Passion's Baby

by Catherine Spencer

  But the house was empty. The sleeping bag hung off the edge of the sofa and his wet jeans still sat in a heap on the floor. Either he’d managed to crawl into the bedroom, or he’d been kidnapped.

  Then, it penetrated: from somewhere below the house, a string of curses that left the air so blue, it rivaled the sky. Racing back outside, she followed the din along the porch to the far side of the house.

  When she arrived, Bounder was already on the scene and doing nothing to help matters. A crutch lay jammed in the open space between two steps. Another had slid down the bank and become tangled in the wild honeysuckle and stinging nettles. Midway between the pair and unable to reach either, Liam lay sprawled in the dirt at the foot of the stairs, feet facing the house, head resting on a backpack and pointing downhill.

  Skidding to a halt, she pressed a hand to her heaving chest and surveyed the scene. No need to ask what had happened; it was clear enough. Like her, he’d discovered that the dew, combined with the remnants of yesterday’s rain, made for unsafe footing. Unlike her, he’d fallen afoul of it.

  Her first instinct was to rush to him. To cradle his head to her bosom and stroke back his dark, unruly hair, and murmur words of comfort and reassurance.

  For once, she followed her second instinct.

  “You really are out of your mind, aren’t you?” she said conversationally, folding her arms and looking down on him from her lofty post at the head of the steps. “Have you always been inclined this way, or is it a fairly recent development?”

  Red-faced, he glared at her. “Beat it, Janie! This is one party you’re not horning in on.”

  “You’d like me to leave, is that it?”

  He rolled his eyes heavenward. “Well, praise the Lord! She finally got the message!”

  “No need to be sarcastic, Liam. I can take a hint, especially one delivered with all the subtlety of a charging bull.”

  Slowly, she descended the steps and retrieved the first crutch, then hooked one end through the top of the second and dragged it up the bank. Wedging both under her arm, she turned back the way she’d come. “Have a nice day,” she said.

  “Hey!” His bellow rang out across the quiet cove. “What the devil do you think you’re doing with my crutches?”

  “My goodness, Liam, I’d have thought even a man of your limited intelligence could figure that out! I’m taking them with me. It’s the only way I can think of to put an end to your macho nonsense. But you can keep the backpack. From the looks of it, whatever was in there probably didn’t survive the fall and won’t be of much use in enabling you to take another stab at breaking your neck.”

  “Listen to me, you little witch—!”

  “Keep it up,” she said sweetly, “and I’ll take the wheelchair, too.”

  “Over my dead body!”

  “That can be arranged, Liam. In fact, at the rate you’re going, you’ll manage it all by yourself before the week’s out.”

  His next explosion sent Bounder skittering for cover. “Don’t you dare leave!”

  She paused at the top of the steps and looked back over her shoulder. “Make up your mind, dear. Do you want me to stay, or not?”

  “It would seem,” he said, fairly gnashing his teeth with rage, “that what I want doesn’t count for very much. Between you and this damned leg, I’m not left with a whole lot of choices.”

  “They’re the first sane words you’ve said today. Dare I hope there’ll be more to come?”

  “Oh, can the smart-ass remarks, Janie! I don’t need them.”

  “What do you need, Liam?”

  Hooking his arm around the bottom step, he maneuvered himself semi-upright and stared out to sea. His expression was stony, proud.

  “I’m waiting,” she said, refusing to weaken.

  Seconds—perhaps even a full minute—passed before he locked gazes with her and burst out, “For God’s sake, woman! I’m already rolling around in the dirt at your feet. How much more do I have to grovel?”

  Shame and pity swept over her then at the pain she saw in his eyes. It wasn’t the physical suffering which was beating him down, but the affront to his dignity, to his self-reliance.

  What had happened to her humanity, that she’d let herself get so caught up in the mean-spirited pleasure of showing him how helpless he was in the face of even the most minor adversity? Had her well of simple human kindness dried up completely with Derek’s death?

