Alice had never mentioned him in her letters or emails, not ever. Yet Madison could supposedly trust him more than she trusted her sister, the only person she’d ever trusted?
With a sigh, she set the paper down. She shifted and bumped that heavy package, a reminder that it was still there. When she squatted to take a closer look, she let out a mildly irritated oath. It wasn’t her package. It was supposed to go next door, to A Different Time Hardware. Damn it, she’d had Troy right here.
Well, she could use the break. The quiet of the place was getting to her. It was like Alice was standing there, waiting, watching, yet separated from her by a veil that couldn’t be penetrated. It was making her head hurt.
She also hadn’t brought a soda, and she’d bet they had some over there. With the times-gone-by theme, maybe even an orange cream one, something she rarely indulged but today seemed to call for it. Maybe that and a Mallo cup. She’d pass out from sugar shock and discover this was all a bad, crazy dream, her sister gone, leaving Madison to run Naughty Bits.
When the store was in its planning stages, about a decade ago, Madison had been the first to call it that, teasing her sister: “A career selling naughty bits . . .” Next thing she knew, Naughty Bits had its Christmas grand opening, with the catch phrase “Where naughty is nice . . .” She’d helped Alice decorate a tree with everything from filmy, sparkly thong panties to crystal snowflakes and tiny bullet vibrators in gleaming colors of blue and silver. They’d put a porcelain angel at the top dressed as a dominatrix, complete with wings that looked like two fanned-out floggers, tipped with gold.
She picked up the package, the weight on the label indicating it was a little over twenty pounds. The clanking she’d mistaken for chain was probably nails or some kind of fastener. Exiting the front door of her store and locking it behind her, she walked down the sidewalk. It was about ten o’clock, so the other stores, mostly bistros and clothing boutiques, were starting to open. According to the hours printed on the hardware store window, they opened at seven a.m., Tuesday through Saturday, which explained why Troy had been able to show up in her store at about that time.
The humid air suggested it was building toward a hot June day, but enough of a breeze stirred the crepe myrtles planted along the sidewalk to keep things pleasant. Around the entrance to the hardware store, hanging baskets spilled out lush falls of petunias, tempting pedestrians to buy.
The door was already propped open with an iron boot brush. A chalkboard sandwich sign had been placed beside it with the day’s specials: tomato plants, $3; all garden implements 20% off; fresh baked apple pie and coffee, $1.50.
Heated apple pie was one of her favorite breakfast foods, and she smelled it the second she stepped into the shop. Given that the next thing to hit her senses was Troy, it wasn’t a bad combination.
She had a direct view down the aisle to where Troy was stocking. He’d donned a work apron, which didn’t diminish the view a bit, given it didn’t cover anything in the back. The shirt stretched over his shoulders as he reached toward the higher shelves. Since he was on a ladder, his ass had a nice taut lift. Maybe it was because she’d spent her morning immersed in articles of erotic fantasy, but her mind was flooded with an image of him sprawled facedown across a bed. He’d be sleeping, wearing nothing but a very artfully arranged sheet. She’d see a hint of pale buttocks just above it, the lengths of firm thighs exposed below. His fine toes would be curled against the cotton. One sandy lock of hair draped in his eyes, his lips parted, inviting a lover to press her lips to his, tease his tongue, wake him in all ways.
“He’s beautiful, isn’t he? I’ve seen women’s hands curl at their sides and them not even realize it, as if they’re restraining an overwhelming need to touch him.”
She jumped, not only because she had company, but because her private thoughts had been intruded upon so accurately. When she turned, she discovered something even more unsettling.
Her tongue had tangled at the sight of Troy. What she was looking at now stole all words and left only incoherent need, strong enough to close her throat entirely, take her breath.
Yes, Troy was beautiful. Everything a virile young man should be. What was standing behind her was what such a young man could aspire to be, even though she expected few achieved it. It wasn’t just this man’s looks. It was everything beneath, the inside creating the outside.
Like Troy, he was six feet tall or better, with shoulders like what she’d imagined Troy’s rounding out to with maturity. He wore jeans and workboots as well. The cotton shirt unbuttoned at his throat gave her a glimpse of curling chest hair. She saw Anglo-Saxon in the strong bones of his face, a large man with large hands, a commanding presence. The warm brown eyes that focused on her face held so many things . . . Standing inside that gaze, it would be impossible to feel anything bad, no heartache daring to intrude while she was under its spell. He was near, and that was all that was needed.
