low on his narrow hips, his tan line abruptly ended.
He had a fabulous, mouthwatering butt, and Breanne took a moment to wonder at the man who wore a bathing suit in the sun but not underwear beneath his jeans.
Water sluiced off him, and soap, too, and then, as if God had decided to bestow one tiny little favor on her shitty, rotten day, the guy dropped the soap.
Breanne held her breath. Would he-
Yes. Yes, he would.
Bending for it, blissfully unaware that there were a pair of very curious female eyes on him, he clearly didn't even consider his modesty. Every muscle in his body flexed as he doubled over, legs slightly spread, offering her an eye-popping view of his-
Lifting her hand, she furiously fanned air to her face, because the front of him lived up to the back, and how. She wondered how old he was, thinking that body couldn't be more than thirty, which was only two years older than herself. In any case, she stood there, rooted to the ground, her own wet misery forgotten, mouth hanging open, drool pooling, eyes locked on the backs of his well-defined thighs.
And what was between them.
But then suddenly he whipped around, staring at her through the glass for one beat before shoving open the shower door, allowing steam and water to pour into the room as he glared at her with an ominous, thunderstruck expression on his face.
Not that age mattered, with a majorly heart-stopping body like his.
'What the hell are you doing?' he demanded, looking tough and clearly ready to prove it.
And that's when her brain kicked back into gear and reminded her of her situation. She was in a strange house. In a strange
And she was staring at a furious, naked guy. 'Um-'
'Who the hell are you?'
'I-' She glanced at the neon-pink vibrator in her hand and felt every single brain cell desert her.
'Get out.'
Yeah. On that, they were perfectly in sync, thank you very much. She might have a secret weak spot for an edgy, difficult bad boy, but she absolutely did not have a weak spot for being stupid.
Whirling, she dropped the vibrator and ran. She ran like hell through the open bathroom door, slamming it behind her to give her an extra second on him.
He'd told her to get out, so chances were that he wasn't planning on chasing her, but she'd rather be safe than sorry. She hightailed it through the bedroom, leaping over his clothes, moving more quickly in her ruined boots than she'd moved in… well, a very long time.
Behind her the bathroom door whipped open.
Oh, God.
He was in pursuit and he was quick.
With a startled squeak, she sped up, thinking no one back home would believe she could ever move this fast, not even to save her life.
'Wait!' that low, almost gravelly voice called out.
Stopping to chat seemed like a bad idea, so she kept moving.
Her only problem was, she really had nowhere to go.
Chapter 2
– Breanne Mooreland's Journal Entry
Cooper Scott stood butt-ass-naked, freezing cold and dripping wet in the bathroom doorway, holding the vibrator his mystery guest had just dropped. Bad enough that he'd quit his job, shocking everyone he knew. Bad enough that he wasn't getting laid, now that he'd sent a pretty woman screaming like a banshee into the night.
A woman carrying a vibrator.
He could still hear her, pounding down the stairs in those ridiculous, towering high-heeled boots that were all for show and had absolutely no practicality.
Who would wear such things to the Sierras at the onset of winter, in the middle of an insane storm like the one they were facing?
He had no idea, but he supposed, as she was in his house, he needed to find out. Well, not
And a stunning one at that.
His brother James had sent him here with strict orders to 'get his shit together,' not mentioning that the place was at least ten thousand square feet of pure luxury. Log-cabin style, it had gorgeous mahogany flooring, pine trim, soft, buttery interior walls filled with rustic prints and old-time equipment such as hare-bone snowshoes and antique wooden skis.
But if the decorating was glorious, old western style, the actual appliances were state of the art, with everything placed and designed for ultimate comfort. He had a week to live in style here, a week in which he'd intended to do nothing but ski his brains out and maybe find a pretty ski bunny to keep him warm at night.
And, as James had ordered, 'get his shit together.'
As long as he avoided thinking, he was good. All he wanted to do was recover from the job that had nearly sent him to the loony bin, and figure out what the hell to do with the rest of his life.
No sweat.
He'd gotten here from San Francisco via his truck, which was probably buried in the driveway by now. The drive had been treacherous at the least, and given how the snow was still coming down, he doubted he could get off the mountain if he'd wanted to. But the staff that was supposed to greet him had been nonexistent, the house cold as an iceberg. He'd found the heating control and cranked it, but as yet, nothing had happened.
He'd taken a hot shower anyway, intending to start a sizzling fire in all the fireplaces he could find, but instead had been interrupted by a woman watching him soap up. Hoping she was one of the promised staff members, maybe someone who could cook-God, he was starving-he grabbed a thick, plush white towel from its neat pile on the granite counter.
There had been all sorts of toiletries laid out for him on the countertop, including a basket filled with condoms in varying sizes and colors, which had amused him earlier.
How long had it been since he'd needed a condom?
Too damn long, he knew that much.
Towel around his hips, he stepped into the bedroom just as the lights flickered. Perfect.
The electricity was going to go. Then he could be cold, wet, starving…
