When Somebody Loves You

by Cindy Gerard

  Trussed up like a Christmas goose, trapped in yards of fishing line, the drake would die a slow, cruel death if she didn’t get to him and set him free.

  “I know you’re scared and I know you’re pooped, but if you had let me get you from the rowboat earlier, we’d have had you untangled by now. And I wouldn’t have icicles for legs and come out of this with a cold that’ll probably last until Christmas.”

  Very slowly, so as not to spook the exhausted greenhead, she swam a little closer, talking and soothing all the way.

  “You’ve got to let me at you, big guy. If you bob around out here much longer without food, you know you’re going to starve to death. That is if some big ole northern doesn’t swim up under you and have you for his dinner first. And what would that sweet little lady of yours do then, huh?” She glanced over her shoulder at his mate, who was circling them with a watchful eye. “You think she wants to make that flight south at the end of the month all by her little lonesome? Of course she doesn’t.”

  Teeth still chattering, she drew within five yards of the frightened drake. Any second now he would panic. If she didn’t get to him in time, he’d drown himself and maybe her right along with him, if she was unfortunate enough to get tangled in the line too. Mallards weren’t big, but they were tough. Even though this one was worn-out, she knew he’d have some major-league fight left in him.

  Sucking in a big breath, she submerged. Swimming the final five yards underwater, she surfaced inches from the startled drake.

  Luck was on her side. Fatigue made his reaction time slow. She slung one arm around his back, effectively clamping his flailing wings to his body.

  Working fast, she removed her knife from the sheath strapped to her thigh, sliced through the water, and cut the line.

  It was obvious to her now what had happened. Some hapless fisherman had snagged his line on the rocky lake bed. By the time he’d realized he’d caught a rock instead of a fish, his line had broken—but not before several yards had spun off the reel. The lightweight monofilament line had pooled at the surface. When the unsuspecting mallard swam by, he’d become tangled.

  Darn good and tangled, she realized as she worked to free him. He’d pitched and dived and rolled so many times, he’d ensnared himself even worse than she’d originally thought. She was going to have to swim him back to shore to finish the job. That was unfortunate for more reasons than one, the most bothersome being that his number one squeeze had apparently decided her mate was in danger. The hen was readying for an attack.

  “I don’t want your man, sister. Just lay off until I get him unwrapped. Then you can have him all to yourself.”

  Rolling onto her back, Jo cradled the wriggling mallard against her chest. Knowing that her own fatigue would soon become a factor, she kicked with all her might and headed for shore.

  It was not an easy trip. Between the drake pecking and fighting and the hen dive-bombing her from all directions, she wasn’t sure she was going to make it the last twenty yards.

  She went under once, then a second time and surfaced choking, coming the closest she ever had to admitting it would be nice if sometimes she had someone to help her.

  The next thing she knew, someone did.

  A strong arm gripped her from behind and lifted.

  “What the—” Dodging the slippery mallard’s persistent bill, she craned her head around. “Dursky?”

  “Got it in one.” Gruff from exertion, his voice was deep and gravelly next to her ear. A rush that had as much to do with gladness as it did with surprise put all her senses on red alert.

  “I thought . . . I thought you were gone,” she managed to say, fighting her feelings and his strength as he wrapped an arm under her breasts and pulled her up snug against him.

  “And I thought you were too smart to try to get yourself drowned. Now be quiet. Just hold still and enjoy the ride.”

  “Enjoy the ride? Dammit, Dursky, what—what do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m saving your scrawny little neck. And you’re in no position to squawk, so for Pete’s sake— Ouch! Would you quit squirming? Just hold the hell still, kid, and let me paddle you to shore.”

  “Kid?” she choked out through another mouthful of lake water. “Why, you macho . . . Neanderthal . . . jerk!” She reared back in an attempt to break loose. When she came close to losing the duck instead, she reconsidered, just as she’d reconsidered that she was glad to see him. “I don’t need your . . . help! Now let . . . go . . . of . . . me before we both . . . drown.”

