“Who?” she asked breathlessly.
“Phil Donahue! Go on! Abuse me! I won’t make a move to stop you!”
His outrageous teasing was too much. Partly to tease back, partly because she couldn’t help herself, Millie put a hand on the side of his throat and stroked gingerly.
“Go on, go on! I can take it, Melisande! If you want me to prove that I don’t mind aggressive women, I’ll just lay still and show you!”
“You suffer so nobly.”
Feeling like a kid tempted to steal candy but terrified of the consequences, she propped herself on one elbow and let her hand trail slowly across his chest. His torso was the ultimate masculine promise—so much muscle, so much power, covered by ruddy skin and patterns of brown hair.
I shouldn’t do this. He’ll take advantage of the situation. I’ll deserve the trouble, if he does. Stop, girl, stop! His arms lay above his head. She reached out and brushed her trembling fingertips along the corded paths of vein and sinew on one forearm. She had learned early in life to admire strength of purpose. How could she help but admire this man who wouldn’t give up?
Millie flattened her hand over his heart and gauged its rapid beat. Her own heart was in sync. She ran her hand over his chest, molding her small fingers to the ridge of a rib, then watching rich brown hair curl over her nails as she slid her hand to the center of his stomach. A taut muscle fluttered underneath her touch, and Millie looked quickly at Brig’s face.
Even though he still had his eyes closed, there was nothing peaceful about his expression. A mask of determination accentuated the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth. His lips were slightly parted, and when her hand slid lower on his stomach, he inhaled audibly.
She glanced down his body and whimpered at the visible sign of her effect straining against the soft white fabric of his pants. Power. That was what they shared, and Millie knew then that she could ruin him just as easily as he might ruin her. And he would ruin her, she knew very well. He lived his personal and professional life in a harsh spotlight. He needed a woman who could smooth his rough edges and keep him out of trouble, and she was just the opposite. Eventually he’d realize that fact.
Choking back a cry of frustration, Millie bent forward, kissed a spot over his heart, then rested her cheek against the center of his chest. His heartbeat was stronger now.
“Melisande, I’m crazy about you,” he whispered.
But before his arms could surround her, she pushed herself away and stood up. He opened his eyes and studied her troubled expression, then grimaced as if he’d read her mind.
“I practically begged you to make me hot just now,” he murmured. “Don’t feel guilty.”
“We can’t, Brig,” she told him wretchedly. “We just can’t take this any further. Not ever.”
She turned and made her way carefully across the roof to the ladder, then climbed down. Brig rose and walked to the gnarled carcass of the oak tree, then knelt by the torn place and looked down into her house. A minute later he heard water running in a sink somewhere below him. He could picture her splashing water on her face, trying to wash away her quiet torment. She had been taught not to think of herself as a woman, that women were a certain way and men another, that she didn’t fit in.
Brig’s eyes narrowed in concentration. When he got through with her, she’d know beyond a doubt that she was the best kind of woman and that she fit into his life perfectly.
Four
Early the next morning Suds dropped Brig off to work on her roof again. Millie was still drinking her morning tea as she went out to meet him. His skin and hair glowed from a recent scrubbing, and his white shirt was tucked neatly into spotless white trousers. He was a tonic that made her hands tremble, and Millie stared at him helplessly as he ambled up the pebbled walkway framed by multi-hued flower beds on either side. He stopped at the bottom step, then smiled at her, his blue eyes sleepy but devilish. His guitar case hung from one brawny hand.
“Good morning, Melisande,” he said with the innocent tone of a schoolboy greeting a teacher. “Fine morning, eh?”
She shivered inwardly as she inhaled the warm scents of fresh soap and masculine skin. “Good morning, Brigand,” she answered equally primly. Light-hearted banter would keep them both out of trouble, Millie hoped. “You don’t see many mornings, I suspect.”
He frowned mildly. “I’m a night person. Comes with my work.”
“You could learn to love watching the sunrise.”
