TWO

Wasn’t there some kind of law that said a man wasn’t allowed to look that damned good? Especially the tight, hard bodies who persisted in mangling a perfectly good lawn at the wrong time of the year.

Lyra Mason was certain there had to be such a law. Especially when said male, Tarek Jordan, committed the unpardonable sin of whacking down her prized Irish roses.

“Are you crazy?” She ran out the front door, yelling at the top of her lungs, waving him away from the beautiful hedge that was finally managing to achieve reasonable height.

That was, before he attacked it with the Weed Eater he was wielding like a sword.

“Stop it. Dammit. Those are my roses,” she wailed as she sprinted across her front lawn, skidded around the front of her car, and nearly slipped and broke her neck on the strip of lush green grass in front of him.

At least he paused.

He lowered the Weed Eater, tipped his dark glasses down that arrogant nose of his, and stared back at her as though she was the one committing some heinous act.

“Turn it off,” she screamed, making a slicing motion across her throat. “Now. Turn it off.”

Irritation and excitement simmered in her blood, heated her face, and left her trembling before him. He might be bigger than she was, but she had been maneuvering big, brawny men all her life. He would be child’s play next to her brothers. Maybe.

He cut the motor, lifted a brow, and flashed all that bare, glorious muscle across his chest and shoulders. As though that was going to save him. She didn’t think so.

The man had lived next door to her for almost six months and never failed to totally infuriate her at least once a week. And she wasn’t even going to admit exactly how much she enjoyed razzing his ass every chance she got.

“Those are my roses!” She felt like crying as she rushed to the broken, ravaged branches of the four-foot-high hedge. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to get them to grow? Have you lost your mind? Why are you attacking my roses?”

He lifted one hand from the steel shaft of the Weed Eater and scratched his chin thoughtfully.

“Roses, huh?”

Oh God, his voice had that husky little edge. Dark. Deep. The kind of voice a woman longed to hear in the darkness of the night. The voice that tempted her in dreams so damned sexual she flushed just thinking about them.

Damn him.

He tilted his head to the side, staring at her roses for long moments behind the lenses of his dark glasses.

“I can’t believe you did this.” She flicked him a disgusted glance as she hunched in front of the prize bush and began inspecting the damage. “You’ve lived here six months, Tarek. Surely it occurred to you that if I wanted them cut down I would have done it myself.”

Some men just needed a leash. This was obviously one of them. But he was fun—even if he was unaware of it. It just wouldn’t do for him to know how often she went out of her way to come down on him.

“Sorry, Lyra. I thought perhaps the job was too large for you. It looked like a mess to me.”

She stared up at him in shocked surprise as he said the blasphemous words. Only a man would consider roses a mess. It was a damned good thing she liked that helpless male look he gave her each time he messed up.

She could only shake her head. How long did the man have to live beside her before he learned to leave her side of the yard alone? He needed a keeper. She considered volunteering for the job. “You should have to have a license to use one of those. I bet you would have failed the test if you did.”

A grin quirked his lips. She loved that little crooked grin, almost shy, with just a hint of wickedness. It made her wet. And she didn’t like that, either.

Her eyes narrowed as she ignored the chill in the early winter air, her lips thinning in true irritation this time.

He was obviously ignoring the chill. He didn’t even have on a shirt. It was barely forty degrees, and he was using a Weed Eater like it was June and the weeds were striking a campaign to take over. That or he just didn’t like her roses.

“Look, just take your little power tool to the other side of your property. There are no neighbors there. No roses to mangle.” She gave him a shooing motion with her hand. “Go on. You’re grounded from this side of the yard. I don’t want you here.”

A frown edged between his golden-brown brows as they lowered ominously and his eyelids narrowed. What made men think that look actually worked on her? She almost laughed at the thought.

Fine, he was dangerous. He was getting ticked. He was bigger and stronger than she was. Who gave a damn?

“Don’t you give me that look,” she snorted in disgust. “You should know by now it doesn’t work on me. It will only piss me off worse. Now go away.”

