by Jill Shalvis
He looked at it and nodded. “I like this one best, too.” Then he glanced at her lips as if picturing it on her.
The oddest and most annoying thing happened. Her tummy fluttered, and she snatched the palette back, too.
“Not very friendly,” he said.
“Like I said, I’m busy.” The place was a bit of a mess, as she’d been in true creative form when he’d interrupted. As well as the face mask and cucumber-melon body lotion, she’d also been working on a new hair product, one that could be painted in by the consumer, and for fun, she’d been playing around with a shade of shimmery green. She supposed she should consider herself lucky she hadn’t been trying that on as well when he’d shown up.
“It smells good in here.” He wiggled his nose, coming a little closer to sniff at her.
She might have said the same about him. Truth was, he smelled delicious, too—all clean, big male. Citrus and wood, if she wasn’t mistaken.
Which didn’t negate the fact he’d seen her with a mud mask plastered to her face, and was now staring at that same face sans makeup.
Her own fault, for always forgetting everything but her work. It’d always been that way. She’d been lucky enough to get into Harvard graduate school, into a business program where she’d become friends with five other extremely ambitious people. Of the group, two in particular had become close friends—Quinn Huntington and Chance Maguire. The three of them had varied in ages and passions, but they’d become one another’s support group and had made a pact—run a Fortune 500 company before the age of forty. Bonus points for starting the company yourself.
Annie never intended to do anything but win that pact. In light of that, she’d taken on a partner after graduation, Jenny Boler, both because of Jenny’s business sense and the fact Jenny had had two thousand dollars in her pocket ready to invest.
The money had come in handy, as had Jenny’s business sense and self-proclaimed “analness.”
It turned out the two of them were more well matched than either of them could have ever imagined. Annie’s Garden, based in their native New York City, had succeeded beyond their wildest dreams, and in truth, she felt she just might have that Fortune 500 pact in the bag in the next few years….
That she and Quinn had their own side deal going had just begun to worry her recently. After bemoaning their respective dismal love lives one night before finals, they had made a pact—if they were both single when he turned thirty-five, they’d hook up, get married and do the whole white picket fence, white minivan and 2.4 kids thing. A fantasy life in Annie’s humble opinion, and one she’d never experienced growing up.
Though she had several years left, Quinn was only a few months from turning thirty-five….
It should have been thrilling. After all, she cared about him greatly…but love him? No. What she loved was her privacy. What she loved was New England, and the North Berkshires. Specifically, Cooper’s Corner. What she loved was her freedom, and doing as she pleased with no one but herself to account to. Her life was creating new products, even more so since she’d left New York and all the day-to-day stress of running the business.
That was Jenny’s worry now. And as a natural-born worrier—hence the Eeyore nickname—she was great at it. With a sigh, Annie tossed the rest of the bowl of cinnamon mud pack down the drain. She’d have to start over, of course, but thought that the modifications she’d come up with while washing her face would work. She looked forward to the challenge. “So…” How to get rid of him? “You run a farm.”
He gave a mocking shudder. “Run a farm? God, no. That’s my brother’s arena. I’m just here to…” Now his eyes shuttered and his smile vanished. “Hang out. For a month, that’s all. Even less if—” He lifted a negligent shoulder. “Hopefully less.”
So he wanted to know about her but didn’t want to share himself in return. Wasn’t that just a typical alpha male?
And he was alpha—with sharp, intelligent eyes, a voice that spoke of authority and confidence, and that damn long, strong, tough body.
Was it any wonder she preferred a beta guy? Someone light and fun and relaxed and…well, dispensable.
Mr. Intensity, standing before her, sexy as a pagan god, was absolutely not light, not fun and not relaxed.
And not beta. “Okay, well…thanks for the phone…”
“Yeah, yeah. If you’re sure nothing’s wrong…” His gaze lingered on her for a long beat, during which time she could have sworn he was looking right through her, past the lack of makeup and the wild hair, past the tough, cool, calm facade she was so fond of, past all of that to the real Annie beneath.
