"Nah." He shrugged as he tucked the package under his arm. "Just, you know, tax information from my accountant—about my stock portfolio."
She laughed. "Oh, of course."
Mish's heart rate had accelerated at the thought of what he might find inside that innocuous brown envelope, but he'd wait for the semi-privacy of the bunkhouse to open it. He couldn't imagine what might be in there that he'd need to keep private, but then again, he hadn't suspected he'd find a huge wad of money and a .-caliber handgun in his boot, either.
"It's going to be slow around here tonight," Becca told
.
him, her chin in her hands, her eyes warm as she looked up at him. "If you'd like, we could leave as early as six, grab some dinner while we're out...?"
At least he'd thought it was the package that had made his pulse kick into double time. But maybe it had been the sight of Becca's smile.
It would be so easy to tell her yes. It was what he wanted to do, and it would keep him from disappointing and possibly even embarrassing her. Rejection was never fun, even when it was done as gently as possible, with the best of intentions.
He glanced over at Hazel who was working on the computer again.
"Actually..." He lowered his voice, and Becca leaned closer to hear what he had to say, close enough for him to catch a whiff of her subtle, sweet scent. But it wasn't perfume, he realized. That was her hair he could smell— her shampoo. And that made so much more sense than perfume. Becca didn't seem like the type of woman who would get dressed in worn-out jeans and a T-shirt, apply only sunblock to her face, and then spritz herself with designer perfume for a hard, hot day of work on a ranch.
"Actually what?" Her voice was husky, and he realized he'd been staring at her for many long seconds, just breathing in her sweetness.
Their two heads were close together. Almost close enough to kiss. Thank heavens the counter was between them or he might well have pulled her into his arms, both Hazel and his good intentions be damned.
Even if he hadn't already completely lost his train of thought, he would have done so as Becca's gaze dropped to his mouth. She quickly jerked her gaze back up, but she'd given herself away. Her body language may have
been inadvertent, but it was unmistakable. She wanted him to kiss her.
And he wanted...
He wanted to bury himself in the serenity of her beautiful eyes. He wanted to hide from whomever and whatever he'd been in his probably lurid past. He wanted...
"It's funny, isn't it?" she said softly. "When an attraction is as strong as this." She laughed in disbelief. "I mean, where did it come from? Why does it feel so right ? Mike Harris—he was a cowboy who worked here up until a few weeks ago—he asked me out maybe five different times. He was good-looking, too, like you, but..." She shook her head. "We had a lot in common, but there was no chemistry. I thought it was the bad timing—I was trying to figure out whether to keep working here or to start sending out resumes, but that hasn't changed. I'm still trying to figure out what to do with my life. The timing's still lousy. And yet..." She forced a nervous smile, as clearly as shaken by his proximity as he was by hers. "Here I am, asking you to dinner. Go figure, huh?"
Mish found his voice. "The timing's bad for me, too, Becca. Really bad."
Becca glanced at Hazel, who seemed completely absorbed by the information on her computer screen. "I have four million things I need to take care of before I'm done for the evening. What do you say we pick up this conversation in a few hours and—''
Mish forced himself to straighten up, to back away. "I think it would be better if I just stayed here at the ranch tonight."
He looked down at the floor so he wouldn't have to see her face. She straightened up, too.
"Oh," she said quietly. "The timing's that bad, huh?"
"Yeah. I'm sorry." He truly was. He knew it was time
SO
for him to take his sorry ass and make a quick exit, but instead, he made the mistake of looking up. And when he saw the mixture of embarrassment, disappointment and chagrin in Becca's eyes, he couldn't seem to make himself go anywhere. Instead he opened his mouth again. "I'm also... I could really stand to get to sleep early tonight," he told her. "I got a little banged up in the river and..."
Wrong. That was the dead wrong thing to say, and he knew it as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Someone like Becca wouldn't respond to news that he'd been hurt by casually waving and saying "Oh, too bad. Hope you feel better—see you in the morning."
