inhaling the scent of her body that clung to them. Doing it slowly, making it last.
His only consolation on the lonely ride home, and in the stark solitude of his bed,
was the fine tremble he remembered as she let him dress her; and the silent tear that
escaped as he kissed her forehead tenderly and whispered, "Goodnight."
Chapter 9
"Roll, you jerk! I said, roll, damn you!" Micah gave the long-handled stick another shove over the ceiling. The
round brush skidded obstinately and plopped yet another big dollop of white over the
paint-spattered T-shirt she wore. It did the same to the kerchief covering her head.
She made a noise that was somewhere between a curse, a groan, and a sob.
"Oh, excuse me. I must have taken a wrong turn. Here I came looking for a lady of
high society, and ended up with a sailor on the wrong side of the deck. The foul language
always gives them away."
Micah swung around at the sound of his voice. She was used to his impromptu visits,
but it was a constant source of irritation that he always managed to come when she
was in the middle of an impossible mess—most of them worse than the botched dinner
and what had followed.
Micah shivered in spite of the hot room. Chance had dressed her so tenderly, she had
wanted to beg him to stop, to undo the buttons once more. And when he had driven away,
it was torment the way he had left her hungering for him: Body and mind and spirit.
It was getting harder and harder to remember just what it was she was trying to prove,
and that fact alone irked her. Suddenly she felt a prickle of anger. It must be the
heat. Yes, the heat of the house, not the heat he was inciting by simply standing
there.
"Couldn't you call or at least knock first?" she muttered crossly.
"It's my house too." He dangled his copy of the house key.
They stared at each other in what seemed a standoff for a few moments before Chance
began to chuckle.
"You've got paint on your head."
"I know."
"And on your arms."
"So what's new?"
"Not to mention, your clothes look like they've been whitewashed."
"Enough, Chance. If I decide I want your opinion on my appearance, I'll ask for it."
"I'll give it to you anyway. Anyone told you lately you look good enough to eat?"
"Stop it. Chance!"
"I'm glad I'm the only one then. I'd hate to get messy by beating someone up for trespassing
on my turf."
"Chance...." So she was his turf, was she? The man was impossible! Maddening! To even
have the gall to say he didn't want to get messy while she stood there with paint from her head to her toes and he just sauntered around
in his fresh linen business suit.
Micah pointed the uncooperative paintbrush at him. "Messy?" she repeated. "I'll give
you messy, by golly. You come one step closer and we'll look like the Bobbsey Twins.
Now go away and don't come back until you're dressed for the occasion."
She slapped the roller back into the once-silver container that was now thickly coated
in white. After it was loaded, she deliberately ignored him, and pushed the roller
against the ceiling once again, silently praying just this once it would go on right
as he watched. She'd show him! She was good at this. The next time she might run away
screaming if she had to buy yet another supply of white paint, rollers, and masking
tape—but, by gosh, this time she'd show him, that was all.
"You know, it would help if you loosened the screw beside the roller. Then it might
actually roll instead of—"
She whirled around and fixed him with a lethal stare.
"Yes?" she said testily. Down came the roller, the stick thudding squarely against
the drop cloth. Micah held it like a staff meant to do bodily harm to anyone who got
in her way.
Chance shrugged, and she thought she saw the hint of a smile tug at his lips. If he
dared to smile at her predicament now, she just might be obliged to share the wealth.
Fancy suit or no.
Looking at him standing there
His only consolation on the lonely ride home, and in the stark solitude of his bed,
was the fine tremble he remembered as she let him dress her; and the silent tear that
escaped as he kissed her forehead tenderly and whispered, "Goodnight."
Chapter 9
"Roll, you jerk! I said, roll, damn you!" Micah gave the long-handled stick another shove over the ceiling. The
round brush skidded obstinately and plopped yet another big dollop of white over the
paint-spattered T-shirt she wore. It did the same to the kerchief covering her head.
She made a noise that was somewhere between a curse, a groan, and a sob.
"Oh, excuse me. I must have taken a wrong turn. Here I came looking for a lady of
high society, and ended up with a sailor on the wrong side of the deck. The foul language
always gives them away."
Micah swung around at the sound of his voice. She was used to his impromptu visits,
but it was a constant source of irritation that he always managed to come when she
was in the middle of an impossible mess—most of them worse than the botched dinner
and what had followed.
Micah shivered in spite of the hot room. Chance had dressed her so tenderly, she had
wanted to beg him to stop, to undo the buttons once more. And when he had driven away,
it was torment the way he had left her hungering for him: Body and mind and spirit.
It was getting harder and harder to remember just what it was she was trying to prove,
and that fact alone irked her. Suddenly she felt a prickle of anger. It must be the
heat. Yes, the heat of the house, not the heat he was inciting by simply standing
there.
"Couldn't you call or at least knock first?" she muttered crossly.
"It's my house too." He dangled his copy of the house key.
They stared at each other in what seemed a standoff for a few moments before Chance
began to chuckle.
"You've got paint on your head."
"I know."
"And on your arms."
"So what's new?"
"Not to mention, your clothes look like they've been whitewashed."
"Enough, Chance. If I decide I want your opinion on my appearance, I'll ask for it."
"I'll give it to you anyway. Anyone told you lately you look good enough to eat?"
"Stop it. Chance!"
"I'm glad I'm the only one then. I'd hate to get messy by beating someone up for trespassing
on my turf."
"Chance...." So she was his turf, was she? The man was impossible! Maddening! To even
have the gall to say he didn't want to get messy while she stood there with paint from her head to her toes and he just sauntered around
in his fresh linen business suit.
Micah pointed the uncooperative paintbrush at him. "Messy?" she repeated. "I'll give
you messy, by golly. You come one step closer and we'll look like the Bobbsey Twins.
Now go away and don't come back until you're dressed for the occasion."
She slapped the roller back into the once-silver container that was now thickly coated
in white. After it was loaded, she deliberately ignored him, and pushed the roller
against the ceiling once again, silently praying just this once it would go on right
as he watched. She'd show him! She was good at this. The next time she might run away
screaming if she had to buy yet another supply of white paint, rollers, and masking
tape—but, by gosh, this time she'd show him, that was all.
"You know, it would help if you loosened the screw beside the roller. Then it might
actually roll instead of—"
She whirled around and fixed him with a lethal stare.
"Yes?" she said testily. Down came the roller, the stick thudding squarely against
the drop cloth. Micah held it like a staff meant to do bodily harm to anyone who got
in her way.
Chance shrugged, and she thought she saw the hint of a smile tug at his lips. If he
dared to smile at her predicament now, she just might be obliged to share the wealth.
Fancy suit or no.
Looking at him standing there
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