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“Damn,” she muttered as she inserted the wrong key in the lock. She should have brought a rain jacket, she berated herself, slamming the door at last.
Her top was plastered against her, and although she had planned to do some further shopping she was not about to go anywhere in this condition. Her jeans were soaked as well—front and back—and she couldn’t wait to get back home, strip everything off and take a shower.
She backed out carefully and drove out of the parking lot. Although it was barely mid-morning the sky had darkened, and she could hear ominous rumbles of thunder. Her wipers were going at full-tilt, but the rain was pelting the windshield so hard that she could barely see through it.
As Justine drove slowly out of the town limits and toward the long country road that would take her home she tried to ignore the clammy feeling of her wet clothes against her skin.
A sudden beeping noise behind her startled her, and she glanced immediately in the rearview mirror. She could see a burgundy pickup truck, but it was impossible to see the driver.
To Justine’s consternation the honking became more persistent. The truck didn’t have its indicators on, so the driver couldn’t be in any kind of trouble. And she didn’t imagine it was an admirer. She wasn’t unused to appreciative smiles from male drivers once in a while, along with the occasional whistle or honk of their horn, but she doubted that this was the case today.
The rain was subsiding—thank goodness. And as she looked in the rearview mirror again she saw that the driver had his arm out the window, signaling for her to pull over. Now she felt alarmed. Was it a cop? No, not in a pickup truck. And it wouldn’t be for speeding...
He honked again and she looked back, but a sudden rush of oncoming cars made her concentrate on the road. She cautiously pressed on the gas pedal. Too many weirdos on the road, she thought. She swerved around a bend, and a quick look reassured her that the creep was gone.
She reached the turnoff to Winter’s Haven. The rain had stopped and the sun was breaking through the clouds. She clicked off her wipers, headed directly past the office building and turned into the road through a lengthy wooded stretch that led to her driveway. She sighed, but had barely turned off the ignition when she heard the crunch of an approaching vehicle.
A moment later the burgundy pickup truck she’d thought she had seen the last of pulled up right next to her.
She was more angry than worried now. How dare he? Without a thought to any potential danger, she flung the car door open and got out, her cheeks flaming. The man had gotten out of his truck and was leaning against it, casually silent, as he watched Justine march stormily up to him.
“Why are you following me?” she demanded, stopping a few feet away from him. “It was bad enough trying to drive with you tailgating and honking incessantly. Can’t you find a more civilized way of pursuing a woman? Highway dramatics don’t do anything for me.”
The man’s mouth twisted and he continued to stare at her through dark sunglasses. A few seconds passed. Why wasn’t he answering her? Maybe she should have stayed in the car. He might have a knife. She could scream, but nobody was close enough to hear her.
She looked at him closely. She might need to file a report if she managed to get away from him. His faded jeans and jacket seemed ordinary enough, but his bearded face, dark glasses and baseball cap might very well be concealing the face of an escaped criminal. Would she be able to run back to her car? No, she’d never make it if he intended to pursue her.
She shivered and said shakily, “What do you want?”
Another twist of his lips. “Your hubcap flew off a few miles back,” he drawled. “So you can relax. I’m not about to attack you.”
Justine let out an audible sigh. And then she felt her cheeks start to burn. She had accused him of pursuing her.
“I’m usually more civilized when it comes to pursuing women,” he said, and laughed, as if he had read her thoughts. “And ‘highway dramatics,’ as I believe you put it, are not my style.”
Justine’s discomfiture grew. “I apologize for jumping to the wrong conclusion, but you can hardly blame me, can you?” Her eyes narrowed. “Your voice sounds familiar...”
For some reason, the realization bothered her.
A suspicion suddenly struck her in a way that made her knees want to buckle.
“Haven’t figured it out yet?” he said, removing his sunglasses.
Tiger eyes. Damn!
With the cap, sunglasses, casual clothes and truck, and two weeks’ growth of beard, she hadn’t even suspected.
“It’s...you!” she sputtered, wide-eyed.
“Nice to see you again, too,” Casson Forrester murmured, with the slightest hint of sarcasm. “Actually, I spotted you in the hardware store, but you left before I could reach you. There are a few things I want to discuss with you.”
“You didn’t have to follow me.”
“I didn’t think you’d accept my call.” His eyes narrowed. “Among other things, I was going to suggest you don’t bother paneling or doing any other kind of work if you’re going to end up selling the place...”
