Tempted by a Texan

by Mindy Neff

  She eased the blue sling over her head, then quickly sat on the commode when a wave of dizziness hit her. Without the sling, her arm felt vulnerable. Breathing deeply, she waited until the weird sensation passed, then unbuttoned her pajama top and slipped it off. She had to tug a bit because the armhole kept getting caught on the bulk of the Ace bandage wrapped around the plastic-and-metal splint. Getting her pajama bottoms off one-handed wasn’t as easy, either, but she managed by using her feet to step on the hems.

  She wrapped her splint with the plastic bag and lowered herself into the fragrant, steamy water, awkwardly holding her right arm up. Thankfully, the tub was situated so that her arm could rest on the outside of the rim rather than the inside wall. She used her toe to turn off the lever-style tap, and tried to immerse as much of her body in the hot water as she could, hoping to soak the aches away. Too bad the tub wasn’t fitted with spa jets. Now that would have been heaven.

  Just as she was about to relax, her butt lost firm contact with the bottom of the tub. Her lower body whooshed forward, and a startled shriek ripped from her throat. She banged her elbow on the porcelain and grabbed for the built-in soap dish. Water sloshed over the side of the tub. The ends of her short hair got wet, but she was able to catch herself before she went completely under.

  When she finally managed to stop slipping and sliding like a pod of boiled okra on a wet glass plate, she was halfway to the front of the tub, hanging on to the rim for dear life, her body twisted at an unnatural angle. The side of her knee was wedged beneath the faucet, but somehow, miraculously, she’d kept her splinted arm out of the water.

  “You okay in there, sugar?”

  She froze at the sound of Colby’s voice coming through the closed bathroom door. Her heart slammed against her ribs and she was having a small amount of trouble catching her breath.

  So, was she okay?

  Well, she was naked, she’d just gone on an impromptu slip-and-slide that had made her head and her side start aching all over again, and as she clung to the side of the tub she was not altogether certain she could right herself from this awkwardly twisted, slippery position.

  “Um...yes. I’m fine.”

  “Did you find the plastic bag?”

  “Yes. Thanks.” She tried not to pant. By gosh, she was exhausted.

  “Good. You’re not supposed to get the splint wet.”

  “I know that, Colby. Thank you.”

  For a minute all was silent.

  “Are you sure you’re okay? It sounded like you fell.”

  “No...um, I didn’t fall. I’m in the tub.” A body couldn’t very well fall when it was already lying down.

  But a person could certainly drown, she thought. Especially if that person’s entire balance was off due to one arm being wrapped up to the size of Godzilla’s thigh!

  Lord above, that doc must have used five rolls of stretch bandage over the stiff-as-steel splint.

  “How about I just stay right here at the door in case you need me,” Colby said.

  “No, really. You go on. I’m just about finished, anyway. Besides, I’m left-handed. So this isn’t as much of a bother as you might think.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  Knowing that Colby was wandering freely through her bedroom was a bit disconcerting. She held still for a few seconds, until she was fairly certain that he no longer had his ear pressed to the door, ready to burst in at a moment’s notice. Carefully, she used her knees and her good arm to lever herself into a sitting position, then hung her injured arm over the side of the tub.

  Okay, this was way too much fun. Deciding she’d had about all the relaxing soaking she could stand for one day, she opened the drain to let out the water and climbed out of the tub, nearly pulling down the shower curtain in her efforts to gain solid footing.

  She soon found that pampering the right side of her body wasn’t too much of a hardship, but the left side was a huge problem. She managed to get lotion smoothed into most of her skin—all except her left arm and hand. By the time she finished, she was sweating and felt as though she needed another bath.

  With the towel wrapped around her, she peeked out the bathroom door, making sure Colby wasn’t sitting in wait at the foot of the bed or something.

  The coast was clear, so she darted over and locked the bedroom door. She’d wrestled enough with herself in the bathroom to admit that getting dressed wasn’t going to be an easy task, and she didn’t want Colby walking in on her in the middle of it all.

