Turnagain Love (Sisters of Spirit #1)

by Nancy Radke

  Unable to sit still, Jennel sprang to her feet, banging her fist on the table, making the carrying tube rattle as he stressed her position. “Which is precisely why she hired me!”

  This time she got her point across. He stared down at the torn and dirty linoleum, effectively silenced for the moment, then shot her a doubtful look from under thick brows. “I hope not...although she must’ve had some crazy notion or she wouldn’t have sent you all the way out here.”

  Jennel breathed in deeply. At last! He was giving her statements serious consideration. At least his flare-ups were brief. She’d learned that much about him.

  “She’s a very emotional person. She reacts strongly to light and colors. I don’t think she could stand to live with what you’ve planned.”

  “Then why didn’t she say so?” he thundered.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Crazy!”

  “I don’t think she’s very rational,” she explained, remembering the lack of information the older lady had given her.

  “She doesn’t sound like it. I’ve known John for years. He can’t stand pink lace.”

  He sounded thoroughly disgusted. In her mind, Jennel pictured this place tied up like a gingerbread house in pink lace and white bows, and suddenly found it difficult not to laugh. “I wouldn’t blame him, either...but she does have to live in it. So she should be considered, too, don’t you think?”

  He glared at her before taking a deep breath and expelling it. “I suppose so!”

  It was a reluctant admission, but one Jennel had thought she would never hear from him. Some people could not admit they were wrong. A tickle of pleasure bounced though her as their eyes met—for once in complete agreement—lifting her spirits anew. Maybe he was approachable after all. Sitting back down, she looked again at the plans, at the same time lifting one foot to rest it on the chair in front of her. “There are some other things she requested that you haven’t—”

  He interrupted suddenly, dropping the tube onto the table with a clunk. “Boston, what have you done to your feet?”

  Chapter Four

  Before she could reply, he lifted her other foot. Releasing it, he straightened, shaking his head in amazement. “You are a greenhorn, aren’t you?”

  Taken aback, Jennel glared at him. She knew what greenhorn meant. She had ruined her nylons and bruised her feet running like an idiot over those rocks. “So what?” she retorted. “It’s no big thing.”

  Ignoring her, he stalked over to the sink and began scrubbing out a galvanized wash pan. “Get those nylons off!”

  She remained seated. She wasn’t taking orders from him, nor was she taking any- thing off with him around. Nothing was wrong. Her feet tingled and ached, but they were cold, that was all.

  Still, made curious, she tipped one back under her so she could look down on the sole. It was scraped in several places, with pinpoints of blood oozing through a layer of sand and dirt. The remnant of stocking was barely visible.

  The sight made her gasp. It looked worse than it felt.

  “Do you want me to take them off?” Zack had turned now, his impatient scowl implying he would do what he threatened. He didn’t have time for any maidenly scruples.

  “No. No, I can.”

  He turned away, and she quickly stripped the shredded nylons from her legs. “They’re off.”

  Draping a cloth and towel on his arm, he carried over the wash pan half filled with water. At his nod she dipped her feet in, discovering he had added some hot water from the stove. It felt warm and wonderful.

  Then he picked up the cloth and started to scrub—hard.

  “Ow!”

  He held onto her ankle as her foot jerked in reflex, not letting her pull away, scrubbing the sole clean of dirt and sand. He did what he had to do with grim-faced determination.

  It hurt, the whole operation, but it couldn’t be helped. He worked swiftly and thoroughly, casting anxious glances at her tear-filled eyes.

  There was no way she could stop the tears from forming. She was tired and had no resistance. They flowed freely, silently, even after he had rinsed her feet in cold water. The white towel he used came away blotched in pink, which was probably the way her eyes looked.

  When he handed her a clean handkerchief, she had to press hard to stop the embarrassing flow. She did not like to show weakness, especially to a rival. It was just one more count against her, tearing down her image, when she wanted to show him how competent she was.

