Abruptly, she rolled up her sleeves, looped her hair in a rubber band and dug in. Gram always found the energy to banish dust and dirt. She also used to say that determination was worth more than muscle. The past few weeks had been frightening for Bree, discovering how deeply and how long she’d let things just…happen to her. Gram’s death had seemed a last unbearable crisis in a life where she’d taken too many wrong turns. She had to make it right again.
And the very simplest project, like cleaning, made her feel better from the start.
Gram’s back-to-nature philosophy had not extended to sheer foolishness. The main part of the cabin was authentic 1830s, but the lean-to contained civilized goodies-an old washing machine, refrigerator, hot-water heater and more to the present purpose, Gram’s cleaning supplies. For starters, Bree plugged in the electrical appliances and took a match to the gas-run water heater. By some miracle, they all worked.
Once the hot water was pumping into the converted dry sink, she stood on the top of the kitchen table and scrubbed away cobwebs and dust. Using old newspapers, she attacked the windows. She was humming by the time she removed the dustcover from the bed and tossed it in the washer. A blue-and-white tablecloth made for a lively spot of color, as did the bright red rhododendron Bree uprooted from the woods and used as a potted centerpiece.
The cabin took on sparkle in direct proportion to Bree’s taking on grime. She stopped once, to fill a glass with fresh, cold well water, downing it all in long gulps, and then glanced down at herself with a wry grimace. The cream silk blouse had a rip and several snags, and a stripe of dirt looked painted on one sleeve. The linen skirt might make a good rag; she’d already tossed her stockings in the trash; and she must be getting slap-happy tired, because her own dirt struck her as incredibly funny. Even her pink nail polish looked murky gray.
There was a chemical john in the lean-to, but no shower or bathtub. The only way to turn gray skin back to white was to swim in the pond in the ravine. Gram had stubbornly held that cold water never hurt anyone, and then, there was nothing softer than hair washed in lake water. As a kid, Bree had found bathing in the pond high adventure, but as the cabin shaped up and she battled with exhaustion, she didn’t dare strip down and risk having Hart catch her taking a bath.
Of course, maybe he wouldn’t come back. Bree clung to that hope as the minutes passed, making bargains with herself. If you clean that corner just so, he’ll never show up again. If there isn’t a single speck of dust on the floor, maybe he’ll disappear off the face of the earth.
It couldn’t have taken four hours to buy groceries, and he really couldn’t possibly know what she wanted anyway. For that matter, if she took a towel and soap down to the pond, the chances of his finding her were nil. No one could see the pond from the road or the back of the house; you had to weave through woods and brush to get there. She would be perfectly safe, getting off her skin the layer of itchy grime that was starting to drive her bananas.
But she was sitting at the kitchen table when Hart walked in. A sponge bath at the sink had moved a little of the dirt around; her chin was cupped in a weary palm, and her eyes were staring resentfully at the door. Toothaches always came back.
“We haven’t gotten over our temper, I see. Never mind, a little food will revive you.” He plopped a bag of groceries down on the table in front of her, then disappeared outside for more. Bree’s fingers drummed out the death march on the blue-and-white tablecloth as he carted in three more bags, but she didn’t so much as glance at any of his purchases.
Hart shook his head sadly. “I leave an incredibly attractive woman and come back to a waif. Why do you wear your hair like that, anyway? It makes you look like a skinned rat.”
The insult rolled off her back. What was one more?
“I didn’t mean to be so long, but I got hung up in the real-estate office. Getting out of my lease may be a little tricky, but I think I can manage it. Fishing’s darn good around here, the man told me. Finaker. Know him? Fat old coot. Beer belly the size of a watermelon, wolf teeth, itty-bitty eyes?”
Bree stared at him, determinedly keeping her expression neutral, and told herself that the corners of her mouth were not twitching. Even though Finaker did have itty-bitty eyes.
“You’d better like peanut butter…” Hart reached in the first bag to grab a massive jar of the stuff. “Figured you’d feel too lazy to cook, first day out. Just stay right where you are. I’ll make the sandwiches and unpack the rest of the groceries.”
