Waking Up to You: Overexposed (3 page)

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 she was taking care of her grandfather. The last thing the elderly man would need once he got home was reporters and photographers knocking at the door. “I don’t have to be in L.A. right away.”

“What do you do?”

Oh, I’m in the movie business. Costume design. Did you see the last Cameron film? That was me.

That was the standard reply, often said with a slightly superior tone, just because that’s how everybody in L.A. rolled. But she just didn’t feel like playing that game. Not here, in the middle of the night, with a stranger. Not after the day she’d had. “I’m involved with fashion design.”

His eyes didn’t immediately glaze, the way most men’s would. “My sisters would probably love to meet you. I think they were each born holding a copy of
Vogue.
”

She ran the tip of her finger across the rim of her cup. “Not that kind of fashion. I work for some of the production companies doing costuming.”

He grunted. “Movies, huh?”

Her back stiffened as he reacted just as she’d expected him to. Most people were awed by her connection to Tinseltown. This one, this earthy, swaggering man, just didn’t seem the type. He looked like he could live out some macho, shoot-em-up action film rather than having to sit through one. Of course, what such a man was doing working as a groundskeeper, she had no idea.

“What’s wrong with the movies?”

He shrugged.

“You don’t like films?”

“Sure I do. I just don’t have much respect for the people who make them.”

The vision of him being at the beck and call of some spoiled, rich-bitch movie star popped into her head. She had a hard time envisioning this man taking orders from anyone and wondered if he’d gotten tired of being propositioned by his clients. “Interact with a lot of Hollywood types, do you?”

He eyed her then shifted his gaze away, muttering a cryptic, “Not anymore.”

Meaning, he had once upon a time?

Something suddenly occurred to her, which could explain why he seemed like such a fish out of water. “Wait. Tell me you’re not a method actor up here in the wilds of Northern California getting ready to audition for some back-to-nature film,” she said, horrified at the very idea.

He barked a harsh laugh. “Not likely.” His lips twitching as he lifted his glass, he added, “What about you? Did you come out here all starry-eyed, looking for your big break, and end up shifting gears into costuming when the acting thing didn’t work out?”

“I couldn’t act my way out of a speeding ticket if my car was on fire and the cop who pulled me over was my uncle.”

His brow scrunched. “Why would you drive a burning car?”

“I...what?”

“If the car’s on fire, why would you keep driving it? Why wouldn’t you pull over and get out?”

“Are you always so literal?”

“Do you really have an uncle who’s a cop?”

She growled, low in her throat. Seeing the twinkle in his eye made the growl louder, so she continued the game of Answer a Question with a Question with a question. “Do you always bait strange women?”

“Only women who specialize in death-by-kitchenware.” His tone was deadpan. “And those I make tea for in the middle of the night.”

The faintest hint of his smile made her spine relax a bit. He might not look like he had much of a sense of humor, and his gruff voice sure didn’t sound like it was used much for laughing, but she suspected there lurked a good-humored man beneath the superhot, strong-and-silent exterior.

She lifted her cup. “Speaking of which, you make a very good cup of tea. It was just what I needed. Thanks again.”

“Tea was a staple in our house. It’s one thing I have in common with your grandfather—he does like his cuppa.”

“So he does.”

The way he said cuppa warmed her up inside. She did love an Irish accent, and while his was buried under a couple of decades of blunt Americanism, she still heard the lilt every now and again.

Another sip. The tea was cooling now, her cup nearly drained, and she knew it had to be close to 4:00 a.m. By all rights, she should be tucked in bed in one of the drafty upstairs guest rooms. But something made her stay. She just didn’t want to be alone in this big house. Especially because she still couldn’t quite reconcile it as being Grandpa’s. He’d lived in a condo in St. Petersburg when she’d been growing up, for crying out loud, about as far from this wild, untamed landscape as one could get.

“What’s he doing here, anyway?” she grumbled.

“Who, Buddy?”

“Yes. What on earth possessed him to come out here and buy this place?”

“He’s living the dream, from the sound of it. He told me he’s always loved wine.”

“I don’t ever remember him drinking anything but Riunite Lombrusco when I was a kid,” she retorted.

“I think his tastes have matured a bit.”

“Are there even any grapes growing around here?”

“Not yet. That’s my department.”

“When’s that going to happen?”

“It’s a long way off. Probably next summer.”

“Seriously? You aren’t even going to plant for a year?”

His shrug was decidedly rueful. “It takes time to prepare the soil, especially since it’s been ignored for so long.”

“Have you worked at a winery before? Are grapes your specialty?”

“Not exactly.”

“So what did you do before you came here?”

He had tensed during her questioning, and she figured she was being pushy. But asking him about his past was better than asking him how on earth he managed to find shirts that fit over all those muscles.