  “I think you’d best stay on board with me tonight,” he said, and his tone although gentle, brooked no argument.

  Jennel needed but a split second to think about that.

  “Oh, no. Thanks, but I’ll wear—”

  “Oh, yes,” he interrupted, his voice hardening. “That’s the most vulnerable part of your body for blood poisoning.”

  “It’s not that bad. They’ll heal overnight.”

  “We just got them clean. It doesn’t take much of an opening to let in infection.”

  “I’ll wear my tennies.”

  “You won’t be able to get your shoes on, over the bandages. I’ve got first aid supplies in the boat.”

  “Then bring them up here,” she insisted.

  “No. You’re not going to sleep in this dirty house, along with the mice and spiders, and that’s final.”

  Mice didn’t bother her, but spiders? She shuddered. They were the one aspect of her job she couldn’t stand. “Well....”

  “I won’t bother you, if that’s what you’re afraid of. You have my word.”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” she sniffed, giving her eyes one more swipe with his handkerchief.

  He grinned in amused approval. “Which wouldn’t make any difference. But just for the book, you needn’t be. I like my women willing.”

  She gazed silently at the filthy floor, avoiding his piercing appraisal. She wanted to stay in his boat near him. Her emotions were rebelling against her better judgment. It would be safer to maintain a distance, in order to keep control of her own feelings as well as to let him know she wasn’t easy to boss around. But the thought of a night spent among the spiders was enough to tip the scale in his favor.

  Also, his manner was no longer antagonistic. That had changed the moment he spotted her feet, turning from anger to worry to gentle insistence.

  Her feelings towards him were gradually changing. She felt herself wanting to reach out to him for his help, support, and concern. She felt like throwing herself into his arms and bawling like a baby...just to release the shock of everything happening to her. And of course, she wouldn’t do that. Not with a total stranger.

  Not with the enemy who was trying to take her job away. She must always keep that in mind. To give in too much would be to lose her business.

  But for the sake of her feet, she would spend the night in his boat. “Okay. I’ll go.” She didn’t like having decisions made for her—she’d left home to get away from that—but the boat sounded too good to resist.

  “Good.” He put his plans away, checked the burners, and turned off all the lights except one. Then, after switching on his flashlight, he picked her up.

  Wrapping an arm around his neck, Jennel hung on tightly, the position bringing her face close to his warm neck, firm jaw and a well-formed ear. He had an intelligent face, with the mark of creativity stamped upon each feature.

  His expression reminded her of a bust of Augustus Caesar, the mighty Roman emperor. There was one major difference: tiny laugh wrinkles fanned out around Zack’s eyes and lifted the corners of his mouth.

  There was no time for further appraisal. He turned off the last light before opening the door. The chill that fluttered through her had nothing to do with the temperature of the air...or the increased rate of her pulse, or the difficulty she suddenly experienced in breathing. It had everything to do with who was carrying her and the complete assuredness in the way he carried her.

  The unyielding firmness of his muscles under her arm and aga
inst her breast made her feel softly feminine and fragile; and sent her all too volatile feelings off on a spinning fairy dance.

  In these circumstances, perhaps it would be wiser for her not to be too soft and yielding. She stiffened, making Zack shift his grip.

  “Hold still,” he complained, as he crossed the treacherous veranda. She stiffly complied.

  Evidently, she wasn’t having the same effect on his emotions as he had on hers. Which was probably a good thing. She was at a low point, she argued to herself; her defenses down. Yet reason argued back that she would have found him intriguing whatever her position. His gentle firmness had demolished her resistance and won her admiration far quicker than any persuasive tongue had ever done. She was right now a willing captive, happy to be in his care.

  Jennel turned her face slightly, coming up against his cheek. It was smooth and inviting, and she struggled against a potent longing to lay her face against his. It was awkward holding her head away, and after a few moments, she gave in, letting their cheeks touch, flesh against flesh. His warm, soft skin smelled of saltwater and the ocean air, and a hint of aftershave.

