Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
A day later, I get up at the crack of dawn. Okay, I’ll admit it’s already past eight when I can finally muster enough willpower to roll myself out of my heavenly bed.
My eyes feel swollen from lack of sleep. The shadows around them are emphasized by the remnants of mascara I didn’t bother to take off last night. You’d think the mattress or the jet lag that’s long gone could be blamed for my raccoon look. In reality, it was the music blaring from the house that kept me up half the night. I couldn’t have defined what it was if my life depended on it. All I could make out was a lot of bass that sounded like a sledgehammer was having a go at my brain. It was past midnight when I stomped over, ready to smack the life out of whoever was responsible for the noise pollution. That’s when I spied Patrick’s truck in the driveway.
Apparently, he had returned from his cave. What a shame he hadn’t found his soulmate right there and then and decided to stay out of my way forever.
But that’s life.
You can’t have it all.
The door was locked. I spent a good ten minutes banging my fist against the solid wood and calling his name so many times that my throat felt sore from the effort. All to no avail. He neither opened the door nor switched off the music. Worse yet, I think the noise pollution rose in volume, which makes me assume he heard me just fine and cranked it up to spite me.
In the end, I had no choice but to return to the guesthouse, admitting defeat.
One to zero for the hot, obnoxious guy!
“If he wants a war, he can have it,” I mutter, barely able to keep my eyes open as I take a quick shower and get dressed.
Upon leaving the guest house, I almost trip over the box littering the doorway and hit my elbow against the wood frame. If the refreshing shower didn’t do the trick, the sudden jolt of pain traveling up my arm instantly wakes me up.
“What the—” I lift the box and carry it back inside, placing it on the coffee table, then take two steps back to glare at it like it’s to fault that my elbow feels numb and I probably won’t be able to use my arm for the next hour.
It’s expensive.
I can tell from the thick, white paper embossed with tiny roses and the silver ribbon tied around it. There’s nothing attached to it, no card, no note. I stare at it for a minute, unsure what to make of it. I don’t usually get gifts. Combine that with the fact that I don’t know anyone around here, and it makes no sense that someone would have left it for me.
It’s probably for Patrick.
That’s the more reasonable explanation.
Maybe it’s his birthday. Or one of his lady friends is a giver. Something about the thought doesn’t sit well with me. For some inexplicable reason, I don’t like the idea of another woman buying him something and popping over to surprise him with a gift. It’s too personal. Too intimate. Then again, it’s not like it’s any of my business. I have no claim on the guy. Hell, I don’t even know him, nor do I want to.
The right thing to do would be to take it straight over to the main house and throw it at him. Not hard enough to make it hurt or damage whatever’s in there, but with enough vengeance to show him I don’t appreciate playing his mail delivery service. He deserves it after causing me a sleepless night.
I lift it up, noticing how light it is. What could possibly be so light? What could the fantasy woman in my head have gotten him that barely weighs anything? My brain’s starting to come up with scenarios, all raunchy and naughty, all fueling that anger that always seems to be buzzing about whenever I’m thinking of Patrick Walsh.
I have to know.
My curiosity is killing me.
Forget all the crap about privacy and not my business and all that. He and I aren’t exactly on friendly grounds so any of the rules of politeness and decorum don’t apply. Besides, I’m sure he’d do the same if he were in my position. Judging from what I’ve seen of him so far, he wouldn’t even think twice.
And I really, really have to know. If I don’t, the vivid pictures in my mind are going to drive me to the brink of insanity.
It’s only going to be a brief peek inside, I tell myself. No one has to know.
Before I can stop myself, I’ve untied the bow and lifted the lid a little to peer through the gap. There’s a thin sheet of tissue paper, which obstructs my view. I have no other choice but to take the lid off and peel the tissue paper aside. It’s so thin of course it tears a little.
Accidents happen!
My gaze falls on the silver fabric, and it takes me a moment to realize what it is.
A nightgown.
It’s the sheer and flimsy kind you don’t wear when opening the door to the postman unless you plan on inviting him in for a morning snack, and I’m not talking about coffee and bagels.
Balancing the thin straps on my fingertips, I gingerly lift the gown out of its box and feel the telltale heat of a blush rushing to my face. I’m not an expert on nightwear, but even I can tell this must have cost a small fortune. The fabric is so delicate, a single clumsy movement could tear a hole in it. But it’s what lies underneath that makes the rush of heat drain from my face and retreat to the lower parts of my body.
