wished she could say his strangled, guttural cry of helpless frustration made her feel better about walking away from what she sensed could be the best sex of her life.
But she just couldn’t.
EVER SINCE HE’D started getting involved with females, Oliver had known how to handle them. Maybe it was because he’d had sisters, lots of girl cousins and parents with an honest, loving marriage in which nobody held the upper hand. Maybe because he’d had girls after him since he hit puberty. Maybe he’d just been born with the gene.
The point was, he’d always been sure of himself when it came to women. He’d always known when one was interested and when she wasn’t, been able to gauge how soon was too soon, or when it was too late and he’d missed his shot. He’d set the pace, led the dance, taken the right steps at the right time.
Until now. Until her. Until Candace.
She had him twisted inside out and upside down, not knowing what to do or say next. He didn’t know whether to resist or keep on fighting. Part of him wished she’d never shown up at Buddy’s house, and another part dreaded the day she would leave.
“God, what a mess,” he muttered that evening as he finished taking inventory in the wine cellar. He hadn’t even realized there was one in the house until today, when he’d gone to visit Buddy in the rehab center. He’d watched for Candace to leave the room, heading to the cafeteria for lunch, and then stopped by, not wanting to run into her after what had happened this morning. Coming face-to-face with her would have been more than his heart could have taken, even a couple of hours after she’d marched her bare little fanny up the stairs.
No, not little. Round, supple, perfect.
Just right for cupping in his hands, or pounding against as he took her from behind, the way he’d been dying to as he’d watched her sashay back to her room.
He swallowed hard, wishing he hadn’t allowed himself to go back there in his mind. He’d managed to avoid thinking about her most of the day, but now the images came washing in. He was again overwhelmed by the memory of the gorgeous, naked ass she’d flashed at him as she’d ascended the stairs. He suspected he would keep seeing that vision for a long while, every time he closed his eyes. “You’re a complete idiot,” he muttered to himself. “You’re the one who insisted she walk up the stairs while you stood there like Pavlov’s dog, drowning in your own drool.”
To give her credit, she had tried to warn him. No, she hadn’t come right out and told him what would happen—that he was about to be given a free peep show that would drive a grown man to his knees. and he suspected his own stubbornness had inspired hers. Still, he wasn’t sure he could ever forgive her for showing him what he could have had, if not for his own foul temper and his need to keep punishing himself by not taking anything he truly wanted. Being noble was all well and good, but if it came with blue balls, he’d far prefer being selfish.
“Enough,” he reminded himself, trying to return his focus to the task at hand. The wine cellar. He still couldn’t believe it was here, or that it held so much.
Buddy had found a treasure trove in the basement right before his accident, one he hadn’t even realized was there until he’d started trying out keys to locked rooms. That’s what had sent him hurrying down the porch steps to find Oliver. He’d intended to show it to Oliver and ask him to help inventory it.
Now that it looked like Buddy wouldn’t be doing any stair-climbing for a while, Oliver had promised he’d get started. Buddy had agreed gratefully, telling him to help himself to anything he found…unless it was worth a king’s ransom, in which case he would need it for his medical bills.
He hadn’t even thought about that, but now that his employer had brought it up, Oliver couldn’t help worrying about it. Buddy had sunk his life savings into this place. God, he hoped this accident didn’t bankrupt the man.
Caught up in the old man’s excitement, he’d stopped by the store to pick up reference books with grades, rankings and values of old wine. Once he’d found the room and gotten started, he’d been shocked by the sheer quantity of bottles. Obviously, his own great-uncle, who’d bought out his siblings, including Oliver’s grandmother, hadn’t even realized what he had in his possession. He’d been from back East and never done a proper inventory on the place. The group that had bought the estate from him had intended to get investors to renovate it into some corporate retreat, but had never fully investigated, either.
Buddy had bought the whole place—and its contents—out of bankruptcy and was legally entitled to everything here. Including this treasure trove. If the previous owners had realized what they’d had, this stuff would have been on auction blocks around the world, not still stored in this secure room, created solely for keeping wines in pristine condition.
Okay, there was dust. A few cobwebs—Candace would hate the spiders. But for the most part, the setup was ideal and the bottles—more than one hundred of them, possibly close to two—looked sealed and correctly colored. It was very likely many of them were aged to perfection.
This collection could be the answer to Buddy’s financial problems. Some of the bottles weren’t easily cataloged and an appraiser would have to do it. Many, though, had been listed in the books he’d brought with him as being worth thousands of dollars. There was a small fortune within these walls, and, frankly, Oliver couldn’t think of anyone who deserved it more.
They weren’t all gems. He had found a few broken ones, dry corks or just plain duds according to the books. Some that were good wines still weren’t worth much, even if in mint condition. Those included vintages that had been bottled during a surplus production year and just weren’t collectible.
It was one of those he was eyeing now. A 1971 burgundy from one of his favorite vintners that was still around today. Buddy had told him to feel free to help himself to anything that wasn’t too valuable, and this one wasn’t worth more than about a hundred bucks.
He deserved a hundred bucks worth of wine, especially after putting up with Buddy’s sexy, infuriating granddaughter.
“How’s it going?”
Said sexy, infuriating granddaughter who almost startled him into dropping the bottle. He spun around, seeing her eyeing him from the doorway. “Oh. You’re back.”
Obviously he had lost track of time down here. It was probably a good thing she’d come looking for him—fully, if sexily, dressed in a pair of slim-fitting jeans and a lightweight pink sweater. With his luck, he’d have consumed the bottle of wine and headed upstairs after she was home and ready for bed, wearing that flimsy little bathrobe and nothing else.
His horny-man brain quickly rebelled at the idea that that would have been bad luck. But he shut that part of his brain down.
“Visiting hours are over. It’s after eight. I saw the lights were on upstairs and thought you might still be here. Grandpa told me where to look for you.”
She looked like she wanted to come in, but was carefully eyeing the cobwebs and shadowy corners.
“All clear,” he told her with a smile, knowing what she was looking for. “I think the mutant spider from outer space is still trying to find his way home.”
That was a lie—there were enough webs down here to house the spiders from Harry Potter’s Dark Forest. But he wasn’t about to tell her that.
She managed a weak smile and slowly entered, her attention focused on shelf after shelf of bottles. She whistled as she walked around the twelve-by-twelve chamber. “Wow. He wasn’t exaggerating, was he?”
“Definitely not.”
“Amazing!”
“You have no idea.”
He quickly filled her in on what