  “Forgive me,” she said contritely. “I’m afraid I’m letting pride get in the way of common sense. Would you like…may I give you a hand up the steps?”

  He gave a grunt of ironic laughter. “No, but if you’ve got a leg to spare, I could use that. Steps I can manage, as long as I stick to shuffling up and down on my backside. It’s the stuff that sneaks up on me that makes me crazy. Like getting too cocky with those blasted things!” He shook an impotent fist at the crutches, then began the laborious climb back up the steps. “I was doing…pretty well until I got…blindsided by the dew.”

  “Crutches take some getting used to,” she said, aching to help him. “You might want to stick to flat ground for a while until you’ve really got the hang of them.” Then, seeing the irate glower her advice produced, went on hurriedly, “But then, what do I know? If there’s nothing else I can do for you, I’ll be off.”

  “Not so fast, Janie!”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll leave the crutches.”

  “I know,” he said, a glimmer of humor replacing his scowl. “You’ll leave the wheelchair, too. You might get a charge out of acting like a sergeant major, but you don’t have the parts to really carry it off.”

  “I don’t mean to boss you around,” she said. “What you do is your business, after all. But knowing you’re here, alone….” She sighed and lifted her shoulders apologetically. “Well, it worries me. You’ve come close to a serious accident twice in the last twenty-four hours, and this is such a remote spot. Steve’s cottage, it’s comfortable enough, but it’s hardly the right sort of place….”

  He’d reached the porch by then. Using the railing for support, he positioned the crutches and began swinging back the way he’d come. She had to hurry to keep pace with him. It was all she could do to keep her mouth shut and not tell him he should slow down, that this wasn’t a race and he wasn’t proving anything by covering the distance in record time.

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” he wheezed, pivoting himself around the corner to the southeast side of the house. “It’s exactly right. Not the kind of luxury I’m used to, perhaps, but hey, if I wanted all the comforts of home, I could have stayed in town where all my well-intentioned, hale-and-hearty friends could come and slobber pity all over me.”

  She noticed how glad he was to reach the hammock; how gratefully he lowered himself into it. “Is there no one closer who could be with you? A family member perhaps?”

  “No,” he said, so decisively that she dared not question him further. “If the refrigerator needs restocking, I can take the boat over to Clara’s Cove. There’s a swim ladder off the end of the dock so I can haul my sorry butt into the water and exercise my leg without stressing the joints. And the rest of the time….” He favored her with a telling glance. “I can vegetate, soak up the sun and enjoy the solitude.”

  She pressed her lips together, her own pride rising to meet his. Finally, she said, “Consider the message received. I won’t bother you again.”

  He was going soft in the head. After getting what he wanted—namely, rid of her—he found himself wishing she’d come back.

  She didn’t. But her dog did, every day for the next week. The benighted creature seemed to have developed a fondness for him which, to his horror, he found himself returning. Every morning, the mutt would show up and hang around, tongue lolling, tail wagging, brown eyes all moist with adoration. And he’d be glad of the company.

  Cripes! He really must be losing his edge!

  They developed a routine. He’d put himself through a daily system of rigorou
s strengthening exercises, during which time the dog would circle him, anxious as a mother hen with a backward chick.

  When he sank, exhausted, into the hammock, Blunder would bring him whatever was closest at hand—a shoe, a stick, a tea towel drying on the railing—then settle down beside him and not move until noon, at which time he’d trot back to check things out at her place.

  When Liam found himself considering kidnapping the creature, just to get her to come looking for it, he finally admitted defeat. He’d grown used to her sassy remarks, her smile, her concern—and yes, he might as well admit it—her cooking. Stale bread and cheese wore a bit thin, three days in a row, and he hadn’t felt like fishing lately. Even taking the boat to Powell River on Vancouver Island, to get his phone replaced, had left him wasted. The rehab routine took too much out of him.

  “Face it, buster,” he told the lathered face staring back at him from the shaving mirror. “You miss her, plain and simple.”