Justine’s eyes flashed their annoyance. “That’s your mistaken presumption,” she retorted. “And were you eavesdropping on my conversation?”
“I didn’t have to. Mr. Blake happened to mention it when I called a staff meeting.”
“You own Forrest Hardware?” she said slowly. “And Forrest Construction....”
Of course. Forrest was simply an abbreviated form of his name, and an appropriate choice for his chain of stores in the Muskoka area—including the latest one in Parry Sound. She had briefly noticed the new sign, but the name hadn’t registered in her consciousness—least of all the connection with its owner.
She gave a curt laugh. “No wonder you can buy practically anything—or anybody—you want.”
“Not always,” his tiger eyes glinted. “Although it’s not for lack of trying.”
She shivered. And at the sudden clap of thunder they both looked up to the sky. The clouds had blocked out the sun again, and a few errant raindrops had started coming down. Realizing she had been standing there in her wet T-shirt and jeans, her hair flattened against her head except for the few strands that were now curling with the humidity, she crossed her arms in front of her.
“Excuse me,” she said icily, “I’m going to have to leave.” She turned away, then glanced back. “I’ll look for the hubcap later.”
She retrieved her keys and bag from her car and strode toward the house. When she was halfway there the rain intensified, making her curse indelicately as she ran the rest of the way. Breathing a sigh of relief as she reached the door of the porch, she closed it behind her as another clap of thunder reverberated around her.
Hearing the porch door creak open again, she turned around to close it tightly. But it wasn’t the wind that had forced it open. It was Casson Forrester. And a big dog.
“I hope you don’t mind if we wait out the storm in your house.” He closed the porch door firmly. “Driving would be foolish in almost zero visibility. And Luna is terrified of storms.” He took off his cap and grinned at Justine. “Would you be so kind as to hand me a towel? I’d hate for us to drip all over your house.”
Justine blinked at the sight before her. Casson Forrester and his big panting dog, both dripping wet.
Casson took off his baseball cap and flung it toward the hook on the wall opposite him. It landed perfectly. He looked at her expectantly, one hand in a pocket of his jeans, the other patting Luna on the head. Both pant legs were soaked, along with his jean jacket.
She tore her gaze away from his formfitting jeans and looked at Luna. She’d make a mess in her house, for sure. She sighed inwardly. Did she have any choice but to supply this dripping duo with towels? She couldn’t very well let them stand there.
Anther clap of thunder caused Luna to give a sharp yelp, and she rose from her sitting position, looking like she wanted to bolt.
Justine blurted, “I’ll just be a minute,” and hurried inside, closing the door with a firm click. She wasn’t going to let either of them inside until they were relatively drip-free.
She scrambled up the stairs to the hall closet near her room, fished out a couple of the largest towels she could find and then, as an afterthought, rifled through another section to find a pair of oversized painting overalls. He could get out of his jeans and wear these while his clothes dried.
Unable to stop the image of his bare legs invading her thoughts, she flushed, and hoped her cheeks wouldn’t betray her.
She walked slowly down the stairs, and after taking a steadying breath re-entered the porch.
“I found a pair of painting overalls. You can get out of your wet clothes and throw them into the dryer,” she said coolly. “There’s a washroom just inside this door, next to the laundry room. If you want, I can pat down your dog.”
She handed him the overalls and one of the towels.
He reached out for them and the towel fell open. His eyebrows rose and he glanced at her with a quirky half-smile. “I like the color, but I’m afraid they’re a tad too small for me. But thanks.”
Justine wanted the floor to split open and swallow her up. She snatched the hot pink bikini panties from where they clung to the towel and shoved them in her pocket. They must have been in the dryer together. She bent down to dry Luna, not wanting Casson to see how mortified she felt.
She let out her breath when she heard him enter the house.
Luna whimpered at the next rumble of thunder and started skittering around the porch. “Come here, Luna, you big scaredy-cat,” she said. “Come on.” To her surprise the dog gave a short bark and came to her, tail wagging. “Good dog. Now, lie down so I can dry you.”
Luna obeyed, and Justine patted her head and dark coat with the towel. She was a mixed breed—Labrador Retriever, for sure, and maybe some German Shepherd. Her doleful eyes and the coloring around the face and head—tan and white, with a black peak in the middle of her forehead—made Justine wonder if there were some beagle ancestry as well.