Brig squinted at her, amused. “It’s just a sunset in reverse. But at sunset, at least my eyes are focused and I can think.”
“I won’t ask you to do anything mental until after nine.”
“Make it ten,” he corrected. His wide, generous mouth hinted at naughtiness. “I’ll have to let my physical impulses run wild until then.”
She wore another pair of cutoffs—loose ones, left a discreet length—and a floppy white T-shirt with a bright red road-race logo across the chest. He ducked his head a little, tilted it to one side, and gazed at her lithe, muscular legs. Again, his voice was innocent. “You’ve got goose bumps on your knees, love. Are you cold?”
Millie smiled at his tactics while she suppressed another small shiver. There would be no repeat of yesterday’s rooftop scene. She pressed a hand to her chest, then told him, “Cold hearted. And don’t forget it.”
“Tsk, tsk.” He shook his head. “Exercise would warm you up.”
She wasn’t going to ask what he had in mind. “I’ll help you cut down the rest of the tree.”
He sighed. “Wouldn’t give a fellow a cup of hot coffee, would you?”
“I doubt you need warming up, but I’ll be glad to provide a cup of blackberry tea. I don’t have any coffee.”
“How can a man work without stimulation? I’ll have to look for something else to get my blood goin’.”
She continued to smile, and silently admitted that she both loved and feared his provocative silliness. “I could turn the hose on you.”
He gasped comically. “Ow.”
Millie nodded toward the guitar case. “Heckuva lunch box.” Brig laughed, the sound low and gruff. It echoed through her, loosening her knees and making her skin tingle. She took a quick swallow of tea and stepped back from his intense, disturbing presence.
“You can leave it inside.” With a slight movement of her head she indicated the house behind her. “Come on. I’ll fix your tea.”
“Tea sounds fine, Melisande.”
Brig’s gaze followed her as she turned and went swiftly to the door, her bare feet padding delicately on the porch’s creaking, whitewashed boards. Her feet were beautifully shaped and fine-boned. Slender blue veins crisscrossed the tops. He frowned as he felt blood pounding low in his body. It was going to be a long day, if he reacted this strongly to something as ordinary as feet. But then, nothing was ordinary about Melisande.
Her living room was a cluttered, likable place filled with family photographs, overstuffed furniture, and heavy, plain bookcases. Brig put his guitar case on a chintz-covered couch and trailed after her to the kitchen, where a bay window looked out on the majestic forest in the backyard.
She pointed to a small table in front of the window. “Have a seat.”
“Yes, Melisande,” he said quaintly, and folded his sturdy frame into a chair.
Millie could feel his eyes on her as she lifted a copper tea kettle from the white stove that was older than she was, then poured steaming water into a pottery mug. Her fingers trembling, she dunked a tea bag into the mug and brought it to the table. Her body felt like a tightly wound toy that was simply waiting for his touch to set it in motion. It was going to be a long day.
“Here,” she said bluntly, and thumped the mug down.
“Easy, now, easy,” he murmured. “Don’t get skittish.”
“Quit provoking me.”
“I’m sorry, m’dear.”
She put her hands on her hips. “The hell you are.”
Still sitt
ing down, he put his hands on his hips, then arched one brown brow at her. “You’re right. I’m not sorry.” Taken back by his honesty, she faltered for words.
“Shush,” he ordered. “I’m not gonna lay a finger on you, but I’d be less than a man if I didn’t enjoy the view.”
She gestured toward her loose clothes. “I didn’t mean to provide a view.”
He turned toward the window, clasped his hands on the table in an attitude of peaceful reverence, and stared out. In an absurdly royal voice he intoned, “The trees are just ex-quis-it”
Millie sputtered with a combination of frustration and traitorous laughter. “That’s a terrible imitation of Prince Charles. Drink your tea, you Aussie hound. How about a biscuit with jelly and butter?”
