“Yes.”
“Good. We’ll go out on the lake this afternoon, since the weather is holding.” He tried his most sincere, his most encouraging smile—the kind he used when talking troubled teenagers into memorizing the Declaration of Independence. “C’mon, let’s get you settled. You’ll be a crack canoeist by sundown.”
The smile worked. She floated across the cabin toward him, the light gleaming off the thin gold chain draped across her neck, sheening the tiny pearls in her ears. One neat, chestnut-colored brow arched above the rim of her sunglasses. She brushed by him. Dylan fixed the smile on his face and pretended not to notice the smell of her perfume as he drifted after her.
She paused to dig into her briefcase for keys. To avoid eyeing the sleek curve of those legs, he eyed her van instead. Dents marred the body, and rust had set in along the edge of the chassis. Judging by the haze of soot covering the white paint, it hadn’t seen a wash in weeks. Somehow, he had expected something different for this lady. Something small and sporty and Italian.
She seized her keys, then dipped down to open the back. The hatch flew up and magazines tumbled from on high, veered off her thighs and splattered to the ground in a flap of glossy pages. She caught the top of an overstuffed duffel bag as it careened out of its niche between the wall of the van and a box, and then she lurched for a toppling pile of books.
He dipped under the shade of the hatch and helped her halt the avalanche of books. He eyed the rest of the van’s contents for instability as they kept the avalanche at bay.
The van lacked a rear bench. The space where it would have been was packed with boxes and bags and suitcases, books and magazines, a scattering of empty chip bags, and a faded cup, still sticky with soda, from a fast-food restaurant.
“It was a bumpy ride to the cabin.” She sidled him a glance as she shoved the duffel bag back into its niche. “Must have dislodged everything.”
“Hmm,” he said, lurching the books up into a manageable pile. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
“Hey, it’s home.”
Apparently so. Well lived in. And by the way she expertly rifled through a large duffel bag, then plucked out a smaller case from beneath, she had lived in it for quite a while.
He thought of his own house in Bridgewater—the living room his first wife had decorated, with the white couches and the champagne-colored carpet, the glass and chrome the cleaning lady kept to shiny perfection twice a month, even in his absence.
He crouched down to pick up the fallen magazines. American Backroads, Mountainafing, Hiking, America West, Canadian Travel, Kayaking. Dozens of them, stuck with yellow sticky notes and scribbled in illegible shorthand. The covers sported pictures of pumped-up men frozen in midair poses.
He rose to his feet with a fistful of them. “Are these for work or pleasure?”
She glanced at the glossy magazines in his hands. “Work. I’ve got a piece in each one of them.”
“You’ve been one busy lady.” He eyed the teetering pile of magazines she’d shoved back atop one of the boxes. “I’d like to read them.”
“Checking out my professional qualifications, MacCabe? A little late for that, don’t you think?”
“It’s never too late, Casey.”
“Go ahead. Read them.”
He intended to. He would read them closely and carefully, and see what the words revealed of the woman he would be spending the next three weeks with in the wilderness.
She loosed a bag from beneath a box. “This is all I need.”
He grabbed the bag and slung it over his shoulder, then wadded the magazines under his elbow. She veered away from the van to close the hatch. He caught sight of a tiny swatch of yellow wadded in her hand—a piece of cloth that looked suspiciously like a bathing suit.
Hell.
He swiveled in the crackle of dried pine needles and headed toward the cabin. He would be damned if he would struggle with misgivings now. She’d agreed to join him. Yeah, it would have been a hell of a lot easier if she were good old belching Danny-boy. It would have been a hell of a lot easier to sleep next to her if she were mousy and round and didn’t smell like sunshine. But he was a grown man who had had two wives in his life, and knew better than to fall for another slick-dressing working girl like Casey Michaels.
“If we’re going to do this, Dylan,” she said, her footsteps quick and sure behind him, “then I’ll sleep on the couch. I’m not going to put you out of your own bedroom.”
