Fast & Loose (3 page)

Truly. He had the nerve to glower at her. As if
she
were the one who’d been responsible for their collision. But even that wasn’t what made her stop breathing. It was the rest of him that did that.

He was, in a word, incredibly gorgeous. Okay, so that was two words. One word just wasn’t enough to describe a man like him, not even a word like gorgeous. His black hair had fallen over his forehead upon impact, above eyes that were a darkish green Lulu couldn’t recall ever seeing on another human being. His suit was a color she didn’t see often on men, a deep plum that should have looked feminine but instead only enhanced his masculinity. His shirt and tie were both steely gray, and neither was in a state that could be called tidy. His collar was unbuttoned to the third button and the necktie loosened to the same level, revealing a strong throat and scattering of dark hair beneath. He was huge, easily topping six feet, perhaps as much as a foot taller than her own five-four.

But it was his face that commanded her attention and held it, all planes, angles, and edges, from the blunt jaw to the narrow nose to the truly spectacular cheekbones. And those eyes, so focused and intense and so very, very
green
…

She realized she was starting to feel dizzy and gulped in a deep breath, then shook her head a little in an effort to clear out the buzzing that seemed to have overtaken it. The big man extended a hand to her, and, automatically, she accepted it. Just as she was noticing how his big paw swallowed her fingers, he was tugging her up from the floor, with enough force that she was literally swept off her feet before coming to an unsteady landing before him.

“Sorry about that, sweetheart,” he said in a voice that was deep and booming and bore not a trace of apology. Then he turned his attention to Eddie and opened his mouth to say more—obviously having already forgotten about Lulu. To his credit, when he saw that Eddie was with someone else, he closed his mouth again to wait his turn. He clearly wasn’t happy about doing that, however, because he hooked his hands on his hips impatiently and began to fidget.

Lulu reminded herself that she’d completed the task she’d come in to do, and that Bree was circling the block, waiting for her. But the big man was still standing between her and the door, and there was just something about him that prevented her from asking him to move. She told herself that the artist in her simply wanted to take a moment to appreciate physical beauty, since the artist in her did indeed appreciate physical beauty, regardless of how it manifested itself. This guy was beautiful in a way she didn’t often see, a beauty that was almost strident thanks to the boldness of his character and his larger-than-life charisma. Just by virtue of entering the room, he’d overpowered it, imbuing it with whatever it was that made him
him
.

He looked at Lulu and found her studying him, but instead of glowering at her this time, he smiled, and—
whoosh
!—there went the air rushing out of her lungs again. Because he had the kind of smile that made a woman want to immediately shimmy out of her underwear. And then hand it to him. On a silver platter. And tell him to just go ahead and keep the platter, too.

“You a visitor here, too, sweetheart?” he asked.

She told herself she should be put off by the way he kept calling her sweetheart. Usually, she wanted to smack guys who called her things like that. But the way he said it was different from the way other men said it. With other men, it came out sounding like an epithet uttered to keep a woman in her place. With this guy, it came out sounding like a luscious temptation to make Lulu do things she normally only wrote about doing in her journal.

She shook her head again to clear it of its odd thoughts, then realized the gesture was also a response to his question. “No, I live here.”

“Lucky you,” he replied, sounding genuinely envious.

Pleased that he would be impressed by her hometown, she smiled and replied, “I agree. It’s a great place to live.”

“I bet. Having a legendary track like Churchill Downs to visit whenever you want,” he said reverently. “Being able to go to the most famous horse race in the world year after year. That’s gotta be great.”

She deflated some. There was so much more to Louisville than the track, so many things to see and enjoy that had nothing to do with horse racing. But this guy was obviously one of those people who came to town only this time of year only to watch the horses. They flashed their cash, threw around their weight, and generally ran amok, usually at dozens of parties that had sprung up over the years to preface the Derby. Then they left town hungover and exhausted the morning after the race, never having explored anything else.

“Actually, not that many locals go to the Derby,” Lulu told him. “Or, at least, not to the part of the track where you can actually see the race. We’re generally relegated to the infield, where it’s a zoo, thanks to all the scalpers and corporate ownership of the good seats. It’s visitors like you who end up having the real Derby experience. The rest of us mostly watch the race on TV from home.”

The look he gave her then was probably the same expression he wore when he found a slug—or, even more appropriately,
half
a slug—on the bottom of his shoe. But all he said was, “Not a race fan, huh?”

