All I Want Is You (Kimani Romance) (2 page)

O
n a clear summer afternoon, two intruders entered Monica Dupree’s life. She was forced to kill the first one, but she knew the second one was far more dangerous. She set her rifle on her shoulder, trying to portray a calm she didn’t feel. Her heart continued to hammer in her chest while the sound of the fired shot echoed in her ears. All around her was still, as though a photographer had captured the scene in a picture. The clearing in the woods suddenly felt too silent—no birds sang, no creatures scurried past, not even the wind dared to blow. Nothing moved. Her gaze fell on the lifeless dog that only seconds ago had been a snarling, vicious beast out for blood.

“Thank you,” a deep voice said, yanking her out of her thoughts.

Monica abruptly turned her attention to the man whose life she’d probably saved. He leaned against a
tree with one arm held at an angle. Monica fought back a frown. She didn’t want his “thanks.” She didn’t want him here. She wanted him to be somewhere else far away from this town and this property. Solomon Island wasn’t really a complete island, but it was given the name because a large part of its eastern and southern land mass was separated from the main state of Georgia by a river. It boasted numerous independent farmlands, some working and others merely vanity, and its location near the water invited an influx of tourists, especially during the summer months.

For nearly a year Monica had thought of this land and farmhouse as her own. Her seventy-five-year-old landlady lived in town with a friend and had rented the entire property to her because she thought the house had gotten too big for her and she wanted someone to look after it. It was no longer a working farm, and it hadn’t been so in decades, but there was still plenty to manage. Monica had thought of it as her private sanctuary after her husband’s passing. A place of safety. The past ten months had been heavenly, her own Eden, and now a snake was in her midst.

No, that wasn’t fair, Monica quickly corrected herself. She hardly knew the man, but she’d planned to live there alone for the rest of her life. Unfortunately, Nadine Rozan, her landlady, had forced her to alter her plans. She’d said her grandson was coming to the farm for rest and relaxation. So she and her grandson would be sharing the large house for the next several weeks. Roommates. The last thing Monica wanted was a roommate, especially a male one.

Fortunately, the five-bedroom house was spacious
enough that she probably would rarely see him. Besides, she spent most of her time in her studio or going for long walks. She didn’t need to worry. She was safe. Anton couldn’t find her. It had been eleven months, four days, eight hours, seven minutes and ten seconds since she’d escaped him. She’d been careful to make sure to leave her trail cold. She planned never to resurface to her old life.

Monica sighed. That still didn’t make having to deal with some overworked businessman any easier.

“You’re going to love him, dear,” Nadine had said a week earlier as the two women cleaned up one of the extra rooms. It was located directly across from Monica’s bedroom, but Nadine had insisted. “All the women do. They can’t help it. Once you see him, you’ll know why.”

Monica plastered on a grin to be polite. She knew that no matter how charming or handsome Nadine’s grandson was, he’d have no effect on her. She’d been around men like him all her life—handsome men, rich men, powerful men. She’d married one who was a combination of all three, and now she was alone. She was fine with that. Ready to be her own woman, something she’d never had a chance to be before.

“He won’t get in your way,” Nadine continued. “Just make sure he doesn’t work too much.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Monica said, in no mood to be stuck babysitting a grown man.

Nadine hesitated, sending Monica a scrutinizing gaze. “It wouldn’t hurt you to get a nice dress to meet him.”

“Why?” Monica said with a laugh. “Does he need a welcome committee?”

“A pretty face is always a nice welcome.”

“I’m not buying a brand-new dress or changing my hair or putting on makeup for anyone. I’m happy the way I am. There are plenty of women in town if he wants a summer fling.”

“But you shouldn’t hide yourself away the way you do,” Nadine said, unwilling to let the topic drop. “I’m sure you could be a pretty girl if you tried.”

“Maybe,” Monica said in a noncommittal tone. “Now let’s get his room in order.” Monica suppressed the urge to laugh. She’d never been called pretty before. She’d always been seen as something more. From the age of four, she remembered the looks and stares from strangers. The way her parents kept her close, as if afraid someone would steal her away.

“What an extraordinary child.”

“Have you ever seen such eyes, and that dark hair is gorgeous.”

“You could make millions on that face.”

“What an absolute beauty.”

“Go on, Venus, use that smile. Every woman will want to go out and buy this lipstick.”

“You’re a goddess, Venus! No man can resist.”

“Work it, Venus, work it!”