  But he resisted doing anything about it for another week. If he was going to show up at her door, it wouldn’t be on crutches. Spurred by that ambition, he doubled his exercise sessions.

  Finally, on the Friday, with only a cane for support, he made the trek, taking the long way over the bluff because he didn’t fancy losing his footing on the rocks lining the beach.

  She was in the back garden, hanging laundry on one of those circular clothesline contraptions—bed linen and towels, transparent bits of underwear, a bikini so brief it practically qualified as a Band-Aid, and a nightshirt.

  Approaching her house from the landward side, he saw her long before she noticed him. A couple of sheets flapping in the breeze camouflaged his arrival completely.

  More beguiled than he cared to admit, he leaned against the trunk of the Douglas fir at the edge of the property and observed her. She was humming to herself as she worked, apparently perfectly content with the simple life she’d chosen. Every once in a while she’d reach up to reposition a clothespin or shake a piece of laundry into place.

  Each time she did, he’d catch a glimpse of her breasts, smooth and sweet as ripe peaches, surging against the low-cut halter top she wore. And like some drooling old lecher on a street corner, he watched and waited in hope that the performance would be repeated.

  Then the dog, which had stopped to follow some interesting scent or other, caught up with him and spoiled everything. Before he was exposed for the voyeur she’d once accused him of being, Liam moved from the shadows into the sunlight. “Excuse me, ma’am, do you do windows, too?”

  She let out a little shriek and peered between the sheets, her eyes wide and startled. Then, recognizing him, she stepped away from the clothesline, one hand pressed to her throat. “Good grief, Liam, you scared me!”

  All the suave openings he’d rehearsed evaporated at the unobscured sight of her. She’d definitely fleshed out since he’d last seen her. Her hips had rounded slightly, her collarbones protruded less sharply, the hollows under her cheeks seemed not as prominent.

  She’d obviously been spending a lot of time outdoors. The sun had deepened her skin to honey-gold and left no sign of a tan line anywhere. Her dark hair had taken on a burnished sheen. Her legs….

  “Yeah…well….” He cleared his throat and averted his gaze. Best not to dwell too long on her legs; they led to dangerous territory. “Sorry about that.”

  Dropping a handful of clothespins in the basket at her feet, she watched and waited as he moved toward her. “How are you doing?”

  “How do you think?” He hefted his cane in one hand.

  Joy, pure and simple, lit up her face. “Oh, my heavens! The crutches! You’re standing on your own two feet…oh, Liam, how wonderful!”

  If impressing her had been the force that had driven him to achieve impossible goals, it had been worth every miserable, aching minute just to bathe in the warmth of her undiluted pleasure. “Thanks,” he said.

  “Well!” She lifted her shoulders—a dangerous move, with those delicious breasts bobbing around like that—and spread her palms to the sky. “This calls for a celebration. I’ve got iced tea in the refrigerator. Would you care for some?”

  “It’ll do for starters,” he said, following her along a vine-draped veranda, past a small, old-fashioned portable bath tub hanging from a nail on the wall, and into a kitchen facing the east side of the house.

  As such rooms went, it was pretty basic, he supposed: a shallow sink, a propane-powered refrigerator and range, a dresser painted white and filled with blue pottery, and a pine table like the one in the house where he’d grown up. But she’d made it charming, with starched white curtains, a window box overflowing with orange and red nasturtiums, and a vase of wild roses on the table.

  An open doorway in the middle of the wall opposite showed part of a living room, with a spiral staircase connecting to an upper floor.

  “This is nice,” he said, leaning on the cane and looking around. “I’d always assumed the layout over here was the same as my place, but you’ve got a lot more space.”

  She paused in the act of pouring the iced tea and said pointedly, “Which you weren’t aware of until now, of course.”

  “No. I wasn’t…ready to make social calls before.”

  “And now you are?”

  “To a point. I felt like stretching my legs and thought I’d stop by to see how you’re doing.”

  “Should I be flattered?”

