Future Perfect (2 page)

He smelled like the outdoors, like the pine trees on the top of Sleeping Giant Mountain, like sun block, baby shampoo, and clean sweat. There was a touch of city about him, too. She could smell a trace of gasoline, or maybe it was oil, and an echo of stale cigarette smoke, as if he’d recently spent time with a heavy smoker. He didn’t smoke himself. Juliana knew that without a
doubt. His mouth was inches from hers and smelled only sweet. Like apple cider.

He must’ve stopped at Greene’s Orchards just a few moments ago, Juliana realized, feeling oddly off balance.

Large fingers gently took the bowl from her hands, and still she couldn’t find the words or the will to protest.

She turned her head to look up at him, and time seemed to stand still. It was only a few seconds, but it seemed like hours, days, centuries that she stood there, gazing into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. They were an unreal shade of pure, deep crystal-blue, framed by sinfully long, dark lashes. Those eyes dominated his face. And his wasn’t a face easily dominated. High cheekbones gave him an exotic cast. Thick, wavy black hair tumbled over a broad forehead. He had a straight nose, a strong chin, and a mouth … His lips were sensuous and beautifully shaped. Fascinated, she watched as he slowly moistened his lips with his tongue.

And still he held her tightly. She’d turned so that she faced him, and she could feel his thighs pressing against her. Long thighs, lean thighs … This man was tall. Juliana couldn’t remember the last time she’d met a man that she couldn’t stare down nose to nose. But judging from the crick in her neck, this man had to be at least six and a half feet tall.

His grip on her tightened, and she looked up into his eyes again. The sharp, crystal blue had somehow become softer, gentler, and she knew without a doubt that unless she moved quickly, he was going to kiss her.

She pulled away, eyes wide, feeling a flush creep into her cheeks.

“God almighty,” he said, his voice a rich, husky baritone. “You’re so beautiful.”

She felt her color deepen. Unable to speak, she snatched the plate of pancakes and the bowl of fruit from the sideboard and disappeared into the dining room.

Catching a glimpse of herself in the gilt-framed mirror that hung on one wall of the dining room, Juliana was amazed at how calm and composed she appeared. Her face was slightly flushed, but the heat from cooking often did that. Redness in her cheeks didn’t necessarily mean that a rough, handsome stranger had waltzed into her kitchen and grabbed her.

“More coffee?” she murmured, filling Mrs. Edgewood’s cup with decaf.

How
dare
he come into her kitchen like that.

“Do sit down, dear,” Mrs. Edgewood urged.

“One more trip to the kitchen,” Juliana said, years of practice keeping her smile serene. “And this one will be the last. I promise.”

She put the coffee pot back on the sideboard and pushed the kitchen door open. When the door swung shut behind her, the man was still standing in the same spot.

He was wearing a worn pair of jeans, stained and grimy with grease—that was where the oil smell came from, Juliana realized. Over a dark T-shirt, he wore an unbuttoned plaid flannel shirt. The sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms, and veins and tendons stood out against long, sinewy muscles. His hair was too short to pull back at the nape of his neck, but too long to be called short. It curled wildly about his head as if he
hadn’t bothered to comb it after waking up. And he looked as if he hadn’t shaved in at least three days.

Yet somehow he managed to be the most attractive man she’d ever laid eyes on.

He looked back at her steadily, his deep-blue eyes still soft, his expression oddly uncertain.

Juliana felt another burst of anger—anger at herself for continuing to be attracted to this man. With very little difficulty, she managed to redirect her anger at him.

“Do you always manhandle unsuspecting women?” she asked, her voice low, but her tone unmistakably disapproving.

His expression shifted slightly. She saw disappointment flit across his face before his eyes seemed to harden, to crystallize. He smiled slightly, with just one corner of his mouth. “I ‘manhandled’ you so you wouldn’t drop that beautiful glass bowl,” he said, his controlled, accentless voice contradicting his roughshod appearance. “Why on earth are you using it for breakfast? It should be in a museum.”

Was he an antique dealer? Juliana wondered, then quickly rejected the idea. If he were, he would have dressed to the nines, not come here looking as if he’d spent the past few days working underneath a car. And he would have pretended the bowl was depression glass and tried to get it away from her for forty dollars or less.

