She got out, opened the back door for Bruiser, paused, and swung to look over at him. Instantly he felt stupid, sitting there bare-chested, hoping to scare the daylights out of an innocent woman. Unfortunately, it had been the only plan he’d been able to come up with. As she continued to gaze over at him, he stopped, took a swig from the long-necked bottle that had been sitting on the step beside him, looked back her with narrowed eyes, then slid into Bruce Springsteen’s classic “I’m on Fire” lyrics.
A slow smile broke over Emma’s face. She threw her purse onto her verandah and trotted across the lawn, Bruiser at her heels. She wore those same form-fitting jeans that had devoured his attention that morning, along with a yellow sweatshirt with Carleton High School emblazoned across the front of it. A lot of schools and businesses allowed casual dress on Fridays. But did she have to look so good in it?
“Not bad.” She paused at the bottom of the steps and grinned up at him, hands on her hips. “You wouldn’t have another one of those in that cooler?” She indicated the bottle on the top step. “I’ve had a heck of a day.”
“Yeah, okay, I guess.” Man, this couldn’t be going more wrong. He laid his guitar aside and opened another beer.
While she waited, Emma gyrated and sang the next verse so completely off-key he winced.
She paused when he handed her the bottle. Taking a pull on it, she sat down beside him. “Come on, play for me, my man. It’s Friday night, and we…at least I…deserve to kick back.” She grinned over at him. “You’ve got an okay sound.”
****
When she and Bruiser left, two beers and an hour later, Frasier pulled on his shirt. Ominous black clouds had gathered over the far end of the lake and were moving steadily in his direction. A bellwether of what lay head for Frasier MacKenzie and his new neighbor? His best bad-boy performance hadn’t done a thing to unnerve Emma Prescott. If anything, it had only served to form a bond between them since, as Emma had said, they were both fans of Budweiser and classic Boss.
Dragging his cooler, his guitar in his other hand, he went back inside his cabin. Tomorrow was another day. He’d think of something tomorrow.
****
Hammering woke him four hours later. Rain and wind buffeted the cabin. In the living room Scout cavorted, whining.
“What the—?” He stumbled out of bed, pulled on his flannel pajama pants, and headed for the door.
Halfway there, he stubbed his toe and cursed. Muttering expletives, he yanked open a drawer by the sink and grabbed the .38 lying inside.
The hammering grew louder, more persistent.
“Quiet!” he hissed to Scout as he eased the door open a crack.
In the illumination of her verandah light, Emma Prescott bent over the top of her car, pounding on the sunroof gaping open into the storm. He dropped the gun on a table by the door and, bare-footed and bare-chested, headed down his front steps, flinching as cold September rain and wind buffeted his bed-warm body.
“What are you doing?” He had to yell to make himself heard above the storm.
“My sunroof is stuck open! Give me a hand! Hurry, before my car gets flooded!”
“Why didn’t you close it before you went to bed?” He trotted across the yard, annoyance negating the discomfort of pebbles and pine cones pricking his feet. “Don’t you realize you’re inviting car thieves?”
“Who’s going to steal a car up here?” Water dripping from the end of her nose, she turned on him, drenched hair plastered about her face, a transparent raincoat covering pink flannelette pajamas. “Are you going to help me or not?”
“Okay, okay. Move back. Let me see what I can do.” He leaned across the car’s roof and threw his weight against it. Nothing. “Have you got a tarp?”
“A tarp?”
“Yeah, a big plastic sheet.”
“I know what a tarp is, but I don’t have one.”
“Plastic garbage bags?” Geez! Icy water trickled down his back and into his pajama pants.
“Yes, right, yes, I do.” She turned and ran into her cabin.
Damn it, damn it, damn it. He gave the offending opening a whack. This woman would drive him crazy.
“Here we go.” She ran back toward him, sounding cheerfully exuberant. “I’ve cut one open so it’ll fit across the entire top.”
“Give me one end of it, you take the other, go around to the driver’s side, and open the door. I’ll open the passenger one, then we slam them simultaneously, okay?”
