by Tami Hoag
Outraged, Bronwynn stood up and sniffed at him. Wade pulled out a fresh cigarette and hung it negligently from his lip as he rose from the steps.
He wanted Bronwynn Pierson and her mile-long legs out of there, he reminded himself. The sooner the better—for both of them. They would both save money if she went back to Boston now. He was still certain she’d end up going back before the lawn needed mowing again. He was doing them both a favor by pointing out the facts. She could cut her losses now and keep the asking price on the place down where it belonged.
“You presumptuous, pompous ass,” Bronwynn said, nearly nose to nose with him. “You don’t know anything about me and I resent the image you’ve dreamed up. I’ve got some news for you, buster: I can do this job. I don’t want your criticism, I don’t want your approval, and—” She snatched the cigarette from his lip and thumped him on the chest with it in her fist. “I don’t want you smoking in front of my sheep!”
“I shouldn’t have taken his head off like that, Muffin.”
Bronwynn sat cross-legged on her newly mown lawn, thinking about Wade. She and Myron had spent the afternoon raking. She had the blisters to show for it. The workmen had left for the day. She now had a telephone, some electricity, and one bathroom in working order, but both the plumber and the electrician would be returning.
Muffin grazed contentedly as the late afternoon peacefulness settled around them. Bronwynn tilted her head back and soaked up the sun. Tomorrow she would have freckles on her nose. A year ago she hadn’t had the time to enjoy the sun or the heart to, having just lost her parents. When she’d been modeling, Mrs. Burns, head of the prestigious Burns Agency, had forbidden her to get freckles. Now she could have freckles if she chose to, and it was a good feeling—unlike the feeling she got when she thought of Wade.
It wasn’t right of him to prejudge her, but on the other hand, what impression was he supposed to have of her? She came from a privileged background. Few people outside the profession realized what a tough job modeling could be. Her face was plastered all over the society pages in the papers. People who didn’t know her thought she was a useless social butterfly. It might have been an unfair assessment, but it was a logical one—if the person making it happened to be cynical.
Wade Grayson was a lot of things. Cynical was one of them. Annoying was another. He also had the capacity to be very sweet. He’d done a lot for her for no other reason than he was a caring, considerate person under his abrasive, grouchy exterior.
She wanted to do something for him. She wanted to repay him and make a peace offering—not because she was interested in him, she hastened to add, but because they were going to be neighbors for a little while and because her instincts told her it was the right thing to do.
Bronwynn always went with her instincts. They had failed her where Ross was concerned, and she was going to have to figure out why, but she trusted them when it came to Wade.
She would give Wade a gift. She thought of him pacing around in his spiffy “I’m a congressman” outfit, choking from the tie he wore out of habit, chewing on antacid tablets, and chain smoking. Relaxation was what he needed. She wasn’t quite sure how she could help him to relax, but she knew a good place to start.
With a look of determination, she hopped to her feet and started for her pickup. “Come on, Muffin. We’re going shopping.”
FIVE
THE HOUSE WAS a little too modern for Bronwynn’s taste. It seemed all glass and angles, but the cedar siding lent it a rustic quality that enabled it to fit in nicely with its surroundings. The name on the mailbox along the road read Dr. Jon Jameson. Must have been a friend, she decided, or perhaps Wade was involved in a time-sharing deal.
Taking a deep breath to muster enough strength, she cranked the steering wheel around and piloted the Blue Bomb into the driveway. Black smoke coughed out of the tailpipe as she killed the engine. Muffin stuck her head in the open back window and bleated a protest at the pollution.
“Sorry, Muff,” Bronwynn said, scooping up the gift box from the seat beside her and sliding out of the pickup. When Bronwynn closed the door, a foot-long piece of chrome fell off the front end and clattered to the driveway. She shrugged and walked away.
In the open garage sat a black Lincoln Town Car. Bronwynn smiled to herself. The congressman might have coveted her German import, but he bought American. She wondered if his choice of a car was a personal preference or a political ploy. No matter, she told herself, she was only there to repay Wade’s kindness, not analyze the man. The fact that she was going to get to look at him again could have been considered a bonus, but she didn’t allow herself to think about it—much.
