She’d kill him. She didn’t care if they were whimsical little snakes. She didn’t stop to think about the talent that created them. All she cared about was the blue butterflies on their tails. Who gave him the right to expose her butterfly in a public forum? It felt like she’d pulled down her pants and mooned the world.
She grabbed her cell phone from her skirt’s pocket and called Holgarth. Now that she thought about it, how did Holgarth get off living somewhere else? She’d include Holgarth in her roaring bad mood.
“Holgarth, here. I assume the castle is in flames or being attacked by barbarian hordes, because I truly can’t think of any other reasons that would warrant you disturbing me at home, Ms. Harcourt.” He either had caller ID or had recognized her heavy breathing.
“Conleth Maguire painted snakes on the trim around the gate. Who’s the designer here? If you want me to do a good job, then I damn well better have some authority. I want to talk to the owner.” Blue butterflies on their tails.
“Snakes? How enterprising of him. The owner values creativity.” Holgarth took snide and snotty to a whole new level. “The owner wishes not to be disturbed, as do I, Ms. Harcourt. You will simply have to deal with Mr. Maguire yourself. I’m sure he’ll soon recognize your superior skills.”
Holgarth had mastered the big three—snide, snotty, and sarcastic. What a guy.
“It amazes me, Holgarth, that the owner is paying me a fortune to professionally decorate this place, and yet doesn’t give a flip if someone with no professional training at all inflicts his taste on the castle. Go figure.” She disconnected and wished she’d called from the phone in her room so she could’ve slammed the receiver down. If she were a true professional, she’d pack her bags right now and go back to New York. But she intended to stay, and she wasn’t ready to question why.
Shoving the phone into her pocket, she walked back into the castle. She climbed the stairs to give herself a chance to cool down. No use going ballistic over the exterior. She needed to concentrate her efforts on the interior. Besides, arguments weren’t won by incoherent babbling. When she reached his room, she knocked. No answer. Well, he’d invited her to his room. She twisted the knob. Unlocked. Without a twinge of guilt, she opened the door and stepped inside.
The sound of running water reached her. He was still in the shower. She’d give a shout just so he couldn’t accuse her of sneaking. “I’m here.”
“I’ll be out in a minute.” He sounded suspiciously cheerful.
She’d make sure that didn’t last long. How could he plaster a symbol of their night together all over the trim where the whole world could see? She should be frothing at the mouth over the green snakes, but the snakes were merely blips on her radar compared to those little butterflies. Where’s your sense of humor, Harcourt? Her humor didn’t extend to the butterfly on her behind.
Calm down. He only wins if you react. She did some deep breathing and in a few minutes felt almost tranquil.
The sound of running water stopped, and visuals of something more immediate replaced the hated blue butterflies. He’d probably stepped out of the shower, all bare and wet gleaming male. He’d reach for a towel.
She skipped right past images of him toweling his hair dry and rubbing the cloth over his yummy chest. She pulled up images from ten years ago, made age adjustments, and found them excellent. He’d run the towel over his stomach and then his gorgeous ass.
Freeze-frame. The guys she’d known in New York had firm, muscular, or rounded butts, but Conleth Maguire was the only man she’d ever elevated to “gorgeous ass” status. This was not a good thing. She’d wanted to come back to Galveston, look at it through her grown-up eyes, and proclaim that everything was better in New York, including asses. There was still hope, though. She hadn’t seen Con’s bare buns lately. Maybe they had lost some of their star quality over the years. She could only hope.
Okay, moving onward with her visuals of the Body-Maguire. Next, he’d reach between his legs, cup his . . .
Where was the thermostat? He must keep this place set at ninety degrees. For the first time, she looked around the room. Amanda blinked, and her sexy mental images disappeared. She hated when that happened. But she couldn’t ignore bad taste.
Blue. Everything in the room was pale blue. Ugh, ugh, ugh. She finally located the thermostat. Hmm, seventy degrees. Must be wrong. She pushed it a few degrees lower, then took a closer look at the room.
There on the night table beside his bed sat a plant that was almost identical to Sweetie Pie. Except this plant was healthy, happy, and, dare she say it, perky. “Where’d you get this plant? It looks really . . . green.”
“Jessica? She belongs to the owner.” He turned on the hair dryer.
Why did Jessica look so happy? Amanda got all slitty-eyed thinking about how he might’ve kept Jessica entertained.
He turned off the dryer. “I can hear you thinking, Mandy. No, I didn’t have crazy sex every night this week to keep the plant happy.”
She could hear him coming out of the bathroom. “Then why does Jessica look so great? Did you slip her some plant food? How many times did you water her?” She turned toward the bathroom door.
And watched Con walk out with only a towel wrapped around his waist. The room immediately overflowed with perkiness. “Whoa, unfair advantage. Jessica is a she, and you’re renewing her root system with the sight of all that bare skin.”
During her years in New York, she’d
