“You make paint?”
“My company makes paint,” he said.
So that was where the fine linen and the expensive-looking loafers and the Corvette came from, she thought wryly. Plain old paint. “What kind of paint?” she asked.
“Heavy-duty paint. For exterior use. I came up with the formula myself.”
“And what’s so special about your paint that could compare with my refrigerator and baskets?”
He chuckled. “It lasts twenty-five years under most conditions. I wouldn’t be involved in anything that couldn’t withstand the test of time. That’s why I collect old cars. They only get better.”
“And I’ll bet you still have all your toy soldiers wrapped in tissue paper and put away in a box. Your teddy bear probably still has both his eyes, too.”
Matt smiled at the accuracy of her thinking. His toys were still neatly preserved in his attic and his teddy bear definitely still had its eyes. He nodded.
“Not me,” Callie said fervently. “I loved my teddy so hard that there isn’t anything left except the memory.” She came to a neat little garden that was surrounded by a fence, and opened the gate. “And I never knew a paint color that kept me interested for more than a year. A paint that lasts twenty-five years? Not for me. It’d be useless. I’d get bored and repaint just for the heck of it.” She motioned for Matt to come inside, latched the gate, and knelt in the loamy soil by a plot of short, bushy plants.
Matt exhaled slowly at the unexpected sensations that warmed him as he watched sunlight play off her dark hair. Her hands were tanned and callused. She was an earth mother who seemed at ease with her knees burrowed in the fragrant soil and her bare arms browning in the morning sun. The overalls pulled tightly across her hips and made her figure even more enticing.
“Callie?” His voice came out a little strained. “What are you looking for in those weeds?”
“These aren’t weeds; they’re strawberry plants. I’m picking strawberries for lunch. They don’t last very long, so I pick them as close to the time I serve them as possible. See?”
She held up a handful of plump red berries, and he awkwardly stuck the basket forward to catch them. She kept one, then put it in her mouth and sucked on it, drawing the pulp slowly inside. A drop of red juice trickled down her chin, and she caught it with her tongue, bringing the sweet liquid back inside her mouth. She appeared to be totally unaware of the effect she was having on him. He stared.
“Are you all right?” she asked suddenly. “You look a little odd.”
“Picking strawberries is hard work.”
She laughed and turned back to gather more. “Haven’t you ever picked them before?”
“Sure, right out of the ice in the fresh-vegetable section of the supermarket.”
Heedless of his white slacks, Matt got down on his knees beside her and began fishing gingerly for the soft berries. He wondered briefly what Phil Myers, his partner at Holland Paint, would do if he could see him now. Phil would have him committed, that was what he’d do.
“Here, try one, Mr. Paint King.” She held a berry up to his mouth and waited calmly for his lips to part.
Matt’s mouth fell open, and Callie slid the berry inside. “Simple pleasures, Matthew. They come to us, we enjoy them, and they’re gone.”
Like this minute with you, he thought wistfully.
His lips were a hot, damp pressure on her fingertips, and she nearly jerked her hand away. They looked at each other for a long moment, as if they were poised on the edge of some unknown abyss.
Finally she managed to speak. “Pick a couple of cups of the deep-red ones.” She stood up, stared at his upturned face for a moment, then walked quickly toward the gate.
“Where are you going, mountain woman?”
“To fix lunch. John Henry will be here in a few minutes, and I want to be sure everything is ready. Close the gate behind you. The only thing William likes better than wildflowers is this garden.”
Matt watched the lithe movements of her slender body as she walked back toward the house. He felt perspiration roll down his face and spot his custom-made shirt. He put the basket down and removed the shirt and his undershirt, then tossed them in a heap behind him. If he was going to turn farmer, he was going to have to get some overalls of his own.
“Old MacHolland had a farm,” he sang softly. “And on that farm he had an antique car.” But as he picked the berries it wasn’t the Fiesta that made him hurry, it was the woman who believed in simple pleasures.
“Well … I see you found her.”