Actually, Lulu loved the Derby itself and hadn’t missed seeing one that she could remember—on TV, anyway—in all her twenty-six years. Even when she’d had to be in Michigan once on Derby Day, she’d managed to make it to a TV in time to hear the strains of “My Old Kentucky Home” as the horses made their way to the starting gate. It was something that always brought tears to her eyes, which, she supposed, was hokey, but true. Any native Louisvillian worth his or her salt would admit to the same.

She didn’t, however, mention any of that to the man before her. Instead, she told him, “I’ve only been to the Downs a couple of times in my life. And I’ve never been to the Derby.”

Now he looked at her as if the half-slug on his shoe had developed leprosy. Then he smiled that underwear-divesting smile again and said, “Well, now, sweetheart, that’s just crazy talk.” He dug into his inside jacket pocket and withdrew a credit card–shaped piece of cardboard. “Here,” he said, thrusting it at her. “A clubhouse pass to the Downs. You can thank me later.”

Somehow she refrained from rolling her eyes. Big Daddy Race Fan was just so nice to the li’l ol’ local girl. She crossed her arms over her midsection. “Thanks, anyway, Big Daddy, but I have plans that day.” Mostly, she planned to steer clear of people like Big Daddy Race Fan.

“Oh, come on,” he said in that indulgent tone of voice people used with underlings they were trying to humor. And just like that, Lulu’s back went up again. “Be the first local to watch the Derby from the clubhouse,” he said. “Make your city proud. Don’t worry about putting me out. They sent me a dozen of these things.”

“I’m not worried about putting you out,” she told him. “The pass won’t be good for Derby Day. They never are.”

His smile fell. “They’re not?”

“Read the fine print,” she told him. “That’s why they sent you a dozen of them.”

He flipped the card over and did just that. “Oh.”

She almost felt sorry for him. He’d probably been thinking he’d have clubhouse privileges and all kinds of special treatment for Derby—for himself and eleven of his closest friends. Friends he doubtless planned to make while he was buying pitchers at Hooters. Poor guy. It was hard for someone like him to face the fact that he was just an Average Joe, not the big-time player he envisioned himself to be.

“Have fun in the infield, Big Daddy,” she told him as she finally found the wherewithal to push past him and make her way to the door. “Don’t forget your sunscreen and Mardi Gras beads.”

COLE WATCHED THE YOUNG WOMAN WITH THE WILD
red hair and disheveled clothes—and really nice ass—push through the door to the Realtor’s office. Then he continued to watch her—and her ass—as she strode down the front steps without a backward glance. Then he watched her—and her ass—some more as she waited on the sidewalk by the street, again without turning around once, until another young woman in a very disreputable-looking car pulled to a stop to let her in. The redhead did look back at him then, lifting a hand in farewell and smiling in a way that said, “I got the last word, sucker.
Nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah.
” Usually, Cole hated it when people looked at him that way. With her, though…

He still hated it.

Man, what an unpleasant, unhappy, unaccommodating harpy. So much for southern hospitality and southern belles. With that riot of unruly red hair, those icy blue eyes, and the battered clothes, she’d looked more like Raggedy Ann’s evil twin. Craggedy Ann. And she’d been about as personable, too.

Though she smelled kind of nice, he thought further, something spicy and exotic that reminded him of horse liniment—which was actually a compliment, because horses smelled damned nice when they were cleaned up and shiny. Patchouli, he realized, recalling the scent from the brand name of a soap they used at one of the stables where he’d trained horses. Except it smelled way nicer on Craggedy than it had on the horses. And that was
really
a compliment.

Not that Cole cared. About her smell or her eyes or her personality or any of it. The joke was on Craggedy. He didn’t
need
a pass to get into the clubhouse at Churchill Downs. Hell, he could watch the race from Millionaire’s Row if he wanted. And he would, too, dammit, just to show Craggedy Ann.

He shoved a hand through his dark hair and expelled a cragged…uh, he meant ragged…sigh. His flight from LA had been brutal, and he hadn’t had a decent bite to eat since yesterday. His stomach was churning on black coffee and a couple of breath mints, and he wanted nothing more in the world than a thick steak and pile of steaming potatoes, bookended by a good single-malt Scotch and a snifter of premium brandy. The only thing that stood between him and that at the moment was claiming the house that would be his for the next two weeks.

He thought again about Craggedy Ann. Could be worse, he told himself. He could have to share a house with the likes of her. Turning to the Realtor who had finally greeted him, Cole silently vowed that his last thought about Craggedy Ann would be just that—his
last
thought about her.

