Return to Paradise

by Carol Grace

  But instead she pulled back and gave him a questioning look under her long lashes. There was a long silence where neither knew what to say. Then she took a deep breath. "There was no need to worry. I decided to take the later bus. So you can go on home."

  "I can't go home without a cook," he said grimly, dropping his arms to his sides.

  "Still no cook?"

  He shook his head. He let his eyes drift down her prewashed jeans to her new suede boots, and then back up to her windbreaker jacket until he finally met her gaze again. "What time's your bus?" he inquired, stifling the urge to tell her not to leave.

  She ran her hand through her hair. "Five, I think, or maybe later."

  "Later? Any later and you'll wind up at the bus station after dark." He clenched his hands into fists thinking of her wandering around the city after dark.

  "I suppose so," she admitted.

  "You can't do that. It's too dangerous. What is wrong with you? Did the lightning knock all the sense out of you?"

  She shrugged, unoffended by his harsh words. "If it did, it'll come back along with my memory." She picked up her shopping bag and turned to leave, as if he wasn't even there.

  He took her by the arm. Lord, she was maddening. "You think I'm going to let you leave without any sense or any memory?" he demanded. "I don't know what you'd do, where you'd end up."

  His strong grip on her arm made her tremble inside. She was still reeling from his kiss. She wanted to throw herself back into his arms and never leave. Then she'd never have to face the past. But she'd never have a future unless she found her past.

  "I'll let you know," she promised, lifting her chin a notch. "I'll send you a card."

  "That's great. What am I supposed to do in the meantime?"

  She drew her eyebrows together. Was he worried? About her? Hardly. "Take care of your sheep, I suppose," she suggested lightly.

  "I wish I could." He sighed loudly. "Oh, hell," he said. "You might as well come back with me."

  She blinked. "Back with you?" she repeated. "You don't want any women around, remember? I'm a woman."

  "I know," he said tersely. "But it can't be helped. I need a cook, you need a place to go. Temporarily."

  She sighed. She'd almost worked up enough nerve to leave and now he was offering a way to stay. Offering? More like ordering. She stood there, teetering on the fence. Should she go or should she stay?

  She took a deep breath. She couldn't resist. "As long as it's only temporary," she said. "Because sooner or later I've got to go, you know."

  "And sooner or later I've got to find a permanent cook, but for now, I really have no choice."

  "Thanks," she said dryly, realizing that she wasn't going to get much more than that from him in the way of kind words or persuasion. He knew she didn't have much choice, either.

  "Of course I'd pay you the going rate."

  She nodded. "Then I can pay you back for the clothes."

  It gave him an excuse to look at her clothes again, the ones he'd bought her. She felt the heat of his gaze as his eyes lingered on the open jacket, then on the buttons that marched down the front of her shirt, and her face flushed under his scrutiny. The memory of his undressing her that first day lingered in her mind, even though she was barely conscious at the time. She had the feeling he'd seen more than just her bruised and battered body. He'd seen into her soul. He'd seen into her heart.

  All he really knew about her was what she knew. That she was a woman who needed a place to go. As his gaze lingered she almost felt him undressing her again, but this time lazily, sensuously, as if he had all afternoon. She must be going crazy. She told herself Parker Robinson was not interested in her as a woman, just as a cook, and only out of desperation. She was misconstruing the look he gave her. Reading more into it than was there. But she zipped her jacket up to her chin anyway, intending to move, to cross the street to the truck, but her feet wouldn't budge, her legs wouldn't obey her feeble brain. Was it him or had all men had this effect on her—of turning her insides to mush with a look or a touch? Why couldn't she remember?

  Finally he took her firmly by the arm and led her to his truck, as if he was afraid she might change her mind. Or he might change his. They drove in silence for a long while, each wondering if they'd done the right thing, neither wanting to admit it. But when they stopped at a grocery store, they had something to talk about, something concrete to discuss.

