His gaze swerved to meet hers. “Oh, yes. You do.”
That much was obvious. Her shop had dry rot, peeling paint, sagging window frames and a poor foundation. It dearly needed a skilled hand. Marcus had, he reminded himself, two skilled hands.
Besides, Molly wasn’t the only one who could invade a person’s workplace and gussy it up to suit herself. He could do the same thing. Hell, she’d gotten her baked-goods stand turned into a functioning part of his lumber mill! With ribbons, no less. The two were conjoined so tightly now there may as well have been a dovetail joint snugging them fast. He might never get Molly and his lumber mill pried apart.
The notion was enough to send Marcus fully forward. He had to fight back somehow. It was only reasonable that he make his mark on Molly’s business, as well.
“I’m doing the work,” he told her. “You should be grateful.”
“Grateful? Ha!” Molly stiffened, obviously put out. “My bakeshop is my concern. Your only part in it will be your help with my bookkeeping. And even there—” her expression took on a devilish cast “—your prowess remains to be proved.”
“My ‘prowess’?”
“Yes.”
“‘Remains to be proved’?”
“Yes.” She raised an eyebrow.
Marcus did, too. Her provocative talk reminded him of all the nonsense she’d spouted at his mill about “servicing” his men and “satisfying their cravings.” Had she no idea what words like that could do to a man?
She must. Marcus played along.
“I’ll have to prove it to you, then,” he said, grinning as he stepped nearer. His gaze passed over her, hot and daring. “My prowess, that is.”
“Yes. See that you do.”
Not for the first time, he wanted to. Wanted to show her exactly what pleasures a man like him could accomplish with a spirited woman like her. Molly might seem innocent, but with bawdy talk like hers, surely she possessed a more…daring side. After all, she did come from a famously freethinking family.
Suddenly Marcus’s matchmaker search seemed all the more interesting.
His grin widened. “You have a passing way with a turn of phrase, Miss Molly. I like it.”
“You have a passing inability to converse properly,” she returned. “Getting convivial conversation from you is like getting a game of pinochle out of my sister Grace. Or coaxing a bit of frivolity from Sarah.”
“Your sisters are serious ladies, then?”
She nodded. “Mostly, yes.”
“You wouldn’t seem to fit in with your family.”
“I don’t. Not really.” Molly waved her hand. “I possess neither Sarah’s intellect nor Grace’s lofty goals. I inherited only a fraction of my parents’ liberalism. I am…not quite as I should be.”
“Pshaw. You are.”
“In a family of originals, I am not nearly outlandish enough to fit in,” she insisted. “But that hasn’t stopped me from trying.”
She lifted her chin, as though armoring herself against his disapproval. Marcus could not give it. At her words, compassion for Molly and her struggles had crept inside him. Now it seemed to have taken up residence in his heart.
The sensation was completely unexpected, and not entirely welcome. If he couldn’t see her as the tiresomely independent obstacle to uncovering the matchmaker he had been considering her all along, how could he go on? He certainly didn’t want to feel this way toward her.
He tried to block the feelings. Surely if he ignored them, they would go away. But when next Molly turned her determined face to his, Marcus was nearly undone by an urge to protect her. He wanted to hold her in his arms, to make her dreams come true, to see a smile enliven her features.
What was the matter with him?
He cleared his throat. “That must be difficult.”
Her grateful gaze made him a hero. Damnation, but he didn’t want that. Didn’t want her looking at him as though he might actually satisfy these sappy longings of his.
“You’re being terribly kind,” Molly said. “Did you injure your sense of grouchiness while toting me back to town?”
Choking back a laugh, Marcus relaxed. Things had returned to normal between them.
“I may have. Your skirts weigh a ton.”
“So does your swelled head, if you think I’ll not take offense at that.”
“I’m sorry.” Reaching for her, he took her gloved hand. It felt dainty in his grasp, and peculiarly at home there. Set akilter by the notion, Marcus hastily made a jest. “I’m too blinded by your beauty, light as a feather though it is, to listen properly. What did you say?”