A thought or two about his lean athletic body, about his clean-cut good looks and thick tawny hair wasn’t going to hurt. What she had to avoid thinking about was the mind-blowing way he kissed. She managed to accomplish the feat once or twice an hour.
The front door was open, and she peered through the screen as she waited for Wade to answer. There was a neat stack of newspapers half a foot high on the pine coffee table in the living room. News magazines were piled beside it. She could see through the archway into the dining room. A smoked-glass table with a marble pedestal base was nearly snowed under by a sea of papers.
“Some vacation,” Bronwynn muttered to herself, absently swatting a mosquito on her arm. She punched the doorbell again and glanced around the yard. Wade’s dog was sprawled under a maple tree, dead to the world. “Hey, Tucker, where’s Wade? Where’s your master, boy?”
The yellow Lab rolled onto his back and belched.
“You’re not exactly Rin Tin Tin, are you?” Bronwynn said, jabbing the doorbell again. He had to be there. His car was there. His dog was there. The door was standing open. As Muffin went to make friends with the dog, Bronwynn let herself into the house. “Wade? Wade, are you home?”
A groan came from somewhere to the left of the dining room.
“Wade?” she called hesitantly, her wild imagination running away with her. Wade was a congressman; he probably knew tons of top secret stuff. Maybe he was hiding out from spies or assassins. By the sound of his groan, they’d found him and tortured him mercilessly. Bronwynn’s stomach knotted at the thought. “Wade? Are you alive?”
When he stepped into the doorway, Bronwynn went cold all over. He was as white and waxy looking as a piece of porcelain, making his dark eyes stand out in a face that was lean and drawn. His hair was disheveled and his shirttail hung out. He was barefoot. Propping himself up against the doorjamb, he pressed a hand gently to his stomach.
“Hi.”
Bronwynn tossed her box onto the table and rushed toward him, her heart pounding. “Wade, what happened? What’s wrong?”
“One too many cups of my coffee, I guess,” he said, mustering a weak smile.
“You’re sick?”
“As a dog,” he said on a groan.
Bronwynn didn’t feel very steady herself as some of the tension rushed out of her. “Thank heaven.”
Wade scowled at her. “Personally, I’m not too thrilled with the situation. Turning my stomach inside out doesn’t happen to be a favorite hobby of mine.”
“Well, it beats being assassinated by Iranian terrorists.”
“Debatable,” he mumbled, standing patiently while Bronwynn reached a hand up to feel his forehead for a fever. Lunchtime had come and gone before he’d realized he hadn’t put anything into his stomach all day accept acidic coffee and antacid tablets. By then his stomach had been ready to launch a full-scale revolt. No amount of pleading or promising from him could have prevented it.
“Dear heaven,” Bronwynn said, worrying her lower lip with her teeth, “you look like death on the half shell.”
“Thanks.”
“Come on,” she said resolutely, taking him by the arm and heading back into the hall, hoping she was going in the right direction.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To bed.”
He followed he
r docilely, wondering if she would be able to drag him if his legs gave out; they felt about as strong as licorice whips.
“Gee,” he said, his smoky voice little more than a growl in his throat. “I thought you were swearing off men for at least a year.”
“This is no time for you to start getting frisky, mister.” She led him into what obviously was the master bedroom, a spacious, masculine room done in shades of brown and tan. “Have you called a doctor?”
“Frisky?” he questioned, managing an anemic laugh that set off another round of mortar fire in his stomach. He doubled over and fell on the bed holding his stomach, moaning.
“Have you called a doctor?” Bronwynn demanded, her voice inching toward the unfamiliar edge of hysteria. Her hand was shaking as she reached for the phone on the nightstand. Damn the man. He was scaring her half to death. She was a lot happier with him when he was being pompous and insulting.