“Let’s just say I’ve been digging in the dirt a lot in recent years. This job makes me feel a whole lot cleaner.”

That was mysterious, but his clipped tone said it was as much as she was going to get.

“Now, your grandfather’s surgery is scheduled for 10:00 a.m. Why don’t you grab a few hours’ sleep and we’ll try to get to the hospital at around eight?”

“All right.”

Rising, she picked up her cup, and his, carrying them over to the sink. She noted that, while brewing the tea, Oliver had stuck the pots and pans in the dishwasher, as if to get them out of throwing range. Candace still couldn’t believe she’d thought a few kitchen items would stop him if he’d really been some kind of villain. With that body—those strong arms and the table-wide chest—he could pick her up and break her in half.

Or, a wicked part of her realized, just
split
her in half with that amazing power tool in his pants. Not having had sex in a while, she couldn’t be entirely sure her memory wasn’t faulty, but if she had to guess, she’d say that had been a good eight inches of jackhammer straining against his zipper.

“Need a hand?”

She started, not having realized he’d left the table and walked up behind her. It was bad enough to be caught thinking he had an amazing body, but even worse to be standing here wondering about the size of the man’s johnson.

“No, thank you,” she said, hearing the breathiness in her voice. He was just so close, so big and warm. All she could think about was how it had felt to be pressed against him, his hands on her hips, his salt-tinged skin against her mouth.

It had been a long time since she’d been close to anyone. Honestly, the thought of not being held in a man’s strong arms for five years was almost as upsetting to her as knowing she would not be filled and possessed by one in the most raw, sexual way.

Almost.

“Okay, meet you outside at seven-thirty?”

She nodded, turning to face him, hoping her cheeks weren’t pink. She was not the blushing type. Still, she feared the heat in her face hadn’t been caused by the steam rising off the hot water in the sink.

“Thank you. And again, I’m sorry I attacked you.”

He shrugged. “Wasn’t the first time.”

She quirked a brow. “Incite a lot of women to violence, do you?”

“Not recently.”

But he didn’t say anything else. He merely nodded good-night and left the kitchen, leaving her wondering what the real story was behind Oliver McKean.

3

C
ANDACE
R
EID
WAS
as good as her word. Despite having probably only gotten the same few hours of sleep he had the night before, she was waiting on her grandfather’s front steps when he walked out of his cottage at 7:30 a.m.

She looked like crap.

Bloodshot eyes, pale cheeks sans makeup, sopping wet hair slung up in a ponytail—definitely not the Candace he’d met at 3:00 a.m. She wore a shapeless, heavy hoodie that would be much too warm in a few hours when the day shifted into typical Northern California mode, with its wildly swinging night-to-day temperature changes. The jeans weren’t designer; in fact, they looked worn and scruffy. And the functional sneakers in no way resembled the spike-heeled do-me shoes of the night before.

He knew he wasn’t seeing her at her sexy best, but couldn’t help thinking he liked this not-so-put-together version of the Hollywood costume designer. In her real life, with all the feminine trappings women relied on, she probably would have blended into the stylish crowd to which he had become so accustomed when living in L.A. Hell, he’d even been a part of it on occasion. But here, out of her element, obviously uncomfortable and not making any pretentious efforts to impress anyone—including him—he found her vulnerability refreshing.

Huh. Part of him should be a little disappointed that she wasn’t making any effort to impress him, considering how thick the sexual tension between them had been the night before. It had filled that kitchen like an invisible fog. He’d definitely thought about her long after he’d gone back to his bed.

But he hadn’t come to Sonoma to get caught up with a woman. He’d chosen this area because it was his favorite place to vacation—he loved the scenery, the pace and the people. He’d needed to reevaluate, to recover a sense of peace and tranquility that had been lost during his years running in the rat race with some huge rats. This period of solitude was about regrouping, finding his focus and doing penance for the shitty things he’d done to get ahead in the Orange County D.A.’s office.

Taking a sabbatical from the spotlight hadn’t been a bad side benefit, either. The press had had a field day with him when he’d blown the lid off some of the shenanigans taking place in the courthouse. Rising young stars in the prosecutor’s office weren’t supposed to refuse to railroad an innocent man in order to close a big case, and they definitely weren’t supposed to blow the whistle on the misconduct of others. Oh, yeah, he had definitely been front-page fodder, which made him persona non grata with the legal types in L.A., and would for quite some time. Frankly, that was fine with him. He wanted to forget about that period of his life, and wanted everyone there to forget about him.

So, no, having a hot affair just didn’t fit in with his plan of atonement. It was just as well Candace had dialed her sex appeal down a notch, even if nothing could really eradicate the beauty of her face or the curviness of her body.

If her appearance today was meant to send him a message, he’d gotten it. Loud and clear. She wasn’t interested.