“Don’t you have pretty eyes?” she murmured, chuckling as Luna rewarded her with a lick on the hand.
They looked as if someone had taken eyeliner to them. And the brown of her coat tapered off to tan before ending in white paws, making it seem as if she had dipped them in white paint.
“You’re such a pretty girl—you know that?” Justine gave her a final patting and set down the towel. “Even if you’ve left your fur all over my towel.”
Justine crouched forward and scratched behind Luna’s ears. Before Justine could stop her Luna had sprung forward to lick her on the cheek. Unprepared for the considerable weight of the furry bundle, Justine lost her balance and fell back awkwardly on the floor.
“Luna, come!”
Casson’s voice was firm, displeased. She hadn’t heard him come back.
“It’s all right, she was just being affectionate,” Justine hurried to explain. “I lost my footing.”
She scrambled to get up, and her embarrassment dissipated when she saw him standing there in a T-shirt and the white overalls. It wasn’t the T-shirt that made her want to burst out laughing. Under different circumstances those muscled arms would certainly have elicited emotions other than laughter. It was the overalls—the not-so-oversized overalls.
They fit him snugly, and only came down to just above his ankles. How could someone so ruggedly handsome look so...so dorky at the same time? She covered her mouth with her hand, but couldn’t help her shoulders from quaking as she laughed silently. Here was Mr. Perfect—the stylish, wealthy entrepreneur Casson Forrester—wearing something that looked like it belonged to Mr. Bean.
Casson’s eyes glinted. “What? You find this fashion statement humorous? Hmm... I suppose it does detract from your previous impression of me, however—”
The boom of thunder drowned out his words, and as the rain pelted down even harder Justine motioned toward the door. Once they were inside she ran to make sure all the windows were closed. The rain lashed against the panes, obliterating any view at all. She turned on a lamp in the living room.
“Have a seat.” She gestured toward the couch. “I need to check the windows upstairs and change my clothes too.” She glanced at Luna, who was whimpering. “You might want to turn on the TV to drown out the thunder.”
* * *
After Justine had left, Casson smirked at the memory of her face when she’d turned to find him and Luna inside her porch. Her eyes had almost doubled in size, with blinking lashes that had reminded him of delicate hummingbird wings. Peach lips had fallen open and then immediately pursed. It had taken him everything not to burst out laughing.
Although laughing was not what he’d wanted to do when her pink panties had emerged from that towel... Her cheeks had immediately turned almost the same intense color, and he’d felt glad he hadn’t given in to the impulse to hand them to her.
It had been her turn to smirk, though, when he’d appeared in these painting overalls. Casson knew he looked ridiculous—but, given the situation, beggars couldn’t be choosers.
He grabbed the remote and found a classical music channel that would diffuse some of the thunder noise. Sitting back on the couch, he looked around with interest. The stone fireplace across from him was the focal point of the room, with its rustic slab of oak as mantel, and the Parry Sound stone continued upward to the pine-lined cathedral ceiling.
He drew a quick intake of breath as his gaze fell on the Group of Seven print above the mantel. Mirror Lake, by Franklin Carmichael. His eyes followed the curves of the multi-colored hills, the bands of varying hues of red, blue, purple, turquoise, green and gold and the perfect stillness of the lake, its surface a gleaming mirror.
This piece always tugged at his emotions and brought back so many memories—memories he didn’t want to conjure up right now, with Justine set to return at any moment.
Casson’s gaze shifted to the oversized recliners flanking the fireplace, one with a matching ottoman. Their colors, along with the couch and love seat, were an assortment of burnt sienna, brown and sage-green, with contrasting cushions. The wide-plank maple flooring, enhanced by a large forest green rug with a border of pine cones and branches, gave the place an authentic cottage feel, and the rustic coffee table and end tables complemented the décor.
The far wall behind the love seat featured huge windows of varying sizes, the top ones arching toward the peak of the ceiling and the largest one in the middle a huge bay window, providing what must be a spectacular view of the bay when the rain wasn’t pounding against the panes.
A well-stocked bookshelf against one wall, eclectic lighting, and a vase containing a mix of wildflowers enhanced what Casson considered to be the ideal Georgian Bay cottage. He sat back, nodding, making mental notes for his future resort cottages.
After making a few investigative circles around the room Luna plunked down at his feet, panting slightly, her ears perked, as if she were expecting the next clap of thunder. Casson leaned forward to give her a reassuring pat and she grumbled contentedly and settled into a more relaxed position.
