lazy, unbearably sexy smile; the sheer blasted mischief he wore for an expression half the time. The touch of his hands, the tender way he kissed, the manner in which his mouth and body moved in an embrace, pulling her in like an intimate undertow, making her forget rhyme and reason and…
Hurriedly, Bree mentally catalogued Hart’s safer physical attributes. Hairy legs, and Lord, they were hairy. Big feet. Bony knees. The shoulders of a mastodon. The silliest cowlick in the center of his head…
He suddenly lurched forward, pushing his hat back from his forehead, grinning at her. “You’re relaxed, Bree, aren’t you?”
She nodded warily. Why did that sound like a trick question?
“I knew you would be, if I got you out on the water. I thought to myself, She’s smarter than that—she’s lived here before and will know damn well there aren’t any fish in the pond—but when I saw you casting, I knew we were home free. When you think about it, someone has to buy encyclopedias from the door-to-door salesmen. Now, don’t get upset. That wasn’t meant as an insult. It’s an absolute delight to find a woman who’ll follow a man’s lead in this day and age…”
Hart sighed. Bree parted her lips to let out a detailed torrent of abuse…and when her vocal cords refused to respond, something inside her snapped. Mindlessly, she threw her weight forward, and the canoe precariously tipped.
“Easy—” Hart yelled.
Easy nothing. Frustration boiled up like a witch’s caldron inside her; she’d give a fortune for a working tongue. Unthinkingly, she leaped to her feet, saw Hart’s hands grab wildly for her, felt the canoe lurch violently…
And the next thing she knew, she was over her head in the water. Icy water. She surged to the surface, batting furiously at her curtain of soaking hair, and swirled around until she spotted the canoe. Treading water and gasping, she took one look at Hart—who was leaning back against his cushion, roaring his head off—and determinedly swam toward the canoe.
“Now, Bree…It was funny. Where’s your sense of humor?”
She pushed. And pushed. The canoe rocked wildly in the water, but refused to capsize.
“It won’t work, sweetheart. You know how canoes are made. Easy to tip from the inside—good heavens, didn’t you know that?—but not that easy to overturn from the outside. Oh, shoot,” he said mildly. “I seem to have made you angry again.”
Abruptly, Hart dropped his crooked grin. In the middle of the sunlit pond, his eyes held hers, blue and fiercely compelling. “And you are angry, aren’t you, honey? Yell. Go ahead. Scream at me, Bree. Don’t you want to tell me what you think of me, sweetheart?” he whispered like a teasing taunt. “Come on, Bree.”
She sent a furious wave splashing in his face, and then whirled around, starting a rapid crawl toward shore. She heard him sputtering for an instant. Not nearly long enough.
“Don’t you want to fish anymore?” He called after her, almost managing to sound disappointed. “Never mind, I’ll see you tonight. I’ve got a dinner date, but I’ll be there around nine. Lay out my sleeping bag for me?” He added in a roar, “And put some more antiseptic on your hand!”
By seven, Bree was alternately fussing with tiny glass bottles and eyedroppers at the kitchen table and worriedly glancing at the clock. Normally, she could count on work with her perfumes to get her mind off anything, but this evening she was having trouble concentrating. The balsam and citronella were already in; so were the drops of civet and orange oil. Flipping the stopper from the vial of bergamot, she squeezed the eyedropper and started counting. Four, five, six…
Her eyes flipped up to the clock again. Are you really just going to let him come in here and walk all over you again? What are you, a doormat?
Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…
Locked doors hadn’t worked. But then, locked doors were kind of like locked
Hurriedly, Bree mentally catalogued Hart’s safer physical attributes. Hairy legs, and Lord, they were hairy. Big feet. Bony knees. The shoulders of a mastodon. The silliest cowlick in the center of his head…
He suddenly lurched forward, pushing his hat back from his forehead, grinning at her. “You’re relaxed, Bree, aren’t you?”
She nodded warily. Why did that sound like a trick question?
“I knew you would be, if I got you out on the water. I thought to myself, She’s smarter than that—she’s lived here before and will know damn well there aren’t any fish in the pond—but when I saw you casting, I knew we were home free. When you think about it, someone has to buy encyclopedias from the door-to-door salesmen. Now, don’t get upset. That wasn’t meant as an insult. It’s an absolute delight to find a woman who’ll follow a man’s lead in this day and age…”
Hart sighed. Bree parted her lips to let out a detailed torrent of abuse…and when her vocal cords refused to respond, something inside her snapped. Mindlessly, she threw her weight forward, and the canoe precariously tipped.
“Easy—” Hart yelled.
Easy nothing. Frustration boiled up like a witch’s caldron inside her; she’d give a fortune for a working tongue. Unthinkingly, she leaped to her feet, saw Hart’s hands grab wildly for her, felt the canoe lurch violently…
And the next thing she knew, she was over her head in the water. Icy water. She surged to the surface, batting furiously at her curtain of soaking hair, and swirled around until she spotted the canoe. Treading water and gasping, she took one look at Hart—who was leaning back against his cushion, roaring his head off—and determinedly swam toward the canoe.
“Now, Bree…It was funny. Where’s your sense of humor?”
She pushed. And pushed. The canoe rocked wildly in the water, but refused to capsize.
“It won’t work, sweetheart. You know how canoes are made. Easy to tip from the inside—good heavens, didn’t you know that?—but not that easy to overturn from the outside. Oh, shoot,” he said mildly. “I seem to have made you angry again.”
Abruptly, Hart dropped his crooked grin. In the middle of the sunlit pond, his eyes held hers, blue and fiercely compelling. “And you are angry, aren’t you, honey? Yell. Go ahead. Scream at me, Bree. Don’t you want to tell me what you think of me, sweetheart?” he whispered like a teasing taunt. “Come on, Bree.”
She sent a furious wave splashing in his face, and then whirled around, starting a rapid crawl toward shore. She heard him sputtering for an instant. Not nearly long enough.
“Don’t you want to fish anymore?” He called after her, almost managing to sound disappointed. “Never mind, I’ll see you tonight. I’ve got a dinner date, but I’ll be there around nine. Lay out my sleeping bag for me?” He added in a roar, “And put some more antiseptic on your hand!”
By seven, Bree was alternately fussing with tiny glass bottles and eyedroppers at the kitchen table and worriedly glancing at the clock. Normally, she could count on work with her perfumes to get her mind off anything, but this evening she was having trouble concentrating. The balsam and citronella were already in; so were the drops of civet and orange oil. Flipping the stopper from the vial of bergamot, she squeezed the eyedropper and started counting. Four, five, six…
Her eyes flipped up to the clock again. Are you really just going to let him come in here and walk all over you again? What are you, a doormat?
Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…
Locked doors hadn’t worked. But then, locked doors were kind of like locked
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