Who's Been Sleeping in My Bed? Read online

  “Rose Maguire hasn’t lived in this house for over two years.”

  “You’re lying.” Her eyes narrowed, and she scowled at him.

  “Now why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  Jake shifted his weight. The movement seemed to draw her eyes to his midsection.

  “Get off me. Now. You’re rude and obnoxious to boot.”

  Jake glanced down. Good grief. Her near-naked body had given him a major hard-on. What was up with that? Okay, stupid question, he knew what was up. Rolling off her, he snatched his jeans from the bedroom floor and pulled them on, keeping a suspicious eye on her the entire time.

  She grabbed the bed covers, providing a good view of a very fine ass before she swaddled herself in the sheet.

  “Who are you?” He stuffed his libido back in its box. He’d outgrown this type of behavior in his younger days.

  “I could ask that of you, too,” she shot back. She wasn’t giving in, not yet. He grudgingly admired her spunk.

  “Since you’re the trespasser, maybe you’d better answer me first.”

  “Harlee. Harlee Davis,” she muttered.

  “Harlee Davis?” She had to be pulling his leg.

  She squirmed and looked away. “My mother worked as a bartender in a biker bar.”

  “I see.” Actually, he didn’t. Not at all. Jake had never understood parents who made a joke out of their children’s names. Well, at least her last name wasn’t Davidson.

  “And I’m not a trespasser. I have every right to be here.”

  “You’re not Harlee Davis, the infamous Goldilocks Burglar?” He grinned, amused by his clever wit.

  She didn’t look amused. “I’m not a burglar. I didn’t steal anything.”

  “Sure you did. You stole my bed. Or—wait a minute…” His eyes glittered as he rubbed his chin. “This is joke, right? Did one of my brothers put you up to this?”

  “No,” she said adamantly. “I don’t know your brothers, nor do I want to if they’re like you.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. Let me see, it’s not my birthday. Christmas is almost two months away. This can’t be an island freebie. I’ve lived here too long for you to be the welcome wagon.” His eyes passed over her body. “Though, you do have a nice wagon.”

  “Are you always this insufferable?”

  “Usually I’m worse. But it’s late, and I’m tired. I’m not on my game.” Jake gave her one of his intimidation stares. “Okay, Harlee, tell me what you’re doing in my house before I call the police. And this better be good.”

  “This is—was my home. Rose is like family to me. I’ve always dropped in. Whenever.”

  “So you dropped in tonight?”

  “Literally.” The corners of her mouth lifted in a wry smile. Something stirred inside him. She really was beautiful in a rough way, sort of like a bargain-basement Madonna.

  “How’d you get in?”

  “I had a key, but I lost it, so I found an open window.”

  “You did break into my house.”

  “I didn’t break in. Not exactly. I didn’t know it was your house.” She glanced around the room and swallowed. “I can’t believe Rose sold this place.”

  He frowned, wondering if she was being straight with him. “When’s the last time you talked to Rose?”

  “I don’t know. A few years. I’ve been in Europe then Florida. I sent her a letter a few weeks ago and told her I’d be here. Did she go south for the winter?” Hope was written on her face.

  Jake ignored her question. “You didn’t wonder why you hadn’t heard from her in a while?” He was treading on an emotional mine field, and there was nothing worse than a blubbering woman.

  “Uh, no. We had a—falling out a few years ago.” Harlee twisted the sheet in her hands and made a strange, strangled noise deep in her throat.

  “But you still thought you could just show up on her doorstep?”

  “I need to see her. Where is she?”

  Jake hesitated. He wasn’t good at this kind of stuff. Yet, he didn’t see an out. Exhaling a deep breath, he blurted the truth. “I understand she died a few years ago.”

  “Died?” Her tough girl façade shattered like a whiskey bottle dropped on concrete. She turned her face away from his, put her hand over her mouth, and emitted something between a whimper and a sob. His heart wrenched at the pitiful sound in spite of his intent to remain detached. “How did it happen?”

  “Cancer, I think.” Jake raked a hand through his hair and studied a painting on the wall.