Bree didn’t flicker an eyelash.
A dozen steaks piled up on the table beside her. Steaks she couldn’t possibly afford. A bag of oranges, another of apples, four containers of strawberries, four bags of oatmeal cookies, enough boxes of cornflakes for forty-seven people…
The corners of her mouth were trying to turn up again. He was just so…awful.
Get a hold of yourself, Bree, she told herself sternly. He’ll go away only if you ignore him.
But he was such a difficult man to ignore…He had this cajoling baritone and a wounded look as though she was hurting his feelings by not approving of his purchases, and she wasn’t absolutely sure whether she wanted to kill him or laugh.
“I didn’t want to trek any farther than Mapleville, so I was stuck with the local store in picking out some clothes for you. Underpants…” Gravely, Hart tossed three polka-dotted whimsies in her direction; they would have landed on her nose if she hadn’t snatched at them. “Now, jeans-I figured you for about thirty-six around the hips. The lady said that was a size eight. These look a little long, but you can roll them up. Shoes-you have kind of big feet, don’t you?” Hart glanced under the table at the two grimy feet clenched one on top of the other. “Good Lord, you certainly do. And I told the lady what a special pair of…lungs you had, and she came up with these…”
He draped three camisole-style T-shirts over the peanut-butter jar. One blue, one orange, one red. A navy sweatshirt followed.
“Now, you’ll like this,” Hart said confidentially. “I figured you’d need something to sleep in.” With a wide grin, he unfolded a massive man’s T-shirt. There was a huge fish printed on the chest; below were the printed words, If You’re Lucky Enough to Hook a Silent Woman, Reel Her In Nice and Slow.
Bree’s head drooped over her folded hands. One violent shiver chased up her spine, and then her body convulsed with spasms of most unwilling, albeit silent, laughter. He was driving her absolutely nuts. She detested every single thing about him-he was pushy and cruel and insensitive and opinionated and too damned handsome for his own good.
Yet silent laughter continued to quiver helplessly through her like an ache-she’d forgotten how much it ached to really laugh. It must be that she was so darned overtired; there could be no other excuse.
A strong hand groped for her chin, forcing her face up for Hart’s inspection. For an instant, she thought she saw concern written in his dark blue eyes, but laughter-tears were blurring her vision.
By the time Hart had softly brushed them from her cheeks, he wore a gloating expression, as if he’d won the lottery. “I knew you had a sense of humor hidden somewhere in those big green eyes.”
Like the nosy man he was, he discovered the lean-to and filled the refrigerator while she was trying to figure out what to do with him. Actually, she had little choice. He was jamming the food helter-skelter on the open shelves, and she was forced to trail frantically after him to prevent cans from toppling to the floor. On second thought, she grabbed her pad and paper, jotting down, Are you crazy? I don’t want any of this food. But he wouldn’t look at the note, just grinned when they bumped hip to hip, and puttered around the pie safe until he discovered Gram’s silverware.
He lavished peanut butter on thick slices of bread, then set a plate in front of her. He dragged a chair to the table for himself, peered in one last bag and removed a bottle.
“Hooch,” he announced. “Goes well with peanut butter. There’s nothing like the local brew to clear out th
e cobwebs-and half of your brain cells. You’re probably some prissy wine drinker-” He paused, giving her adequate time to defend herself, and then shrugged as he picked up her sandwich. “I figured. You’re the type. Open up.”
She would have gotten peanut butter all over her closed lips if she didn’t. Her lips parted; Hart jammed in a man-sized bite of sandwich, looking very pleased with himself. She chewed rather inelegantly, having no choice, and the peanut butter sank to the base of her throat and sat there, dry and thick.
He pushed the glass of hooch in her direction. Only because she was afraid of choking on the peanut butter did she lift the glass to her lips. Swift as a cat, Hart reached over to tilt the glass a little farther, and she received a gigantic gulp of firewater that burned all the way down her throat. She glared.
Hart grinned. “Makes you sleep like a baby. Come on, now. You look middle-aged and unspeakably sanctimonious with your mouth all puckered like that. Don’t give me any moral claptrap about drinking in the middle of the day-who cares? Besides, it’s late afternoon, and we both know you’re going to bed after this anyway.”
