Jill Shalvis - Get a Clue

Then she realized she did hear something-running water. Proof of life! Hugging herself, she followed the noise, past three doors on the right and left, all of which appeared to be bedrooms.

The hallway walls had old photographs of the Wild West on them: cowboys, wagons, old mining towns. At the end of the hallway, she stopped in front of a set of double wooden doors.

The honeymoon suite?

Hoping so, she stepped inside. That's where she found the log bed, so high she'd need a stool to climb up on it. The bedding was white down, with bear-and-moose pillows, and looked so scrumptuously warm she nearly sank into it. There was a matching armoire and dresser as well, also done in pine logs. The ceiling was open-beamed, and a work of art all by itself. The stone fireplace-not lit, darn it-and floor-to-ceiling windows finished off the room, the windows revealing that the day had fled completely now.

There was a goodie basket on a chair for the honeymooners: body paints in every flavor, a package of edible underwear, and several books on the pleasures of massage and touch therapy, including How to Make a Woman Come Every Single Time.

Too bad Dean wasn't here. He could use that one.

There were other fillers, too: body lotion, bath oils, a brand new vibrator in neon-pink and shaped just like a penis she'd once seen that had a terrible curve to the right. She picked it up and took a good look at it, trying to picture the designers of such an item sitting around a table and deciding on the angle of the curve. She considered herself adventurous and fun in bed, but she couldn't imagine Dean figuring out a way to make good use of this. Gee, guess it was a good thing he wasn't here…

It penetrated her addled brain that the shower was still running.

Odd. Surely the housekeeper wouldn't be in there… Curious, a little unnerved-and if she let herself think about all that had happened to her since she got out of bed that morning, she could add crazed to the list-she stepped over a pile of wet clothes on the floor.

Huh?

Turning back, she crouched down to look at them, trying to get a clue as to who was in her shower. Levi's, original fit, size 34x36. Hmm. Tall and lean. There was also a white Hanes Beefy T-shirt, size large, and a soft blue chambray overshirt, both smelling good enough that if she hadn't given up men, she might have pressed her face against the material and inhaled.

But she had given up men. She'd written it in her journal and therefore it had become law.

He didn't wear underwear.

Why the hell that intrigued her, she had no idea. Rising, shivering because her clothes had become iced to her skin, she knocked on the bathroom door.

Whoever he was, he had the radio on; she could hear the broadcaster talking about the storm of the century-

Storm of the century. That couldn't be good. Pressing her car to the door, she heard other disturbing words, such as "No one is going anywhere, folks" and "I hope you're all stocked up on whatever you need, because this one's a doozy." At that, she twisted the handle on the door and pushed it open.

The bathroom was as amazingly detailed as the rest of the house. Even through all the thick steam, she could see the stunning granite countertops, the raw wood-framed mirrors, the small overstuffed day couch, the old-fashioned brass fixtures-

And yet another gift basket, filled with more goodies. She looked at the vibrator she still had in her hand. What else could she possibly need? Well, besides a new groom, that is. A shame they didn't come a dime a dozen in a gift basket such as this, selection ready.

The shower took up one full corner, all in clear glass, etched with the outline of the Sierras, which in fact did nothing at all to hide the tall, leanly muscled man standing in it.

Naked.

Gloriously so, she might add. The water sprayed out of four different rain heads, massaging over him. He had his back to her, and what a fine back it was: broad, ropey shoulders, sleek, strong spine, smooth and tanned until, low on his narrow hips, his tan line abruptly ended.

He had a fabulous, mouthwatering butt, and Breanne took a moment to wonder at the man who wore a bathing suit in the sun but not underwear beneath his jeans.

Water sluiced off him, and soap, too, and then, as if God had decided to bestow one tiny little favor on her shitty, rotten day, the guy dropped the soap.

Breanne held her breath. Would he-

Yes. Yes, he would.

Bending for it, blissfully unaware that there were a pair of very curious female eyes on him, he clearly didn't even consider his modesty. Every muscle in his body flexed as he doubled over, legs slightly spread, offering her an eye-popping view of his-

Oh, my.

