Sultry Escapes: Waking Up to You. Leslie Kelly

      “I have a niece. She’s four,” he explained with a shrug. “You?”

       Are you asking if I’m single?

      She curled her left hand around the cup. The bare left hand. The left hand that was not yet weighed down with the five-carat diamond she suspected Tommy would put on it the minute she got back to L.A.

      Remembering Tommy, and everything that ring would entail, she gave a guilty start and dropped her hand into her lap, reaching for the cup with her right one.

      “Younger cousins,” she finally replied.

      There was no point in letting this man know she was single. No possible reason to want him to realize she had gotten all gooey inside the moment he’d pulled her into his arms to offer her some warmth and human comfort. And it would be pure insanity to hope he’d figure out that the goo had boiled into lava once she’d felt the volcanic rock in his pants.

      She didn’t allow herself to feel terribly flattered. Any bare-chested, slick, hard, virile—stop with the adjectives —man would probably stir at the feel of a woman pressing herself against him like she wanted to climb into his skin. That’s what she had done, she realized with embarrassment. She might as well have asked him if he could prettyplease comfort her on top of the hard, broad table, or up against the refrigerator. And wouldn’t it be nice if the comforting didn’t include clothes?

       You’re engaged, remember?

      Right. Engaged. Which meant the Candace Volcano was going to be all Mt. St. Helens from here on out—i.e., dormant. There might be rumbles, but there would be no eruptions for a hell of a long time. Five years, at least. Oy.

      She would be staying here to help her grandfather for as long as he needed her, which meant there would be no time for a trip to Paris. No chance for a wild fling. Tommy wouldn’t want to wait too long to announce their engagement, and she couldn’t blame him. She’d have no time to sow any wild oats and bank some sexy memories. But she couldn’t truly be upset about it. She adored Grandpa and would do anything for him. Including missing out on her one-and-only chance to be a sex tourist.

      So go for the gardener.

      She flicked the thought out of her head, not for the first time. That wasn’t going to happen. A spring fling in Paris had sounded ideal, but there was no way she was hooking up with someone who worked for her grandfather. She’d wanted someone from out of the country, preferably a stud who didn’t speak English. Gorgeous, hung, with a penchant for oral sex and dumb as a rock would have suited her just fine.

      This man—as far as she knew right now—had only two of those qualities. He was gorgeous. And oh, had he felt hung.

      As for the rest? Well, that mouth looked like it could give a woman incredible pleasure. But he certainly didn’t appear dumb. He spoke the language. And, worst of all, lived in her own state. Once she became fodder for the paparazzi, they could easily track him down. They would be very interested to hear that Tommy Shane’s beloved fiancée had been having a wild, outrageously sexual affair with a man right before she’d said, “I will.”

      Mmm. Wild. Outrageously sexual. Oh, did she suspect it would be.

      Just her luck that she’d met a man who appealed to her on such a deep, powerful level on the very night she’d agreed to give up sex for five years and marry her best friend.

      “Warming up a little?” he asked.

      She had been, sip by sip. Grandfather’s house was old, damp and chilly, and she hoped her suitcase got here soon with her warmer clothes. “Yes, thanks.”

      “The nights’ll get warmer soon,” he said. “Or so I’ve been told.”

      “You’re not from around here?”

      “No.” He hesitated, then added, “I moved up from L.A. a few months ago.”

      Ahh! The plot thickened. Had he been some kind of gardener to the Hollywood elite? She suspected any number of starlets would have been happy to have him trim their hedges and do some deep planting in their gardens.

      “Why?”

      “It was just time,” he explained, his expression and tone telling her that was all he was going to say.

      Talk about cryptic.

      The silence between them resumed, though it wasn’t an uncomfortable one. They both merely sipped their tea, as they had been for the past few minutes. Oliver—that was his name, Oliver, and what a strong, solid, sexy, old-fashioned name it was—had gently pushed her into a chair and insisted on making her some tea. He obviously did know her grandfather well. A cup of Earl Grey was Buddy Frye’s solution to soothe all the ills of the world. Tea had cured Candace’s scraped knees and hurt feelings, broken hearts and hangovers. And now, it had made her finally relax and brought her tension down a few notches.

      She wondered if Oliver had adopted the habit from his employer, of if he was a similar type of man—a calm, deliberate man who always seemed to know how to offer comfort in exactly the right way at the right moment. Whatever the reason, like the hug that had gone from sweet to smokin’, it was a nice gesture, one she appreciated.

      Of course, she would appreciate it more if the man would put a damn shirt on so she wouldn’t have to keep shoving her eyeballs back in their sockets every time he moved.

       Deltoids and pectorals and biceps, oh, my!

      The last thing she had expected to find when she’d let herself into her grandfather’s house, which she’d only ever visited once before, was a hunk of masculine sex appeal showing up in the kitchen. Her mother had, indeed, mentioned a groundskeeper when she’d called earlier today. But she hadn’t said anything about a groundskeeper with nearly jet-black hair, thick and wavy and hanging a little long around his stubbled, two-days-past-needing-a-shave jaw. Nothing could have prepared Candace for the dark dreamy eyes, the strong brow, the slashing cheekbones or the powerful body. Absolutely nothing.

      She’d met a lot of handsome men in Hollywood. Probably some who were more handsome than Oliver—Tommy among them. But in terms of raw, masculine sex appeal, she’d seen nobody better.

      “Better?”

      “Not a single one,” she mumbled.

      “What?”

      Realizing she’d spoken aloud, she quickly backtracked. “Sorry, I mean, I am better. Much. Just tired, that’s all.”

      “So, you said you came up from L.A.?”

      “Yes. I headed for the airport right after I got my mother’s call. I figured I should come and see how Grandpa was doing myself. I’m really hoping I can handle things so Mom won’t have to fly out here.”

      His brow shot up. Knowing he’d been on the receiving end of her mother’s telephone panic, he had to be wondering about that.

      “My father had a heart attack two months ago,” she explained. “He needs Mom there with him in Florida. So if I can be here for Buddy and set my mom’s mind at ease about my grandfather, that’s what I’ll do.”

      He frowned, encircling his teacup in his hand. “Buddy might be in rehab for weeks.”

      Weeks. Well, that wasn’t great, but it was doable. She was an independent contractor and was in between movie projects right now. She’d been asked to submit some preliminary sketches for a depression-era drama that could be a major motion picture in a few years, but that was still in the early stages. She didn’t have the assignment yet, and she could work on the prelims here. Besides, Leo DiCaprio, who was supposed to be starring in the film, was the easiest guy in Hollywood to dress. The only thing that might call her back to Southern California earlier would be her famous—infamous?—engagement.

      “I’ll work something out,” she mumbled, wondering how long Tommy would be willing to hold off. She wouldn’t want to announce anything while