The Bachelor Auction Page 8

“You didn’t use his name,” Jane teased.

  Brock glared. “Did you let him in? Is this punishment for being rude last night?”

  She snorted. “The idea does have merit, but no, I didn’t sic Fred on you. I’d like to think I’m more creative than that.”

  Fred nudged Brock to the side then slowly moved into the kitchen and stopped in front of Jane.

  “I think he’s hungry,” Jane whispered, patting Fred on the head.

  A slight twinge of jealousy had Brock ready to drop kick the donkey and push him out of the way. Her hands roamed over the donkey’s head.

  “Lucky bastard,” Brock said under his breath.

  “Hmm?” Jane looked up.

  Brock swore.

  “Can you make coffee already?” he barked at a startled Jane, whose face managed to say everything she didn’t as it crumpled before him.

  “Of course. Anything else, sir?” she asked in a dead voice.

  Shit.

  What the hell was wrong with him?

  A nagging voice in his head blamed her—but she was just the unlucky target and it didn’t help that every time he locked eyes with her he thought of her soft mouth—of trailing kisses down her neck.

  Or just pinning her against the wall.

  But in a sick twist of fate, the only woman who’d managed to spike his interest in years was off limits. At least to someone like him. Someone who didn’t get to choose his own path.

  Repression. That’s what was happening. He’d spent so many years being a yes man that he was finally cracking, saying things he didn’t mean, snapping, and then dreaming about kissing the scowl from her lips.

  She’d probably slap the shit out of him.

  And he’d deserve it.

  “No.” He finally found his voice. “Actually,” he smirked, “Why don’t you make breakfast and coffee while I kick the ass out of the house and make sure he’s the only animal that escaped during the storm?”

  Jane grabbed a skillet and slammed it onto the stovetop. When he cursed she offered a polite smile. “Headache?”

  He glared.

  Smile still in place, she lifted her chin. “How do you like your eggs?”

  He frowned.

  And then frowned harder.

  “I have no damn clue.”

  “Well,” she said, making her way to the fridge, “that’s helpful. Are you going to fire me if I guess wrong?”

  “And if I do?” he challenged, suddenly realizing he liked the way her eyes lit up when she was angry. “What then? Will you leave?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  “Why are you being difficult?”

  “Because I finished a fifth of whiskey by myself last night, because this damn house has living breathing ghosts, but mainly because you look too damn good, and I’m suddenly discovering that this house has a way of shredding every ounce of self-control I possess. So unless you want to find yourself naked and in my bed, I suggest you do your job and stay the hell away.”

  With that, he stomped out of the house. Luckily for him, the ass trotted after him as if they were playing a version of Follow the Leader.

  That had gone well.

  He let out a frustrated curse.

  Great. Now Jane probably thought he was going to jump her in the night. Her shocked expression hit him in the gut, twisting like a knife.

  At least he’d been honest with her about how attracted to her he was.

  Hopefully she’d stay far away. How hard could it be to just do her job and ignore him?

  Furthermore. Why. Was. She. Here?

  His grandfather had been vague.

  For some reason he still felt puppet strings digging into his skin, and he couldn’t shake the suspicion that Jane was just another way his grandfather was manipulating him.

  Desperation filled him.

  A desperation to be free.

  And to not let his grandfather win.

  And yet…

  Where would that leave him?

  Another funeral?

  Another obituary?

  Another ghost.

  The donkey made a strangled noise and kicked dirt into the air once they reached the barn. Brock let out a frustrated sigh.

  The door to the barn was completely open. A horse neighed and then trotted out toward him.

  “Buttercup!” He smiled. “Come here, girl.”

  The horse stopped, swished her tail, then turned away and trotted off.

  “Well, at least I have you, Fred.”

  There was no response.

  He turned around.

  “Fred?” Where the hell had the ass gone?

  A gaggle of geese walked by, followed by a few chicks. Just then, he heard the cock.

  Like in some horrible Western movie, the rooster stared him down from the other side of the barn, where light filtered in from the hole in the roof like a spotlight on the scene.

  “Just you and me, eh?” Brock wondered if the fact that he was talking to the cock meant he was just as insane as his grandfather.

  The cock kicked the dirt.

  Brock did the same.

  And then, the damn thing charged him.

  Unsure of what to do, Brock stood his ground, until it started flapping up in his face.

  He swatted it away and when it still wouldn’t stop attacking him, he ran back to the house to get a gun. He’d just come barreling through the kitchen door when he slammed into Jane, sending the skillet and eggs she’d scrambled all over the floor.

  “Son of a bitch!” Brock yelled.

  The rooster crowed.

  Jane’s eyes widened as she locked on to what he assumed was the cock behind him. “The door’s open.”

  “I’m going to kill it.” Brock jerked the screen door shut just before the rooster slammed into it, throwing a fit.

  A few feathers went flying.

  “Question.” Brock turned to Jane, who was brandishing the frying pan like a weapon. “Can you eat cock?”

  The words were out before he could take them back.

