Taming Tess (The St. John Sibling Series) Read online

  The son of Franklin and Son Men's Emporium, no doubt.

  Young Franklin ushered her toward a glassed in case at the back of the store. Discreetly shelved behind the display cases in neat stacks was the men's underwear. No wonder the elder Franklin just about swallowed his face when she asked about men's jockey shorts.

  "What size do you require, Miss?"

  "Thirty-fours."

  "Jockey style you said, correct?"

  "Yes." At least junior didn't suffer the same queasiness about talking underwear with a woman as did the senior Franklin.

  Young Franklin handed her a packaged threesome that were definitely superior to the brand she'd turned pink. But that wasn't the reason she'd ventured into the Men's Emporium. She just hadn't put her finger on what she'd thought she'd find in a small town store that specialized in men's wear.

  "Perhaps madam would like colored."

  She smiled at junior. "Perhaps I would."

  Junior set another package on the counter next to the white ones. "We stock navy as well."

  Tess' smile faded. Much as buying Roman colored shorts would serve him right for waking her out of a dead sleep before dawn to complain about pink shorts, navy just didn't seem a strong enough statement.

  As though reading her mind, Junior supplied, "If you don't mind a less familiar brand, we do stock a more…adventurous selection."

  "Adventurous?"

  She must have revealed her interest in the inflection of her voice as Junior's thin lips curled conspiratorially at their outer corners. "I think I have just what you want down here."

  He nodded for her to follow him to the far end of the glassed display case where he retrieved a plastic box from the base of the display case.

  "I keep these in stock for special clients." Junior lifted the lid off the box.

  Tess stared at the assortment of men's underwear in the box. Leopard print briefs, slick skimpy silks, and…There to one side, little more than a black string…Tess grinned and plucked the thong underwear from the box and dangled it in the air to her own and Junior's delight.

  "I think these will do nicely."

  #

  Roman stepped out of the shower and toweled off. At least the hot water had eased some of the day's tension from his shoulders, tension that had started first thing this morning with the discovery of his pink shorts.

  Then the lumberyard had shorted his order. Banking during his lunch hour, he discovered the deposit check on the current job had bounced. It'd taken two hours to track down the client and straighten out the finances. Delays he didn’t need when he was already short-handed due to Cousin Raymond's light duty status until his thumb was fully healed.

  Roman knotted the towel around his waist and headed across the hall to his room. To cap his day off, he'd met Tess at The Castle only to be stood up by the Fire Marshal. Her Royal Pain in the Butt had screeched like a howler monkey all the while he was on his cell phone tracking down the Fire Marshal who, it turned out, had ended up in the emergency room being treated for an allergic reaction to a bee sting. What more could go wrong?

  He eyed his underwear drawer. Let there be clean, white shorts in there for tomorrow.

  He opened the drawer. It was empty.

  "God help you, Tess Abbot, if you haven't bought me any shorts."

  Roman charged up the steps and hit the upstairs bedroom door with a fist. The door flew open, catching Tess in the middle of shimmying into a close-fitting camisole.

  In the instant it took Roman to register her state of undress, in the instant before he turned his back on her, her image burned into his mind. The sweetly tapered back his hands had stroked four nights ago. The gentle curve of the spine his fingers had mapped. The blood red rose at the base of that spine peeking at him from the lacey edge of a mere scrap of pale yellow panty.

  Roman tried to force the image of Tess Abbot's nearly naked body from his head…and his tingling fingertips…and the male member twitching beneath his bath towel.

  "Twice in one day, St. John? Is this going to be a habit with you?"

  "Sorry," he muttered over his shoulder. "I knocked."

  "Once."

  "The door swung open before I could knock a second time," he said.

  "This being your house, I'd have thought you'd be aware of all its little idiosyncrasies, like an ill-fitting catch."

  "I said I was sorry," he growled, turning and advancing on her, too late remembering the state of undress she'd been in when he'd burst into the room. At least she'd put on a robe, the short, slinky one that barely covered her and that scrap of yellow panty.

