Just One Night. Nancy Warren
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all her careful plans.
Hailey had no intention of letting that happen and tall, dark and disheveled was about to find that out.
3
ROB YAWNED AND STRETCHED, wanting to close his eyes and finish that long sleep he so desperately needed. He heard the front door slam and groaned; clearly he wasn’t alone in the house.
With ominous certainty he knew the woman who had so rudely woken him was on her way back to the bedroom. And he didn’t think she was going anywhere anytime soon.
He listened as she marched up the stairs, striking the creaky section in the middle of the sixth step. There was another creaky spot on step eleven and she struck that one, too.
This house had no secrets from him.
When she appeared in the doorway of the bedroom he was ready for her. Not at so much of a disadvantage.
Of course, his grandmother would have been horrified to see him lounging on the bed, leaning against stacked pillows he didn’t recognize any more than anything else in this room.
He felt almost as though he were in a dream where things were familiar but weren’t. The woman currently surveying him was real though. No question there.
She was also hot, he realized, surveying her. She looked pissed off yet confused and unsure of herself all at once. An interesting combination.
He liked the neat way she’d put herself together. She had long blond hair and eyes that couldn’t make up their mind between gray and blue and so made you keep noticing them, to wonder.
She wore a black skirt and white blouse with chunky black jewelry. She had nice legs. She might have a nice smile; however, at the moment her lips were so tight together they could be sewed shut.
Then she opened them. Not to smile unfortunately. To speak.
“We have to talk.”
He let his head fall back, and if it weren’t for all the fancy pillows on the bed he’d have hit the walnut headboard. “Four most frightening words in the English language.”
He almost got a glimpse of her smile, but to his consternation she managed to suppress it. “I think there’s been some kind of mistake.”
“Yeah. I think so, too.” He glanced around the room once more. “Did you move in here or something?”
“Of course not. I told you, I’m a Realtor. I’ve listed this house for sale.”
“Well, unless my grandmother spent the last months of her life redecorating her house in condo-modern, somebody else’s stuff is in here.”
She looked at him as though he was missing half his marbles. He was tired, but he couldn’t be that tired.
“I had this home professionally staged.”
When it was clear he didn’t have a clue what she was talking about, she continued.
“We clear out the clutter and bring in pieces and accessories to showcase the home in the best way possible. I think the improvement is amazing.”
“It doesn’t look like my grandmother’s house anymore.” Except for the big bed which he’d instinctively been drawn to last night. It had reminded him of home, tradition, his grandmother.
As he stared up at her, suddenly the four-poster filled him with other thoughts. Adult thoughts. Her slim hands wrapped around the bedposts while she writhed in passion. He blinked, glancing away before she could catch the lust in his eyes.
“It’s not supposed to. The concept of staging is to inspire the buyer to see the possibilities and leave them space to imagine their own furniture and personal items in the home.”
There were all sorts of things he could reply, such as, he wanted his grandmother’s stuff brought back. Even as tired as he was, still he knew that what he really wanted was his grandmother back and that wasn’t going to happen. So he went on the offensive. “You need to move all this crap out of here.”
Her eyes shifted more to gray when she got huffy. She crossed her arms in front of her. “I have a listing agreement.”
“Not with me.”
“My agreement is with Mrs. Neeson’s attorney.”
“That’s a funny thing, because the house was left to me.” He had to be honest though. “I do remember some weird-ass conversation with her lawyer. I was in Libya with a camp of rebels. It was a bad connection. Maybe he thought I said yes to listing the house when I didn’t.” He scrubbed his hands across his eyes. He’d kill for a cup of coffee. “I’ll probably sell, but I haven’t figured out what I’m going to do yet.”
“This puts me in a very difficult position.” She seemed not to know what to do. He got the impression that she was as staged as the house she was attempting to sell. All at once it occurred to him that she was pretty new at this biz. Probably hadn’t come across any difficult situations yet.
Well, she was in one now.
A frown marred her pretty face. “I don’t want to be rude but I have no proof you are Mrs. Neeson’s grandson.
He figured she had a point, and he already sensed she was stubborn enough that she wouldn’t leave until she was satisfied he was who he said he was. So he shifted until he could reach his wallet, took it out, seeing it through her eyes as a grubby, falling-apart-at-the-seams excuse for a wallet. He opened the Velcro flap that was only half stuck down and offered her his driver’s license.
She took a look. Stared at him and back at the picture as if she was a bouncer wondering if his ID was fake. “You don’t have the same last name.”
“That’s right. It’s a maternal/paternal thing.”
“I think maybe you should leave and we’ll sort this out tomorrow.”
He was no more going to leave this house than he was going to put up with being bossed around by an uppity blond in too-high heels. “That’s not going to happen.” Enough already. He wanted to get back to his nap. In peace. “Let’s call Edward Barnes. He knows me.”
“He’s on a wine-tasting trip in California. And if you actually know him, you’ll know he—”
“Doesn’t carry a cell phone,” he finished for her, feeling increasingly irritated. He prided himself on keeping cool in a crisis but this was getting ridiculous. “How did I get in?”
She looked at him, puzzled.
“I opened the door, which was locked. How did I get in if I’m not her grandson?”
“The key hidden under the planter. Probably the second place anyone would look, after checking under the mat.”
“I am not leaving here. I am the legal owner of this home.”
“All I’m asking you to do is prove it.”
He jumped up as the obvious solution struck him. “Photo albums with pictures of me and my grandmother.”
She looked guilty. “Remember what I told you about decluttering?”
“Where are the photo albums?”
“In storage.”
This was turning into a bad farce. You might as well try and milk a rhinoceros as reason with this woman. Some of the old neighbors might have recognized him but most had moved on. Or died.
It was difficult to think when he was in a bedroom, in a bed, and a very attractive woman was alone with him. In heels. Now he pictured her in nothing but those black heels stretched out on the white expanse of the bed.
He had to get out of here. And soon, before he was as hard as one of the bedposts. He shifted and sat up. “Follow me.”
She was