Stirring Up Trouble Read online

  “My home is in Philadelphia. This is just where I’m staying for now, because I don’t have any choice. But I’m never going to call this place home.” Her voice caught over the last word, making it softer than all the others.

  Sloane’s exhale puffed around her in a visible cloud, scattered by a sudden gust of wind. “Okay.” She followed Bree’s footsteps up the porch, stopping short of where the girl still stood in the doorframe. “You going in? It’s pretty cold out here.”

  Bree eyed Sloane with obvious distrust. “That’s it? You’re not going to give me some line about how things will get better eventually? Before I know it, I’ll love it here, and all that crap?” Bree’s knuckles blanched over the matte brass doorknob, which she still grasped even though the door was already wide open.

  “Nope.”

  Bree let go of the knob, but didn’t commit to going all the way inside. She traced the outer edge of the lock with one short, electric blue fingernail. “How come? Everybody else does.”

  Sloane laughed, long and loud, making Bree jump. “Honey, we’re about to spend the next couple of weeks together, so let’s get something straight right now. If you’re expecting me to be like everybody else, then you’re gonna be sorely disappointed. And believe me when I tell you, you won’t be the first.”

  For a fraction of a second, Bree’s hot-cocoa eyes lit with the barest hint of a spark, but then she shrugged. Her enormous backpack listed awkwardly off one shoulder, and although it took effort, she hitched it back into place over her slight frame and walked inside the cottage. “Whatever. I’m going to my room.”

  “Okeydoke. Let me know if you need anything, I guess.”

  Sloane watched the girl retreat down the hall with a shrug. While it would be easier if they were civil to each other, especially for the tutoring part of things, she wasn’t going to bend over backward to get the kid to open up if she didn’t want to do it. All Sloane needed in order to get paid was to keep her out of trouble and get her up to speed in English. Being friends was optional.

  Although how many friends could Bree have if she was hitching rides with the vice principal?

  Sloane shook the chill from her favorite bright red pea coat and wandered into the cottage, pushing the front door snugly back into the frame behind her. The tastefully understated entryway split in two directions, the one in which Bree had fled and the other that led into a living room as understated as the entryway.

  The only thing not painted stark white or lined in modern chrome were the hardwood planks beneath her feet, and although their black cherry color went beautifully with the décor, their warmth seemed at odds with the crisp, serious lines of everything above them. A series of black and white prints graced the walls, imposing oversized mats edged in elegant, glossy frames. They were all landscapes, and upon closer inspection, Sloane noted the curling, woody vines of different vineyards, some with rolling fields in the distance, others surrounded by groves of thin-leaved olive trees. A strange sensation worked its way up from the depths of her chest, unfurling like a favorite blanket on the first night of winter.

  “Tuscany,” she whispered, an involuntary smile forming on her lips as she examined each photograph in turn. Given his occupation, it made sense that Gavin had likely traveled to Europe, although she had to fess up to the fact that the culinary school thing had thrown her for a loop. Food was so evocative—hell, Sloane had seen Carly get so torqued up over plain old mushrooms that she’d cried in the middle of a farmer’s market once. Gavin didn’t really seem the type.

  The adjacent kitchen showcased black granite countertops flowing seamlessly into stainless steel appliances, and Sloane meandered in with the rhythmic clack of boots on tile. Not a single dirty dish in the sink, no signs of a hastily eaten breakfast scattered across the table in the side nook. Even the matte silver trash can was devoid of fingerprints.

  Okay, really? Did humans live here?

  A quick inventory of the contents of the fridge told her Gavin hadn’t been kidding when he’d said they were stocked, and she liberated a couple of grapes from a bowl on the top shelf. They burst on her tongue, their thin skin so taut, it crunched as she chewed. Three different kinds of mustard, assorted fruit, a half-wheel of Brie . . . okay, maybe culinary school wasn’t that much of a stretch. She gave the pantry door a quick pull and promptly stopped short, blinking a few times to make sure her vision was working properly.