“Great. Got it? Good. One, two, three…doors open.”
Together they opened the doors and stuffed the ends inside.
“One, two, three, doors closed!”
“There!” He gave the black plastic covering a pat. “That’ll do the trick until morning.” He backed away from the car to check their handiwork, trod on something sharp, and yelped.
“What?” She pushed wet, straggling hair from her face.
“Rock. I’m barefoot.”
“Oh, right. I should have guessed.”
“Guessed?”
“Bare chest, jammie bottoms. Doesn’t follow you’d be wearing your bunny slippers.”
“Look, you brought me out of a nice warm bed with that hammering.” Could she possibly get more annoying?
“I sort of figured that out, too.” The chuckle in her words sent a flush of warmth over him. “Those pj pants have to be the male equivalent of a wet T-shirt.”
Damn and blast! The thin flannel clung to him like a second skin, the porch light providing enough illumination to highlight the fact. He uttered a guttural sound and suppressed the urge to shield his male dignity with his hands.
“I’m going back to bed.” He turned and headed toward his cabin. “Ouch!” A pine cone found his instep.
“Lookin’ good.” Her words echoed after him. He muttered an expletive that would have made most women blush…but probably not Emma Prescott.
****
He was waiting for coffee to perk, twenty minutes later, when Scout uttered his sharp bark.
“Frasier, it’s Emma.” A knock on the door followed her announcement. “I’ve brought something to chase the chill.” A short pause, then, meekly, “And say thanks.”
She’s never going to leave me in peace, never!
Wearing jeans and moccasins, the plaid flannel shirt he’d pulled on after his hot shower hanging loose and unbuttoned over his chest, Frasier opened the door and scowled out at her.
“Wow! What a night!” Swathed in a yellow oilskin and matching sou’wester, she scuttled in out of the wind and rain, a large thermos in her hands, the Pug at her heels. “This will warm us up.” She placed the jug on the table.
“That isn’t necessary.” He closed the door as Scout and Bruiser greeted each other with wagging tails. Ah, man, her dog is turning a perfectly trained guard animal into a tail-wagging pet.
“Oh, but it is.” She removed her dripping hat and coat, gave them a shake, and hung them on a peg beside the door. Beneath, she was wearing a gray jogging suit. “Where do you keep your mugs?”
She glanced speculatively around the room. He gave up.
“Third cupboard to the right of the stove, second shelf.”
She peered into the shelf and took out a pair. “You know, you really should tidy up in there.” She poured golden brown liquid into two mugs. “Just to make sure you don’t have mice. This is the time of year they try to get inside for the winter. Even leaving the door open for a minute to let your dog inside can give a pair time to scamper into the place. And you know what that means.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll try to find time to clean my cupboards.”
“I’m sure you could take a few minutes out of your busy schedule.”
Sarcasm, and after he’d just helped her prevent her car from flooding.
“Here. Git this down ya, and I reckon ya’ll live ta fight another day.” Before he could retort, she handed him a mug and grinned. “Heard that bit in a movie, liked it, and was always hoping for a chance t
o use it.” She sat down on the couch, indicating the chair across from her. “Come on, matey. Take a load off and give it a go.”
“Yes, well, I think once is enough.” He sat down. Damn, it was hard to stay annoyed with those drop-dead green eyes twinkling over at him. He raised the drink to his mouth.
“Ahhh!” His head flew back. “What is this?”
“Hot buttered rum. The very best thing to drive out a chill.” She took a sip, grimaced, then smiled brightly. “I might have gone just a tad heavy on the rum.”
“I’ll second that.” He put the mug on the coffee table and shoved it away. “Since I don’t drink…”
“You can’t term this drinking.” She pushed the mug back at him. “It’s medicinal. Anyway, when did you become a teetotaler? I remember you savoring a few Buds earlier this evening.”
