Can’t Say No Page 8

  She didn’t like the man. She just felt…attracted to him, like a bee to honey, like a magnet to metal. Maybe she was just experiencing a bad case of loneliness? Regardless, this was definitely the first chance she’d had to get back at him for his patronizing bossiness, the only real reason she trailed after the ranting bear, toting two fishing poles while he carried the open can of worms. As they approached the pond, she saw a canoe, tugged up on the stone beach and outfitted with a tackle box and two pillows.

  Fishing, was it? A tiny smile of triumph hovered on Bree’s lips, but she masked it when Hart turned to her. “You get in first, lightweight,” he ordered. “And don’t get all prissy about baiting the hook. I’ll do it for you.”

  So kind. Bree stepped into the freezing water with bare feet, and lifted her leg carefully over the side of the canoe.

  “Put the pillow behind your back,” he ordered. “And leave the paddles alone, with those hands. I’ll handle that.”

  Orders, orders, orders. Bree leaned back against the boat cushion, crossed her legs and savored the warmth of dappled sunlight on her cheeks as she anticipated the comeuppance she knew was awaiting Hart. She’d watch him fish, all right. The pond was fed from melting snows on the mountaintops; a thin stream of a silver waterfall constantly kept it filled. Fish, however, did not spontaneously appear just because there was water. There were tons of places to fish in the area, but this was not one of them-unless Hart had stocked the pond in the last few minutes.

  “Now…” He shoved off, lifted a dripping leg inside the canoe and settled lazily, facing her. After he got them out to the middle of the pond, he lifted the dripping paddle inside and just let the canoe sway to and fro in the breeze. He reached for one of the fishing poles and frowned at her. “You’re going to get your nose all sunburned.”

  Before she could stop him, he’d flipped open a tube of white cream and dabbed a streak of it on her nose, nearly tipping over the canoe in the process. “Better,” he said with satisfaction. “There are sunglasses in the tackle box if you want them.”

  Attaching a worm to his hook, he cast his line in the water, stuffed a pillow behind his back, pulled his hat down and did a reasonable job of looking as if he were taking a nap. Which was exactly the kind of fishing Bree suspected Hart knew how to do, being such a self-proclaimed expert at laziness.

  Determinedly, she reached for the other pole. He wasn’t sleeping, or he wouldn’t have suddenly tipped back his hat in time to grin at her as she reached for the worm with her mouth all screwed up as if she’d just eaten an unripe persimmon. Gram had never baited Bree’s hook for her; Bree was certainly capable of doing it herself, but that didn’t necessarily mean that she had ever liked worms.

  Having nothing better to do, and certainly wanting to sucker Hart along on this “fishing” expedition of his, Bree expertly cast her line and snuck a glance at Hart…who appeared to be napping again. He missed her move-a cast five thousand times better than his own. It hardly mattered, since there weren’t any fish, but it was a point of pride. She was sick to bits of his constant accusations that she failed to do anything, as if she were an incompetent little ninny.

  While he napped, she cast and recast, slowly reeling in her line, whirling it around her head to toss it into the water again, her hook landing exactly where she aimed it. The fool might just learn something, if he’d open his eyes. Only when she made an unobtrusive attempt to rub off the gob of white cream on her nose did she realize he was awake.

  “I wouldn’t,” he said mildly. “You know I’ll just put more on. We can’t have you broiled like a lobster, lazy one.” Hart sighed, throwing one leg over the gunwale of the canoe. “This is the life, I swear. Sun, surf and a silent woman. What more could any man ask for?”

  Bree might have asked for a little less ego on the part of her companion. Weren’t his little darlings on the hill enough for him? A silent woman, indeed. He obviously loved it when she took his verbal bait, so she refused to show by even a flicker of expression that he was getting to her. Setting down the pole, she leaned back against the cushion and…

  Relaxed. Dammit, she was relaxed. She knew darn well she looked bedraggled in the wrinkled madras blouse and old shorts. Her hair hadn’t been brushed in hours; she wasn’t wearing a bit of makeup…but somehow all of the tension of the morning was stealing away, replaced by a somnolent sense of well-being. The steady slip-slop of the boat, the sun’s warm, soothing rays, even Hart’s own laziness seemed to be infecting her. A few days ago at the airport she’d felt so terribly raw, inside and out. It occurred to her how rarely she didn’t feel on, even for her family and friends, playing roles and fulfilling expectations. But with Hart…well. For someone who’d already seen you at your worst, you hardly felt obligated to put on airs.