But those days were gone. Monica wasn’t a vision or an expression of someone else’s ideal anymore. She was just an ordinary woman, and that was a privilege she didn’t plan on giving up.

Monica quickly sized up the man in front of her. He met her expectations. He wore a tailored dark suit, as
if he’d arrived at the Ritz-Carlton for a board meeting instead of a farmhouse for a holiday. He was tall. Few men were taller than she was, but he beat her by several inches. He carried himself well and had clean-cut features that were a little harsh but not off-putting, and sharp assessing eyes. His mouth was a problem, however. It was fuller than she’d imagined. His dark lashes and broad brows softened his features, hinting at both a vulnerability and gentleness she didn’t want to see.

Even if she hadn’t sworn off men, Monica knew he wasn’t her type.

Her husband had been fun and daring. No two days were the same. He could… Monica bit her lip. No, she wouldn’t think about him. It was still too painful. Everything would have been different if he’d listened to her. She didn’t blame him for dying. She blamed him for living so recklessly, for ignoring her pleas to stop car racing, to stop mountain climbing and taking numerous other risks. But she knew he wouldn’t have felt alive if he’d given up those activities. During his last moments, Monica knew he’d felt free. And he ended his life on his terms.

He’d performed his last stunt to celebrate a grand gallery showing called “Living Large.” A camera crew was on hand to witness his every move. It was a stunt he’d performed many times before—scaling down a zip line from a large office building to the entrance of another. The act had become his signature performance. But he’d descended too fast and collided with the building at approximately a hundred miles an hour. Some said his reflexes had been too slow, others that he’d rigged the gears himself because of a cancer scare.
Monica was the only one who knew there had been another reason.

Monica angrily pushed the thought aside. She wouldn’t let herself ever be that hurt again. Yep, JD Rozan met her expectations. What she didn’t expect was the puppy cradled in his arms. The one he’d valiantly protected from the other dog’s violent attack. That protective instinct surprised her, because it seemed to contradict the hard image he portrayed.

“I don’t need you to thank me,” she said in a sharp voice. “You must be JD.”

He held out his free hand. “Yes, JD Rozan.”

She quickly shook it. “Monica Dulane,” she said, careful to use her alias. “You need to be careful. You can’t just wander around out here.”

Her sharp tone didn’t seem to faze him. His gaze scanned the area, a wistful look on his face. “I used to walk around out here when I was a kid.”

“Things have changed,” she said in a flat tone.

JD’s sharp gaze returned to her face. “I can see that,” he said, motioning to her rifle. “But I heard this little guy whimpering—” he looked down at the puppy “—and followed the sound here. I found him tied up to a tree stump by his hind legs. I’d just untied him when that one showed up.” He gestured to the second dog lying still off to the side.

Monica walked over to the dead dog and shook her head. It was a shame. He’d been trained to kill. It wasn’t his fault. She’d have to bury him. She didn’t want to attract scavengers. All she needed was a gang of vultures making this spot their new home. She looked at
the dead dog again, measuring its size, then noticed a mark on its paw. She swore.

“What?” JD asked.

“This is one of Drent Marks’s dogs.” Monica looked around and saw more evidence of Drent’s presence: the torn tree bark where various ropes had been tied, the flattened ground, and the trash and blood on dry leaves.

JD watched her. “What do you see?”

“There have been dogfights here. They used to have them in the shed before I stopped them. I’ll talk to Drent later. He’s the ringleader. That’s another reason to be careful out here. Some people started squatting on your grandmother’s property bringing with them bad behavior. It took me four months to get them off, but it’s not easy and, as you can see, some people don’t listen.”

“Now that I’m here, I’ll handle any trouble.”

Monica didn’t believe him. He was going to be there only about eight weeks. She didn’t expect him to be able to accomplish much, so she decided not to reply. “Did he get you?” she asked, noticing JD’s torn sleeve.

JD glanced down at his ripped jacket sleeve. “Nearly, but not quite.”

Monica nodded. “He wasn’t focused on you. He was trying to get to him,” she said, gesturing to the puppy, which didn’t move. If she hadn’t know it was real, she would have thought it was a toy—its large eyes terrified and unblinking.

JD frowned. “Bait?” he asked, looking down at the helpless animal.

Monica did the same, and from the many scars cov
ering its head and face, she knew that in its short life the little fellow had been attacked many times before.