  “The only one in danger of drowning here,” he gritted out between labored breaths, “is you.” If possible, he tightened his grip even more. “And I’ll hold you under myself if you don’t quit fighting me. Like it or not, you need help, so dammit, be still.”

  She didn’t need his damn help. But because he sounded like he meant it and because he was physically stronger than she, she did as he ordered. She really didn’t have much choice. Going limp in the water, she let him tow her to shore.

  Long minutes later—minutes in which she was far too aware of the strength of his broad forearm wrapped tightly over her breasts, and of the hard resistance of his hip pressed against her bottom—his feet found purchase. Only when her own feet were planted firmly beneath her did he loosen his grip.

  Winded, half-frozen, and as skittish as the duck in her arms, she jerked away from his steadying hand. Telling herself she was trembling because she was cold and mad, not because every pulse point where their bodies had touched was tingling with awareness, she stumbled across the rocks to the shore, leaving him thigh-deep in the frigid lake.

  “You’re very welcome,” he grumbled as he slowly picked his way behind her.

  “I did not need your help,” she snapped over her shoulder, whipping her wet hair out of her eyes. “I was doing just fine. And don’t expect me to dry you off because I’ve got my hands full with this bird.”

  She spun around, ready to level him with another barb. The sight of him standing there soaking wet, his arms spread wide, shivering like a soggy scarecrow in the crisp September breeze, brought her up short.

  “By all means, don’t put yourself out,” he said in that bluntly sarcastic way that seemed to come as naturally to him as scowling. “I’ll just blow dry.”

  So the hood had a sense of humor. If she hadn’t been so mad, she might have found him funny. But she was mad, and, darn it, he wasn’t funny. He was infuriating . . . and he was supposed to be gone. Which brought up the obvious question: Why was he still here? And why, no matter how hard she tried to deny it, wasn’t she more upset about it?

  Dodging the first question and denying the truth about the second, she hurried up the steps to the boathouse. The sound of his labored footsteps climbing the steps a minute later had her heart jumping again.

  “There’re beach towels just inside the door.” She motioned with a jerk of her head toward a cabinet on the wall. “I’d suggest you grab one and make use of it.”

  “Your concern overwhelms me,” he said, that same understated sarcasm oozing from each word.

  “My only concern is for this duck,” she lied, “and for the fact that I don’t have enough liability insurance to cover a hospital bill if you get pneumonia.”

  Even as she found space on the cluttered workbench to set the duck down, she watched from the corner of her eye as Adam limped inside. His leg had to be killing him, she thought, not only from the exertion, but from her. She clearly remembered kicking and connecting under the water. Well, it was his own fault for surprising her, she reasoned. She hadn’t asked for his help. And she hadn’t needed it.

  Shaking off the twinge of guilt, she listened to him shuffle around looking for the towels. When he found them, he draped one over her shoulders.

  She didn’t want to be affected by his gesture, or by the feel of his large hands, which had gently squeeze
d then lingered a moment on her shoulders before he reached for a towel for himself.

  She riveted her attention on the duck. “There’s cracked corn in that plastic bin. If you would scatter it on the ground by the steps, it might lure the hen in. When the drake sees she feels safe here, he might eat a bit before he takes off. He’ll need all the strength he can muster.”

  She had her hands too full of ruffled duck and her stomach too full of butterflies to worry about whether he took offense at her orders. It wasn’t until he came back through the door, an empty corn scoop in hand, she realized he hadn’t.

  Then she did something else she didn’t want to do: she looked at him. She was unable to stop herself from noticing the way his dark T-shirt and wet jeans molded to lean, hard muscle and a tall, rangy frame. And the way the lake water had darkened his hair to a dusty honey and combed it back from a face that consisted of angles so dramatic they could have been carved from stone. Sinfully thick lashes clung wetly together over pewter eyes . . . eyes that still reeked of attitude and tried to reinforce the suggestion that there was no softness inside.

