His action nearly took her breath away. Simple though it might have been, it allowed her a spectacular view of the muscles that expanded from the sides of his back like an eagle’s wings opening for flight, cupped by that damp shirt, the sides of which spread to expose his entire taut belly.
Paige yanked her gaze upward, away from his oh so masculine torso, but there wasn’t much relief to be had in settling her eyes on his powerful neck or his razor-sharp jawline shadowed by dark whiskers he hadn’t yet shaved for the day.
The vision left her light-headed.
Although she tried to convince herself it wasn’t the sight of John that made her feel like this. It was just excitement, fear, concern, coupled with jumping out of bed in an adrenaline rush and charging into the thick of a fire.
Except that she’d been just fine until she’d taken a really good look at her neighbor.
“Let me pull on my boots and I’ll round up the horses, get them back into the paddock,” he said then in a voice that had grown husky for some reason.
And why was he staring at her bare feet? Or apparently having some difficulty in raising his gaze as it did a slow slide up her legs, up the clingy football jersey and finally to her face?
He cleared his throat and added, “Go on in and tend that burn.”
“It’s nothing. Really.”
“Burns infect easily. Go on,” he urged. Ordered, actually, in a way that let her know she really did have an effect on him. A powerful one that only getting rid of her would ease.
And yet again Paige felt very much like a woman. A feeling too delicious to even make her care that her hand hurt. Instead, she had a vivid flash of that kiss they’d shared the previous night on her porch.
Only this time when her nipples hardened, she knew they weren’t hidden by the dark of night. Or even by a bra or a shirt that wasn’t plastered to her. And in spite of the sensual awakening inside her, she was still embarrassed when John’s glance fell for just an instant before he again raked his hands through his hair, this time doing it with a deep breath he sucked in and held.
“Go on,” he repeated, poking his strong chin in the direction of the house.
Paige crossed her arms over her chest self-consciously. “I’ll be quick about it and come right back out to help with the horses, then. You can start to put them in the side paddock.”
“I’ll see to the horses and Frieda. You stay inside, tend your hand and call the sheriff about this fire,” John countered, his tone brooking no argument.
And she didn’t give him one. She only nodded her agreement because she sensed that what they both needed in order to regain some control was distance from each other and that that was what John was trying to accomplish.
But she did pause to say, “Thanks for spotting the fire and acting so quickly. Not to mention all your help.”
“It was nothin’,” he answered. “Now go take care of yourself,” he ordered as he set off for his own house and those boots he’d mentioned, leaving Paige to wonder how she was going to pay more attention to her burned hand than to watching John Jarvis even from inside her house.
JOHN WAS SITTING at his kitchen table at one o’clock that afternoon with two sandwiches, some potato chips and an icy cold bottle of beer in front of him.
But he hadn’t so much as tasted the food, and after a single draw on the beer, he’d forgotten that was there, too. His thoughts just weren’t on lunch.
He propped his elbow on the tabletop, lowered his forearms to it and turned his hands palms up to study them.
Big hands. Long fingers with knuckles that stuck out here and there. Calluses. Lines. They looked like any hands.
But they weren’t just any hands. Just any hands could reach out and touch a woman when he kissed her. They could feel the smooth softness of her skin when he was craving it. They could do something as simple as hold her hand. They could do all the things he was wanting to do with them without giving away secrets. Without the possibility of doing her harm when all he wanted to do was help.
But his weren’t just any hands, and hating that fact right then, he clenched them into fists.
And Paige wasn’t just any woman or he wouldn’t be sitting there lamenting the fact that he was afraid to touch her. She was a whole bundle of temptations all wrapped up in a package so beautiful, so alluring, so sweet and sexy all at once, that he damn near couldn’t resist her.
Who was he kidding? He’d kissed her, hadn’t he? He couldn’t resist her.
Sure, so far he’d kept from touching her. But how long could he last when it took every ounce of self-control he possessed to restrain himself? When he’d already stepped over the line he’d set for himself, closed the distance between them and kissed her?
It was one thing to fight the instinct to reach out to her when he’d realized she was hurt that morning. But something completely different when he was wanting her as a woman. When he was itching to pull her into his arms. To have her pressed up against him and held there with these same two damn hands.
“Maybe she wouldn’t know,” he said out loud.
Things had changed after all, or he wouldn’t be here. And maybe that change was so great that he could touch Paige and she’d never know it wasn’t the touch of an ordinary man. Maybe she wouldn’t feel anything but his calluses.
It hadn’t occurred to him before, but now that seemed possible.
Yet it was equally possible that, if things had gone bad, what she felt might not be good. That it might turn her cold. Repulse her.
That could be a solution to his problem, he thought wryly. Surely then she wouldn’t want anything to do with him and he wouldn’t have any choice but to stay away from her.
So what he had here was a risk either way. Touch her and sour even what they had now.
Touch her, stir up her curiosity, get close to her and be found out.
“Or stay away from her and don’t run any risks at all,” he muttered.
But he knew he couldn’t do that.
Oh, he wanted to tell himself he could. Wanted to renew his vow to keep his distance from her. To swear he wasn’t taking this attraction any further than he already had.
