The neighbors were more fascinated by what she did with the inside. From the beginning she realized the house was going to suck in millions to make it habitable—only she didn’t have millions. Cripes, she didn’t even have furniture. So she’d headed for Home Depot and bought paint. Lots of paint.
The kitchen cabinets were mint green, the walls a bright blue. Beyond the kitchen was a dining room she’d turned into an office, and painted those walls a light lavender. An arched doorway led into a long narrow vanilla-yellow living room. All in all, the downstairs pretty much covered every possible ice cream cone color.
In some rooms, she even had furniture now.
In the back of the house, where Barb hustled the breakfasters, was her business. Customers—usually moms—entered from the back door.
A bathroom and curtained-off changing area took up the north wall; the massage center dominated the room’s center. The counters, sink, stand-alone tub and massage tables were all white—not shiny, in-your-face white, but an ultrasoft clean white.
All, that is, except for one corner, where dusty bags of cement, heaped stacks of stones and long boxes of plumbing parts looked as out of place as mud in a hospital. Further, the sledgehammer in front of it at all was almost bigger than she was. She may have overbought there, just a tad.
“What in God’s name have you gotten yourself into, girl?” Gary questioned, hands on hips.
Phoebe was still carrying her bowl of grapefruit. It was impossible to explain that once she’d cleaned the place stem to stern—even the windows—she still couldn’t get her mind off the damn man. He was hurting, she just knew it. Not letting anyone help him, she knew that, too. But it wasn’t her problem—and wasn’t going to be her problem—so she’d searched for a project that would force her to think about something else.
“I’m going to build a waterfall,” she told the group.
“A waterfall,” Barb repeated. “Honey, you barely have a pot to pee in, and you give away half of what you do have. And you’re going to build a waterfall? Inside the house?”
“Now wait. Just wait. It’s not as impossible as it sounds. I saw it in a magazine…” And then she mentally pictured it. The south corner of this room really had nothing in it, so there’s where she wanted it—a sensual, warm, indoor waterfall at shower height, leading to a small pool surrounded by tropical plants. “If I used tile inside, stone outside, it would look almost like the real thing. And I could use it with the babies, either by sitting in there by myself, or just have the parent sit with their little one. It wouldn’t be too different from a hot tub, just more…sensual. And natural. And restful.”
Gary and Fred took one look at the bags of cement and piles of stones and started guffawing.
“Hey. It can’t be that hard to find a mason who can show me how to mortar in the stones. And I figured the pipes for the sink are already here, so there has to be some way to tap into them for the water source. I mean, I know it’ll take some work—”
“Some work?” Gary hooted. “You’re going to need a crew of fifty to pull this off!”
“So, it’ll take a lot of work. But I really think it’s a practical idea—” Since that sent Gary and Barb into new gales of laughter, she appealed to Fred. “Don’t you think it’d be beautiful?”
“I think you’re the prettiest thing this neighborhood has seen in decades, sugar. And if you want to build yourself a waterfall, then that’s what you should do.”
But then he caught Gary’s eye, and the two of them started cackling all over again.
At that precise moment she spotted the man in the doorway—not any man, but Fergus. Her Fergus Lockwood. He had his arm raised in a fist, as if he’d been knocking and was going to try yet again to gain someone’s attention.
The pups spotted him first and beelined straight for the newcomer. Her neighbors all spun around and gaped, then gaped back at Phoebe, then offered hellos and we’re just Phoebe’s neighbors and everybody was just leaving—although no one left.
Phoebe dropped her bowl of grapefruit. The bowl cracked. The grapefruit skittered across the tile floor, leaving seeds and grapefruit juice in its wake. Obviously the world as she knew it hadn’t suddenly ended, yet, for just a few seconds she couldn’t seem to move. Her heart went woosh, the way it had a nasty tendency to do around Fox the other two times she’d been near him—only it was worse this time.