Matt looked up from his strawberry picking. Leaning over the fence was the tall, thin man from the garage. He was grinning broadly, shuffling a wooden matchstick from one side of his mouth to the other. He shooed a spring butterfly away from his khaki coveralls.
“Yes, indeed, I found her. Thanks,” Matt answered calmly. He knew John Henry was waiting for some reaction, some indication of what his little game had accomplished, but Matt just smiled at him as he went through the gate and started toward the house.
He heard John Henry trailing behind him, muttering under his breath. “Well, old man … he hasn’t run off, so she didn’t take him apart. Maybe you misjudged her. What do you think now?”
Matt turned around and started to answer.
“I think, old man,” John Henry answered himself without giving Matt a chance to speak, “I think you don’t believe what you’re seeing. She’s got this idiot picking berries in his fancy pants and pointy-toed shoes.”
Matt grinned, faced forward, and kept walking.
John Henry began again, raising his voice as he ambled along behind. “What’d Callie say to you, boy?”
“Wasn’t much need to talk,” Matt told him pleasantly. “You know how it is between a man and a woman sometimes. She’s really special. Afterward she invited me to stay for lunch.” They’d reached the back door. Matt opened the screen and stepped inside, blinking to adjust to the difference in the light.
“After what?” John Henry’s barked question was smothered by the sound of the door slamming behind him.
Callie was standing at the table, setting it with red earthenware plates. She took the basket from Matt and placed it in the sink. She’d changed from her overalls to a brightly colored peasant skirt and a loose white top, which only played more havoc with Matt’s imagination as it emphasized the shape of her body.
Matt shook his head. This woman was going to drive him crazy. This woman was—she walked toward him, looped her arms around his neck, and drew his head down to hers—going to kiss him. Her mouth still tasted of strawberries, and his bare chest felt the imprint of her breasts as though there were no blouse between them. He kissed her in return.
“Ah-ah-ahem!” John Henry sputtered as he came inside. “I swaney, Callie. What about lunch?”
Matt dropped his hands and stepped back. He didn’t know what was happening. This wasn’t like him. Standing in the kitchen kissing a strange woman, with her self-appointed protector looking on. He didn’t know what to say. Callie did.
“Oh, John Henry. I didn’t see you there. Sit down. Lunch will be ready in a minute.” She turned to the sink and began washing the berries. “Matthew, darling, if you want to wash up, there’s a spigot down by the outhouse. I’ve laid out a towel and soap on the old milk churn.”
“How about a bathroom?” Matt asked, realizing that he’d never needed to be by himself to think quite so badly before in his life.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Callie said reluctantly. “We’re rather rustic here. You’ll find the little … bathhouse around the other side of the cabin, at the end of the path. It’s one of those old things that last forever—like you were talking about. Look for the apple tree in bloom and make a right. The house has a sickle moon painted on the door. You can’t miss it.” She wasn’t about to tell him she had indoor plumbing—a perfectly fine bathroom just off her bedroom.
Matt heard John Henry’s snicker as he went back outside.
A few minutes later—cleaned up, his wilted shirt and undershirt back in place—Matt started up the path toward the house. He whistled, feeling like a latter-day Huckleberry Finn. Atlanta was going to be dull, after today.
“Look out for yourself, Mr. Holland!” John Henry called from the door.
Matt heard the thud of hooves behind him and didn’t bother to check out the source by turning around. William was out again, and he apparently didn’t like whistling. Matt sprinted for the back porch, cursing the Saks Fifth Avenue salesman who’d sold him Italian loafers. They just weren’t made for running. John Henry flung the back door open, and he charged inside.
“What do you have to do to make friends with that damned thing?” Matt asked breathlessly.
“Don’t know,” John Henry answered offhandedly. “Nobody besides Callie ever has.”
Callie looked up from the stove. “William likes Lacey Lee. Are you all right, Matt?”
“Sure. I just set a new land-speed record, that’s all.”
“Exercise is good for you. Did you find the apple tree?” Callie carried a pitcher of rich red tea to the table.
“Your directions were perfect. Where should I sit?”