But he knew it wouldn’t matter what he swore or vowed sitting there in his kitchen. Because the minute he so much as caught a glimpse of her across their yards, his resolve disappeared like so much smoke in the wind.
He just couldn’t resist her. He couldn’t fight his own desires for her. They were too strong. Too powerful. No matter what it might mean for him down the road, he knew he was going to succumb, one way or another.
“So hope for the best,” he said aloud finally. “Hope the power is gone. Hope you’re just like any other man.”
“Are you talkin’ to me?”
John jerked his head around and discovered Robbie standing on his back porch on the other side of the screen door.
“Didn’t see you there,” John said. “Come on in.”
Robbie opened the screen and joined him at the table, taking a chair around the corner from John and eyeballing his lunch.
“Hungry? Want a sandwich?” John asked, seeing the youngster’s look.
“I already had a peanut butter one but what kind are yours?”
“Ham. Swiss cheese. Lettuce and tomato.”
“Mustard? I hate mustard.”
“Mayonnaise.”
“Okay. I’ll have one.”
John stood and got another plate, put one of the sandwiches and some chips on it and said, “What do you want to drink?”
“I’ll have what you’re havin’,” the little boy said mischievously, nodding at the beer.
“Milk, orange juice, soda or water?” John asked with a laugh.
“Soda.”
John got him a bottle out of the refrigerator, opened it and set it in front of him. Robbie took a bite of the sandwich and, finally, so did John.
When the boy had finished swallowing, he said, “My mom says we owe you a jet of gravy tubes.”
“A jet of gravy tubes?” John repeated, confused.
“She says it’s like sayin’ thank-you but more. For savin’ our barn and all the animals this mornin’. She told me ‘bout it.”
“Do you mean a debt of gratitude?”
“Yeah. I guess maybe she mighta said it that way. So I brung you somethin’. But you don’t have to have it if you don’t want it.”
“I can’t imagine that there’s anything you’d want to give me that I wouldn’t want to have.”
Robbie took another bite of his second lunch and then pulled something out of his shirt pocket to hand to John. “It’s a pitcher of me and my mom we took on the last day of school.”
“It sure is,” John continued as he studied the photograph of the two of them standing in front of the flagpole outside Pine Ridge’s only schoolhouse—a two-story, old-fashioned redbrick structure.
Paige and Robbie were side by side. Robbie was dressed in slacks and a plaid madras shirt, proudly displaying some kind of certificate. Paige was wearing a striped sundress, her arm around her son, smiling in a way that was both indulgent and as proud of Robbie as he was of himself.
“That’s the ‘ward I got for finishin’ kinnergarten. My mom framed it and hanged it on the wall in the hallway upstairs.”
“Looks like a pretty special picture. Are you sure you want to part with it?”
“It’s okay. It was real good you saved our barn and animals.”
“Your mom did as much as I did.”
“But you saw the fire first and waked her up—she told me. Otherwise she would’ve step’ until it was too late an’ the horses and Frieda might’ve got burned to death, an’ everybody whose horses they are would’ve been mad at us, an’ we wouldn’ta had no more barn, an’ it woulda been real bad.”
John took another look at the picture, his eyes automatically going to Paige, to her hair shining in the sunshine, falling down around her shoulders; to that exquisite, petite body wrapped in a gossamer summer dress; to her legs…
The woman had great legs…
It was a picture he was glad to have and he told Robbie so.
“Does your mom know you’re givin’ it to me?” he asked then.
“She wouldn’t care. She likes you.”
“She does, huh?” John couldn’t suppress a grin at that.
“Yep. I been seein’ her lookin’ over here when she don’t know I’m there an’ she never did that before.”
“Doesn’t—when she doesn’t know you’re there.”
Robbie ignored the correction, looked at John out of the corner of his eye and, with mischief in his tone, said, “She’s watchin’ for you.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Cuz if she doesn’t see you after a little while, she goes and does somethin’ else. But if you’re outside, she stays a long time at the window.”
John smiled. “Your mom would skin you alive if she knew you were tellin’ me that.”
“Why?”
John just laughed. He was much more happy to hear that Paige had an eye for him than he should be, even if she wouldn’t appreciate his knowing.
“She took out some special clothes to wear to Burt’s birthday party tonight that I never even seen before. From the attic.”
More information John knew Paige wouldn’t want being broadcast. “Nice ones?”
“I don’t know. Not work clothes, that’s for sure. An’ she’s doin’ somethin’ with her hair—some treatment or somethin’. She’s puttin’ oil on it. It’s weird.”
“Ladies like to spruce up for parties.”
“She never did this stuff for any other parties.” Robbie pushed his plate away and drank his soda. Then he added, “I think it’s all cuz she likes you.”
“I’m glad.”
“Do you like her?”
John laughed, knowing whatever he said was likely to be repeated by Robbie once he got home. “Yes, I like her, too. She’s real nice.”
“An’ pretty, too.”
“And pretty, too.”
“I was s’posed to tell you we should leave tonight ‘bout seven o’clock. I almost forgot.”
