Page 4 of Her Rugged Guardian
He snorted, his glare intensifying. “I guess I’ll just call you Cinnamon Girl.”
“Excuse me?”
“You smell like a fucking bakery.”
“How dare you!” I snapped and without thinking, I took a giant stride toward him. That’s the moment his musky aftershave filtered into my system, jetting straight into my core. Within seconds, my panties were damp, the scent as intoxicating as any I’d ever had the privilege of savoring.
He swaggered even closer, a wry smile on his face. “I have every right to be here.”
“Right. Who says so?”
“Margaret Dayne, a client of mine.”
“She’s dead. That’s a horrible thing to do, using a dead woman to try and explain yourself.”
“Well, nothing will explain your improper use of a toaster,” he snarked then pressed his fingers against his forehead. “I’m the one who should be calling the police.”
I kept my hard glare on him even though my mouth was watering. “Who are you?”
“Jake Spencer. Who are you?”
I wasn’t certain I wanted to give him my real name, but at this point, what did it matter? “Cassandra Dayne. I’m Margaret’s daughter.”
“She never mentioned you or that she even had a daughter, and you certainly never visited her. For all I know, you’re a scam artist.”
“Ha! My mother had next to nothing when she died. And I was busy. I was…” Swallowing hard, I looked away, the guilt over never visiting her returning in full force.
His cold expression softened for about thirty seconds. “I’m sorry about your mom, Ms. Dayne, but that doesn’t give you an excuse or the right to assault me.”
“And my mother never mentioned you or the work you were doing on the place. I didn’t see a truck outside. For all I know, you’re some homeless dude looking for a warm bed to crawl in.”
“That’s why I’m hanging a ceiling fan she ordered a couple weeks before she died. Right?”
Okay, so he had a point. I lowered the toaster, wrinkling my nose as I watched Moose dance around him like the man was his new play toy. There were so many nasty words forming in my mind that it was all I could do to keep them to myself. I’d heard from the attorney the place did need a lot of work. Maybe what he was telling me was true.
“She hired you?” I demanded once again.
“No, my fairy godmother did. Of course she hired me, sweetheart.”
“I’m not your sweetheart, buster. I don’t know you.”
“And I don’t want to know you.”
Even the two-day stubble on his chiseled jaw was sexy, but I refused to think about him as anything other than a man who’d broken into my mother’s beloved bed and breakfast. “There’s no vehicle outside and from what I can tell, you’re a long way from home.”
“I guess you didn’t open your eyes when you drove in. I live just next door. The truck is around the side.”
“It was dark.”
“You have headlights.”
The man was infuriating. I was ready to toss the toaster in his direction. “Fine, you live next door. Great. Maybe I’ll sell the place just because of that.”
He laughed, the gruff, throaty sound sending a wave of shivers through every muscle. “Yeah, you do that. That would suit me just fine.”
A line had been drawn in the sand. God, I hated this man.
“I need some ID.” At least I had conviction in my voice as I threw out my hand.