  He forced himself to think about the business at hand, his shorts…or rather the lack of them and demanded, "Where are my shorts?"

  "You said you would not wear pink shorts. I got rid of them."

  "I also asked you to buy me new shorts today."

  "You didn't ask, you ordered."

  "Ordered. Asked. Whatever. Just tell me you bought me new underwear."

  "I bought you new underwear, St. John."

  "Where are they?"

  "Right here," she purred, lifting an ominously small bag from the clutter of female products on top of the dresser.

  He read the black lettering on the green paper bag. "You bought me underwear from the Men's Emporium?"

  He snatched the bag from her fingers. "There are cheaper places to shop."

  "But Franklin and Son Men's Emporium has the finest quality."

  Roman frowned at the bag that barely filled his palm. "What'd you do, buy me just one pair of shorts?"

  "Of course not. I bought you six."

  He dug in the bag, his frown deepening as he pulled out one of the thongs. "What the hell is this?"

  "A thong," she chimed. "It's the latest thing in undergarments for men as well as for women." She pulled another thong from the bag and stretched out the narrow cord that comprised the back of the garment. "See. It leaves no panty line."

  "Do I look like a man concerned with panty lines?"

  She glanced down at the towel barely covering his modesty. He resisted the urge to fold his hands over the place where the family jewels twitched in protest. His heart and mind may be willing to abstain, but that conscienceless part of his anatomy didn't like being out of commission.

  "Okay. You've had your fun," he muttered. "Now where are the real shorts?"

  "These are as real as you're going to get."

  "You can't be serious."

  "You commanded me to buy you shorts. I bought you shorts."

  He dangled the thong in her face. "These do not qualify as jockey shorts."

  "The man at Franklin's considered them shorts."

  "Junior no doubt. He's into alternatives. Just ask his significant other, Vincent. I'm not."

  "Variety is the spice of life."

  "I'll spice up my life in my own way, thank you very much."

  "Ah yes. Ski jumper and world class ski instructor. Had yourself quite a run in your oat sowing days, didn’t you? Got it all out of your system?"

  "All out of my system. You got it."

  "Put all your little boy toys away, huh?"

  "It's the sort of thing grown-ups do."

  "And what is your grown up idea of spicing up life? Taking out the garbage on Tuesday instead of Friday? Or maybe it's the day you rotate your mattress?"

  Mattress. Bed. That's where he wanted to be. In his bed. Him and Tess Abbot between the sheets. How was that for grown up thoughts?

  More like his thoughts had just taken a bad turn into Never-Never-Land.

  "Look," he prodded more gently, "I don't suppose I could talk you into washing out the few white shorts I have."

  "How about you wash your own shorts?" she simpered back at him.

  "It's late. I need to get some sleep. I have to be on the site tomorrow by five a.m. What if I throw them in the washer and you toss them into the dryer when they're done?"

  She yawned. "I'd like to help you out, St. John. But somebody woke m
e up this morning at the crack of dawn. I just can't seem to keep my eyes open."

  "Just tell me where the pink shorts are."

  "In the garbage."

  "Fine." He turned for the steps.

  "Not your garbage."

  He regarded her narrowly. "What do you mean, not my garbage?"

  "Given your hyper-sensitivity to the color pink, I thought it prudent that I didn't put them in your garbage. Wouldn't want anyone getting the wrong idea about you, now would we?"

  "Where are they?"

  "I put them in my garbage."

  "At The Castle?"

  "That's where my garbage is and I do have a lot of garbage these days, thanks to you."

  Roman groaned. "What the hell am I supposed to wear for underwear tomorrow?"

  Tess dangled the thong in front of his face.

  "That is not going to fit me."

  She slid her hand into the front pocket of the thong, flexing her fingers until she stretched the silky sack to capacity. "Feels like the perfect fit to me."