“I’ll drive over and pick you guys up.”
That remark widened the little boy’s eyes. “We get to go in yer truck?”
John already knew that Robbie was much more impressed with his bigger, newer truck than with the one Paige drove. “It’s the only thing I have to drive,” he answered.
“Oh, boy! Wait’ll I tell my mom!”
Robbie pushed away from the table and hurried to the door, apparently with that news in mind. He was half-way out before he stopped and said, “Oh, thanks for the san’wich and pop.”
“Sure. And thank you for the picture.” John was still holding it and raised it slightly.
Robbie didn’t say anything to that. He just ran out, leaving John to look at it again, to stare at the lovely image of Paige bathed in summer sunshine, to think of her just next door, primping for the evening they’d spend together.
And he knew the odds of spending that whole evening with her and keeping himself from touching her were not good.
Not good at all.
Especially not when he wanted to so much that he reached out an index finger and smoothed it across her picture as if even that would help fill the need.
No, he was sunk. He was going to take the risks and just hope for the best.
Because the truth was that he just couldn’t do anything else.
JOHN DROVE TO PAIGE’S house a few minutes before seven that evening. Since she’d used the entire afternoon to soak in a bubble bath, shampoo and condition her hair, give herself a facial and even manicure her nails—fingernails and toenails—there was no surprise in the fact that she’d been ready for half an hour by then.
She’d even gone into the attic, into the boxes of clothes she hadn’t worn since leaving city life for country, and taken out a silk jumpsuit that would set Pine Ridge’s tongues to wagging.
Black silk with a vibrant red-poppy print, the jumpsuit had tiny spaghetti straps to hold up its straightacross top and wide legs. A bright sash wrapped around one hip and knotted at the other to give it its only shape.
She’d always liked the jumpsuit. It was lightweight and draped her curves the way only silk can. But it had never seemed appropriate for a small-town gathering where being dressed up even for a party meant going-tochurch clothes.
The jumpsuit was definitely not going-to-church clothes.
But for this one night, Paige didn’t want to wear her usually conservative things. She felt a little daring and the slightly slinky silk concoction seemed to fill the bill.
She was glad she’d made the choice when she opened the door for John and watched his eyes widen, his brows hike toward his hairline, and that great chin of his drop as he gave her the once-over.
“Wow,” he breathed appreciatively.
“I’ll take that as approval,” she said with a laugh that she hoped hid just how much his reaction pleased her.
“Take it as more than that. You look incredible.”
As always, he was no slouch himself. He had on a pale green shirt that matched the sea-foam color of his eyes and a pair of dark khaki slacks that citified him, too. But Paige only thanked him for the compliment and held the door open for him to come in.
“Robbie is running a few minutes late,” she said just before calling up the stairs to her son, urging him to hurry.
When she turned back to John, he took a slip of paper out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “My phone number,” he explained. “Keep it handy and if you need anything, or anything seems suspicious around here, or even if you’re just going out after dark, I want you to call me.”
She gave him a mock salute and an exaggerated “Yes, sir.” But then she thanked him and set the paper on top of the hall table.
Before the barn fire she might have put up a fuss and stuck it in a drawer with no intention of ever using the
number. Now it made her feel good to know she had it and could use it if she needed to.
“Let me write down my number for you. It’s probably a good idea if you have that, too.”
“Robbie already gave it to me,” John said before she had even located paper or pen.
Her son came scurrying down the stairs then, wearing his Sunday-best navy blue pants and white shirt, his hair slicked back with water. He was greeting John excitedly along the way and craning for a look out the front door at John’s truck.
“Robbie, I told you to comb your hair, not soak it.”
“It was stickin’ up in back,” he explained peevishly, clearly not wanting to be bothered with it. Instead, he announced, “I’m gonna go get in the truck and wait for you guys!” and out he went to do just that.
Paige expected that she and John would follow suit, but John seemed in no hurry to go anywhere. He was still drinking in the sight of her.
“How’s your hand?” he asked with a nod at the bandage she’d wrapped around the burn.
“Blistered. But nothing serious.”
He grinned. “I understand you owe me a jet of gravy tubes for helping out with the fire this morning.”
“A jet of gravy tubes?” she repeated, unsure of the phrase or its meaning.
“That’s what Robbie tells me.”
Paige said it over again, trying to figure out what he was talking about. Then it dawned on her. “A debt of gratitude!” she said with a laugh. “That’s what I told Robbie—that we owed you a debt of gratitude—when we were talking about what had happened.” She laughed again. “A jet of gravy tubes? Where did he come up with that?”
“Did you mean it?”
“That we owe you a debt of gratitude? Of course. You don’t know how much trouble we would have been in if that barn had burned more than it did or any of those horses had been hurt.”
One side of John’s mustache lifted devilishly. “Are we talkin’ enough gravy tubes to sell me half your water rights?”
It was obvious he wasn’t altogether serious and so Paige responded the same way. “You better be careful or I’ll think you put lye in my trough and set fire to the barn just so you could come to my rescue and put me in your debt to get what you want.”
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