Molly laughed. The brightness it brought to her face made her truly beautiful. Marcus didn’t know why he hadn’t fully appreciated it before.
Perhaps because she’d been too busy vexing him at every turn.
“I said, thank you for your escort,” she told him. “I’ll see you tonight for your next baking lesson. Shall we say, six o’clock? All right, then. Goodbye!”
Briskly she retrieved her hand, then whirled to step inside her shop. With typically businesslike gestures, she bustled away. Marcus was left to stare after her…befuddled by his own feelings, and by her hasty departure.
He glanced again at the rotting windowsill to his right. Then, through the clean but imperfect window glass, he looked at Molly. There were unfinished dealings between them. He would see them done, Marcus vowed.
They’d shared something just now. Something both light and strangely necessary. Something true. The unexpectedness of it wouldn’t leave Marcus’s head—nor would the realization he made in the next moment. Decisively, he followed Molly into her shop.
This was something that could not wait.
Chapter Seven
Molly opened her shop and whooshed inside. Relief swamped her. Free at last! Free to go on about her business without interference, free to walk without fear of being swooped upon and carried, free to lose herself in baking goodies to tempt the Chautauqua committee with.
It meant a great deal to her that she obtain the booth she wanted. Being granted permission to host a booth would mean that Molly had achieved respectable businesswoman status in town, and that she had carved a niche for herself within her family. No longer would she simply be the youngest, the baby, the least capable.
The most patronized.
Marcus patronized her. What else could his behavior be called, when he toted her over his shoulder at will? The man was a rogue. Despite his moments of gentlemanliness, he was at heart a skeptic when it came to the capability of women in business—and Molly’s capability in general. She knew that, and always had. That should have meant any alliance between them was doomed. And yet…
And yet. Standing on her shop’s threshold with him, something had happened. Something entirely unlikely and completely perplexing. In one moment, Molly had been sparring with him, as usual. In the next, she’d caught him watching her with the utmost compassion in his gaze, a compassion that had nearly tempted her to unburden her troubles to him—the very man who’d forcibly carted her away from her bake-sale business this morning.
This change in him was outrageous. Unacceptable. Her liking it was foolhardy. What’s more, the longing she’d experienced in Marcus’s presence was dangerous. She was fortunate, Molly told herself now, that she’d escaped from him when she had. Otherwise, who knew what secrets Marcus might have prompted her to reveal? And yet….
And yet. All of a sudden he possessed a certain manner, a manner both caring and wonderfully protective. While with him, Molly had had the unmistakable impression that she could have confided anything in Marcus and he would have kept it safe.
Even more, she’d felt almost…watched over by him. Seeing him examine her shop with his practiced eye, hearing him promise to make things right, had almost tempted her to let him do exactly as he wished. To let him stomp his extralarge boots over the threshold of her shop and just take charge.
How could she, at one and the same tim
e, want to be independent and want to be cared for? The contradiction had confounded her. It had sent her scurrying away, far from Marcus’s commanding presence.
But not, as it turned out, for long.
“You don’t lock your doors?” Marcus roared.
He entered right behind her, a scowl on his face. His boots thumped loudly across the floorboards as he advanced farther inside, looking incongruously masculine in so delicate a space. Beside her spindly wirework chairs and pastel paint, Marcus seemed rugged and ready even in his customary suit.
“Pardon me?” she asked.
“Your doors. You don’t lock them,” he accused.
He announced this fault as though it were truly grievous. As though it deserved the leaky window look on his face, the one Molly recognized from a few moments earlier. That was the same expression Marcus had worn while regarding the portion of the windowpane he’d traced with his skilled hand, the faulty portion that always let in the rain.
Well, no one gave Molly Crabtree a leaky window look and got away with it. She girded herself for battle.