“By me, darling, of course.” Callie sat down and pulled an adjacent chair closer to her own.
Matt smiled smugly at John Henry’s gaping expression. “Who’s Lacey, a female goat?” Matt asked.
“Lacey’s an old friend of mine.” Callie patted the chair seat. “Sit your sweet self down before the alfalfa sprouts wilt. John Henry, you too.”
“Before the what begins to wilt?” Matt asked. He sat down, glancing at his food for the first time. In the center of the plate was a tough-looking pocket of hard bread, filled with green vegetable sprouts. That was the only thing on his plate.
“Looks good,” he lied. Matt glanced up at John Henry and saw him staring at the unappetizing food with a look of sheer disbelief. “What is it, Callie?” Matt inquired.
“It’s a sandwich.” Callie picked up the concoction and took a bite.
“Where’s the bread?” John Henry lifted his and began to examine it.
“This is the bread. It’s pita bread. It’s made like a pocket, to hold the filling. I make my own mayonnaise, thanks to Esmeralda’s eggs, and grow my own sprouts.”
“You’ve done it now, J.H. You’ve gone too far with this manhunt thing,” John Henry said rhetorically. “She’s getting revenge.” He squinted at Callie. “Every farmer in the valley grows sprouts like these, Callie. But as far as I know, they only feed ’em to the cattle. What’s this brown stuff?”
“That’s wheat germ. It gives food a nutty taste.”
“Well, well,” John Henry said drolly. “I thought for a minute it was dirt. You can’t eat this goat food, John Henry,” he muttered under his breath. “She’s doing this for revenge.”
Even though she’d heard every word, Callie asked, “What was that you said, John Henry?”
“Nothing. I was just talking to myself.”
They sat in silence for a minute, chewing laboriously. Matt looked around the cabin. There was a cozy living room, with one cushioned rocking chair and a very large overstuffed couch in front of an enormous rock fireplace. Plump, colorful pillows spilled from the couch onto a braided rug. Through a door he could see a giant spool bed with a bright red-and-yellow quilt.
“Somebody around here thinks big,” he commented, noting that everything was just the right size for a man. For him, perhaps. It was a delightful, enchanted place. Enchanted, yes. Nothing else would explain why a suave and socially prominent multimillionaire was wearing a filthy shirt and eating wheat germ and alfalfa sprouts in a log cabin at the base of a north Georgia mountain. Callie Carmichael had cast a spell over him.
Her voice interrupted his whimsical thoughts. “I get the feeling that you don’t like your food,” she told John Henry. “What about you, Matt?”
“Well, I can’t say it’s something I have every day for lunch,” he admitted as he closed his eyès and took another bite.
“No? And what do you usually have for lunch?”
Matthew choked, swallowed the half-chewed green sprouts, and washed them down with a large sip of iced tea. At least the tea tasted like iced tea was supposed to taste. “I usually have a light soup and a spinach salad,” he answered, wondering how he was ever going to eat the rest of the sandwich. “Some times I skip lunch and work out in my private gym.”
She smiled benignly. “This is healthy, even if it is boring. Now, if you’re still around for supper, I have a nice yogurt custard planned. Yogurt and bran mixed with fertile eggs and a few other goodies. I just love experimenting with new dishes.”
John Henry stood up abruptly. “I just remembered, Joe Reed is bringing his car by for a brake job at one o’clock. I’d better skip lunch, or whatever this is, today. You understand, don’t you Callie?”
“I’m afraid not, John Henry. I made this lunch as a thank you for the awful trick you pulled on Matt and me. I thought you deserved something special.” Callie stood up. Through barely open lips, with the precise diction of a marine drill sergeant, she ordered, “Eat it.”
John Henry looked at Matt helplessly, and Matt had to repress the urge to laugh out loud. John Henry sat back down and took a bite of his lunch. Satisfied that he’d gotten the picture, Callie hid a grin and went to the sink to wash and hull the strawberries. She knew the bowl of fresh whipped cream she had in the refrigerator would make up for the alfalfa sandwich John Henry was gamely swallowing.
