“You couldn’t get a tree service to send anyone out this afternoon,” John said. “And you need to get some kind of cover over the hole in your roof. What if it rains tonight?”
Millie looked up at billowy white clouds in a blue sky. “Unlikely.” She sighed. “But possible.” She hesitated, then put reluctance aside and muttered, “I’ll call Raybo and ask him what he thinks.”
“About the weather?” Brig asked coyly.
“About me hiring you to work on my roof.”
“How much will you pay me, love?”
“It’s the same deal no matter who you work for.”
“But this is special. I might have to do things I wouldn’t do for anyone else.”
“Wrestle an oak tree?” Millie glanced at John and found him grinning widely. Suddenly she realized that anyone with eyes could see what was going on between her and Brig. She stiffened and frowned. “Can I use your phone, John?”
“Go right ahead, Millie. There’s one inside the barn entrance. Left side.”
“I’ll be waitin’ in the car, Melisande,” Brig added.
“Melisande?” John echoed in an incredulous voice. Then he laughed heartily. “She’s not a fancy Melisande, boy. She’s little ol’ Millie, the toughest female this side of the Mississippi.”
Millie felt color rising in her cheeks. It didn’t matter that Brig gave her an apologetic look as she marched past him toward the barn. He was in deep trouble.
“Look, sweetheart, I don’t know sign language, and I’ve taken a likin’ to the sound of your voice.”
Millie cut the Buick’s engine and shoved her door open before she glared at him. “This is my home,” she said sharply, and swept her hand toward a whitewashed cottage surrounded by colorful flower gardens and huge trees. One of the trees hugged the back corner of the gray-shingled roof. “That’s the tree. There’s a shed in the backyard where you’ll find tools and a ladder. I’m going inside to get my work gloves. I might have an extra pair that will fit your big hands, but if I don’t, I’ll enjoy watching you get blisters.”
“Ow. That’s cold.” Brig stood, grasped the passenger door, and vaulted out of the car with a fluid, athletic movement. He watched quietly, feeling troubled, as she went inside without another word, then turned his attention to his surroundings. Her house sat at the end of a long, graveled driveway in the midst of an old, old forest. It was a lovely place but somehow strange.
He finally determined why. The telephone and electrical lines were underground. Except for the car’s presence and the asphalt roof shingles, he might have been looking back through time at least a hundred years.
Brig was inside the backyard shed when she brought him a pair of gloves. “Here, McKay.” she ordered, and thrust them at him.
Without looking up from a box full of carpentry tools, he replied in a low, firm voice, “Use my first name or it’s no go.”
“I don’t have the time or the patience to argue with you. All right. Here, Brig.”
He took the gloves, then looked her straight in the eyes. “And be civil to me. I’m sorry John Washington laughed at your name, but I’m still gonna call you Melisande, because I like it and it suits you. And if you thought of yourself as a Melisande, pretty soon other people would too.”
This aura of cool authority was a new angle to his personality, one that made her gaze back at him speechlessly. “Call me what you like,” she finally managed to say. “I’ve given up trying to get your cooperation.”
“You’ve got my cooperation. And my respect, and my friendship. Quit treatin’ me like a croc who’s about to gobble you alive.”
“Quit flirting with me then.”
“Melisande, m’dear, flirtin’ is ingrained in my nature. But that doesn’t mean I’m an Ocker gone troppo.”
“A what?”
He rubbed his head and thought for a moment. “A daffy redneck. I’m not gonna pounce on you like a kangaroo with an itch.” He paused. “Not right away, at least.”
“That’s very reassuring,” she said dryly. Under her T-shirt her heart was racing. Just when did he plan to pounce on her? And what would she do about it? He was a prisoner and she was a law officer. She’d never forget that barrier. And she wasn’t his kind of woman—she didn’t know whose kind of woman she was, anymore—but one thing was certain. She wasn’t going to get involved with a man who’d eventually leave Paradise Springs without looking back.
“Can we get to work?” she asked bluntly.
He smiled and looked at her through slitted, reproachful eyes. “Please.”
