His voice was suddenly as loud as hers. "I have every right to be here,
but that's between Miles Cooper and myself. Let's get one thing
straight."
His eyes darkened to a charcoal green. "I don't want you here any more
than you want me here, but for tonight, at least, we're stuck with each
other. We'll work something out in the morning."
"But you can't stay here tonight."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm here!"
"So?" His eyes were hazel again, calmer, strong.
A flush warmed her cheeks. "I thought I'd made it clear that I wasn't
part of a conspiracy. Well, let me take it one step further." Her
breathing faltered, but she let loose with what she'd been trying to
tell the whole world for weeks. "I'm not interested in you, or any other
man. Can you understand that?"
"I hear you. I'm not sure I believe you." Audacious eyes fell from her
face to her neck to her breasts. Mockery faded when he looked at her
wedding band. Frowning, he drew himself up straight. "I think I've had
it. Good night." As he brushed past her, she grabbed his arm in alarm.
"Where are you going?"
"To bed." His words were blunt, his tone chilled.
"Oh, no, you're not."
He arched a brow. "Are you going to stop me?" Slowly he looked down at
the white-knuckled hand on his arm.
She released him fast. "But you can't stay here!" He continued on toward
his bags. Unable to think of a better course, she followed. "I said, you
can't stay! There must be some place in the village."
Piling luggage under his right arm, he headed wordlessly for the stairs.
Abruptly, he stopped, turning his head only enough to call over his
shoulder, "I assume you're sleeping down here?"
She had no power, no power at all. "Yes, but you have to leave."
He turned to face her. His smile was polite, his eyes frosty, his voice
cool. "I will in good time." Taking the stairs two at a time, an
astounding feat, given his bulky burden, he disappeared into the attic,
leaving her at a total loss for words.
Anne didn't budge. Her arms hung limp at her sides, her bare feet were
flat on the floor, her eyes were glued to the attic door, which closed
with a resounding bang. Even the faint sounds from within-the scrape of
a chair leg, the creak of the mattress under one bag, the thud of
another on the floor, the jangle of metal hangers on a wooden rod-failed
to move her.
A crick in her neck finally brought her back to reality. Hands bracing
her lower back, she rolled her head in a circular motion in an attempt
to release tension.
Bizarre. Bizarre situation. A real-life drama in place of a fictional
one, discarded now on the floor by the fire. But there wasn't a thing
she could do. She could agonize over it for hours, but that fact
wouldn't change.
Retreating to her bedroom, she closed the door tightly and propped a
chair against the knob the way her heroine had done in Chapter Six, or
thereabouts. Quickly, she slipped into a long flannel nightgown, pulled
her hair from its knot, and took refuge under the bed's heavy quilts.
Despite the chair at the door, she wasn't frightened. Not really.
Mitch's story irritated her, but it was believable enough. Or, rather,
he was believable. There was something about him-his intelligent manner
of speech, his clean appearance, his refined air-that spoke of breeding.
Granted, he'd been pretty crude at the start. But even that could be
explained away. He seemed neither malicious nor vengeful, only angry at
the rental agent's error.
What to do? She had no choice but to sleep on the matter. Come morning,
a solution would be found. It would have to be found. This was her week.
She wasn't sharing it.
But sleep eluded her. She cursed the two cups of coffee that she'd had,
the unfinished paperback, the creaking that came from the room above
her. She finally fell into a restless sleep, only to be awaken at
intervals by the creak of that bed. It was nearly dawn when she realized
that she wasn't brooding about Jeff for a change. On that ironic note,
and thoroughly worn out, she slept soundly.
What seemed only moments later, she was jolted awake by a thunderous
noise in the kitchen. Livid, she bolted out of bed, whipped the chair
from the door, and stormed toward the source of the racket.
"What, in God's name, was that noise?" she shouted, rounding the kitchen
door in time to see Mitch picking up the first of a scattered mess of
pots, pans, and metal utensils that covered the linoleum by the stove.