  Yet there was softness. He obviously had a soft spot for her father, and he’d just shown one for her. It had been no small effort to swim out into the lake and drag her in. And what manner of man would come all this way to bring her bad news?

  To further confuse her, as he stood there in his bare feet and goose bumps, she caught another fleeting glimpse of that vulnerability he worked so hard to hide. She wondered, as she had for the better part of the previous night, at the cause of it.

  Straighten up, Taylor, she ordered herself as she studied his whipcord-lean torso. He was about as vulnerable as a grizzly, and probably just as dangerous.

  So she’d found his rebel-without-a-cause look attractive yesterday. Today it was annoying. At least she tried telling herself it was. Dismally aware that she had failed, she forced her mind to business. “I could use your help here.”

  “Ouch,” he said, measuring her request with those hard eyes of his. “I’ll bet that hurt.”

  “Cool your jets, Dursky. I’m not asking for myself. It’s for him. The less time it takes to free him, the better his chances for recovery.”

  He limped over to the workbench and picked up the wire cutters. With a deep scowl and surprising care, he snipped at the yards of knotted line. “How’d this happen to him anyway?”

  As they worked together, she filled him in, telling herself that the sound of a soothing voice was for the duck’s benefit, not hers. She also told herself that every time their fingers brushed together she didn’t feel a tingling awareness of him as a man, and that the gaze that too often strayed to hers wasn’t filled with the same kind of awareness.

  “Fortunately,” she finished, forcing lightness into her tone, “this doesn’t happen too often. But when it does, most aren’t as lucky as this guy. You usually find them after it’s too late.”

  He gave a derisive snort. “I’d say it’s a safe bet that most people wouldn’t risk drowning for the sake of a duck.”

  “I did not risk drowning,” she ground out, bristling at his lecturing tone. “I couldn’t just ignore what was happening. This lake belongs to him. He shouldn’t die due to a hazard created by man. It goes against all the laws of nature.”

  She made another mistake then, and looked at him once more. The questions she saw in his eyes were articulate and accusing. Without uttering a word, he changed the subject to that of her father.

  And what law of nature, his eyes asked, makes it right for you to turn your back on John when he needs you? How can you care so much about one lost mallard and ignore your own father?

  Stung by a guilt she didn’t want to feel, she turned away. She didn’t want him to guess that the puffiness around her eyes had less to do with her near-disastrous swim than with the tears she’d shed for her father the night before. For all he’d once been. For all she’d needed from him that he hadn’t given because he hadn’t been around. For all he needed from her now that she couldn’t make herself give.

  Avoiding Dursky’s piercing gaze, she shook off the guilt and concentrated on the drake. “I think that does it. Come on, big guy, let’s see if your lady is waiting.”

  It was tough, trying to steady the frightened mallard with unsteady hands, but somehow she managed. She carried him outside, let him see his hen pecking at the shelled corn, and set him carefully at her feet.

  Squawking at his first taste of freedom in several hours, the drake tested his wings, then waddled regally to his mate and joined her, feeding hungrily.

  Jo leaned against the door frame and watched them. Dursky, it seemed, was content to watch her. When she couldn’t ignore his brooding stare any longer, she grabbed hold of the towel around her shoulders and faced him.

  He was studying her as if he was trying to figure out what made her tick. Or he was wondering whether it would be a good idea to throw her back in the lake, like some fish that was too small to keep. But as his gaze roamed her face and connected with her eyes, his expression changed. A look that was dark and dangerous and as charged as summer lightning sent her pulse racing.

  No man had ever looked at her like that. The woman in her recognized it just the same. It was hunger, raw and real. It was need, naked and new.

  Her heart slammed against her rib cage as she watched a startling combination of anger and desire transform the gunmetal gray of his eyes to a deep, smoky silver.