He glanced around, appearing to measure some invisible line between where he was to his own house several yards away.

“I believe I’m on my own property,” he informed her coolly.

“Oh, are you?” She stood carefully to her feet, staring over the edge of her pitifully cropped rosebush to where his feet were planted. Boy, he really should have known better than that. “Go read your deed, Einstein. I read mine. My roses are planted exactly six feet from the property line. From oak to oak.” She point out the oak tree at the front of the street, then the one at the edge of the forest beyond. “Oak to oak. My brothers ran a line and marked it real carefully just for dumb little ol’ me,” she mocked him sweetly. “That puts you on my property. Get back on your own side.”

She would have chuckled if it weren’t so important to maintain the appearance of ire. If she was going to survive living next to a walking, talking advertisement for sex, then some boundaries would have to be established.

He cocked his hip, crossing his arms over his chest as the heavy Weed Eater dangled from the harness that crossed over his back.

He was wearing boots. Scarred, well-worn leather boots. She noticed that instantly, just as she noticed the long, powerful legs above them. And a bulge . . . Nope, not going there.

“Your side of the property is as much a mess as your bush is,” he grunted. “When do you cut your grass?”

“When it’s time,” she snapped, pulling herself to her full height of five feet, three and three-quarters inches. “And it’s not time in the middle of winter when it’s not even growing.”

Okay, so she barely topped his chest. So what?

“I would get in the mood if I were you.” He used that superior male tone that never failed to grate on her nerves. “I have a nice ride-on lawnmower. I could cut it for you.”

Her eyes widened in horror. He was staring back at her now with a crooked grin, a hopeful look on his face. She sneaked a look around his shoulder, stared at his grass, then shuddered in dismay.

“No.” She shook her head fervently. This could be getting out of hand. “No, thank you. You hacked at yours just fine. Leave mine alone.”

“I beg your pardon.” He threw his shoulders back and drew up in offended male pride as he propped his hands on his hips.

He did it so well, too. Every time he messed up something he pulled that arrogance crap on her. He should have known it wasn’t going to work.

“And so you should,” she retorted, propping her hands on her hips as she glared back at him. “You hacked your grass. Worse, you hacked it in the winter. There’s no symmetry in the cut, and you set your blade too low. You’ll be lucky to have grass come summer. You just killed it all.”

He turned and stared back at his lawn. When he turned back to her, cool arrogance marked his features.

“The lawn is perfect.”

He had to be kidding.

“Look,” she breathed out roughly. “Just stick to mangling your own property, okay? Leave mine alone. Remember the line—oak to oak—and stay on your side of it.”

He propped his hands on his hips again. The move drew her eyes back to the sweat-dampened perfection of that golden male chest.

It should be illegal.

“You are not being neighborly,” he announced coolly, almost ruining her self-control and bringing a smile of pure fun to her lips. “I was told when I bought the house that everyone on this block was friendly, but you have been consistently rude. I believe I was lied to.”

He sounded shocked. Actually, he was mocking her, and she really didn’t like it. Well, maybe she did a little bit, but she wasn’t going to let him know it.

She refused to allow her lips to twitch at the sight of the laughter in his gaze. He very rarely smiled, but sometimes, every now and then, she could make his eyes smile.

“That Realtor would have told you the sun rose in the west and the moon was made of cheese if it would assure him a sale.” She smiled mockingly. “He sold to me first, so he knew I wasn’t nice. I guess he neglected to inform you of that fact.”

Actually, she had gotten along quite well with the real estate agent. He was a very nice gentleman who had assured her that the homes on this block would only be sold to a specific type of person. So, evidently, he had lied to her, too, because the man standing across from her was not respectable, nor was he family-oriented. He was a sex god, and she was within a second of worshipping at his strong, male feet. She was so weak.

He was a rose assassin, she reminded herself firmly, and she was going to kick his ass if he attacked any more of her precious plants. Better yet, she would call her brothers and cry. Then they would kick his ass.