"It's nothing, really," he added hastily. "Just, you know, a cracked rib."
"Just?" Becca looked at him as if he'd just announced his intention to cross the Pacific Ocean in a leaky canoe. "Oh, my God, Mish, why didn't you tell me last night you were hurt? You didn't say anything at all!"
"I'm fine," he said, silently cursing himself even while a completely twisted part of him enjoyed her wide-eyed concern. "A piece of wood—nothing big—hit me while I was in the water. Like I said, it's only a—"
"Cracked rib," she finished for him, her gracefully shaped lips tight with disbelief. "I know what a cracked rib feels like, my friend, and I'm sorry, it's not an only." She opened the hinged part of the counter that allowed access to both the front and the back of the room with a bang. "Get in the truck, I'm taking you to the hospital."
"No!" He couldn't go to the hospital. If one of the doctors or nurses looked a little too closely at the healing wound on his head...
She looked surprised at his vehemence—even Hazel glanced up. Mish forced himself to smile. "You know
that all they'll do is wrap it, and I've already done that." Let's be grown-ups about this, he told her with his tone.
But Becca was upset. "How do you know it's not broken? I've heard of people with broken ribs actually puncturing their lungs—''
"It's not broken." Mish raised his voice to speak over her. "I know it's not broken because I've had medical training."
He was as surprised by his words as she was. Medical training. He hadn't been thinking, and the words had just spilled out. Dear Lord, was it possible he really was a doctor? Or was he just an accomplished liar?
Whichever it was, he'd managed to distract her from her mission of getting him into the truck and to the hospital.
"Look, I'm just a little bruised," he told her, pushing for a win while he was ahead. "Nothing a good night's sleep won't go a long way toward healing."
Becca still didn't look convinced. "I wish you'd told me about it last night."
"I should have," he agreed. "You're right. I just... I knew it wasn't that big a deal. You had enough to think about, and..." He had to put his hands in the back pockets of his jeans to keep himself from reaching out to touch her reassuringly. "Don't make me go to the hospital, Bee. I'm too tired to handle their red tape and...and to sit in the waiting room for hours, and..." He shook his head. "Come on. Please?"
She exhaled a burst of air, as if giving in to a tough decision. "Let me see it."
He blinked at her in surprise. "Let you...?"
"You heard me," she said brusquely, motioning toward the open counter and the door behind it. "Step into
the back room if you're modest. Do it right here if you're not. Take off your shirt and let me see."
She wasn't kidding.
"It looks worse than it is," he told her. "It's pretty badly bruised—doing the ugly rainbow thing, you know. Yellow and green and purple?"
"Now it's badly bruised? I thought it was just a 'little' bruise."
"Well, yeah, it is. I meant compared to other bruises I've had. You know. I mean, I've had worse." Lord help him, he was babbling.
Becca crossed her arms. "Then what's the big deal, Parker?"
The big deal was that he'd managed to wrestle his T-shirt on this morning, but taking it off—especially now, after he'd tightened up a whole lot during the day—was going to be next to impossible. Or screamingly painful. Or both.
"I don't think I can get my T-shirt o
ff," he admitted. "I'm okay, you understand? I just have a little bit of ...of discomfort when I lift my arms above my shoulders."
It was the understatement of the century, and Becca knew it, too.
She shook her head in exasperation. "You should've worn a shirt that buttons in the front."
"Yeah, well, the butler must've sent them all to the dry cleaner." He was able to make a joke, but he was ashamed to admit he didn't have a shirt that buttoned down the front. He felt his face heat with embarrassment. What kind of man didn't have more than a few T-shirts, four pairs of boxer shorts, and two pairs of jeans to his name? He'd hoped he'd regain his memory and find his closet, but clearly that wasn't going to happen any time
soon. And whoever had sent him this package clearly hadn't included his wardrobe.
He had to go into town, spend some more of that money he'd found in his boot. He just hoped it was his to spend.