  “Whoa.” Sloane felt her eyes go wide, and she stepped back to take in the baffling visual inventory. The shelves had been removed from the bottom third of the widened pantry, replaced by a stainless steel and smoked glass refrigerator that came up to her thigh. She folded her legs beneath her in a quick kneel to get a better look, chewing her lip as she thought.

  “But why would you have two refrigerators?” Her murmur caught on a surprised breath as she registered the digital temperature readouts in the corner by the handle, and she tugged the door open. The unit hummed its approval in a steady sigh, but it didn’t take a genius to see that this was far from an ordinary spare fridge.

  Sturdy black shelves, set on tiny casters that allowed them to roll out on a whisper, sat stacked one on top of the other in neat rows. Rounded grooves marked the spaces in every row like perfectly symmetrical waves, and Sloane slid each shelf out for quick yet reverent appraisal. The muted light from behind her spilled in to illuminate the carefully reclined bottles, and she ran her fingers over their slender necks gently, as if afraid to wake them. Chardonnay, Riesling, Pinot Grigio . . . there had to be nearly a hundred labels, all meticulously separated by type and vintage.

  Looked like the Ice King was passionate about something after all.

  “I’m pretty sure he counts those, just in case you’re getting any ideas.”

  Sloane jumped up so fast she nearly gave herself a head rush, clapping a hand over her sternum as she released the wine cellar door to whirl around. “Jesus, kid! You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  Undaunted, Bree glared at her from the doorway. “You shouldn’t snoop. It’s rude.”

  “What are you, the pantry police?” Sloane volleyed, dishing up a pinched face of her own. “And for the record, sneaking up on people doesn’t rank too high in the proper etiquette department either.”

  “I came to get something to eat.” Bree crossed the kitchen, yanking the real refrigerator open with a huff. “I can’t help it if I caught you poking around in my brother’s stuff.”

  “Looking in the pantry isn’t poking around. Riffling through someone’s underwear drawer, now that’s snooping.” Maybe a little humor would loosen this kid up.

  But Bree just rolled her eyes and reached into the deli drawer for a package of string cheese. “Save your energy. The only thing in there besides boxer shorts is a bunch of stupid pictures.”

  Sloane clamped down on her surprise, but only by a thread. “Like the ones on the walls out there?” She gestured to the living room. The vineyard shots seemed a lot more personal now that she’d gotten a glimpse of Gavin’s extensive wine collection.

  “Hardly.” Bree buried her scoff in a bite of mozzarella, following up with a silence that gave Sloane no choice but to push or change the subject.

  Oh, screw it. She was tired of beating around the bush with this kid. “Listen, it would probably make things easier on both of us if you dialed back on your attitude while you’re stuck with me. Your brother is pretty adamant about you catching up in English class, and the faster we get you there, the faster I’ll leave you alone.”

  “Right. Like you’d leave me alone.”

  “You’re making it awfully tempting.” The quip was out before Sloane could bite down on it.

  Bree’s eyes flashed. “If I let you tutor me and we get caught up with all my classwork tonight, would you really leave me alone after that?” Her disbelieving glance refused to waver.

  Sloane hesitated. “You do know how much classwork we’re talking about, right?”

  Before they’d left
La Dolce Vita, Gavin had mentioned at least four outstanding writing assignments, along with the required reading Bree needed to do in order to complete them. That alone would take hours, and Sloane suspected those four papers weren’t everything on the to-do list of missed assignments.

  Bree didn’t flinch. “Yeah. Would you?”

  She should’ve figured it would come down to bribery. “Well, your brother is paying me to keep an eye on you, so leaving you alone-alone is out of the question. However”—Sloane enunciated each syllable as if it were its own word, cutting Bree’s pouty moue of protest off at the knees—“if you’re willing to drop the ’tude and bust your buns to get that stack of work done satisfactorily, then sure thing, kid.” She crossed her arms over her chest and looked Bree right in the eye. “Once we’re square, you can stay in your room ’til school starts on Monday, and I won’t knock unless the house is on fire. Fair?”