The thong is barely more than a bit of lace attached to a string of pearls. I’m not a prude; I know where the pearls are supposed to go, all the places they’re supposed to caress. A tingle travels through my abdomen, settling between my legs, reminding me it’s been a while since anything or anyone’s touched that part of mine. Even I have neglected it, probably out of fear I might find cobwebs down there.
I don’t know who would leave something so erotic on my doorstep. I’m still toying with the idea it was intended for Patrick’s eyes. Maybe one of his lady friends has decided to leave a sexy souvenir, something to reveal her intentions for an upcoming date, which is so much worse than the birthday gift scenario I was picturing before.
The thought has me instantly fuming. I mean, does he have to flaunt his sexual conquests in my face? It’s not like I’m interested in his kinky practices between the sheets. And because I’m so angry with him, I take a few pictures on my cell to send to Mia to keep her updated on the Grump.
Her text message arrives a few moments later.
Mia: That’s not any nightgown, Lori. It’s a limited edition. Saw it on the runway this year. They’re real pearls and the whole thing costs more than a small car. Apparently it was designed to make you orgasm while you’re wearing it. I call finder’s keepers!
Me: Sounds like a big pile of BS.
Mia: Have you tried it on yet? Knowing you, probably not. Do it! Do it now! You owe it to the designer and the inflated price tag!
What? That last part makes zero sense.
I roll my eyes. Trying the thing on is her primary concern? She can’t be serious. I should have known better than getting Mia involved.
Me: No, I haven’t put on this atrocious attempt at women’s underwear and I’m not going to. It’s not mine, remember? I’m going to return it now and hope the Grump will bury his head in a ditch of quicksand out of sheer shame at being found out what he’s up to with his lady friends. Got to go. Talk later.
I switch off my cell before she can reply and toss the lingerie back into the box, not bothering with the ribbon. It doesn’t really matter. I want the guy to know I’ve seen it. I want him to be embarrassed and squirm under my scrutiny and drop to his knees to apologize for being a nuisance last night.
I shake my head to stop the dark trail my thoughts are taking.
Let’s face it.
The most probable thing I’ll get from someone like Patrick is a nod and some tight-lipped grin that says he’s guilty as charged. Maybe even some half-ass apology. But hell, I’ll take whatever I can get.
The door to the main house is unlocked. Given that I still don’t own a set of keys, I’m grateful that I don’t have to waste ten minutes banging my fist against it. His eyesore of a truck is parked in the driveway. He’s somewhere , but the house is so huge he could be anywhere. I make sure to stomp as loudly as I can in the hope he’ll somehow hear me. Hopefully, the waves of anger wafting from me will leave him unsettled before I reach him.
I don’t need to look for long. Once I’m down the hall leading to the kitchen, he opens a door and steps into my path, blocking my way, making it impossible to see what’s behind him.
Our eyes connect and my mouth instantly goes dry. He’s wearing a grin, and not much else. So much for my unsettling strategy. My gaze is instantly drawn to the “not much else”.
What is the guy eating, for crying out loud? And can I have some?
His chest is all sculpted muscles, hard beneath taut, bronze skin. A tattoo—something tribal that resembles a dragon—adorns most of the left side of his upper body, from his shoulder down his arm and the front of his chest. A trail of dark hair leads down his torso to a very defined V and a tiny, white towel that’s supposed to hide the rest.
It doesn’t do a particularly good job.
Huge.
That’s the only word that springs to mind.
I swallow hard, then swallow some more as I realize he’s standing so close I could reach out my hand and touch him, see if he’s real and as delectable as he looks. The thought sends a blush to my face. What happened to my brain? I’m starting to feel like a hormone-driven teenage girl who’s ogling the hot guy next door.
“What’s wrong, woman? A herd of elephants been chasing you?”
His deep rumble penetrates through the walls of my mind, sending a delicious shiver through me.
Even his voice is out of this world. All low and deep, with an accent that seems to be able to find its way into your panties whether you like it or not.
I look up into his eyes and find him smiling, eyebrows raised.
“I see you’ve found my face. It sure took you a while to realize it’s not glued to my crotch,” Patrick says.
My entire face catches fire.
He noticed!
I groan inwardly, fighting the need to bury my burning face in my hands. I narrow my eyes at him, ready to stare him down.
