A view I don’t even glance at because a more vivid image is taking shape in my mind. That beautiful brute of a man is probably naked right now, water droplets clinging to his broad frame and packed muscles, his—
Knock. It. Off.
But the thread of desire continues unspooling inside my belly. Unwanted desire . . . although the fact that it’s there at all is something of a relief.
Not a single man I’ve met this entire summer has elicited even a twinge of interest. Lately, I’ve started to wonder if Richard permanently killed my sex drive.
Nope. Definitely still alive and well.
Chapter 4
Lance
With most of my brain cells occupied thinking about the redhead—every inch of her—I forget to retrieve my suitcase from the trunk of my car before I get in the shower. But because my house has somehow become a weekend party palace, there are plenty of toiletries to choose from in the shower. I help myself to soap and shampoo, wrap a towel around my hips, and head back downstairs.
I’m walking toward the front door, key in hand, when the sound of shattering glass draws my attention to the kitchen. My real estate agent is standing in the middle of the room, looking at me as if he’s seen a ghost. “Mr. Welles,” he breathes, his voice a horrified whisper.
I want to wring his skinny neck. “Ah, Seth. Welcome to my home. Or should I say, your share house?”
He gulps at air. “This is all just a misunderstanding. I’ll take care of—”
I look around for any sign of Red. “Where is she?”
“Who?”
“The girl you hired—”
“Oh, right. Uh, I think she’s in her room.” Without taking his eyes off me, he inclines his head to the right, and I notice a closed door.
“Her room? Does she know that she’s basically a squatter? That you’ve sold shares to a house you have no claim on?”
Seth’s face pales beneath his tan, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he swallows. “I—I’m—”
“You’re a little fucking shit, is what you are.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll take care of everything, I promise.”
“I don’t want your promises. I want you to get in touch with every fucking share you conned. You will refund their money and find them alternative housing for the summer. They will not set foot inside my home again, do you hear me?”
“Of course, of course.” Seth’s eyes bulge as he nods his head. “I’ll just get—We’ll leave—”
I make a snap decision as Seth struggles for words. The redhead might be a squatter, but she’s spent the entire day cleaning my house. Yelled at me for leaving the door open with the air-conditioning on. Burned a fucking bush in my yard. Maybe she was exaggerating when she said she’d be homeless if she wasn’t living here, but I’m not going to kick her out just because Seth is a douchebag.
“She stays. Tell her you fucked up. You double-booked, renting this house to a client for the remainder of the summer. She can stay on and continue taking care of things through Labor Day.”
“You—You’re the client?”
I glare at the shit-for-brains quivering in my kitchen. “Yeah. I’m the client. And if you don’t want everyone from Manhattan to Montauk hearing about the scam you’re running, you’d better get the fuck out of here.”
He gives another shaky nod and takes a step toward the door. Glass crunches beneath his loafers, bare ankles peeking at me from beneath rolled khaki cuffs. “Uh, should I—” He looks down and then back up at me.
I should make Seth clean up his own goddamn mess, but if he stays in my house any longer, I’m liable to hurt him. Clenching my fists at my side, I jerk my chin at the door. “Just get the fuck out of here.”
I force myself to remain still until Seth is safely out of reach. I’m sweeping broken glass into a dustpan I found beneath the sink when I hear, “What are you doing?”
“I broke a glass.”
“And you decided to clean it up naked?”
I glance down, realizing that my towel has slipped off my waist. I’ve never been uncomfortable with my body, so I merely shrug and continue surveying the floor. A few missed shards glint at me from the tile, and I step to the side, intending to sweep them up before covering myself with the towel for the sake of modesty. Her modesty, anyway.
Unfortunately, I don’t notice the piece of glass that landed just a little farther than the rest—until it slides deep into my heel. I curse, more irritated than pained, before sweeping the remaining visible glass into the dustpan, dumping it into the garbage, and setting the pan on the counter. “Mind if I borrow a pair of tweezers?”
Chapter 5
Vivienne
My eyes rove over the stunning array of muscles that bunch and flex beneath the Viking’s tanned skin with each movement. Broad shoulders taper to slim hips, the muscular curves of his ass sitting just above strong thighs that are slightly lighter than the skin everywhere else. From where I’m standing, I can’t see between them. But if his dick is in proportion to the rest of him, I have no doubt it’s massive.
Naked, he could easily pass for a Greek god carved by a Renaissance sculptor.
Except for the tattoos. A line of numbers cut across his ribcage and around his left side. A lattice pattern wraps around his right biceps. And an intricate design of . . . something stretches across his back, from the base of his neck to just below his shoulder blades. I’d have to move closer for a better look. And I’m pretty sure that’s a bad idea. Whoever this Viking is, I should definitely keep my distance.
He turns, reaching for the garbage. My eyes drop of their own accord.
And I’m not prepared. At all.
Michelangelo never sculpted anything like what is between this man’s legs.
By the time his eyes meet mine, my mouth is dry, my lungs are empty, and my face is probably as red as my hair.
It’s only when I realize he’s looking at me expectantly that I manage to say, “Huh?”
Nice, Vivienne. Very eloquent.
He glances down at the floor, and I do too, with only a brief detour—seriously, I can’t help it—and notice that his left foot is hovering just above the tile, a small red puddle forming below his heel. “I asked if I could borrow a pair of tweezers,” he repeats.
“Oh.” The pieces of the puzzle in front of me come together with an almost audible click in my mind. Kitchen. Dustpan. Glass. Foot. Blood. “Of course.”
I spin around and jog to my bathroom, grabbing my tweezers from a shelf in the medicine cabinet. When I return to the kitchen, his towel is wrapped around his hips and he’s sitting on the countertop. “Careful. I’m not sure I got it all.”
I gesture at the flip-flops I’m now wearing. “Unlike you, I know better than to walk barefoot around broken glass.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Thanks for the tip.”
“You’re welcome. And here’s another—I’m pretty sure I’m better with my tweezers than you are, so let me see.”