“Yes, probably,” she said with disgust. “That’s how Drent likes to train his monsters.”

“Then Drent and I will have a little chat.”

Monica looked at JD, startled by the aggressive tone in his voice. “He’s not someone to antagonize.”

JD flashed a grin as cold as a lethal blade. “Neither am I.”

Monica felt a chill go through her and decided to change the subject. “You’re early. I didn’t expect you for another two days.”

JD shrugged without apology. “I just had to get away.”

He didn’t expand on his answer and Monica didn’t try to push him. She wasn’t really interested in why he was here. She had to deal with the situation as best she could. “Okay, let’s go inside.”

JD took the rifle from her and handed the puppy to her before she could protest.

“If this Marks guy shows up,” he said with purpose, “I want to be ready.”

M
arks didn’t show up and they made it to the house without incident. Once inside they went to the kitchen and focused on the still-paralyzed puppy.

“I don’t know where the bleeding is coming from,” JD said, running his fingers through the puppy’s coarse fur.

He bent toward Monica as she held the puppy, and she felt her pulse quicken. He smelled like aftershave, fresh leaves and a scent all his own—a heady mix that reminded her of sleek luxury cars, lemon martinis and exotic cities. Their faces nearly met, but he didn’t seem to notice because he was so intent on his task. Monica took the opportunity to study his face some more—his skin was smooth like chestnuts, and that sensuous bottom lip was distracting. She felt her face grow warm. She dropped her gaze to his hand and froze.

“Wait a minute.” She grabbed his hand. “It’s you.”
She turned his hand over and noticed the dried and fresh blood on his wrist and palm.

Monica set the frightened puppy on the counter, but not before grabbing a dish towel to make a makeshift bed. “You lied to me.”

JD shook his head. “I didn’t lie.”

“You told me that he didn’t get you,” she said, taking off his jacket.

“He didn’t.”

Monica rested JD’s bloodied jacket over a kitchen stool nearby then rolled up his sleeve and saw the wound. “Really? Then what do you call this?”

JD sighed, resigned. “I didn’t get that from the puppy.”

Monica walked over to the sink and grabbed a fresh dish rag hanging on a hook. She put it under the running water, wrung the excess water out and began cleaning what appeared to be a large gash. She narrowed her eyes. “It looks like a knife wound.” Monica raised her gaze to his, surprised. “What happened? Were you stabbed?”

JD rubbed his forehead then let his hand fall. “It was an accident.” He reached for the rag. “Here, let me do that.”

Monica pushed his hand away. “You can’t accidentally do this to someone.”

“Then call it a misunderstanding.”

Monica searched his face and spotted a brief look of embarrassment. She began to grin. “A misunderstanding?”

“Yes,” JD said in a tight voice.

Her grin grew. “You don’t seem the type to get into bar brawls, so it must be a woman.”

“The bandage must have come off in the woods,” he said, trying to make light of the situation. “I’ll rebandage it later.” He began to roll down his sleeve.

Monica stopped him. “No, we’ll do it now.”

JD stilled, suddenly making her aware of how close they were, how warm his skin felt and how small her hand looked as she covered his. He had large, strong hands. He could fight her—and win—if he wanted to.

“You’re used to getting your way, aren’t you?” he said.

Monica snatched her hand away and kept her tone neutral. “The last thing I need is for you to get an infection and get sick. Your grandmother would blame me for not looking after you.” Monica studied the cut, desperate to look at something else besides his face and clever brown eyes. “But you’re right, she—whoever she was—didn’t mean to kill you. Either that or you just got out of the way fast enough, because you don’t need stitches, thank goodness. I’ll get my first aid kit. You might as well take off your shirt. It’s ruined anyway. It’s torn and has blood on it.”

“I think my trousers are torn, too.”

Monica paused. His face was serious, but his tone sounded playful. Was he flirting with her? No, that couldn’t be. Men never flirted with her anymore. “I don’t care if they are,” she said in a prim voice that belied her pounding heart. At that moment, she pictured him standing naked in the kitchen as the afternoon sun skimmed over every inch of his beautiful body. “You can keep those on.”

“If you say so,” JD said as she left the kitchen. Monica went into the bathroom and grabbed the kit from under the sink. She straightened then stared at her reflection in the mirror. “What is wrong with you?” she scolded herself. “Get your act together. Your mind is playing tricks on you. How could he be flirting with that?” She looked at the dowdy-looking woman with big, tinted sunglasses gazing back at her. She’d worked hard to perfect her new image as Monica Dulane. Few people knew her maiden name was Dupree, but she didn’t want to take the risk of using it. However, she also didn’t want a name she wouldn’t easily adjust to, so she kept her first name and just altered the second.

