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Chapter 1
This will end badly.
Tiffany Burrows swallowed the lump of apprehension in her throat. The sound of footfalls quickened her pulse. What the hell? She’d just arrived at the family’s cozy cottage in Lake Louise for a stress-free weekend. Her stepmother had guaranteed no one would be in the place. Marisa had said the cleaning lady should have already straightened up the place the previous weekend.
Tiffany tipped her head to listen again. No way the steps echoing on the dark wood flooring belonged to an arthritic old lady. Her body froze. What if someone wanted to rob the place? She reached for the crystal vase and clenched it with both hands. It probably cost a fortune, but life was priceless, right? I hope I won’t find out in the literal sense.
Someone coughed, and she gripped the vase against her chest. Trouble came from upstairs, and it was definitely male.
She hid behind the stairs, and lifted the vase. Her fingers were slick with sweat, and she wiped one of her hands on her jacket before gripping the crystal again. Her heart raced, and she didn’t need a blood pressure monitor to predict her fate. Oh. God. She’d be one of those rare cases of a young woman dying from a heart attack right on the spot when meeting an intruder.
Air bottled in her lungs, but she focused on staying still. At least, besides a lamp on the side table, all lights were off and he couldn’t see her.
Fear brewed in her belly and bubbled into her throat. She squeezed the heavy crystal so hard, the sharp edges bit into her flesh. Lifting it over her head, she took a deep breath but a nervous sound rushed from her lips.
A man stepped off the stairs and turned around. No.
No, no, no. Did he hear her?
Maybe it’s karma. Oh the irony. Her doctor had recommended she take some time off her stressful work in one of New York’s busiest firms as a graphic designer. She’d travelled all the way to Lake Louise and for what? To have some lunatic attack her and finish her off.
She should have enjoyed life like her late best friend Patricia no longer could. Instead, she had focused on work to run from the fact she had been the one behind the wheel when the car crashed against the tree and changed them forever.
The rustle from shoes yanked her from her thoughts, and as she gazed at the polished Italian leather loafers in front of her, she gasped.
“Why on Earth are you holding a vase in the dark, Tiffany?” asked the familiar deep cultured voice, sending thrills down her spine, and tingles in her most shameful places.
“I…” she started, then, confused, let out some air and ran her fingers through her pixie hair. She blinked once. Twice. But nothing changed the fact her sexy stepbrother, the six-foot-two Adonis, watched her from a few feet away as surprised as she. His hands rested on his waist, the contours of his striking face slowly tightening probably because he realized what her presence there meant.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Marisa told me to come here. I needed a breather from work, and she insisted I have the place for a few days.” She shifted her weight from foot to foot. Instinctively, her gaze slid down his hot muscular body, inconveniently covered by winter clothes, and landed at his legs. The thick, muscular thighs stretched the denim fabric, and as she looked lower, he had on shoes. He probably wore his prosthetic leg now.
She swallowed. She hadn’t seen him without it, but honestly she hadn’t seen him much after the accident. Does he still blame me? She gathered her wits and regarded his face once again—resentment flickered in the rich depths of his almond eyes.
Yes, he blamed her for losing half his limb and his former fiancée and their unborn baby. He’d probably always feel the same way, which only made her desire for him even more forbidden.
* * *
Santiago motioned to step back, but his good knee got stupidly stubborn on him. Tiffany. How long was it since he’d last seen her? Three, four years? After his fiancée Patricia’s funeral, he had made sure to avoid his troublemaking stepsister every chance he got. Sharing the same space with her made him face emotions he’d rather forget.
She took a couple steps in his direction. As Tiffany came into his field of vision, an annoying tingle throbbed in his amputated lower left leg, and he tilted his prosthetic wishing he controlled the sensation. If only doing away with the deep awareness of her were as easy. Whenever she came near him, a need as old as time burned inside him. An emotion clawed down his throat and squeezed his lungs.
“Does your father know you’re here?” Damn it. When he’d asked his stepfather to use his cottage for a week, he’d also demanded Alan not say anything to his wife. Santiago didn’t want anyone to know about his goals. Was it possible Alan kept his end of the bargain by not spilling the beans to Marisa, and this was all an unfortunate coincidence? He couldn’t stay under the same roof with Tiffany, not when he harbored feelings for her so sinfully wrong.
“I asked Marisa not to tell him. I didn’t want him to worry about me.” She tried to tuck her hair behind her ear, and he wondered if she’d just cut it recently.
Ever since he met her, when she had been sixteen and he’d been five years older, she always surprised him—and everyone else—with a different hair color and cut.
His jaw clenched. Her new style enhanced her bow shaped, extraordinarily full lips; and added sparkles to her big turquoise eyes. He never went for women with pixie cuts, as he preferred to thrust his fingers into a mass of sultry waves. Yet her new do fascinated him. His gaze slid down. A couple dark spots hung under said eyes, and despite all her beauty, her skin seemed rather dry, lacking the vitality so organic to her.
“Well, you’re going to need another jet setting destination. I’ve been here since yesterday and I’m not done.”
“Done? Done with what?”
Wouldn’t she like to know? He shook his head. “I’m interested in buying the cottage. Thought I’d come and take a look at the remodeling I’ll need to do once I own it,” he said, and wished it were true. He’d offered his stepfather well over market price, several times, but the old man was set on keeping the place.
She blinked, then put her hands at her waist. “Remodeling? This cottage is perfect.”
