Sinful Seduction (8 page)

“—Hungry,” Skylar finished, looking a little revolted.

“Thanks for the chow, ma’am.” Mickey stuck an entire slice of bacon in his mouth and reached for more on the platter. “It sure is tasty.”

“Now wait one minute.” Skylar snatched the platter away, glaring at them all in turn. Nikolas looked up from his plate and waited, a huge piece of French toast suspended on his fork halfway to his mouth. Sandro put the syrup down. “Don’t you clowns know we’re supposed to take the time to thank the Lord and grace the food?”

Sandro felt the corner of his mouth twitch with a smile, which he repressed. “Does the Lord approve of you calling us clowns?”

Ignoring this, she glowered at him for a second before grabbing his hand, reaching across the table for Mickey’s hand, bowing her head and closing her eyes.

“Dear Lord,” she began, “please bless this food and all the hands that prepared it.”

Since he’d seen too much ugliness in Afghanistan and lost too many valuables (his men; his career; his brother; his soul), Sandro didn’t have much to say to God. Instead of listening to the prayer, he focused on something much more interesting: the feel of Skylar’s hand in his.

The delight he took in touching her was wrong, and he knew it. Muddying the waters between them any further was also wrong, and he’d meant to keep his attraction to her on lockdown so he didn’t send her any mixed messages.

And he tried; he really did.

The record needed to reflect the effort he put into doing the right thing. For one agonizing second, he stared down at her hand atop his and did nothing other than note the contrast between his dark skin and her caramel skin, his blunt-tipped fingers and her tapered, delicate ones, and the warmth of her body.

“Oh, and thank You for keeping us safe from the storm the other night, and for letting Nikolas find Skywalker. Please let his little wing heal quickly, Lord, and let—”

And then Sandro caved, because some fights couldn’t be won.

In one subtle move, his flipped his hand over so that they were palm to palm, but that wasn’t enough. So he laced their fingers together and held on tight, rubbing his thumb over the fine skin on the back of her hand, marking every vein and bone.

Her lids flew open and he heard the sudden hitch in her breath.

It was stunning. The contact, the fit, the heat—all of it.

Absolutely mind-blowing.

“—And, ah, we ask all of this in the, ah, name of Your son, our Savior. Amen.”

They all stirred, raising their heads and opening their eyes, but he was already on the move. He dropped her hand as though it was a live grenade, surged to his feet and slid off the bench.

What the hell was he doing?

“Is there any blackberry jam?” He headed to the pantry with no real awareness of anything except the haunting intensity of her bewildered gaze as it continued to skewer him between the shoulder blades. “French toast needs blackberry jam.”

Chapter 8

T
hey attacked their plates—the men did, anyway—with only their appreciative smacking and grunting to break the silence. It was so great to have a homemade meal that was both hot and delicious that it took Sandro a moment to realize that Skylar was not shoveling it down like they were. She was, in fact, eyeing them with wary amusement.

“There is more,” she told them. “So you can take the time to chew.”

“Put me down for more,” Nikolas said around a mouthful.

“Me, too,” Mickey said, slurping orange juice.

Skylar laughed—she had a great laugh, husky and earthy—and hunkered down over her plate, protecting it with her arms. “You’re not getting mine, though. So make sure you steer clear.”

“No promises,” Nikolas said.

The two of them grinned across the table at each other like old pals, which was a shocker. Not because Nikolas liked Skylar, but because Nikolas was smiling. When had he last done that in Sandro’s presence? Six months ago? Longer?

“This is great,” Sandro told Skylar. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. It’s the least I can do after you’ve taken care of me.”

“True,” Sandro said.

She reached for her coffee, laughing. “On the other hand, I was injured on your property, so you can expect to hear from my lawyer when I get out of here.”

“Seems to me you assumed the risk when you went out into the storm.” Sandro slathered more jam on his French toast and swirled a slice of bacon on it. “Not the brightest idea you ever had.”

“You may have a point,” Skylar said.

“And speaking of you getting out of here, the crew is working on our tree next. I walked down there this morning to check on their progress. So you won’t be stuck much longer.”

“Funny,” she said. “I don’t feel stuck. I’ve never been in such a beautiful house.”

Was the house beautiful? It’d been so long since he’d had any pleasure here that it was hard to tell. “Thanks.”

“It must take a lot of work, though. A house this age, right on the shore.”

“It does.” He looked across at Nikolas, who was chugging orange juice like he was at a keg party. “And that reminds me. After we eat, I’ll need your help cleaning the muck and debris away from the pool and garden—”

“Wait—
what?
” Horror made Nikolas’s jaw drop. He thunked his glass on the table and swiped his wet mouth with the back of his hand.

