“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“You don’t.” He shrugged. “And neither do I…until tomorrow.”
Keep your cool. In less than twenty-four hours, you’ll be rid of him forever.
In an effort to take her own advice, Allison ambled over to the bookcase and began to peruse the contents.
“The Lost Will.” She pulled a volume from the shelves and waved it in his direction. “As I recall, a man is murdered by a prospective heir. Think I’ll climb into bed and refresh my memory.”
As she sauntered out of the living room, thumbing through its pages in pretense of a casual confidence she was far from feeling, he called after her, “That’s a Christie, isn’t it? See if it mentions anything about a twenty-year-old salmon rod as a motive. Dame Agatha generally used bigger gains as motives, as I recall.”
Allison’s lips tightened as she crossed the darkened dining room. Her fingers gripped the novel with a vengeance.
I wish you were a hero-woodsman type swinging through the woods. I’d be first in line to trip you up.
Inside her warm room, she snapped on the light. Heath must have activated the electric heat. Even though it was the first of May, a damp, foggy night in this area could be chilly, even frosty.
She pulled a skimpy silk nightgown from her suitcase. Not exactly appropriate to the setting. A wicked desire to see the expression on her companion’s face if she paraded out into the living room wearing it slipped across her mind.
Not tonight, but maybe just before I kick him off my property. She laid it aside.
Another bit of pink, this time in a floral pattern, caught her eye. Rose-patterned flannel pajamas.
When Myra had suggested warm sleepwear might come in handy on their trip to New Brunswick, Allison had laughed. They’d be staying at a motel in town for two nights, for heaven’s sake. She, Allison Armstrong, was accustomed to the sensation of silk against her skin in bed. But she hadn’t been expecting to be left in the backwoods with a barbarian named Heath Oakes.
You really set me up to stay here, didn’t you, Mom. I wonder when you stuck this kiddie outfit into my suitcase. No doubt about keeping things platonic in this getup. Not even Nature Boy-slash-gigolo could be turned on by it.
What the heck. She gave the jacket a flap and picked up the pants. No one was going to see her in them, and it was only for one night. Late tomorrow afternoon she’d be on a plane headed back to the city.
Dragging the flannel outfit behind her, she went to the window and drew the drapes against the fog and darkness. Five minutes later, she climbed into the sleigh bed, pulled the quilts about her, adjusted the shade on the bedside lamp, and settled down to read The Lost Will, her pajamas and white cotton gym socks cozy and comforting in the inhospitable night.
The digits on the clock radio beside her bed indicated 9:15 p.m. Normally Allison Armstrong wouldn’t be in bed for at least another two hours. This particular day had been exhausting, though, with the early morning flight out of Ottawa, the difficulty in renting a car at the small-town airport, the emotional impact of the funeral, that surreal pilgrimage to the gravesite in the fog, and, finally, this enforced cohabitation with the person she detested most on the face of the earth. It made the warm cocoon of room and bed welcome at an early hour. She was turning page twelve in her novel when the book slipped from her hands and she slept.
She awoke with a start. Surprised that she’d been asleep, she glanced at the bedside clock radio. Midnight. With a sigh she picked up the book. She was trying to find her place when a sound from somewhere in the Lodge caught her attention. Someone or something was moving around inside the building.
A bear! A ravenous, fresh-out-of-hibernation bear! But a bear would have had to break glass to get in. She’d have heard it. Whatever it was, it was being stealthy, moving quietly out of the kitchen (she guessed from the direction of the sound), across the dining room, into the living room, and probably—her mind clicked into gear—toward the office. A robber looking for money in the obvious place! A miserable lowlife out to steal from her Gramps.
Allison recalled her grandparents had always provided a flashlight in each guest room. Incensed, she pulled one from the drawer of her nightstand and snapped off the bedside lamp.
She hesitated a few seconds, until her eyes became accustomed to the dark; then, heart pounding, she slid out of bed and tiptoed to the door. Without turning on the flashlight, she eased out into the corridor. The rain and fog must have cleared. Ahead she could see moonlight streaming across the dining room.