It was all his fault she’d come up with this ridiculously impossible waterfall idea. All his fault she’d cleaned house. It was the woosh thing. His brothers were adorable, so at least if they caused that thigh-clenching heart-thumping response, she’d have understood it. She recognized those guys as hot, but not a problem.
Why did she only feel that woosh and zing for the wrong guys? And, darn it, one short glance at his long, lean bones and her hormones were all a dazzle. Where was the fairness in life? The justice?
“Phoebe? I didn’t mean to barge in, but the bell didn’t seem to work, and no one seemed to hear me knocking. When I heard all the voices, I—”
“It’s okay,” she said swiftly, and zoomed forward—almost putting her bare foot in the broken porcelain but getting smart at the last second. A little smart, anyway. “These are my neighbors—Barb, Gary, Fred, this is Fergus—”
“We’re leaving,” Barb said again, as she pumped his hand. Fergus went rigid.
Phoebe saw his response and recognized that he was hurting. Thankfully that slapped a little sense in her head. “Y’all can take the rest of the coffee cake on your way out. And I’ll catch up with you later,” she said firmly.
It took a minute to clear them out, clean up the broken bowl, have a heart attack because she’d had no chance to brush her hair or put on makeup or real clothes, get Mop and Duster to quit behaving like puppies on speed, and then get back to him.
He was still standing exactly where she’d left him, looking around her massage room setup. “Phoebe, I really am sorry about interrupting you.”
“You didn’t. That was just a Saturday-morning neighborhood free-for-all. They eat me out of house and home. What’s wrong?”
He answered her slowly, quietly, his gaze directly on hers. “I was rude before. I wanted to apologize. When I go through one of my bad pain stretches, I can’t seem to…think. My foot was so deep in my mouth, I’m amazed I could even get it out again. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”
“You didn’t. And it’s not a worry. I understand about pain.” She cocked her head curiously. “But you could have called to say you were sorry. Instead…you’re here.”
He tugged on an ear. “Yeah, well. Nothing I tried ever helped those headaches. You did. And if you’d consider taking me and my sometimes big mouth on as a client, I’d appreciate it.”
He obviously hated eating crow. She couldn’t very well hold a grudge when she hated sucking up after making a mistake herself. “I take it you’re having one of those headaches right now?”
“I’ve got one coming,” he admitted. “But that’s not why I came now. The headache isn’t that bad. And I didn’t expect you’d be working on Saturdays. I just came to apologize, and I figured Saturday morning you might not have clients, so it’d be a good time to ask if you’d consider taking me on down the pike—”
Before he could finish, she said, “All right.”
“All right, you’ll take me on?”
“Yes. If we can come to terms.” She perched up on a counter and crossed her bare feet. “If you want me to work with you, Fergus, my idea would be to sit down together with a whole program. Not just deal with those headaches when they’re tearing you in two, because that timing is way too late. You need to practice some techniques to make them go away for the long term.”
“Like what techniques? What kind of program?” he asked warily, but her attention was diverted when she saw him starting to sway.
“Strip down,” she said swiftly.
“Beg your pardon?”
“You’re on my turf now, Fox. Go b
ehind the curtain, strip down—I don’t care if you keep on your underwear or go buff—but take off most of your clothes. I need two minutes to heat the sheet and prepare. When you’re done, come back in here, get on the table, cover up.”
“I—”
“Do it,” she ordered him.
She wasn’t going to think about it—about how or why he rang her chimes. Or about that stupid euphoric feeling she got around him, either.
It had cost him to come here, particularly for a man who had a hard time leaving the house these days. And though he may not have been in serious pain when he started out, he was obviously getting more miserable by the minute. She kicked her speed up to high gear. The pups were sent outside, the phone put on no-ring. The massage table was automatically dressed with a clean white pad, but it was baby-size. She scouted out an adult one, then threw a sheet in the dryer to heat on high for a few minutes.
