She's No Angel (17 page)

Which was exactly the reason he'd come here, chucking his old
life and heading north, choosing the wine country both because of his family's
ties to the area and his own love of the region. Being away from the seething
mass of humanity in L.A. had sounded like a good way to regroup, regain his
sense of self. He also wanted to regain his sense of right and wrong, which had
started to slip away as he'd fallen further into the trap of career and
ambition. He needed to take a year or so, to drop out of the world, do penance
for the wrongs he'd done and to figure out what he was going to do next. One
thing was for sure—it
wasn't
returning to the Los
Angeles County D.A.'s office.

“Been there, done that, never going back,” he whispered. His
job as a prosecutor had demoralized him, savaged his optimistic streak and left
him with a strong distaste for his chosen profession.

Glancing at his clock and seeing it was almost three, he
settled back into his small, lumpy bed, which had come with the furnished
cottage. But right before he closed his eyes again, he noted the shadows playing
across the ceiling.
That's
what had awakened him.
Not a noise, a light.

When he'd gone to bed at 1:00 a.m., it had been pitch-black
outside. The sky had been overcast for a couple of days, leaving the stars and
moon—usually brilliant up here away from the city lights—hidden behind a bank of
clouds. He could hear the soft fall of rain now. But there was light coming from
somewhere. It was noticeable against the utter blackness, and sifted in through
the uncurtained window.

He got up, walked over and looked toward the main house. A
warm, golden beacon shone from within, shattering the darkness.

Strange. He didn't think he'd left a light on, and the house
was supposed to be empty. The owner, Buddy Frye, was lying in a hospital waiting
to have surgery for his broken hip. Frye lived alone, with Oliver occupying the
groundskeeper's cottage nearby. Nobody else was within a few miles. Oliver had
talked to his boss's daughter earlier, and she'd said she would try to catch a
flight from Florida in the next few days. But no way could she have made it this
soon. So who was skulking around in the house?

He hadn't been away from L.A., and his job prosecuting some of
the most violent criminals in the country, long enough to assume the visitor was
simply a friendly, concerned neighbor. Huh-uh. Buddy was pretty new to the area.
He didn't socialize a lot; much of the community thought he had to be crazy to
buy an old ruin of a vineyard estate that had been on the market for three
years.

There had been reports in the news lately about break-ins in
some of the outlying areas, even some squatters taking advantage of the
abandoned foreclosures. And while Buddy didn't have a lot worth stealing in that
glorious old ruin he called a home, no way was Oliver about to let the man get
victimized while he was lying helpless in a hospital.

He reached for the jeans he'd taken off a few hours ago. They
were crusted with dirt from the long day he'd put in yesterday. He hadn't even
had time to change into something else before racing after the ambulance that
had taken his kindly old boss to the emergency room. But hell, if they were good
enough for the doctors and nurses at the Sonoma Valley Hospital, they were good
enough for Mr. Prowler.

He left his small house, following the illumination. His bare
feet slipped in the wet grass, and the cold rain jabbed his chest since he
hadn't bothered with a shirt. Passing the toolshed, which stood between his
place and the main house, he reached out and snagged a rake. He didn't want to
have to protect himself, but better safe than sorry.

Strange that anybody would choose
this
house to rob. The place might once have been a showplace—Oliver
had seen pictures of it from its glory days, when it had been owned by his own
family. It had been passed down from a great-grandfather who'd been a silent
movie star. His uncle had sold it a decade ago, and that owner had gone
bankrupt. Now Buddy Frye, its current owner, was trying to restore it. Oliver
hoped he succeeded—the bones of a beautiful mansion were still there. As for
right now, though, it was a falling-down heap, held up as much by the layers of
paint on the walls as by any remnants of a foundation.

The porch creaked—the third floorboard being the loudest—so he
avoided it as he approached the door. He reached for the knob, which twisted
easily in his hand. That wasn't a good sign. He remembered locking it tonight
before heading to his place. Buddy often didn't, feeling safe out here in the
country, but Oliver hadn't lost that big-city need for security.