IT COULD BE WORSE, COLE TOLD HIMSELF AGAIN A
half hour later as he cut the engine of his rental car and studied the house that would be his home for the next two weeks. Really. It could. The place could be, um…Well, okay, it
was
pretty small, a squat brick bungalow that didn’t look as if it could possibly contain the three bedrooms the Realtor had assured Cole it did. But the house could be, uh…Well, yeah, it was pretty old, too, he thought, probably dating back to just after the First World War. But at least it wasn’t…Well, actually, it was kind of ramshackle, as well, with paint chipping off the front shutters and concrete steps whose edges were chunky with wear.

Beggars can’t be choosers,
he reminded himself. And God knew he’d stayed in worse places in the past.

At least Melissa had been right about the house being located in a good area. Even though Cole wasn’t much for historic neighborhoods and preferred the shininess and cleanliness of freshly built areas, the surrounding houses were all well kept and upscale, many of them large and elegant. And he’d been gratified to see, as Melissa had promised, the wealth of restaurants on Bardstown Road as he’d followed the Realtor’s directions. Not that he intended to
walk
to any of them. But the drive would be minimal, and there had seemed no end to the variety of selections. Of course, he’d be spending the bulk of his time at the Shelbyville Farm where Susannah was stabling Silk Purse for now, and later at Churchill Downs, but it was nice to know he could pick up something when he did venture home at the end of the day.

Home
, he thought again as he pushed open the door of the big Town Car and stepped onto the driveway…immediately noting the crunch and crumble of dissolving concrete beneath his foot. He glanced down with a look of disgust and sent a silent plea skyward that the interior of the house was in better shape than the outside. Because the outside, he noted again, could definitely use some work.

He collected his carry-on and garment bag from the trunk and made his way up the front walk, taking care to sidestep a couple of places where the cobblestones buckled into a tripping hazard. There were two keys on the ring the Realtor had given him, and it went without saying that the first one Cole chose was the wrong one. Balancing his luggage precariously, he finally managed to get the door unlocked, then he kicked it open with his foot—a little harder than was necessary, thanks to his irritation. It bounced against the inside wall, then rebounded with enough force to smack him in the face as he crossed the threshold and stepped inside.

Okay, he supposed he’d asked for that, he thought as his carry-on slipped from his hand on impact and landed on his toe. And maybe that, too, he thought further, automatically lifting his foot from the floor to rub his injured toe against his calf. When he did, his carry-on tipped over and hit a small table beside the door just hard enough to knock something off of it that shattered upon impact with the floor.

Cole closed his eyes at hearing the crash. One foot in the door, and already he’d broken something that didn’t belong to him. When he opened his eyes and looked down, he saw that whatever it was had been made out of brightly colored glass. Probably a vase, he thought. Hopefully nothing expensive that any person with half a mind would know not to put near a front door, since anyone and his carry-on might break something expensive were it situated in such a place. Then Cole peered around the front door and saw an ugly notch in the plaster where the door had slammed into it. So much for the damage deposit. For some reason, though, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling, however bizarre, that the house had kind of enjoyed seeing him get battered.

Jet lag, he told himself. He ignored the fact that, having flown east, he was still on Pacific Time and should be three hours fresher than anyone in Louisville. Flying always made him irritable, no matter where he was going or when he arrived. And sometimes it made his brain a little weird. Nevertheless, when Cole closed the door behind himself, he did it with infinitely more care, making a mental note to clean up the glass once he got settled. Then he turned to survey his surroundings.

The house was much nicer inside than out. Whoever lived here was obviously more concerned with interiors than she was with exteriors. He felt confident using the feminine pronoun because there was no question that at least one person who lived here was a woman. Although the furnishings weren’t overly girly or anything, there was just too much…stuff…for this to be an exclusively masculine domain. Too much color. Too much comfort. Too much care.

The living room spanned the entire front of the house, but had been fairly well separated into two distinct areas by the careful placement of furniture. To his right was a love seat and chair angled toward an intricately tiled fireplace, giving the feel of a living room, and to his left was a makeshift library of two chairs and a table near floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books. The walls were painted a rich dark yellow, a color that complemented both the warm berry and blue of the floral pattern on the fireplace grouping and the cool sage of the library chairs. Two different but complementary jewel-toned Oriental rugs spanned the hardwood floors on each side of the room, and the floors fed nicely into the natural woodwork of the doors and windows. What looked to be original oils of pastoral landscapes and sketches of European cafés hung on the walls, and gauzy curtains the color of the chairs framed the windows.

The overall feeling was…happy, Cole decided. And…pleasant. Even though
pleasant
wasn’t a word that turned up in his vocabulary often. Calm, too, he thought further. Which was a word he used even less frequently. It was the kind of room that just made a person feel better for having entered it.

