The Rebel

by J. R. Ward

  This was a surprise because Stu didn’t curry well to strangers and he never seemed to say more than two words at a time.

  “Hi, Stu,” she said. “How much do we owe you?”

  Stu took off his John Deere hat and looked at it. “Think a hundred’ll cover it.”

  She wrote out the check, gave him the following week’s order and thanked him.

  “Good talking to you,” Nate said.

  “Yup.” Stu lifted his hand as he left.

  “Nice old coot,” Nate remarked as the screen door slapped shut.

  Bracing herself, she went into the walk-in, unsure whether she’d find a disorganized jungle or not. Fortunately, Nate’s organizational skills were as good as his penmanship. The lettuce was in one corner, standing up on a plastic tray. The heads of broccoli, cauliflower and cabbage were on another shelf in milk crates. Root vegetables on the floor in a bin. Pretty much where she would have put everything.

  She started making notations on her clipboard when Nate’s voice came from behind her shoulder.

  “Checking my work?” he said dryly as he reached over her shoulder for some celery.

  Stepping out of the way of his arm, she tugged at the collar of her shirt and tightened her lips. The walk-in suddenly felt like a sauna, which meant either the compressor had finally died or she was having a hot flash.

  She hid a grin. At least she could call a HVAC guy if there was a mechanical problem with the refrigerator. If her libido was acting up, she might be in trouble. She doubted there was an estrogen repairman in the Yellow Pages.

  “What’s all this?” he asked, coming close again.

  She looked down at what she’d been writing, determined not to fixate on how his biceps were straining his T-shirt’s short sleeves.

  “An inventory system I developed.” When he didn’t leave, she tipped the paper his way and stepped back. “It’s a really helpful method of determining our food costs and measuring our prices.”

  She was surprised when he took the clipboard and thumbed through the pages with interest. “This is good.”

  “I enter everything in the computer and can pull up Excel spreadsheets of our inventory consumption, staff costs, debt financing, income. Anything that comes in or goes out the door, I have by month. Year. I can project trends, track performance.” Aware she was babbling, she reached for her work and he let her take it.

  “Where did you go to B-school?”

  “I didn’t.”

  His eyebrows rose. “You came up with this all by yourself?”

  “I just figured out what I needed to know to make the right decisions. I wish the trends were better, of course. But I feel more in control if I know what’s going on.”

  He looked at her, studying her thoughtfully.

  “Did you need something else from the walk-in?” she asked.

  His smile was lazy.

  “Not right now.” He nodded at the clipboard. “That’s really good work.”

  She looked down again, trying to convince herself that the respect in his voice didn’t matter to her at all. But as she started counting the broccoli again, she began to smile.

  “Hey, Frankie?”

  She glanced up.

  “What do you have around here for a nightlife?”

  It was an unexpected question and kicked up an image of him on the prowl for women. He’d probably go for the kind who wore short skirts and belly shirts and could lay a man out flat with a pyrotechnic smile. Which meant she lost on all accounts. The only expression she had that could get a man’s attention was the one she made when she was angry. And as for her wardrobe, the closest she had to anything tight was an old pair of stockings.

  She pushed aside an odd disappointment. It was none of her damn business what his type was. And there was nothing wrong with loose clothes, either. She didn’t like things that chaffed or had to be removed with a crowbar. And thongs were nothing more than wedgies you had to pay for the privilege of getting. Which was nuts.

  Nate cocked an eyebrow, waiting for her answer.

  She shrugged. “We’ve only got fireflies and shooting stars here at White Caps, but there is a bar in town. Somehow, though, I imagine you’d prefer something more exciting than what the Stop, Drop and Roll offers.”

  “That’s the name of the bar?”

  “It’s owned by a volunteer fireman.”

  He smiled. “Well, I think what you have here will do just fine.”

  She shot him a skeptical look, refusing to read into his words. “Coming from New York City, I’m sure you’ll want something with more of an edge.”