Although her new name was similar to her old one, her new look was the exact opposite of her former appearance. She’d perfected an eccentric bohemian look by wearing free-flowing dresses in dull browns and greens and kept her luxurious, long black hair covered in an assortment of printed head wraps. All that she had done to hide her identity had been successful, but her greatest disguise was her stylish, wraparound sunglasses, which made her look as if she was stuck back in the seventies.

Monica had come up with a very believable story that explained why she always had to wear them. She had told Nadine, and anyone who asked, that she’d been born with a congenital eye disease that affected her retina and made her eyes extremely sensitive to light. As a result, she had to wear special glasses all the time, even indoors, to protect them. At first Nadine hadn’t been convinced and thought Monica must be legally
blind because the tint on the glasses made it impossible to see her eyes, but she soon got used to it.

The thick frame covered just above her eyebrows to the middle of her cheek, obscuring one of her most attractive features—her prominent cheekbones. The industry had defined her as having one of the most stunning profiles. That profile was now gone.

Monica shook her head at her reflection. No, he hadn’t been flirting, just teasing. It had all been her imagination. She had been without male attention too long.

Monica took a deep, fortifying breath then returned to the kitchen. She found JD sitting at the kitchen island with his shirt off, scratching the puppy under its chin. He certainly wasn’t built like a man who spent hours behind a desk. He looked tough, hard and powerful. He was all sinewy muscle without a soft spot on him.

“I can’t get him to relax,” JD said, snapping Monica out of her wayward thoughts.

Monica shifted her gaze and noticed that the puppy’s eyes were closed. “He likes what you’re doing.”

JD’s eyes met hers as if they shared an intimate secret, and for a second it felt as if he could see past the shield of her lens. “Then I’ll keep doing it.”

She lowered her eyes, determined to focus on the matter at hand. She opened the kit, twisted off the top of a bottle of antiseptic ointment and dabbed it on a cotton ball. “Now this might sting.”

“No problem. I—” JD bit back a curse word when she applied the medication then gripped his hand into a fist. “What the hell is that? Acid?”

Monica tried not to laugh. “It will keep the wound clean.”

“Getting stabbed hurt less than that.”

“You’re making it sound worse than it is.”

His eyes twinkled. “Probably.”

Monica swallowed, liking the sight of his eyes more than she wanted to. She quickly wrapped the bandage. “There. All done.”

“Thank you again. Now I owe you two favors.”

She restocked the kit. “I’m not keeping track.”

JD picked up and replaced a box of Band-Aids, his hand lightly brushing hers, his voice low with promise. “I am.”

Monica felt her face grow warm again. This was ridiculous. She never blushed. Well, Venus didn’t. Obviously, Monica did.

“Do you think he’s hungry?” JD asked, scratching the puppy behind the ears.

“I may have some scraps to hold him until he can get some proper dog food.”

“Good. We’ll give him a good meal before we get him checked out.”

Monica was surprised by how quickly JD used the word “we,” but she didn’t feel like correcting him. She reached up and grabbed a small bowl from a cabinet and went to the fridge to get some leftover food. She took a glass container and set it on the table. Monica pried open the container and was about to pour its contents out when JD shook his head. “No, don’t feed him that.”

She looked at him, surprised. “Why not?”

“It looks too good.”

She replaced the top and grabbed another dish. When she opened it, JD shook his head again. “What now?”

“These are gourmet meals. Ravioli, Swedish meatballs. You can’t feed food like that to a dog.”

“Sure I can. I made them.”

“You cooked these?”

“I don’t have a chef on hand,” Monica said with a note of sarcasm.

JD selected the ravioli and handed the bowl to her. “Could you heat that up for me? I didn’t have lunch and your food would be like manna from the gods.” His gaze traveled lazily over her face, as if he was a sugar addict studying a powdered doughnut. She could no longer deny it. He was definitely flirting. But why? Was it a natural habit of his to flirt with any woman he was with? That had to be it. There was no other reason a man like him would be interested. Monica opened her mouth to tell him that he could heat up his own food, but he continued before she could say anything. “I’ll find something simple to feed Baxter.”

Monica went over to the microwave. “Baxter?”