  Since she hadn’t done laundry in over a week, her choice of splint-friendly clothes was at a minimum. She sifted through the hangers in her closet and decided on a summer skirt because it had an elastic waist and she could step right into it. Plus, she’d bought a cute copper top and matching sandals that she hadn’t worn yet, and they’d go perfectly with the long, sand-colored, tiered skirt.

  She pinched open the clothespin-type hanger, and the skirt dropped to the floor of her closet. Dragging it out with her toes, she left it puddled in the middle of the floor and extracted a pair of bikini underwear from the dresser drawer.

  Despite there being very little material to the underwear, the panties were rolled into a twisted wad by the time she got them past her thighs—one-handed. She had to sit on the end of the bed and catch her breath before she could continue.

  Clearly she should have dried off better or used some talcum powder. It was too late for those measures because the nylon and lace triangles were already wound up like a fat rubber band.

  By the time she finally got the panties in place she was breathing hard. Maybe she ought to rethink that aerobics class that Drucilla Taggat kept trying to get her to sign up for over at the seniors center. She hadn’t realized how pitifully inadequate her stamina was.

  Dreading the process, she stepped into her skirt, then proceeded to tug, pull and shimmy until she had it up around her waist.

  Shaking her bangs out of her eyes, she stared at herself in the dresser mirror and faced the next dilemma—managing the hooks on her bra. It was a back closure design and she had a hard enough time getting the stupid thing on with two good hands. One-handed was going to be a joke. Of course, she could always give the girls a day off and go braless. She wasn’t all that well endowed, anyway. A 32-B if it was padded. An A if it wasn’t. Pitiful.

  She got up and slid the short-sleeved, copper-colored top off the hanger, holding it up to the light. Too thin to skip the bra. The fabric was a stretch, polyester-and-rayon that was incredibly soft to the touch.

  And would be incredibly clingy to the nipples.

  But the fabric had enough give to get the bulky splint through the armhole. Becca sighed. Laundry was definitely going to be moved to the top of her to-do list. She threaded her arms through the bra straps, then pulled the shirt over her head and wrestled with the material until she finally managed to get her arms through the sleeves.

  A scream of frustration built in her throat and escaped in a low moan.

  The cups of her bra clung to the clingy material of her top instead of her breasts. Talk about uncomfortable.

  She shoved her bangs out of her eyes. She’d been so sure she could do this on her own.

  She couldn’t put it off any longer—she needed help.

  By dog, this was just too much. She was hot and hurting and seriously considering climbing back into bed.

  The last thing she wanted to do was open that bedroom door and ask Colby Flynn to bring his sexy hands in here to fasten the hooks on her bra!

  5

  Becca took a fortifying breath and adjusted the cups of her bra over her breasts as best she could. Holding it in place with her free hand, she left the bedroom and headed toward the kitchen.

  She didn’t make it that far. Colby was sitting on the edge of the couch in the living room, the newspaper spread on the coffee table in front of him. He looked up and she froze.

  A sense of déjà vu swept over her.

  For a moment, it was as though all the years and differ
ences between them never were. How many times had she seen him in just that pose? With that exact same welcome and flirty amusement in his hazel eyes?

  “You plannin’ on going to town, sugar?”

  She jolted and frowned.

  “You’re mighty dressed up for someone who’s supposed to be staying in bed,” he clarified.

  “I’ve been in bed. Now I have work to do.”

  “I happen to be in a good position to know that your store is sometimes closed on Mondays.”

  “This isn’t one of those Mondays.”

  “Stubborn woman. You having chest pains?”

  “What?” Granted, she’d been knocked in the head, but she shouldn’t be having this much trouble keeping up.

  “You’re clutching your breasts.”

  “Oh.” She glanced down, then back up, mentally cursing the heat climbing into her cheeks. “I can’t hook my bra.”

