because her curiosity always got her into trouble.
She burrowed under the satin sheet—chilly things—and yanked it to her chin with a shudder.
If she were smart, she'd take his advice: forget about what happened between them and concentrate on her job. She had good reasons to do exactly that: Annie's college fund, her own career, and Licks. She absolutely had more important things to do than ferret out Rand's reasons for not wanting to kiss her.
The satin sheets started to warm up along with her determination.
She could do this.
She would do this.
Men only made women daft, anyway, or so said the gospel according to St. Annie the Practical. Tessa smiled into her slippery pillow. No doubt Annie was right, but for a moment there, being daft had felt awfully good.
Her eyes opened, and she stared hard at the night-shrouded ceiling. After all, her dad had always told her to go after what she wanted and "don't spare the horses."
Okay. Now she had two choices, listen to Rand's stern advice and forget they'd ever kissed, or take her father's words to heart and go after what she wanted. She chewed on her lip, unsure her current goal fell into a category Dad would find acceptable, but absolutely certain another of Rand's kisses would make everything clear.
She closed her eyes again and snuggled into the luxurious bed. What should she do? The warming satin was like a caress against her cheek, lulling her into sleep.
Tomorrow... think about it tomorrow.
Good idea. She closed her eyes. Important decisions were always best made in daylight.
Still, she couldn't stop her fingers from resting against her freshly kissed lips, or leaving them there until she drifted into a dream...
* * *
Rand stalked his bedroom, driven half-wild by distrust, frustrated desire, and guilt. What in hell had he been thinking? Tessa was Ned's. At least according to Ned. Too bad the man had neglected to inform Tessa. Or had he?
Rand stopped his pacing and stared out the French doors leading to the balcony of his bedroom. Maybe the woman was angling for bigger game, which in female parlance translated to the bigger fortune.
The idea made him sick.
Nothing in her file—the one Ned sent to him when he'd hired her—had indicated she was anything other than a hard-working young woman looking to earn a living by training dogs.
She'd worked at the same job since leaving high school, helped her widowed mother and sister out financially and took college courses at night, wanted to be a veterinarian. Hardly the resume of a femme fatale.
And there weren't exactly a lot of men in her past, only one semi-serious relationship, ended two years before.
He opened his balcony doors, stepped out, and looked at the sky, moonless now and dark with morning rain. He wanted to believe Tessa was what she seemed, open, honest and sincere, and that surprised him.
Rand placed both hands on his balcony rail, dropped his head, and for the millionth time wished he could forget Andrea, forget what a fool he'd been.
But he couldn't. No. Scratch that. He damn well wouldn't. A woman in his bed? Sure. But close enough to what he laughingly called his heart to wreak further havoc? Out of the question.
His father had always said he should be more like his brother Griff, and Griff had always laughed and agreed with him.
A cynical smile curled Rand's lips as the familiar pain sliced his heart, the way it always did when he thought about his twin.
Griff was as determined to please the mean, avaricious old bastard as Rand was to defy him. They may have disagreed on how best to deal with their father—and Rand's medical degree hadn't impressed Boyd anywhere near as much as Griff's MBA. But somehow they'd managed their differences, stayed tight with each other.
Until Andrea.
Rand shook his head, rubbed at the thought lines etched into his brow. Griff should be running Red Earth. By right and inclination it was his—not Rand's. Boyd was no doubt spinning in his grave knowing
She burrowed under the satin sheet—chilly things—and yanked it to her chin with a shudder.
If she were smart, she'd take his advice: forget about what happened between them and concentrate on her job. She had good reasons to do exactly that: Annie's college fund, her own career, and Licks. She absolutely had more important things to do than ferret out Rand's reasons for not wanting to kiss her.
The satin sheets started to warm up along with her determination.
She could do this.
She would do this.
Men only made women daft, anyway, or so said the gospel according to St. Annie the Practical. Tessa smiled into her slippery pillow. No doubt Annie was right, but for a moment there, being daft had felt awfully good.
Her eyes opened, and she stared hard at the night-shrouded ceiling. After all, her dad had always told her to go after what she wanted and "don't spare the horses."
Okay. Now she had two choices, listen to Rand's stern advice and forget they'd ever kissed, or take her father's words to heart and go after what she wanted. She chewed on her lip, unsure her current goal fell into a category Dad would find acceptable, but absolutely certain another of Rand's kisses would make everything clear.
She closed her eyes again and snuggled into the luxurious bed. What should she do? The warming satin was like a caress against her cheek, lulling her into sleep.
Tomorrow... think about it tomorrow.
Good idea. She closed her eyes. Important decisions were always best made in daylight.
Still, she couldn't stop her fingers from resting against her freshly kissed lips, or leaving them there until she drifted into a dream...
* * *
Rand stalked his bedroom, driven half-wild by distrust, frustrated desire, and guilt. What in hell had he been thinking? Tessa was Ned's. At least according to Ned. Too bad the man had neglected to inform Tessa. Or had he?
Rand stopped his pacing and stared out the French doors leading to the balcony of his bedroom. Maybe the woman was angling for bigger game, which in female parlance translated to the bigger fortune.
The idea made him sick.
Nothing in her file—the one Ned sent to him when he'd hired her—had indicated she was anything other than a hard-working young woman looking to earn a living by training dogs.
She'd worked at the same job since leaving high school, helped her widowed mother and sister out financially and took college courses at night, wanted to be a veterinarian. Hardly the resume of a femme fatale.
And there weren't exactly a lot of men in her past, only one semi-serious relationship, ended two years before.
He opened his balcony doors, stepped out, and looked at the sky, moonless now and dark with morning rain. He wanted to believe Tessa was what she seemed, open, honest and sincere, and that surprised him.
Rand placed both hands on his balcony rail, dropped his head, and for the millionth time wished he could forget Andrea, forget what a fool he'd been.
But he couldn't. No. Scratch that. He damn well wouldn't. A woman in his bed? Sure. But close enough to what he laughingly called his heart to wreak further havoc? Out of the question.
His father had always said he should be more like his brother Griff, and Griff had always laughed and agreed with him.
A cynical smile curled Rand's lips as the familiar pain sliced his heart, the way it always did when he thought about his twin.
Griff was as determined to please the mean, avaricious old bastard as Rand was to defy him. They may have disagreed on how best to deal with their father—and Rand's medical degree hadn't impressed Boyd anywhere near as much as Griff's MBA. But somehow they'd managed their differences, stayed tight with each other.
Until Andrea.
Rand shook his head, rubbed at the thought lines etched into his brow. Griff should be running Red Earth. By right and inclination it was his—not Rand's. Boyd was no doubt spinning in his grave knowing
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