He wore a navy velour robe that barely touched his knees, and was
barefoot like her. And disheveled. And very, very cranky.
Shooting her a sidelong glare, he bellowed, "What kind of housekeeper
are you, piling things in the cabinet like that? Did you really expect
them to stay put once I opened the door? And where in the hell is the
orange juice press? My Lord, woman, get to it and clean up this mess!"
Friends who knew Anne to be easygoing, even-tempered, understanding, and
accommodating would never have recognized the spitfire she suddenly
became. It had been too long a day yesterday, too long a night last
night, too disturbing an ordeal for months, for an ounce of poise to
survive.
Dark eyes flashing, she confronted him. "You clean it up. I didn't make
the mess, and I'm not your slave! It happens that I didn't touch that
cabinet when I arrived. Put your blame on whomever you please, as long
as it isn't on me! And what right do you have to wake me up? This is my
vacation, or didn't you hear that last night?" Only a deaf man could
have missed a word now. Goaded by his indignant stare, she ranted on.
"This noise was enough to wake the dead. Not that I needed anything as
loud as that to disturb me. Your twisting around up over my head all
night was bad enough! Just because you have insomnia doesn't mean that I
have to have it!"
His stare was chilling. "You wake up in a lovely mood, don't you? Very
different from my usual women." He looked her over, head to toe. "That's
quite an outfit, also different from my usual women."
Naturally, Anne had left her robe hanging in the closet. Whirling on her
heel, hair flying out behind, she returned to her room, put on the robe,
then, with a wave of weariness, sank down onto the edge of the bed,
elbows on knees, face buried in her palms. Inhaling deeply, she tried to
still the throbbing at her temples. His women. His women, indeed. She
wasn't his or anyone else's.
The sorrow of that thought deflated her. If Jeff could only see her now!
Ashamed, she gathered up a towel and soap in the hope that a long, hot
shower would ease her tension and improve her mood, and for a short time
it did. The water pressure was strong, sending steamy trails over the
taut muscles of her neck and back. Rich-lathering shampoo left her hair
squeaky clean and shiny, hanging in damp clusters about her shoulders
when she finally emerged, toweled herself vigorously, and returned to
her room.
Half an hour later, wearing a navy sweater, jeans, and sneakers, she
headed for the kitchen to make coffee. It was already hot on the stove.
To her surprise the floor was free of debris, the offending cookware
stacked neatly in the cupboard.
She smiled a bit smugly. So he had cleaned up himself Take that, male
chauvinist pig! And he had made himself scarce.
Helping herself to coffee, she took a seat at the table. Despite the
outburst, she had actually slept until ten-thirty. Now she heard
footsteps on the stairs and the slam of the bathroom door. All she had
to do was to wait until he finished his shower and dressed. Then they
would face their dilemma like adults.
When the shower started, she relaxed back in the chair, combing her
still-damp hair with slender fingers, spreading it out over her
shoulders to dry. Her gaze was drawn through the three-sided window of
the breakfast nook to the backyard. She hadn't seen it the afternoon
before and found instant pleasure in the rustic scene, the well-kept
lawn, the scattering of maples and pines, the intermixing of apple trees
with fruit hanging ripe and ready for picking. The morning mist had
begun to burn off, speared here and there shafts of sunlight.
The scene was exactly what she had hoped to find, so peaceful and quiet,
that she was unprepared for the roar behind her.
"You used up all the hot water! Damn it, don't you have a considerate
bone in your body?"
Mitch stood in the door of the kitchen, dripping wet, wearing nothing
but a towel around his hips.
For a second, she couldn't breathe. He was incredibly well built. Arms
and shoulders of granite flanked a chest that was tanned, sinewed, and
matted with fair hair made darker by the water. His stomach was flat and
firm, his slim hips a solid start for muscled thighs and lower legs.
Swallowing convulsively, Anne forced herself to look away. "I'm sorry,"
she murmured. "I didn't realize there would be a shortage."