  Without a word, Bree turned on her heel and walked out of the kitchen.

  “Great.” Sloane winced. If humor and bribery were out, she was going to have to resort to some pretty ugly tactics to get this job completed. Damn it, she should’ve known better than to think she could actually pull this off. But no, her stupid heart had to go and lurch like it had been cattle-prodded as soon as Gavin said their mom had died of cancer, just like her father. The next thing she knew, she’d impulsively agreed to do a job she knew nothing about.

  Between her bank account and her heartstrings, Sloane had gone temporarily insane. Maybe she could call the babysitting service and explain things, see if they couldn’t find someone, anyone, to come and relieve her. This had obviously been a mistake. Clearly, she wasn’t—

  “So can we get this over with?” Bree’s voice startled Sloane as much as the request. She tried not to let it show as Bree swung her humongous backpack from her shoulder with a whump. Not wanting to waste the opportunity on a little thing like being shocked down to her toes, Sloane scrambled to answer in spite of her surprise.

  “Um, sure. Will the breakfast bar work for you?”

  “Whatever.” Bree hefted the bag back up and headed to the nook, but Sloane stopped her cold, stepping in to place a hand on the girl’s forearm.

  “Uh-uh. Our terms were that you lose the attitude while we get the work done, kid. You don’t have to shower me with platitudes, but that word’s gotta go.” She dropped her hand, but didn’t step backward to let Bree pass.

  She narrowed her eyes, her lashes drawing low in shadowy disdain. “That’s censorship, you know.”

  “I prefer to think of it as a respect issue. No more whatever, otherwise the deal’s off the table.” Two could play at the not-budging game, and although Sloane really didn’t want Bree to recant, she also wasn’t going to let a thirteen-year-old push her around. No matter how much closer to greener pastures the money would get her.

  “Then no more calling me kid, either. I’m not a baby.” Bree’s hands went to her hips in true I-mean-it fashion, and Sloane nodded. After all, she was right.

  “Deal. But I don’t do freebies. Slip up at your own risk.” Despite trying to keep her poker face intact, Sloane couldn’t help the satisfied smile tickling her lips. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  Bree measured her with a hard stare. “Whatever you say.”

  “I say let’s get started.” She paused just long enough to let Bree think she’d gotten away with one before amping her smile to grin status.

  “You’ve got a lot of work to do, and I’m not kidding.”

  At ten past midnight, Gavin gave in and admitted that the ache in his bones might be permanent. The fact that he’d been largely distracted by having sent his broody, moody sister home in the charge of a quick-witted child-phobe only added to his stress. He knew from his limited observations that Bree usually steered clear of Mrs. Teasdale, avoiding contact despite the sweet old woman’s efforts to make Bree feel comfortable and cared for. Sloane was different, though—young and sharp and openly brazen. Clearly, Bree saw her as a repeat performance of Caroline, although Gavin had to laugh at the thought. If ever there was a polar opposite of his ex-fiancée, Sloane was it.

  Besides the child-phobe thing, anyway.

  Gavin pulled his Audi A6 into the gravel drive next to a sporty little silver Fiat and coughed out a laugh. Jeez, the damn thing was more clown car than real vehicle, with just a tiny bench behind the two front seats and a mere bubble of space parading as a trunk. With the assistance of the three-inch heels on her boots, Sloane had stood eye level with him at the restaurant, which was no small feat at six-foot-one. How on earth she managed to fold her long, lean frame into such a tiny car was mind-boggling. In fact, it had to be the last damned car on the planet he’d expect her to drive.

  Then again, surprise might be par for the course where she was concerned. This was a woman who laughed when strangers overheard her talking about her most intimate secrets. Although they couldn’t be that secret if she was willing to admit to them so freely. Take that orgasm thing, for example. Surely she’d been exaggerating. No way could she have meant never ever. She probably had her pick of men wanting to please her in bed.

  Heat crept into a few long-forgotten places, lingering enticingly, and his eyes shuttered closed. The image of Sloane, with her sassy attitude and lips so full they were practically extravagant, hit him without remorse. The heat became a tingle, then a full-on tightening as he conjured what he’d do if it were him in her bed, tangled in her sheets.