  “That depends on who I’m with. Sometimes quiet is better.” His eyes moved down to her lips and his grin disappeared. “Sometimes, two people only need the night.”

  A moment later he turned away, leaving her staring after him.

  Her fingers went to her mouth and she wondered whether you could be kissed without actually being kissed.

  After he’d looked at her like that, she’d have to say yes.

  Frankie leaned forward and put her forehead against a shelf. Oh, God, what was she getting herself into? And why now? After years of being as close to a nun as a woman could get while not actually wearing the habit and crepe-soled shoes, now she decides to get all hot and bothered about a man? A man who, by the way, was just passing through and would be gone by the end of the summer? Who was her employee?

  She’d been busy worrying about what would happen if he got his hands on Joy, but maybe she’d do better looking into a mirror. She should probably be giving herself a stiff lecture about not ending up heartbroken in September. Because that was the way it would end between them. He would go back to the city. She would stay behind.

  Just as it had been with David.

  The cold metal pressing into her eyebrows reminded her she was standing in a walk-in. As if the pounds of vegetables and the hearty draft wouldn’t have clued her in.

  Frankie straightened up and looked at her inventory sheet. The orderly rows of columns were a comfort, but when she tried to get back to work, her fingers had pretty much frozen stiff and her handwriting was like a child’s. She rushed through the inventory thinking that, with Nate gone, she could feel the cold through her clothes.

  When she rushed out, blowing into her hands, she thought that at least the walk-in’s compressor was still going strong.

  Nate was happy to see the tow company’s truck pull up. After greeting the guy, he walked over to the barn behind the mansion and opened the double doors, motioning the flatbed back. He knew Lucille would feel right at home. The stalls on both sides were full of dust-covered, broken-down equipment, including a riding mower, a rototiller and a snowblower.

  Though maybe she’d just be depressed by the company.

  When Lucille was in the barn, he paid the guy and popped her hood. After giving her engine the once-over again, he crawled beneath her and looked at her undercarriage. She’d leaked out all her oil and that was what worried him. All her hoses were plugged in and her oil pan was solid because he’d replaced it a year ago. He had a feeling her engine block might have cracked. Not encouraging.

  Nate shrugged out from under the car and stood up, looking for something to clean the grime off his hands. There was nothing around so he used the edge of his T-shirt, figuring it needed to go into the wash anyway. He opened the trunk, took out his duffel bag full of clothes and was slinging the thing over his shoulder when the back door to the house slapped shut. Frankie walked out into the pale sunshine.

  She was wearing a pair of shorts that gave him a clear look at her legs and they were terrific. Long, muscled from physical labor, with smooth skin. He wondered why she hid them under those god-awful black pants.

  Hell, maybe it was so guys like him wouldn’t hit on her. Which was what he’d been working up to when they’d been alone with all that produce.

  It would explain her glasses, too.

  Staying in the shadow of the barn, he watched her go over
to a push mower and hike up her sleeves. She confronted the piece of equipment like she was taking on an animal she was hell-bent on training, and her mouth was moving, as if she were talking to the thing. He was more than willing to bet, if the mower hadn’t been an inanimate object, it would have snapped to attention and done just as she’d asked.

  Nate shook his head and leaned back against the doorjamb. He’d been on the verge of kissing her in that walk-in. The only thing that had stopped him was the danger that George or Joy could have barged in at any moment. And a deep freeze wasn’t exactly the best place to make love.

  Not for a couple’s first time, at any rate.

  Nate frowned, remembering a couple of employers or supervisors he’d been with in the past. Maybe hitting on Frankie wasn’t such a good idea. White Caps was a small enterprise. And even if he was only staying two months, sixty days could feel like a lifetime under the wrong circumstances.

  Frankie bent over the mower, adjusting the blade. As his eyes traveled from her ankles up to her thighs and over her hips, he shifted his weight impatiently and felt like cursing.