“Can we get to work, please, your Australian highness?”
“Righto, love.”
They carried both hand and chain saws to the side of the house. Brig nestled the ladder between two enormous crepe myrtle bushes by the wall, bowed low, and swung a hand toward it. “You first, Melisande. I’ll catch you if you try to fly.”
She curtsied, then climbed to the roof without faltering. Brig stood below and admired her beautiful round rump without the least bit of pretense. Millie knew it, and couldn’t manage to feel anything but giddy. When she reached the roof, she sat down and fanned herself furiously.
Holding the hand saw, Brig climbed up beside her, then pulled the chain saw up with a rope before getting lithely to his feet and picking his way through the tangle of tree limbs to the point where the trunk had torn a hole in the roof. Millie followed carefully and stood beside him, gazing down.
“Glory be,” he said in an awed tone. He bent over and braced his hands on both knees, all the time gazing at the gash in the roof. “This tells me what to expect. It’s gonna be interestin’.”
“Is it so bad that it can’t be fixed?” she asked weakly. “Do you think I’ll have to replace the whole roof?”
“Pink satin. You’ve got pink satin sheets. I can see ’em on your bed.”
He began chuckling even before she slapped his shoulder and sputtered, “Concentrate on the roof, buster.” But when he turned to look at her, his expression was so affectionate that she smiled at him.
“You’ve got a fantastic smile, Melisande.” He became brusque with comical suddenness. “But no more of that kind of kookaburra chatterin’. You use the hand saw and I’ll take the chain saw. Love, have you ever used the chain saw? It probably weighs more than you do.”
“It belonged to my father. I admit defeat where it’s concerned. I managed to crank the thing once, and I nearly cut off my toes. I’ll be happy to stick with the hand saw, thank you.”
“Well, then, let’s start attackin’ the limbs on this mangy hunk of tree.”
They worked for nearly an hour before the chain saw ran out of gas. Even in early evening the sun was scorching, and they sat down on a corner of the roof that was shaded by another large oak. Brig pulled his shirt off, wiped his face briskly, then handed the shirt to her.
Millie allowed herself a couple of heart-stopping seconds to admire his naked, hairy chest, and then she rubbed her face with his T-shirt as if she could erase his appeal from her mind. She chose the wrong avenue for escape, because his shirt carried his scent and the erotic dampness of his sweat. She handed it back to him and tried to arrange a neutral expression on her face.
Brig tossed the shirt aside and lay down on his back with his arms under his head. Millie thought that laying down beside him would be the most thrilling and also the most dangerous thing in the world—even on the roof—so she remained upright.
“What a homeplace this is,” he murmured, gazing up at the oak tree’s massive limbs. “How old is it?”
“Over a hundred and fifty years. You remember my great-great-great-grandparents, the pirates?”
“Hmmm.”
“This cottage was their first home. It was built in 1835. They owned hundreds of acres around it. They built a manor house about half a mile from here, but after they died it got in bad condition. One of their great-grandchildren inherited it, and he burned it down.”
“And what’s b
ecome of all the land?”
“It was parceled out to various relatives, who sold it bit by bit. Now this cottage and a few acres around it are all that still belong to a member of the Surprise family. It’s all that’s left of the old Surprise plantation.”
“Plantation? Why, Scarlett! What an interestin’ family you have!”
“It wasn’t something out of Gone With the Wind. It was more like the wild west, especially during the wars with the Seminole Indians. Plus, my family never owned slaves.”
“Good for them,” he said sincerely. “A bonzer heritage you’ve got, love.”
She had to think for a moment to recall that bonzer meant something good. “Thank you.”
“And how did a French pirate get a name like Surprise?”
She chuckled. “His name was Jacques St. Serpris. He Americanized it to Surprise. I think great-great-great-grandfather had a sense of humor. I know he was stubborn.”
“Eh?”
“This cottage is built of coquina. It’s a sand, shell, and mortar mixture that’s as sturdy as modern concrete. But the ingredients had to be hauled all the way from the coast. According to an old diary left by great-great-great-grandmother Melisande, Jacques was determined that their honeymoon cottage would never be destroyed. It’s survived Indian attacks, tornados, and fires. Believe me, the roof may fall in, but the walls will always be here.”