“You sleep okay?” he asked as he walked over, already knowing the answer to his question.

“Sleep? What’s that? I feel like the princess from the fairy tale, only there wasn’t a pea under the mattress, there were cantaloupes the size of my head.”

“I don’t think your grandfather has had a chance to redecorate. A lot of the furniture came with the house, so it’s probably pretty old.”

“Who owned it before? Fred Flintstone?”

He couldn’t contain a chuckle. “The house was built by an old silent movie star, and it remained in his family for several decades until it fell into ruin. He supposedly threw some wild parties with his Hollywood buddies.”

“Huh...my kingdom for a Westin heavenly bed. I’d rather be comfortable than sleep on the mattress that once held Charlie Chaplin.” She winced and rubbed her shoulder. “And still might, given the bony lumps inside it.”

The old Oliver, the one who’d once been young and carefree and had done killer impressions that cracked up his sisters, might have tottered side to side and swung an invisible cane.

The new Oliver—hardened by the things he’d seen, the things he’d
done
—barely even remembered that idealistic guy.

“Ready?”

“Sure.”

She stepped into the passenger seat of the beat-up old truck as he got in behind the wheel and together, they headed toward the hospital. He could feel her tension and her anticipation. She sat forward on her seat, as if urging the old bucket of rust to go faster.

“Would you sit still?” he grumbled. “Visiting hours don’t even start until eight.”

“If we keep going negative-two miles an hour, we won’t be there until it’s time for Grandpa to go in for his surgery.”

“If we were going negative-two miles an hour, we’d be going backward.”

She smirked. “Now you’re just being silly.”

Unaccustomed to being called anything of the sort, he tightened his hands on the steering wheel.

“So how did you end up working for my grandfather?”

His grip grew even tighter. “I was just wandering. We ran into each other and he told me he was looking for help to get the old place up and running. Lucky for me, I had some time and experience.”

His experience with grounds keeping had been limited to his lawn-cutting business during high school. But that had been enough for Buddy, who, he suspected, had hired him because he wanted the company as much as Oliver’s strong back. And it had helped that Oliver was connected to the estate. He also suspected Buddy had sensed Oliver
needed
to be there, to work hard, not think and stay away from most of the world.

The old man had asked him if he was a criminal hiding out from the law. When Oliver had sworn he was not, they’d shaken hands and that had been that. Four months later, after studying everything he could find on the wine business, Oliver had calluses on his blisters, muscles in places he’d never known he’d needed them and the beginnings of a clear head.

“Sorry, but you just don’t look much like a gardener,” she said, obviously realizing he was prevaricating.

He cast her a sideways glance and let a faint smile lift the corner of his mouth. “You don’t look much like a fashion designer, either.”

Instead of taking offense, she barked a laugh and lifted a hand to her sopping ponytail. “Touché. I know I’m a mess. Aside from the horrible bed, a cricket kept chirping somewhere inside the house. And the water in the shower ranged from cold to frigid.”

“Devastating,” he murmured.

She continued, “There’s not a hair dryer in sight, because, of course, Grandpa doesn’t need one. I almost stuck my head over the stove but figured that might be pushing it.”

“Knowing how dangerous things tend to happen when you’re in a kitchen, that was probably a good call. And we don’t want to tax rescue services with a call about a fire. They were already out here once this week.”

“Did I mention that the airline misplaced my big suitcase? I only had my carry-on, which is why I’m wearing the old clothes that my sister left here when she came to visit a year ago.”

Judging by the clothes, the sister was a different type of dresser altogether.

“We can run by a store later if you need to shop,” he said.

“If the airline doesn’t show up with my things within a couple of days, I might have to take you up on that. I had the basic necessities in my carry-on, but I’ll be out of stuff pretty soon.”

“Are you really going to stick around for a while?” he asked, wondering if she truly intended to stay for weeks. Man, he hoped not. He was supposed to be enjoying a retreat from the real world. But this talkative, beautiful woman had brought it crashing in on him like the winds of a hurricane.

“Maybe. I’m between projects and was supposed to be going out of town for a couple of weeks anyway,” she said, crossing her arms and leaning against her window to look out at the passing scenery. “This isn’t exactly France, though.”

“You were going to France?”

She nodded but didn’t look over.

“Why would it have been better if you’d met me there?”

She jerked and swung around to stare at him. “What?”

“You said that last night.”

She bit that succulent bottom lip.

He prodded her. “Your exact words were, I believe, ‘Why, oh, God, why, didn’t I meet you in Paris?’”

She huffed. “Jeez, what are you, a transcriptionist?”

“I have a very good memory.”

“Obviously.”

“So?”

“So what?”

