by Fiona Lowe
“When I was a kid,” she continued, “there was this advertisement on the television with some Aussie guy on a beach saying, ‘I’ll throw another shrimp on the barbie.’ His accent always made me and my sisters laugh. Ever since then, I’ve always wanted to visit Australia.”
The dimples in her cheeks gave her a look of utter ingenuousness which was at odds with her obvious skills of ball busting. “I’m sure they’d give you a job in homeland security keeping out the undesirables.”
“Very funny,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You may not believe me but I don’t make a habit of hitting people. You’re the first.”
“Lucky me,” he muttered.
With a quick and decisive movement, she stood up and extended her left hand. “I’ll help you up.”
He’d never wanted anyone’s help and he didn’t intend to start now. “I’d pull you over.”
She gave a harsh laugh. “I doubt that.”
He didn’t know what she meant but her tone made him wary. “I’ll be fine but I’ll take that offer of whiskey now.”
“Oh...right.” She did a slow turn, paused and then quickly crossed the room to the liquor cabinet.
He rolled to his knees, his breathing hissing as his shoulder objected to the movement. If he hurt this much now, he hated to think how he’d feel in the morning. Hauling himself up onto the couch, he called out, “Bring the bottle.”
She returned with two glasses in one hand and a bottle of top-shelf whiskey in the other. It was a brand he’d only ever seen in a store behind glass and tagged at a price he’d never been prepared to pay. Perhaps there were some advantages to being injured in a rich woman’s house after all.
She generously filled the glasses and handed him one.
“Cheers.” He drained it in one hit, the heat hitting his stomach and spreading through his veins like molasses. He held the glass out toward her. “Again.”
Her eyes opened so wide they looked like two silvery gray moons and her back straightened. “Do you think that’s wise?”
He’d never seen a woman with such huge eyes but he was familiar with the sort of disapproval that burned there. Although she’d phrased it as a question, what she’d actually said was, “Don’t do it.”
He’d never responded all that well to being told what to do. “I think it’s going to anesthetize my shoulder, and right now that’s all I care about.”
Amy didn’t like the challenging look in Ben’s eyes and she clutched the bottle determined to be in control of the situation. Taking control and making hard decisions was what she’d forged a career on.
Until today.
She shut out the voice and firmed up her resolve to finish the most out of control day of her life on top. “I’m going to drive you to the emergency room.” And leave you there.
Even with one arm out of action, Ben Armytage unnerved her. There was something about him that made it impossible for her to relax and that was enough of a reason to want him gone.
He sighed. “No, you’re not. All they’d do is x-ray my shoulder and put it in a sling. Half the job is done and the rest can wait until morning.”
Morning? No, no, no. He had to leave tonight. “How do you know that? Are you a doctor?”
“It’s an old sporting injury. It’s happened before.”
“Even so,” she said in her best take-charge voice, “you need it all checked out tonight and documented in case it causes you problems in the future.”
He slowly put down his glass on the coffee table and turned to face her with one eyebrow quirked. “That sounds a lot like lawyer talk. Worried I’m going to sue you?”
The thought had crossed her mind when she was upstairs pulling on her dirty clothes and checking out the first-aid instructions. She pressed her sweaty palms against her skirt and smoothed it down. “I think we’ve established it was all a misunderstanding,” she said in the exact tone she used in mediation.
“A misunderstanding?” He leaned in toward her, his mouth tilted and his green eyes shimmering and hypnotic.
Leather, whiskey and the scent of something essentially male swirled around her, intoxicatingly dangerous and utterly compelling. Instead of automatically leaning back to reestablish her personal space, she had to force herself not to lean forward.
“Yes.” Just when she wanted to sound firm and look like she was the one calling the shots, a wayward curl fell into her eyes. She whooshed out a breath to blow the hair away.
“That’s a very interesting way of describing it.” The tips of his fingers brushed her hair behind her ear and the touch sent tingling cascades shimmering through her.
This is not happening. But her body relaxed in mockery of her protest and her hand loosened on the bottle of whiskey.
She cleared her throat. “It’s accurate.”
He crossed his left hand over his body, and it brushed her thigh on the way. She gasped as the tingles turned into a ball of heat.
His gaze suddenly became calculating. “Is that your apology, Amy?”
The word apology kick-started her brain half a second too late. His hand had already snatched the whiskey bottle out of her limp grip. Damn it. “It’s a statement of fact.”
He gave a bark of laugher as he poured another large glass. “You really are a lawyer.” He didn’t make it sound like a good thing.
“Of course I’m a lawyer,” she snapped as indignation rushed her. She couldn’t tell if it was because of his jibe at her profession or the fact that on his way to stealing the whiskey, he’d turned her into mush. Either way, her annoyance doused the irrational sparks of attraction and for that she was extremely grateful. She didn’t have time for nonsense like this, especially given the fallout of the last time she’d given in to her emotions. That should be enough to have her avoiding men for the rest of her life.