“Are you Alicia?” he asked, his piercing gaze sweeping the length of her, missing no detail. It was all Juliana could do to keep from checking to see that her blouse was properly tucked in. “We spoke on the phone.”

“No,” she said, her tone matching his, just as polite. “I’m Miss Anderson, Miss Dupree’s niece. You must be
here to deliver the firewood. Please, just dump it next to the woodshed. Good day.”

Juliana turned to go back through the swinging door, but he caught her arm. His large fingers seemed to burn her through the thin cotton of her blouse.

She looked at him in alarm. His smile was slightly mocking, as if he was well aware that his touch made her pulse quicken.

“I’m not here to deliver wood,” he said. “I’m here to check in.”

Juliana stared pointedly at his hand until he released her. She didn’t allow her face to reveal the flurry of emotions passing through her. “Check-in’s not until two o’clock, Mr.…?” She let her voice trail off so he could fill in the missing name.

“Donovan,” he said, and her heart sank down to her toes. “Webster Donovan.”

Six weeks, Juliana realized. Six weeks of being harassed, of having her clothing removed piece by piece by his eyes, the way he was doing right now.

“Do you always dress this way?” he asked.

“I could ask the same question of you,” she replied tartly, chin up, meeting his exploring eyes almost defiantly.

He looked down at his grubby jeans, frowning slightly, “Oh yeah,” he said, his voice apologetic. “Give me some time, and I assure you, I’ll look better.” He shot her a dangerous smile, an amused light in his eyes, and Juliana had to look away. He knew how good he looked, damn him, even splattered with grease the way he was.

“I was expecting you last night, Mr. Donovan,” she said disapprovingly, trying hard to regain control over a conversation that was rapidly galloping away from her.

“I was expecting to
be
here last night,” he said. “But I had car trouble. And, please, my friends call me Web.”

“I see.” Juliana pulled an extra place setting from the neatly stacked cabinets. “As long as you’re here, Mr. Donovan—” she stressed the formal use of his full name “—why don’t you join us for breakfast?”

“I had an Egg McMuffin in Stockbridge,” Webster said.

“I can assure you,” Juliana said, somewhat haughtily, “fast food can’t be compared to the meals at this bed and breakfast.”

He laughed. It was a low chuckle, a soft, sexy, lethal sound that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She kept her eyes carefully averted, not daring to look up into his handsome face.

“To tell you the truth,” he said, “I’d much rather skip breakfast and get right to the bed part.”

She did look at him then, more than slightly shocked.

There was nothing in the tone of his voice that implied the double entendre, but his smile and his eyes were so unmistakably suggestive, his stance so masculine—

“Your room isn’t ready,” she said abruptly, putting the dishes on the counter with a clatter. “And I have to join my guests. Please feel free to use the sitting room or the front parlor until I’ve finished breakfast.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and went out into the dining room.

Web stood staring, long after she had disappeared. He must be more tired than he’d thought. Why else would he be feeling so bothered by that encounter?

Yeah, okay, so she was beautiful. Big deal. He knew more than his share of beautiful women. But he closed his eyes, remembering the feel of her body against his.

For a moment, he’d actually believed that he’d finally met a woman he could fall in love with. For a moment, he’d actually believed that he could fall in love, that he’d even want to.

Hell, for an earth-shattering moment, he’d even believed in love at first sight.

He drew in a deep, shaky breath.

Shaky?

He frowned. He was exhausted, and the fatigue was really throwing him off center. No sir, love had nothing to do with—God, he didn’t even know her first name! Miss Anderson, she’d called herself.

He pushed open the door to the dining room. She was sitting at the end of the table, at the far side of the room. She glanced up only briefly before she looked away, pink tingeing her fair complexion.

Web’s chest tightened sharply just at the sight of her. He forced himself to turn away, to walk slowly out of the room. But he stopped at the doorway and looked back. She was watching him, her greenish eyes apprehensive.

The same tight sensation gripped him as their eyes met again, and instantly he knew what was making him feel so odd. It was desire, lust, animal magnetism. He wanted her.