  "Plain meat and potatoes," he said as he walked behind her past the produce. "Nothing Veronique or buco or anything."

  She sighed. "You know you may be underestimating the men. They seem to have the capacity to appreciate something more than meat and potatoes."

  Briskly she continued filling her basket with potatoes, carrots and onions, then moved on to staples like flour and sugar and a big bag of rice.

  "Mostly women in here," he noted with a frown.

  "Does that bother you?" she asked, realizing he was right, and that the women were giving him more than a passing glance. She could understand why. He'd stand out anywhere with his broad shoulders, narrow hips and ruggedly handsome face. And in the middle of a grocery store, he was drawing his share of admiring second looks. She tore her gaze away. She had no wish to be part of his crowd of admirers.

  "Let's say I'll be glad to get home," he said.

  Home. That word again. Why couldn't she bring forth an image to go with the word? She looked out the side window as they drove down the highway, knowing the answer was not there in the hay and wheat fields. The answer was in Denver. And she was running away from it. "I should have gotten on that bus," she said in a half whisper.

  He didn't say anything. He probably wished she had gotten on it. Then she felt his hand on her shoulder, strong, warm, comforting, radiating heat all the way to her heart. "There'll be another one along," he said in his deep voice. "Whenever you're ready."

  She nodded, wishing she had the nerve to put her head on his shoulder, to feel his arms around her, and pour out her worst fears. Tell him she was afraid she'd never be ready. But she couldn't do that. He'd been taking care of her for over a week now and all he needed was for her to throw herself in his arms, cry on his shoulder, and he'd turn the truck around and put her on that bus, cook or no cook.

  He took his hand away and she bit her Hp. The sense of loss hit her like a bale of hay. "You know I don't usually hire women," he said, his voice under strain now.

  She turned to look at him. "I know, but..."

  "There's a reason for that."

  Finally, he was going to tell her. She held her breath.

  "They're disruptive."

  "In what way?"

  "They distract the men from their work."

  "I see," she said, but she didn't. Did this have to do with his wife or was it something else entirely? His father's words came back to her. "One very bad experience," he'd said. She knotted her fingers together, waiting for Parker to go on.

  "When there's a woman on the place, the men hang around the kitchen. Instead of cooperating, which they have to do on a ranch, they compete with each other. Am I making myself clear?"

  "Are you saying this is what happened, or what you're afraid might happen?"

  "Both. It has happened and it might very well happen again. Unless we take precautions." He slanted a look in her direction. A stern look that made her shiver despite the warmth of her jacket.

  When she served the dinner that night Christine was more nervous than the first time. She didn't know why. She knew Parker needed her as much as she needed this job. That's the only reason she was there. She put a large casserole of chicken baked with broccoli in a cheese sauce on a tray, along with hot rolls, and coleslaw. She heard the voices and the raucous laughter as she approached the bunkhouse dining room, but the room fell silent as she entered. Despite her plan to appear as modest as a nineteenth-century serving girl with downcast eyes, she looked up, startled.

  The men looked anywhere but at her. Her eyes widened in surprise. Parker's
father, at the far end of the table, smiled at her. Despite her warning, she smiled back, grateful for the emotional support. Surely Parker could have no objection to that. But she couldn't see his face, his back was to her. She left the dining room as fast as possible and the laughter and conversation resumed as if by magic.

  She served coffee and rice pudding to the men, then retreated quickly to the kitchen. With her elbows propped on the kitchen table, her chin in her hands, she waited for them to finish eating so she could clear the table. Her eyelids were heavy, her shoulders slumped. She'd only been to Clear Creek and back, but it had been more than that. It had been a chance to journey to the past—and she'd retreated. Failed. She heard footsteps and then the kitchen door opened.

  "What's wrong?" Parker sounded alarmed.

  She raised her head and tried to smile reassuringly. "Nothing. Just a little tired."

  "You should be. Go to bed. I'll get the boys to clear the table and I'll load the dishwasher."