As she tiptoed forward on stockinged feet, she saw a thin shaft of light stretching out into the living room from the all-but-closed office doorway. She’d been right! It was a burglar, a bit of scum who couldn’t wait until Jack Adams was cold in his grave to make his move.
Outrage overcame apprehension. She’d teach this miserable trash to violate her Gramps’ possessions!
Holding the foot-long flashlight above her head as a club, Allison moved cat-quiet across the shadowy room. At the office door she paused, every drop of adrenaline in her body ready to charge.
She couldn’t see the person inside. He or she was hidden by the nearly closed door. The last ounce of sane logic she possessed tried to tell her it would be best to get a look at her opposition before she attacked. It failed. Yelling like a banshee, she kicked open the door and leaped on the figure bending over a computer connection.
“Hey!” As the pair tumbled to the floor, Allison recognized his voice.
His arm, thrown up and back in a reflexive gesture of defense, knocked the flashlight from her hand.
“Sneaking, underhanded bastard!” She tried to land a blow against the side of his head with a clenched fist.
Feline swift, he caught her wrist and pulled her arm to her side. Her left hand he’d already immobilized behind her back. He was too fast for any of the self-defense moves she’d learned.
“Let me up, you sniveling piece of trash!” She was sputtering as she lay trapped beneath his body. “How dare you go through Gramps’ office! It’s private! It belongs to his family! You have no right here, you money-grubbing gigolo!”
She glared up into his golden brown eyes as they narrowed into predatory slits. Her breath clogged in her throat. I’ve gone too far. Oh, God, this time I’ve gone too far.
“Money-grubbing gigolo? Is that what you think I am?” He was breathing hard. “Okay, I’ll give you a sample of what I have to offer and let you decide if the ladies are getting good value for their dollar!”
His mouth came down over hers in a sudden, all-out kiss, his body covering hers with its hard, virile length.
“No!” She tried to protest, but he held her fast, probing tongue muffling her words, body moving over hers in a slow, primitive motion that made her react as she wouldn’t have believed possible seconds earlier.
In a flash she spun away into a realm of sensual intensity she’d never known existed. Logic, common sense, and animosity all dissolved like ice in a microwave.
The man personified earthy virility, feral and elemental as the wilderness that surrounded them. Her needs, basic and erotic, overwhelmed her, and she was lost to his kisses, his undulating body that promised more, so much more. When he freed her arms, they went up and about his neck.
In a single, lithe movement he twisted free of her embrace and to his feet to stand looking down at her, arms crossed on his chest in a lord-of-the-wilderness stance. His face registered disgust. “Good value, or what?”
“Street trash!” She scrambled to her feet. “You haven’t changed at all! How could you…”
“How could I what?” His eyes became amber slits. “Defend myself? Offer you proof of the validity of your accusations? Don’t try to lie about it. You liked it, Ms. CFO. You liked it a lot. I know the signs.”
“I did not!”
He shrugged, turned away, and knelt again to resume his work on the computer connection.
“I want you to leave
…” Her entire body still reflexing from his assault, she sputtered.
“Not until I find out if the Lodge has a mortgage hanging over it,” he muttered, plugging in a connection. He drew a deep, exasperated breath as he looked at the diagonal lines crossing the monitor. “James Wilcox told me the Chance is heavily mortgaged and if the person who inherits doesn’t manage to meet an upcoming balloon payment, it’ll go on the auction block in less than a month.”
“The real estate agent said that?” Allison’s anger vanished into shock. “I can’t believe Gramps would ever mortgage anything. He remembered the Great Depression too well and never took out loans on anything.”
“I don’t believe it either.” He tried another connection, with no better results. “Still, forewarned is forearmed. We need the facts, and they’re all right in this miserable pile of nuts and screws.”
“Here, let me.” Coming back into self-control, she had to know the truth as well. She knelt beside him, took the wires from his hands, and snapped them into the proper slots. The lines on the monitor straightened.