  Harlee fought back the tears, and he felt like a heel of the first order. “I’m sorry,” he offered lamely.

  She glared at him as if he’d murdered Rose with his bare hands. “What do you know about sorry?”

  Jake said nothing, not taking the bait. Given her emotional state, he’d better lie low and play it safe. Hell hath no fury, or something like that.

  Harlee leveled him a look that was half-defiant and half-devastated. “Can I leave now?”

  He moved away from the door. “Yeah. I won’t press charges.”

  “Thanks for small favors.”

  “Do you have somewhere to go?” Jake hated himself for asking. She wasn’t his concern.

  “Of course. I have lots of friends on this island.” Harlee lifted her chin, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I lived here, after all.”

  “Okay, then.” He took another step away from the door. She looked ready to cry, and he didn’t think he could handle that. Sucker that he was, he’d do something stupid like invite her to stay—indefinitely. The sooner she left his house, the sooner he could get some sleep. It’d been a rough night.

  Why did he have this feeling it was about to get rougher?

  * * * *

  Harlee choked back a sob, trying to swallow it along with her grief. She couldn’t let this guy see her break down. No one saw the cracks in her armor. She pulled the blankets higher on her neck as if revealing her body revealed her soul.

  Rose was dead? She felt awful. Horrible. Sick to her stomach. She hadn’t been here when Rose had needed her the most. If only she’d known. She should have suspected something was wrong after reading Rose’s last letter. Yet, she’d been too selfish to see beyond her own screwed-up life.

  The insufferable man crossed his arms over his chest and watched her with a mixture of pity and impatience. She could take a hint. She’d better leave now before he changed his mind. Quickly, so he wouldn’t see her tears, she attempted to pull on her wet clothes, not an easy task when wrapped in a sheet. She noticed him gawking. “Do you mind?”

  “I…uh. Sorry.” His face turned ten different shades of red, and she gained some satisfaction from that. He left the room, shutting the door behind him. She wrenched on her wet clothes, stumbled down the stairs, and out the front door, and stopped.

  She had nowhere to go and no way to get there.

  Defeated, Harlee slumped against the porch railing and slid down to the wooden deck with a thud. Drawing her knees up, she hugged them to her and shivered, staring out at the blinding rain. Instead of being in such a rush, she should’ve taken the time to put on dry clothes.

  The events of the last few days weighed her down. They piled on her shoulders and overrode her usual blind determination to remain positive in all situations.

  Like an open tap on a keg of beer, the tears started to flow. Her nose ran. Her eyesight clouded. Her throat clogged. Her nose ran. She blubbered like she had when she’d been a little girl, and the social worker had taken her away from her mother—the first time.

  She didn’t have a clue if she carried on for a minute or an hour. Gusts of wind blew the rain onto the porch in horizontal sheets. It’d serve the insensitive jerk right if she died of pneumonia on his front porch, and he had to dispose of her reeking, decomposed body.

  The porch light came on, and the door opened. She swiped at her face. He couldn’t see her crying.

  “He
y? Are you all right?” He sounded different, almost concerned but Harlee clung to her first impression of him.

  “Were you spying on me?” she spat and instantly regretted it. He was trying to be nice.

  “You forgot your bag.”

  “Oh. Thanks, just put it down over there.” She waved at some spot behind her and choked back a sob. She was so pathetic.

  “Why haven’t you left?”

  “I don’t have a car.”

  He glanced around. “How’d you get here?”

  “I hitched a ride from the ferry.”

  “Oh, shit.” His sigh was resigned. “Come back inside.”

  “No, I’ll be fine.” She crossed her arms and tried to look in charge, which was hard to do in her soaked state.

  His sharp eyes zeroed in on her shivering body. “Get off your butt and get in this house. I’ve had enough for one night,” he scolded.

  What an ass. Sure, he was a handsome devil, all tall and dark with broad shoulders and slim hips ending in long, muscular legs. An athlete’s body with a lady-killer face and love-potion eyes. And way out of her league judging by his Calvin Klein boxers, not that she wanted to play in his league.

  “I’m fine. Don’t worry your little self about me.”