He glanced over at her, then down at the liquid in the mug. That first mouthful was already easing its way through him, chasing out the cold. Maybe he could file it under the heading of medicinal. Maybe it would help ward off a cold or flu. He couldn’t risk getting sick at this point in his project. He took a cautious sip.
“Not bad,” he admitted.
“There ya go, me lad.” She grinned broadly. “If ya git a mite tipsy, I promise not to go takin’ advantage of ya.”
“Another movie?” He leaned back in his chair and felt his lips curling up at the corners. Whatever else she might or might not be, Emma Prescott definitely wasn’t dull.
“Same one, actually. Wish I could remember the title. Have you got any favorites?”
“Anything with a good story line and great characterization.”
“Ah, so you would enjoy a good seafaring adventure.” She urged the Pug onto the couch beside her. “Books?”
“Again, anything with a good story line and great characterization.”
“You’re a bit of a generalizer. That covers a good section of the library.”
“Yeah, well, my taste is pretty eclectic. Makes life interesting.”
“I just bet it does.” She slanted him a sly glance.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Well, in women, for example. You probably like blondes and redheads and brunettes equally… whichever takes your fancy at any given moment. Not very romantic.”
“Oh, and you are? Do you have someone special in mind…tall, dark, handsome, clever as Einstein, sensitive as a sunburn, and as devoted as a St. Bernard?”
“And that would be a bad thing? Much easier to deal with than your eclectic outlook.”
“Point conceded.” He stifled a yawn. “This conversation is beginning to sound like an ad in a hook-up column. It’s time we abandoned it and went to bed…separately, that is.”
“Don’t flatter yourself with any really premature thoughts.” She got to her feet and headed to retrieve her hat and coat. “Good night, Professor MacKenzie. Sweet dreams…about an Eastern Panther.”
“Associate Professor,” he called after her.
She slammed the door on the words.
He looked down into the liquid left in his cup. Might as well finish it. Does seem to be warming me up.
Ten minutes later he stood. And staggered. He caught the edge of the table and waited for his equilibrium to return. That stuff packed a wallop. Of course, he hadn’t had more than the occasional beer in a very long time. Those two Buds on the steps tonight had been his first multiples in weeks. He drew a deep breath, made certain his feet were under his command, and headed for the bedroom.
Inside he stripped off his clothes and fell naked back into bed. A chuckle echoed from his throat. He brought himself up short. What would the Professor say if he discovered the events of this past night? Damn! He clutched a handful of pillow. Emma Prescott, you’re trouble, big trouble. You have to leave Loon Lake soon, very soon.
He snored.
****
Frasier awoke to the rattling of his phone and the sensation of having eaten a huge chunk of cotton wool. He dragged himself up onto an elbow and slapped a hand over the cell on his nightstand.
“Hello.” The word was a croak.
“Frasier, is that you? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He pulled himself sharply to a sitting position and grimaced as a streak of headache slashed across his forehead. “Must have overslept a tad.”
“A tad? Do you know what time it is?”
“I believe it’s…” He paused as he tried to focus on the clock radio by his bed. “Just going on 9:00 a.m., Professor.”
“You should have been out on surveillance two hours ago. Do you think those big cats sleep in? What’s happened to you?”
Emma Prescott happened, that’s what.
“My neighbor had some difficulties with her car. I…we were up late trying to repair it.”
“That woman again! Frasier, you’ve got to get rid of her. We can’t have her living in our project area.”
“Yes, Professor. Understood, sir.”
“Then do it…now! I’ve checked her out, and she appears to be exactly who she’s said she is. Still, we can’t have her mucking around in our operational area. I’ll meet you at the Department of Natural Resources in Carleton at 11:00 a.m. for further briefing. Don’t be late.”
“Yes, sir.”
He replaced the phone on the nightstand and heaved a sigh. Tracking down his elusive quarry would be easy compared to getting rid of Emma Prescott.