“I wasn’t staring at anything because there’s nothing to stare at. I’ve seen plenty of that in my life, and trust me when I say, I’m not impressed.”
His smirk doesn’t falter. Not even a bit. “You would be, if you had a proper look.”
“Please.” I roll my eyes. “That towel of yours leaves little to the imagination. I can tell what’s down there from a mile, and nope, not impressed.” I don’t give him a chance to come up with a comeback; I just press the box into his naked arms, careful not to touch the silky smooth skin or the hard muscles or anything at all.
“Your package,” I say pointedly.
His grin widens. His eyes stare right at me, shimmering with challenge. “What about it? Want to see how impressed you’d be after all?”
I roll my eyes again. “The one in your arms. Not the one that seems to be the home of your brain.” I point at the white box in his arms in case I’m right and his dick does all the thinking. I wouldn’t be surprised. “It was left on my doorstep. Obviously, I had to open it.”
“Of course.” He nods in agreement with a mock serious expression on his face that screams he’s taking none of this seriously. “And what did you find inside it?”
His question leaves me stumbling for words for a moment. Either he doesn’t know what’s in the box or he’s winding me up. I bet it’s the latter and he wants me to spell it all out, embarrassing myself while he’s having a laugh at my expense.
Dammit!
I went through all possible reactions, but I sure didn’t see this one coming. I don’t know when the tables turned, but they sure did in his favor.
I’m not going to bite. There’s no way in hell he’s having the upper hand.
“Something to wear. You might want to inform your lady friend she got the wrong door,” I say coolly.
Ha! That showed him.
I cross my arms over my chest, only realizing I’m actually pushing my breasts up when his gaze travels down my neck, settling on the two pointed peaks pushing through the thin fabric of my shirt.
His smirk is back in place as he nods appreciatively at my breasts, like he’s having a private conversation with them. He made fun of me for looking at his crotch when he’s basically talking to my breasts.
“Do people still say ‘lady friend’?” Patrick says. “I thought that expression died down with the invention of the typewriter in the nineteenth century.”
“It’s a very common expression. You would probably be familiar with it if you bought a dictionary, maybe even attended a few classes instead of living in your parents’ house at your age and walking around wearing nothing but a towel. Responsible adults go to work and earn a living,” I say. I don’t know how old he is. Maybe late twenties. Definitely a few years older than I am. But I’m pretty sure my impression of him is spot on. What does he do all day long?
His gaze has settled back on me. The glint of amusement has been replaced with ice daggers. “Maybe there’s a reason I’m here, like my mother’s recent passing, and a stranger trying to get her hands on the family estate.”
That certainly makes sense.
I sigh. “Look, Mr. Walsh. I enjoyed chatting with you but I haven’t got all day.”
He narrows his eyes on me. “That’s understandable, given how busy you are. What is it exactly that you do, apart from moving into strangers’ homes and trying to steal their inheritance?”
For a moment, I’m struck speechless. I didn’t see the blow coming. It’s not even a subtle one, and I have a feeling it wasn’t meant to be. No one wants to hear an accurate description of oneself, and particularly not one so unflattering. He wants me to feel bad for being here, for taking something his mother didn’t want him to have.
Truth is, back in NY, when the lawyer read the parts of the will that included me, it was more than just a few sentences. Roisin Walsh had carefully considered her decision and been adamant in her wish. According to the lawyer, she wouldn’t have it any other way. She had demanded that I get the house and no one else.
Maybe my comment went too far, but I’m not going to give Patrick the satisfaction of feeling bad about it. It’s not my fault his mother changed her will in someone else’s favor. As hard as it is for me to understand her reasons and for Patrick to accept her decision, the sooner he comes to terms with it, the better.
“It was your mother’s wish, Patrick,” I whisper. “I can’t change that.”
“She must have been out of her mind. There’s no other explanation,” he says.
I avert my gaze, unable to face the anger and hurt in his expression. “I’m sorry for my comment before. It was uncalled for,” I say. “What you do or don’t do isn’t any of my business. Let’s leave it at that. Next time make sure your lady friend”—I emphasize the word—“finds the right door.” I turn on my heels to leave but then stop in my tracks to add, “And Patrick, I want the set of keys to everything within the hour as I’m moving into my house. Please start looking for accommodation elsewhere. I suggest you do as I say. Don’t make me call my lawyer.”