“House rules.” He shouldered the door open and strode across the living room, toward the door beside the fireplace. “My mother taught me always to give the guests the best room. Besides,” he said, hazarding a smirk at her, “you’ll have plenty of time to get used to a lack of privacy when we’re on the trail.”
He slung her bag off his shoulder and dumped it on the bed. At the end of the bed, his athletic bag sagged open, revealing a glimpse of rolled-up clothing and his practical white underwear. He clutched the handles of the bag and shoved it closed.
“Indoor plumbing,” he said, gesturing to the door on the other side of the bed. “We have to share it—it’s the only one in the cabin.”
That brow fluttered upward. “How decadent.”
“Enjoy it while you can.”
He watched as she eyed the small room. The walls bore no dead stuffed fish, only a few sconces filled with dried flowers on either side of a dreamy Impressionist print. The bedside table was covered with a lace-edged cloth and the lamp’s ceramic base was painted with rosebuds. All his mother’s touches. This was the only room she had been able to claim.
Casey eyed the bed, then slipped off her sunglasses. “Your bed is made.”
“Yeah?”
“You make your own bed,” she asked, “when you’re not expecting company?”
“I’m paper-trained, too.”
He hiked his hands to his hips. So he made his own bed, what was the big deal? Army Reserve training.
She avoided his eye, though he thought he glimpsed a twitch of a smile on those soft, full lips. She hazarded a glance at his closet. The mirrored panel stood open, revealing a few empty hangers, a starched shirt still in its plastic, and a pair of dress pants he’d brought on the off chance of photo opportunities with the local media.
“I just finished a horror novel,” she mused, tossing her glasses upon the bed, “where the villain liked to line up his ties according to design, and his shoes according to color.”
He hefted up his athletic bag. “It’s late to be checking if I’m a serial killer.”
“Maybe.”
“Have I passed the test?”
“No ties.” She shrugged, waving a hand at his closet “No dress shoes, either.”
“Later I’ll let you go through my underwear drawer.”
He wanted to kick himself the moment the words left his mouth. She froze. Those amber eyes widened. And every line of her sleek, lean body stiffened.
The BACK OFF signs were up again, blinking red, and it was his own damned fault. What, was he on some kind of self-destructive binge, here? He had success caught like a bird in his hand, and he had the strangest urge to open his fingers and let it go.
“Go away, MacCabe.” She swung her briefcase upon the bed and gave him her shoulder. “In the next three weeks I’m going to have nothing but trees to hide behind. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll take advantage of the privacy.”
“I’ll meet you out front.”
Dylan shoved his pack just outside the door and strode straight for the back door. C’mon, Dylan, he told himself as he shouldered the door open and headed for the small shed in the woods. You’ve always been a sucker for those designer-clothes types–all soft silks and linens and delicate gold jewelry glistening at their throats…. But you know that’s not the kind of woman for you.
And why he was thinking in these terms when he’d just met the woman and all but strong-armed her into joining him on this trek was beyond all comprehension. It was going to be a
long three weeks if he had to battle his libido all the way through. He had to keep his mind on his mission. He should be grateful to her for saving his sorry little adventure from ruin.
Twenty minutes later, Dylan was securing the last bungee tie across the canoe lying atop his Jeep. Then he tugged on all the ropes to make sure the vessel was secure. He heard the slap of the screen door and Casey’s light footsteps.
She stopped and said, “Why are we taking that canoe, and not the one you showed me out back?”
He glanced across the hood of the car and nearly yanked the bungee cord he was fixing right off the roof.
Gone was the sleekly-hosed glamour girl who had stridden across his backyard in high heels an hour ago. She wore an oversize yellow T-shirt and a pair of yellowrimmed sunglasses to match. On her feet were canvas sneakers splattered with yellow daisies.
She looked about seventeen. She looked like a lemon drop, cool and tart and good enough to lick.
And he’d damned well better get those thoughts right out of his head, for there was no mistaking the don’t-youdare-touch-me look in her eyes, even if she did hide them—still—behind sunglasses.
