“We have to go inside,” Mackenzie yelled over the sound of the wind and rain.
“I’m all right,” he assured her.
She didn’t let go of his arm, tugging on it with surprising strength. “You can’t be outside in an electrical storm. It’s dangerous.”
As if to punctuate her words, the sky split in two again, a fork of lightning spearing across the darkness. She flinched, her grip tightening.
“Inside!”
He glanced toward her porch, where water still lapped at the bottom step. If they stopped what they were doing, there was a very real chance she would be inundated.
“Don’t worry about the house,” she yelled.
He let her tow him toward the porch. She released him as they gained the shelter of the eaves and they stood side by side in the relative dry, watching the water rush down the driveway to join the miniature lake in front of them. Lightning lit the world again, a huge, jagged line that cut through the darkness, and he was suddenly glad that she’d insisted they seek cover.
“You’re insured, right?” he asked, looking at her.
She had her arms wrapped around herself, and goose bumps peppered her skin. She nodded, her face very pale.
“You’re freezing,” he said.
“So are you.”
“You should go inside.”
“And miss the floor show?”
“If it means missing out on pneumonia, sure.”
He could see her reluctance to abandon her post. He didn’t know Mackenzie from a bar of soap, but his gut told him she wasn’t the sort of woman who gave up on anything easily.
“You can’t do anything until the electrical storm passes,” he said.
Her mouth flattened into a stubborn line for a second or two, then she nodded. “Come on, then.”
He paused on the doorstep to toe off his sodden sneakers then followed her inside, Mr. Smith hard on his heels. Mackenzie stepped into the first room on the left—a home gym with some kind of specialized equipment, from the look of it—and returned with an armful of towels.
“Thanks,” he said when she offered him one.
Water pooled on the floor around him. He blotted his face and hair, then started in on his T-shirt and jeans. She did the same, briskly toweling her hair before moving on to her chest and arms.
There was an odd intimacy to the moment—the two of them alone in the narrow, dimly lit hall, tending to the needs of their bodies. It didn’t help that now they were inside he was very aware of the fact that her pale gray tank top had become semitransparent with the rain and he could see the dark shadows of her areolaes through the thin fabric. To make things worse, her nipples were hard from the cold, too, an almost irresistible combination for any self-respecting heterosexual male.
He forced his gaze away and registered the vicious-looking pink-and-red scar that ran down her left shoulder and along her upper arm to her elbow. It was so unexpected he found himself staring. He remembered the scar on her scalp and put two and two together—clearly, something very serious had happened to her. Recently, too, if the pinkness of the tissue was anything to go by.
He became aware that Mackenzie had finished drying herself and lifted his gaze to look straight into her eyes.
Busted. Big-time. Heat singed his cheeks. He tried to find the words to explain why he’d been gawking like a five-year-old, but before he could open his mouth she turned away.
“There’s brandy in the kitchen.”
She disappeared up the hallway, Mr. Smith trotting after her. Oliver followed her to an open-plan kitchen/living room at the rear of the house. He saw that she’d draped her towel around her shoulders, effectively covering her injury. Between avoiding ogling her breasts and getting busted ogling her scar, he was feeling more than a little awkward, so he made a big deal out of checking out the room while racking his brain for something to say.
The kitchen was white and modern and pristine, the furniture in the living area a mixture of creams and whites and raw wood. Only the stack of magazines on the coffee table and the vase of half-dead flowers on the mantel saved it from being magazine-shoot perfect.
“This is nice. Much better than Aunt Marion’s place,” he said.
She opened a cupboard and pulled out two tumblers. “Scotch or brandy?”
He didn’t drink either, but if ever an occasion called for the lubricating effects of alcohol, this was it.
“Scotch, thanks.”
She poured a generous amount into each glass then handed one to him.
“Thanks for your help. I appreciate it,” she said, lifting her glass to him in an informal toast. “Above and beyond the call of duty, especially since we hardly know each other.”
And didn’t exactly get off on the right foot.
She didn’t say it, and neither did he, but he knew without a doubt that they were both thinking it.
“Once I saw the street I figured you might be in trouble.” He took a swallow and Scotch burned its way down his throat to his belly.
“Oh, right. I guess it’s flooded up there, too, huh?”
“You practically need a canoe.”
“I’ve never seen flooding like this before. And I’ve had this place nearly ten years.”
“My guess is the drains on the street are blocked. Mind you, when that much water comes down this quickly, most drainage systems freak out.”
She nodded, then looked into her drink. He wondered if she was as uncomfortable as he was, and if she was finding this conversation as stilted and yawn inducing.
A bead of water ran down her temple and onto the curve of her cheek. She lifted one side of the towel to rub at her hair. When she lowered it again her hair was sticking up in spiky tufts like a little kid’s and her scar was once again on display.
Oliver kept his gaze fixed on her face, determined not to make the same mistake twice.
“So, um, I guess the storm woke you, too, huh?”
“I guess. I heard water running and Mr. Smith was missing from outside my bedroom. I figured something must be up.” She lifted her drink to her mouth and he saw that she was trembling, the fine movement making the amber fluid shiver in the glass.