No, that wouldn’t do, she hastily amended. They would run him off. That wasn’t what she wanted at all.

“Perhaps I should discuss this with him.” He tipped his glasses down his nose once again, staring at her over the rim. “At least he was right about the view.”

His gaze roved over her from her heels to the tip of her head as his golden-brown eyes twinkled with laughter—at her expense, of course. As though she didn’t know she was too homey. A little too normal-looking. She wasn’t the sexy, siren type, and she had no desire to be. That didn’t mean he had to make fun of her.

It was perfectly acceptable for her to toy with him. Having him turn the tables did not amuse her in the least.

“That was not amusing,” she informed him coldly, wishing she could hide behind something now.

The ratty jeans she wore hung low on her hips, not because of fashion, but more because they were a bit too loose. The T-shirt she wore fit a bit better, but it was almost too snug. But she was cleaning house, not auditioning for Fashions R Us.

“I wasn’t trying to be amusing.” His grin was wicked, sensual. “I was being honest.”

He was trying to get out of trouble. She knew that look for what it was. It wasn’t the first time he had pulled it on her.

“I have three older brothers,” she informed him coolly. “I know all the tricks, mister . . .”

“Jordan. Tarek Jordan,” he reminded smoothly.

As though she didn’t already know his name. She had known his name from the first day he had moved in to his house with the honkin’ Harley he had ridden across her front lawn.

Damn, that Harley had really looked good, but he had looked even better sitting on it.

“Mister,” she repeated, “you are not putting anything over on me, so don’t think you are. Now keep your damned machines away from my property and away from me, or I might have to show you how they are used and hurt all that male pride you seem to have so much of.” She shooed him again. “Go on. On your own property now. And leave my roses alone.”

His eyes narrowed on her again. This time, his expression changed as well. It became . . . predatory. Not dangerous. Not threatening. But it wasn’t a comfortable expression, either. It was an expression that assured her that an abundance of male testosterone was getting ready to kick in. And he did male testosterone really well. He got all snarky and snarly and downright ill-tempered as he glared at her, his voice edging into dangerously rough as he growled at her and attempted to berate her.

She refused to back down.

“Don’t look at me like that, either. I told you. I have three brothers. You do not intimidate me.”

His brow arched. Slowly.

“It was very nice to see you today, Lyra.” He finally nodded cordially. “Perhaps next time, you won’t be in such a bad mood.”

“Yeah. Sometime when you’re not mangling the looks of the block would be nice,” she snorted as she turned away from him. “Geez, only I could get stuck with a neighbor with absolutely no landscaping grace. How the hell do I manage it?”

She stomped away, certain now that she should never have let her father talk her into this particular house.

“It’s close to the family,” she mocked, rolling her eyes. “The price is perfect,” she mocked her eldest brother. “Yeah. Right. And the neighbors suck . . .”

• • •

Tarek watched her go, hearing her mocking little voice all the way to the porch as she stomped up the sidewalk. Finally, the front door slammed with an edge of violence that would have caused any other man to flinch. Breeds didn’t flinch.

He glanced down at the Weed Eater hanging from his shoulders and breathed in deeply before turning to glance back at the lawn.

The cut of the grass was fine, he assured himself, barely managing not to wince. Fine, it might not look so great, but he had fun cutting it. Hell, he even had fun using the Weed Eater. At least, until Ms. Don’t-Attack-My-Roses came storming out from her house.

As though he wasn’t well aware that all the female fury was more feigned than true anger. He could smell her heat, her arousal, and her excitement. She wasn’t hiding nearly as much as she thought she was.

He chuckled and glanced back at the two-story brick-and-glass home. It suited her. Nice and regal on the outside, but with depth. Lots and lots of depth. He could see it in her wide blue eyes, in the pouty softness of her lips.