Okay, rein back the crazy and return to reality. He was close to forty, with gleaming, thick brown hair brushed back from that masculine face. It was long enough he had it tied back. She couldn’t see how far it fell down his back, but the fact that he had it tied back suggested it went past his shoulders. She mocked men who wore long hair after they left their teens. It was pretentious and ridiculous, an attempt to hold on to vanishing youth. On him it looked right, a natural part of his persona, the way it would on a man born into a time period where long hair was the fashion. Vikings, seventeenth-century Scotland . . . It only enhanced his masculinity, the way it did a pirate or desert sheikh. She’d told Alice she loved that look in men—just not many men could pull it off.
He did.
For the second time today, she found herself caught simply staring, not responding like an articulate adult. She took an extra moment, struggling to recall his remarkable statement about Troy’s beauty. Not the usual thing for a straight male to point out. “Are you two . . . together?”
The word trailed off as his gaze sharpened on her. Christ, even if Matthews was an annex of the urban Charlotte area, she was still technically in a small Southern town, not Boston. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”
“Not where you’re from, obviously.” The trace of amusement in his brown eyes relaxed her, on that point at least. He crossed his arms and hooked his thumbs under his armpits, giving her a thorough perusal. “Down here, it’s still like congratulating a woman on her pregnancy. If you’re right and she is pregnant, all’s good; if you’re wrong, you’re telling her she’s fat.”
He had a voice that could narrate books. Whether they were romances with quiet whispers in the dark, seafaring adventures that called for commanding roars or English mysteries needing a sexy, cultured tone with the right pauses for emphasis, his voice would hold attention, ears straining to catch every intonation.
He shrugged. “No, we’re not together. And not just because you’re my preference. I’m training him for someone else, in exchange for blatant exploitation. Home Depot has fifty thousand square feet, but I have Troy. The local ladies turned out in record numbers for my spring gardening sale. I even lured a healthy percentage of gay men away from the Depot’s home décor offerings.” He winked.
“Do you offer to let everyone touch him?” she asked.
“I wasn’t offering that. Just observing how tempting it is to do so.”
“Sounds like entrapment.”
The brown eyes got warmer. “Spoken like a woman who knows the rules and rarely breaks them.” He glanced at the box in her arms. “Is that for us?”
“Oh. Yeah, here.”
“Since we share an address, deliveries sometimes get left at the wrong door. Sorry, I should have had you put this down right off. It’s like a pile of bricks.” He’d taken it from her as he spoke, moving behind the counter. She tried to keep her focus on his face, rather than the way the shirt strained over his broad shoulders. The temptation to reach o
ut and touch the curls of coarse hair at his throat was making her fingertips tingle.
She cleared her throat. “I figured someone had sent you a cinder block.”
Those attractive lips curved as he fished a box cutter out of a drawer and slit the box open. “Lead. We have customers who pour their own bullets for hunting, self-defense and historical reenactments, so I keep a supply, along with primers, powder and the like. But there should be something else in here.” His expression brightened. “Right here on top.”
He freed the item from the packaging with remarkable gentleness, revealing a set of antique gold metal hinges. “The supply house for bullet lead also does metal work?” she asked.
“They’re an eclectic enterprise. A mom-and-pop place in Missouri. They even have a blacksmith who shoes horses and makes swords for Renaissance faires. I’ve been out there and visited. Almost bought an Excalibur replica, but decided on a good wood lathe. The lathe was cheaper.”
She studied the engraved design on the hinges. It looked like barbed wire, but on closer inspection she assumed it was a vine of thorns, interspersed with tiny leaves and loops. “You don’t usually see thorns without a rose.”
“No, you don’t. The potential of the thorns is often overlooked.” He extended a hand. “Let me show you.”
She curled her fingers together, uncertain, though she knew she was being foolish. She was intrigued, and she was in a public place. Still, she hedged at the physical contact. This guy was doing weird things to her. She needed to get back to her store. “Hand holding? We haven’t even been introduced officially.”
His gaze met hers. “I’m Logan Scott.”
Trust Logan. Like you’d trust me. Or a soul mate.
This was the man who’d cared for her sister, all except those last three days. While she couldn’t fathom why her sister had made sure they wouldn’t meet until after she was gone, the knowledge of who he was now gave Madison the confidence to comply with his request. She put her hand in his.
His fingers closed around hers. She’d never thought of a man’s touch as unforgettable, but she drew in a breath at the way it felt. Reassuring. Firm and strong. Something that would become a permanent craving if taken away.
“At last,” he murmured. “We meet.”
Unrestrained Page 42