Casson wished he could feel more relaxed, but the painting overalls were compressing him in too many places. He wondered what Miss Wintry’s reaction would be if he stretched out on the couch. At least then he wouldn’t feel like his masculinity was being compromised, he thought wryly. He checked the time on his watch. Sighing, he lay back and rested his head on one cushion.
Ah, relief.
He closed his eyes and listened to the classical music, accompanied by the rain pelting against the windows. A picture of Justine changing into dry clothes popped into his head.
Would she be slipping on those pink panties?
What was he doing?
He was here to wait for his clothes to dry and the storm to pass, not to imagine her naked...
* * *
Upstairs in her room, Justine peeled off her clothes, dried herself vigorously, and wished she could jump into a hot shower. But that would have to wait until Casson was gone. She didn’t want to be thinking about him while she was...undressed. She changed quickly into white leggings and a long, brightly flowered shirt.
As an afterthought she opened her closet and moved a few boxes until she found the one she was looking for. Although Christmas was months away, she stashed away presents whenever she could instead of waiting for the last minute. The box she opened contained a dressing robe she had picked out for her dad. It was forest green, with burgundy trim at the wrists and collar, and she had embroidered the letters ‘WH’, for Winter’s Haven, on one side. She had wanted to surprise her dad with this as a new idea—providing a robe in each cottage, like they did in hotels.
She lifted it out of the box and its tissue wrapping and hooked it over her arm. At the door she hesitated, feeling a sudden twinge of guilt, and then, before she could change her mind, she strode downstairs.
The TV was on and Luna was lying at Casson’s feet. Justine held out the robe. “I thought you might appreciate this instead,” she said.
He stood up and took it from her, before tossing the cushion he was holding back on the couch. “Indeed I do,” he said, his jaw twitching. “Now I know you’re not all flint and arrows.”
Justine opened her mouth to voice a retort but his hand came up.
“No offence intended,” he said. “I realize we didn’t start off on exactly a positive note but, given the present circumstances, could we perhaps call a truce of some sort?”
Justine was taken aback. “We’re not in a battle, Mr. Forrester. So there’s no need for a truce. Excuse me. I’m going to put on some fresh coffee. Care for a cup?” She turned toward the open-concept kitchen/dining room.
“Love some coffee,” he replied. “Just milk or cream, no sugar. And you’ll have to excuse me as well. I’m dying to get out of these overalls.”
He smirked and headed toward the washroom. Luna lifted her head quizzically, gave a contented grumble, and promptly settled back into her nap.
When Casson came back into the living room he had the overalls neatly folded. He placed them on a side chair and then sat down on the couch. The robe fit him well, which meant it would have been a size or two too big for her dad.
“That coffee smells great,” he drawled, tightening the sash on the robe before crossing his legs.
Justine came out of the kitchen with a tray holding two mugs, a small container of cream and a plate of muffins. She caught her breath at seeing him there, one leg partially exposed. She felt a warm rush infuse her body. It was such an intimate scenario: Casson leaning back against the couch, totally relaxed, as if he were the owner of the place.
She saw his gaze flicker over her body as she approached. She wanted to squirm. Her jaw tensed. This was her place. Why did she suddenly feel like she was at a disadvantage?
She would not let him know that his presence was affecting her. She would treat him like any other cottage guest. Politely, respectfully. And hopefully the heavens would soon clam up and she could send him on his way. His clothes shouldn’t take too long to dry.
She set the tray down on the coffee table and, picking up the plate of four muffins, held it out to him. “Banana yogurt. Homemade.”
“Thank you, Miss Winter.”
He reached forward and took one. At the same time Luna lifted her head, sniffing excitedly. Before Justine had a chance to move the plate Luna had a muffin in her jaws. Startled, Justine tipped the plate and stumbled over Casson’s foot. She felt herself falling backward, and a moment later landed in the last place she’d ever want to land. A steaming volcano would have been preferable.
She felt his arms closing around her. The muffin was still in his hand.
“Now that you’ve fallen right into my lap,” he murmured huskily in her right ear, “would you like to share my muffin?”
CHAPTER THREE
JUSTINE COULD FEEL Casson’s breath on the side of her neck. She shivered involuntarily. His left arm was around her waist and his right arm was elevated, holding the muffin. His robe had opened slightly in the commotion and, glancing downward, she saw to her consternation that one bare leg was under her.
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