And he might not have believed in love at first sight, but he sure as hell believed in lust at first sight.

Juliana quickly put the milk and other perishables into the refrigerator and untied the apron from her waist before she went looking for Mr. Donovan.

The sitting room was empty, and the front entry hall held a large battered suitcase and three huge computer boxes, but no sign of Webster Donovan.

She opened the heavy front door and stepped out onto the wide, wraparound porch. The air was still chill enough for her breath to hang in front of her. No, he wasn’t out here either.

Back inside the house, she started up the curving staircase, heading for the library. When Juliana had first started this business, the library had been her fifth guest bedroom. But she’d soon found that she didn’t need the extra money once a dent had been made in the improvement loan payments. And the difference between having eight potential guests and ten was immense when it came to cooking and laundry. Besides, she needed a place to keep all of Alicia’s books.

Alicia was going to turn eighty in two more years, and Juliana was convinced that her great-aunt hadn’t thrown a single book away since she learned to read at age three and a half. It had been Alicia who’d opened up the world
of literature, of books, to Juliana. Alicia had opened up a great deal more than that, Juliana knew, but the gift of reading was the most precious to them both.

And who would’ve thought, she mused, still impressed by the walls of shelves that started at the floor and led all the way up to the high tin ceiling, filled with books of all topics, shapes and sizes, who would’ve thought that she would ever own a house that held a library this size?

She took another step into the room, then stopped.

There was a sound. She paused, listening. It was the slow, steady sound of breathing.

It was Webster Donovan, and he was lying on his back on the couch that sat underneath the window. One arm was up over his handsome face, his eyes buried in the crook of his elbow. His other hand rested on his broad chest. Both of his feet were still on the floor, as if he had been too tired to pull them up.

Or as if he knew his worn-out cowboy boots didn’t belong on her antique furniture, Juliana grudgingly admitted. So maybe he wasn’t
entirely
mannerless, although sleeping like this in one of her public rooms didn’t win him any points. The way he was dressed, he looked little better than a vagrant, and his presence would keep the rest of her guests out of the elegant library. And that certainly wasn’t fair.

“Mr. Donovan,” she said, her voice low but clear.

He didn’t move.

Juliana took a step closer. “Mr. Donovan.” Louder this time. “Please wake up.”

His hand twitched very slightly.

Why was it that Alicia was always off on one of her trips at times like these? Juliana sighed. All right. She
was going to have to touch him. So she’d touch his arm, wake him up, then quickly jump out of range.

Another step, and Juliana was close enough to breathe in his masculine scent. Sweet heavens, he smelled good.
But she wasn’t just an animal in heat
, she reminded herself.
This man may have been handsome, but he was also conceited, rude, and extremely forward. Even if she wanted a man around—which she didn’t—she’d never pick this one, not in a million years
,
despite how good he smelled
.

She touched his shoulder tentatively. “Mr. Donovan?”

The man was asleep.

She shook him slightly. No response.

She shook him harder.

His arm came down, but his eyes were still closed. “Aw, honey,” he mumbled, turning onto his side. “C’mon back to bed.”

Juliana felt her cheeks start to turn red. “Wake up,” she said, shaking his shoulder again.

He reached out and caught her hand, pulling it toward his mouth. His lips caressed the delicate pulse at her wrist. Then his tongue tasted the palm of her hand in a wildly intimate gesture. “Babe, you smell so good,” he murmured. His voice was low and raspy from sleep.

Juliana pulled her hand away as if she’d been burned. “My name isn’t babe. Or honey,” she said crossly, wondering how on earth she was going to wake this man up. A cold bucket of water in his face would do wonders for her soul, but the antique couch he was sleeping on and the Oriental rug underneath wouldn’t fare quite so well.

“What else am I supposed to call you?” he said softly, and quite lucidly. “You never told me your first name.”

He was awake. His blue eyes were open, with more than a touch of amusement in their crystalline depths.

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t sleep in the public rooms,” she said. Her voice was crisp, businesslike.

He pulled himself into a sitting position, and she took an involuntary step backwards. Which, of course, he noticed.