Charity watched him put the batteries in a different order with a dexterity that surprised her. His hands were roughened and scarred by his profession, but his fingers remained nimble. She’d never had a chance to study a cowboy’s hands before. A bull rider’s hands, at that. “Do you usually wear gloves?” She hadn’t meant to ask the question aloud.
He glanced up. “For remote control surgery? I don’t think we have to worry about battery infection, do you?”
“For heaven’s sake. I meant when you ride bulls.”
“Oh. You should signal those turns, ma’am.” He went back to examining the remote. “And to answer your question, I wear a glove on my weak hand, which is my left.” He looked up again. “Why, are you thinking of taking up the sport? Not a lot of women, do, but believe it or not I can picture you battling it out with a Brahman.” He pointed the remote at the television and clicked it vigorously.
“Was that some sort of crack?”
“No, ma’am, it was a compliment. You rode that doggy door real good.”
“It was a crack!”
“Nope.” He gazed at her. “Some women would have screamed and gotten hysterical in that kind of fix, but you didn’t.” He tossed the remote on the sofa between them. “And this is sure enough broken.”
“Great.”
“Look on the bright side. It’s not an antique. Now let’s head back into the kitchen.” He levered himself from the sofa. “I’m starving.”
Charity followed him. As she passed the powder room door she heard a whimper from inside. “MacDougal!” With a rush of guilt she ran forward and wrenched open the door. “I forgot all about him!”
MacDougal surged out of the powder room and danced around her, his nails clicking on the pine floor.
“I’m so sorry, fuzz-face,” she said, leaning down to scratch behind his ears. “I promise not to forget about you again.” As she considered all the time he’d been cooped up she turned on the light in the little room to check for damage. When she looked inside, she gasped. Every surface was covered with unrolled toilet paper.
Wyatt looked over her shoulder and began to laugh. “A guy’s got to amuse himself, right, Mac?”
The Scottie woofed.
“Look on the bright side,” Wyatt added.
“I know, I know. The toilet paper wasn’t antique.” Charity glanced around the room to make sure nothing was permanently damaged. Deciding to clean it up later, she flicked off the light and closed the door. “There’s been more destruction to this house in the past three hours than in the entire week I stayed here,” she said as Wyatt continued down the hall into the kitchen.
“Are you implying something?”
“Well, nothing like this happened while I was here alone.”
He reached the kitchen and turned to face her, his hands braced against his lean hips. “But since the big bad bull rider appeared, all hell has broken loose. Is that what you meant?”
She’d seen the light of challenge in his brown eyes enough to know another battle could easily follow, but she was too hungry to fight. “Let’s just say we’re a hazardous combination,” she said.
“You’ll get no argument from me on that. Do we have cheese?”
“Yes. We can toast some sandwiches.”
“Great.” Wyatt rummaged in the refrigerator and pulled out the cheese while Charity set up the electric skillet.
“Answer me honestly,” Wyatt said as he began slicing cheese. “Do you think Nora intended to match us up over the holiday?”
Charity buttered the bread. “Well, she had invited me to Thanksgiving dinner.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“She didn’t tell me you’d be here, either.”
“Pretty suspicious behavior, wouldn’t you say?”
“Suspicious and totally misguided.” Charity laid the bread butter side down on the skillet and stepped back for Wyatt to arrange the slices of cheese on it. “Anyone can see we’re exact opposites. We can’t do anything together without arguing. What could she have been thinking?”
“God knows. Maybe she’s getting mushy in her old age.” He moved away from the skillet so Charity could put the buttered tops on the sandwiches. “Do we have any pickles to go with these?”
“Cucumber slices. I bought them this week.”
“Perfect.”
Charity’s gaze slowly swiveled to his as she realized they’d just been working in complete harmony while making their dinner. He met her look, and her heart began to pound with a funny, hitching rhythm.
Finally he shrugged and looked away. “Nobody fights all the time.”