  He shrugged, the old familiar alarm bells clanging at the back of his mind. Give a woman an inch of encouragement, and she took it to mean a lifetime commitment…. “Not particularly. It’s been a while since we last spoke, that’s all and I—”

  “It’s all right, Liam, you don’t have to explain. We both know precisely how deeply you value your privacy.”

  “Seems we have that in common. You haven’t been beating a path to my door, either, lately.”

  She laughed, and he found his gaze drawn to the shape of her mouth. He’d called her any number of unflattering names: uptight, bossy, interfering. But the word that came to mind at that moment was “sexy.” “I know when I’m not wanted,” she said. “And if I hadn’t quite figured it out, you certainly set me straight.”

  This wasn’t how he’d envisaged their meeting, with him more or less standing there with his tongue hanging out, and her so…in charge. Bent on reestablishing the preferred order of things, he said, “As long as we both abide by the ground rules, where’s the harm in spending a bit of time together?”

  “Perhaps you’d better define exactly what you mean by ‘spending a bit of time together,’ just to avoid any misunderstandings.”

  “A glass of wine occasionally, morning coffee once in a while, stuff like that.”

  “Sounds exciting,” she said, biting her lip to keep from laughing again.

  “What were you expecting, Janie?” he said, miffed. “A marriage proposal?”

  “No,” she said. “I already told you, marriage is the last thing I’m looking for from a man like you.”

  Inexplicably ticked off by that reply, he snapped, “And why not? A less than perfect specimen not good enough for you?”

  “Actually, it’s some of your other qualities I find annoying.”

  “Such as?”

  “For a start,” she said self-righteously, “I don’t like being called Janie.”

  “Humph! If that’s the extent of your complaints—”

  “And I don’t care for your confrontational attitude.”

  “Me, confrontational?”

  She smiled and made a big production of examining the ceiling.

  “Me confrontational,” he agreed.

  Eyes dancing, she replied, “And me Jane.”

  He shook his head ruefully. “Talk about screwing up! I came over here to effect a truce and damn near started another war! I’d have done better to stay away.”

  “I’m glad you came,” she said softly. “I’ve missed you.”

  She was more honest than he dared be; mo
re generous, too. “Even though I’m such a bear most of the time?”

  “You’ve had reason.” Thoughtfully, she drew a line through the condensation beading her glass. “Now that you’ve made such headway, will you be leaving the island?”

  “Pretty soon. My lease is up at the end of August. But I must admit, I’m in no great hurry to get back to the city.”

  “Me neither.”

  “So?” He leaned toward her. “Where do we go from here, Jane Ogilvie?”

  “If I wasn’t afraid you’d take the invitation the wrong way, I’d ask you to stay for lunch.”

  “I was kinda hoping that’s what you’d do,” he said. “I’m tired of cooking for myself.”

  “It’s nothing much, just fruit and cheese, and home-made baking powder biscuits.”

  “Sounds like a feast to me.”

  “Have a seat on the front porch while I get it ready, why don’t you?”

  “Sure,” he said, and wondered how come he’d never noticed before that she had dimples when she smiled.

  She fairly fled back to the kitchen.

  Stay calm! she told herself, knowing her cheeks were flaming with untoward pleasure. You’ve been given the chance to start over with him. Don’t mess it up by repeating past mistakes. Don’t hover, don’t fuss, don’t smother him with attention. Be casually friendly and above all, maintain your distance.

  Easy advice, but so difficult to follow when every instinct screamed for her to turn a casual lunch into an occasion never to be forgotten. If only she’d known he was stopping by, if only she’d thought to stock her cupboards with something other than staples! Caviar with Melba toast and a good white wine would have added an elegant touch; a wedge of blue Castillo and a loaf of Italian bread, and apricots; espresso coffee and petits fours…!

  But this was Bell Island, not Vancouver. There were no upscale markets, no specialty shops catering to gourmet tastes, only the general store at Clara’s Cove and Don Eagle, the owner’s son, who made a weekly run to the cottage and left her the basic supplies she needed. Ordinary things like shampoo and flour and sugar.