But that was ridiculous, no one saw the real Annie.
No one. “I’m sure nothing’s wrong.”
“Then I guess I’ll be going.”
Hallelujah. She didn’t know what it was exactly about him that made her feel just a little unsure of herself.
Maybe it was that he stood a good head taller than her, and was all hard muscle, broad shoulders and supreme masculinity, and inexplicably, it made her…yearn.
She followed him to the door. A few feet from it, his cane caught on the runner she used to keep the mud off her floors. In an automatic gesture, she reached out for him, sliding her fingers around his upper arm.
Beneath his jacket, his muscles were bunched and tense as he pulled free. “I’m fine.”
Oh, yes, he was fine. And full of pride, and probably pain as well. “What happened to your leg?”
Even with his cane, he managed to move with the easy grace of a man comfortable in his skin. He exuded confidence and authority, and could obviously take care of himself. “It’s nothing,” he said, confirming her thoughts.
Right. Nothing. Good Lord, men.
She opened the front door. Ignoring the nearly overpowering urge to help him down the stairs, she clasped her hands together and followed.
Twice she nearly reached out to assist, because heaven forbid the big, rough-and-tumble man ask for help, but he remained stubbornly mute, and she remained still.
She followed him down the path, past the big house to the front of her yard.
No vehicle sat in her driveway. “You…walked?” Her driveway was nearly a quarter of a mile. His brother’s was likely at least the same.
“I walked,” he agreed tightly, not looking at her, his shoulders tense, his jacket flat against his broad back. “It’s not that far.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake. No, it wasn’t far for an able body. Or a horse. Or a car. “Let me drive you back—”
“No.”
His shoulders were stiff with that ridiculous pride he wore like a coat. Fine. She didn’t have time for this, anyway.
She had her own list of stresses.
She needed to fix the mud mask—she wanted it in her fall line. She needed to meet with Jenny, who was making more noises than usual about saving money for a rainy day. On top of this, there was Stella Oberman, Annie’s Garden’s greatest competitor since Stella’s daddy had died and given her his world-famous cosmetics company, Sunshine Enterprises.
Stella had recently launched a smear campaign on Annie’s Garden, starting with the newspaper on Annie’s desk right this moment. The article claimed that at least Sunshine Enterprises was up-front about using less-than-natural products.
Insinuating Annie’s Garden was not.
And then there was the biggest problem of all her problems—
“Annie, sweetie? I brought you some tea.”
At the soft, shaky voice behind them Ian stopped and turned.
With a sigh, so did Annie.
Her Aunt Gerdie stood on the top step of the main house holding a tray. It shook so badly that the porcelain tea set clinked together, and climbing the stairs, Annie gently took it from her hands.
In return, her aunt sent her a sweet smile, her pale blue rheumy eyes happy as always.
Aunt Gerdie was always happy, even though she was eighty-two, suffering from a wide variety of ailments including
senility, and didn’t have a penny to her name.
Aunt Gerdie came down the stairs, clearly to catch a good glimpse of Ian. Without her glasses, she had to move so close she was nearly embracing him. Hunched over slightly with arthritis, she barely came to his elbow, but that didn’t stop the small, sunny woman from smiling up into the dark, dangerous-looking man’s face.
Annie sighed. “Aunt Gerdie, this is Ian McCall. He’s staying with his brother at the farm across the road.” Still holding the tray, she shot him a look, silently inviting him to jump in here with more personal information, which he didn’t.
“Hello.” He shifted his cane and offered her a hand, which Aunt Gerdie took.
“Are you here to see my Annie?” she asked. “I hope so, because she hasn’t had a date since nineteen ninety—”
“Aunt Gerdie!” Mortified, Annie set the tea on the top step and stepped between the two, her back to Ian as she reached for her great-aunt’s arm. “Thanks for the tea, I’m sure it’s lovely—”
“It’s lemon.”
