The Ivy House (A Queensbay Novel) Read Free

legs were encased in his jeans. She hadn’t been this aware of a guy in a long time and the feeling was totally disconcerting.
    He moved closer and she caught the scent of him. Something woodsy and spicy, just a hint of soap, nothing too overpowering. God, she was a twenty-eight-year-old woman, not some teenager, and already she could feel her heart start to flutter.
    His eyes glinted down at her and Phoebe wished that she had closed the top button of her blouse, but to do anything now except meet him head on would betray the way he was making her feel.
    “Can I help you with something?” She lifted her chin and met his eyes boldly, the way Savannah had told her to. Phoebe had never been much for channeling her inner femme fatale; still, the man had the grace to look a little ashamed that he had been caught staring.
    “You just remind me of someone. Not sure who. Do you get that a lot?”
    Phoebe smiled, but her back stiffened. It was a question she got so often that it annoyed her. Too bad, because before he had gone for the obvious line, she had felt that spark of interest on her part, her vivid imagination working overtime, wondering just how his wide, sensual lips might feel brushing against hers.
    “Not really,” she demurred, while cursing the Ryan genes that showed so plainly in her face.
    “Are you sure?” he said, snapping his fingers. “Because I swear, you remind me of someone. Let me see, someone famous. A model?”
    Phoebe managed to arch an eyebrow. She had a swimmer’s body, moderately tall, wide shoulders and slim all over, but she’d never been mistaken for a model before.
    “Nah, not quite tall enough, though those shoes make your legs go on forever,” the guy said, his eyes twinkling. He was smiling so outrageously that Phoebe almost didn’t mind that she was being blatantly hit upon. Perhaps his recognition of her had been fake, a cheesy come-on. Maybe he had no idea. “A singer?”
    “Tone-deaf,” Phoebe countered.
    “Too bad—you’d look pretty bad-ass up on stage.” Somehow, the guy had moved closer to her, invading her space and yet, Phoebe didn’t mind at all. He had lines around his eyes, as if he squinted too much in the sun, and his hands, one of which was splayed on the wall, like his clothes, were not those of a man who spent all of his time inside.
    He snapped his fingers. “The stage. That’s it. You’re an actress. Theater? TV. A cop show. I can see you arresting the bad guys.”
    Phoebe shook her head, feeling the smile that was lighting up her face and the buzz in her body as she decided to play along.
    “Medical drama?” He tried again.
    “Hate the sight of blood.”
    “You’re sure I don’t know you from somewhere?” The guy leaned over her, his eyes looking into hers. Thoughts, none of them coherent, raced around Phoebe’s head and she was aware that it was warm, very warm in the house, where before it had been cool, almost too cool.
    “No, I’m nobody,” Phoebe said and managed to take a deep breath, almost willing that to be true.
    “I don’t believe that for a second, miss.” He leaned in close to her and his voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “With a face like that, you’re surely someone.”
    Phoebe didn’t know what to say to that and she didn’t have to. Her phone beeped and, eager to break the intense connection between herself and this man, she pulled it out of her bag and saw that there was a text from Sandy, the real estate agent.
    Have interest from buyer, heavy hitter, wants to see house ASAP
    Phoebe cleared the text in frustration. She thought she had been very clear. She wasn’t ready to entertain any offers for Ivy House yet. But some people were rude and didn’t take no for an answer. Phoebe looked up. The guy, this “heavy hitter,” apparently hadn’t gotten the message because he was already looking around the place as if he were measuring how well his flat-screen TV would look above the fireplace in the living