Becca put her hand on his arm. Her fingers felt cool against his skin. "I'm sorry," she said quietly, squeezing him slightly before she pulled her hand away. "I didn't mean to sound—"
"No," he interrupted her, wishing he'd covered her hand with his, glad that he hadn't. "It's all right."
"I have a few shirts you can borrow. Castoffs from old boyfriends," she explained with a rueful smile. She raised her voice, turning toward the back of the room. ' 'Hazel, excuse me. Do you still have that big pair of scissors in your desk?"
Hazel opened her top drawer. "Miracle of miracles, I actually do."
"May I borrow it, please?"
"Sure thing." Hazel approached them with the scissors, her eyes betraying her curiosity. "What's up? You going to give the hero of the hour here a haircut?''
"Nope. I like his hair long." Becca smiled up at him a little too grimly. "Hold still please, Mish."
She reached out and as she pulled the bottom edge of his T-shirt from his jeans, her cool fingers brushed his stomach. Mish nearly went through the roof. What the...?
"Hold still, dammit," she said again, making it an order as she brandished the scissors.
"What—" he started.
"I'm cutting this off of you." She grabbed hold of his T-shirt again and started to do just that. She had to saw at the bottom hem, the scissors were so ridiculously dull.
Hazel laughed aloud. "Rebecca, honey, there's a time and place for everything, but—''
•
"He was hurt last night," Becca told her assistant flatly. "He was hit by a big chunk of wood running down the river when he jumped in after Chip."
"It wasn't a big chunk—"
"And now he's having some discomfort," she glowered up at him. "He thinks he cracked a rib, and he just told me about it now. Now. Hours and hours and hours later. He can't get out of his shirt without it giving him more discomfort, so I'm cutting it off so I can see how bad it really is, okay?"
"I guess that makes sense, but if someone walks in here—"
"Do me a favor, Hazel," Becca said, "and run to my cabin. There're a couple of large, button-down shirts hanging in my closet, toward the back. One of 'em's red. Go and get it for me, please."
"Are you kidding? And miss this?"
"Go. Please?" Becca finally managed to cut through the hem, and she put the scissors down on the counter. She took the package Mish was still holding and set it down as well.
"You want me to lock the door behind me?" Hazel was having way too much fun. She winked at Mish.' 'You know, it's been a real long time since Becca's cut off a cowboy's T-shirt. You should be honored. She doesn't do this to just anyone."
"Hazel." Becca closed her eyes. "Go." She shook her head as the door closed behind Hazel, purposely not meeting his gaze. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to embarrass you. Which side is it on?"
Which side...?
"I'm afraid of nicking you with the scissors, so I'm going to tear your shirt—at least up to the collar. But don't want to bump your broken rib."
r
He
"Cracked," Mish corrected her. "Left side." reached for the cut in the T-shirt. "I can do this."
But her hands were already there. And she tore the cotton upwards, swiftly but carefully.
The sound of the fabric tearing seemed impossibly loud in the stillness of the room. It was a dangerously erotic sound, one that implied impatience and hinted at an intense passion.
They were alone, and this woman he wanted so badly was literally tearing off his clothes. Heat coursed through him, flames licking the desire he'd so carefully concealed, and bringing it to life. Amusement followed instantly, but it wasn't enough to extinguish the heat.
It was hard to swallow, hard to breathe. Her fingers brushed his bare chest as she gave another pull and tore his shirt all the way to his collar. It was that second time that completely finished him off. He desperately tried to fight his growing arousal even as he laughed softly at the absurdity of it all, but it was a losing battle.
Becca was standing close enough to kiss, and Lord, he wanted to kiss her. He wanted to pull her tightly against him, so she could feel just what she did to him. He wanted to wrap her legs around him, cracked rib be damned.
But he didn't. He stood perfectly still, his hands down at his sides, all amusement completely gone as he forced himself not to reach for her. The effort of doing so, however, made him start to sweat.
She made a soft sound of dismay when she saw the colors of his bruise spreading beyond his Ace bandage. Reaching again for the scissors, she began to saw through the heavier cotton of his crew-neck collar.
