Jack Prescott, on the other hand, looked anything but safe. She’d felt her heart speed up as they talked, ridiculous as that sounded. Yes, he looked rather scary. He was rough-looking, tall, with the kind of muscles you can’t buy in a gym and an air of rocklike toughness.
He was also attractive as hell, which was something she’d never encountered in her boarders. Frightening, but sexy. So there might be a third theory to add to the lucky or crazy explanations—sudden hormonal overload.
When she’d briefly touched his arm, a shiver had run down her spine. She’d felt the steely muscle through his shirt and jacket, the hardest man she’d ever touched. And a flash of heat had run through her at the idea that he was probably as hard as that…all over.
Not that he’d done anything to make her uncomfortable, other than being so frighteningly large and…and dangerous-looking.
The exact opposite of Marcus Kipping, with his predilection for cardigans encasing sloped shoulders and thin arms. Jack Prescott’s massive musculature was visible through a shirt and a jacket. He was the most thoroughly male man she’d ever met and sexy as hell.
And Caroline, who never lied to herself, realized that in the end, it was the reason she’d said yes. God help her, that flash of heat had been the reason she’d said yes. It had been so long since she’d felt it.
If she had the sense God gave a duck, she should have said no to him. No to him as a boarder and certainly no to handing over the car keys to a perfect stranger. Who knew who he was? Maybe he was a serial killer or…or a war veteran suffering from posttraumatic stress disorder and who would one day soon crack and climb a tower and start sniping at passersby. Maybe one day they’d find her lifeless body in a pool of blood, or he’d make off with what very little family silver remained.
No one took in a boarder without references. Mr. and Mrs. Kipping had been recommended by the head of her bank and had known her parents.
Who knew Jack Prescott?
But his deep voice had been so calm, that big body so still. And the look of grief that had crossed his face when he spoke of his father’s death…that had been real, and deep. Caroline recognized true grief—she was the world’s greatest expert.
He looked scruffy and tired, as if he’d been traveling for a long time. His jacket was way too light for the gelid temperature outside, and his clothes were rumpled, as if he’d slept in them. His boots were old and worn. Those old boots had been the last straw.
They were the boots of a man down on his luck.
Caroline knew all about being down on your luck.
There was something else about the man, too, besides his sexiness and steadiness. Something almost…familiar. Which only reinforced the crazy theory, because she’d never set eyes on him before in her life. She’d never even set eyes on anyone like him before.
None of the men she knew had hands that large and that strong, or shoulders that broad. None of the men she knew moved with an athletic grace and tensely coiled energy, like a blaze that was temporarily banked but could flare into life at any moment.
Not in the military anymore, he’d said, but he still had a military bearing—square-shouldered, ramrod-straight back, great economy of movement. And saying ma’am all the time. It was sweet, but not exactly the favored mode of address of men talking to women in the twenty-first century. Obviously, living with a colonel for a father had rubbed off on him.
The man she knew best was Sanders McCullin, and he was as far from Jack Prescott as it was possible to be. Sanders was tall, though not as tall as Jack, blond, classically handsome and impossibly elegant.
If Caroline had only half the money Sanders spent each month on clothes, her financial worries would be over. Of course her financial problems could be over tomorrow, Sanders made that clear enough, particularly now that poor Toby was gone. If she married Sanders and became Mrs. McCullin, life would go back to what it had been before her parents died. Safe, secure, comfortably wealthy.
On bad days, like this one, with the Kippings gone, the possibility of coming home to a freezing house that would stay freezing until Monday afternoon because the Jerk was the only person on earth who could coax her boiler back to temporary life, and he didn’t make house calls on holidays, a Christmas Eve with no sales at all, the prospect of being alone on Christmas Day, of all the days in the year—well, on days like this, the thought of marrying Sanders made a lot of sense.
Except, of course, for the minor fact that her skin crawled at the thought of kissing him, let alone sleeping with him, which just went to show that she was crazy. Half the women in town wanted to sleep with Sanders, and the other half already had, putting Caroline, as always, in the minority.
And now, in a bid to shore up the crazy theory, she’d just given a man she didn’t know her car keys. The only things she knew about Jack Prescott were that he was a stranger in town and had very little money. Knowing that, what did she do?
Hand him the keys, politely, because he’d asked.
How smart was that?
If he stole her car, how could she get home? She’d be stranded until the weather cleared, with only the weeks-old yogurt, Diet Coke and wizened apple in her small fridge for food. There was no way a taxi would come out in this weather and—
A sharp rap on the window made her jump. A second later, Jack Prescott was back in the room, covered in snow. His long black hair was dusted with white. Even his black eyelashes had turned white. He gave no sign of being cold, however. He gave no sign of even being uncomfortable. He looked exactly as he had before—tough and self-contained.
“I’ve got the car parked right outside.” He was so close Caroline had to tip her head back to meet his eyes. “It’s hell out there, so we’ll have to hurry. Are you warm enough in that coat?”
That was rich, coming from someone wearing a denim jacket. “Yes, I’ll be fine.” She shifted her heavy briefcase from one hand to another, surprised when he simply took it from her. He was already carrying his own duffel bag and a suitcase. “That’s okay,” she protested. “I can carry that.”
He didn’t even answer. “Do you need to engage the security system before we go out?”
Security system. Right. Uh-huh. As if she had $3,000 to spare for a security system to stave off wild-eyed thieves just slavering to rob her complete collection of Jane Austens and all her Nora Robertses.
“No. I—uh, I just lock the door.” She held up the Yale key. “It’s got a dead bolt, though.”
He just looked at her, dark eyes fathomless, then nodded as he took the key. “Okay. I’ll lock up. If you’ve got gloves, put them on. I left the engine running, so the car is warm. Let’s make it quick.”
He seemed to have just…assumed command. The Army and that colonel father had really imprinted him.
Still, the idea of having someone else in the car with her in this weather was such a relief. Bad weather terrified her, and this weather was off the charts. Her Fiat was temperamental and ornery and used to the temperate climate of Italy. It intensely disliked being taken out in the cold. Breaking down in the middle of a snowstorm was just the kind of thing her car enjoyed doing.
At least she’d have her new boarder with her if the worst happened. Jack Prescott looked strong enough to get the car to Greenbriars by looping his belt around the front fender and pulling, if it broke down on the way.
He had his hand on the door handle, watching her. “Okay?” he asked quietly. Caroline nodded, and he opened the door for her. “Let’s go.”
It was exactly like being punched in the face and stomach by a giant, frozen fist. A step outside the door, and Caroline couldn’t see more than a few inches in front of her face. The snow was falling thickly, wildly, in great sweeping sheets, punctuated by needles of sleet blown sideways. She couldn’t hear anything above the howling of the wind, and the cold penetrated so absolutely, she froze on the spot. Her muscles simply wouldn’t obey her.