Wade managed to throw a hand over the phone before Bronwynn could pick it up. “I don’t need a doctor. This isn’t as bad as it looks.”
“Oh yeah?” Her brows shot up. “That’s what the headless horseman said.”
“Really. I’ll be all right.” He motioned to a prescription bottle on the nightstand. “I’ve got medication. As soon as I think I can keep it down, I’ll take some.”
Bronwynn picked up the bottle and read the label. The physician’s name was Dr. Jon Jameson, which explained a lot—so did the label on the pill bottle. “You have an ulcer.”
Wade made a face as he eased himself up against the headboard. “Just a little one.”
“That sounds a lot like being just a little bit pregnant.” She set the bottle down and sat on the bed facing him, barely resisting the motherly urge to stroke his cheek. “Does this happen often? What set it off?” A look of pure horror fell over her face as a possibility struck her. “Oh my Lord. Moving that stuff at my house. All that lifting! Oh, Wade, I’m so sorry!”
“No, no, no,” he assured her, automatically taking her hand in his to comfort her. “That had nothing to do with it. I got wrapped up in paperwork and forgot to eat, that’s all.”
“Forgot to eat,” she repeated. To someone who ate almost constantly, forgetting to do so didn’t seem like a possibility. She shook her head in disbelief. “Brother, you do need a vacation. Too bad you don’t know how to take one.”
“I’m on vacation,” he said indignantly.
He was unbearably cute when he pouted, she noted. His lower lip jutted forward ever so slightly, his dark eyebrows lowered over his eyes. Now that he was lying down, some of the color had come back to his cheeks.
“If everyone took vacations like you, Disney World would go bankrupt,” she said.
“To each his own,” he commented tightly as he watched her disappear into the bathroom.
“His own what?” Bronwynn called out above the sound of running water.
Wade rolled his eyes and looked perturbed as she crossed the room and placed a cool washcloth on his forehead. “You’d be a real hit on Wheel of Fortune.”
“I’m shocked you even know what it is,” she said sardonically, sitting down next to him again. “Your doctor yanked you off the fast track and packed you off to Vermont for your own good, didn’t he?”
The stubborn, frustrated look he gave her told her all she needed to know.
Wade ground his teeth. He didn’t want to talk about it. He viewed his ulcer as a personal weakness, something he had never been particularly tolerant of. He hated the way it was interfering with the performance of his job. He should have been back in Indiana now, meeting with local political leaders and the people who were paying him to represent them.
Bronwynn stood up. “Behave yourself while I go find us something to eat.”
“Bronwynn,” he protested, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. “I don’t need looking after.”
She plucked the package out of his grasp. “That’s what you think.”
“I don’t need a keeper.”
“Funny, I seem to remember saying the same thing.” She shrugged, enjoying his disgruntled look, hoping it meant he was feeling better. “It didn’t stop you.”
“I suppose it won’t stop you either.”
“Darn right, Grayson.” She sauntered toward the door. “Anything you can do, I can do . . . too.”
“Better,” he corrected.
She smiled. “Why, thank you, Wade.”
Shaking his head, he leaned back and watched her exit the room, enjoying the view as much as he could under the circumstances. She had covered her breathtaking legs with a pair of jeans that were nearly white with age. They were threatening to develop a hole in the seat that hugged her sexy little, heart-shaped behind.
What a mass of contradictions she was. She wore old denim and designer silk with the same kind of careless ease. He’d seen her on the cover of Vogue painted up like a work of modern art. At present she wasn’t wearing a scrap of makeup, and she seemed just as comfortable.
She was forcing him to completely revamp his ideas about her. He didn’t like it, but because he was a fair man, he would do it. He would do it, and for the moment, he would ignore the uneasy feeling that he was going to like his new impression of Bronwynn too much for his own good.
Bronwynn rummaged through the kitchen cupboards, excusing her snooping with the rationalization that she had to look in order to find something to feed the poor sick man. She defended herself by saying it would give her a better idea of who Wade Grayson was if she knew what kind of peanut butter he ate. She probably never would have agreed to marry Ross if she had snooped through his kitchen cupboards first. She could only imagine now the kinds of gross food he probably ate when no one was looking.