He pulled himself out of bed and headed into the bathroom. A roiling stomach and the pounding ache above his eyes were fair punishment for letting Emma ply him with liquor. He should have been smarter. He shouldn’t have accepted her invitation to breakfast. He shouldn’t have tried to frighten her off with that ridiculous bad-boy performance. He shouldn’t have tried to fix her car. He shouldn’t…
He stopped. The woman had only stepped into his life yesterday morning, and already he had a laundry list of involvement with her.
****
Frasier showered, shaved, and dressed with more than usual care. He figured he had to at least look efficient for his supervisor.
When he stepped out onto his verandah wearing tan Dockers, green silk shirt, and brown suede jacket, he felt ready to face the Professor, a man who tolerated no sloppiness either in mind or body. Putting on a pair of Foster Grants, he hoped the bloodshot would have left his eyes by the time he got to town.
“You stay here and watch the place,” he called back inside to Scout on his way to his SUV.
Glancing at his watch, he slid into the driver’s seat. He barely had time to get to his meeting. That run up the mountain to check for tracks hadn’t allowed him time to spare, but he had to have his latest findings ready to report.
He turned the key in the ignition. Click. Again. Click. Click, click, click.
Ah, not now. Son of a…
He cracked the hood, got out, and shoved it up. He hadn’t a clue where to look for the trouble. A couple of wires appeared unattached, but where to reconnect them…
“Car trouble?” Her voice made him lurch upright and bang his head.
“It would seem that way.” He rubbed the sore spot and struggled to keep his cool.
“If you need a lift to town, I’m heading in to do a little shopping. You’re welcome to ride along.”
He hesitated. Spend more time with Emma Prescott? Ah, man! But he did have to get to town.
“Okay. Thanks.” He slammed the hood, locked the vehicle, and shoved the keys into his pocket. “I have a meeting with Professor Taylor to discuss the project at 11:00 a.m., and he doesn’t take tardiness well.”
“Where’s Scout?” she asked as he joined her in the walk to her car. “He’s welcome to come, too. Bruiser’s in the back seat. He’d enjoy company.” In jeans, a yellow turtleneck, and a denim barn coat, her hair pulled back into a ponytail that stuck out of the back of a baseball cap, she looked way too attractive. Not someone any man with a drop of testosterone would want to get rid of.
“Than
ks, but I’m leaving him here…to look after things.”
“To protect your place from what…rogue rabbits, bandit bears, dastardly deer?”
“We’re not that far from civilization that some of your disgruntled students can’t find this place.”
She whirled on him, hands on her hips, green eyes flashing. “Are you implying my kids might…?”
“Are we going to town or what?” He cut off what could escalate into an all-out argument.
“Okay, sure, get in.” She jerked open the driver’s door, then jumped back as a gush or rain water flooded off the garbage bag roof cover. “Open your door so I can pull this off.”
Grinning as he watched her brush droplets from her jacket, he opened the opposite door. While she shook water from the sheet of plastic and began to fold it away, he slid into the passenger seat. And yelped.
“What the hell…?” Jumping out, he scrubbed at the seat of his pants.
“What now?” Emma paused to look over at him, the question coming out in an exasperated sigh.
“Bloody seat’s soaked!”
“Oh, stop whining!” She bent into the back, brushed aside Bruiser’s overtures, and pulled out a snowshoe. “Here, sit on this.”
“You carry snowshoes in September?”
“Never got around to putting them away. Anyhow, it’ll soon be winter. So are you going to sit on it, or what?” She shoved it across the roof toward him.
He hesitated, picturing himself meeting the Professor in wet pants. A guttural sound issuing from his throat, he grabbed the snowshoe and adjusted it over the drenched seat. As he tried to settle on the leather-thonged contraption, he vowed he’d find some way to get rid of Emma Prescott, even if it cost him the last shred of his dignity.
Chapter Two
“You do know this vehicle needs new shocks? Damn!” Frasier bounced high and ducked as the car struck another exposed root. He’d lost count of how many times he’d had to dodge as she jounced the car along the woods road. The pummeling his backside was taking from the snowshoe had to be making bruises.
Holding Off for a Hero Page 2