“Of course, I don’t lock my doors.” She glanced down at her gloved hands where a key would have been, had she possessed one. “Why should I?”
“To prevent theft.”
“Pshaw! No one will steal my things. Everyone in Morrow Creek is trustworthy. Besides, anyone who would help themselves to my baking supplies undoubtedly needs them more than I do.” Molly gave a careless gesture. “They’re welcome to them.”
“You can’t possibly believe that.”
She stood her ground.
Marcus stared at her. Shook his head. “I will send over a locksmith. Don’t let him charge you twice. I’ll pay his fee.”
“You most certainly will not!”
“I’ll be back later to start the other work I talked about,” he went on, undeterred. He examined the floorboards with a critical eye. “I may need to take a few days away from the mill, but that can be—”
“No. No, no, no.” Molly put her hands on her hips and regarded him with all the authority she could muster. Never mind her previous foolish yearning to have his help. She wanted none of it now. “You will not touch so much as a splinter here without my approval. I won’t have it.”
“Then give me your approval.”
He waited, impatiently. She had the distinct impression Marcus thought his demand was reasonable. Men. She would never understand what passed for logic with them.
Clearly, though, out-and-out refusals were not effective. The morning she’d passed thus far—largely flung over Marcus’s shoulder—had proved that much. So did the fact that he was, even now, studiously examining the interior walls of her shop. Doubtlessly he was searching for additional flaws.
Worse, a part of her feared he’d find them. Drat the man.
Molly tried another tactic.
Crossing the room, she captured Marcus by the elbow and led him to her counter. “You’ve had such a difficult morning,” she fussed, “arriving tardily at the lumber mill, swearing at your men, carrying me back to town. Why don’t you come on over here and sit down for a spell?”
She pushed him onto one of her stools. Doing so required three tries before her determination overcame his greater strength. With a suspicious look, Marcus allowed himself to be settled. Molly’s skirts brushed against him as she stepped backward. The rustle of their clothes parting sounded loud in the quiet shop.
“It didn’t escape my notice that you didn’t get your customary cinnamon bun this morning,” Molly said, giving him a knowing smile. She would feed him, cheer him up, and make him forget he’d ever intended to meddle in her shop. Men were simple creatures, after all, easily led by their appetites. “You’re probably cranky because it’s been so long since you’ve tasted something sweet.”
“It has been a while,” he agreed, watching her.
She nodded briskly. His perusal gave her a peculiarly heated feeling, though, a feeling as though her ovens were all stoked full-bore with their fires burning brightly. Molly loosened her dress’s collar a bit. That was better. She clasped her hands behind her back.
“See? Surely you can dally a while with me, then.”
At least long enough to forget your intentions to meddle in my shop.
“A while,” he agreed, nodding once.
He leaned lazily against the counter, for all purposes seeming enraptured by her suggestion. His easy surrender emboldened her. She’d been right. Marcus was just like every other man—made sweeter by sweets and grouchy by the denial of them.
“Good,” she said brightly. “You can help me choose items for the Chautauqua committee, then. A taste testing, of sorts. You know what they say, don’t you? The hungrier you are, the better everything tastes.”
Molly reached for the plate of cold apple fritters she’d left nearby. Before she could grasp more than their cinnamon scent, Marcus’s hand clamped atop her wrist.
“I am hungry,” he admitted, his gaze searching hers. “I didn’t realize exactly how hungry I was until this moment.”
“Well,” she said patiently, “if you’ll let me go I can get you a fritter.”
“I don’t want fritters.”
Frowning, Molly regarded him. “Tea cakes, then?”
“No. Something more.” His grasp loosened, became more of a caress. His thumb stroked over the sensitive skin at the underside of her wrist. “Something…sweeter.”
Molly trembled. Staunchly she made herself stop staring at the lovely contrast between Marcus’s big, sun-browned hand and her lace-trimmed gloves. He’d magically found the one gap between those gloves and her long-sleeved dress, and he toyed with it even now. The sensation caused by his thumb against her bare skin made her want to close her eyes to savor it. Instead, she summoned all her will to address Marcus directly.