  She braced her hand on the table. "I can do it. I'm the cook. And the dishwasher. That's what you're paying me for."

  "I'm getting my money's worth," he said, standing in front of the refrigerator. "That was excellent rice pudding."

  "Really?"

  "Didn't you have any?"

  She shook her head.

  He looked around the kitchen at the bowls stacked in the sink, the pots and pans still on the stove. "Did you have anything?" he demanded.

  "Not really."

  "Good God, what's wrong with you anyway? No wonder you look like something the cat dragged in." He reached into the cupboard for a plate, piled chicken and broccoli on it and shoved it into the microwave oven. He didn't speak, he just stood watching it until it was hot, then he set it in front of her and said, "Eat."

  She straightened and looked up at him. "Haven't we been through this before?"

  "With a peanut butter sandwich," he agreed. "At least your short-term memory is still intact." He gave her a knife and fork, then he sat across the table from her in a straight-backed kitchen chair. "Do you want me to cut your meat for you?"

  "I'm not a child," she informed him, picking up her fork in one hand, the knife in the other.

  "I'm aware of that," he said stiffly. Too much aware. Aware of her desirable body, her luminous gray eyes, the half smile that curved her sensuous lips. Aware that he was in danger, even now, of breaking every one of the rules he'd laid down to the men. Wondering if that was why he'd laid those rules down. So he could have her for himself.

  Maybe his interest in her was nothing more than his feeling sorry for her. That he was worried about her. Maybe as soon as she was well, really well, he could put her out of his mind. Out of his house and then out of his mind. Because while she was there he knew he was going to think about her, think up excuses to see her, talk to her, touch her. Even now as he watched her pretend to eat, he wanted to cup her face between his hands, kiss her to see if she'd respond. See if the occasional gleam in her eye had anything to do with passion.

  If it was there, he wanted to be the one to awaken it. He wanted to carry her off to bed, not the narrow daybed in the den, but upstairs to the master bedroom. Peel her clothes off once again, only this time she'd know exactly what he was doing. She might even help. He could feel the heat roll through his body, his desire threatening to betray him.

  She finally took a few bites of chicken and then looked up at him. He shoved his chair forward. Just because she'd lost her memory didn't mean she'd lost her sight. In the past he'd been transparent. Wearing his heart on his sleeve. Cheryl had used it against him. Never again would he let himself be vulnerable.

  "How'd I do?" she asked.

  "Do? Oh, all right. Now, go to bed," he said brusquely.

  She nodded and got up from the table but held on to the back of her chair for support. He wanted to take her in his arms. Hold her. Steady her. But he didn't. He stayed where he was, feet planted firmly on the tiled floor. He couldn't take advantage of her, not now when she was alone and tired and vulnerable.

  "Parker, I just want to thank you..."

  "Don't." He didn't want her gratitude. But that was all he was going to get.

  "Where would I be without you?"

  He shrugged. "Back where you belong, maybe. I don't know." But all he could think was that she belonged right here, in his kitchen. The way she looked around at the open shelves, the oak highboy, made him think she thought so, too. But once her memory came back, she'd be gone, back to where she belonged, to whomever she belonged to. He wasn't kidding. Anybody who looked like her belonged to somebody. "Anyway I'm the one who's thankful."

  "For the dinner?"

  "Yeah, the dinner. And for saving my life. The boys had mutiny on their minds when I caught up with them. If I hadn't come back with a cook, they would have had my head."

  She studied his face for a long moment, her head tilted slightly to one side. "That would have been too bad. It looks good where it is."

  It was ridiculous. It wasn't meant as a compliment, but he felt the heat rise up the back of his neck and turn his ears red. "I thought you were going to bed," he said, hoping she wouldn't notice the effect she had on him.

  "I can't." She looked around the kitchen at the dirty dishes and took a step in the direction of the large double sink.