  Trailing her good hand in the water, Bree threw back her head and felt the sun beat down like a healing balm. She wasn’t exactly attracted to him, she thought idly. It was more fascination. Any woman would undoubtedly feel some of that fascination.

  It was those midnight-blue eyes, for one thing. The phrase bedroom eyes was such a cliché still, if she were ever inclined to take a man to bed because of a pair of eyes, those were the pair. The way his lips parted in a 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 he
ard 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 tongues-excuses for inaction. She’d always had good excuses for letting other people direct the flow of her life. Gram would have been…disgusted with her.

  Twenty-nine, thirty. Pushing the stopper back into the vial, she reached for the heated wine. Once she had poured the proper amount of special alcohol into the mixture, she glanced again at the clock, bit her lip and started slowly stirring the fragrant liquid.

  Hart…bothered her. It was more than his irritating attitude and pushiness. It was him. The man. When he was around, she always felt close to losing control, and Bree never lost control. He’d accused her of anger, and he was right. But anger at herself or at him? It was him, of course. It had to be that she was just continually angry at him.

  She carried her perfume concoction into the corner where she’d set up the tiny still. It would take days before either of the new perfumes was ready, but the cabin was already filled with the blended soft scents of fruits and flowers. As Bree put away the last of her ingredients, she glanced at the clock again. Eight-thirty, and if he was actually going to arrive by nine…

  He was not going to find a doormat. Tossing the towel on the table, Bree bolted for the loft steps and took them two at a time. Within ten minutes, she’d burrowed into Gram’s wardrobe and stripped off her jeans. After changing clothes, she made a trip to the old shed, and after that she dragged the old rocker out onto the porch.

  By nine, she was waiting for Hart. Dusk had settled around her like a gentle mist; the birds had stopped singing, and animals were sneaking from the woods for a peek into the clearing. Bree’s bare feet were stuffed into a ragged old pair of men’s boots. Her calico skirt was gathered at the waist and reached midcalf; above it she wore a drawstring peasant blouse. A straw hat perched on her head. She was the image of a mountain woman, and Bree hadn’t forgotten the pitchfork on her lap. Maybe she couldn’t talk, but then, they say actions speak louder than words. Hart should be able to figure out the general message.

  Her chair creaked violently as she rocked, until she found herself yawning. Nine past, and then nine-fifteen. Flanking her were two citronella candles, ostensibly to chase off the mosquitoes but actually for light-that way she couldn’t possibly miss his approach, even if his car made no sound.

  His car made plenty of sound, roaring through the quiet night like a restless lion on the prowl. Instantly, Bree stiffened, laid the pitchfork across her lap just so, and kept on rocking, her eyes narrowed as the car came to a halt fifty feet from her.

  When Hart stepped out, her rocker started a furious creaking pace. This wasn’t the lazy Hart of the pond but the polished Hart of the plane. His hair was carelessly brushed back, catching the silver of moonlight, and his shoulders looked mammoth in a cream linen suit-one of those Italian tailored jobs of his. If he’d had a carnation in his lapel, he could have gone to a gangster’s wedding; as it was, he passed for damned gorgeous…and just a wee bit on the formal side, given the wilderness behind him and the occasional cry of a lone cougar.

  “Bree?”

  With her booted toe, she nudged his rolled-up sleeping bag down the porch steps as he slammed the door of his car. The pitchfork remained at the ready. He hadn’t been dining with any mountain boys, not in that attire. The woman had undoubtedly been breathtaking, and if even for a second he thought he was coming here for a free dessert…

  “Bree?”

  She rocked, her chin cocked at a stubborn angle. Hart stalked forward, his jacket open and one hand loosely in his trouser pocket…at least until his eyes finally adjusted to the candlelight and he caught a good look at her. His expression went blank, but she could feel his assessment, from the tacky straw hat down to the boots. His eyes rested for long seconds on the pitchfork-and being Hart, he had to spend some time scouting out the territory inside the peasant blouse. A poor choice, she should have thought of that.

  Still, she figured she’d done a fairly good job of getting her message across…particularly when for a few moments one could have heard a pin drop. Hart just stared with those eyes as dark as the woods behind them, no expression on his shadowed face that she could read.