Charity swallowed and tried to regain her composure. When Wyatt looked at her with that piercing intensity her insides got all tingly and liquid. She took a deep breath and smelled smoke. “The sandwiches are burning!” she cried, racing for a spatula.
“I knew you couldn’t cook!” he snapped.
“Then why didn’t you do it?”
He threw up both hands. “Because I figured you wanted to be in charge!”
“Men!”
“Women!”
The smoke alarm went off and MacDougal began to bark.
Wyatt looked at the blackened sandwiches and began to laugh. “At least we’re back to normal around here.”
4
A PERVERSE SENSE of humor made Charity insist they eat the charred sandwiches in the dining room, an elegant yet small space adjoining the living area. She used the dimmer switch on the crystal chandelier hanging over the lace-covered table and lit the white tapers rising majestically from pewter candlesticks created by Paul Revere.
She and Wyatt had debated whether to drink red or white wine with burned cheese sandwiches and had settled, surprisingly without much argument, on a bottle of cabernet. Charity had poured it into two goblets of hand-cut lead crystal and served the sandwiches on antique Spode china. In honor of the occasion Wyatt took off his hat and hung it on one of the dining room chairs. “I’m glad to see that Nora allows the candles to be burned,” he said as he took a bite of his sandwich.
“She told me to use them if I wanted to, as long as I was careful.” She tried not to fixate on a lock of brown hair that fell in sexy abandon over Wyatt’s forehead. Bringing her attention back to dinner, she picked up her sandwich and took a tentative bite. It tasted like a charcoal briquet. She chewed and swallowed. “Delicious.”
“Better than a mouthful of arena dirt.” Without the hat shadowing his eyes, the twinkle was more visible.
“How sweet of you to say so.”
“I suppose these plates and glasses are antiques.”
Charity nodded. “Considering our track record, I’m probably tempting fate to bring them out, but I’ve been using her fine china all week. Nora does use her dishes and glassware.”
“I know. I remember these plates.” He glanced beside his chair where MacDougal whined and wriggled his stubby tail. “Hey, Mac, give it up. Trust me, you don’t want a piece of this cheese sandwich anyway.”
“He’s not after your sandwich,” Charity said.
“And I don’t blame him. It tastes like a jogging shoe.”
She gave him a withering glance because he probably expected her to, but he looked so good in the candlelight her heart wasn’t really in it.
“A name-brand jogging shoe,” he amended. “I’m so hungry I really don’t care.”
“I offered to make a new batch.”
“Not with real conviction.” He gave her an off center grin. “I figured things could get worse. Are you sure you want to tackle a turkey tomorrow?”
“A turkey is easy. You just stick it in a roaster and put it in the oven. Then you take it out when it’s done.”
“If you say so. I’ve never cooked one in my life.”
Neither had Charity, but she’d be damned if she’d tell him that. The directions were printed right on the turkey wrapper, and she could read. “I tell you, it’s a snap.”
“Okay, but I—” Wyatt p
aused as the dog continued to whine. “What is it with you, Mac? I’ve never seen so much dedication to a cause.”
“He wants the wine.”
“No way. Dogs don’t like wine.”
Charity laughed. “This one does. Nora made the mistake of letting him taste some once, and he’s been a fool for it ever since.”
Wyatt stared at her. “And you give it to him?”
“Of course I don’t give it to him! I’m here to take care of MacDougal, not get him drunk.”
“Just asking. I want to make sure I understand all the rules. Speaking of which, am I allowed to have a second glass?”
“That’s up to you, but I don’t want anybody staggering around Nora’s house endangering the Waterford crystal.”
“I promise that two glasses of wine will not make me stagger.”
Charity gestured toward the bottle. “Then help yourself.”
“Thanks.” He uncorked the bottle and held it up. “Any more for you?”
“No, thanks.”
“In danger of staggering, Charity?”
“Of course not.” She sounded priggish and didn’t like the image. “Oh, all right. Half a glass.”
“Stand back, folks. She’s kicking over the traces. Next thing you know she’ll be dancing naked on the table.”