“Great. Perfect. But I’ll just take you inside—”
“Is that mud on your face?” Aunt Gerdie peered up into her face, blinking those rheumy blues. “There’s a streak of it down your cheek.”
“It’s a long story.”
“And you smell like a cinnamon bun.”
Above Aunt Gerdie’s head, Ian grinned. Grinned.
Annoying as it was, her knees weakened as she looked at the big, edgy, irritating man.
Before she could process that, he turned away again, and started his slow, limping gait down the driveway.
“Ian.”
He didn’t stop.
With a quick look at Aunt Gerdie, Annie moved after him. “Let me drive you,” she said quietly, touching his arm. “Please?”
“No. And don’t clear your Received log on the cell.”
“I’m sure the call was just a mistake.” He kept walking. “Don’t clear the log.”
She stopped, watched him go. “Are you always so cautious?” she called after him.
“Always.”
She stood there as he moved slowly away, his broad shoulders strained, his long, leanly muscular body tense. “Thanks again for returning my phone!”
He lifted his free hand and kept going.
“My, my,” Aunt Gerdie whispered. “He’s a hunk, isn’t he?”
Yes.
“Are you going to date him?”
No.
“Honey, I don’t mean to criticize, but you simply have to remember to put on makeup before you entertain, you’re too pale without it. You’re going to scare him right off.”
Annie choked out a laugh.
“It’s true. In fact, I think you might have already done so.”
Which was a good thing, she told herself.
A very good thing.
CHAPTER FOUR
IT TOOK IAN A WHILE TO GET back to the farmhouse. He spent most of the walk thinking about Sleeping Beauty, which is how he thought of Annie, for it was who she’d looked like after removing the mud mask—all dark, long hair in ringlets, creamy flawless skin, and those mesmerizing light, light blue eyes.
A few feet from Thomas’s front steps, both dizzy and exhausted, and shaking like a damn baby, he heard a scramble on the gravel-covered drive.
He looked up just in time to see one potbellied pig coming at him as fast as four stubby legs would carry her.
Ian stood his ground only because he had no choice. He couldn’t run. Hell, after a walk like the one he’d just had, he could hardly hold himself upright. “Back off, pig.”
Skidding to a halt, she snorted, then pawed at the ground as if in a challenge.
He lifted his cane. “It’s this or my gun. Have I mentioned I’m fond of bacon?”
Augustine went still, only her snout twitching.
“Extra crispy,” he added.
She snarled, then turned and waddled off, her belly practically dragging on the ground.
“Yeah, not so tough after all, huh?” Ian took the three steps to the porch, nearly whimpering.
The front door whipped open. Thomas stood there, a deep frown marring his usually smiling face. “I thought you were upstairs—” He broke off as he got a good, close look at his sweaty, shaking brother. With one concise word that would have curled their mother’s hair, he reached for Ian.
“I’m fine.” He wanted to push Thomas away but ended up grasping onto him instead.
“Yeah, fine. Fine for halfway dead. Inside with you.”
“No. I want the cold air.”
“Fine.” Thomas pushed him down to the wooden bench on the porch, then stood over him with his hands on his hips, looking and sounding obnoxiously like their mother. “What the hell were you doing, running a marathon?”
Leaning back, Ian closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing, on the icy feel of the back of the bench through his jacket, anything instead of the pain singing up his thigh and radiating out to every other part of his body. “I was relaxing.”
That was so blatantly not true, Thomas burst out laughing.
At the sound of his brother’s genuine amusement, even Ian had to crack a smile, but he didn’t open his eyes. He was fairly certain the dizziness hadn’t passed yet.
Thomas sat beside him. “Work called.”
“Mine?”
“Yeah.”
Ian didn’t move. Moving would have required muscle control and strength. At the moment, he had neither.
“You don’t care? I’d have thought you’d be bugging me to drive you back.”
