Emergency Attraction (Love Emergency 3)

…

“Been thinking about sleeping with me, Sinclair?”

Because he couldn’t resist touching her, even with do-not-touch coming off her in waves, he slid her dark glasses up to the top of her head. The move disturbed her earrings. The dangling gems swung back and forth, sparkling in the afternoon light. She shivered, and he had a quick, dirty fantasy about making those eye-catching earrings dance to the rhythm of his body driving into hers, accompanied by the music of her husky voice breaking over his name.

“No.” Eyes even bluer than the sapphires regarded him. “I’m thinking about not sleeping with you. And I have to be home by eight, so if this outing is an attempt at seduction, you’re wasting your time.”

He risked another brush of the earring, letting his fingertip skim her earlobe this time. “Our outing is my attempt to get reacquainted with my hometown. I can’t be blamed if you find me seductive.”

“I don’t.” She stepped out of his reach and put her sunglasses back on. “Not in the least.”

“Well, then”—he gestured toward his SUV—“you have nothing to worry about, do you?”

Ready to prove the point to both of them, she swept past and headed to the Range Rover. He beat her there and opened the door for her. The stern look she shot him pulled a genuine laugh from his chest. “What? Holding the door constitutes seduction? If that’s true, I attempted to bag an eighty-year-old woman at city hall this afternoon.”

She climbed into the Rover, but not before he saw her lips twitch. “Shot down by a senior citizen?”

“Apparently.” Satisfied he’d defused her mood, at least enough to get the small laugh, he shut the door and walked around the front of the car to the driver’s seat. Once he got in, he paused to remove his tie. While he folded it, he eyed the barn. Weathered boards sat on a ballast stone and mortar base. One no doubt built by hand over a century ago.

“Rustic.”

The dry observation earned him another laugh. He tucked his tie into the compartment between the seats and watched as she cast the old structure a fond look. “A couple years ago, Mrs. Pinkerton overheard me talking real estate with Mayor Campbell’s wife. I mentioned I was looking for a place off the beaten track, with more privacy and personality than one of the cookie-cutter condos springing up around town. I needed lots of room, and light, as I wanted to include my workshop under the same roof. She jokingly suggested this place, but as soon as I saw it, I stopped laughing. I loved the potential of all the raw, open space, and the lack of pretense. It was built to be useful, and by God, I could use it. I went back to Mrs. Pinkerton and asked if she was serious. When it comes to money, she always is, so we worked out a deal.”

“How much did she pay you to take a dilapidated barn off her hands?”

“Ha. Ha. You are funny. Needless to say, the price was right, which helped because it left me some cash for improvements.”

“Improvements? I’m looking at the improved version?”

“Not fully. It’s a work in progress, but I’ve done a few things, here and there—turned the loft openings into windows and added skylights. I’ve got more planned, but nothing that changes the fundamental character much. Not to get too new age-y about things, but the creative energy of the place is good.”

“Yeah?” He inspected the barn again. “Is creative energy another way to say lack of plumbing?”

“Don’t judge, princess. I have hot running water, flush toilets, and everything.”

“All the comforts of home?” He didn’t bother hiding the curiosity in his voice, hoping she might invite him in and show him around. And not just for the obvious reason that the tour could end in her bedroom. Her words from yesterday still rang in his mind. I’m involved with life. My home, my family, my work. He wanted to know about her life, but asking her straight out to share would only backfire. Dark glasses and folded arms spoke volumes. She had her barriers in place. She might be civil as long as he didn’t do anything to threaten them, but she intended to keep him at a distance. Too bad for her he’d spent the last decade learning how to get around barriers, quickly and deftly, so the target never even realized defenses had been breached.

“All the comforts I need, for now,” she conceded, “plus a very short commute down a flight of stairs to my studio.”

Her body angled toward his, and he inwardly smiled. The conversation drew her in, whether she realized it or not. He lifted his hand from its perch along the seatback and touched her earring again. “Seems a little risky, keeping things like this lying around a barn.”

Her perfume, or shampoo…something faintly floral…permeated the leathery new-car smell of the Rover. It made him want to drag her close and find out if the scent grew stronger when he buried his face in her long, unbound hair, or when he pressed kisses against the warm pulse at the base of throat. Or warm pulses in other places.

“Skylights and windows weren’t my only improvements,” she said, cutting into his rogue thoughts. “I installed a two-thousand-pound, fireproof, bulletproof, tamper-resistant safe, plus a top-rated alarm system wired for every entry point, including the skylights. Don’t be fooled by appearances.” She tapped the window with her fingernail. “That barn is both sanctuary and fortress.”

Sanctuary. Fortress. Interesting terms. Sanctuary suggested she wasn’t inviting him in anytime soon. He started the car and began backing down her narrow, unpaved drive. Fortress probably meant the building was secure enough for her insurance company, which wasn’t a bad standard, but all that aside, he still had a hard time reconciling the girl who’d grown up ensconced in the comfort of one of the best neighborhoods in Magnolia Grove with the woman who lived a good two miles from her nearest neighbor, in a building originally meant for livestock and storage. Then again, she’d always had a soft spot for rough-edged things in need of attention. He’

d qualified, once upon a time.

“So, it’s livable?”

“Depends on whom you ask,” she conceded, turning to check for cars as he approached the road and then giving him an “all clear” sign. “My mom keeps waiting for me to move into a ‘normal’ house, but she might change her tune once I’m done remodeling.”

He pulled out onto the empty road and shifted to drive. “And where are you at with that?”

“The waiting stage. I need the city planning commission to approve my permits.” The toe of her black boot—sexy, suede ankle boots today—bounced up and down, telegraphing her impatience with the process.

“I commandeered an office at city hall for the duration of the project. Want me to check on the application next time I’m there? I might be able to grease the skids for you.”