“There.” She slid into the chair in front of the screen. “Let’s check out accounts payable.”
“You sound as if you actually know something about this.” He got up, pulled another office chair close beside her, and sat down.
“I’m CFO of a large corporation. I majored in business administration at university. I take it you studied something else.”
“Biology, ecology, nothing important.”
“Okay, okay. Point.” Biting back a more caustic retort, she punched a few keys and waited. Stop distracting me! His tanned, clean-shaven jaw and softly curling hair were too close to her right cheek for comfort. “Move back and let me work.”
“Fine.” Raising his hands, he backed off and went to lean against a file cabinet, arms and ankles crossed.
Fifteen minutes later Allison settled back in the chair and swiveled it to face him. “No mortgages, not even an unpaid gas bill. Wilcox was attempting a snow job. And a pretty clumsy one. He should have known I’d look into the accounts as soon as I got here.”
“Just as I thought.” He rolled his shoulders and Allison realized he’d had a long day, too. “Jack left his finances in the same great shape he left everything on this place. I’m glad I won’t have to start issuing checks for the Chance’s expenses until the end of the month. I’ll need to get a handle on this computer stuff before I do.”
“You? Issue checks? What were you, his business manager? If so, you should have been a lot better informed about the state of his finances.”
“I was his guide foreman, his camp manager.” He shrugged. “Finances aren’t a strong point with me, but he did give me his power of attorney several years ago in case checks had to be issued when he wasn’t around. I didn’t want the responsibility, but he insisted.”
“I see.” Allison turned off the computer and stood. “So now you sneak around in the middle of the night, trying to access his financial records to see how large a check his bank account can handle.”
“Do you really believe that?” A sardonic grin curled his lips.
“Does it matter? After tomorrow you’ll be out of my life forever. Lock the door when you leave.”
She was crossing the living room when his shadow fell over her. Glancing back, she saw him lounging in the lighted office doorway, watching her.
“What?” The word snapped out.
“I never thought I could be turned on by pink flannel,” he said, his face suffused in shadow. “Until now.”
“Ahhhhhhh!” The man was a lecher. She wished she were wearing work boots so she could stomp away.
Back in her room, she locked the door and climbed into bed. Tramp, savage… The words were among her last conscious thoughts as she pulled the quilts up to her chin and settled once more for the night. The positive aspect of the entire situation was that tomorrow she’d be rid of him.
Still, the memory of that kiss on the office floor, the sensation of his body covering hers… It sent her dreaming the moment sleep overtook her, dreaming of a tall, lean, muscular man of the jungle. Clad only in a loincloth, arms crossed on his hard, bare chest, he confronted her in the green tunnel of foliage leading to the Chance, blocking her way, making her innards come alive with what felt like the wings of a hundred frantic butterflies. Desperately she ordered him out of her path. Then she caught the gleam in his eyes.
Her heart rate raced off, the bit of reason clamped in the teeth of desire. Melting like butter on a hot muffin, she realized she was wearing rain-soaked pink flannel pajamas and oversized rubber boots. And while he seemed to be standing in dazzling sunlight, she was under a cloudburst.
Then he was moving toward her, as lithe and soundless as a panther, his gaze hot with primitive fire. Allison caught her breath and waited, understanding for the first time what true animal magnetism was.
Heart pounding, she watched as he came to her… Then, passing her, brushed her aside to embrace Candace Breckenridge, who’d apparently been standing behind her. As he was reaching to draw the eager woman into his arms, Allison jerked awake.
Cursed dream! Strike that! Damned nightmare. She raised herself up on one elbow and pummeled her pillow.
“Blast him!” she muttered. “Blast him, the miserable womanizing tramp! Tomorrow, as soon as that lawyer reads the will and Heath Oakes is in full, legal possession of his fishing rod, I’ll send him packing so fast he’ll be dizzy!”