  Sure it was probably better if he left her alone. But she did crazy things to his body and he was just the kind of meathead who’d give up an opportunity to be sensible in favor of having even one night alone with a woman like her.

  He knew damn well he was going to end up asking her out. Kissing her. Hopefully, taking things even further. He was sure she was attracted to him. He could see it in her eyes. And he definitely wanted her. So there was absolutely no harm in two adults having some fun.

  No harm, no foul. Just a little summer affair.

  Nate winced and wondered why an ache had settled in his chest.

  Ah, hell. He knew why. Frankie wasn’t like the other women he’d fallen into bed with, he thought as he rubbed his sternum. She didn’t parade around, looking for attention from men. In fact, all the signals she sent out were of the lay-off variety and he didn’t think it was just him. She didn’t seem to flirt with the male guests, either.

  Although Mr. Little wasn’t exactly tall, dark and handsome, granted.

  Nate dropped his hand.

  He hoped his conscience wasn’t going to ruin what could be a terrific time between the sheets.

  She started pushing and he frowned, measuring the size of the lawn around White Caps. He couldn’t believe she was going to do the whole thing by herself, and then thought, of course she’d do it alone. He was tempted to go right over to her, but figured he’d give her a little time to wear herself out. He knew she’d wait until she was half dead before she’d accept help. And even then it would be under stinging protest.

  Man, he liked her.

  Nate went up to his bedroom, unpacked, threw some clothes in the wash and then headed out to the lawn. She’d made it all the way through the side lawn and was about to tackle the grass that ran down to the lakeshore.

  He walked up to her. “Hey.”

  She stopped mowing and regarded him as coolly as someone sweating and panting could.

  “You need some help?” He smiled as she shook her head. “I didn’t think so. How about I phrase it like this. I like to mow lawns. I’d like to mow this one. How can you stand in the way of my dream?”

  She wiped her forearm across her brow. “Shouldn’t you be in the kitchen?”

  “Daily prep is done. I’ve got everything under control in there right now.” He eyed the sun, which had emerged from the clouds, and then her shirt, which had a dark V of sweat running from her neck to her breasts.

  “So how about I spell you?” He leaned in. “You know, accepting help is not a sin.”

  Before she could answer him, the Littles came out onto the porch. Frankie’s eyes fled to them as if they were a welcome relief so he looked over, too. Mr. Little was wearing a pastel polo shirt and khakis. So was his wife. They looked like dolls, perfectly dressed, perfectly coifed. They reminded him of his super-wealthy Walker relatives, a group of people he avoided at all costs.

  “Guard of the entrance to the underworld in Greek mythology,” the man said, tapping a pen at a crossword puzzle. “Eight letters.”

  “I’m not good at the Times puzzle,” his wife said, sitting down in a chair out of the sun. She flipped open Architectural Digest. “You know that.”

  The man looked up with annoyance. “Yes, I do. I was talking to myself.”

  Nate refocused on Frankie. “So what do you say?”

  “God!” Mr. Little exclaimed. “This is impossible. Guard of the entrance—”

  Nate rolled his eyes and spoke over his shoulder. “Cerberus.”

  Mr. Little glanced up as if someone had lobbed a rotten tomato at him. He eyed Nate’s ratty T-shirt, his gaze lingering on the oil stains.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Cerberus,” Nate repeated. “You want me to spell it for you?”

  Frankie tugged at his arm. “Excuse us, Mr. Little.”

  But the man wasn’t listening. He’d pursed his lips and was busy counting off the letters. He looked up. “Ah—you’re right.”

  “I know,” Nate said, just as Frankie pulled him out of the man’s sight. “What’s the matter?”

  “Do us all a favor and don’t upset that guy. Once he gets rolling, he can go on forever. This morning, he was upset when a boat went by on the lake and woke him up. He wanted to know if I could post buoys out in front warning that noise pollution will not be tolerated. I thought he’d never shut up,” she whispered. “He’s impossible.”