After he grumbled to himself a couple of times and managed several more bites, she relented and added, “Of course, John Henry, if you’d like me to wrap that in tin foil, you could take it along. But you’d miss out on the strawberries and whipped cream.”
“Never mind the foil. I’ll carry it like this.” Shortly after the scrape of his chair legs had died away, John Henry was halfway down the walk. With Matt peering over her shoulder, Callie peeked out a window and watched the old man give the rest of his sprout sandwich to William. Even William seemed a little tentative. Laughing, Callie collapsed into her chair, and Matt watched her with gleaming eyes.
“Do you really know how to make yogurt custard, Callie?”
“No, but I’ve been intending to give it a try. It surely must be better than the stuffed grape leaves that I tried the last time I was in a gourmet-health-food phase.”
“What’s wrong with plain old steak and potatoes?” Matt sat down and rested his chin on one hand.
“Oh, I never cook the same thing twice,” Callie said seriously, “and I’ve already done both of those. You know, this bread is a little stale. Well, no matter, William will eat it.”
“No wonder he’s weird. It’s his diet.”
“No wonder you’re so stuffy. It’s your diet.” She was having a hard time keeping up the light banter. His eyes were following every motion she made. Her heart rate had never completely returned to normal since his first touch, and now her heart began to pound erratically. Her mouth felt dry, and she knew it was caused by the intensity of his gaze. Suddenly the room seemed too small and much too intimate.
“Well, looks like you get John Henry’s berries and cream.” Callie scrambled to her feet and took the crock of fresh whipped cream from the refrigerator. She divided the berries into two bowls and ladled on a mountain of the fluffy white topping. “Let’s go out on the porch, where it’s cool, to eat this.”
“Fine,” he agreed, following her, though he had his doubts that the temperature between them would get any cooler.
Callie stepped out onto the porch and took a deep breath, drawing the sweet scents of late spring into her lungs. Matt had invaded her little house, and she didn’t like the tight feeling he stirred up in her. Suddenly her little game had become serious.
She stood at the top of the porch steps, leaning against a post as she spooned berries and cream into her mouth. Matt stood in the doorway of the house, watching her. She did
n’t think he even tasted what he was swallowing. She wasn’t certain that she was tasting much either. The silence stretched out, and Callie searched for something innocuous to say.
“What are you thinking?” she blurted out.
“About what?”
“Anything. Your departure from sane living here this morning.”
Matt couldn’t have told her what he was thinking. As he watched her stand there with the sunlight behind her, he was enraptured by the vague outline of her body through the skirt and blouse. “I was thinking,” he told her in a distracted tone, “that I’ll skip all the bargaining and offer you five thousand dollars for the Fiesta. This is very important to me. Please,” he said softly. “You could complete my collection.”
“Me?” she questioned impishly. Sweet heaven, Callie thought. For a second she’d actually wished she was what he was talking about. “I thought you collected cars.”
“That too,” he said seriously. “A real collector never turns down a choice item, Callie Carmichael, even if it’s something he’s never collected before.”
Three
Matt geared the Corvette down to a respectable speed on the mountain road, and wondered who was more surprised at his decision to skip the company’s weekly staff meeting and drive back to Sweet Valley—Phil, the secretaries, or himself. Breaking his own unwritten law, he’d turned the meeting over to his partner and taken off. He’d gone against everything in his conservative, serious nature by doing that.
But Callie Carmichael was different from anyone his conservative, serious nature had encountered before. She was not only sexy, but also down-to-earth and outrageous, different from any woman he’d dated, and certainly different from the woman who’d shared his name until a few years ago.
Callie disdained money and routine comforts, which amazed him. And she seemed to have some inner secret for living. That fact intrigued him. She’d threatened him, kissed him, and filled his heart with her laughter. He was more convinced than ever that she was a witch who’d cast a spell over him. He knew very little about her, and he intended to find out more.
Too Hot to Handle: A Loveswept Classic Romance Page 3