Chapter Four
Allison woke to a spring breeze and a robin’s song wafting in her open window. Sunlight peeked under the undulating curtains to make moving patches of gleaming amber on the polished hardwood floor.
Where am I? Oh, right. At the Lodge. She yawned and stretched. It felt good to be there.
Then a thought struck her and she sat bolt upright. She hadn’t gone to sleep with the window open. He must have used his manager’s pass key to come into her room while she was asleep. What a nerve! She bounded out of bed and headed for the bathroom.
In front of the dresser mirror she paused and fluffed her hair. How did I look when he was in here? She threw up her hands. What is wrong with you, Allison Armstrong? As if it mattered. As if you cared. With a disgusted growl, she strode into the bathroom, locked the door, and shed those pajamas he’d deemed sexy.
Fifteen minutes later, dressed in jeans, sweatshirt, and sneakers, she entered the kitchen. The aroma of more of the delicious coffee she remembered from the previous evening greeted her, along with a note from Heath that informed her milk, juice, cream, croissants, and homemade strawberry jam were in the refrigerator, bacon and eggs, too, if she felt like cooking.
She didn’t. She poured coffee and juice, buttered a croissant, and carried it all into the dining room.
First she tried sitting in her grandfather’s place, but it didn’t feel right. Next she tried Heath’s chair on the right.
Definitely, no.
Then, feeling like Goldilocks in the forest home of the three bears, she moved to her grandmother’s place at the foot of the massive table. Ah, yes. With a sigh she settled to her breakfast.
When she’d finished, she put her cup, glass, and saucer in the dishwasher and headed out the back door to find Heath. They had to talk before the lawyer got here.
She paused with her hand on the knob as she saw her grandfather’s favorite sheepskin-lined rancher’s jacket hanging on a peg behind the door. Impulsively she snatched it up, pulled it on, and turned back to the breadbox on the counter near the window for a slice of bread. Every morning Gramps had taken a piece of bread out to the bold jays he called Whiskey Jacks.
When the birds saw her, they descended, silent as snowflakes. She didn’t flatter herself on the attraction. The bread had garnered their interest. When they landed about her feet, she knelt to offer each a chunk and wondered if Heath fed them, too. Had he cared enough to carry on Jack’s concern for local wildlife?
Enough! Come noon, her mother would be sole ow
ner of the Chance, and the Armstrongs could legally send one mighty Oakes packing.
She let the last bird snatch the remaining bit of crust from her fingers before she arose and headed for the small log cottage Heath and his mother shared.
The inner door was open. When Allison went up the three short steps she could see a small, neat kitchen through the screen and hear music playing softly from a radio on the counter near the sink.
“Heath?” she called through the mesh door. “Are you in there?”
The only answer was the announcer’s voice at the end of the song, telling his listeners not to be deceived by the fine morning. More rain and fog were on the way.
Presented with an opportunity, Allison’s curiosity flared. Easing open the screen she slipped inside.
The kitchen held an apartment-sized refrigerator, stove, and a cozy breakfast nook built into one wall below a window that looked out into the forest. Hand-quilted placemats with a wildflower design decorated its Formica tabletop and matched the seat and back cushions of a rocking chair near the opposite window, the ruffled curtains, and a tea cozy covering a pot on the counter. Framed needlepoint floral designs decorated the walls above the cupboards.
How could the woman who had made this welcoming place also be responsible for the creation of Heath the Barbarian? Allison shook her head and tiptoed down the short hall at the back of the room.
The open door at its end revealed a small, tidy bathroom. Two others, one to her left, the other to her right, she guessed led to bedrooms. Opening the door to her right, she saw a bed covered with a dusty rose spread that matched the window drapes and a mahogany dresser with neatly laid-out toiletries, a large wicker basket of needlepoint materials nestled against its side. She closed the door and turned to open the one opposite.
That room contained a large bed covered with a patchwork quilt, plain white window curtains, a wide dresser with only a hairbrush on its polished surface, a well-filled floor-to-ceiling bookcase against the rear wall, and a chair and desk in one corner.
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