She was a wildcat, though. Well, she was as fiery as a wildcat anyway. He cleared his throat, scratched at his chest thoughtfully, then hefted the Weed Eater off his shoulders and headed back to the little metal shed behind his own house.

He liked his house better, he told himself. The rough wood two-story with the wraparound porch was . . . comfortable. It was roomy and natural, with open rooms and a sense of freedom. There was something about the house that soothed him, that eased the nightmares that often haunted him.

He hadn’t been looking for a home when he gave in to the Realtor’s suggestion to check out the house. He had been looking for a rental, nothing more. But as they pulled into the driveway, the fresh scent of a summer rainfall still lingering in the air, blending with the smell of fresh-baked bread wafting from the neighboring house, he had known, in that moment, this was his.

This house, too large for him alone, the yard begging for sheltering trees and bushes and the laughter of children echoing with it, called to him. Six months later, this home he hadn’t known he wanted still soothed the rough edges of his soul.

He pulled open the door to the shed, pausing before stepping into the close confines of the little building to store the Weed Eater. He was going to have to replace the shed with a larger one. Each time he stepped into the darkness, he felt as though it was closing in on him, trapping him. Caging him in.

There was something different, though. He paused as he stepped from it, staring back into the interior as he considered it thoughtfully.

He hadn’t smelled the usual mustiness of the building. For once, the smell of damp earth hadn’t sent his stomach roiling with memories. It was because his senses were still filled with the soft scent of coffee, fresh-baked bread, and a warm, sweet female.

Lyra Mason.

He turned and stared back at her house, rubbing at his chest, barely feeling the almost imperceptible scars that crisscrossed his flesh there.

Coffee and fresh-baked bread.

He had never eaten fresh-baked bread. He had only smelled it drifting from her house in the past months. It had taken him forever to figure out what that smell was. And coffee was, unfortunately, a weakness of his. And she had both.

He wondered if she could make better coffee than he did.

Hell, of course she could. He grunted as he turned away and stalked to his back door. Jerking it open, he stepped into the house, stopping to pull off his boots before padding across the smooth, cream-colored tiles.

The kitchen was made for someone other than him.

He still hadn’t managed to figure out the stove. Thankfully, there was a microwave or he would have starved to death.

He moved to the coffeepot with every intention of fixing some before he paused and grimaced. He could still smell the scent of Lyra’s coffee.

His lip lifted in a snarl as a growl rumbled from his throat. He wanted some of her coffee. It smelled much better than his. And he wanted some of that fresh-baked bread.

Not that she was likely to give him any. He had cut her precious bush, so she would, of course, have to punish him. This was the way the world worked. He had learned that at the labs from an early age.

Well, he had known it. The scars that marred his chest and back were proof that it was a lesson he had never really fully learned.

He propped his hands on his hips and glared at Lyra’s house. He was a Lion Breed. A fully grown male trained to kill in a hundred different ways. His specialty was with the rifle. He could pick off a man a half-mile away with some of the weapons he had hidden in his bedroom.

He had excelled in his training, learned all the labs had to teach him, then fought daily to escape. His chance had finally come with the attacks mounted on the Breed labs seven years before.

Since then, he had been attempting to learn how to live in a world that still didn’t fully trust the animal DNA that was a part of him.

Not that anyone in the little city of Fayetteville, Arkansas, knew who or what he was. Only those at Sanctuary, the main Breed compound, knew the truth about him. They were his family and his employers.

He dropped his arms from his chest and propped his hands on his hips.

He couldn’t get the smell of that coffee or that bread out of his mind. That woman would drive him crazy—she was too sensual, too completely earthy. But the smell of that coffee . . . He sighed at the thought.

He shook his head, ignoring the feel of his overly long hair against his shoulders. It was time to cut it, but damned if he could find the time. The job he had been sent here to do was taking almost every waking moment. Except for the time he had taken to cut the grass.

And the time he was going to take now to see if he could repair the crime of cutting that dumb bush and getting a cup of Lyra’s coffee.

A taste of the woman would come soon enough.