“I just applied the last coat of pitch to the bottom of the other canoe,” he explained, shoving the paddles into the back of the Jeep. “It needs at least a day to dry. This aluminum one is good enough for teaching purposes.”
He rounded the car. Her T-shirt ended mid-thigh. Her legs were long and sleek and strong, but those damned lips, covered with a fresh coat of brown lipstick, looked soft enough to bruise.
“Come on,” he said, opening the Jeep door for her, “There’s a pond up the road a bit. Calm water. It’ll be a good place to practice some strokes.”
She rounded him to slide those long legs into the seat. He slammed the door on her and on his thoughts.
At least, he tried. But as soon as he slid into the driver’s side he could smell her perfume—a lemony scent. Grassy. Strangely innocent. Like the kiss they’d shared in the kitchen. Powerful in its innocence, powerful in its surprise.
He gunned the motor and backed out of the clearing, then heard a rustling and the click of a pen.
“So,” she said, twisting in her seat, “do you want to tell me how you came up with this idea?”
He glanced over at her. She had hiked a knee up and was using it as a table for a small yellow pad. Her T-shirt slid down to her hips, and he caught a glimpse of a matching yellow bathing suit fitting snugly to her rounded little bottom.
“I thought,” he said, forcing his gaze back to the road, “that all reporters used tape recorders.”
“I do. But I’m out of batteries. I’ll need to go into town tomorrow to pick up them and some film and a few other things.” She tapped the pen on the yellow pad. “I assume that town I passed through in a blink of an eye has an automatic teller machine?”
He managed a grin. “That town even has a pizza parlor, with a video game in the back.” He cocked his head at her. “I assume this means you have a bank account?”
“Of course I do. What do you think, I stash my earnings in my van?”
“It’d be a great archaeological project to go digging through that van.”
“Don’t get any ideas.”
“And if you have a bank account, that usually means you have a home. Somewhere.”
She frowned at him. She ran her fingers through her cap of chocolate brown hair, and the silken strands of it slipped neatly back into place. “Still digging, MacCabe? I’m supposed to be the one asking you the questions, remember?”
“You’re dodging.”
“What do you expect? That I’ll admit to having an offshore bank account in the Cayman Islands?”
“Right about now,” he murmured, eyeing the spangle of yellow daisies on her sneakers, “I wouldn’t be surprised by anything you say, Casey Michaels.”
The muscle in her calf flexed, her neck tightened. “If you must know, I do have a home. It’s Morristown, New Jersey. And it’s you who are dodging.”
“New Jersey, huh?”
“Yes, and no Jersey jokes, you hear? So,” she said, clicking her pen three times, “where did you get the idea for this trek?”
Persistent, he thought. That was good. She would need persistence if she was going to finish this trip with him.
“First things first, Casey.” The tires crunched on gravel as he turned into a clearing just before the banks of a pond. The bank had been leveled for use as a launch for small craft. “We’ll set the boat out here. You’ll have plenty of time to ask me questions later, but we only have a few more hours of sun to teach you the fine art of canoeing.”
“C‘mon, MacCabe, we’re talking about paddling a long, narrow boat across still water.” She tucked the pen and pad back into her bag. ’It can’t be all that difficult.” She eyed him above the rim of her sunglasses. ”Don’t tell me you’re one of those enthusiasts who is a stickler for form, and has a mouthful of jargon for every lesson?”
“Nope.” He reached behind her chair and shoved an orange vest into her hands. “Don’t forget your PFD.”
“It’s a life vest.” She picked it up with two fingers. The color had long ago faded to a muddy shade of orange. “I can swim.”
“House rules, remember? It’s the law.” He shoved the door open. “Now help me unload this technocraft by grabbing it by the gunwales and sliding it to the stern.”
One fine, smooth dark eyebrow arched above the yellow sunglasses. He grinned at her through the cab of the Jeep as he snapped the first bungee cord free. Her lips twitched in a smile—a soft thing, hesitant, strangely sweet.
Oh, boy, Dylan. He ducked behind the Jeep to snap free the last ties. Steady, boy. Steady.