  “Ah.”

  The faint trace of amusement in his voice was just enough to annoy her. She lifted her chin. “Would you mind giving me a hand?”

  “Hell, no. It’d be my pleasure.”

  “Don’t get carried away, Flynn.”

  Grinning, he stepped behind her and slid his hands under her top.

  She sucked in a breath and clamped her arm tighter across her breasts, trying to hold the bra cups in place.

  “Mmm,” he murmured close to her ear. “You smell good. Expensive. Like the perfumed air of a posh day spa.”

  She told herself not to respond to his whisky-smooth Texas drawl, yet chills raced up her spine and gooseflesh raised the hairs on her arms. “How would you know what the inside of a day spa smells like?”

  “Now, now, sugar pie. Don’t be sexist. Spas aren’t just for you ladies.”

  “So you’ve been to one?”

  “Not as a customer,” he admitted, a smile in his voice. “I had a client who owned a spa. They offered all kinds of fancy services. One of the operators burned a customer during a laser treatment.”

  “Oh, ouch.”

  “It wasn’t a burn like you're probably thinking. Her skin turned a bit red—which went away with no lasting effects. The customer sued, anyway, and I represented the spa’s owner and the facial gal who’d done the treatment.”

  “Did you win?”

  “Of course.”

  Finally, he pulled the ends of her bra together. She sucked in a breath when the band cut into her tender ribs.

  “Sorry. Too tight?”

  “My side’s pretty sore.”

  “Then why wear this thing?” He released the tension so suddenly she had to make a mad grab to keep the bra cups in place.

  “I’m not going to parade around without my underwear.”

  “You’re not wearing underpants, either?”

  “Yes, I’m wearing—I meant the bra!” She glanced back over her shoulder and noted that he was staring at her skirt.

  “Whew. ’Bout gave me a heart attack.”

  “Would you just hook the damn thing?”

  “No.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “It’ll hurt you.”

  “Not if you don’t jerk and yank like you’re cinching the saddle on a horse, for crying out loud. Just put it on the loosest hook and it’ll be fine.”

  He uncrossed his arms and huffed out an exasperated sigh. This time, he gently tugged the ends together. “I don’t know why you won’t just leave it off. You don’t need it.”

  “Gee, thanks. I just love it when a man points out that I’m flat-chested.”

  “I didn’t say that, sugar. You know how I feel about your—”

  “Never mind!” She cut him off before he could complete the sentence, before he uttered the words he’d always said to her in the past when she’d worried that her boobs were too little. They’re the perfect size for that sexy, compact body, darlin’. Besides, more than a handful is a waste.

  “It just seems to me you’re plenty uncomfortable without adding to it.” He shrugged, lightly touched her side, then pulled the back of her stretchy top down to her waist. “Where’s the sling?”

  “On the bed.”

  He turned her by the shoulders and walked her the few steps back to her bedroom. Retrieving the blue apparatus from where it lay on the rumpled bedspread, he slid it over her head, carefully maneuvering her arm into place.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I can take it from here.”

  For a long moment he looked into her eyes, his expression unreadable, his gaze searching, probing, asking questions she didn’t understand and wouldn’t know how to answer. When he stepped back, she literally swayed, so mesmerized by him that when the contact was broken she lost her balance and nearly fell.

  He steadied her, his hands lingering. “I’ve got the coffeepot on.”

  She nodded. “I’ll be right there.”

  “You really should stay in bed with your arm propped up.”

  “We’re not going through that again, Colby. I have work to do and customers to tend to. I appreciate your help and all, but you don’t know how to run my business.”

  “It’ll keep, sugar. Folks in this town are your friends. They’ll understand.”

  “I need to be busy. And I need to see for myself if anything’s missing. Someone was prowling through my things last night. It makes me feel violated. I’ve got to go back down there and get rid of any bad vibes that might be lingering. Reestablish my territory.”

  “Ah. You’re gonna go pee on the merchandise.”