"Didn't realize?" he mocked loudly. "Well, next time, realize. I like my
showers long and hot, too!"
Annoyed that he was annoyed, since this was her house for the week, she
took a mouthful of coffee and then nearly choked. "My God," she cried
when she finally swallowed, "this coffee is like mud! What did you put
in here? Or should I ask"-her eyes narrowed-"how much of my coffee did
you put into that pot? I don't see any groceries of yours around here.
Make yourself right at home, thanks a lot."
His anger faded. Lips twitching, he leaned nonchalantly against the
doorjamb. "Why shouldn't I make myself at home? I plan to spend the week
here."
She sputtered out a furious laugh. "Oh, no, you're not." She rose
quickly, forgetting every good intention to keep calm. "You'll have to
find another place. I'm sure you'll have no trouble, what with your
delightful personality and winning smile."
With an arrogant shift of his shoulders, he left the doorjamb and
placidly headed away. "You find the substitute," he called over his
shoulder. "I'll be staying here."
She trailed him. "You can't!"
At the bathroom door he turned so suddenly that she nearly bumped into
him. She took a defensive step back.
He raised his right arm to rest high on the door. His left, with an
angry red scar glaring from its upper half, hung by his hip. His body
was a solid wall of stunning man.
"Are you going to stop me?" he drawled with an insolent silver gleam in
his eye.
Anne tried to think up a sensible reply. When none came she turned on
her heel and retraced her steps. She was hungry, she told herself. She
needed breakfast. But she didn't do more than nibble on the scrambled
eggs and toast that she made.
What to do. If she wasn't so far away from home and so badly in need of
that distance, she might have simply packed up and left. But she wasn't
staying out of pride. She did need the distance.
"Aren't you eating?" Again his voice startled her. This time, though, he
was fully dressed. His jaw was clean-shaven and smelling of a lime
aftershave. His hair was neatly combed and reached back collar of his
wool plaid shirt. A wide leather belt hugged his hips, dark blue jeans
his legs. Tan desert boots color-coordinated with his hair. His eyes
were light green and calm.
He repeated the question. "You're not hungry?" The way he looked at her
plate said that if she wasn't, he was.
With a sigh of defeat she pushed the dish across the table. "Help
yourself"
With an exaggerated, "Thank you," he lowered himself into a chair and
took her up on her offer. She was starting to think that he might
actually have manners, when he said, "Geez, no wonder you're so thin.
You've scrambled these eggs so dry they're impossible to swallow. If
this is the way you always cook, it's a miracle you haven't wasted away
to nothing."
Anne's jaw dropped. Jeff had never complained about anything, least of
all her cooking.
Sitting straighter, she said, "If you don't like my cooking, then don't
eat it! As a matter of fact, I don't like you very much, so why don't we
dispense with breakfast and get to work finding a solution to this
mess." Only when she stopped, did she realize she'd been shouting. There
were also tears in her eyes again. Again. Jamming her knuckles against
her mouth, she looked away.
More softly, Mitch asked, "How did you get into this mess, as you call
it, Anne? Why aren't you with your husband?"
"That's none of your business."
"Are you divorced?"
"No."
"Are you working on the separate-vacation concept?"
"No."
"He doesn't know you're here?"
She gave a bitter laugh. "No."
"You've run away?"
Her composure cracked. "Will you leave me alone? Just go! Get out!
Let me be!"
He didn't move. "Why did you leave your husband?"
"That's none of your business!"
"No? In my book, marriage is a precious thing. Some people treasure it
and then lose it through no fault of their own. Others throw it away. If
we're going to spend the week together, I want to know which it is. So
tell me why you left him. If it was just your lousy cooking or your
selfishness in the shower, he'd have left you." He paused. "Is that what
happened?"
She looked him in the eye. "He didn't leave me. I didn't leave him. We
loved each other. He was in an accident, and now he's dead. Dead!" Her
