She nodded, turning to face him, hoping her cheeks weren’t pink. She was not the blushing type. Still, she feared the heat in her face hadn’t been caused by the steam rising off the hot water in the sink.
“Thank you. And again, I’m sorry I attacked you.”
He shrugged. “Wasn’t the first time.”
She quirked a brow. “Incite a lot of women to violence, do you?”
“Not recently.”
But he didn’t say anything else. He merely nodded good-night and left the kitchen, leaving her wondering what the real story was behind Oliver McKean.
CANDACE REID WAS as good as her word. Despite having probably only gotten the same few hours of sleep he had the night before, she was waiting on her grandfather’s front steps when he walked out of his cottage at 7:30 a.m.
She looked like crap.
Bloodshot eyes, pale cheeks sans makeup, sopping wet hair slung up in a ponytail—definitely not the Candace he’d met at 3:00 a.m. She wore a shapeless, heavy hoodie that would be much too warm in a few hours when the day shifted into typical Northern California mode, with its wildly swinging night-to-day temperature changes. The jeans weren’t designer; in fact, they looked worn and scruffy. And the functional sneakers in no way resembled the spike-heeled do-me shoes of the night before.
He knew he wasn’t seeing her at her sexy best, but couldn’t help thinking he liked this not-so-put-together version of the Hollywood costume designer. In her real life, with all the feminine trappings women relied on, she probably would have blended into the stylish crowd to which he had become so accustomed when living in L.A. Hell, he’d even been a part of it on occasion. But here, out of her element, obviously uncomfortable and not making any pretentious efforts to impress anyone—including him—he found her vulnerability refreshing.
Huh. Part of him should be a little disappointed that she wasn’t making any effort to impress him, considering how thick the sexual tension between them had been the night before. It had filled that kitchen like an invisible fog. He’d definitely thought about her long after he’d gone back to his bed.
But he hadn’t come to Sonoma to get caught up with a woman. He’d chosen this area because it was his favorite place to vacation—he loved the scenery, the pace and the people. He’d needed to reevaluate, to recover a sense of peace and tranquility that had been lost during his years running in the rat race with some huge rats. This period of solitude was about regrouping, finding his focus and doing penance for the shitty things he’d done to get ahead in the Orange County D.A.’s office.
Taking a sabbatical from the spotlight hadn’t been a bad side benefit, either. The press had had a field day with him when he’d blown the lid off some of the shenanigans taking place in the courthouse. Rising young stars in the prosecutor’s office weren’t supposed to refuse to railroad an innocent man in order to close a big case, and they definitely weren’t supposed to blow the whistle on the misconduct of others. Oh, yeah, he had definitely been front-page fodder, which made him persona non grata with the legal types in L.A., and would for quite some time. Frankly, that was fine with him. He wanted to forget about that period of his life, and wanted everyone there to forget about him.
So, no, having a hot affair just didn’t fit in with his plan of atonement. It was just as well Candace had dialed her sex appeal down a notch, even if nothing could really eradicate the beauty of her face or the curviness of her body.
If her appearance today was meant to send him a message, he’d gotten it. Loud and clear. She wasn’t interested.
“You sleep okay?” he asked as he walked over, already knowing the answer to his question.
“Sleep? What’s that? I feel like the princess from the fairy tale, only there wasn’t a pea under the mattress, there were cantaloupes the size of my head.”
“I don’t think your grandfather has had a chance to redecorate. A lot of the furniture came with the house, so it’s probably pretty old.”
“Who owned it before? Fred Flintstone?”
He couldn’t contain a chuckle. “The house was built by an old silent movie star, and it remained in his family for several decades until it fell into ruin. He supposedly threw some wild parties with his Hollywood buddies.”
“Huh…my kingdom for a Westin heavenly bed. I’d rather be comfortable than sleep on the mattress that once held Charlie Chaplin.” She winced and rubbed her shoulder. “And still might, given the bony lumps inside it.”
The old Oliver, the one who’d once been young and carefree and had done killer impressions that cracked up his sisters, might have tottered side to side and swung an invisible cane.
The new Oliver—hardened by the things he’d seen, the things he’d done—barely even remembered that idealistic guy.
“Ready?”
“Sure.”
She stepped into the passenger seat of the beat-up old truck as he got in behind the wheel and together, they headed toward the hospital. He could feel her tension and her anticipation. She sat forward on her seat, as if urging the old bucket of rust to go faster.
“Would you sit still?” he grumbled. “Visiting hours don’t even start until eight.”
“If we keep going negative-two miles an hour, we won’t be there until it’s time for Grandpa to go in for his surgery.”
“If we were going negative-two miles an hour, we’d be going backward.”
She smirked. “Now you’re just being silly.”
Unaccustomed to being called anything of the sort, he tightened his hands on the steering wheel.
“So how did you end up working for my grandfather?”
His grip grew even tighter. “I was just wandering. We ran into each other and he told me he was looking for help to get the old place up and running. Lucky for me, I had some time and experience.”
His experience with grounds keeping had been limited to his lawn-cutting business during high school. But that had been enough for Buddy, who, he suspected, had hired him because he wanted the company as much as Oliver’s strong back. And it had helped that Oliver was connected to the estate. He also suspected Buddy had sensed Oliver needed to be there, to work hard, not think and stay away from most of the world.
The old man had asked him if he was a criminal hiding out from the law. When Oliver had sworn he was not, they’d shaken hands and that had been that. Four months later, after studying everything he could find on the wine business, Oliver had calluses on his blisters, muscles in places he’d never known he’d needed them and the beginnings of a clear head.
“Sorry, but you just don’t look much like a gardener,” she said, obviously realizing he was prevaricating.
He cast her a sideways glance and let a faint smile lift the corner of his mouth. “You don’t look much like a fashion designer, either.”
Instead of taking offense, she barked a laugh and lifted a hand to her sopping ponytail. “Touché. I know I’m a mess. Aside from the horrible bed, a cricket kept chirping somewhere inside the house. And the water in the shower ranged from cold to frigid.”
“Devastating,” he murmured.
She continued, “There’s not a hair dryer in sight, because, of course, Grandpa doesn’t need one. I almost stuck my head over the stove but figured that might be pushing it.”
“Knowing how dangerous things tend to happen when you’re in a kitchen, that was probably a good call. And we don’t want to tax rescue services with