“Do they want me back?”
“It was some assistant. He wanted to know if you were recouping here—they were looking for an address to send you flowers.”
“Flowers? They’re going to send me a bunch of flowers? Christ.”
“You’re going crazy already, aren’t you?”
Ian sighed, and still didn’t open his eyes. God, he hated that resignation he heard, hated that not even for Thomas could he be happy just sitting here. “I swear I tried to relax.”
“What, for an entire hour?”
“Yeah. See, the thing is, it’s…” Ian summoned the energy to lift an arm. “It’s…big out here.”
“Big.”
“Big.”
“So you, what? Miss the crowds? The noise? The traffic? The shoving and yelling?” Thomas raised a finger. “Wait, I know. You miss the death and mayhem, right?”
“Well, you know how I love death and mayhem.”
“Ah, hell,” Thomas said. In a gesture both brothers used when frustrated, he shoved his fingers through his hair. “You went looking for trouble. What did you find, an errant duck? A nasty frog? Maybe a suspicious-looking neighbor you needed to investigate?”
That was so close to what had really happened, Ian’s smile faded.
Thomas shook his head. “You did not. The only neighbor within five miles of here is a woman right next door. She’s new and quiet and wouldn’t disturb a mouse.”
“I don’t think she’s disturbing anyone. It’s who’s disturbing her I’m worried about.”
Thomas rolled his eyes. “Tell me you haven’t manufactured something to work on.”
“I didn’t manufacture it, it just came to me. Look, I was just out for a little walk—”
“A little walk? Each driveway is a quarter of a mile, Ian, and you just had a bullet taken out of your leg.”
“Listen to me. Her mailbox was ringing.”
Thomas stared at him. “You got hit on the head when you got shot, right? And you didn’t want to tell me?”
“I opened the mailbox and there was a cell phone. Ringing. I answered it.”
“Naturally. Because God for-frigging-bid you actually keep your nose to yourself. You know, you have a real workaholic thing going, and we—your family, you remember us, right?—understand you love your job, that without work you go stir-crazy.”
“Whoever was on the other line, left a threat.
”
“This is ridiculous, though, even for you—” Thomas blinked. “A threat?”
“A threat.” Absently, Ian rubbed at his aching leg. “So I returned the phone to Annie and told her about it.”
“Annie.”
“That’s your neighbor’s name. She’s about five foot three, has dark, long curly hair that she wears piled on top of her head, and she’s fond of mud.”
Thomas’s eyebrows shot up so high they vanished into his hair. “Mud.”
“She’s a makeup guru or something, and she fiddles with new recipes in a lab she’s made out of her guest house. She was working on some sort of mask this afternoon, but it cracks when she smiles so she had to dump it.”
“You got all that while handing her back her phone?” Thomas shook his head ruefully. “All I’ve ever gotten is a polite wave. From a distance. And you got to see her in mud. Man.”
“Only her face. And it’s not a bad face, I’ll give you that. Once she cleaned it off.”
“She’s not your type.”
“You don’t know her type.”
“No, but I know yours. Blond, stacked and stupid.”
“Hey, I like smart women, too.”
“Face it, Ian, you have a fondness for the wham, bam, thank-you ma’am kind of woman, because then you can fit them into your work schedule. Keeps all the compartments of your life nice and neat. But Annie isn’t like that.”
“Hey, I didn’t say I was attracted, I said I was worried she was in trouble.” And okay, the Sleeping Beauty thing she had going was hot, but Thomas had a point, she was not his type. Still, the threat he’d heard had been real, and possibly directed right at her, and she hadn’t taken it seriously enough to suit him.
“This isn’t New York, Ian.”
As if he didn’t know that. He might no longer be in the big city, but damn it, he knew danger when it stared him in the face.
So why hadn’t Annie seen it?
Probably because she was lost in her world. A classic workaholic. He recognized the signs. He lived the signs.