  In the quiet darkness of the night, her other senses quickened. She heard the steady cadence of his breathing and the shuffle of his feet as he picked out the trail. A loon’s call became haunting, romantic, with an almost otherworld eeriness, touching her soul with a magic finger.

  It was a time and place for lovers...for dreams of romance. Jennel enjoyed a brief fantasy that featured Zack as her faithful knight, bearing her off to his enchanted castle, there to vow his undying love. The only problem was, the dragon-slayer sometimes acted like the dragon.

  A strong man with the broad shoulders and chest of an athlete, he carried her the distance without stopping. Brutus joined them, dancing along behind, then loping forward impatiently.

  The rising tide had lifted the water-level float so it was just a foot below the dock, making it fairly easy for him to walk down the ramp with her in his arms. She was impressed by the care he took helping her over the transom of his boat and into the tidy cabin, cautious lest her feet touch anything.

  “Nice boat,” she said, appreciating its sleek lines.

  “Thanks. It makes a good mobile office and living quarters for jobs on the islands. I have a trailer house my foremen use on isolated inland sites.”

  More than one foreman? His business sounded huge, making Jennel’s spirits fall at the idea of competing against him.

  He set her down carefully on a cushion, adjusted the lights and took out his first-aid box. The black ointment he applied smelled and looked like engine grease, but it made her feet feel better immediately. She sighed as he began to bandage her left foot, his movements knowledgeable and precise.

  “Any better?” He looked up from his task, eyebrows lifted in query as his tawny eyes quietly assessed her expression. His voice, low and gentle, revealed a genuine concern for her well-being.

  “Yes, lots. Thanks.” He bent back to expertly wrap the other foot while she let her gaze linger on the solid column of his neck. His hair was just long enough to begin to curl slightly at the nape, and she remembered the clean smell of it as he carried her to the boat. Clean and neat.

  Putting away the first-aid kit, he paused at the open door. “I’ll get your sleeping bag and turn off the generator. Anything else you want?”

  “No. Yes. My brown case with my toothbrush, please.”

  “One toothbrush coming up. And don’t you dare walk—anywhere.” The tone, the words, were too close to her father’s voice for Jennel to resist replying with the comment she had always held back. “Aye, aye, captain, sir.”

  Zack gave her the skeptical look that teachers reserve for their problem students, then left, rocking the boat as he jumped off. It was plain he didn’t know quite how to take her, but perhaps that was just as well. If she kept him off balance, maybe he wouldn’t get too bossy.

  She sagged wearily, released from acting brave and in control. If only it was fact and not a front. How could she get control of this situation before Zack threw her off the island? She had to contact the Van Chattans and get the go-ahead from both of them. Somehow.

  Sighing, she looked about the bright interior. A fairly new boat, sparkling clean, it was a welcome switch from that dirty house. No mice or spiders here.

  The forward sleeping section contained building supplies packed into every corner. Everything else was in its place, shipshape. Not even a coffee cup remained in the sink. How could he manage to not get something out of place?

  His sleeping bag lay in the lower aft section, wedged in among other boxes of supplies. Where should she sleep? On the settee?

  Right now she needed to use the head, but didn’t dare budge. With her run of luck today she’d break it too, although as the daughter of a Navy captain, she was familiar with boats.

  “Here, boy. Here, Brutus. Come ’ere.” The dog rose from the deck and came hesitantly down the stairs at her call, stopped, backed up, and then was finally persuaded to enter. He sniffed her feet and nuzzled her fingers, taking up all the extra room in the cabin. His wagging tail would have been disastrous if anything had been out on the counters.

  She ran her hands through his wavy black coat—the same color as her own raven-black hair—and patted his massive head. “You are a gentle giant, aren’t you? Too bad your master isn’t the same.”