She jammed the glass back down on the table, eyeing him warily. Coming from Hart, references to bed made her nervous.
With a frown, he let that busy hand of his snake across the table again. A very gentle forefinger flicked at a crumb on her cheek. “You know,” he said mildly, “you’re an incredibly beautiful woman, even with black streaks all over your nose. I was thinking about you all the way into town. What a pleasure it would be to have a quiet woman around for a change, one who couldn’t make demands, who couldn’t whine about commitment, who wouldn’t prattle on and on when a man was trying to think.”
She choked, and had to grab the hooch again.
“I’m not sure I can get out of my lease, as I told you. Been renting the same cabin for a number of years, but that glass trilevel place on top of your ravine is really something else. A perfect bachelor pad, with sauna, built-in stereo, the works. As the crow flies, we’d be within sight of each other, though would you believe that by the road it’s a half-hour drive around the mountain? Odd, that. Anyway, if you have any objections to having me for a neighbor, feel free to say so.” He paused, responding to the horror in her eyes with a slowly expanding smile. “I didn’t think you’d object. Here, finish this. Can you eat another sandwich?”
With the last bit of sandwich jammed in her mouth, she couldn’t have talked if…she could have talked.
She added to the list of things she detested about Hart Manning that he had no problem talking. Ceaseless, that mouth of his. Once he’d finished two more sandwiches, she thought he would leave.
Instead, he started cleaning up the remains of their makeshift lunch, then poked around the dry sink until he’d figured out how it had been converted, rambling on about the import-export business he’d inherited from his family, a firm that apparently ran itself and left him free to travel around the world. Bree didn’t have to do much reading between the lines. He clearly didn’t care that he was presenting himself as a vagabond who lived off his family in high style, or that he had a cut-and-run philosophy where women were concerned.
Trailing helplessly after him, she stopped listening, increasingly aware that she didn’t have the brawn to throw him out. As nosy as he was, he had to check every pilot light in the lean-to, examine the propane containers, fuss around the electrical box, and all the while prattle on in that sexy baritone about getting kicked out of Dartmouth way back when.
With yawns and hostile body language, she did her best to communicate boredom. Staring pointedly at the door only sent him in that direction to check the lock, frown, forage through Gram’s cabinet for oil, and fix the damn thing. “I hope you had the well checked before you came here. You should have it inspected at least once a year for ground contaminants…” He glanced back to find Bree slumped in a chair in defeat, both hands cradling a chin that was wobbling with weariness.
She gave up. She didn’t care. He could stay and talk until doomsday, and she was going to be the first recorded person in Ripley’s to fall asleep in a straight kitchen chair.
With a strange little smile, Hart crossed to the open cupboard, set a water glass in front of her and filled it halfway with hooch. “After you finish that, have to be on my way,” he said regretfully. “I’ve got a dozen arrangements to make today. I can wait until you’ve finished every drop, though, not to worry.”
He splashed a little in a glass for himself and raised it as if to toast her. The man was mad. Bree stared first at him and then at the unwanted liquor, then lifted the glass and downed it all in one choking gulp. A violent shiver of revulsion raced up and down her spine, but he’d be surprised at what she’d do to get rid of him.
Hart chuckled. Before she could give the least thought to what he was doing, his hands reached for hers, pulling her to her feet. Her legs felt like Lego blocks; her spine was trying to form an S. In some other world, she was feeling several very silly reactions to the feel of his strong brown hands on hers. It was worse when his right hand came up to push aside the strand of hair on her cheek.
“Now, I guarantee you’ll sleep without trouble this time,” he whispered. “How often do you have that nightmare, anyway?”
Her green eyes flickered up in groggy confusion; she was unsure if she had heard him correctly. At the foot of the loft steps, he draped both arms over her shoulders and leaned his forehead against hers. There was a stubble of beard on his cheeks, she noticed vaguely.
And his teeth were beautiful, straight and white. Just a hint of curling blond hair showed beneath the open throat of his shirt. His lips were even, top and bottom, oddly soft, sensually parted-and she couldn’t imagine why she was standing there staring at him.
