Take A Chance On Me (30 page)

She called out again, “Hello?”

A distant, unrecognizable male voice yelled back, “In the kitchen.”

Why on earth hadn’t he answered the door? She tossed her bag on the bench and walked down the narrow hallway leading to the swinging kitchen door that had been in this house since its creation.

The kitchen told another story, thrusting her out of the past and into the future. It gleamed with newness. With gorgeous, industrial stainless steel appliances, distressed white cabinets, and polished granite countertops in various shades of cream, gold, and brown.

Under the extra-deep double sink, a man sprawled across the floor, his head under the cabinet. “Can you hand me that wrench?”

That voice. It never failed to send an irritating trail of tingles racing down her spine. She ground her back teeth until her temples gave a sharp stab of protest. Of course, Shane Donovan had to be the first person she ran into.

He bent one knee, pulling the worn fabric of his jeans across powerful thighs. Her throat went dry as her pulse sped.

Why him? Out of every man she’d ever encountered—and in her line of work, she encountered plenty—why did it have to be him? For heaven’s sake, he belonged to the wrong political party. She shuddered.

It was all so . . . embarrassing.

But her body didn’t care, hadn’t cared since the first time she’d met him at Mitch and Maddie’s engagement party. The second her palm had slid into his, a disconcerting jolt of electricity had traveled through her fingertips and up her arm. She’d had to force herself not to jerk away and keep her face impassive.

It was a good thing he didn’t like her. It was the one thing working in her favor. If she stuck to her current strategy of nurturing his disdain, he’d stay away, and her exposure would be minimal.

She walked over to the box of tools and stood over him.

Half hidden under the sink, Shane fiddled with her brother’s plumbing. Annoyed at his pure perfection, she wrinkled her nose.

At six-four, his frame stretched beautifully across the hardwood. His hips were lean. His stomach flat. Shoulders ridiculously broad. Most of the times she’d seen him, he’d been dressed in a suit, but today he wore a pair of beat-up construction boots, faded jeans, and a thin white T-shirt. It was a crime against nature that a man who spent most of his time in boardrooms had muscles like his.

She’d analyzed her attraction, and for the life of her, she couldn’t come up with a logical explanation. Sure, he was good looking, but so what? Good-looking men weren’t impossible to find. He was nothing like the men she dated. She preferred, well, men like her. Men who were more interested in politics and strategy then carnal pleasures. She enjoyed a relationship in which sex was secondary to their intellectual connection. Not that she had a problem with sex—she didn’t. Her past encounters had all been pleasant and civilized.

But nothing about Shane Donovan was civilized. And somehow she doubted sex with him was
pleasant
.

She shouldn’t be attracted to him. Period. End of story. Only her libido didn’t agree.

A loud clang sounded under the cabinet, followed by a grunted curse. He stretched out his hand. “The wrench.”

Without a word she reached down, grabbed the tool, and plopped it in his palm with far more force than necessary.

“Easy there, honey.” The warm tone of his voice was clearly not meant for her.

Who was honey? A moment of panic washed over her. Oh, no. Was she going to be tortured by watching him with another woman?

The thought bothered her so much, she blurted, “I’m not your honey.”

He stilled for a fraction of a second before sliding out from under the sink, like the teasing reveal in bad porn. His strong jaw tightened as his piercing green eyes met hers. “If it isn’t the ice queen herself.”

His favorite name for her. He’d never called her honey, not even once.

The fine hairs along her neck bristled as something she refused to name sat in the pit of her stomach. It didn’t matter. Even if he tried, she’d have to put him in his place on principle alone. Endearments were dismissive; every good feminist knew that.

She slipped into the role he expected, ignoring the jab to ask coolly, “Where’s the happy couple?”

He got up from the floor with much more grace than a man weighing at least two hundred pounds should, turned, and flicked on the faucet with the touch of his fingers. “Your brother’s out back.”

The muscles under his thin T-shirt flexed as he washed his hands.

She squared her shoulders. Good thing broad shoulders, muscular backs, and lean hips didn’t affect her. She was a sane, rational woman, not driven by hormones.

Her eyes locked on his ass.