Minutes before, she’d worried about looking like something a cat wouldn’t drag home, but any thought of vanity disappeared now. Impatiently she pushed up her long hair, twisting and clipping it, while she considered which oils she wanted. She decided on lemon balm, sweet marjoram and calendula. She clicked on the CD, then strategically placed several small towels where they’d cushion his neck, the small of his back, under his knees.
She heard him cough—and easily guessed he was on the other side of the dressing room curtain, ready, just not sure what to do next. She didn’t look up, just said, “Climb on the table and lie down on your back. I’m going to pull the shades, darken the room so it won’t be so bright, Fox. There’s a cover you can pull on, if you’re too cool.”
She used her bossiest voice, yet she still momentarily held her breath, unsure if he’d try giving her a hard time. But he said nothing. Once he settled on the table, she turned around and immediately smoothed a cool compress on his forehead and eyes until she finished setting up. On the CD player she clicked on madrigals. She’d never liked that kind of music, but this wasn’t about her. Somehow even the most rowdiest babies seem to quiet down when she used that disc.
The details were done, then, and once she moved behind his head, she concentrated as fiercely as a brain surgeon. This was work. It wasn’t about him; it wasn’t about sex; it wasn’t about analyzing why such a scrawny, stubborn, contrary man put such an impossible zing in her pulse.
It was just about a man who was hurting…and about her, hoping to find a way to help him.
She worked for fifteen solid minutes, but his headache was almost as stubborn as he was. He just couldn’t seem to relax. The pain had a grip on him with wolf teeth. She leaned forward, closing her eyes, feeling his heartbeat, feeling the heat of his skin, feeling his pain…and then going for it. Temples. Eyes. Frontal lobe. The sides of his neck, under his chin, his whole face. Then into his scalp.
Two minutes passed. Then five. Seven more minutes passed before he even started letting go…but then he was hers. Her heart suddenly quickened with a rhythm she couldn’t shake. She never got that feeling with her babies. Never got it with her elderly clients. Touch was sensual and healing and fulfilling, and she needed—liked—to help people. But it wasn’t sexual.
It was so, so sexual with him. Intuiting where to touch, how to move, wasn’t just about evaluating his pain. It was about sensing what he wanted. What he liked. What moved him.
Even though the pain finally eased, he didn’t open his eyes for a long time. Silently she pulled up the sides on the massage table so he wouldn’t accidentally fall, but still she stood there, knowing he wasn’t totally asleep yet. His body fought sleep, naturally wary that if he let go completely, the pain could steal up on him again.
At one point he murmured, “I just want you to know…I’m not marrying anyone. But if I were…it’d be you.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s what all the guys say,” she quipped easily, but her voice was still a careful whisper.
He fell silent again, but not for long enough. “I almost forgot. You warned me before about all those men you have in your life.”
She hadn’t warned him. She’d just said what he was undoubtedly already thinking because of her being a masseuse, but she let it go. Seconds ticked by. Then minutes. Finally his breathing turned deep and even. She watched his chest rise and fall, watched the thick furrow between his brows smooth out, watched those tightly muscled shoulders finally ease completely.
The idle thought sneaked into her mind that this had to be the craziest thing that had ever happened to her. The guy hadn’t touched her. In any way. She was the only one who’d done the touching. Yet she was somehow more drawn to him than any other man she could remember.
It was downright scary having to worry that she was losing her mind this young.
And it was scarier yet to realize that this fierce, wonderful pull she had for Fox was so dead wrong. He was a man whose wealth and background was bound to make him look down on her and her profession, a man who had shown no interest in her. A man as inappropriate for her as Alan had been. A man who had the potential to hurt her, she feared, even deeper than Alan had.
Four
T he dream stirred Fox into waking. In the dream a sizzling-hot sun fried his back—just like every other day. For months he’d wondered if that incessant sun had ever driven anyone mad. Yet he wanted to be here. Wanted to do this.
