“That’s what any sick, raping, ax-murdering psycho would say.”
If his chest didn’t hurt so damned much, and if he wasn’t afraid she would reach for the knife block next, he would have mulled that one over, wondering which she thought him to be: sick, raping, ax-murderer or psycho. All of the above?
Active imagination on that one.
“I’m the...groundskeeper,” he said with a groan as the ache in his chest receded, only to remind him of the ache in his elbow. Funny bone, my ass. “I work here.”
She froze, another pot in one hand, a cell phone in the other, and stared at him from a few feet away. “You work here?”
“Yeah, for Buddy. My name’s Oliver McKean. I saw the lights and was afraid somebody had broken in.”
She eyed him, her stare zoning in on the blood he could feel trickling down the side of his arm. Obviously she’d broken skin, if not bone, with her mad pot-slinging skills.
Nibbling on the corner of a succulent lip, she whispered, “Oh, dear.”
“Yeah. Oh, dear. That’s some swing you’ve got there.”
“I’m so sorry. I’m Candace Reid.”
“Oliver McKean.”
“You said that.”
“I know,” he mumbled, realizing he wasn’t making any sense. The one place she hadn’t hit him was his head, but his thoughts were still a whirl as he tried to figure out why on earth he was reacting so strongly to a woman who’d just tried to kill him.
“Are you Irish?” she asked with a deep frown, sounding more concerned than when she’d thought him a maniacal ax-killing rapist.
“My father is. We lived in Cork for a few years when I was a kid,” he admitted, wondering if his voice still held a hint of an accent. Also wondering why it mattered.
Not seeing the need to discuss his ethnicity, he staggered to his feet. He was none too steady on them, and his lungs still burned. She’d practically knocked him senseless. Dizzy or not, he was incredibly lucky neither of those flying missiles had hit him in the head. They really could have done some damage. But worries about what might have happened dissipated as he stared at her from across the room. Now that he wasn’t afraid for his life, he found himself struck into silence by the beauty of her gently curved face. Dark brows arched over expressive jewel-green eyes that were still widened with fear and surprise. Beneath a pair of high cheekbones were soft hollows that invited tender exploration. Her amazing lips were made for lots of deep kisses. Her chin was up, determined and strong, as if she wasn’t about to let down her guard completely. He liked that...he especially liked that she remained firm even though her long slender throat quivered and worked as she swallowed down her instinctive anxiety and mistrust.
She wore a delicate, filmy blouse, all cloud and color. It clung to the edge of her slim shoulders, revealing a soft expanse of chest and collarbone. Her skin was creamy, smooth, and his fingers curled together as he imagined touching that softness. The scooped neck of the blouse fell to the tops of her full breasts, revealing a hint of cleavage that left him more breathless than he’d felt after taking a frying pan to the chest.
He continued his perusal, seeing those curvy hips from the front—just as delightful—and the thighs clad in tight denim, on down to the high-heeled boots. Hell, she should have used those things for a weapon; the spiked heels could have carved out a hole in his heart.
Hmm. He suspected this woman could carve her name on any man’s heart. If, of course, he had one still capable of opening up and being carved.
“You’re Buddy’s granddaughter, I presume?” he finally asked, once his brain started working again.
His words snapped her out of her long moment of decompression. Apparently realizing she wasn’t about to be raped, ravaged by a maniac or ax-murdered, she nodded quickly. “Yes. I’m such an idiot. My mother told me that Grandpa’s groundskeeper had been the one to call with the news that he was in the hospital. I can’t believe I took you for a home invader.” She spun around and