He took a small sip of his drink. “Where do you work?”
“In Chicago and this is the first day of my vacation.” The lie sounded so loud in her head she almost put her hands over her ears.
She hated the way he was looking at her—a long, lazy snakelike look that brushed her from head to toe saying, I’ve seen you naked. She swallowed and frantically tried to think of a way to wrestle back control of the conversation and of the situation. She could hardly get him into the car if he didn’t want to go, although the thought of dragging him by the hair had some appeal.
Giving him her best penetrating stare, she asked, “Why do you have a set of keys to the house?”
“Two hours ago I would have said by a stroke of good luck, given the town’s booked solid and I needed a place for the night. Now I think luck is stretching it somewhat.” His mouth twitched wryly. “Your mechanic said your family was in Chicago and I could stay here. Obviously no one told him you were back, otherwise I wouldn’t have come.”
My mechanic? For a moment she wondered what he was talking about and then she remembered. Yes! He thought this was her house and in his mind she had the rights to the property. She had to stifle the whoop of joy that wanted to fly from her lips.
“Believe me,” he continued, “I’d leave right now if I could. I’ll make other arrangements in the morning.”
He wants to leave. She relaxed for the very first time since he’d arrived. His declaration of departure plans was a balm to her desire to get him out of the house as soon as possible. He was leaving in the morning so the least she could do was let him stay the night. It would appease her guilt at having attacked an innocent man, and come noon tomorrow, she’d have the house to herself and the space she needed to sort out her life. It was win-win all round.
She rose to her feet, assuming the mantle of someone who was utterly familiar with the house despite the fact she had no clue where the kitchen was located. Or for that matter the layout of the entire downstairs area apart from th
is room. She thought about upstairs. “I’ll prepare a room for you in the east wing, shall I?”
He nailed her with his penetrating gaze. “Is that a long way from where you’re sleeping?”
“Yes.”
He raised his glass to her with a smile. “That sounds perfect.”
* * *
Amy retrieved her car, driving it closer to the house before grabbing Ben’s backpack from where he’d dropped it. Slinging it over her shoulder, she carried it and her suitcases into the great room and saw that Ben had relocated to another couch, closer to the flat-screen television. He’d taken the whiskey bottle with him.
He was watching the sports channel and muttering something about football not being football. He didn’t speak to her when she passed by on her way upstairs and that suited her just fine. She wasn’t up for chitchat. All she wanted to do was end this atrocious day by collapsing into that phenomenally comfortable bed.
She explored the east wing and bypassed the first two bedrooms with kids’ bunk beds and kept looking until she found one with a double bed. She pulled down the quilt and was relieved to find it was already made up and she didn’t have to go searching for the linen. She walked back along the catwalk and downstairs thinking as she went how fit she was going to get living here.
As she hit the bottom stair she called out, “Ben, your room’s ready.”
The only reply was the sports commentator telling her that the Green Bay Packers had to seriously think about game strategy if they wanted to end the season with a place in the play-offs.
She walked around the couch to find him asleep. “Ben?”
His head shot up and he stared at her out of heavy and unfocused eyes. “That’s me.”
“How’s the pain?”
He blinked at her. “Gone.”
Really? Every time she thought of his scream of pain when she’d been pulling his shoulder back into position, it made her feel ill. “Well, that’s good. Look, it’s late and I want to go to bed so I’ll show you where your room is.”
“Okay.” He stood up and swayed.
“Whoa, steady there.” She grabbed his uninjured arm as he slumped against her. She immediately widened her stance to stop from falling over.
She glanced at the whiskey bottle and saw the level of liquid was now significantly lower. Just fabulous. No wonder he didn’t have any pain. She could picture a thousand ways he could hurt himself even more than she’d hurt him and she didn’t want to be responsible for that. “How about I help you up the stairs?”
A spark flared in his eyes and he shook away her arm. “No. I’ve got this.” He started weaving an unsteady path to the stairs.
She hurried after him but to her surprise and relief, he made his way up without mishap although it was the slowest trip ever.
“Here you go.” She opened the door to his room.
He stared at the canopied cedar-log bed with its acorn carvings and bear paw quilt. He turned back to look at her. “Good to know some netting’s going to protect me from a bear attack.”
She found herself smiling. “It’s probably more interested in the fish that’s mounted on the wall.”
“Hmm.” He walked in, sat down on the bed, swung his legs up and lay back against the bank of pillows. Less than a second later, his eyes closed.
Her hand stalled on the door handle. “Aren’t you going to get undressed?”
A gentle snore was his only reply.
Just leave him. But the thought of him sleeping the night fully clothed seemed wrong because he’d sweat and wouldn’t be comfortable. The least she could do was remove his boots. Gripping the heel, she tugged. Nothing moved. She put some muscle into it and pulled with all she had. The boot shifted and she shot back across the room. She returned and repeated the process. She drew the line at removing his socks.
Now you can go.
