Rock Chick Renegade (Rock Chick #4)(81)

It could be cute, his cabin, definitely cozy. The walls were made of well-sealed logs. The floors were wood with some rugs thrown over them, mostly multi-colored and braided, not tatty but not designer-cabin-chic either. The front room was one biggish room incorporating the dining room, living room and kitchen. There was a big stone hearth on the side wall of the living room, a smaller one on the opposite side, next to the dining table.

To the right was the living room. He had a couch, over it thrown a colorful Native American blanket. A coffee table in front, cluttered with books, some opened and placed face down, some stacked even on the floor and under the table. A floor lamp made of a twisted branch was beside the couch, buffalos dancing across the shade. The back of a beat up leather armchair faced the dining room/kitchen area.

And that was it. No television, no stereo, no pictures, nothing.

The kitchen was a u-shape, back and side walls had top and bottom cabinets, a counter delineating it from the dining area with only bottom cabinets. The cabinets were made of a fantastic knotty-pine. They’d look great refinished and with a gleam to them especially if granite or concrete counter tops replaced the old worn brown one he had. A coffeemaker and a toaster were the only things on the counter except for a stack of mail. The dining area held an old, round, oak four-seater. Like everything else it was in good condition but worn, maybe bought secondhand because it was old enough to pre-date Vance’s ownership and too worn for stuff that had little use if he wasn’t home very often.

Vance came back into the room and I looked at him.

He stopped in the entryway to the hall and leaned a shoulder against it, eyes on me.

“If you don’t stay here very often, where do you stay when you’re in town?” I’d asked out of curiosity not able to help myself mostly because I wanted to know.

It wasn’t a good decision.

He stayed silent for a beat after my question then his face changed and not in a good way.

“You wanna talk now?” he asked, voice low. “Get to know me a little better?”

Um.

Not good.

Someone was not in a happy mood.

“Crowe, I’m just trying to make conversation,” I said quietly, deciding not to spit in the eye of the tiger at this juncture.

He pushed away from the wall and started toward me. “I don’t wanna have a conversation. I wanna f**k.”

My body prepared to flee but my mind stopped it and I held my ground. “I’m beginning to hate it when you say it like that,” I said sharply.

I didn’t really hate it, not before. It was kind of a turn on. But I did hate it now especially the way he just said it which was not nice.

He stopped in front of me and just at the edge of my space. The whole time he approached me, his eyes were on mine.

“I work when I’m in town. If I need to sleep, I sleep on the couch in the down room. If I need to shower, I use the shower there. I keep clothes in my locker. A lot of the time I’m out hunting and not in town at all. I come up here when I have time off which isn’t very often,” he answered my question.

“Why do you work so much?” I asked but wished I hadn’t. Again I couldn’t help myself. I just wanted to know.

“It’s what I do,” he replied.

“But why?”

He stared at me a second, leaned forward and took my hand. “Question time is over.”

Oh crap.

Then he turned and pulled me across the room and down the hall.

It was undignified to struggle especially in high heels and a little black dress. So I didn’t but my belly flutter, coupled with the stomach twist, made me feel a little queasy.

He pulled me into a room off the left of the hall, his bedroom.

The lamp was on by the bed. It was an old iron bed, painted black, a double. The mattresses, though, looked firm and new. There was a down comforter on it covered in a dark brown twill and another Native American blanket thrown over the comforter, light brown pillow cases over the pillows. There was a dresser, two nightstands (both with lamps and more books on them) and an old wardrobe (because there was no closet). On the outside wall was another stone-hearth fireplace nearly as big as the living room. The only thing on the walls was a hide stretched across and stitched tight to a bent piece of wood, an image of an eagle shaved into the fur.

Vance stopped by the bed. He’d already taken off his jacket earlier and now he started to unbutton his shirt.

“Crowe –” I started.

“Take off your dress,” he interrupted me, his voice sharp.

I blinked at him, shocked at his tone.

Then I rallied. “Can we please talk, just for a few minutes?”

I wasn’t beginning to get freaked. I was full-on freaked.

It didn’t take an experienced relationship expert to realize he was pissed off and I didn’t understand. If he was pissed off, why did he want me there at all? It was like he wanted to make this hard on me and I didn’t like that, not about him.

Furthermore, why was I there? I’d never agreed to it. I hadn’t even agreed to going to the party with him.

Before I could answer my questions, his hands came away from the last button and he shrugged his shirt off his shoulders and it fell to the floor. Then he captured me by the hips, pulled me closer and with a swish he had my dress clutched in his fingers and up over my head. Then it was gone.

I was wearing a pair of red satin panties with a little black bow under my navel (one of my new pairs) and no bra.