  “Doesn’t know his classical myths very well, either. Now, about the lawn.”

  She frowned, considered him strangely, and then shook her head as if clearing it. “Listen, I need you in the kitchen, not doing grounds work. I appreciate your offer—”

  “But you’d really rather do it yourself,” he finished. “You know, with the amount of work that needs to get done around this place, you should be looking for volunteers, not turning them away. You have better things to do with your time than mowing the lawn.”

  He cocked an eyebrow, challenging her to contradict him. Her mouth opened as if she was going to, but then she closed it slowly. She put her hands on her hips and looked down at her grass-covered sneakers.

  “Don’t tell me you’re trying to turn over a new leaf or something,” he said, thinking it was very possible he was developing a crush on her. “I’d rather be berated by you than have to watch you trying to be good.”

  She laughed and then cut the sound short. “I really want to argue with you.”

  “Because I’m being insubordinate?” He grinned.

  “Worse. Because you’re probably right.” She scanned the lawn, the lilac bushes, the boathouse down at the shore. As she looked around, she seemed so solitary, so self-contained. So tired.

  “How long ago did you buy this place?” he asked.

  “Buy?” She squinted up at him. “My sixth great-grandfather built it.”

  “The last stand,” he murmured. No wonder she was hanging in.

  “Something like that.”

  She turned her head to the house, running her eyes over it as if she was a mother inspecting a child for cuts and bruises. He watched as she lingered on the gutter, which was listing away from the roof edge. He was willing to bet she was making a mental note to fix it and that she’d do it herself.

  The idea of Frankie high up on a ladder made him uneasy.

  “So you grew up here?”

  “Born, raised, the whole bit.” Her eyes went to the lake.

  “Where are your parents—are they retired?”

  She looked away from the water abruptly. “No, they’re dead.”

  Her tone of voice told him their conversation was going to be over in a matter of seconds so he didn’t dawdle in offering his condolences.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He watched as she shut down in front of him and the change happened so fast, it was like having a door slammed in his face. Her eyes went impassive and her expressi
on assumed a deliberate calm that made him wonder about the emotions underneath.

  “Thank you, but it was a long time ago,” she said.

  “You know, I lost a parent five years ago. We didn’t get along, but the death changed everything, anyway.” He didn’t want to mention it was an improvement because clearly what had been left for her was not. “It takes quite a while to get over losing a parent, much less both of them.”

  She shrugged and he mined the angles of her face and the color of her eyes for some sign she would let him in.

  Eventually, he said, “So about the lawn.”

  She nodded downward, towards his feet. “I don’t know that you should be pushing a mower around with that ankle of yours.”

  “I’ll go until I can’t go anymore.”

  “Funny, that’s my motto, too.”

  As she smiled and looked back out to the lake, he noticed that her glasses were smudged. Moving quickly, so she wouldn’t have a chance to jerk away, he took them off her face.

  “What are you doing?”

  He easily stepped out of her reach while she tried to grab them. “Cleaning your glasses.”

  “Give them back.”

  He rubbed one side and then the other with the clean corner of his shirt while moving around as she tried to take them. Lifting the lenses up to the sun and high over her head, he measured his work.

  “There. All better.”

  Intending to slip them back on the bridge of her nose, he looked down just as she leaped up. Her body collided with his and he gripped her around the waist to keep them from falling over.

  As soon as she was in his arms, he felt as if he was out of control and on the way home at the same time. She must have felt it, too. Her lips parted in surprise as she looked up into his face.

  Those eyes, he thought. Those miraculous blue eyes should never be hidden. At least not from him.

  “Put me down,” she whispered. “I’m too heavy.”

  But she wasn’t. He felt as if he could hold her forever.

  Nate leaned in, getting his lips close to her ear. “Do you really want me to?”

  He felt her nod into his shoulder and told himself he could still keep her in his arms even if her feet were touching the ground. It would be easier to kiss her that way, too.