  That wasn’t altogether a true statement. Zack had been genuinely distressed when he scrubbed her feet, causing her to cry. His frequent, concerned glances at her tear-streaked face had revealed how hard it was for him to do what was necessary. It was rare to find a man sensitive enough to be moved by a woman’s tears.

  If only they could’ve been hired to do separate jobs instead of ones that over- lapped. It would be exciting to work with him, to match wits with him. He struck her as a rare man.

  And she probably struck him as a rare idiot! Sighing in frustration, she stopped petting Brutus and the Newfoundland hastily returned to his rug on the deck.

  She could hear Zack whistling off key as he strode down the ramp. The boat swayed as he stepped onto it and came down the steps.

  “Here you are.” He set her case on the table and snapped the catch when she fumbled self-consciously at it. Remembering the last three items she’d thrown in—panties and a bra, all in a vivid rose pink lace—she hoped he would turn away while she dug down for something appropriate to sleep in. Instead he threw the lid back, helpfully, then turned an identical shade of rose before hastily turning to his own affairs.

  Serves him right, Jennel decided, as she re-folded her pale pink nightgown before tucking her underclothes into the corners. Pulling out a pair of white shorts and a long, extra large white T-shirt with a row of black penguins marching across the front, she snapped the lid closed. “Okay.”

  Having regained his color, Zack picked her up and stood her in the tiny washroom, explaining how everything worked while she listened to see if there was anything she hadn’t known. There wasn’t. This she could handle.

  He left, and she undressed in the narrow quarters, wondering as she folded her lovely red suit if it would ever look quite so perfect again. It had seen quite a day, and there were some black streaks on it that might take a lot of work to remove. After loosing her long hair from its braid, she brushed her teeth in the miniature sink, washed her face free of make-up, and opened the door to ask Zack to come and help her back.

  He appeared immediately, hesitating for a startled second as his eyes followed the long sweep of black hair that reached almost to her waist. He shook his head as if to clear it, started to say something, stopped and then carried her the few steps to her sleeping bag. He had unrolled and unzipped it next to his.

  A warm feeling of being cared for swept over her. To sleep in the clean, cushioned area was almost worth getting her feet hurt. Almost.

  “I could sleep on the settee,” she offered.

  “No. I’ll be up before five tomorrow. You�
��re out of the way down here.”

  “I see,” she said, sliding into her bag. The idea of sleeping side by side with him was unsettling, but she didn’t have much choice. Since they were alone on the island, she pretty much had to trust him to behave. He didn’t seem to be the violent type...or he would’ve throttled her when she’d tried to order him off the island.

  With a brief nod, Zack left. She could hear him washing up as he’d probably heard her. There was not much privacy on board.

  The sleeping area was plenty wide and long enough for two people, lying down, to stretch out fully, although there was little stand-up headroom. It was like lying in a half-opened matchbox. The deck above cleared half of the area by only three feet, and the other half—where her head was— by about six feet.

  On the side wall above her was a small square window opening to the aft deck where Brutus lay. She could see him jump up when Zack filled his bowl with food.

  An architect and a builder. He wasn’t content with just planning houses, but had the satisfaction of turning his plans into the actual thing. She felt the same, enjoying the hard labor of stripping off old paint to reveal the clean lines of the bare wood underneath.

  Zack took his time, whistling as he moved around, and Jennel relaxed more fully into the comfort of the cushions.

  What did he wear to bed? The question popped from nowhere into her mind as she waited for him to join her. He didn’t strike her as a pajama man. Shorts...or nothing?

  When he finally stepped into the sleeping area, he had on walking shorts and a white T-shirt. Probably not what he usually wore to bed. It helped reassure her when he lowered himself down to her level, his face relaxed in a warm smile.

  Taking off his shoes, he knelt so close she could catch the sweetness of his breath —all pepperminty from toothpaste—as it touched her cheek.

  “Feeling better?” he whispered, his voice deep-toned and husky with unfeigned concern, his expressive eyes searching for assurance.