Bedded for His Pleasure. Heidi Rice
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the building. Time to teach their trespasser a lesson.
Monroe Latimer fastened the threadbare jeans and stuck his hands into the pockets to straighten them. The tips of his fingers touched the old letter he’d been carrying around for over a year. He pulled out the heavily creased envelope. A drop of water slapped onto the paper, smudging the Key West address of his old parole officer, Jerry Myers. He raked the dripping hair off his forehead. Sighing, he wondered for about the hundredth time what had made him keep the damn thing for so long. And what had possessed him to take that exit off the interstate when he’d spotted the sign to the Hamptons this morning.
Curiosity. Monroe shook his head—just the sort of impulse he was usually smart enough to avoid. He pulled the letter out of its envelope and scanned the contents, though he knew them by heart.
Dear Monroe,
You don’t know me, but my name’s Alison Latimer and I’m your sister-in-law. I’m married to your older brother Lincoln. Linc’s been trying to track you down for a long time now. I’m sending this letter to Jerry
Myers, in the hope he will pass it on to you.
Linc and I have been married for five years. We’re based in London, but we spend July to September every year in our summer house on Oceanside Drive, East
Hampton, Long Island.
Please, Monroe, come and visit us. Linc and I would love you to stay for a while. From what Jerry tells me, Linc’s the only family you have left. I know you haven’t seen Linc in over twenty years, but he never stopped looking for you.
Family is important, Monroe.
Please come. Love Ali
Good thing the first line of the return address had been rubbed off the back of the letter months ago. He might have been dumb enough to go knocking on his brother’s door, if he’d had the right house number. Of course, the minute he got to Oceanside Drive, he knew he shouldn’t have come. Guys like him only came to neighbourhoods like this one if they were doing yard work.
Monroe crumpled up the letter, shoved it back in his pocket. At least now he could throw it away. He’d seen the way his brother and sister-in-law lived. No way was he ever going to follow up on their invitation. He didn’t belong here. He had his Harley, his battered box of oil paints, spare clothes and a bedroll, and he had himself. That was all he needed; that was all he was ever going to need.
Alison Latimer was wrong. Family wasn’t important. Not to him. He’d been free to do what he pleased, when he pleased, for the last fourteen years and that was the way he intended to keep it. Family was just another kind of prison and he’d had enough of that to last him a lifetime.
He pushed away the familiar bitterness. He could hear the rustle of a sea breeze through the flowerbed by the pool. Angling his head, he caught the fresh perfume of sweet summer blooms mixed with the chemical scent of chlorine—and grinned. Well, hell, at least he’d gotten a swim in a ritzy pool in one of the most beautiful homes he’d ever seen.
He’d been turning the Harley around, ready to head back to the interstate, when his artist’s eye had spotted the wood and glass structure rising out of the sand dunes. Situated on its own at the end of the chunk of land that jutted out into the Atlantic Ocean, the modern structure had seemed to beckon him. Like all the other houses in the area, the grounds were surrounded by deer fencing and a high privet hedge, but Monroe had spotted the edge of the pool, winking at him in the sunlight as the bike had purred over the rise and down into the driveway. He’d been grimy and dog-tired, had been on the bike since daybreak in Maryland and he still had another few hours to go until he hit NewYork. The place was hidden from the road. He’d pressed the door buzzer to make sure no one was home and a quick check of the security system had told him it wasn’t armed. So he’d boosted himself over the main gate and enjoyed the luxury of an afternoon swim. The thrill he recalled so well from his childhood of doing something forbidden on a lazy summer afternoon had been a nice fringe benefit.
Better hit the road now, though. The owners could return any minute and call the cops. With his record, it wouldn’t go easy on him if he got caught trespassing. Time to move on.
Keeping her breathing slow and steady, Jessie tiptoed across the patio. She stopped dead when her trespasser shoved whatever it was he’d been staring at back into his pocket. When he didn’t turn around, but reached for his T-shirt, she let go of the breath caught in her throat.
Humming some tuneless melody, he sat down on the sun-drenched tiles, rubbed his feet with the T-shirt and picked up a sock.
Sticking her two fingers out, Jessie shoved the points between his shoulder blades and shouted out in her most authoritative voice, ‘Don’t move. I have a gun.’
He stopped humming, his back went rigid and he dropped his sock.
‘Okay, don’t get excited.’ His voice was gruff and tight with annoyance. He sounded American, but there was something else about his accent she couldn’t quite place.
‘Put your hands up, but don’t turn around.’
His skin felt warm, but the muscles beneath were hard as rock, flexing under her fingers as he raised his arms. Up close, he looked a lot more dangerous. Jessie spotted a faded tattoo across his left bicep. Ridged white scar lines criss-crossed the tanned skin of his back. But then she noticed something else. Despite the impressive muscles across his shoulders and upper arms, he didn’t have an ounce of fat on him. He was so lean, she could make out his ribs. A Goliath who didn’t eat properly? How odd.
‘Listen, put the gun down and I’ll get out of here. No harm, no foul.’
He started to turn. She prodded her fingers harder into his spine. ‘Don’t turn around, I said.’
‘Easy.’ He didn’t sound scared, just really pissed off. Maybe this hadn’t been such a great idea after all. ‘I’m putting my hands down,’ he ground out. ‘I’ve been on the bike all day and I’m beat.’ He lowered his arms.
The seconds ticked by interminably.
‘So what do we do now?’ he asked.
Jessie’s heart hammered against her rib-cage and sweat pooled between her breasts. Hell, she hadn’t thought this far ahead. Where was Linc? Her fingers were starting to hurt.
‘Where you from? You sound English?’ he said.
‘I think where you’re from is probably a more pertinent question,’ Jessie shot back. No arrogant trespasser was going to charm her.
He leaned forward. Jessie’s heart jolted in her chest. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Grabbing my socks. Any objections?’ The response was measured, calm and condescending.
Jessie bristled. ‘Fine, but next time ask permission.’ Just as she issued the order her tightly clamped fingers twitched.
The trespasser’s back tensed and his head swung round. Oops!
‘Damn it!’
Jessie jumped back, yelping, as her prey shot up and grabbed her in one quick, furious movement.
‘Let me go,’ she shrieked, struggling to pull her arms free as his large hands clamped on them like manacles.
‘The finger routine. I got to hand it to you, I never thought I’d fall for that one.’
Striking blue eyes stared daggers at her out of a face that would have done Michelangelo proud. The man was quite simply beautiful. Jessie gulped, momentarily transfixed, taking in the high, slashing cheekbones, the rakish stubble on his chin and the daredevil scar across his left eyebrow. Adonis or not, his face was as hard as granite. He looked ready to murder someone and, from the way his fingers dug into her arms, she knew exactly who it was.
Her heart rate shot up to warp speed. Don’t pass out, you silly cow. This is no time to panic. Twisting, Jessie kicked out with her bare foot and connected with his shin.
‘Ow!