  “Get up, you stubborn little brat,” he ordered when she didn’t move.

  “Don’t call me a brat.” Harlee sprang to her feet. She perched her hands on her hips and thrust out her jaw. Anger flowed through her body, and it felt good. It drove away the grief, loneliness, and desperation.

  Instead of taking offense, he laughed. It crinkled the corners of his chocolate eyes and showed off his dimples. “You know, you’re cute when you’re pissed.”

  She wanted to slap him, rage at him, take everything out on him, and force that twinkle from his eyes.

  “Let’s go. I’m getting wet.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the door.

  He was getting wet? What about her? She might as well have swum to the San Juans rather than taken a ferry. She glowered at him and saw the sympathy in his eyes. His expression reminded her of the pity she’d witnessed from too many social workers. She didn’t like it any more now than she had then.

  She raised her hands to push him away, but he grabbed her arms to prevent her escape. Harlee snapped like a rubber band pulled too tight. Everything exploded with a fury she couldn’t contain. She focused that fury on this one man, whose only sin was being on the right island at the wrong time. Harlee launched an attack, but Jake counterattacked. He imprisoned her hands against his bare chest and crushed her to him. Harlee couldn’t compete with his size and strength. She used her gutter mouth instead, giving Mr. Designer-Drawers a sampling of her bargain-basement breeding.

  “You’re not impressing me, Harlee.” He held her tighter, forcing the oxygen from her lungs and sapping her energy. She wheezed and gasped for breath.

  “I can’t—breathe.”

  “Then start acting like a mature adult, not an unruly teenager.”

  “You’re mean.” It was a feeble accusation, but she’d used all her good cuss words earlier.

  “No, I’m tired.” The truth of his statement came through loud and clear in his voice.

  He wasn’t the only one who was tired. As if someone had pulled the plug, Harlee collapsed into him, gripping his shoulders. He tensed for a moment, and then his arms surrounded her. The scent of his aftershave drifted through her senses and calmed her with its earthy masculinity. He felt so hard and so powerful, yet so safe. So very safe. His large hands rubbed her back, slow and easy. She melted into that comfort as if she’d always belonged right here in these arms with this man. She drenched his chest with her tears and her wet clothes. Her body shuddered from pain and fatigue. Yet, his deep voice comforted her. She didn’t hear the words at first, just the tone.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay to cry. Get it all out. You’ll feel better.” His hand cupped the back of her head. He caressed her scalp with tender but sure fingers. He almost made her believe everything would be all right. They stood like that for a long time.

  “You okay?” he asked, his voice soft and gentle.

  Harlee nodded into his chest. She clung to his body like a sweater filled with static electricity.

  “Come on.” He extracted himself from her arms. “Let’s go in. I’m soaked and so are you.” He sniffed. One corner of his generous mouth lifted in a lopsided smile. “And you smell like a wet dog.”

  “Thanks. I paid big bucks for that perfume.” She couldn’t suppress a smile.

  He barked a laugh and headed toward the door. Swallowing her pride, she followed him into the house. After snagging her bag, he placed it inside the front door.

  “Sure you’re okay?” His dark eyes reflected his concern.

  “I’m fine.” She looked away, embarrassed by her moment of weakness. Okay, it was more than a moment. It seemed like an eternity. She never lost control. Never. Even worse, she’d lost it in front of a handsome stranger.

  “You can have the couch. None of the other bedrooms have beds.” He appraised her wet, dripping body for a moment. His dark eyes sparkled with mischief. “That is unless you want to share.”

  “No!” she said much too quickly, causing him to chuckle. “I mean, the couch will be fine.”

  He shrugged. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “Neither do you.”

  “I think I do. Remember, I’ve seen you without your clothes. You need to work on your choice of underwear, though, babe.”

  She felt her cheeks grow hot and bit back a smart retort. “The couch looks great.”

  He grinned. “Okay, your loss. There should be some blankets and a pillow in the hall closet.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Goodnight, Goldilocks.”

  She only missed a beat before she retaliated. “Goodnight, Baby Bear.”

