Hannah And The Hellion (Silhouette Treasury 90s)

by Christine Flynn

  Leaving the door open so she’d be able to hear the front bell, she ventured inside the shop. There were boat parts everywhere. All were unidentifiable to her, and all seemed to belong to the inner workings of the vessel. The large trawler taking up the middle of the space looked the same as it always had on the outside, as battered and crusty as its owner.

  “I hope he didn’t give you a hard time about going home.”

  “It was his idea. There was a game show on that he never misses. He said coming up with the answers helps keep his mind from turning to mush.”

  He’d lowered the two lead-colored cylinders he’d held into the cleaning solvent. Reaching for an old paint stick, the muscles of his broad shoulders shifting beneath dark flannel, he fished a piece just like the others out of the last bucket.

  “I know you weren’t happy about me bringing him here,” she admitted, thinking he looked every bit as preoccupied as he sounded, “but I didn’t know what else to do. Then, when I saw that he was helping you, I didn’t think you wanted me to interrupt.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He let the cylinder he’d fished out sink back into the murky liquid, then rose with the powerful surge of his thighs to grab a rag from the workbench. “He’s pretty set in his ways, but he actually helped me quite a bit.”

  “He did?”

  Hannah couldn’t hide her quiet surprise. Not just that Mr. Lindstrom had been of real help to Damon, but that Damon had so easily admitted it. As insular as he was, taking anything from anyone, even advice, seemed extraordinary.

  Almost as extraordinary, she thought, as the fact that he continued to let her see far more deeply inside him than he did anyone else.

  He’d taken Mr. Lindstrom home because he couldn’t let the old man walk home alone in the dark. She was certain Damon hadn’t wanted to go there. He seemed to have a comfort zone—his home, the lake, the shop. She had the distinct feeling that he seldom strayed beyond those borders.

  “You know what I can’t figure out?” Wiping his hands, he glanced toward her. “I can’t figure out how he could have been so confused the day we found him on the dock, and so clear about everything now.

  “This engine I’m tearing down...” he continued, indicating the loveseat-size, black iron object he’d hoisted from the bowels of his boat, “he took one look at some of the parts I thought I’d have to replace and told me how to retool them and save a couple hundred bucks. He was a mechanic for years.”

  Moving around the engine under discussion, Hannah stepped over a long rod and came to a halt a few feet from where Damon stood. It was apparent that he was confused by discrepancies in Mr. Lindstrom’s mental acuity. She, on the other hand, was simply confused. “I thought he’d been a fisherman.”

  “He’s done that, too. And he carved bow struts, and spent a few years hauling potash on a freighter. He said that over the years he did whatever he had to do to make sure he could always set a little aside for a rainy day.” Damon shook his head, looking as if he wanted to smile but had forgotten how. “He told me he still saves part of his pension checks because a man needs to think about his future. The guy’s older than Neptune now and he’s still thinking ahead. Does that sound like the same man we ran into before?”

  It definitely did not. What it sounded like to her was a man who’d worked hard all his life, always made his own way and who intended never to be a burden to anyone. She told Damon that, too. Then she mentioned that while Mr. Lindstrom had seemed a little light on a few details when she’d talked to him earlier, he’d exhibited none of the anxiety or deep-seated confusion he had that first time.

  “He mostly just seemed at loose ends to me,” she also told him. “I get the feeling he doesn’t have much to do with his time.”

  She tipped her head, watching Damon’s brow furrow in the daylight-bright lights. With his jaw shadowed by the day’s growth of beard, his dark eyebrows drawn in concentration, he was a truly formidable-looking man. Hard, handsome, unapproachable. That was the image he wanted, too. The hard, unapproachable part, anyway. And, for the most part, people saw exactly what Damon allowed them to see.

  His eyebrows knitted tighter. “I just thought it was kind of strange, is all. He didn’t act anything like he did before.” He nodded toward the open stairwell door, his preoccupation fading. “I didn’t mean to keep you. It sounds like you’ve got customers up there.”