He gripped the canoe and slid it off the back of the Jeep, then dipped under it to settle the mid-slat upon his shoulders and stretch the tumpline across his forehead. He carried it like that to the launch, kicking off his flip-flops before splashing in at the edge.
He turned around just in time to see her pull the T-shirt over her head.
For the split second her face was covered, he took a good straight look at the body he would be sleeping under the stars with for the next three weeks. Legs. Long, long legs, emphasized by the high cut of her yellow checked bathing suit. Lean, lean, lean—beyond slim, almost to the point of skinny. Her nipples beaded against the suit, though the day was warm and windless, and as she lowered her arms he realized that while her breasts were small, they were exquisitely shaped. Heavy-bottomed. Tip-tilted.
Thank God he’d chosen to wear his boxy bathing suit, rather than the tight-fitting briefs he preferred in the water. Maybe he should rethink what he’d packed for the trip.
Scraping the canoe secure in the gravel, he rounded the Jeep to grab the paddles and muscle into his own life preserver.
“MacCabe, what is this, some sort of knot test?”
She stood with her hands on her hips, the life preserver hanging off her neck, the ties on either side sagging.
“That’s Danny’s preserver. He’s of—ah—wider proportions than you.”
“And he ties his knots like a sailor.”
“I’ll help you.”
She lifted one arm out of the way as he plucked at the ties at the level of her breasts. He smelled that scent again, rising from her hair—lemon and green cut grass. His fingers fumbled with the ties.
She had smooth, smooth skin. No moles, no freckles, and tanned to an even gold. She’d shoved her sunglasses atop her head, and so when she glanced up at him he finally got a good look at her eyes. Light brown. Light brown with sparks of gold.
Young. So very young. She couldn’t be thirty. And here he was, looking down the barrel at forty and feeling like some sort of prehistoric fly stuck in those amber eyes.
Too young. Yeah, that was the problem, he told himself. She was too young for him.
“We’re not really going to wear these,” she said, finding sudden interest in the fumbling of his fingers, “durin
g the whole trip?”
“Of course we are.” Good, one set of ties free. He swiftly knotted them so the vest fit more snugly. “It’s water-safety rules, you know.”
“Are we going to need them?”
“You can never be too safe.”
“That’s not the answer to my question.”
He rounded her to work on the other set of ties, under the other arm. “If you can swim, probably not.”
“Probably.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“MacCabe, you realize I’m not going anywhere with you unless I get the full story.”
“Oh, you’ll get it.” He finished tying, and swept a paddle up from the ground. He shoved it into her hands. “First things first.”
He splashed knee-deep into the water and clattered his paddle into the canoe. The water felt good and cold on his bare legs. If he was lucky, it would be good and cold all along the route they were taking.
He held the gunwales of the canoe as she kicked off her sneakers and followed him. “Climb in. Carefully,” he warned. “An empty canoe wobbles.”
She grasped the edge and sank a foot into the canoe. Her knuckles whitened as she shifted her weight. The canoe heaved in his grip. Her eyes widened. Gingerly, she transferred her weight and swung her other leg over the side.
He heard her gasp as he pushed off and swung his own weight into the canoe.
“It won’t be so unsteady in the other canoe,” he explained. “The other canoe will be weighted with our gear.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Now, listen,” he said, focusing on the lesson ahead, as he dipped the paddle in and shot them out into open water. “There’re a lot of different ways to paddle….”
He taught with his back to her, twisting around to watch her progress now and again, leaning across the canoe to adjust the position of her hands on the paddle, or to illustrate how to get the most push out of the stroke. She listened with all the attentiveness of a National Honor Student. Quiet, studious, intent. Determined.
She did well. She had endurance. But after a few hours he sensed the flagging of her energy in the sluggishness of her stroke. She lacked the upper-body strength needed to propel a canoe for the full duration of a summer’s day. He wondered, again, if he hadn’t made a colossal mistake, egging this woman on to take his challenge.
Loving Wild Page 4