“You don’t like the name?”

She set the timer. “No, it’s fine.”

JD grabbed the remainder of a turkey meat loaf, mashed the contents and put it in a bowl then set it and Baxter on the ground. “There you go.”

Baxter sniffed the food then began to eat.

“He certainly has an appetite,” JD said.

“I hope you didn’t give him too much. I wouldn’t want him to be sick.”

“I didn’t.”

The buzzer on the microwave went off and Monica handed JD the dish and a plate.

“I don’t need a plate,” he said. “Just a fork.”

“You can finish that?” she asked, setting a fork down on the counter so that he couldn’t touch her again.

“Sure. If it tastes as good as it smells, I’ll have no problem.” JD took a bite then rested a hand over his heart. “Hmm…delicious.”

“Thank you,” she said, wishing he’d put his shirt back on. He had beautiful nipples—perfect and symmetrical. She wondered if he ever considered piercing one. A friend of Delong’s had used a gold hoop with…
Stop it!
she scolded herself to repress memories that involved her deceased husband. She shouldn’t have these thoughts. She couldn’t.

“You cook all this just for yourself?”

Monica pinched herself hard then busied herself putting the plate away. “Yes, I like to cook. I find it relaxing. I cook a lot on the weekends so that in the week I can focus on my work and not have to worry about what to eat.”

Cooking was a hobby she’d never been allowed to have before. As a working model, she had to keep her figure. She had to watch every bite she ate. Now she was free and had gained fifteen pounds and didn’t mind a bit. Besides, there was no one to impress.

JD licked his lower lip, his pink tongue moistening it and making it more prominent. “I’ll pay you.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Whatever the groceries are, I’ll pay just to enjoy a meal like this.”

Monica dismissed his praise. “This was just an experiment.”

“If they come out like this, then experiment away. You could start your own company. The tourist market is thriving here. Give them a quick, simple way to add an exotic twist to their meals, and they’d eat it up. You could—” He stopped and swore. “Sorry. It’s a habit.”

“Thinking business?”

“Yes,” he said, his dark eyes studying her with acute interest. “And drawing out talent.”

Monica shifted, feeling awkward under his gaze. “Well, from what your grandmother told me, you’re here to take a break.”

JD leaned back, his gaze never leaving her face. “What else did she tell you about me?”

Monica shrugged. “Nothing much. Just that you work hard and that she worries about you.” She sent a significant look to his bandaged arm. “Considering the trouble you’ve already gotten into, I’m not surprised.”

JD lifted a sly brow. “Fortunately, I know how to get myself out of trouble.”

Monica folded her arms. “But trouble won’t be following you here, will it?”

“No. I left it back in the city.”

“I bet trouble has a name.”

He flashed a quick grin. “I like to call her several names, but you won’t have to worry about her or anyone else.”

“Hmm,” she said, doubtful.

“I have to give Gran a call. I plan to take her to the movies sometime soon.” He set his fork down and
stood. “Let me just get changed then we can go into town.”

“We?” Monica said, her voice cracking with surprise. “Why?” she asked, following him out of the kitchen.

“To take this guy to the vet.”

“But I don’t need to go with you.”

JD walked briskly to his car. “You look like you could use a drive, and things might have changed so much that I’d get lost.” He opened up the trunk and reached for his suitcase. “It won’t take long and—son of a…” He dropped the suitcase on the ground and swore.

Monica rushed toward him. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he said through clenched teeth. He took a deep breath. “I just grabbed it with the wrong arm.”

“I can take it for you.” She reached down to lift it.

JD gently shoved her aside. “I’m an idiot, not an invalid.” He walked back into the house then up the stairs. “Which room is mine?”

Monica hurried after him. “It’s on the right, but—”

He opened the door, stopped in the doorway and looked around.
Watch his face,
she remembered Nadine had said, but Monica couldn’t tell what he thought of the room. She didn’t know what Nadine expected her to see. What would a man like JD think of a room with a strange mix of Midwestern wood furniture and a hand-carved bamboo side table. An enormous mahogany sleigh bed filled the room, accented by an elegant brass regency table lamp. Off to the side stood a handsome antique rolltop desk and an overstuffed leather executive chair. Behind it was a large window that framed the view outside like a work of art. Except
for an abstract painting of a musician that hung over his bed, nothing else was displayed. Several tufted rugs added a needed warmth to the room, providing cover for the worn wooden floors.