“Perhaps a dumpling, then? They’re quite fresh.”
So are you, Marcus’s teasing expression said.
“No. Sweeter.” He tugged her nearer.
It was true, then. He did have more in mind than mere delectables.
No sooner had this scandalous realization fully penetrated than Molly saw her skirts swish against his trouser legs. She stared at the mingling of her clothes and his, struck by the intimacy of their position. She gazed up at him. Their faces were nearly at the same height, thanks to his perch on the stool, but Marcus’s expression held none of the caution Molly felt certain showed on hers.
This was proceeding much too quickly between them. First, a moment of camaraderie shared on her bakeshop’s porch. Next, a daring flirtation. What next? A courtship? A wedding?
My, how the matchmaker would approve of that!
Molly reminded herself she was still making her own decisions in this matter. Not Marcus, nor anyone else. Thank goodness.
“Nothing’s sweeter than tea cakes, save pure sugar,” she debated, borrowing time to regain her composure. “I can hardly recommend that you eat it by the spoonful, though.”
“You are sweeter.” Not at all taken in by her delaying tactics, Marcus used his free hand to touch her face. He curled his fingers around the edge of her jaw. “I know it.”
Oh, but his touch felt good! No man had ever caressed her this way. Molly couldn’t have imagined how wonderful the sensation would be. She wavered beneath it.
“You can’t know that,” she argued, fighting to remain sensible. “You can’t.”
Marcus nodded. “Oh, I can.”
He was always so certain about things, she mused. His fingers never left her face. Neither did his steady regard. Molly found herself savoring both, however unwisely.
With a flex of his hand on her wrist, he urged her nearer. Like magic, Molly felt herself drawn fully into the V of his legs—a place nigh forbidden to a lady like her. This was dangerous. This was…magnificent.
“You’re talking nonsense.” She refused to let him see her nervousness. She could do nothing about her pounding heart, save hope he couldn’t hear it. �
��I am not sweet.”
“And I am not able to confirm that fact,” Marcus agreed. “Not without…a taste.”
“A taste?” She should have known there’d be a catch.
He nodded. There it was again, that certainty in him. How could it be that Marcus knew so firmly what he wanted? Molly still hadn’t found the things she’d been searching for her entire life.
But here, now, she could not find the will to disagree with him. Not when Marcus bedeviled her senses the way he did. Not when he lured her nearer still and helped her put her hand on his chest. The gesture was both pure and tenderhearted. It bespoke thoughtfulness, betrayed Marcus’s intent that she be as comfortable touching him as he so obviously was touching her.
It moved her, plainly as that.
The safeguards she’d placed around her heart crumbled, just a bit. Marcus squeezed his hand atop hers, then released her. Tentatively she spread her palm over his shirtfront, beneath his suit coat. His chest felt warm and solid. Exactly the way she’d always fancied it would feel, during the times she’d dared to sneak glances at him.
She simply couldn’t resist the invitation in his face, the comfort in his touch, the seductiveness in his manner. In this moment, she and Marcus were not enemies. Instead, they were simply a man and a woman—two people brought together by something she couldn’t explain.
“May I taste you, Molly?” he asked.
She hesitated. His question should have shocked her. Truth be told, it did not. She was a grown woman, a woman of more than twenty years’ experience in living. She’d caught the direction of their banter early on, and had not stopped it.
Indeed, she’d encouraged it.
Their faces were only a forearm’s length apart, but that distance still separated them. Once it was breached, there was no telling how things might change.
Molly, however, had always been a woman ready for a risk.
“Yes,” she told him, and felt her belly tighten at the enormity of what she was about to allow. Her skin tingled with excitement. Her breath quickened. This had gone beyond the distraction she’d meant to deliver Marcus, all the way to something deeper. “Yes, I’m ready.”
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