  The muffled clatter of silverware on plates drifted down the stairwell. She’d already been gone longer than she thought she’d be, and Damon clearly wanted to get back to work himself. Thinking to offer a quick thanks for his help, she took a step back to get out of his way.

  The words never came out. Her heel caught the edge of the long metal rod, throwing her balance completely.

  The thought that there was nothing behind her but hard concrete and harder-looking engine parts registered the instant she sucked in a startled gasp. That breath had barely locked in her lungs when Damon shot forward.

  It was incredible to her that a man his size could move so fast. He’d been six feet away, but before she could turn to break her fall, his strong fingers clamped around her upper arm and she was jerked back from the rod. A frantic heartbeat later, he’d swung himself in front of her, snagged her other arm, and she grabbed his stone-solid biceps to keep from bumping into the wall of his chest.

  She’d more or less caught her balance when his eyes locked on hers.

  The oxygen seemed to vanish from the room. It suddenly seemed hard for her to breathe, to think. Damon’s glance dropped to her mouth, the chiseled shape of his own parting slightly as memories rushed in to taunt them both.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice oddly husky.

  She hadn’t been all right since the moment she’d met him. “I’m fine,” she replied, since the truth felt too threatening. “I just wasn’t paying attention.”

  “You have to be careful down here.”

  She gave a little nod, but he didn’t notice. His attention had shifted to where his hand curved around her slender arm.

  As if he’d only now realized that he didn’t want to touch her, he let her go and stepped away.

  Her heart already hammered her rib cage. Each beat now just made it feel a little bruised. Ducking her head to hide the unexpected hurt, hoping it only looked like she was watching where she stepped, she started for the door.

  “Hannah. Wait a minute.”

  She was the one who didn’t want any strain between them. That was why she’d told him she didn’t want to keep bumping into the chip on his shoulder. Their situation was difficult enough without feeling constantly anxious about running into him. If she kept walking now, she’d only be contributing to the tension that popped to the surface like some undersea monster every time they came within sight of each other.

  Determined to keep from tripping over her own pride, she glanced back as if he hadn’t touched her at all.

  The instant she did, he looked down at his hands, then to each sleeve of her white blouse. “I ruined your shirt.”

  Following the path of his glance, she saw the black smudges where his fingers had closed around her upper arms.

  “That’s why I let go.”

  It wasn’t the only reason. They both knew that. But it seemed he was trying to help ease the strain, too, and that made far more difference to her at the moment than a little dirt—or what someone else might think of the obvious handprints on her arms.

  “You kept me from breaking my neck. Don’t worry about it,” she said, deliberately using his words from minutes ago, and gave him a soft smile before she hurried away.

  No one saw the handprints. Hannah pulled on a sweater before she headed into the cafe to refill coffee cups that evening. And the next morning, just to be on the safe side, she had on a black cotton turtleneck and black slacks under her apron. She certainly didn’t anticipate a repeat of what had happened last night, but she was beginning to develop a healthy appreciation for unexpected situations�
�and how they could be misconstrued. The way she saw it, an ounce of prevention was worth a ton of damage control.

  She was enjoying the fact that there wasn’t any particular damage to be contained that morning when one of those situations walked by the window. Having just served plates of omelettes and Swedish pancakes to two of her truckers, she looked up from the counter to see Mr. Lindstrom strolling through the falling snow.

  Like yesterday, he was wearing the flannel hat with the bird-wing earflaps and the brown canvas hunting jacket that hung on him like an old blanket. She couldn’t tell if it was his pipe or his breath that made him look like the smokestack on a locomotive as feathery puffs trailed behind him, but his steps were full of purpose as he rounded the corner and passed the side window, the one facing the hill leading to the lake.

  The man had a real thing about the dock, and Hannah just knew that was where he was going.

