Breathless on the Beach. Wendy Etherington

skis and inner tubes. He also had scuba diving and fishing trips planned.

      “It’s Friday, Jared,” Ruthie commented. “We’re going to do all that before Monday?”

      He glanced at his watch. “We could do it all by sunset if you like.”

      As she shook her head ruefully, the doorbell rang.

      “I’ll get it,” Mrs. K exclaimed, wiping her hands on her apron as she shot out of the kitchen.

      “I’ve never seen her like this,” Ruthie said, watching the housekeeper rush down the hall. “It’s like a celebrity coming to the house.”

      Jared hoped the noted chef could cook something hearty. He wasn’t much on complicated sauces and names of dishes nobody but a native-born Parisian could pronounce. Personally, he’d enjoy a nice, thick steak.

      The hallway was soon filled with female voices, and Jared rose as the group approached the kitchen. A blonde, a brunette and a redhead. How diversified.

      Ruthie received hugs; he got curious stares.

      At his height—six foot four in bare feet and no boots—he guessed his towering presence was a bit intimidating.

      To some, anyway.

      He spotted the Holmes heiress immediately. She looked like her mother, but not. Her icy-blue eyes warmed as she talked to her friends, then narrowed when aimed at him. Of the women, she was also the tallest, nearly six feet in the blade-sharp black stiletto heels she wore.

      She was stunning, but not his type at all. Cool perfection wrapped in moneyed NYC sophistication. When Ruthie introduced them, her smile was as distant as a Montana winter.

      She extended her hand. “My idea of adventure is a massage at the spa, so I doubt we’ll be seeing much of each other this weekend.”

      As he took her hand, heat slid through his veins, surprising him. There was something about her … something challenging, interesting. He found himself considering ways to thaw her out.

      “Your mother didn’t like me much when she first met me, either.” He smiled as suspicion flitted through Victoria’s eyes. “She warmed up eventually.”

       2

      VICTORIA PULLED HER HAND AWAY from Jared McKenna and resisted the urge to make a fist to dispel the tingling sensation she’d gotten from touching him. “You know my mother?”

      “I took her and some teens from the foundation on a cowboy adventure weekend last year.”

      Victoria remembered her grandmother mentioning the event, as Nana was determined to get her daughter out of the city and into a wide-open space. Something about fear of dust and a lack of vitamin D. Victoria had been thrilled she hadn’t been recruited.

      Fear of dust was a documented condition that specifically targeted people with a mostly black wardrobe.

      Victoria raised her eyebrows at the man before her. “My mother rode a horse?”

      “No, but the kids and the staff did, and they loved it, so she was happy.”

      How could he tell her mother was happy? Had she actually smiled? Complimented him? Joanne didn’t warm up to people, either.

      Even big, hot outdoorsmen.

      Especially big, hot outdoorsmen.

      He had ridiculously broad shoulders, muscular arms, and a deep tan that could only come from spending endless hours in the sun. No lack of vitamin D there. With his wrinkled T-shirt and khaki shorts, bare feet, windblown dark hair and laughing brown eyes, he seemed the antithesis of any man she’d be interested in.

      And yet he’d survived a weekend with her mother. If there was anything Victoria admired, it was resiliency.

      This guy was the walking, breathing picture of rugged.

      “Hi, Ruthanne,” Shelby said from beside Victoria. “It’s great to finally meet you.”

      “You, too. And call me Ruthie. Everybody does.” Her gaze flicked to Victoria. “Except Vicky, of course.”

      Victoria clenched her jaw. Her name was not Vicky. She, in fact, hated to be called that—as Ruthanne well knew.

      Before she could remind her friend of that detail, Shelby asked a question about her supplies for the weekend, and all the other women followed Mrs. K on her tour of the kitchen and pantry.

      “The pantry requires a tour?” Victoria asked, though only Jared was around to hear her.

      “They used to have a footman haul stuff the full ten feet from the pantry to the counter, but he wasn’t fast enough, so he was let go.”

      Victoria resisted the urge to smile. The house was certainly like something out of the English countryside, and the perfect setting for formal servants. But clearly, Jared the Rugged wasn’t a history major.

      “Footmen don’t work in the kitchen,” she said.

      “You’d know.”

      “How? I live in an apartment in Manhattan. I don’t have a footman.”

      “A maid?”

      “I use a cleaning service.”

      “Every day?”

      “Every week.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Is there a particular reason you’re interested in my domestic situation?”

      That crafty grin appeared. “Long as we’re on the subject … do you have a live-in boyfriend?”

      “No,” Victoria answered, before she thought to tell him her relationships were none of his business.

      “Sleepover boyfriend?”

      “I don’t see how this—”

      “Pretty cranky response, so I’d say no. I bet you kick them out fifteen minutes after sex.”

      “I do not.”

      “After a one-for-the-road drink?”

      “No.”

      She gave her lover a bottle of water before he left. And they all left perfectly satisfied. What was he implying? That she was lousy in bed? That she was cold and methodical like her mother? Not that she knew about her mom in bed, anyway.

      In fact, the whole idea of her in the throes of passion seemed wrong.

      Maybe Victoria had been fertilized in a petri dish. And why, before now, hadn’t she ever thought to ask that question? It made perfect sense. Given her grandfather’s proclivity toward science and brilliant surgical techniques, why hadn’t she wondered—

      Halting her runaway thoughts, it occurred that in less than a minute Jared had more information about her personal life than her assistant had in five years.

      Victoria glared at him. “So I guess those muscles in your biceps don’t cloud your brain power, do they?”

      His eyes softened to a shade of gold. He lifted his arm and flexed the muscle. “You noticed, huh?”

      He had to be kidding with this come-on. “Look here, buddy,” she said, leaning forward, only to continue in an urgent whisper, “I don’t have time for your games. I’m not here to flirt or banter or have sex—which I’m great at, by the way. I’m here to get a promotion. Richard Rutherford’s account is going to secure my future. I don’t know who you think you’re playing—maybe the mealy daughter of the legendary Joanne Holmes—but I’m not her. I’ve got my own success and agenda, and that’s going to take me to the top.”

      “Do you have any idea how hot you are right now?”

      “I …” She stopped, humiliated to realize a heated flush was crawling up her neck. There