Immediately across from the front door was a hallway that led into the rest of the house, and to the right of that, near the fireplace, were French doors opening into another room. Shunning the traditional entry of the hall for the wider one offered by the doors—there was no need to risk breaking anything else—Cole made his way into a dining room with a broad bay window. A massive buffet littered with whimsical, brightly painted wood-carved animals and flamboyant pottery took up virtually the entire wall across from it, dwarfing the small table and two chairs by the window. The colors on the walls in here were a tranquil turquoise blue, offset by countless paintings of lush gardens that hung on the walls.

Clearly, his hostess was a collector of art who had very eclectic tastes. Cole wasn’t much of a connoisseur himself, but from what he could tell, the house’s owner had good taste. Certainly, she liked things that were colorful.

Through a door on the other side of this room, Cole found the kitchen, its red walls, retro coffee advertisements, and old-fashioned appliances pulling more reluctant smiles from him. A breakfast nook in the corner was encased on two sides with wide windows that looked out onto a backyard that was surprisingly private, thanks to a veritable jungle of foliage along the outer rim. Through a second kitchen entry, he found himself in a hallway painted yet another bright color—this time something reminiscent of a tropical sunset—looking down into the living room again. There were two more doors on his right, and another on his left, between him and the front door. The room on the left was a bathroom, he discovered as he passed it, while the first room on the right was a home office. The third room was filled with boxes and odd bits of furniture and miscellany that made him think whoever lived here had moved in fairly recently and hadn’t yet decided what the purpose of this room was to be.

So where was the bedroom? he wondered.

Turning around, he noticed a door at the other end of the hall that he’d overlooked before. Opening it, he saw stairs and understood there was more to the house than he’d initially realized. Although he’d noted a window above the wide front porch when he was outside, he’d thought it was for decoration or to offer some sparse illumination to the attic. As he climbed the stairs, twisted around a cramped landing, then climbed some more, he discovered that what was once an attic had been turned into a master bedroom. Well, okay, maybe it wasn’t so masterful, since, like the house, it was small and a little crowded, its ceiling low in the center and slanted on both sides. However, like the rest of the house, it made Cole feel comfortable and at ease.

Until he topped the final step and banged his head on the ceiling. Wow, it was even lower than he’d thought.

He blew out an exasperated breath as he hunched down enough to keep it from happening again. Another indication that the owner of the house was a woman. Or a jockey. Or a troll. Or all of the above. At six feet three, Cole knew he was taller than the average man. He’d always kind of liked the fact, had even taken advantage of his size from time to time to intimidate some unfortunate slob who tried to challenge him. It had never occurred to him that his size could be a detriment. But the ceiling in this room clearly wasn’t six-three. More like six-two. Which meant he was going to have to remember to duck every time he stood up here. Or else be beaten senseless by the end of his first week in residence. The house would probably enjoy that immensely.

Carefully crouching, he made his way to the bed and tossed his garment bag atop it, settling his carry-on beside that. As he unpacked, he took in his surroundings, noting how this room was darker than the rest of the house, due to its lack of windows, but how the owner had managed to brighten it up by painting it a sandy color and eschewing curtains on the one small window. The rugs, too, were lighter than in the rest of the house, wool dhurries with buff pastel geometrics. The bed was an antique white wrought-iron number of a size Cole had never seen before, not quite single, but not quite double, with a dresser and writing desk of mottled bird’s-eye maple.

He switched on a lamp to combat the dusky darkness, sending a rush of pale pink light into the room. Everything was tidy and well-maintained, right down to the computer on the desk that bore only one small Post-it note. Cole was impressed. His computer at home was covered with reminders to himself, and his desk was constantly obscured by dozens of documents and letters that needed attention.

It wasn’t until he opened his suitcase and began to unpack that he realized the note on the computer wasn’t the only one in the room. Moving toward the closet—and taking care not to straighten up as he did so—he saw one there, as well, on the right side of the set of double doors. In sturdy block letters that were in no way feminine, someone, presumably the owner, had written, “
Left is traditionally the route of nonconformists. Right is the route of the traditional. Enjoy the right side of the closet.
”

He grinned. So his hostess was a nonconformist, was she? Opening the right-hand door, he found the inside cleared for his belongings, including the shelf above the hangers and the floor below. The narrow space offered just enough room for the suits, shirts, and shoes he’d brought with him, and the shelf offered space for his carry-on. A perfect fit. It was nice when things worked out that way. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad little house after all.

He started to turn away from the closet, then, for some reason, opened the left-hand door, too. It wasn’t an invasion of privacy, he told himself. The door wasn’t locked, and there was no note saying he couldn’t. He was just curious to see what the clothing of a nonconformist looked like.