“Do you practice being obnoxious or does it just come naturally?”
He winked at her. “It’s a gift. Come on, let’s take our wine into the living room.” He pushed back his chair.
“Don’t sit on the white damask sofa with that red wine,” she cautioned, following him.
“Then I’ll sit on the rug.”
“The rug’s a hundred and twenty years old. I’m not sure a red wine stain would ever come out of it.”
He made a face. “All this priceless stuff sure crimps a guy’s style.”
“And what style would that be, cowboy?” Charity chose an old Boston rocker.
Wyatt walked over to the frosty bay window, reached across the window seat and cleared one pane with a wipe of his sleeve. He gazed out into the snowy night as he sipped his wine. “Freedom, I guess.”
She had to admit he looked a bit like a caged animal standing in the shadowed cave of the window staring out into the darkness. There was a restless set to his shoulders that clashed with a room designed for quiet pursuits like reading and needlepoint.
He turned and gestured around the room with the wineglass. “The opposite of all this.”
Charity bristled at the implied criticism of a woman she idolized. “Nora had this place built for her, with no consideration of what a man would want in a house. That’s pretty unusual, and I admire her for it.”
“And you’d like to do the same someday?”
“Absolutely. Nora set the standard for me a long time ago.”
“Really?” He walked out of the shadows by the window and moved toward her. “Just how long have you known my aunt?”
“I met her nineteen years ago, when I was ten. My mother brought me down from Boston for a feminist retreat Nora hosted in this house.”
Wyatt nodded. “She was always big on feminism.”
“And you’re not?”
“I didn’t say that. I believe in equal rights for women. But I resent being classified as the enemy just because I was born with different equipment between my legs than you have.”
“Men have been classifying women that way for generations.” Charity tried to convince herself they were having a political, not a sexual conversation. And she tried to keep her gaze from drifting below his belt. She failed on both counts. The heat of awareness swept through her as she considered, in detail, his “equipment.”
“I had the feeling that you carry that sort of chip on your shoulder,” he said.
She glanced upward into a chiseled face that attracted her far more than it should. She took refuge in rhetoric. “How can I not have a chip on my shoulder? I’m more likely to end up poverty-stricken than you, more likely to be raped, more likely to be—”
“Taken care of,” he interrupted. “More likely to inherit the money accumulated by a man, because you’ll live longer, on average. More likely to be—”
“Passed over for a promotion, to be defeated in an election,” she countered.
MacDougal trotted between them and sat with his tongue out as his head swiveled from one to the other.
“He doesn’t like confrontation,” Charity said.
Wyatt crouched down and massaged MacDougal’s spine. “No, he’s a laid-back wino, aren’t you, Mac?”
“Don’t you dare give that dog any wine.”
Wyatt looked at her, his gaze level with hers as he continued scratching the ecstatic Scottie. “Relax, Charity. I’m going to be a good boy.”
Charity watched his supple fingers giving pleasure to the dog and almost wished he wouldn’t be good. She had nothing, absolutely nothing, in common with this bull rider. But he was the sexiest man she’d met in a very long time.
WYATT STROKED the dog, but what he wanted desperately to do was stroke the woman, to take her hair out of its confining twist on top of her head, to remove the glasses as a prelude to removing a whole lot more. His urges astonished him. He wanted her not because she wore a seductive outfit, but because she didn’t; not because she’d given him an unspoken invitation, but because she hadn’t.
Their conversations inevitably became dueling matches, which should be a turnoff. Instead they heated his blood. Charity Webster represented everything he didn’t want in a woman, and he desired her with a fierceness that made him tremble.
“Where am I sleeping?” he asked, deciding maybe they should end the evening before he lost control of his better judgment and kissed her.
“I put your duffel bag in the downstairs guest room.”
He nodded as he continued to rub MacDougal’s back. The dog closed his eyes in ecstasy. “That’s where my parents used to sleep. I had the little bedroom upstairs, next to Nora’s.” He wondered if Charity had put them on separate floors on purpose. “You’re taking Nora’s room, then?”