He angled around a bit in the chair, his somewhat battered nose lifted high, his hands still clasped, his mouth drawn in fastidious concentration. “Thank you ever so kindly.”
“Right,” she muttered, smiling despite herself.
Afterwards they climbed to the roof and worked at reducing the huge oak tree to a limbless trunk. Insects sang in the woods around them, the sound as vibrant as summer, rising in operatic choruses and then falling to a mere whisper. The humidity made Millie’s clothes cling to her body, and every time she glanced at Brig she was treated to the heart-stopping outline of his legs and hips under his own clinging clothes.
He bent over a massive limb, the chain saw roaring in his hands, wood chips flying. His forearms were corded with straining muscles. Sweat trailed down the center of his throat and disappeared under his white T-shirt. He’d discarded the outer shirt almost immediately. His expression was content. He was the kind of man who enjoyed using his body to the fullest. He raised his head for a moment and winked at her. She winked back, smiled tentatively, then looked away.
They worked together in silent harmony, surrounded and secluded in a sensual springtime world with no one but each other for company. Millie wondered if Jacques and Melisande had worked together like this, quietly, enjoying each other’s presence, feeling the rich promise of the day and the hinted excitement of the night.
A knot twisted under her breastbone. She would share no nights with Brig here, no matter how much he tempted her. Jacques and Melisande knew they were together forever. Millie knew only that she’d never forget Brig when he left.
But when he stopped working and stripped the T-shirt from his torso, she had to force her eyes to remain on the saw clutched in her hand. She continued cutting a small limb, desperately focusing on the back and forth motion. Even when she heard him thump the chain saw down and walk toward her, she didn’t look up.
“Melisande.”
The low, rebuking way he said her name told her immediately that he recognized an avoidance technique when he saw one. She straightened and squinted up at him, trying to appear nonchalant.
“Yes?”
He had folded his T-shirt into a square. Slowly he cupped her chin in one hand, then smoothed the soft cotton over her face. “You’re all persplre-ee. Take a break and let me wipe you down,” he murmured. Hypnotized, she simply stood still. He moved the T-shirt over her face, dabbing at her cheeks, drawing swathes of sensation across her mouth.
“You’re pink,” he whispered. “You look sexy as hell.”
When he stroked the material down her throat, she closed her eyes and tilted her head back. Brig’s thumb caressed the pulse point under her chin. His voice came to her dimly, through the roaring In her ears. “You’re too hot, love,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t want you to faint.”
She opened her eyes and looked at him, feeling groggy. Her pulse had been fine until a moment ago. Now It raced so hard that she could barely think. Millie reached out and placed her fingertips under his chin. His skin was slick and burning, the blood pounding beneath her touch. “Seems to me,” she said huskily, “that we’re both too hot.”
“There are ways to take care of that.”
She nodded, picturing the way he had In mind, seeing them both naked on the pink satin sheets of her bed. “Iced tea,” she said vaguely. She drew her hand away from his throat. His fingers were still curved against her neck, their effect so powerful that he seemed to be touching her all over.
One corner of his mouth lifted in a rueful smile. “Iced tea’ll have to do for now.”
He let his hand trail along her neck to the collar of her shirt. Millie waited breathlessly, only half-wanting to protest, as his fingertips continued downward. He touched the curve of her breast, feathered his hand over it, then brushed his thumb across the imprint that couldn’t be hidden by her bra or shirt. Millie nearly groaned as her nipple tightened instantly, betraying the loss of her last shred of willpower. The breath cascaded out of her lungs in a low, shuddering, “Stop.”
His eyes challenged her while his thumb circled and tantalized. “If you really don’t like it, all you have to do is move away,” he instructed hoarsely.
Millie made a strangled, angry sound at his confident intuition. She’d show him. She pushed his hand away and took two large steps straight back—right onto the thin sheet of plastic covering the hole in her roof. They both realized her mistake. The plastic ripped like a piece of paper.
“Melly, grab my hand!” Brig yelled.