“Maybe you should sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
She was pale and she was soaked and she was shaking. Patently not fine, despite her bravado.
“This is normal. I just need a few minutes, that’s all.”
“Why don’t you humor me and take them sitting down? Because if you keel over we’re both in big trouble, since what I know about first aid could fit on a postage stamp.”
“How about you humor me and trust that I know my own strength?” Mackenzie snapped.
He took an instinctive step backward, retreating from the anger in her suddenly fierce blue eyes. This was why he’d hesitated before following her into the house—for whatever reason, this woman and he were not destined to get on.
“Why don’t I go check on the situation outside?” He set down his glass and headed for the door, his mind on only one thing—escape.
“Oliver, wait,” Mackenzie said. “Please?”
There was a softness, a sincerity to her words that made him pause on the threshold.
“That was...out of line. Hugely out of line. I’m really sorry, okay?” she said as he faced her.
He nodded, very aware of his wet, cold clothes, keen to simply be gone now.
She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “I was in a car accident a year ago. A pretty bad one. I was in hospital for months, then rehab... I guess what I’m trying to say is that people telling me how I feel or what I can do or not do—or even if I’m okay or not—is a really hot button for me. When you’ve been a patient for months, regaining control of your body and your life is a precious, precious thing. That’s not an excuse, by the way, just an explanation. You came to my rescue when you didn’t have to, and I am so, so grateful for that. Can we rewind and erase the last
sixty seconds?”
She scanned his face, clearly waiting for his response.
He didn’t doubt her sincerity, but he still wanted to be gone. He wasn’t up for negotiating with prickly, difficult personalities right now. He had enough crap in his own life to deal with.
“Sure. But I should probably still check on the storm.”
The words were barely out of his mouth before lightning flickered once again, closely followed by the clap of thunder.
She collected his glass and offered it to him. “At least finish this before you go. Never let it be said that I drove a man screaming into the night without letting him finish his drink first.”
“Actually, I’m not the biggest fan of Scotch.” He figured he might as well be honest, since he had nothing to lose.
She looked dismayed. “You should have said. Why didn’t you say?” Then she shook her head. “Don’t answer that—I know why. Because you’re a nice guy, and I’m a harpy.”
“You’re not a harpy.”
“Yeah, I am. A harpy with a horny dog and zero social skills.” She sank onto the arm of the sofa. “Believe it or not, before the accident I was actually not too bad to be around. I may have even been likable.”
She looked sad, sitting there in her soggy pajamas with her ruffled hair, her expression equal parts bemusement and regret.
“You’re not a harpy. Just a bit scary.”
She blinked, then huffed out a laugh. As he’d hoped she would.
“Scary, huh?” she asked.
“In that intense, I’ve-had-too-many-coffees-today kind of way.” He said it lightly and she smiled.
“You know what’s funny about that? I haven’t had a coffee for months. Makes me feel sick now. Which is weird because I used to live on the stuff.”
For a moment they were silent, the first easy, undemanding moment they’d shared.
She stood. “Right, where were we? You were escaping, I believe.”
“I was going to check outside.”
“Like I said, escaping. And who could blame you?”
She started up the hallway and Oliver followed her. The storm seemed doubly furious after the quiet inside, but when they walked to the edge of the porch and peered out, it was clear that the volume of water pouring down the driveway was far less than it had been, and the water around the house had subsided an inch or two.
Oliver tilted his head and assessed the cloud-choked sky. “You know, I think you might be in luck. The rain is definitely easing.”
“God, I hope you’re right.”
Mr. Smith descended to the lowest dry step and crouched to sniff at the encroaching water.
“Back from there, Smitty,” Mackenzie said.
Predictably, the dog ignored her, leaning even closer to the water. Oliver and Mackenzie started down the steps at the same time—just as the dog lost his balance and toppled in. To her credit, Mackenzie didn’t hesitate to jump in barefoot after him, even though there was no risk of the dog drowning—Mr. Smith might be on the ground-hugging side, but the flood was barely a foot high now. She scooped up the wet dog then climbed the stairs trailing muddy water.
“I see an RSPCA medal in your future,” Oliver couldn’t resist saying.
“Whereas I see lots of muddy towels and a wrestle with Mr. Smith in the bathtub.”
He decided he was ready to take his chances. A hot shower and a warm bed were very high on his must-have list right now.
“Send up a flare if you need more help,” he said, tugging on his shoes.
She met his eyes over Mr. Smith’s head. “I owe you,” she said simply.
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
“I held a broom for five seconds.”
“You came over in the middle of the night to help out a stranger.”
“Not much else to do when you’re awake at two in the morning.”
She smiled faintly and shook her head. “You’re not going to talk me out of my gratitude, so you might as well go home and get warm and worry about what I might do to thank you.”
Since she seemed determined to feel under an obligation to him, he simply lifted his hand in farewell and descended the stairs. He waded up the driveway and into the street, stopping to marvel at the lake it had become. Once the water subsided there would be a serious mess to clean up.
