The woman paused. Her doubtful expression fell away and she set down the blow-dryer again, gently, with a slight air of embarrassment. “Yes.”
The surge of adrenaline he’d felt at her entrance burned away, and now Grant was more fatigued than ever. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since finding out about Miranda and Blake, and the last few days of travel had been hell in a bucket. He just wanted to dry off and find a bed. “OK, so can I please finish this shower and talk to you when I have some clothes on?”
She paused, looking skeptical once more.
Her gaze slid back to his groin.
“You’ve ruined my book.” She pressed a thumbnail against her lip, and he silently reminded himself that flaunting his physical state of interest would probably not work in his favor at the moment. But he couldn’t resist. If she was going to keep staring, he’d give her something to look at.
“This book?” He lifted it chest high and smiled as both of her hands slapped over her eyes with a smack so loud the sound bounced off the walls of the bathroom.
“Oh my gosh, yes, that book. Never mind. Put it back. Put it back.” She turned away and waved a hand at him, refusing to look.
Wow. She was a homecoming queen. She would’ve fit right in on that church bus he’d come home on. He looked at the soaking-wet paperback. The cover had a bare-chested man holding up a great big sword. Nothing phallic about that. “The Chieftain? Hmm, looks racy. Don’t worry. It’ll dry.”
She gave a single shake of her head. “Trust me. It’s ruined. So . . . I guess . . . I guess I’ll just wait for you in the kitchen. But if you’re not downstairs in ten minutes, I’m calling your mother. And the police.”
Chapter 3
DELANEY HEARD HIS FOOTSTEPS ON the stairs a full twenty minutes later. She’d picked up the phone five times to call Donna Beckett since leaving that bathroom, but she hadn’t because he’d asked her not to. She was polite that way, plus she was still hoping to settle this situation calmly and quietly. The fewer people involved in her business, the better. Sure, this guy could be a prison escapee, a drug dealing, car thieving ax murderer, or some kind of deranged sociopath—or all of the above—but his story seemed plausible enough, and he didn’t really look like a deranged sociopath. Not that she had much experience in the deranged sociopath department. Then again, maybe she did. She had grown up in Beverly Hills, after all.
He came around the corner of the living room dressed in well-worn jeans and a white T-shirt. A swirly tattoo of initials was dark against his bicep. She’d missed seeing that when he was in the shower, what with all his other manly business capturing her attention.
“Took you long enough,” she said.
“I had to clean up all the glass. Apparently somebody dropped something in the bathroom.” Without glancing her way, he paused near the thermostat to adjust the dial.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” She picked up the phone again. Maybe she would call his mother.
Now he looked at her. In this light his eyes weren’t so much hazel as they were green, but either way, they were trained on her, and she wished they weren’t.
“I’m turning up the heat. It’s freezing in here,” he said.
“No, I have to pay for that heat. Turn it back down and put on a sweater. And some socks. Better yet, put on your coat and boots and go someplace else. What did you say your name was?”
“Grant Connelly.” He walked past her and into the kitchen.
She turned to watch his movements. “OK, Grant Connelly. You’re showered, dried off, and dressed. So now you need to skadoosh right on out of this house. The house which I have rented and paid for.”
He looked over his shoulder at her as he put his hand on the refrigerator door handle. “Do you have any food?”
“What?”
“Food. You know? Something to eat?” His wet hair was messy, as if he’d shaken like a dog to get the water out but hadn’t bothered with a comb, and the scraggly beard looked like more a case of lost razor than style decision. Clearly he was not trying to impress anyone.
“Yes, I have food, but it’s mine,” she said.
His smirk was sly and crinkled the corners of those eyes, whatever color they might be. “If it’s in my fridge, then I should get to eat some of it, don’t you think? I can’t go anywhere on an empty stomach.”
A puff of relief escaped from her lungs. Go anywhere? Good. He was planning to leave, and she then could have this place back to herself. That’s all she wanted. To be left alone.
“There’s peanut butter and jelly,” she said.
“Peanut butter and jelly?” The smile turned dubious and he looked her over more carefully. “How old are you?”
First rule of celebrity was never admit your age. “How is that any of your business?”
“I just want to make sure I’m not harboring a runaway sixteen-year-old.”