“Old Jacques was a romantic. I think I like him. You said something once about him kidnappin’ Granny Melisande?”
“Uh-huh, Stole her right out of her bedroom the night before her wedding to a minor member of the Spanish royalty. I think she was thrilled to escape the marriage, but not so thrilled to be carried off by a pirate.” Millie smiled. “Obviously, at some point, she changed her mind. They had eight children.”
“So, my little Melisande, are you waitin’ to be carried off by your own pirate?”
Millie’s smile faded. “Pirates carry off damsels in distress, not deputy sheriffs who know karate. I don’t believe in fantasy.”
Brig rolled over on one side and propped his head on his hand. He eyed her shrewdly. “You had a special bloke back in Alabama, when you worked as a secretary for Rucker McClure. Suds told me.”
She arched one brow and gave him a sardonic look. “Remind me to thank Suds.”
Brig’s voice was gentle. “You got your heart trampled. I can tell.”
She nodded. Oddly, she felt comfortable talking to Brig about it. Later, she’d have to analyze this strange tum of events. “After two years of devoted fantasy, I ‘got my heart trampled’.”
“You were too much woman for him.”
“Thank you. I wasn’t enough woman for him. Not in the ways that men think are important.”
“What men?” Brig asked bluntly. “Don’t go lumpin’ us all together like grits in a tub.”
She smiled, and suddenly she realized how easy it was to adore him. Millie shoved that worrisome thought aside. “Grits don’t lump if you cook them right,” she corrected.
“Don’t change the subject. I’m itchin’ to know what us men want from women.”
Millie forced herself to look nonchalant. “Oh, you want a combination of Marilyn Monroe and Betty Crocker.”
“Who’s Betty Crocker?”
She kept forgetting that he’d only been in the States a few years. “Never mind. The point is, men don’t know how to react to women who act macho.”
“Well, Rambo Surprise, I don’t think you’re macho.”
Millie gazed at him in disbelief. “I beat up a mugger once. I mean, he was terrified.”
“The guy who tried to rob this place?”
“Before that. I was in Birmingham with that fellow who trampled my heart. We were walking to the car after a concert at the civic center, and a guy tried to hold us up. My date was ready to give in, but I—” She looked down at the hands she’d clasped tightly in her lap. “I said ‘Hell, no,’ and went on a rampage. The Birmingham police gave me a special commendation for civilian bravery.”
Brig laughed until he saw the chagrined expression on her face. “Love, I’m not laughin’ at you. It’s just that I can imagine you poundin’ the hell out of some unsuspectin’ buzzard. I’m proud of you.”
Her green eyes widened. “Why?”
“It’s excitin’.”
“But not sexy.”
“And sexy.”
“Bullfeathers,” she muttered.
The expression on his weathered face became serious and thoughtful. “So this bloke who was with you didn’t approve of you defendin’ the both of you?”
“He was humiliated. It was the beginning of the end for us.” Millie thumped one knee in frustration. “I had tried for so long to be what he wanted. And in one night, I ruined everything.”
“You didn’t ruin anything, love. You don’t belong with a poofdah.”
“A poofdah?”
Brig held up one hand, then let it dangle limply from the wrist.
Despite her intense feelings, Millie choked back a chortle. “He wasn’t a poofdah.”
“What was he, then?”
“He was one of the governor’s top-ranking assistants. He wore expensive three-piece suits with monogrammed silk handkerchiefs in the breast pockets. He quoted Shakespeare, and when we went to French restaurants, he ordered in French. People always referred to him by his full name—John Franken Hepswood the Fifth. That ought to tell you something.”
“And you tried to be the perfect uppercrust political girlfriend.”
“I nearly made it too.”
“You never would have lasted, love. There’s too much fightin’ blood in you.”
Tears rose to her eyes. “I know.”
“Melisande,” he said huskily. “Don’t cry.”