  That glimpse of exotically bronze Mediterranean skin he’d caught earlier flashed like a wicked temptation in his mind’s eye, daring his imagination to touch her. He pictured trailing slow, languid kisses from that hot sliver of her belly up to her high, firm breasts. He’d tease her nipples in seductive, slow circles with his mouth, daring her to dance on the edge of ecstasy before dropping past the indentation of her navel to taste the scorching heat of her—

  “Jesus Christ.” Gavin barked out a tight, involuntary laugh. This exhaustion was seriously messing with him. What Sloane did in bed was none of his business, speculative or otherwise. Even though it was only temporary, she was looking after his sister, which was only the cherry on top of all the reasons it was a bad idea to entertain explicit thoughts about her.

  Bracing himself against the dead-of-night January chill, he made his way up the walk, forcing his inner teenage horn dog to default to the reality of being an adult. He was impressed to find the dead bolt tightly turned even though Sloane was expecting him home, and he flipped the key in the lock with a firm twist.

  “Hey. I’m back.” He stopped in the entryway to the living room, purposely keeping his distance so his overactive imagination wouldn’t get any more crazy ideas.

  Sloane blinked up from her cross-legged perch on the couch, peering at him from beneath the brim of the same kind of floppy sun hat his mother used to wear at the beach.

  “Oh, crap. Is it midnight already?” She slid the blue and white striped hat from her head, and her tousled hair looked worse for the wear, like she’d spent the evening trying to tug it from its roots.

  He nodded. “Quarter past.” Curiosity gave decorum a nosy shove, and he gestured to the fabric in her lap. “Kind of cold for one of those, isn’t it?”

  She tucked her pencil behind one ear and frowned. “Writing ritual. Think of it like a lucky jersey. Only sometimes the luck is optional.” Crumpled sheets of notebook paper circled her like a failed-attempt force field, and she dropped the legal pad she’d been cursing from her fingers to her lap.

  Gavin shifted his weight from one loafer to the other. “I take it the tutoring didn’t go so well.” He gestured to the scattered yellow papers, most of which had been deposited at the foot of the couch, and tamped down the urge to pick them all up and head for the garbage can.

  Sloane stretched, treating Gavin to the exact snippet of skin he’d just managed to block from his mind. “Oh, yeah, no. Actually . . .” She riffled around on the cushions, milling through severa
l sloppy piles of paper before choosing a stack to hand over. “She did three out of her four missed assignments, and caught up on all of her reading, including this weekend’s passages. She tried like hell to finish that fourth paper, but ended up falling asleep on the book so I cut her a break.”

  Hiding his shock was a complete impossibility. “Wait . . . I don’t understand. Bree did all of her work? In one night?” In spite of Sloane’s matter-of-fact nod, his brain refused to accept the possibility. He’d barely been able to get a list of assignments from Bree, much less get her to sit down and work on any of them. “How did you pull that off? It had to have taken all night.”

  “Almost five hours. And I’ve gotta tell you, the fact that she spoke to me as little as humanly possible didn’t make it a walk in the park. But I think she’s got the hang of it now. If what she did isn’t up to snuff with her teacher, then the woman’s crazy.” Sloane scooped up the rest of the piles from the couch and stuffed them into her bag, tossing the legal pad on top of the melee.

  A question poked at his conscience, getting increasingly louder until he finally gave it voice. “Look . . . don’t take this the wrong way, but this is over three weeks’ worth of work. I’ve got to ask, how much help did you give Bree, exactly?”

  Sloane made a less-than-dainty sound and rolled her eyes. “I already passed eighth-grade English, and I’m not exactly eager to do any of the writing on my own again. Bree busted her butt, I assure you.” She started to wad up the discarded pages at her feet, muttering a low oath as the ball got big enough to exceed her hand.

  Okay, so that had come out more accusatory than he’d intended. He knelt to help her collect the crumpled pages. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you did it for her.”