electrical? Some plumbing? I’m a jack-of-all-trades; he thought we’d be a good fit.”

  Mia knew the ways they fit, and felt her cheeks heat. She’d blushed more in the last few hours than she’d done in her entire life. “And you’re employed by . . . ?” She was starting to suspect it wasn’t the Bon Temps Escort Service.

  “Currently unemployed. Unless you have work for me?”

  It occurred to Mia that she could hire him to keep her sexually satisfied until she was able to go home. She pushed the door wider—something she wouldn’t do in San Francisco, even if her bodyguards were with her. But then again, she’d left herself totally vulnerable last night
and it had ended up being the best thing she’d ever done. “Your dog’s probably in the kitchen. Come in.”

  • • •

  Said the spider to the fly. Clearly she was under the misapprehension that he was trustworthy because he’d fucked her the night before. He gave her a slow, lazy smile, with just enough heat to help reinforce her misconception and keep her guard down.

  Dressed in conservative pale blue shorts, a white T-shirt, and not a scrap of makeup that he could see, she looked like the girl next door. If the girl next door was gorgeous and sexy, and had creamy long legs and a livid six-inch scar on her upper arm.

  He was disappointed to note she was wearing a bra. Her bare feet were oddly endearing, and sported bright red polish and a small silver toe ring he’d barely noticed the night before.

  Her pale feet made her look vulnerable, defenseless. Why the hell did he give a flying fuck how she looked, or how vulnerable her goddamned feet looked? Coiled tension told Cruz to stay away from her magnetic sensual pull. No matter how unprecedented this attraction was, she was a job. Just a job.

  “Not a smart move, inviting a strange man into your house when you’re here alone,” he said, carefully keeping his voice neutral as they followed the dark hallway, his mind filled with methods to take her life. “This place is isolated as hell, and you don’t know me from Adam.” A bright pink plastic clip held her hair off her pale nape. Cruz had an insane urge to put his mouth there.

  She stopped at the foot of the stairs, turning to size him up. “You weren’t concerned for my safety last night.”

  “You told me not to say anything. You don’t give the appearance of being a woman who does anything unless she wants to do it.”

  “Well, clearly I wanted to—” A flush rose from her throat to her cheeks, but her gaze didn’t waver. She was surprisingly tough; but then, she had the clout of her wealth and privilege to mask who she really was. “If you were a psychopathic serial killer, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now, would we?”

  “Maybe I’m on my meds and haven’t snapped and started my killing spree yet.” The only reason she was alive now was because Cruz had a persistent itch that told him he didn’t have all the facts necessary to complete the job. The itch was strong enough that he’d canceled his trip to Brazil this morning until he had more data.

  The color left her face, and she shuddered, then briskly rubbed her arms despite the muggy heat. “Well, please don’t start your spree with me. It would destroy my faith in the goodness of my fellow man.”

  “There’s not a whole hell of a lot of good in man one way or the other,” he pointed out cynically. Jesus, I almost believe she’s this naive. It was an impressive act. “And you should’ve at least asked for my ID.” Cruz had absolutely no fucking idea why her trust—even if it was feigned—annoyed the living bejesus out of him. But it did.

  “Sure.” She held out a slender hand. A hand that had never done anything other than lift a cup to her lips or sign a check. “Hand over your driver’s license.”

  Cruz dug a wallet out of his back pocket, withdrew a license, and handed it to her.

  A buzzy electrical current passed between their fingers. Odd, conducting electricity on a day like today.

  “IDs can be faked,” she pointed out, scanning the license before handing it back. And she would know. She had an excellent one herself. “You live in Idaho?”

  Never been there, but it was as good a place as any for Cruz Barcelona to have gotten a driver’s license. If she didn’t like this one, he had two dozen others. “That’s my home base,” he told her easily. “I like to move around.” The moving-around part was true. His work took him all over the world. But most of his free time was spent at his three-hundred-year-old farmhouse in the South of France or his penthouse in New York.

  “Do you have any references?”

  Cruz shrugged. “Yeah. How many would you like?”

  Her eyes were steady on his face. “Three.”

  He could produce three dozen if that was what was required. He had plenty of aliases. Irrelevant. You’ll be dead by tomorrow, next day at the latest. “No problem.”

  “Kitchen’s this way,” she told him briskly, foolishly turning her back. “Let’s find your dog.”

  Cruz shook his head as he followed his exotic, sexy-as-hell prey down the dimly lit hallway, which held neatly stacked boxes, wallpaper rolls, folded drop cloths, and various gardening tools. In the four minutes it had taken to walk from the back door, down the hall, and into the kitchen, he could’ve staged her accidental death at least three times.