  She laughed and gripped her side. “I’ll try not to be that crass.”

  “Hey. Be as crass as you want. I promise to be a spectator only.”

  “Yeah, right. Get out of here so I can finish dressing.”

  “I thought I just helped you do that.”

  “Do you want to apply my mascara and lipstick?”

  “If you need me to, sugar, I’m all yours.”

  She hoped like crazy that her smile hadn’t slipped. Because an irrational part of her wanted to take his “all yours” comment literally. And that wasn’t possible. Aside from the fact that they’d once tried and failed at a relationship, the man was moving halfway across the state.

  “Git!” she said.

  He backed toward the door. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Becca decided against the mascara and settled for a little blush and lip gloss. A bruise was spreading out from beneath the bandage on her forehead. Nothing she could do about that. She ran a brush through her short hair, and noted that the chunky maroon highlights hadn’t faded and still contrasted nicely with her jet-black natural color.

  At last she made her way to the kitchen, then stopped dead in her tracks, stunned to find it so...so spotless.

  Dish soap and sponges, usually sitting out on the countertop within reach, were nowhere in sight. Her stainless-steel, industrial-size mixer was gone, as was the toaster, the electric can opener and the vacuum-pack food sealer. The only thing displayed on the white-tile surface was a set of blue-and-white china canisters, the coffeemaker and a bamboo plant in a fluted vase that matched the canister set.

  For a minute she thought the burglars had hit the kitchen, as well as the store.

  “Where’s all my stuff?” she asked, dragging her gaze to Colby’s.

  “What stuff?” He whipped the dish towel over his shoulder, letting it drape there like a burp diaper.

  “My appliances, for one.”

  “Oh. In the cupboard.”

  “Why?”

  A smart man would have recognized her tone. Clearly, Colby had been away from her for too long because he actually looked pleased with himself.

  “You’re not using them. I figured they may as well be put away.” From an overhead cabinet, he got out a cup and saucer.

  “1 don’t put them away because I do use them. Often. It’s a much bigger hassle to have to stoop over and drag them out of cupboards several times a day.”

  “That often, hmm?”

  “This kitchen’s not just for show,
Colby. I actually cook and bake in it.” She glanced around, wondered what other damage he’d done.

  Every surface she spied practically had a mirror shine. The unused magnets on her refrigerator door were relocated to the side of the appliance and organized by size and shape. All of the baby photographs of Chelsa and Amanda were lined up in a perfect square, edges touching as though aligned by a ruler. Scraps of paper, notes, recipes and knitting patterns she’d cut out of magazines and tacked to the face of the fridge with ladybug magnets were missing.

  The fact that he’d been touching the refrigerator at all gave her a very bad feeling.

  Slowly, she crossed the room, and pulled open the door of the white, side-by-side fridge.

  Her stomach dropped clear to her toes. The blood in her veins pulsed faster, setting up a throb in her injured head.

  “What have you done with Maizy?” Her voice rose, despite her intention to stay calm and give him the benefit of the doubt.

  She wouldn’t get overwrought. She simply wouldn’t.

  She would not kill Colby Flynn.

  “Who’s Maizy?” he asked, reaching past her to retrieve the carton of half-and-half and a plate of cantaloupe.

  “My sourdough starter. I had her in a fruit jar. The one with little cherries around the rim?”

  “I washed a jar with cherries on it. It had some foul-smelling goop inside.”

  “Oh, no! You didn’t! Please tell me you didn’t throw away my starter.”

  “If it was in that cherry jar, I did. It was rancid. God knows how long it’s been there.”

  “Yes, God knows and so do I,” she said. “It’s been in there since Grandma Lee gave it to me ten years ago! My Sunday school teacher gave it to Grandma Lee twenty years before that! And it wasn’t foul-smelling or rancid.”

  He looked genuinely perplexed. “What the devil is a starter, anyway? And why would you save something for ten years in your refrigerator?”