She worried her bottom lip as she stared at his leather jacket. If she’d thought, she would have taken it off him before putting on the sling. Only, thinking clearly around Ben Armytage seemed difficult. She sighed and picked up the wide tab at the top of the jacket’s zipper, carefully pulling it down under his injured arm. When he didn’t stir, she decided to try easing his good arm out of the sleeve. As she pushed the leather back, solid biceps greeted her, bulging out of a T-shirt that read, Beware of Drop Bears.
Before she’d thought it through, she found her fingers tracing a line along his arm, following a thick, blue vein. His heat warmed her and she could feel the strength of the toned muscle underneath. Of the very limited number of men she’d dated, none of them had arms like this.
He gave a soft groan and she pulled her hand back fast.
“Ben?” He didn’t look very awake.
“Hmm.”
“Do you want to take your jacket all the way off?”
Using his left arm to hold his right tight to his body, he leaned forward and then his head unexpectedly dropped onto her shoulder.
He smelled of whiskey and sweat and she wrinkled her nose, welcoming the evidence that he was drunk and therefore not remotely attractive to her. Then his hair filled her face and the scent of mint hit her, mocking her with its fresh and clean but oh-so-masculine tang, making her want to breathe deeply.
“Okay then,” she said out loud more to rally herself than anything else. She quickly pushed the jacket away from his back and eased him onto the pillows. “Just get the job done, Amy.” She moved his good arm so it supported the injured one from the elbow to the wrist. “Ben, hold your arm here.”
Without opening his eyes, he followed the instructions and she undid the sling. He gave a long, low moan as she took off the jacket and she flinched, quickly retying the sling as fast as possible. She stepped back, trying hard not to notice how well his chest filled the thin, cotton T-shirt. “Now you’re out of your jacket, that should help you sleep.”
He murmured something unintelligible that sounded like, Red, and then he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up.
He was six feet two inches of lurching unpredictability and she rushed back, closing the gap between them. “What are you doing?”
“Tight.” He put his hand on the snap of his pants and undid them. A moment later they were midthigh.
She could just imagine the disaster of him trying to kick off his pants or taking them down one-handed when he was semiconscious. He’d more than likely fall face-first and fracture his skull. “Let me help.”
She sat him back on the bed and then kneeled between his legs. As she pulled the leathers down, she noticed the hairs on his legs were the same sun-kissed honey-brown as his hair. Not relevant, no need to look.
“That better?” she said, pulling her gaze away and glancing up at him as she spoke. She came face-to-face with a pair of black low-rise boxer briefs, whose stretch-cotton technically covered the contents but in reality, hid nothing.
Oh. My. God.
She closed her eyes and then immediately opened them for another look at the impressive outline, justifying that it wasn’t voyeurism because he’d seen far more of her earlier in the evening.
With a grunt, he suddenly swung his legs back toward the bed and she had to duck to avoid being hit. He seemed to fall instantly asleep.
She quickly pulled the quilt up and over him, tucking it under his chin. If it didn’t risk suffocation, she would have pulled it over his head so she didn’t have to be tempted to look at any part of his buff, toned body. No one should look that gorgeous in briefs and a T-shirt. She knew she certainly didn’t.
She wrenched open the door. “I’m going now,” she said firmly as if she was the one needing the instruction to leave.
He didn’t reply.
Just as she was closing the door she heard, “Night, Red.”
Chapter Four
“Shit.” He rubbed his face with his hand, feeling the stubble scraping his palm. The idea of a shower taunted him. He knew he’d be hard-pressed to get his T-shirt off on his own, let alone manage the rest.
His head throbbed after last night’s self-medication. He couldn’t remember getting into bed but obviously he had because his pants were missing. The only person who could have removed them was Amy.
Amy with the face of a cherub and a Rubenesque body that said, baby, I’m all lush woman, bury yourself here, but had the disapproving tartness of a skinny puritan. She looked good until she opened her mouth and then the illusion was shattered. No way was he asking her for any more help.
He’d made a pact with himself nine months ago that he was never asking another woman for anything, and right up until last night he’d honored it. Now it seemed the gods were taunting his recent success in the cruelest of ways.
He rubbed his cheek. He needed a plan.
He glanced down at his bare legs. Step 1. Put on his pants. Step 2. Check the bathroom for ibuprofen. Step 3. Hitch a ride into Whitetail.
He hated that step one was probably going to be the hardest thing on the list.
* * *
The low hum of an engine behind him made Ben smile with hope and he turned and stuck out his thumb. The car came to a halt and the driver wound down the window. Ben’s hopes immediately turned to dust.
“You’re hitchhiking?” Amy said, staring at him incredulously. “I thought you were back at the house fast asleep.”
Her accusatory words provided the only heat in the chilly morning air. Ben couldn’t believe that the only car to pass by on this quiet road had to belong to the one person he didn’t want to see.
He kept walking. “You’re up early for someone on vacation.”