  Stunned, telling herself she was only imagining it, she quickly averted her eyes. Her gaze fell on his duffel and leather jacket by the boathouse steps. She wasn’t imagining them—or the fact that he was still there.

  Fighting the sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach, she turned back to him and confronted the issue head-on.

  “I thought you’d left,” she said.

  Once again, his face was hard and unreadable. “I thought I had too.”

  Whatever she thought she’d seen in his expression a moment ago was long gone. Chilled by the look that replaced it, she hugged the towel closer. “So why didn’t you?”

  He gave her a throwaway shrug. “Beats the hell out of me.”

  A tense few seconds passed before he tore his gaze from hers. He looked out over the lake, then took in the run-down cabins in a slow, critical sweep. “You said something about an ad for help. It’s obvious that you need it.”

  Uncertain if she understood his meaning, her heart did a quick rolling tumble. “Don’t tell me you’re applying for the job?”

  He cocked a brow, flashing his damnable attitude. “I might be. Don’t worry about it,” he added, reading her mind when her gaze strayed to his leg. “I can handle it.”

  Recognizing his indisputably dominant nature, she doubted there was much he couldn’t handle. Except her. He wasn’t going to get the chance. She’d make that clear right now.

  “Let me get this straight,” she said, regaining some of her composure. “You’re telling me you want to work for me?”

  He gave her another one of those long, slow looks that set her senses tingling. “Much as I’ll probably regret it, I guess that about sums it up. It’s a cinch you can’t handle things by yourself.”

  The man had an uncanny ability to test the range of her emotions to its outer limits. Snapped from sensual awareness to anger in one fell swoop, she dragged the towel through her hair and considered slugging him. A strategically placed fist in that washboard-lean belly might not do much damage, but it would give her a great deal of satisfaction.

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever had anyone try to convince me to hire them by insulting me first. It’s a unique approach, I’ll give you that.”

  Again he shrugged. “I call ’em like I see ’em. A spade by any other name is still a shovel and this place is one hell of a mess. You need help, kid. I can provide it.”

  She stiffened at his insistent use o
f the term “kid,” then counted to ten. Was it accident or insight that prompted him to push the right button to send her into a steaming rage? Wishing some of the fire she felt inside would radiate to her frozen limbs, she wiped her face on the towel and wondered if her lips had turned blue.

  “I can’t pay much more than room and board,” she said, deciding to do some testing of her own.

  He didn’t bat an eye. “Money’s not a problem.”

  Realizing that he was serious about the job, she tested him further. “Well, it’s a problem for me, and if you don’t need it, there really isn’t much incentive for you to stick around when the novelty wears off.”

  His eyes could have quick-frozen fire. “One thing you need to know about me, Red. I always finish what I start.”

  Do you? she wondered. And do you know what you might be starting by staying here? Shivering and knowing it wasn’t just because she was cold, she tried again. “You don’t strike me as the handyman type.”

  “Let’s just say the work suits my purposes for the time being.”

  “Then let’s also say I’d like to know what your purposes are. If you’re running from some kind of trouble, I don’t need it following you here. I’ve got enough of my own.”

  A muscle in his jaw worked. “No trouble,” he said tightly.

  No trouble? Oh, he was trouble, all right. Yet she believed him. Some intangible, gut-level instinct told her she had nothing to fear from him. At the moment, however, doubting him was her only defense. Defense against what, she wasn’t quite sure . . . unless it was the fact that she suddenly found herself more afraid that he’d leave than stay.

  She’d wondered more than once what kind of a man he was, what had brought him there in the first place when a phone call would have accomplished the same thing. And why now, just as inexplicably, was he proposing to stay and help her?

  Her hesitancy seemed to make him impatient. “Look, you need help. I need something to do to pass some time for a month or so, and I don’t want to do it in the city. It’s as simple as that. Now do I have the job or don’t I?”