But he seemed to be standing there staring at her. The ready smile was gone; she could feel his gaze skim possessively over the dirt streak on her cheek, the sleepiness in her eyes, the shape of her mouth. Her flesh seemed suddenly too hot, and too cold. And in that sudden silence, her heart was suddenly beating, beating, beating…
“I don’t know what on earth you’re running from, honey,” he murmured, “but life’s too darn short. You either reach out and take what you want or it’s gone. You’ve got to be that much stronger than the opposition every time or they’ll take advantage. Hear me?”
Vaguely. She was much more aware that he had tilted his head just slightly, that as he’d finished talking his mouth had stolen closer, that when he’d said his last word his lips were hovering over hers…and then taking possession.
Her breath caught in her throat at the shock of warm, smooth lips reshaping hers, molding them to fit his larger mouth. Her head tilted back, and her lashes fluttered. Something was terribly wrong. She felt engulfed, tossed in some sea; she couldn’t breathe, the smell of clean, strong man and musk and brew smothered her.
It wasn’t that she was affected by the kiss, because she couldn’t possibly have been affected by a simple kiss, not from him. She was tired, that was all, tired and groggy and miserable, and the tiniest murmur escaped her throat when his arms slid under hers, when one of his hands suddenly pressed roughly against her spine, the other hurting her as he tugged off the rubber band in her hair.
“Sorry, honey, but that’s so much better,” he murmured with satisfaction. The auburn strands tumbled down to curl like silk around his fingers. His lips plunged down again. An arrogant tongue stole the moisture from her mouth, slowly probing into moist darkness he had no business probing. He was just…everywhere. She couldn’t think. His fingers were sifting in her hair; his chest was crushing her breasts; his leg shifted forward and his arousal pressed against the lower part of her stomach-dammit, did he have to announce it?
And she seemed to have hot butter in her veins. Bree, are you even slightly aware that you’re glued to a stranger? whispered a polite voice in her head.
In a minute, Bree told the small voice.
Hart’s lips slowly shifted from hers
, pausing to press a lingering kiss on her cheek, then on her forehead. “Off to bed,” he whispered.
A few of the vertebrae in her spine managed to stiffen instantly. The word bed did it. Hart had a certain way of saying it, and if he thought for one minute…
He chuckled, gradually releasing her. “You know, Bree,” he murmured, “I’m warning you right now-a lady who can’t say no is irresistible.” He sighed, touched a forefinger to her nose and took four long strides toward the door. “I’ll be back,” he promised.
Chapter Four
Bree’s dirty feet woke her up.
Everything else was perfect. She breathed in the perfume of blossoms and pungent woods and spring leaves. The feather bed was more giving than a sponge; its soft covering of linen nestled to her bare breasts and stomach and thighs. Birdsong disturbed the silence, but nothing else.
Except for the gritty dirt between her toes that tickled and itched and grated.
Bree’s eyes blinked open. Shoving aside the starburst quilt as she turned on her back, she raised one slim leg. Filth. Absolute filth. She’d never in her life gone to bed so dirty.
One groggy eye deciphered nine o’clock on her wind-up travel clock. For a moment, she thought it must be nine at night-until she glanced out the loft’s only window and saw the sunlight. She’d actually slept for seventeen hours? And without a nightmare?
Her empty stomach made an acknowledging noise, and she half smiled, leaping out of bed. Gram’s hand-carved wardrobe nestled in the arch of the beamed ceiling; the cane rocker sat by the bed; and an out-of-tune spinet took up most of the rest of the space. Coming here, waking in the loft, simply felt right, as she’d known it would feel right…at least until she spotted her bedraggled traveling clothes in a heap on the floor. Next to them, where she recalled having tossed them, were brand-new jeans and camisole tops and polka-dotted underpants.
She suddenly recalled, a little too quickly, a little too much of the afternoon before. Her smile was transformed into a faint frown. She glanced first at the window, then to the bottom drawer of the wardrobe. Standing on tiptoe, she groped until she found a dusty key hidden in a crack between the logs above the window.
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