She was obviously trying to deflect, and he considered letting her get away with it. But something about that sad face and those slumped shoulders made him want to rile her up a little. He’d been raised with sisters, so he knew that nothing worked better to get them out of a sad slump than giving them something to be mad about.

“So, why would it have been better if you’d met me in Paris?”

“I was hysterical. I didn’t know what I was saying.”

“Not that hysterical. As I recall, you were pretty damned calm at that point. Sedate even.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Shall we talk about how
you
were at that point?”

Hell, if she thought he was going to apologize for getting a hard-on when he’d had a gorgeous woman in his arms, she had another think coming. “I have a Y chromosome. And you’re beautiful.”

Her bluff having been called, she looked away.

“Paris,” he reminded her.

Crossing her arms over her chest and harrumphing, she said, “I just meant if I was going to end up in some hot guy’s arms this week, it should have been in the city of light, not in my grandfather’s kitchen.”

He made a mental note of the
hot,
wondering if she even realized she’d just revealed a little more about her thoughts of last night.

Casting him an arch look, she added, “By the way, it could have been any guy’s arms.”

“Hot.”

“What?”

“You said any
hot
guy’s arms.”

“It’s like I’m riding with a digital voice recorder.”

“Like I said. Good memory.”

“The point is, I was just speaking in
general
terms about how a run-down old kitchen can’t compare to the most romantic city in the world. That’s
all.
”

He wasn’t buying it. “Didn’t sound that way.”

“Would you stop interrogating me?”

There was fire in her eyes now, and color in her cheeks. Indignation wafted from her, and he congratulated himself on getting her mind off her troubles. Let her be annoyed at him, and engage in a little verbal sparring. At least it would be a few minutes less she spent worrying about her obviously deeply loved grandfather.

“Why were you going to France?”

“Did you miss the part about not interrogating me?”

“It’s just a simple question.”

“One that’s really none of your business.”

“So, not for work, then.”

She just huffed.

He speculated aloud. “If there was a possibility you’d end up in some random guy’s arms, you obviously weren’t meeting up with a boyfriend.”

“Did you also miss the part where I said it was about kitchen vs. Paris and
not
about a stupid man?”

“Your boyfriend’s stupid?”

“Argh!”

Defense attorneys hadn’t called him the Honey Badger of Hollywood for no reason. Oliver had been born with a persistent gene. “Was that an answer?”

“I
don’t
have a stupid boyfriend.”

“Well he can’t be very smart if he lets you come alone up to Sonoma to be stalked by a potential ax-murdering maniac in your grandfather’s kitchen.”

“There’s no boyfriend, okay? Stupid or otherwise!”

He’d known that’s what she was saying but was glad for the confirmation, anyway. He couldn’t say why that certainty sent a hint of relief gushing through his veins, but it did. “Well, that’s good. I’m afraid I’d lose a little respect for you if you liked stupid guys.”

“Right now, they’re sounding very appealing,” she mumbled.

“Low standards, huh?”

“No, I just wouldn’t have to be couching every word I say so it couldn’t be used against me in a court of law.”

That was striking a little close to home. “Because a stupid guy would understand you better?”

“No, because I wouldn’t give a damn if he didn’t!”

“You calling me smart, and saying you give a damn?” He wondered if she could see his half smirk. “Gee, hot and smart in one conversation. Better watch it, Miss Reid, or you’ll make my head swell.”

“Shut up, all right? Just. Stop. Talking.”

He finally started to laugh. The sound felt a little rusty; he didn’t make it very often anymore. And after a few seconds, she slowly joined in.

“You did that on purpose.”

“Maybe.”

“Women must threaten your life on a regular basis.”

“I guess.”

They were silent for a moment, then she sighed softly and said, “Thank you.”

She didn’t have to elaborate. He knew what she meant. So he merely replied, “You’re welcome.”

A few minutes later, they arrived at the hospital. Seeing it ratcheted up her tension again, and she was yanking the handle and hopping out of the truck the second he parked. He caught up with her at the hospital entrance and escorted her to Buddy’s room.

After a soft knock, they entered to find the old man dozing. He was still hooked up to machines and a morphine drip and probably looked pretty bad to his granddaughter. But compared to how he’d looked after he’d fallen yesterday, this was quite an improvement. Oliver wasn’t sure he’d ever get over the terror he’d felt when he’d heard the loud cry of pain and he’d run around the house to see Buddy lying on the ground, looking like a fragile, broken porcelain doll.

“Grandpa?”

The eyes shot open and the old man turned to stare at her, his blue eyes shining with vitality and affection. “Candy-cane, what are you doing here?” He cast a glance at Oliver. “I told you not to worry anybody.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, bending to kiss his forehead. She tenderly brushed away a long strand of silvery hair—used in the ultimate old-man comb-over to cover the sizable bald spot on his pate. “Mom was going to come herself...”