The kid was a disaster. “Napkin,” Sandro muttered.

Nikolas, as usual, ignored him. “Why do I have to help with that crap? That’s Mickey’s job, isn’t it?”

“Hey!” Mickey reached out and smacked him on the back of his head. “Have some manners with your old man, why don’t ya?”

“Hey!” Nikolas raised his arms to fend him off.

“Thanks, Mick,” Sandro said. “But I’ll be the one to physically abuse my son.”

“Well, get to it!” Mickey said.

Sandro shot him a
shut the hell up
look and turned back to his son, who was, as far as he was concerned, the root of all problems in this house. “I know you’re busy, what with school being canceled and sleeping until noon and whatnot, but in case you missed it, we got hit with a major storm and the property is a mess. We all need to help.”

“I had plans!” Nikolas cried.

Sandro stared at him. “How is that possible since you’re grounded and, even if you weren’t grounded, the roads are blocked and you and your thuggish friends don’t have a helicopter at your disposal?”

“I was going to practice my drums this afternoon! You
know
that!”

Sandro shrugged, feeling his blood pressure tick higher and wondering, for the billionth time, how he’d raised a kid who was both this lazy and this ungrateful. “Well, tragic though this will be for music lovers worldwide, you can put your music on the shelf for a little while and practice later.”

Nikolas huffed and shoved his plate away, rattling the silver. “Unbelievable!”

“That I have a son this lazy?” Sandro wondered. “Yeah. It is.”

“Mom never made me do stuff like that.”

“I know. And look how well you’ve turned out so far.”

“My friends don’t have to put up with this kind of crap, either!”

Like that was persuasive. Please. Relaxing his scowl, Sandro worked hard on keeping a lid on his spiking temper. Why didn’t this kid know when to shut up? Why couldn’t he show even the most basic amount of respect for his father? Why’d he have to try to make Sandro look like a punk in front of Skylar?

“Your friends are a bunch of spoiled rich kids who wouldn’t know a hard day’s work if it bit them in the ass. Luckily for you, you’ve got me to straighten you out and make sure you become a contributing member of society.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not doing it. I’ll practice first, and then I’ll—”

What? Did this knucklehead actually think he’d get away with telling Sandro
no?

“Enough,”
Sandro roared, smacking his palms on the table and making all the plates rattle. “We’re going outside in ten minutes, and if you’re not there—”

“I’m not sure what your father’s about to say, Nikolas,” Skylar interjected quietly, “but we’ve got some thawing steaks that I’d planned to grill for dinner later. Only those males who’ve worked up a sweat will be served. Got it? Thanks. Now help me with these dishes.”

With that, she stood, stacked a bunch of plates and limped toward the sink.

Nikolas stared after her, still fuming.

“Let’s go,” Skylar said, now running water.

“Fine,” Nikolas grumbled. “Shit.”

If Nikolas had thought she couldn’t hear him, he was sadly mistaken. Skylar turned off the water, turned to stare at Nikolas over her shoulder, and raised one delicate eyebrow. “What did you say?”

Nikolas shrank back like a startled turtle. “Ah…nothing.”

“Ma’am,” Sandro supplied, working hard to stifle his grin. On the one hand, he was irritated to be shown up, yet again, by this injured woman. On the other hand, anyone who shrank The Beast down to size without yelling was a hero in his book.

“Ma’am,” Nikolas added. Hustling now, he stacked plates and grabbed silverware, making a racket.

Skylar frowned. “Don’t you break anything.”

“No,” Nikolas said, heading for the sink. “Ma’am.”

Across the table, Sandro and Mickey grinned at each other.

Whoa.

All of a sudden, Skylar didn’t feel so hot, which was what she got for making like Wonder Woman, taking a walk and then the whole breakfast thing. Her head waited until the menfolk trooped outside for yard cleanup before it started protesting, which was just as well because she didn’t want anyone fussing and acting like she was an invalid. She wasn’t. She just needed a nap.

After a final kitchen wipe down and a quick check on Skywalker—who’d finally stopped screeching, fluffed out his feathers and buried his beak in his chest for a rest—she headed into the foyer toward the stairs and—

Whoa.

The room did a pirouette.

Pressing a hand to her head in a vain attempt to master the sudden dizziness, she decided against the stairs. Maybe the chair right here was a better option.

“Skylar.”

Feet thundered down the stairs, adding to her general feeling of wooziness, and then Sandro came into view, his eyes so wide and alarmed you’d think she had a hatchet buried in her skull.

“You okay? I knew you were doing too much, chasing after birds and cooking food and who knows what else. No one told you to get carried away. You need to sit down.”