“I’m not.” A pair of tears slipped down her cheeks nonetheless, but not because of the past. She cried because suddenly she realized that her grand passion for John Franken Hepswood The Fifth paled in comparison to the emotions she felt looking at Brig, a near stranger. She wanted to come apart inside the arms of the man who was stretched out on her rooftop wearing only western boots and convict’s pants, his chest glistening with sweat.
She wanted to fall in love with a man whose weathered face bespoke a lifetime of adventure, a man who liked her simply because she could provide more of the same. She wanted him like the sun wants to shine. And she knew that she could never have him.
“I’m not going to try to change to suit a man again,” she murmured. “I know now that I’d eventually be miserable. It wouldn’t work.”
“I’m happy with you the way you are,” he whispered.
Millie stared at him for a moment, then added slowly, “The way I look, you mean. I’m not talking about being pretty—”
“There are lots of pretty women in the world, Melisande. You’re tip-top, but that’s not what makes you special.”
She didn’t believe him, but she wanted so badly to believe him that she forgot common sense and, reaching out swiftly, stroked his cheek with the backs of her fingers. “You’re a grand liar, mate,” she rebuked softly, mimicking his accent.
“Aw …”
“I’m not special. I’m different. My father and brothers were afraid the whole world would take advantage of me because I was little and cute, so they taught me to be dangerous and unbreakablez.”
“I don’t want to break you, love. Let me learn all about you, and then if you do break, I’ll put you back together better than before.”
Brig grasped her hand and kissed the palm. He kissed it a second time, his mouth firm and damp, while his eyes burned her with a serious, hungry look.
Millie looked away but found only more temptation as she watched the harsh rise and fall of his chest. She thought desperately that she didn’t want this, this reckless impulse she fought to control every time she was near him. He made muscle and bone seem to soften inside her until she could concentrate on nothing but the need for his touch. Her breasts were s
wollen now, and her body was damp in ways that had nothing to do with external temperatures.
Millie knew he could see how hungry she was for everything he offered. She could argue and try to ignore it, but she craved the pleasure he gave so boldly. Would it be so terrible to take that simple pleasure and pretend that nothing else mattered?
Her voice came out raspy and low. “If we got involved, it would be so easy to pretend that we were perfect together.”
He licked her palm with the tip of his tongue. “We would be perfect.”
“If I weren’t a deputy and you weren’t a prisoner. If you didn’t have to leave Paradise Springs when your sentence ends. If I thought I was right for you.”
“Dammit, you are right for me.”
“In some ways.” She tilted her head and gave him a look of determination. “We’re both fighters.”
“It’s not the fightin’ I admire as much as the spirit,” he corrected.
“And if the spirit proved to be too untraditional?”
“Melisande, I’m not like that fellow you left in Birmingham.”
“You don’t know me very well. And I don’t know you.”
His blue eyes glittered fiercely. “You know me. You know that you’ve met your match.”
She nodded Immediately. “And maybe I don’t want to spend the rest of my life looking for someone to take your place after you’re gone.”
He pulled abruptly and forcefully on her hand, and she lost her balance on the angled roof, flinging out her free hand. He caught it, too, then drew her forward. She sprawled on his chest, and he held her hands behind his head so that she couldn’t move away from him.
“Why the hell do you look on the dark side of everything?” he demanded. “You don’t want a man to humiliate you again because you’re not like other women. Fine. But that’s a sloppy excuse for avoidin’ me.”
“I’ve read articles about you,” she told him crisply. “You’re very traditional. You told a reporter from the Atlanta Journal that most men want a woman who’s soft and helpless.”
He exhaled in exasperation. “But in the next breath I told the yahoo that I myself fancy women who can wrestle crocodiles and raise hell. That they make life more interestin’. The mangy devil didn’t print that line though. Got me in trouble up to my eyeballs with all the women’s libbers.” His voice rose dramatically. “I don’t want to defend my masculine pride anymore!” He let go of her hands and squinted his eyes shut. “Have at me! I’ll just lay here and prove that I can be sensitive, like that bloke on the talk show.”
Caught by Surprise Page 5