  “Baby Bear?” He hesitated and looked over his shoulder.

  “Yeah, if I’m Goldilocks, you must be Baby Bear.”

  His dark eyes narrowed, going from hot and sunny to cold and icy in record time. “I’m not a baby.” He turned on his heel and stalked away. Boy, she’d hit a sore spot there. She watched him stomp up the stairs, admiring his nice butt in those tight briefs.

  Harlee knelt to open her bag and shook her head. A cuddly baby bear? Him? She snorted. Dangerous? Yes. Sexy? Oh, yeah. Cuddly? Not.

  Of course, he was gorgeous, not classically, but in a very masculine way. His chiseled features were all rugged, untamed male and kept him from being too pretty. She liked her men to be men, and this one was all man.

  So what was the hunk doing in the San Juan Islands in the dead of winter? There weren’t too many island jobs during the off-season but then maybe he didn’t need to work, not that she knew anything about him, including his name.

  Regardless, she didn’t need a man, especially not that man. A man had gotten her into this mess, but a man wouldn’t be getting her out. Here she was, no family, no friends, no money. Now, it appeared she had no refuge. Her career was ruined. She’d never work in the horse business again. Conrad would see to that.

  At least she was in the islands. Orcas Island had always warmed her soul, given her hope when all seemed lost. She needed this island now, more than ever, to heal and to recover.

  Harlee changed clothes in the small downstairs bathroom. She grabbed blankets and a pillow out of the closet, just where Rose used to keep them. A lump formed in her throat, and she sniffled.

  Lying down on the couch, Harlee wrapped the blankets around her. She reached for her purse on the coffee table and pulled out a worn letter. Wiping a tear from her cheek, she read it again for the hundredth time. Her chest constricted, and a tight band of grief strangled her. The letter had been Rose’s olive branch, yet Harlee’s pride had prevented her from responding until a few weeks ago. Rose never received that apology.

  Pressing the letter to her chest, Harlee closed her eyes and tried to ignore her rambl
ing thoughts, but she couldn’t shut them out.

  She might be two years too late, but she’d honor Rose’s final request. Anything less would be unacceptable.

  She had this sneaking suspicion that her pledge would put her at odds with the current owner of Rosehill Farm.

  Chapter 2—A Bird in the Hand

  Jake lay in bed the next morning, staring at the ceiling. He’d studied that same spot most of the night.

  He didn’t get it. Professionally, he excelled at taking over property and developing it. He’d heard it all and seen it all. Back taxes, foreclosures, divorces. Big deal. Over the years, his skin had toughened to the point where some considered him callous. So why the hell had he fallen prey to that little waif on his front porch?

  Waif?

  He laughed. She was hardly a waif even if she was small, and he had the bruises to prove it. Not to mention her eyes told him that she’d seen too much in her life. The innocence had been wrung out of them long ago.

  First thing this morning he’d leave her and her bag at the ferry landing and be done with her. He didn’t need a roll on the mattress with a woman like her, no matter how physically attractive. He’d fought as hard in the past few years to gain respectability as he’d once fought to be disreputable. He’d sworn off women like her at the same time he’d sworn off drinking and carousing all night long.

  Only the rest of him wasn’t so ready to give up on her yet. He groaned as he recalled how she looked in that wet T-shirt two sizes too small that bared her midriff and a pair of cheap, very tight low-rise jeans. Not to mention that messy hair. But she was so not his bottle of beer anymore. He liked his women classy, not trashy. He’d outgrown trashy years ago.

  He could just imagine her with his perfectly coiffed mother. Oh, man. Not to mention, his blunt and abrasive father. They’d die if he took her home. To them, it would be déjà vu, Tammy revisited. In some ways it’d almost be worth the price of admission just to see them shit a brick. Damn, his rebellious nature loved to rear its ugly head over and over.

  A tantalizing aroma drifted to his nostrils. Jake sat up in bed and sniffed. Bacon. His stomach responded with several rumbles reminding him he hadn’t eaten for hours. A slow smiled creased his lips. So Goldilocks cooked. At least she was good for something. She certainly failed in the bed-warming department.