As usual, any suggestion of weakness pissed her off. “I am sitting down, genius,” she snapped. She smacked his hands away when he tried to assist her as she rose from the chair and began a slow hobble to the living-room sofa, where she could stretch out. “If you want to help, why don’t you get me a glass of water?”

“Skylar—”

She pointed to the kitchen. “Go. And hurry up about it.”

With a harsh sigh and several dark mutterings that included words like
stubborn, pain in the ass
and
hardheaded,
he strode into the kitchen just as her strength gave out. She collapsed onto the sofa in a heap, closed her eyes, and fought back the aches and pains.

After a second, she began to relax. Better. That was better.

“Here.” Sandro was back, taking up his usual post on the sofa at her hip. “Drink this. And I brought you some Tylenol.”

Oh, thank God. She was not, for once, planning to argue.

Sitting up, she took the pills and drank her water like an obedient patient, and he watched her the whole time in a taut silence.

“Thanks,” she murmured, laying her head back on the pillow and closing her eyes. “Don’t worry. I’m okay.”

“I don’t think you are.”

“Don’t you have yard work to do?”

“You’re not going to die on my watch, are you, Sky?”

There was a little too much urgency in his voice now, much more than the situation warranted. Though her throbbing head didn’t like it, she looked up at him and saw, in his stark expression, all the loss he’d endured as a combat veteran, and all the grief. How many times in his life had he sat with someone who was injured, perhaps dying? How much tragedy had he seen? And here she’d scared him again.

“No.” Holding his gaze until he began to breathe easier, she smiled as much as her tired body would allow. “I’m not going to die on you.”

He tried to smile back. “Good.”

They stared at each other. He was way too close, leaning over her in a protective stance, with one of his arms braced on the back of the sofa over her. His worried tension was gone, but another kind of tension was building within him, strong enough for her to feel it. It was the two warring sides of his nature, she realized, his honorable half—or maybe it was simply the wounded half that had seen too much in the war—and the half that wanted her.

She now knew, beyond question, that he did want her.

It burned in his eyes every time he looked at her.

“I should—” his focus dipped, lingering on her mouth “—I should get going. They’re waiting for me outside.”

“Okay.”

“You’ll stay put, right? I don’t want you to get it into your head to climb up on the roof and replace the damaged shingles, or anything like that.”

“No,” she promised.

“Good.”

He started to get up.

“Sandro,” she said.

He waited, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Yes?”

Don’t leave me. Touch me. Kiss me. Forget that I was ever with Tony; that was all a mistake, anyway.

If only she were brave enough to share all of that.

“I…I’m a PK. A preacher’s kid. Did you know that?”

His brow quirked. “Ah…no.”

“My dad was a strict disciplinarian. Everything I did was a reflection on him, and the congregation was watching.”

Sandro stilled, saying nothing to this non sequitur.

“I didn’t appreciate the demands. So I dyed my hair jet black. Became a Goth princess. Snuck out at night. Drank. Are you getting the picture?”

Sandro said nothing; even his breathing and blinking seemed suspended.

“Everything I did, for years, was in reaction to his disapproval. It wasn’t about me being a bad person. It was about me needing something from him that he never gave me. That’s how teenagers are.”

“I, ah—” Sandro looked away, clearing his gruff throat. “My whole life, I’ve only been good at one thing. Being a soldier. Then I got injured in the explosion that killed Tony, and now—”

“I understand.”

His head whipped back around, and there was a fragile glimmer of hope in his eyes. “You do?”

“Yes. But now is your chance to reinvent yourself and learn how to be good at other things.”

That intense gaze of his softened, creating sexy little crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Displaying the tenderness that she’d come to expect from him, he stood, grabbed a fringed blanket from the back of the nearest chair, and arranged it over her.

“Close your eyes, Sky,” he told her. “Take a nap.”

She drifted off, thinking that when he looked at her like that, she could almost believe that she mattered to him. A lot.

“This should do it,” the foreman, or whoever he was, said late that afternoon, signaling to the person operating the cherry picker, or whatever that truck thing was. “Bring it this way.”

Skylar, Sandro, Nikolas and Mickey were gathered at the end of the driveway, watching the proceedings from a safe distance. Several hard-hat and reflective-vest-wearing workers had descended on the tree midafternoon, wielding chainsaws, ladders and all manner of other dangerous equipment, including a vicious wood chipper that looked like it could dispose of an entire log cabin in under ten seconds.

After several hours of work, they’d pruned and whittled the offending branch, and were now poised to lift it off the car with the crane thingy. Soon, the road would be clear and Skylar could be driven to a car rental or airport, so she could escape back to Boston, where she belonged.