  Leaving her coffeepot on the counter and her customers gaping at her back, she bolted out the door in her apron, nearly slipping on the four inches of new snow that had fallen last night, and swung around the corner herself. She’d barely opened her mouth to call out to him when she promptly gagged on the cold. The weather had been the main topic of conversation among her customers all morning. The mercury had finally hit zero. She just hadn’t been out in it herself yet.

  It was so cold that the breeze burned her eyes and her fingers were already growing numb. Freezing or not, she still needed to stop the man ambling down the sloping sidewalk in his tire-tread boots. He’d just passed the long window that occupied the wall between Hannah’s greenhouse and the long, cluttered workbench.

  Inside, Damon happened to be facing the window, and he caught the motion of someone passing by, but he didn’t notice who it was. He wouldn’t have cared, anyway. Standing in the middle of the cluttered shop, nursing coffee from his thermos, he focused on figuring out where to start that morning. The decision would have been infinitely easier had he not still been half-asleep.

  He’d gone to bed early enough, but sleep hadn’t come. He’d wrestled the blankets, willing rest for his body and his mind, but his mind had locked on one track and his body had ached with a need that had become all too familiar. Try as he might, he couldn’t escape the memory of how Hannah’s slender body had molded to his when he’d kissed her. He remembered exactly how she tasted, how she moved, the small, surrendering sounds she’d made. Just the feel of her body brushing his when he’d caught her from tripping had made him so hard he hurt. But he could get that way just looking at her. Just thinking about her.

  That had been the problem last night.

  He drew his hand down his face, staring at the snow falling softly outside the window. He’d tried to put her from his mind, forced himself to concentrate on anything other than her. He’d tried thinking about everything from re-siding his house next spring, to how he’d have to start stripping wood on the Naiad after he got the engine put back together—only to find himself wondering how long he could go without caving in to his need to touch her again. But touching wasn’t all he wanted. And what he wanted had finally driven him out of bed, where he’d stood half-naked in front of his bedroom window watching the snow drift down, much as he was doing now. The room had been chilly. Downright cold, actually. And the air had finally cooled him enough to calm him down. But the desire he felt for her hadn’t gone away.

  It still hadn’t.

  The breeze blowing up from the lake put a sideways slant on the snowflakes falling outside. It was because of that breeze that the woman scooting past his window had her head down. Damon didn’t need to see Hannah’s face to recognize her, though. He was wondering only what she was doing out there without a coat when he set down his mug and three sharp raps sounded on the shop’s entry door.

  Louie Lindstrom smiled around his unlit pipe. “Morning,” he said, mindless of the flakes swirling in over the concrete. “Did you get started on those fuel injectors yet?”

  Damon’s glance darted past the man’s shoulder. Huddled into herself, Hannah turned the corner of the building, coming up behind Mr. Lindstrom as fast as she could without slipping in the snow.

  He told the old man that he hadn’t been there long enough to do anything yet, motioning him inside as he did, then aimed a frown at Hannah’s snow-covered head when she rushed in, too.

  Closing the door to conserve heat, he turned to ask her what she was up to now. The first question out of his mouth, however, was “What are you doing out there without a coat?”

  “Freezing,” she muttered, stamping snow from her loafers and batting snowflakes from her arms.

  Realizing he was about to start brushing at the flakes himself, he immediately shoved both hands into his pockets, and turned a suspicious glance toward his other unexpected intruder.

  Mr. Lindstrom’s bifocals had fogged up the instant he’d stepped inside. Taking them off, he started wiping them on a handkerchief he’d pulled from a pocket somewhere and headed for the small space heater at the back of the shop like a homing pigeon heading for his roost.

  “Watch where you step,” Damon called, wondering how well the guy could see without his glasses. “There are parts everywhere.”

  “I know that,” Mr. Lindstrom called back. “I’m not blind.”

  At the matter-of-fact reply, Damon’s frown returned to the amazingly innocent-looking woman at his side.

  “I didn’t bring him this time,” she whispered, clearly reading his thoughts. “I thought Mr. Lindstrom was headed for the docks. If I’d known he was coming here, I’d have stayed upstairs.”