He lunged for her, but only succeeded in grabbing a wisp of her hair as she plummeted through the roof. Brig’s blood turned to ice water as he watched her hit the corner of her bed and slide to the floor in a limp heap.
He grasped the sides of the hole, slipped both feet into it, and lowered himself into her bedroom. He let go and dropped feetfirst onto her bed. With a cracking sound, the slats under the mattress and box spring gave way, dumping a corner onto the floor. Caught off balance, Brig landed on his rump and slid down beside Millie.
She lifted her head weakly and looked at him. “You make a heckuva entrance,” she managed to say before she closed her eyes and moaned. “SuperAussie to the rescue.”
He grasped her head between his hands and scrutinized her white face. “Where does it hurt?”
“Here.” She raised a hand and touched the side of her head.
“You musta hit a rafter, love.”
“No, it’s where you pulled my hair out.”
He drew one hand back and they both looked at the strands of blond hair caught between his fingers. “Caveman,” she teased, her eyes squinted nearly shut. Millie shifted slightly, then winced. Immediately he slipped an arm around her and turned her so that she could lean against his chest. Millie let her head drape back on his bare shoulder.
“What is it?” he asked tensely. “What hurts, you tough Sheila? Speak up.”
“I’m little, that’s all. I got the breath knocked out of me, and I don’t have that much breath to lose. Just give me a minute to recuperate.” Brig stroked her hair and kissed her forehead as she inhaled shakily. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“Sure. Landed on my butt. That’s the toughest part of me.”
She chuckled. “You should have landed on your hard head.”
His voice was taut with self-rebuke. “It was my fault that you fell through the roof.”
“Sssh. You didn’t exactly push me, Brig. Forget it.”
He sighed. “You sure do bounce good.”
“An admiral told me the same thing once. I fell out of a tree trying to retrieve his wife’s pet ferret.”
Brig propped her against the side of the bed and crouched by her legs, straightening them out slowly. “Does anything hurt yet?”
“Nope.”
“Move your toes.” He cupped the toes of her bare foot in his hand. She wrapped her big toe and second toe around his forefinger and gripped hard. “Strewth! Let go, you monkey!”
Smiling, she pulled her foot away. “My brothers taught me to pinch with my toes.”
“Remind me to thank the blokes,” he told her wryly. Brig bent his head and placed a smacking kiss on her toes.
Millie eyed him askance. “My feet are sa
ndy.”
He shrugged. “A little sand never hurt anybody.” Then he dropped her foot, made a great show of wiping his mouth, and groaned, “Where’s the John? I think I have to throw up.”
She laughed a little and shoved him with her foot.
“Want to wrestle, do you?” he asked, relief written in his expression. “If you hadn’t just walloped the floor, I’d show you a thing or two.”
“Excuses, excuses,” she challenged, grinning. Millie leaned forward and shook her fist at him. “I grew up wrestling with two mean brothers, and …” Her teasing bravado faded and she sat back gingerly.
“Melisande?” Brig got on his knees and grasped her shoulders. Her green eyes were dark with discomfort.
“Must have pulled a muscle in my back.”
“Damned fightin’ woman,” he grumbled anxiously. “Don’t know when to sit still.”
“Be quiet, hound.”
He got up, rigged the boxspring and mattress back into place using the slats that hadn’t broken, then squatted beside her and put his hands under her arms. “Up you go, love. Squawk if it hurts.”
“I definitely will.”
But he was so careful and so strong that he raised her to a sitting position on the bed’s edge without jarring her back at all. He knelt in front of her, his hands sliding down to her waist. Millie raised her arms tentatively and stretched.
“It’s just a twinge,” she said truthfully. “It’ll loosen up in a minute, and we can go back to the roof.”
“I have my doubts. Lay on your stomach and let old Doc McKay’s magic fingers do some massagin’.”
Millie studied him shrewdly. He apparently had no intentions other than to rub her aching back. “Okay.”
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