Everything in the kitchen seemed orderly. The freezer was stuffed with frozen Mexican dinners. She took one out for herself and popped it in the microwave. There was half a bottle of Chivas Regal sitting out on the counter.
Wade didn’t strike her as a hard-drinking sort, but he definitely would be the kind to toss back a scotch or two in the evening to try to unwind. She wondered what Dr. Jameson would have to say about that.
In the cupboard with the tumblers was a jumbo bottle of aspirin and half a dozen bottles of antacid. At least there wasn’t any cod liver oil. She found a can of cream of mushroom soup and put it on the stove to heat.
The paperwork strewn over the dining-room table looked to her like budgets of some kind. Bronwynn shuddered. No wonder he was sick, reading such intricate stuff. She got queasy just thinking about having to balance her checkbook. She easily could picture Wade hunched over the facts and figures, a cigarette burning in one hand, antacid tablets in the other. She looked down into the half-empty coffee cup. The coffee appeared strong enough to have dissolved the glaze off the china.
The man was riding himself hard into an early grave by the look of things. Bronwynn shook her head. If anybody needed a keeper, it was Wade Grayson.
She was the logical choice. The thought sent anticipatory shivers chasing over her. When she’d first seen how sick he was, it really had hit home: She cared about him—a lot. She hadn’t known him very long, but they had been thrown together under unusual circumstances and their relationship seemed to have bypassed the awkward-strangers stage altogether. They were friends. It didn’t matter that they couldn’t agree on anything beyond the sun rising in the east. It didn’t matter that they got under each other’s skin. Wade had taken care of her when she had needed someone, she would do the same for him.
What made her nervous was that she felt more than just the pull of friendship when she looked at Wade Grayson. The attraction went much deeper—man-woman deep—and Bronwynn didn’t think she was ready to deal with it. She might have known Wade well enough to want to help him, but she was pretty sure she didn’t know him well enough to fall for him. How long had she known Ross Hilliard, she thought, and she had totally missed the mark judging him. She wasn’t willing to take the same risk agai
n so soon.
The easiest thing to do was to decide she had plenty of time to think about it, since Wade was sick as a dog. Never one to make a decision if she didn’t have to, Bronwynn dropped the subject and carried their dinner into his bedroom on a tray.
Wade was sitting as she’d left him, but was now totally engrossed in the evening news. Bronwynn set the tray down, picked up the remote control, and changed the channel to MTV.
“Hey!”
She gave him a bland look as she pulled a chair next to the bed, sat down, and dug into her burritos. “If evil forces destroy the world while you’re on vacation, nobody’s going to come up here and blame you for it.” “But—” He started to protest further until he caught a glimpse of a scantily clad beauty in George Michael’s latest video. Maybe he was in a rut watching CNN after all. “Wow. These things are kind of hot, aren’t they?”
Bronwynn cast an absent glance at the television. What a basket case. He wore neckties on vacation and never watched MTV. She shook her head. “Yes, they’re hot. So’s your soup—for the moment. Eat up.”
Dutifully he took a couple of spoonfuls of his bland dinner, relaxing as he felt the warm, creamy liquid coat his stomach in a way that soothed the burning. He munched on a cracker and stared wistfully at Bronwynn’s dinner. The aroma of spices was almost as seductive as what was going on on the TV screen. “I could probably handle a bite of that.”
Bronwynn licked hot sauce from the corner of her mouth and shot him a look. “In a pig’s eye. It’s no wonder you have an ulcer, the way you take care of yourself.”
Wade rolled his eyes. “This from a woman who thinks Twinkies are a food group.”
Bronwynn shrugged the comment off. “I don’t have to eat right, I have a cast-iron stomach. But,” she added, shaking her fork at him, “if my doctor told me I had an ulcer, I wouldn’t pour hot sauce and scotch on it and set a match to it.”