  He moved to block her. There was no way he was going to let her do those dishes. She ran into him. And before he knew it he had his arms around her, pressing her to him, all the day's tension released in one moment. The one moment he'd been thinking about nonstop since she'd come into his life. He felt her catch her breath, heard her surprised gasp and then felt her body mesh with his. Every soft curve of hers met every hard plane of his and found a home. She looked up and he saw the questions in her eyes. Questions he could only answer with a hard, hungry, soul-searching kiss. Then her lips molded to his, as if they'd done it all before, so familiar and yet so new it made his heart pound.

  She put everything into that kiss, as if it was the last. She gave as much as she took from him. Taking and giving. Tasting and savoring. Her generosity touched him. Her sweetness overwhelmed him and made him want more. He forgot everything—where he was and what he promised himself wouldn't happen. Not under his roof. He staggered backward, pulling her with him. Until he backed into the refrigerator. He braced himself against it. His hands cupped the firm contours of her fanny, pulled her against the lean hardness of his body. God, how he wanted her. He'd wanted her since the day he'd found her. Was it possible she wanted him as much? What did it matter? He couldn't have her.

  There was a knock on the back door. She jerked out of his arms. He was breathing hard, like a long-distance runner, one who was desperately out of shape. How appropriate. As a lover he was even more out of shape.

  "Hope I'm not interrupting anything," Duke, Parker's newest wrangler, said, squinting in the brightly lighted kitchen.

  "Of course not," Parker said. "I was just... complimenting the cook."

  "No kidding? That's what I wanted to do, if it's okay with you, boss," he said with a shy smile. "Mighty fine meal, ma'am."

  "You're welcome...I mean, th-thank you," Christine stammered. "Would you like some more coffee?"

  "Coffee's in the bunkhouse," Parker said pointedly.

  "Some more pudding?" Christine asked Duke nervously.

  What was wrong with her? Parker thought. Couldn't she see how much he wanted to get rid of the guy? How this was the very thing he wanted to avoid? Parker hoped Duke didn't notice how flushed her cheeks were, how red her lips, how her voice shook just slightly. How much had he seen, or merely guessed?

  The door opened again and his father walked in. Parker stifled a groan. His eyes met Christine's and he thought he saw a flicker of amusement there. But he wasn't amused. He was annoyed, embarrassed and angry with himself for giving in to lust. That's all it was, unbridled lust looming after all these years of celibacy. Easy to understand, not so easy to control. But he would, by God he'd have
to, because on a place like this, everybody knew everything about everybody, and if they didn't, they made it up.

  "The kitchen," his father said, looking around at the well-worn surfaces, the old dishes that had served the family for years. "The heart of the place." He smiled. "Just like old times."

  Parker didn't know which old times his father was talking about, all he knew was he had to get Christine out of there. Fast. "Good night," he said, giving her a pointed look.

  She gave him an inquiring look.

  "There are three of us now. We'll have everything cleaned up in minutes. Good night," he repeated.

  Without a word she walked out of the room and her footsteps echoed down the hall in the silence that followed. His father looked at him and he looked at Duke, and without any further discussion the two younger men had everything in the dishwasher within minutes. Parker said good-night to his father and walked out the front door to the barn to check on the animals.

  But his mind wasn't on the animals. He relived the scene in the kitchen over and over, feeling more like a hypocrite each time he thought about using her to satisfy his lust. That's all it was, he told himself again. And be couldn't sleep until he'd apologized to her. He turned and went back to the house, walking as lightly as he could down the hall to the den. He rapped softly on the door.

  "Yes?"

  He pushed the door open just slightly. She was in bed, the lamplight shining on her hair, the soft curls that framed her face. She didn't look surprised to see him. But she didn't look exactly happy, either. He stepped inside and carefully closed the door.

  "I just wanted to say I'm sorry," he said, leaning against the door. No matter what happened, he was not going any farther into the room. Not even if she was wearing a silk negligee instead of those damned flannel pajamas. Not even if she begged him, pleaded with him.