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  The shadow stepped further into the room. The candlelight caught him, revealing nothing more than a mere mortal man, possibly thirty, wearing a tool belt from which swung a hammer, a wrench, and an assortment of other tools.

  Hence the clinking.

  Cooper threw an amused look at Breanne, who remained utterly still for one instant before she blew out a short breath and struggled like a wildcat to get out of his lap.

  But because he was a sick, sick man, Cooper used his superior strength to hold her against him before craning his head toward the man in the doorway. “No flashlight, sorry.”

  “Well, fuck me,” Scottish said, and scratched his head. His red hair stood straight up. “I’m trying to get the generator up and running, straightaway.”

  “That’d be good,” Cooper said.

  “Power lines are down all over the bloody place. It’ll be days and days with no electricity if I don’t get the generator running.”

  Breanne looked horrified. “Days and days . . . ?”

  “Aye. Well, off I go, then.” With another scratch of his head, Scottish walked out.

  Step, clink.

  Step, clink.

  “If I call him back here,” Cooper whispered in her ear, “will you crawl up my body again?”

  “Oh!” she spit out. “You are so not a nice man!”

  “Are you sure? Because a minute ago you couldn’t get enough of me.”

  “Let me up!”

  Enjoying not only the squirming, but the lovely, warm feel of her butt rubbing against his crotch, Cooper did no such thing.

  “I said, let me go!”

  Grinning down at her, he easily held her against him. “Not until you say ‘thank you, Cooper, for saving my life.’ ”

  “You didn’t save my life!”

  “But you wanted me to.”

  She stared at him. “I can’t believe you can walk through a door with your head as swollen as it is.”

  And it wasn’t the only thing on him swollen, either. Her fidgeting was having another effect on him entirely, and given the way she went suddenly still, she knew. “What do you have in your pocket?” she demanded.

  He let his grin speak for itself.

  She ground her teeth together. “You. Are. Impossible.”

  “You’re the one wriggling around.” But careful to mind her knees and where she put them, he let her go.

  Jerking to her feet, she yanked down on the sweatshirt, which fell to her thighs and covered too much of her.

  His own fault, but it didn’t matter what she wore because he knew what lay beneath—a thin white tank top sans bra that outlined her breasts and mouthwatering nipples in such a way that he’d nearly swallowed his own tongue. And then there’d been those tiny panties—

  “Whatever you’re thinking about,” she said shakily, backing away to walk back around the table to her chair. “Stop. Stop it right now.”

  “Why?”

  She reached for her glass of wine, her hand shaking. “Because I’m on my honeymoon, remember?”

  “You didn’t get married today, remember?”

  “Yes. I do remember that part,” she said softly, face averted.

  Ah, hell. He was an ass, especially since he knew how she felt. He’d also once had a woman walk away from him.

  Only at least he’d seen it coming. Annie had chafed long and hard beneath the impossible hours Cooper had put in on his job. She’d broken under the strain only six months before he had, but she’d been long gone by the time he’d been free.

  It no longer mattered, though, because he still deeply resented how she’d never accepted that part of him. In fact, few had. “Look,” he said more gently, “consider it this way. The guy’s an idiot for letting you get away.”

  She snorted her agreement and poured herself more wine.

  “And anyway, in the long run, he did you a favor.”

  “Yeah? How’s that?”

  “He left you free to take advantage of the next best thing to come along.”

  She regarded him for a long moment, her bitterness and sadness draining away, replaced by a reluctant smile. “You know, just when I think you’re part of my worst nightmare, you go and say something almost human. And definitely profound.”

  He smiled and lifted his glass in a silent toast.

  “Days and days,” she murmured again after another long sip. “Can you imagine?”

  “It could be worse.”

  “How?”

  “You could be stuck here with your ex.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re very helpful tonight.”

  “I try.” He dug back into the cheese and crackers, and was well on his way to filling his rumbling belly when something hit him on the nose and landed on his plate.

  A grape.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  She looked it over. “I believe it’s a grape.”

  “I can see that, smart-ass. I’m wondering why it was bouncing off my nose.”

  “Gee, I haven’t a clue.” Looking as if she felt a great deal better, she rose. “Good night,” she said loftily, and grabbing her plate and the bottle of wine, headed toward the door, where she’d undoubtedly go sit in front of the warm, toasty fire while he climbed the dark stairs and had to light his own and wait for it to heat the room, hoping it did so before his balls froze off. “’Night,” he muttered, watching her curvy little bod practically quiver with her superiority. “Sleep tight. Oh, and . . .” He paused for effect. “Don’t let the monsters bite.”

  Her step faltered but she recovered, and with that pert little nose thrust high, kept going.

  Seven

  Don’t expect a man with a hard-on to be able to think; he doesn’t have enough blood to run both heads.

  —Breanne Mooreland’s journal entry

  Breanne kept her nose in the air until she left the formal dining room and found herself in the dark with nothing to guide her except for a faint glow from far down the hallway.

  The fire from inside the great room.

  Or so she hoped, anyway. She wished now she’d brought that vibrator as a flashlight instead of leaving it on the couch. Standing there all alone with the huge mansion surrounding her, the corners and far reaches unknown, she felt her belly quiver unpleasantly. “You’re a big girl,” she whispered to herself, and holding her plate and bottle of wine, took a tentative step toward the orange glow. “A big girl who’s calm in the face of adversity.” Another step. “A big girl who doesn’t believe in haunted houses or monsters—”

  Something creaked, probably just the house, but she jerked as if shot, then thought, the hell with this. She burst into a run, her wet boots squeaking, wine jostling, grapes flying, skidding to a halt just inside the great room. Panting, she shut the doors, then leaned back against them.

  In front of her, the fire crackled. The downy-soft leather couches looked inviting. Perfect for snuggling up on a night like this. She pushed away from the doors and headed toward them.

  Halfway there, the doors opened behind her, and with a startled gasp she whipped around, dropping both the plate and the bottle of wine.

  “Just me,” Shelly said quickly. “Sorry.”

  Right, just Shelly. Because there were no boogeymen or monsters anywhere in this house.

  Shelly crouched down to help pick up the dropped plate. “You okay?”

  “Sure.” Except now the wine had spilled. She really could have used the rest of that bottle. “Sorry about the mess.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s not my usual fare, anyway. Trust me, once the power comes back on and I feed you, you’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven.”

  “I’ll look forward to that.” She looked up when another woman appeared in the doorway.

  “Breanne, this is Lariana,” Shelly said. “She’s the maid here.”

  Lariana was not petite like Shelly or average like Breanne, but a tall, curvaceous, exotic creature, the kind women envied and men killed for. She wore tig