Stepping inside, he almost tripped over a small carry-on type
suitcase, and was immediately curious about this burglar who carried Louis
Vuitton.

Clanging emerged from the kitchen. So the prowler had decided
to make himself a sandwich? A little ham and Swiss to go with the breaking and
entering?

Nothing about this added up.

The kitchen was at the back of the house. Edging toward it,
clueless about what to expect, Oliver paused at the doorway. When he peeked in,
he froze in uncertainty.

It wasn't a prowler. At least, it wasn't the sort of prowler
he'd ever seen or envisioned, unless prowlers now came disguised as tall young
women with thick masses of honey-brown hair that hung in a wave of damp curls
halfway down a slender back. She stood at the sink, filling two things: a glass
with water, and a pair of jeans with the most amazingly perfect ass he'd ever
seen.

His breath caught, his heart lurched and all parts south woke
up, too. As he watched, she lifted a shaking hand and swept it through that long
hair, weariness underscoring every movement. Her slumped shoulders reinforced
that.

He ran down a list of possibilities and lit on the most likely.
A granddaughter.
Buddy had mentioned that one
lived in L.A. She must have come up when she heard about her grandfather's
accident.

Welcome to Northern California, sweetheart. And thanks for
improving the view by bringing that gorgeous ass with you.

He blinked, trying to clear his mind. He'd done enough staring
for one night, especially at the posterior of a woman whose grandfather was one
of the few men Oliver truly respected.

“Ahem,” he said, clearing his throat.

She dropped the glass. It fell from her hand onto the floor,
exploding into a volcano of tiny slivers, splashing water on her pants. Spinning
around, her eyes wide and her mouth falling open, she saw him standing there and
let out a strangled cry of alarm.

“Whoa, whoa,” he said, realizing what he must look like,
shirtless, wearing dirty jeans and, he suddenly realized, still holding a sharp,
threatening-looking rake. The woman, who was beyond sexy, with a pair of blazing
green eyes and a beautiful face surrounded by that thick, honey-colored tangle
of hair, was eyeing him like he'd popped up in front of her in a back alley.

“I'm not going to...”

He was going to say
hurt you.
But
before he could say a word, a pot flew toward his head. He threw up an arm to
deflect it, groaning as the metal thunked his elbow, sending him stumbling back
into the hallway. He barely managed to stay upright. If not for the rake on
which he suddenly leaned, he might have fallen flat on the floor.

But the rake couldn't help him when the frying pan followed the
pot.

One second later, he
was
flat on
the floor, rubbing the middle of his chest. He focused on trying to catch his
breath, which had been knocked out of him as if he'd been KO'd by the love child
of Ali and Tyson. That skillet must have been made of cast iron, and she'd flung
it like a discus wielded by an Olympic champion.

He held his hands up in surrender, trying to form words, though
his body had forgotten how to breathe and his ribs were screaming for her head
on a platter. Meanwhile, the rake, which he'd been clutching as he fell, toppled
forward. Just to add a little insult to the injury, it landed on his shoulder,
then clanged to the floor beside him.

Pain, meet agony, pull up a chair why
don't you?

“Get out, I'm calling the police!” she ordered as she scrambled
to grab another pot out of the sink.

“Whoa, lady, cool it,” he finally gasped. “I'm not...going
to...hurt you.”

“That's what any sick, raping, ax-murdering psycho would
say.”

If his chest didn't hurt so damned much, and if he wasn't
afraid she would reach for the knife block next, he would have mulled that one
over, wondering which she thought him to be: sick, raping, ax-murderer or
psycho. All of the above?

Active imagination on that one.

“I'm the...groundskeeper,” he said with a groan as the ache in
his chest receded, only to remind him of the ache in his elbow.
Funny bone, my ass.
“I work here.”

She froze, another pot in one hand, a cell phone in the other,
and stared at him from a few feet away. “You work here?”

“Yeah, for Buddy. My name's Oliver McKean. I saw the lights and
was afraid somebody had broken in.”