The last few days, they’d been clearing debris, starting the work of rebuilding a school. It was more than good work. It was exactly the reason he’d felt driven to enlist. Back home the honor thing had bugged him. He couldn’t teach kids history every day and discuss what it took to be a hero and an American without realizing that it was damn well time for him to actively show instead of tell. The other reason was the kids. Having the chance to rebuild hospitals and schools made him believe that his kids, his students, just might have a better world to grow up in.
And that was exactly why he didn’t hesitate to crouch down when the little brown-faced squirt shyly approached him. He offered the tyke some candy, a yo-yo. He knew the language, which was partly why he’d ended up there. And the child with the big brown eyes and hollow cheeks looked hungry and desperate, as if somehow, some way, somebody had to do something to make his life better.
That the child had a bomb wrapped around his belly never crossed his mind. Never. Not for a second. Not even when it went off…and he was blown back a dozen yards, scissors and shards of God knows what spearing every surface on his body that wasn’t covered by gear. And the kid, that damn kid, that damn damn damn baby of a kid…
And that’s when Fox woke up. When he always woke up. But this time he was as disoriented as a priest in a brothel.
Something was really, really screwy.
This wasn’t the leather couch where he always fell asleep. Instead he seemed to be lying on some kind of cushioned surface, wrapped in a soft warm sheet. Everything around him was saint white, except for a bunch of bosomy plants hanging in windows, spilling leaves and flowers in crowded tangles. For some goofy reason there was a bathtub in the middle of the room, and yet the far corner was heaped with stones and construction and plumbing parts. Goofier yet, his nostrils picked up the most wonderful smells—the sharp tang of lemon and a minty herb fragrance, and then another scent, something he couldn’t quite identify, something vague and fresh and brisk and just a bit flowery.…
Her.
The minute he turned his head, he saw Phoebe. As always when he woke after a crash-deep, crash-dark sleep, the headache was completely gone and his senses ultrasharp. He could feel every ache, every fading stitch and bruise.
He also promptly realized that he was naked as a jaybird under the sheet—and hard as a jackhammer. One look at her seemed to do it.
She was curled up in a white rocker. All the blinds in the room were drawn, except where she’d opened them several inches in the south window above her. Sunshine beamed down—as if just for her. Her bare legs were swung over the chair arm, and the shape of her naked calves was enough to i
nspire another jolt of testosterone. Her bare feet were dirty, and she was wearing what he called Saturday clothes, sweats, shorts and a big old voluminous shirt that completely concealed her body.
She held a mug of something steaming in one hand, a book in the other. He vaguely remembered her hair all pinned up and out of the way, but she’d let it loose at some point, because now those long red strands shimmied down her back like a gush of water, catching claret and cinnamon and tea and amber colors in the sunlight. The freckles on her nose were naked.
He wished she were.
He’d never met a more sensual woman. In looks, in touch, in everything. He felt both defensive and suspicious about that weird magic thing when she touched him. He just didn’t get it…how she could possibly induce so much feeling in a guy who didn’t feel, didn’t talk, had cut himself off from life for months now—and wanted it that way.
But none of that aggravation seemed to dent his fascination for her. Fox conceded that the issue might be a lot simpler than he was making it. Probably any man’d have to be dead not to respond to a two hundred percent handful of a woman like her.
She startled, as if suddenly realizing something was different in the room. When she turned her head and saw he was awake, she immediately plunked down her mug.
“What time is it?” he asked her.
“Almost three.”
Couldn’t be. “You’re not telling me I’ve been here all day.”
“You were sleeping so soundly that I didn’t want to wake you. And there was no need. I was just puttering around here. No clients on a Saturday.”
“I’ll pay you for the time I was here.”
“Yeah, you will,” she agreed. “But if you feel up to it, I’d like to ask you some questions.” She pushed out of the rocking chair, came closer.
“What kind of questions?” he asked suspiciously.
“A massage shouldn’t be able to dent the kind of serious headaches you’re getting, Fergus. Migraines and cluster headaches and stuff that bad…they’re medical. Physiological.”
Hot to the Touch Page 5
