Hold Me Tight. Cait London
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and coffeemaker sat on a door, propped between two sawhorses. A wooden deck chair, walnut in a sturdy design typical of Fadey Stepanov’s furniture, sat in front of the windows; hand-loomed cushions matched the dark brown and maroon blanket thrown over the back. Jessica stared at the massive walnut bed, covered with a down blanket in dark green with crimson strips, a very masculine design. A square of commercial beige carpet covered the floor. A battery lantern sat next to a stack of magazines on a gleaming, chunky table. Resting on a wooden box, a battered suitcase held neatly folded clothing. More folded clothing was in a laundry basket on the floor. A mirror hung on the wall over another table. An enamel basin with soap and neatly folded towels rested on it.
Alexi had deliberately drawn her into a bald confrontation, preventing an easy retreat. He had played the game, set the rules and had won. Her temper rising, Jessica slammed the door.
She struggled to push down that passionate, fighting side of her that few people had experienced. The fire blazed now and Alexi turned to walk toward a small kitchen table with two wooden chairs. He poured coffee from a thermos into a mug marked with the Amoteh Resort’s strawberry logo. He sipped the steaming brew slowly and watched her.
Water dripped steadily from the ceiling, plopping into two buckets, and the fire crackled while Jessica struggled to retain her composure and the image she wanted to project—the businesswoman making deals. She inhaled slowly; she’d handled problem people before.
“You’re playing games. I do not like games, or surprises. We could have talked in here,” Jessica said tightly, finishing the static silence that scratched her nerves like fingernails on a blackboard. “And I do not want you badly.”
“Are your feet cold?” he asked casually, and that easy drawl set her temper climbing again.
“Of course they are. You made me follow you through ice and snow. Talk—if that’s what you call it—in a freezing room when all the while we could have talked where it is warm—and I do not want you badly.”
He poured another cup of coffee and lifted it. “Come and get it, Mrs. Sterling.”
She tensed, weighing his “Come and get it.” Was that a sexual invitation? Or a challenge to start a war?
“This is from the Amoteh. They make better coffee than I do.” The man was unreadable, his eyes cool upon her, slits of silver between those heavy black lashes, shadowed by his brows.
Her senses told her that there was a savage ruthlessness about this man that only a few had seen. If he decided to help protect Willow, and if whoever was bothering her was capable of physical violence, Alexi’s primitive instinct would be needed.
Jessica hesitated on a heartbeat, then walked to him, taking the metal cup. “Thank you.”
“That must have cost you,” he murmured, and humor lit those silvery eyes.
She turned and walked to the stove. The hot coffee warmed her slightly, and she kicked off her shoes, placing them near the fire to dry. Without turning, she stared at the fire in the stove’s open door and sipped the coffee. A soft blow hit her back and a ball of heavy workmen’s socks bounced at her feet. “Put those on.”
She turned to find Alexi seated in one of the wooden chairs, which had been turned toward the fire. He stripped off his work boots and sprawled backward, long legs outstretched. A mug of coffee rested on his flat stomach, his eyes slits of silver in his hard, shadowed face.
Irritated by his cool testing of her, Jessica spoke slowly. She wanted him to know exactly what she thought of him. “There’s a curse on Amoteh, placed on it by Kamakani, that Hawaiian chieftain captured and enslaved by whalers in another century. He died on Strawberry Hill, not far from here, cursing this place. I truly believe you might be a part of that curse, Mr. Stepanov. At least for me. And I know that it’s said that his curse can only be lifted by a woman who knows her own heart, dancing in front of his grave…. Don’t count on any dancing from me, Stepanov. Play any more games with me and you’re in for your own curse.”
He lifted his mug in a toast and nodded, acknowledging her accusation.
“This is what you’re really like, isn’t it? Not the easygoing guy everyone thinks you are. This…this retreat is where you come to be as you really are—dark, moody, deliberately obtuse and difficult.”
“And you want me.”
The statement, driven home once again, irritated; just that slightly foreign inflection had slipped into Alexi’s deep Western drawl, just the nip to remind her that Alexi’s father, mother and uncles had emigrated from Russia.
At the dance, Alexi with his cousins, Jarek and Mikhail, had circulated in the filled ballroom, obviously enjoying their family, the guests and friends of the close-knit community. Tall, dark, almost sleek, despite rugged looks and broad shoulders, they’d caused more than one woman to stare.
Jarek and Mikhail had held their wives close and tender, loving intimacy flowing between them with a touch, a look.
“That’s Alexi, their cousin,” Willow had whispered to Jessica. “He’s unmarried and gorgeous. He’s sweet, too. I dare you to dance with him.”
“You’re on,” Jessica had said, and had moved toward Alexi. While dancing with him, she had not sensed “sweet,” only brooding and dangerous.
And Willow might need that.
Jessica decided to skip negotiations and go straight for what she wanted. While framing her negotiation package, she scooped to pick up the ball of socks and went to sit on the cot, placing her coffee on the table beside it. She jammed on the socks, rolled the extra length into thick cuffs and, as an afterthought, stood and removed the shearling coat. She arranged her damp light jacket over the cord stretched near the stove. Jessica walked back to his sprawling bed, determined to regain her poise and have her say with Mr. Alexi Stepanov.
Alexi watched that sensual, gliding walk, elegant even with the large heavy socks rolled upon her feet. He could have told her that her light tan sweater did nothing to hide the peaks of her nipples, but he wouldn’t.
He wouldn’t let her know that earlier, that softness had caused his hands to open possessively upon the coat over her back. That her curves had branded his body with an unwanted need. That the scent of her caused him to want to nuzzle her hair, to feel that silkiness against his skin. That the need to taste her lips had almost driven him to—
That stir of sensual interest irritated Alexi, the ramrod-straight way she’d marched back to the bed and plopped herself onto it—all that soft flesh beneath her clothing had bounced and quivered as she settled in to stare at him coldly. As if she were sitting at the head of a corporate boardroom table, Jessica Sterling had crossed her long, sleek legs that disappeared into his overlarge socks and stared at him.
She pushed a thick wave back from her cheek and inhaled, which served to push her breasts against that thin sweater.
Alexi inhaled sharply; that sweater seemed to have nothing beneath it but creamy soft curves. When she crossed her arms and looked at him, her breasts lifted and bulged against the material.
His body had locked on to several facts at once: a very sensuous woman was sitting on his bed, he hadn’t been sexually aroused in a long time, and Jessica Sterling—rich, determined, selfish, spoiled—was definitely not the woman he wanted to arouse him.
“I have a friend whom I think is in trouble. I want you to investigate and take care of whomever is troubling her—quietly. If the police are called in, that person could go underground easily, only to surface when least expected. I prefer to keep my friend out of any problems. She’s really sweet and kind, and—and I want her protected. I want whatever is bothering her to be—removed discreetly. My friend lives here in Amoteh.”
Alexi frowned slightly; as a Stepanov male, his protective instincts had raised instantly. “Tell me who she is.”
“You’ve met her—Willow Longstreet. She makes soap with the Amoteh strawberry logo for the resort? She has a shop on the