Lifting her hand, she furiously fanned air to her face, because the front of him lived up to the back, and how. She wondered how old he was, thinking that body couldn't be more than thirty, which was only two years older than herself. In any case, she stood there, rooted to the ground, her own wet misery forgotten, mouth hanging open, drool pooling, eyes locked on the backs of his well-defined thighs.

And what was between them.

But then suddenly he whipped around, staring at her through the glass for one beat before shoving open the shower door, allowing steam and water to pour into the room as he glared at her with an ominous, thunderstruck expression on his face.

More than thirty, she thought inanely. Probably, given those laugh lines bracketing his unsmiling mouth, and startling sky-blue eyes, at least thirty-five.

Not that age mattered, with a majorly heart-stopping body like his.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded, looking tough and clearly ready to prove it.

And that's when her brain kicked back into gear and reminded her of her situation. She was in a strange house. In a strange bathroom, out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by rugged mountain peaks and more snow than she'd ever seen.

And she was staring at a furious, naked guy. "Um-"

"Who the hell are you?"

"I-" She glanced at the neon-pink vibrator in her hand and felt every single brain cell desert her.

"Get out."

Yeah. On that, they were perfectly in sync, thank you very much. She might have a secret weak spot for an edgy, difficult bad boy, but she absolutely did not have a weak spot for being stupid.

Whirling, she dropped the vibrator and ran. She ran like hell through the open bathroom door, slamming it behind her to give her an extra second on him.

He'd told her to get out, so chances were that he wasn't planning on chasing her, but she'd rather be safe than sorry. She hightailed it through the bedroom, leaping over his clothes, moving more quickly in her ruined boots than she'd moved in… well, a very long time.

Behind her the bathroom door whipped open.

Oh, God.

He was in pursuit and he was quick.

With a startled squeak, she sped up, thinking no one back home would believe she could ever move this fast, not even to save her life.

"Wait!" that low, almost gravelly voice called out. "Who are you?"

Stopping to chat seemed like a bad idea, so she kept moving.

Her only problem was, she really had nowhere to go.

Cooper Scott stood butt-ass-naked, freezing cold and dripping wet in the bathroom doorway, holding the vibrator his mystery guest had just dropped. Bad enough that he'd quit his job, shocking everyone he knew. Bad enough that he wasn't getting laid, now that he'd sent a pretty woman screaming like a banshee into the night.

A woman carrying a vibrator.

He could still hear her, pounding down the stairs in those ridiculous, towering high-heeled boots that were all for show and had absolutely no practicality.

Who would wear such things to the Sierras at the onset of winter, in the middle of an insane storm like the one they were facing?

He had no idea, but he supposed, as she was in his house, he needed to find out. Well, not his house, exactly, but his rented vacation house.

And a stunning one at that.

His brother James had sent him here with strict orders to "get his shit together," not mentioning that the place was at least ten thousand square feet of pure luxury. Log-cabin style, it had gorgeous mahogany flooring, pine trim, soft, buttery interior walls filled with rustic prints and old-time equipment such as hare-bone snowshoes and antique wooden skis.

But if the decorating was glorious, old western style, the actual appliances were state of the art, with everything placed and designed for ultimate comfort. He had a week to live in style here, a week in which he'd intended to do nothing but ski his brains out and maybe find a pretty ski bunny to keep him warm at night.

And, as James had ordered, "get his shit together."

As long as he avoided thinking, he was good. All he wanted to do was recover from the job that had nearly sent him to the loony bin, and figure out what the hell to do with the rest of his life.

No sweat.

He'd gotten here from San Francisco via his truck, which was probably buried in the driveway by now. The drive had been treacherous at the least, and given how the snow was still coming down, he doubted he could get off the mountain if he'd wanted to. But the staff that was supposed to greet him had been nonexistent, the house cold as an iceberg. He'd found the heating control and cranked it, but as yet, nothing had happened.