  And she would know. She'd handled him to a fever pitch only a few nights ago on the very spot where he now stood. He tensed just thinking about the silky exploration of her fingers around his…

  He snatched the thong from her fingers and wheeled for the steps.

  "Sweet dreams," she called after him.

  The bag full of thongs crushed in his fist.

  CHAPTER TEN

  "You're walking kinda funny there, Roman," Cousin Raymond said. "Did the black widow finally castrate you?"

  He walked away without comment. That was the sort of thing Roman had contended with all day. Though none of the guys had guessed the real reason he walked funny was because he wore thong underwear that felt like more like a rope between his butt cheeks. But they all knew about Tess staying at his house, thanks to Brody telling Raymond.

  Roman climbed into his truck. It would be a cold day in hell before he trusted Brody with any more of his secrets.

  He started the truck and turned it in the direction of The Bargain Mart. He'd buy his own damn underwear, Tess Abbot and her thongs be damned.

  Though, by afternoon, he had begun to get used to the coarse scrape of denim against his backside and the slick slip and slide of the thong pocket cradling his most personal assets. At the oddest moments, he'd recall the way his houseguest had nestled her fingers into the sack of the thong, fingers she'd once closed around his arousal.

  The memory made him jerk within the slick pouch--made him recall how she'd stood over him naked, wet, and ready. He wanted to chase the harpy away and make Tess Abbot abandon herself to that passionate woman who'd been intent on taking him on the floor of his guestroom. What would she do if he walked into the house, caught her up in his arms, and kissed her?

  She’d probably smack him into next week.

  He grimaced. He didn't need any more blows to his ego. She'd battered that enough in the weeks since they met to last him a lifetime.

  The lit sign for The Bargain Mart loomed to his right. He slammed on his brakes and careened into the parking lot. Hell, even thinking about the woman made him forget what he was doing. Tess Abbot was definitely hands off.

  #

  She'd bought the thong underwear to spite Roman, only to find herself caught up by their arousing properties.

  Troublesome man or not, she'd spent a restless night dreaming of her irksome contractor. Even a long day calling around for estimates on services and materials, couldn't keep her mind from wandering to Roman. No two ways about it, she wanted him enough to jeopardize her independence. Then again, if the attraction was purely sexual…

  That last was what she was banking on when Roman's truck rumbled into the driveway. Tess turned from what she was doing at the stove with its steaming pots and toward the front door. Her father had often said, "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach."

  Not that she was interested in Roman's heart as anything more than a mean to a much lower part of his anatomy.

  Outside, a truck door slammed. Tess smoothed her hands down the back of The Bargain Mart shorts. Just in case her father was as wrong about men's stomachs as he was about her, she'd dressed to appeal to that targeted male piece of anatomy. The pink short shorts and crop-top set from the Bargain Mart.

  Roman walked in, plaid shirt slung over one shoulder, thermos caught between one big hand and a lean hip, and Bargain Mart bag dangling from his fingers. He stutter-stepped to a halt, his gaze fix on her bare midriff. Bingo. Why had she bothered with kettles and hot water?

  Then his gaze lifted to the stove behind her and he grimaced. "You're cooking?"

  "Relax, St. John," she said. "It's spaghetti."

  He raised an eyebrow at her.

  "I can boil pasta."

  He hung his shirt on the peg by the door, circled the table away from her, dropped his thermos by the sink, and stopped in front of the stove.

  "The sauce smells…good," Roman said, his voice edged with astonishment.

  "It should," she returned acidly. "It's yours."

  Roman looked at her, that quizzical eyebrow raised once more.

  "I found it in your freezer."

  "In that case," he said, sounding far too relieved, "supper should be edible."

  "Just go wash up," she muttered.

  Roman tossed his bag of short on his bed then escaped into the bathroom. Slumping against the sink, he promptly suffered the pinch of an over-stimulated libido. He jerked back from the unyielding edge of the sink, scowled, and turned on the faucet.

  The minute he'd spied Tess in that belly button baring, leg revealing outfit, he'd wanted to throw her down across the kitchen table and nibble his way from one end of her to the other. Or maybe he'd have started with that ring piercing her belly button.