  “Are you asking about me, personally? Or people in general? Because I’m sure, given your reputation, you already know the answer to that question,” Jane said in a cheerful voice.

  Brock looked heavenward and then turned around. “I meant the rooster.”

  “Did you, though?” She asked coyly. A silent taunt rose out of those eyes, and then she pressed her lips together in a way that had him hard in seconds.

  The rooster started flapping again.

  “Still got that gun?” he asked.

  “You aren’t shooting the cock.”

  He grinned. “Cock?”

  “I mean rooster.” She blushed bright red.

  “Did you, though?”

  “Very funny.”

  She grabbed some paper towels and started cleaning the eggs off the floor.

  “Let me help.” He knelt beside her but she jerked away from him.

  “I’ve got it. After all, you told me I needed to do my damn job, right?”

  Brock opened his mouth to speak, but she didn’t let him get a word in edgewise.

  “I’m going to be cleaning the upstairs bathrooms along with the two extra guest rooms on the far end of the hall. If you need me, you know where to find me.”

  He didn’t want her to leave.

  But what could he do to get her to stay?

  Nothing.

  Because her job was not to entertain him or save him from farm animals.

  But then she turned and gave him a half-shy smile, and he knew self-preservation was all that mattered.

  Push her away.

  He pasted an arrogant grin on his face. “But what about breakfast?”

  “That wasn’t part of the job description,” she said slowly. “Your grandfather said—”

  “I just talked with him last night. He said you’re here to help get the house ready for the new tenants, right?” God, he was a jackass.

  She gave him a
weak nod.

  “And since I’m the new tenant, don’t you think that probably extends to cooking? You’re already cleaning, and it is part of your service, you know.”

  “Service?” There was that fiery glint again. Perhaps this wasn’t his best idea. But he just couldn’t seem to stop himself from being an ass.

  “It says Cinderella Cleaning and Housekeeping on your nice shiny van.” He’d seen it on his way out to the barn and done a double take over the silly tiara on the side. Maid service. Didn’t that mean she cooked, too? “If you don’t cook that’s false advertising. At least, that’s what I’ll say when I give you a review on Yelp.”

  Her eyes widened. “Are you threatening me?” Her chest heaved. He tried to look away. Tried and failed.

  “That depends. Will you cook?”

  Her hands balled into tight fists. “You know you could have asked nicely and I might have said yes. You don’t have to be an ass. We already have Fred.”

  “Oh, I’m aware.” He took a step toward her. “But if I’m nice, I miss out on the opportunity to see this.” He was pushing her too far. He was taking everything too far, but the minute her cheeks flushed red with anger he wanted to touch her. Wanted to make those cheeks flush for other reasons.

  He cupped her face with his right hand and leaned in, his lips lingering near her ear. “You’re pretty when you’re angry.”

  “I’m not just angry,” she whispered in a wobbly voice.

  “Oh?” He pulled back. “What else are you?”

  She stared down at the floor then swept her gaze back up and regarded him with big brown eyes. “Disappointed.”

  Jane jerked away from his embrace. He reached for her again, so she shoved against his rock hard chest, slapped him on the cheek, and stormed out of the room.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jane wiped the sweat from her forehead and braced her rubber-gloved hands against the toilet. She hadn’t meant to lose her temper with Brock earlier. She wasn’t the type to lose her temper—ever.

  She’d lived with two of the brattiest women in the world for her entire life and managed to make it through the day with a smile pasted on her face and at least one good thing to say about them, for the most part.

  But with Brock?

  Things were different.

  He brought out the worst in her.

  And she didn’t even know him! With an irritated grunt, she scrubbed the inside of the toilet harder. How dare he demand that she make breakfast? On top of cleaning? He hadn’t even hired her!

  The more she thought about his arrogant attitude the harder she scrubbed, until the entire bathroom was completely spotless.

  It was a shame that the house had only been used for occasional visits and parties.

  The bathrooms alone probably cost a fortune to build, with heated tile floors and huge hotel-like walk-in showers—they reminded her of a spa, not that she’d ever been to a spa. But she’d seen them on TV and read about them in books, and this was what she imagined they looked like.

  Flawless, sparkling, immaculate.

  “Is my grandfather paying you to stare in the mirrors all day?” Brock’s smooth voice broke the silence.

  Jane gulped and clenched her rubber gloves together before she turned and arched her eyebrows. “I was just admiring my work.”

  He stared at her for a good minute before scowling.

  “I don’t want you cleaning the room next door.”

  The only thing she knew about the room was that the door had pieces of white paper stuck to it, like stickers had been ripped off of it. Red designs drawn in marker circled the door knob—she assumed it had been a child’s room.

  “Your grandfather’s instructions were specific. He said to clean every room and bathroom in the house. So yes, I am going to clean that room, because as stupid as it may sound I do take pride in what I do.”

  That seemed to give him pause; his arrogant mask slipped, revealing something she didn’t really want to acknowledge.

  Respect.

  But as soon as she saw it, he stiffened. “I’ll talk to him.”

  “But—”

  “If he agrees with me, you stay out of the room.”

  “What? Do you have bodies hidden in it?”