  “I’m not deaf, either.”

  Whatever else she’d been about to say was immediately silenced by that bit of casually delivered advice. Damon figured he knew what he’d have heard from her, anyway. Something along the lines of how he would have done the same thing himself, and a challenge to deny it.

  He didn’t care to acknowledge whether or not she’d have been right.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to the old guy, looking chagrined, curious and cold. Still brushing at flakes, she headed toward him. “That was rude of me. Would you like some coffee to warm you up, Mr. Lindstrom?”

  “Yah, sure.” He’d slipped his bifocals back on and now stood by the heater warming his hands. “Coffee would be good. I was anxious to get here, so I didn’t take time for breakfast.”

  “Then, I’ll get you some. Would you prefer hot oatmeal or eggs and pancakes?

  “Whatever’s the least bother.”

  “Give me five minutes.” She glanced toward Damon, the delicate arch of one eyebrow rising. “Would you mind coming up to get it? Brenda couldn’t come in this morning and things are pretty busy right now.”

  It occurred to Hannah as she watched Damon’s eyes narrow on her that he must have showered and shaved last night before he went to bed. His jaw was definitely smoother than it had been when she’d seen him last, but the faintest hint of stubble was already starting to shadow his face.

  The thought of him standing in front of a steamy mirror, lathered and wearing nothing but a towel, did a fair job of chasing off her chill.

  “Why didn’t your waitress come in?”

  “She has a cold. Honest,” she said, when his expression turned skeptical. “I told her to stay home.”

  He was clearly remembering the last time she’d found herself short-staffed, but she didn’t know if he believed her about Brenda or not. As disgruntled as he looked, it was hard to tell what he was thinking. Especially with Mr. Lindstrom peeling off his coat and preparing to make himself at home.

  Still rubbing her arms, she edged toward the door. “Do you want breakfast?”

  “No, thanks,” he muttered, frowning at the old man’s back. “But I’ll come get his.”

  Five minutes later, Damon stood brooding in the kitchen doorway. He didn’t go in. He just pushed the door open and, seeing Hannah through the service window, stepped back to wait until she returned from serving the men at the
counter. It was better for both of them if he didn’t remind anyone that he was there. Out of sight, out of mind. He hoped.

  She was smiling when she came through the swinging doors, but that soft expression faded from her delicate features the instant she realized he was there.

  He didn’t like the wariness he caused her to feel. He was coming to hate it, in fact. But it served a purpose, created the distance he needed. He had other things on his mind, anyway, as he watched her snag the top bowl from a stack and deftly ladle cereal into it from a steaming pot on the stove. Within seconds, she’d cut a graceful arc to the work island and set the bowl on a tray that held sweet rolls and cream, and a lidded foam cup.

  “It really wasn’t your idea for him to show up this morning?” he asked, sounding more confused than accusing.

  Hannah gave her head a shake. “What about you?” she asked, carrying what she’d prepared to where he waited. “Didn’t you have any idea he was coming?”

  The scents of warm cinnamon, brown sugar and rich coffee rose from the tray to tease his nostrils. But it was Hannah herself who made his stomach tighten. She’d smoothed her breeze-blown hair back into its restraining clip, and the heat of the kitchen and having to hustle had turned her cheeks pink from warmth rather than from cold. The fine grain of her skin fairly begged to be touched.

  “None.”

  “I didn’t think so. That’s what I told Bill, anyway.”

  “Bill?”

  “The man who owns the appliance store across the street. He’s out there having pancakes. He has the same thing every morning after he turns the heat up at the store and before he opens for the day.”

  Damon couldn’t have cared less about the man’s routine. All he cared about was that Hannah didn’t seem to get the importance of keeping quiet about his being there. He was doing everything short of coming and going from the shop at midnight to be discreet, and she still acted as if his presence was nothing to concern herself about.

  “Why did you tell him that? Why say anything at all?”