That was assuming Dee-Dee was telling the truth, which Hannah would, because why would she go to all that trouble to send Hannah anywhere else?
Of course Mr. Brattle would have a phone so she could call for help right away, but…she didn’t need it right away. Later would be fine. Far be it from her to make someone risk his or her life coming to rescue her now in this terrible weather. Right? Right.
Oh, this was a night for her memoirs. First, she needed out of these wet shoes and to hang her coat somewhere waterproof so drips from melting ice bits wouldn’t stain the hardwood.
She fumbled at the wall near the door and struck pay dirt with a light switch that threw a soft chandelier-glow over the breathtaking entranceway. Hannah let her eyes feast in a slow circle around her. Parquet flooring, and thick vivid Oriental rugs that she lost no time in exploring with frozen toes after she kicked off her shoes and stripped off her sodden stockings. Mmm, bliss.
The house was warm—deliciously warm—so obviously whoever left was planning to come back soon. At least when he or she did, the storm, the open gates, open door and Hannah’s devastatingly destroyed car provided the ideal justifiable excuse for her presence.
This could not possibly have been more perfect. Maybe being impulsive hadn’t been so bad for once. Matilda—God rest her engine—would not have given her life in vain.
A promising set of louvered doors slid open to reveal, just as she’d hoped, a vast closet with an array of expensive coats—men’s coats—in conservative shades of brown, black, gray and tan, suitable for the average heir. She brushed her hand over the textures—wool, cashmere, leather—sniffed the lingering hint of their owner’s very nice cologne, then pushed past the wooden hangers for a metal one her damp coat wouldn’t ruin. Down the hall to her left she discovered a first-floor bathroom in whose shower she hung her dripping woolen mess.
And now…to explore. Jack Brattle’s house.
Kitchen first, glimpsed as she’d passed in search of the bathroom. Ooh la la. State of the art, but not detracting from the nineteenth-century feel of the entranceway. She skimmed her fingers over the built-in paneled refrigerator. Wouldn’t she love to microwave a hot dog in a room like this? She bet it had never seen one.
Out of the kitchen, exploring room after room, not unlike Gerard Banks’s house—and hey, how often did she score a two-mansion day?—but here there were no leopard statues, no large-screen TVs or—dare she say—gaudy furniture. Jack Brattle was all dark wood, leather, brick fireplaces, rich subdued colors in rugs, books, cushions. True old-money class.
She had to admit, in spite of her aversion to opulence, the house was incredible. The kind of place that brought to mind every fabulous manor she’d imagined while reading, from The Secret Garden to Jane Eyre. And yet, a home she could imagine someone actually lived in, not redecorated every season to show off to visitors and lifestyle magazines.
Up the curving staircase to a landing with a comfortable-looking burgundy couch and gold patterned chair, another shelf of books and a window seat beside it. Down the hallway lined with portraits and landscapes, passing at least four bedrooms, a workout room, a study, another bedroom, apparently unoccupied like the others, and then, what she suspected was the master bedroom suite. Was this where Jack Brattle slept?
The glimmer of light under the door registered at the same time she pushed it open…
And came face-to-face with the wettest, handsomest naked man she’d ever been startled out of her wits to meet.
Chapter Three
“OH! I’M SO SORRY!” HANNAH jammed her eyes shut and reared back into the dim hallway, slapping a hand over her closed lids for good measure. Oh, no. Oh my goodness, oh my…goodness what a sight. Even with her eyes closed she could still see—
No, stop. She could be arrested for breaking and entering, this was not the time to go lusty-wench. He could be calling the cops right now. Reporter Busted for Ogling Billionaire’s Bodacious Bod.
“Sorry. I’m really sorry. I, um, got lost and your entrance was open and my car is—”
She sensed the door moving in front of her, slid two fingers apart and peeked through.
Gulp.
He was standing, towel wrapped around his, um, hips, ohhh, yeah, and, um, his chest was…whew. He…Wait. He was smirking. She apparently amused him. Or maybe he thought it was funny because he’d called a SWAT team, which was pulling into his driveway right now and unloading bazookas.
“I was, um…just saying that your door was open.”
“You pushed it open.”
“It was—” She realized just in time what he meant. “No. Downstairs. The front door. Was open. My car is outside with a tree on it. What I mean is, I got lost and the roads are bad and then, so I saw your gate open and then the car-crushing thing happened and I came in because you’re unlocked in front, and I was freezing and thought the place was empty, so I started looking around, but…uh…but it’s not, is it. Empty that is.”
Silence. He looked even more amused, but as if he were trying hard not to be. God, he was gorgeous. Gor-gee-usss. If this was Jack Brattle, then he had to be emotionally bankrupt or deeply miserable because it was just not fair that anyone could have all that money and all that…everything and look the way he did.
“No, the house isn’t empty. I’m here.”
“Right. Right. I see that. I’m so sorry. I just needed shelter because I didn’t…have any.”
“Okay.”
Are you Jack Brattle? She couldn’t ask, because she wasn’t supposed to know this was his house. But, of course, who else could be naked in the master bedroom? Stunningly naked, she might add.
“I’m Hannah.”
“Jack.”
Jack! Jack! It took every ounce of energy not to light up like a tree angel, blast off like a rocket, or fizz like a shaken Coke. Bless Dee-Dee and her gravity-defying boobs.
“Nice to meet you, Jack. I’m truly sorry to barge in on you like this. Especially—” She gestured to his towel without looking at it even though she really wanted to look at it, and at him. All of him. “—like this. My phone is in my car, which I can’t get into. If I could use yours to call the—”
“Wait here.”
She nodded demurely, then when he went back into his room and closed the door, she did a silent, hopping, fist-pumping victory dance in his hallway. Besides a front-page spread in Lester’s “Rack of Glam” article, she owed Dee-Dee a hundred lunches with D. G. “Highbrow” Jackson for this. No, a thousand.
Hannah stopped dancing and put a hand to her hammering heart. Regroup. She was a pro. He was her subject. When he came back out, she needed to talk less—since she’d just broken the world record for disjointed babbling—and observe more. So far she’d observed that he wasn’t very chatty, not that she’d given him much of a chance, and that he had no problem giving orders. “Wait here” was not the most charming way she’d ever been asked to linger. Though for all he knew she was a lying con-artist thief, so maybe a lapse in manners was forgivable.
She had also observed that he was the kind of male eye candy she liked best. Thick dark hair, none of this California surfer-dude stuff for her. A strong face, very masculine, stopping short of head-clubbing-caveman. Tall. Dark brown eyes that sent out a shock of attraction on contact, and that indicated copious brainpower behind them.
And—gravy on her stuffing—the man obviously worked out. Good shoulders, flat stomach and that great sculpted butt that—