  The kitchen was brightly lit and still somewhat chaotic. Oso was happily eating cookies off the littered floor. The purple flowers, stems shortened, were now in an orange milk pitcher on the center island.

  She grabbed an envelope off the counter where he’d screwed her the night before, then turned back to face him. The flush on her cheeks was surprising, and made her blue eyes glow like the waters off his favorite Brazilian beach. A fathomless blue with a touch of clear turquoise. Dark lashes, long and spiky, shadowed her eyes as she held out the envelope.

  Cruz kept his fingers tucked in the front pockets of his jeans. “I told you I wasn’t who you thought I was.”

  Her gaze, frank and disconcertingly direct, came up to meet his. “Well, you did the job. You might as well get paid for it.”

  From the way her nipple peaked beneath the cotton of her T-shirt, he wasn’t the only one thinking about what they’d done on the center island countertop. His dick lengthened on seeing that just the memory turned her on. “That was pleasure.” Concentrate, damn it. She’s the mark, nothing else. Her very naiveté was going to aid him in killing her. When the time came.

  “But I’ll accept work.” He needed a few more days. Hell, he could afford the time, and the benefits to delaying killing her were worth the wait. He’d earn his money. But not quite yet.

  “You left before I could—” she said coolly, tapping the edge of the envelope on her palm absently. What was she thinking about?

  “Thank me,” he finished, keeping his smile to himself. “You were too exhausted to wake up for the next round.” He’d intentionally left her right there on the table, legs open, and cookies, pans, bar stools, and papers scattered on the floor where he’d swept them before playing with her.

  Her eyes flashed with heat. “Yes, well, um . . .”

  Cruz watched her search for the right words. He leaned his hip against the counter and spread his arms to rest his palms on the cool Formica countertop on either side of him. “I gather you hired out?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “You made it my business last night.”

  She pushed the envelope against his chest. “Well, then, take this, and we’ll be square.”

  Cruz didn’t move to take it. And after a few seconds she dropped her hand and took a step back. Because she retreated, he advanced, stepping close enough for the sharp tips of her nipples to brush his chest, which set off a whole series of alarms through his nervous system. The smell of her skin, lush tuberose and a faint hint of something spicy, rose in a warm invisible cloud to twine around him. He saw the rapid rise of her pulse at the base of her throat and wanted to put his open mouth there to taste her again.

  Standing so close, he could see the changing swirls of variegated blues in her widening eyes. He wanted to fill his hands with her again, feel the tight wet heat of her closing around him. Without volition, he bent his head, his lips hovering over hers, tasting her coffee-scented breath on the moist air between them. Her lashes fluttered as she angled her head to offer her mouth.

  Cruz reached out to take the dish towel she’d slung over her shoulder before coming to open the front door. Her breathing stopped as he slowly slid it from her. Holding her gaze, he ran the dish towel over his wet hair. “I’d rather have steady work.”

  “Um . . .” Her eyes were a little unfocused, but she recovered her equilibrium quickly. “Oka
y. What kind of work can you do?”

  Bring you to multiple orgasms and have you beg for more. “Pretty much anything this house needs.” He’d worked enough construction jobs over the years; there was nothing she could throw at him that he couldn’t handle. And besides, it didn’t matter if he could or couldn’t do whatever she asked. She’d be dead by morning. “Just finished a major three-month remodel in Los Angeles.”

  “For . . . ?”

  “Aiden Cross. I’ll give you his number.” Which would be answered by voice mail.

  “What kind of work did you do for him?”

  “Remodeled his kitchen: custom cabinets, cement countertops, the whole nine yards. Converted a downstairs bedroom into an English-style pub, painted the whole place inside and out—” Cruz had recently done the remodel in his own French country farmhouse. He looked at the stack of wallpaper boxes piled in the corner. “I can handle anything you throw at me. What needs wallpapering?”

  “Hallway, downstairs bath, and dining room. Do you have any experience installing—”

  Keeping her under his watchful eye, having access to the house and any personal papers or shit he could find on her computer, might make this odd hesitancy he felt go away. He’d do the job he’d accepted a down payment on, then head off to Brazil, where he had a small house right on the beach. “Take me a week or so—”

  An incredibly loud clap of thunder cut him off, causing Mia to flinch, and sent the dog skittering from beneath the table. In a blur of golden fur, Oso shot out of the kitchen and tore up the uncarpeted stairs. Frantically clicking nails indicated his terrified trajectory overhead.

  “Stay put,” Cruz ordered. “I’ll get him.” And take a quick tour of the upstairs. And when she opened her mouth—he presumed to tell him it was her house—Cruz finished: “He won’t go to a stranger.” And jogged upstairs, leaving her in the kitchen.