  Yeah. He'd have started with that gleaming gold ring, then move to her creamy white skin. Aah, but in which direction to move? Upward to the underside of her sweet mounded breasts teasing him from the loose bottom of the cropped top or…downward? That path would be barred by the elastic waistband of the shorts…which he would chew through with the speed of a skill saw.

  He tightened, filling the silk pouch, the caress of that slick fabric reminding him of her fingers around him. He should have hung those gray shorts back on The Bargain Mart rack with the pink set that had reminded him of cotton candy and nibbling the sweet confection from--

  Roman groaned and shoved his hands into the steaming stream of water. Maybe a little blistered skin would keep his mind off Tess's skin…her very supple, very exposed skin. Smooth skin stretched across her flat stomach. Taut skin climbing from her polished red toenails to--

  Roman groaned again. It wasn't his hands that needed blistering. But he hadn't the stomach for self-mutilation, especially not to the extent required to evict Tess Abbot from where she'd burrowed under his skin. For a woman who'd decreed sex between the two of them a bad idea, she sure wasn't making it easy for him to ignore her succulent body.

  Or, maybe she didn't want to discourage him any longer. Maybe Tess Abbot was dishing up something besides a spaghetti dinner tonight. Maybe she was dishing up another dose of vengeance.

  His arousal pressed against the zipper of his jeans. The discomfort of metal teeth reminded him of the pain she could cause his ego. He'd just have to muzzle his lust through supper.

  He snorted. What he really wanted to muzzle was Tess' mouth.

  Her delicious mouth with its ripe lips.

  Roman groaned a third time and muttered at his reflection in the mirror above the sink, "Just get through supper without touching her. You can hold out that long."

  And the rest of the evening?

  He'd take a very cold shower then lock himself in his office.

  #

  Tess wanted to dump the kettle of boiling spaghetti over Roman's head instead of into the colander in the kitchen sink. She wanted to turn to him where he sat at the head of the table and conk him on the head with the heavy pot.


  She wanted to pour his precious spaghetti sauce into his lap.

  Then lick up every last drop.

  Tess struggled to stifle a moan. He'd insulted her cooking abilities and all but ignored her scant attire after that first reaction, and still she wanted him. She wanted him so badly she'd nearly bitten off her tongue to keep from saying what she really thought of his supper should be edible comment. Barbed comebacks were not conducive to seduction.

  She ladled a healthy portion of sauce onto the spaghetti and placed the bowl of pasta on the table next to the tossed salad she'd prepared earlier. Roman was frowning at the salad.

  "Something wrong?" she asked.

  "I didn't know I had any croutons in the house."

  "You didn't," she said sitting down opposite him. "I seasoned and toasted them from your old bread."

  "You seasoned them?"

  "I'm not totally inept in the kitchen."

  He raised a skeptical eyebrow at her.

  "I happen to mix a pretty mean salad."

  "But the croutons…" He eyed the salad on the table between them, his brow puckered above his eyes. "What did you season them with?"

  Rat poison. That's what almost rolled off her tongue.

  But she swallowed the comment. Seduction was tops on the menu for tonight, she reminded herself. Think sweet and non-confrontational. Think sexy, she silently prompted and smiled sweetly as she answered, "Garlic salt, sweet basil, and a little grated Parmesan."

  He peered closely at the salad, his frown deepening. "Furry little things, aren't they?"

  "For God's sake, Roman, they aren't poisoned." She snatched a crouton from the salad and popped it into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. "Satisfied?"

  He gave her a curious look.

  Some seduction. At this rate, she'd still be chasing him around when they were using walkers. Maybe this was her subconscious' way of telling her to give up.

  "Just eat your spaghetti before it gets cold," she grumbled.

  His frown shifted to the bowl of sauce drenched pasta.

  "Do I need to taste test the spaghetti to prove it’s not poisoned either?" she asked.