She had to move even closer to do it, her thigh pressed against his, her breasts brushing his chest. Mish closed his eyes, feeling a bead of perspiration trickle down the side
.
of his face, praying she'd be done soon. He was trying to be good, but he wasn't a saint.
Finally, she cut through. He opened his eyes only when she stepped back, when he heard the clatter of the scissors on the counter. But he was premature—the torture wasn't over yet. Becca moved closer again, and began to peel his shirt off his shoulders.
"Don't lift your arms or try to help," she instructed him softly, her hands cool against the heat of his skin. She worked his sleeve down his right arm, touching him every inch of the way, and then gently pulled the rest of the shirt from his left.
Mish unfastened the bandage himself, stepping slightly back from her, bracing himself for the words he knew were coming.
"God, you call that a little bruise...?" Her words were laced with a tough disbelief, but she actually had tears in her eyes.
"I told you, it looks worse than it is." Please God, don't let her start to cry. If she did, he'd never be able to keep from reaching for her.
She blinked them back forcefully, grimly. "That must've hurt like hell. It hurts you right now—even just to stand there, doesn't it?"
She was angry at him, and while anger was better than empathic tears, it could get him taken to the hospital if he wasn't careful.
"Becca, I swear," he said calmly, as matter-of-factly as he could manage, considering the way his heart was still pounding from her touch. "It's really not that bad."
"Bad enough for you to break out in a cold sweat." With one finger, she caught a bead of perspiration that was dripping down his face, holding it out somewhat triumphantly to show him.
That wasn't cold sweat. It was very, very hot, very steamy sweat. But it was probably better that she didn't know that.
"I can't believe you put in a full day of work," she continued, refusing to be calm or matter-of-fact in response. "I can't believe I stood there and watched you mucking out the stalls, and I didn't have a clue you were hurt!" She was so angry her voice was shaking. She crossed to the back of the office, her movements jerky as she opened one of the drawers and took out a key. "As of right now, you're out of the bunkhouse and staying in cabin . I'm marking it unavailable on the books—it's all yours until the end of next week. After that, be ready to clear out if we get any walk-ins, but I doubt
we will. We're not full up with guest reservations for another month and a half." She slapped the key onto the counter in front of him. "I'm also giving you a week off."
He opened his mouth, and she held up her hand. "At full pay," she added as ferociously as if she'd just informed him he was getting twenty lashes. "And if it doesn't heal enough for you to move without pain by then, I'll give you another week, but you'll have to let the doctor in town check you out first. Does that sound fair?"
"I appreciate your generosity," Mish told her. "But it's not fair. Not for you. You're already short-staffed."
She looked startled, as if she'd never expected him to consider that. "I'll take care of your chores."
"Along with your regular job?"
It was insane, and she knew it. "I'll...call Rafe Mc-Kinnon. He told me he was going to his brothers' for a few days before he started looking for work up north. I'll give him that raise he wanted. He'll come back in a flash. He had a major thing for Belinda."
"I thought you said the owner didn't want to—"
.
"To hell with what Justin Whitlow wants," she said fiercely, coming back out from behind the counter. "If he doesn't like the way I manage his ranch, he can just fire me."
With her eyes sparking and her chin held high, she looked unstoppable. If he weren't careful, she would bulldoze straight over him. "You say that as if it would be a good thing." He tried to smile, keep things a little more light.
She glared back at him. "Maybe it would be. If I'm too damned chicken to quit, then I have to make him fire me, don't I?"
"There's a difference between being chicken and being cautious."
Mish didn't know what was happening. Becca was standing still, but she just kept getting closer and closer to him. And then he realized that he was the one who was moving toward her, pinning her back against the counter. He was drawn toward her as absolutely as if he were a magnet and she were true north. He could smell her hair, see every individual freckle on her nose, watch the irises of her beautiful, warm eyes widen as he leaned closer and closer.
Suzanne Brockmann - Team Ten 08 - Identity Unknown Page 7