  And then he slumped back, drawing a hand over his face. A shudder racked his body. Bree scowled. Another shudder, and suddenly his ridiculous guffaws were filling the night. He stumbled back. He said something, but he was so choked up with laughter she couldn’t make out his words.

  With no respect for his suit whatsoever, he collapsed on the grass with his head bent over his knees, laughing in absolutely uproarious humor.

  Bree leaped up and hurled the pitchfork off to one side. Funny, was it? She ran down the steps so fast she nearly tripped, her hands on her hips and her hat gone flying. “You…varmint. You…”

  The croaking voice seemed to be coming from miles away. Bree was too incensed to care. The hoarse whisper cracked and stuttered and creaked like a rusty record, but it gradually gained momentum. “You skunk! You egotistical, domineering, patronizing, know-it-all, interfering, insensitive, overbearing, pushy, sneaky…”

  The litany just kept coming.

  Chapter Seven

  Still seated on the ground, Hart wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. Leaning back on his elbows, his mouth twisted in a lopsided grin as Bree hovered menacingly over him. “Honey, you’re talking!”

  She was so mad she was shaking, words tumbling out like spilled rusty nails. “How many women do you have up there anyway? Thousands? If you think you’re camping out here again tonight, you’d just better not count those chickens, Manning. You wouldn’t be welcome here if I were a ninety-year-old virgin. I’ll sleep in the same room with you again when hell freezes over. You wouldn’t know a moral if you were painted with them. You-”

  “Keep it up,” Hart encouraged. “You’re doing terrific, Bree.” He leaped to his feet, grinning hugely. Upright, he let out one more exultant whoop of laughter and started stalking toward her. “Honey, you’re talking!”

  Bree was not to be diverted. “You wouldn’t know a principle if it shot you between the eyes. You have the sensitivity of an ox. Insensitive? Dammit, you’ve been cruel. You’re cruel and you’re pigheaded-”

  “You did it, honey! You finally did it!” With another bellow of laughter, Hart tugged off his jacket, balled it up as if it weren’t the most luxurious Italian linen Bree had ever seen and hurled it at the moon.

  She lost a little of her momentum, having completely run out of breath and being slightly stunned to see his expensive jacket decorating a bush at the edge of the woods. When she glanced back to him, her eyes narrowed warily and she folded her arms protectively across her chest. He was advancing very slowly, with a devilish grin that boded trouble for her sanity. She backed up a step. And then another. “Hart. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but don’t.”

  “You, lady, owe me a thank-you.”

  “A thank-you!” she sputtered incredulously. “All you’ve done since I’ve met you is interfer
e and order me around and act like a patronizing, chauvinistic-”

  “Hey. You’re talking, aren’t you?”

  Actually, she was still retreating, until the back of her skirt rubbed against the porch step. Her tormentor continued to stalk. She put out her hands in a gesture pleading for mercy that would have made a hardened criminal turn chivalrous. Hart kept coming. “Now just listen-”

  He raised his arms, clearly with every intention of snatching her. She ducked before he could and, grabbing her skirts so she wouldn’t trip, darted out of his reach and down the porch steps. She lost a boot in the process. Feeling like a perfect fool, she raced across the grass and promptly lost the other boot. She had more speed barefoot, but when she glanced over her shoulder, Hart was gaining on her. “Listen. We’re two grown people, for heaven’s sake. You behave-”

  “You stand still.”

  Maybe when it snowed in June. Bree ducked and circled and dodged, moonlight streaming through her hair and her heart pounding. Hart might be a powerhouse, but she was faster. The chase sent an exhilarating high through her blood; she felt as if she’d just showered in champagne. It was so silly, so childish…

  And when Hart snaked an arm around her waist from behind, she collapsed on the grass-not because he’d used any force, but because she couldn’t continue to run, she was laughing so hard.

  They lay sprawled within feet of each other on Bree’s haphazardly mowed grass. Hart’s chest was heaving as hard as hers; his roars of exultant laughter filled the night. His husky chuckles were catching-worse than chicken pox, Bree thought wildly, but he was so crazy, and she felt such deep, endless relief that her speech had returned, and the night was sultry and warm, with no one around-

  And she was totally unprepared when Hart’s hands sneaked across and grabbed her. One minute she was flat on the grass, and the next she was sprawled in an ungainly mass on Hart’s belly.