Delilah's Weakness by Kathleen Creighton

vision. He could see right through her baggy clothes to her satin chemise, and beyond that to her skin, which just now was no doubt flushing a deep dusty rose with mortification. And every time he looked at her from now on he would know.
    The silent interval lengthened. Delilah didn’t know whether she felt more like shouting at him or bursting into tears. After a long moment Luke shook his head and let his arm drop, and she slipped past him.
    "I’ll be through with the chores in an hour," she said jerkily as she snatched up her windbreaker and gloves. "Please be ready to leave."
    When she lurched back out the door she found Luke where she had left him, lounging against the frame, thumbs hooked in his hip pockets. She doubted he’d even heard her last statement. As he basked in the early–morning sunshine his eyes were focused on the clothesline, and his lips were curved in a smile of rapt fascination. Her underthings, it seemed, didn’t share her reservations. Stirred by the ever–present breezes, they flirted outrageously, undulating coyly and with an unbridled sensuousness they certainly never enjoyed when she was wearing them.
    Delilah put her head down and stomped up to the barn, blotting out the sight by visualizing hideous medieval tortures featuring the handsome president of Thermodyne, Inc.
    ** ** **
    "I can’t understand it," Delilah said for the fourth time. "It’s never done this before. I’ve never had a bit of trouble with it."
    The pickup’s starter growled ineffectually a few more times, gave a dispirited
clunk
, and lapsed into silence.
    "Maybe it’s flooded," Luke offered helpfully.
    She shook her head and reached for the door handle. "It’s never flooded before. I’m going to take a look."
    "Stay there. I’ll look while you try to turn it over."
    "Do you know anything about engines?"
    "I’m an engineer," he said loftily, climbing out of the cab. A moment later his voice came from under the hood. "Try ‘er now." And then, "Okay—now." And still later, "How’s this?" He came walking back to the cab, dusting his hands and shaking his head. "Might be your starter." He sounded dubious.
    Delilah hoped her expression told him what she thought of his mechanical aptitude. "It’s probably flooded," she muttered as she reluctantly abandoned the fight and climbed out of the truck, giving it a look of reproach as she slammed the door. "The way my life’s been going lately, it figures."
    "You can try it after a while," Luke said soothingly. "After you’ve—I mean,
it’s
cooled down."
    She threw him another blistering glare and stalked up the hill toward the pasture. It isn’t fair, she thought.
I’ve been invaded by an alien.
First her pasture, then her house, her
bed, for God’s sake,
her kitchen, and now the most personal, private place of all—her fantasies.
    What next? Is there no sanctuary from this man?
    "So," Luke asked cheerfully, striding buoyantly along beside her, "what’s on your schedule for today?"
    "Why?"
    "Oh, I don’t know. I thought I might as well give you a hand. I’ve got nothing better to do while I’m waiting. And," he added, holding his arms out wide just in case she might not have noticed his brawny arms and khaki–clad chest, "I’m even dressed for it."
    Delilah postponed her answer by climbing deftly and unhesitatingly over the pasture fence. After one doubtful look at the strand of barbed wire along the top of the fence, Luke followed. Delilah heard his muffled oath and grinned, her spirits beginning to rise a little. She paused to allow Luke, muttering profanely and rubbing his thigh, to catch up.
    "I still have to sort those ewes," she told him, plowing steadily across the corner of the pasture toward the holding pen, purposely choosing a shortcut that would take them over yet another fence. She gave him a considering look. "I guess you could be of some help at that."
    He folded his arms on his chest, an unconsciously macho stance, full of self–confidence.