  His face went pale. “You should probably move on to the next bathroom if you want to finish before dinner. After all, it won’t cook itself.”

  Tears stung in the backs of her eyes.

  What happened to the man at the club? The one who had rescued her? Bought her shoes, picked her up off the floor and flirted with her?

  Suddenly Brock cursed under his breath. “Don’t move,” he whispered. Which was weird. But weirder still was the look on his face as he stared at the ceiling above her head.

  Jane froze, but driven by curiosity, she slowly craned her neck to see what he was giving the death stare.

  “I said,” Brock ground through clenched teeth, “don’t. Move.”

  “But—”

  “For fuck’s sake just stop arguing!”

  Her shoulders slumped. Was it necessary to yell at her?

  “Two mice.” His eyes narrowed. “And by the looks of them they’ve either eaten their young or been feeding off the donkey for the past few months.”

  “Not the cock?” she mumbled.

  Brock’s eyes heated, dipping down to her mouth before flashing with anger. “Clearly you don’t clean as well as you think.”

  She refused to let the insult sting. “It’s a ranch house. They probably snuck in through a crack on the wall. I’ll shoo them away and you can start fixing things up, handyman.”

  “Me?” He snorted. “No, no, I think that falls under the hired help category. Sorry, sweetheart.”

  “Hunh.”

  “What?” He frowned. “What’s that look?”

  “I just should have expected someone like you to be like this. I bet you get manicures, too…and since you probably don’t want to get a sliver, I guess I’ll have to step up. Where’s your hammer?”

  “Let’s leave my hammer out of this.”

  “The real hammer, not the sexual one you’re envisioning in your mind in order to distract me from the fact that you’re a spoiled, silver spoon-fed city boy with the brain of a gnat.”

  He burst out laughing. “You think you know all about me, hunh?”

  “Not much to know,” she challenged, crossing her arms. “At least from this vantage point.” She made sure to lower her eyes and smirk. “Nothing at all.”

  He took a step toward her but she backed away. “I’ll be back. It seems I have a rat to deal with.”

  “They’re mice,” he called after her.

  “Wasn’t talking about them!” She yelled back, making her way down the stairs and out the screen door. It slammed behind her.

  The hot Arizona sun burned down on her skin.

  The bastard!

  She took a few deep breaths and glanced back at the house. Could he be more insulting?

  Okay, she sighed. If I was a mousetrap where would I hide?

  After a few minutes rummaging in the barn, where the ass was currently watching her with terrifying intensity, she found some rat poison and two mousetraps.

  She walked back into the house, grabbed some peanut butter for the traps, then carefully walked up the stairs.

  Brock hadn’t moved from his spot. Instead, he was staring into the bathroom as if he’d just seen a ghost.

  “Move.” She pushed by him.

  “Maybe we should just shut the door,” He offered in a quiet voice.

  She jerked away from his body. “Shut the door? And what? Let the mice just spread throughout the house?”

  He seemed unsure, and then with a nod stepped away from her as she made her way back into the bathroom.

  Both mice were huddled in the corner, as if people didn’t bother them one bit.

  Were they pets or something?

  They looked at her, then at each other, then back at her, and slowly approac
hed like she was holding out treats.

  “I can’t do it.” She stood and slowly backed out of the room.

  “What the hell do you mean you can’t do it?” Brock roared. “They’re mice. They carry diseases.”

  “They have kind eyes!” She lowered the traps. “And I can’t be responsible for their deaths.”

  “You’re serious?”

  She nodded and shoved the traps into his hands. In hindsight, she could have done it more slowly, possibly more gently, but the minute the traps snapped she knew it was too late.

  With a loud roar, Brock stumbled backward, one trap clinging to his fingers, the other hanging from his T-shirt from what looked like part of his nipple.

  He was still yelling in rage.

  Jane covered her face with her hands.

  When he was done swearing, she jerked the trap from his chest, harder perhaps than necessary.

  His glare said it all. “It’s not funny.”

  She bit down on her bottom lip and grabbed the other trap from his right hand.

  “There.” She couldn’t stop laughing. “You’re as good as new.”

  Nostrils flaring, he brushed up against her, setting her body instantly on fire. “You did that on purpose.”

  “Had I done it on purpose I would have aimed lower,” she said sweetly, blinking her eyes in innocence while trying to get out of the too small bathroom with the large man in it. Regardless of how many times he acted like a jerk, he intrigued her way more than she cared to admit. Because she couldn’t forget how kind he’d been at the party. And that guy had to be in there, too, right?

  He shook out his right hand and placed both hands on his narrow hips, which only drew her attention once again to his body.

  “Just stay out of the room next door.” He brushed past her and went straight down the stairs, leaving her alone with the mice, the traps, and the distinct impression that if he had a choice between her and the traps…

  He’d probably choose the traps.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Women asked too many questions.

  Stupid questions.

  Brock held the ice pack against his sore chest and winced as the memory of his last encounter with Jane played back in his head.

  Something inside of him was snapping.

  It was this damn house.

  The fucking living room with all of the pictures.