Trust Me. Caroline Cross

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      Once again, it was a hot, lazy June day. She lay languidly on a chaise longue by the swimming pool at Cedar Hill, the palatial Denver estate owned by her grandmother’s newest husband.

      Off in the distance, she heard the distinctive whine of an approaching lawn mower and ridiculously, her pulse skittered. Grateful for the camouflage of her sunglasses, she casually shifted her head to the left toward the emerald swath of the five-acre back lawn. She was rewarded for her effort by the sight of a tall, bronzed young man cutting the grass.

      She’d first noticed him the previous week; he wasn’t the regular lawn man, and a casual inquiry of Mr. Tomkins, who looked after the pool, had provided her with the information that he was a vacation fill-in.

      Whatever the reason for his presence, with his broad shoulders and confident swagger, he was hard to miss. She knew he’d noticed her, too. Unlike the well-mannered boys she was accustomed to, he’d stared boldly at her, his gaze lingering in a way she’d told herself was totally annoying.

      Which hardly explained why she’d been lying here for the past hour, hoping to get another glimpse of him. Or why just looking at him now made her throat feel tight. Nor did she understand the panic that bloomed inside her when, as if he’d sensed her regard, he abruptly brought the lawn mower to a halt, shut off the engine and began to walk toward her, his long legs rapidly eating up the distance between them.

      Before she could act on a sudden impulse to flee, he was standing at the wrought iron fence that encircled the pool. “Hey.”

      For a moment she couldn’t move. Then, driven by pride and an abruptly awakened sense of self-preservation that warned he was a threat—although to what she couldn’t clearly pinpoint—she slowly sat up. “May I help you?” She used her best drawing room voice in a desperate bid to hide the way her heart was pounding.

      “Yeah.” He flashed her a smile that made her stomach flip. “Would you mind getting me a glass of water?”

      A bead of sweat tracked down the column of his neck, adding to the damp that made his black T-shirt cling to his muscled chest, and an unfamiliar heat twisted through her. Embarrassed, she reached up and slid her sunglasses off, using the action as an excuse to look away. “Pardon me?”

      “I’m thirsty. You don’t seem to be doing anything, so if you wouldn’t mind, I’d appreciate you getting me a drink.”

      Her gaze snapped back to him as she tried to decide which was more unsettling: his nerve or her realization that an unfamiliar part of her wanted to do his bidding. “I don’t think so.” She picked up her book and sat back, waiting for him to take offense and stalk away.

      He didn’t. Instead, he cocked a hip and leaned closer, muscles flexing as he rested his tanned dusty arms against the top of the fence. “Aw, come on. You’re not too good to mix with the hired help, are you?”

      Stung that he’d think such a thing, she ratcheted her chin up a notch. “Of course not.”

      He raised one straight, inky eyebrow. “So what’s the problem?”

      Their gazes locked. To her fascination, his eyes, which she’d expected to be dark due to his near-black hair and olive complexion were a clear compelling green. And his mouth looked hard and soft all at the same time, the lips full and….

      She scrambled to her feet, appalled by the direction of her thoughts. Tossing her long braid over her shoulder, she marched over to the wet bar and filled a tall glass with icy water from the tap, staunchly ignoring the fact that her hands were shaking. Head high, she stalked back to the fence and thrust the tumbler at him. “Here.”

      He took her offering with lazy grace, purposefully brushing his rough, calloused fingers against hers in the exchange. Raising the glass, he tipped back his head and drank, his strong, smooth-skinned throat rippling. She waited, unable to look away, as he licked the last bead of moisture from his lips once he’d drained the glass. “Thanks.” He handed her back the glass.

      Her own throat felt dust dry. “You’re welcome. Now please go away.”

      He acted as if he hadn’t heard her. “My name’s Dominic. Dominic Steele. What’s yours?”

      “I see no reason for you to know that,” she said coolly.

      “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. After all—” his gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth, lingered, then unhurriedly came back up “—how can I ask you out if I don’t know your name?”

      If she had any sense, she’d walk away. Yet she stood rooted to the spot. Silence stretched between them. Then she heard herself say in a breathy way that was totally unlike her, “It’s Lilah…Cantrell.”

      “Lilah,” he repeated. “That’s perfect. A pretty name for a pretty girl.” The faintest of smiles crinkled the corners of his vivid eyes and her knees instantly went weak. “Come on, Lilah, go out with me. Please?”

      She knew she should say no. She could just imagine her grandmother’s reaction to her dating someone from the lawn service. Then again, Gran was gone for the rest of the summer on her honeymoon cruise. And except for the staff, Lilah was alone, as usual, the weeks until her sophomore years at Stanford started stretching interminably before her.

      Still, except on rare occasions, such as last winter’s charity cotillion and her senior high school prom, she didn’t really care to date. She’d always found the opposite sex to be either crass or boring, or both.

      Dominic Steele was neither. In the past five minutes, he’d managed to turn her ordered world upside down—surprising, annoying, intriguing and charming her all at the same time. Which was no doubt why what was left of her common sense was shrilly insisting that nothing good could come from the pull she felt merely standing close to him.

      The prudent thing to do was say no.

      Oh, come on, whispered an unfamiliar little voice in her head. Aren’t you just a little tired of always doing the right thing? Of forever being the straight-A student, the dutiful granddaughter? After all, you’re not a child any longer. And no matter what Gran says, you’re nothing like your mother—

      “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

      Her spine stiffened automatically. “Please,” she said with a faint sniff.

      “So prove it.” He looked at her expectantly.