“Yes.”
He noticed the clipped answer, the flicker of heat in her gaze before she looked away. A carefully developed instinct told him that it wouldn’t take much to lure her into his arms. Another glass of wine, perhaps. Some soft music on the stereo. A teasing invitation to dance.
Giving MacDougal a final pat, he stood. “I’ll help you with the dishes, and then I think I’ll turn in.”
She stood, too, and finished the last of her wine. “Don’t worry about the dishes. There’s not much.”
He could be imagining the regret in her tone, but somehow he didn’t think so. Dammit, should he make a move? No. Charity was so different from the women he usually took to bed that he had a premonition the outcome might be different, too. That might be what Nora was after, but he didn’t want to start anything that couldn’t be finished quickly and cleanly, with no hurt feelings on either side.
“I’ll help with the dishes,” he said. “Otherwise you might accuse me of being a male chauvinist pig who’s afraid of getting caught with his hands in a pan of soapsuds.”
“Tell you what. You can take MacDougal to the backyard for his evening outing while I do the dishes.”
That was so blatantly dividing up the jobs along gender lines that even Wyatt rebelled. “Are you afraid I’ll break one of Nora’s plates? Because I’ll have you know I washed those same plates for her when I was fifteen, and I didn’t break a single one.” Actually, he’d broken two, which made the statement literally true. But he wasn’t fifteen anymore. “Come on, Charity. You’re so ready to trumpet the feminist cause. Put your money where your mouth is and take the dog out while I do up the dishes.”
Her chin lifted. “Very well.”
He almost laughed at her aristocratic response. Every time she got high-and-mighty with him, it made the prospect of penetrating that facade harder to resist. But he would resist, for his sake and hers.
CHARITY STOOD outside in the swirling snow and stomped her feet to keep warm. She jammed her hands into the pockets of her ski jacket and turned up the collar, but bits of snow still found their way down her neck to bestow chilly kisses. Her green beret didn’t do much to keep her head warm, either. Out of habit she’d brought MacDougal’s leash, which was also stuffed into her pocket. She hardly needed to worry about him running away on a night like this.
His coat must be protecting him pretty well, though, she thought, because he floundered through the snow chasing snowflakes and generally seemed uninterested in doing what he’d been brought out to do. Charity glanced over her shoulder through the kitchen window. It was fogged from the steam of hot dishwater, but she could make out the hazy outline of Wyatt doing dishes wearing his Stetson.
“This is ridiculous, Mac,” she muttered, turning back to the cavorting dog. “I’m the brains of this operation, so how come I end up with the worst job while Wyatt’s got it easy? I’m glad Nora’s not here to see this sorry turn of events.”
MacDougal woofed and raced through a snowdrift.
“Come on, dog. Get down to business. You’re going to be sopping wet by the time we go back inside.”
The Scottie ran to the other side of the yard and began barking at a bush.
“Hey! It’s a bush! Nobody’s out in this snowstorm except you and me. So—” The rest of Charity’s tirade lodged in her throat as a shadow moved beside the bush.
“MacDougal, come!” she managed to gasp. The dog trotted obediently toward her as she stared at the-bush. Keeping her attention on the shadow, she fumbled for MacDougal’s collar and snapped the leash into place. The bulky figure shifted again, and she could swear it emitted a cloud of steamy breath. It was way too big to be a skunk or a raccoon. A bear? There weren’t any bears around Saybrook. Unless a bear had escaped from a zoo somewhere. She jerked on Mac’s leash and started backing toward the door. “Wyatt! Wyatt, come out here!”
Almost instantly he barreled out of the back door in his shirtsleeves, an apron tied around his jeans. “What? What’s wrong?”
Holding tight to Mac’s leash, she hurled herself into the safety of his arms, which enclosed her with reassuring strength. She’d never been so glad to see a protective alpha-male in her life. “S-something’s out there.” She looked up into his shadowy face. “Something like a b-bear.”
Stuck With You Page 5