His feet slipping inside his shoes, he made his way home. Thankfully, there were still embers glowing in the fire grate and he stopped to throw on some more kindling. He stripped in the chilly bathroom, leaving his clothes in the tub before stepping beneath the shower. He closed his eyes as heat enveloped him. Next door, Mackenzie was probably doing the exact same thing, standing beneath the shower, water cascading over her small, perky breasts....
Oliver opened his eyes and frowned at the tiled wall.
Was he really such a cheap date that a few minutes with a woman in a wet tank top was enough to crank his engine, despite the fact he wasn’t sure if he even liked said woman?
He thought about Mackenzie’s breasts again, about how round and firm they’d looked the handful of times he’d allowed himself to peek at them, and admitted to himself that it might be low and base and animalistic, but yes, he was that cheap.
He was a man. He hadn’t had sex in over seven months, and he’d just been in the same room with almost-naked breasts. Some things a guy didn’t have much control over.
It didn’t mean anything. It certainly didn’t mean he was going to be rushing to spend more time with Mackenzie again. Granted, she had apologized for her prickliness and shown a rather charming willingness to mock herself, but whichever way he cut it, she was hard yards. He wasn’t up for hard yards, even if he thought there was a chance in hell that he’d get to see for himself how perky and round her breasts were. He was fresh out of a marriage, heading toward an ugly divorce.
More than enough for any man to deal with.
* * *
MACKENZIE PULLED ON fresh pajamas after her shower and went to check that things hadn’t taken a sudden turn for the worse out front.
It wasn’t pretty outside, but it was definitely better, and she retreated to her bedroom and pulled the covers all the way up to her ears. The bed had been kept warm by her electric blanket and she wiggled her toes against the toasty sheets and contemplated how she would make things right with Oliver.
Because she needed to. Big-time.
Not only for the way she’d snapped at him tonight, either. From the moment she’d met him she’d been rude. Shutting the door in his face not once but twice, then getting defensive with him over Mr. Smith when she should have been thanking him for repairing the fence. She had excuses for some of it—her nausea, Gordon’s much-anticipated and hard-fought-for phone call—but the bottom line was that she’d behaved poorly.
She winced, remembering the way Oliver had described her as scary, in an “intense, I’ve-had-too-many-coffees-today kind of way.” He’d been joking, trying to ease the tension, but she was a big believer in the many-a-true-word-said-in-jest maxim and she didn’t doubt for a second that that was how he saw her: scary and intense. And, of course, overly sensitive and snappish.
Hardly a flattering portrait. In fact, it made her squirm.
The defensive part of her said to hell with what he thought of her. He wasn’t her friend, after all, or a colleague. Once she picked up the threads of her former life and moved back to Melbourne, he wouldn’t even be her neighbor.
But everything in her balked at leaving the situation the way it was. As she’d told him tonight, he was a nice guy. He’d come over to introduce himself, he’d repaired the fence without hassling her or asking for a contribution to pay for materials, he’d come riding to her rescue and downed half a glass of Scotch simply to be polite. He was funny, too, with an easy charm and a deceptively quiet, dry wit.
I like him. And I want him to like me.
The thought made her eyes pop open. She’d been so caught up in herself and her recovery th
at she hadn’t given any consideration to the outside world and other people for a long time. She’d deliberately sequestered herself here on the very tip of the Mornington Peninsula, shutting herself away from her friends so she could concentrate on her rehabilitation. She’d been isolated from life by her accident, and she’d made the decision to continue that isolation, and now she was...what? Lonely? Antisocial? A cranky, prickly hermit crab, holed up in her shell?
There wasn’t much she liked about this new perspective on herself and her current life.
Then do something about it.
She could invite Oliver over for dinner, for example, to say thank-you to him. And, maybe, as a byproduct, improve his impression of her. Not that she thought it was likely they would become fast friends after such a rocky start, but at least she could show him that she wasn’t a complete cow.
She could try, anyway.
* * *
MACKENZIE WOKE TO bright sunlight streaming through the gap in the curtains. Muzzy headed, she peered at the clock and saw it was nearly midday. She never slept in, but clearly her body had needed the rest. When she tried to roll over she realized how much—she ached as if she’d run a marathon, as though thugs had broken in during the night and given her a thorough going-over with baseball bats. She was used to a low level of constant pain, a sort of background hum of discomfort, but this was a whole other ball game. Her breath hissed from between her teeth as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Moving like a much older woman, she shuffled her way to the bathroom.
She looked at her gray, washed-out face in the mirror and knew that she wouldn’t be cooking dinner for anyone in the near future. Last night had tapped whatever reserves she’d built in recent months, and unless she was hugely mistaken, her next few days would involve lots of lying around in bed and on the couch, being bored out of her skull.
She let her head drop forward, frustration and disappointment at her own weakness momentarily getting the better of her. She’d thought she was stronger than this. Further along in her recovery. Apparently she was still a slave to her injuries and her broken body.
The Other Side of Us (Harlequin Superromance) Page 5