She eyed him, her stare zoning in on the blood he could feel
trickling down the side of his arm. Obviously she'd broken skin, if not bone,
with her mad pot-slinging skills.

Nibbling on the corner of a succulent lip, she whispered, “Oh,
dear.”

“Yeah. Oh, dear. That's some swing you've got there.”

“I'm so sorry. I'm Candace Reid.”

“Oliver McKean.”

“You said that.”

“I know,” he mumbled, realizing he wasn't making any sense. The
one place she hadn't hit him was his head, but his thoughts were still a whirl
as he tried to figure out why on earth he was reacting so strongly to a woman
who'd just tried to kill him.

“Are you Irish?” she asked with a deep frown, sounding more
concerned than when she'd thought him a maniacal ax-killing rapist.

“My father is. We lived in Cork for a few years when I was a
kid,” he admitted, wondering if his voice still held a hint of an accent. Also
wondering why it mattered.

Not seeing the need to discuss his ethnicity, he staggered to
his feet. He was none too steady on them, and his lungs still burned. She'd
practically knocked him senseless. Dizzy or not, he was incredibly lucky neither
of those flying missiles had hit him in the head. They
really
could have done some damage. But worries about what might
have happened dissipated as he stared at her from across the room. Now that he
wasn't afraid for his life, he found himself struck into silence by the beauty
of her gently curved face. Dark brows arched over expressive jewel-green eyes
that were still widened with fear and surprise. Beneath a pair of high
cheekbones were soft hollows that invited tender exploration. Her amazing lips
were made for lots of deep kisses. Her chin was up, determined and strong, as if
she wasn't about to let down her guard completely. He liked that...he especially
liked that she remained firm even though her long slender throat quivered and
worked as she swallowed down her instinctive anxiety and mistrust.

She wore a delicate, filmy blouse, all cloud and color. It
clung to the edge of her slim shoulders, revealing a soft expanse of chest and
collarbone. Her skin was creamy, smooth, and his fingers curled together as he
imagined touching that softness. The scooped neck of the blouse fell to the tops
of her full breasts, revealing a hint of cleavage that left him more breathless
than he'd felt after taking a frying pan to the chest.

He continued his perusal, seeing those curvy hips from the
front—just as delightful—and the thighs clad in tight denim, on down to the
high-heeled boots. Hell, she should have used
those
things for a weapon; the spiked heels could have carved out a hole in his
heart.

Hmm. He suspected this woman could carve her name on any man's
heart. If, of course, he had one still capable of opening up and being
carved.

“You're Buddy's granddaughter, I presume?” he finally asked,
once his brain started working again.

His words snapped her out of her long moment of decompression.
Apparently realizing she wasn't about to be raped, ravaged by a maniac or
ax-murdered, she nodded quickly. “Yes. I'm such an idiot. My mother told me that
Grandpa's groundskeeper had been the one to call with the news that he was in
the hospital. I can't believe I took you for a home invader.” She spun around
and grabbed a handful of paper towels, striding toward him, her eyes glued on
his bleeding arm. “I really am sorry. Let me help you.”

When he saw that she was still armed, he took a step back.
“Drop the lethal weapon first, would you?”

Looking down at the pot, she nibbled her lip sheepishly and did
as he asked, opening her fingers and dropping the pot to the floor.

Well, not
quite
to the floor. It
had his bare foot to land on first.

The pot fell to the floor with a bang, crushing his toes, then
rolling onto the linoleum. “Ow, Jesus,” he yelled, grabbing his flattened foot
and hopping on the other.

Her beautiful green eyes saucered as she realized what she'd
done. With a strangled sound, she reached for him, but he leaped out of striking
range and leaned back against the wall.

“Stay back. Please. Just stay away from me.” His entire body
throbbing, he added, “Jeez, lady, you ought to come with a warning label.”

She threw her hand over her mouth in dismay, and bent over at
the waist. Sounds like tiny sobs were bursting from her lips and her body
trembled.