Good thing she was above all that.

When the water ceased she jerked her eyes away and smoothed her expression into her most remote mask.

He turned around and gave her an assessing once-over. “I didn’t think you’d show until the rehearsal dinner.”

A muscle under her eye twitched. “I was invited. Mitch is my brother—why shouldn’t I be here?”

“You Rileys aren’t much for family support.” He assessed her with a shrewd gaze. “So there must be another motive.”

Her spine bristled, and she had the sudden urge to smack him across his smug face. Of course, she didn’t, because that would be revealing and out of character. “I’m sure I don’t know to what you’re referring.”

He scooped up a beer bottle and raised it to his lips, taking a long, slow drink while watching her in that predatory way he had.

How could someone’s eyes be that green? They were so sharp and clear, it felt as though they pierced right through her.

The continued scrutiny gave her the urge to tug at her navy suit jacket and smooth her knee-length skirt, but she refused to fidget. “Is my mother here?”

“She went to the store with Maddie.” He placed the bottle back on the counter and rested his palms on the ledge of the granite that had replaced the linoleum she remembered. “We’re out of Cheetos and Mountain Dew.”

She planted her hands on her hips and returned one of his long, disdainful once-overs. Her gaze settled meaningfully on his flat-as-a-board stomach. “Ah, that explains it. I’ve heard after thirty-five things go south rather quickly.”

His expression flashed with what looked like amusement. He straightened from the counter and took a step toward her.

The urge to retreat rose in her chest, but she didn’t dare step back.

His eyes narrowed. “How’d you know I turned thirty-five?”

Damn it. See, this was why she ignored his barbs—she always said something far too telling. She shrugged one shoulder. “Oh, I hear things.”

“Investigating my background? How sweet. I didn’t know you cared.”

Of course they’d investigated all the Donovans. Just like Shane had investigated all of them. That’s the way it worked. Everyone knew that.
Maybe
she’d spent a little too much time on the oldest Donovan brother, but only because he was the most dangerous.

So yes, she knew all about Shane. Had a list of stats she could rattle off in her head in her sleep.

Occupation: CEO and owner of The Donovan Corporation.

Last significant relationship: one year ago with some tech genius.

High school grade point average: an abysmal 1.65.

College degree: none.

Arrests: one for underage drinking at sixteen.

The list went on, and as many times as she went over the facts, the essence of him was missing. How had he beaten such impossible odds? Overcome such dire straits?

All by his thirty-fifth birthday.

Which she
should not
know was three months ago.

One week after hers to the day.

At the memory of her own birthday, she frowned. It hadn’t been a good day.

She’d spent her birthday in strategy meetings concentrating on repairing her father’s tattered image. Other than a small fifteen-minute work break, during which the interns shoved a cake under her nose, her mother had been the only person to call.

That night she’d sat alone in her Gold Coast townhouse overlooking the skyline eating Chinese takeout by herself. After a bottle of wine she’d contemplated her accomplishments, trying in vain to pat herself on her back.

Only to realize the things she’d listed had nothing to do with her.

She’d done nothing for her own life.

Not a single damn thing.

Jennifer Dawson
grew up in the suburbs of Chicago and graduated from DePaul University with a degree in psychology. She met her husband at the public library while they were studying. To this day she still maintains she was NOT checking him out. Now, over twenty years later, they’re married and living in a suburb right outside of Chicago with two awesome kids and a crazy dog.

 

Despite going through a light-FM, poem-writing phase in high school, Jennifer never grew up wanting to be a writer (she had more practical aspirations of being an international super spy). Then one day, suffering from boredom and disgruntled with a book she’d been reading, she decided to put pen to paper. The rest, as they say, is history.

 

These days Jennifer can be found sitting behind her computer, writing her next novel, chasing after her kids, keeping an ever watchful eye on her ever growing to-do list, and NOT checking out her husband.

ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

 

Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018

 

Copyright © 2014 by Jennifer Dawson

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

 

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

 

 

Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

ISBN: 978-1-4201-3425-4

 

First Electronic Edition: February 2014
eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-3426-1
eISBN-10: 1-4201-3426-4