by Renee Roszel
The boy seemed to sag. “Three weeks ago.”
“Uh-huh,” Ransom agreed, nodding. “So, when do you think I might feel like cooking dinner?”
“Three weeks...” Tag allowed the answer to fade away in a listless sigh.
“Sounds about right,” Ransom observed. “I look forward to those pancakes. Thanks.”
Tag nodded, a picture of dejection. “They’re, uh, not very round.”
“They’ll taste fine,” Ransom offered more gently.
Tag started to turn away, then again seemed to have a thought. Screwing up his face as though he had something difficult to ask, he said, “What if I paint it after breakfast?”
“Only if you want to,” Ransom commented with little interest.
“I do, I guess. We’ve been washing dishes, and Lynn’s gonna do some laundry.”
Ransom’s brows lifted in mild surprise. “Oh? Why?”
Tag shook his head. “Well, you and Sara won’t let us use your clean towels, and we’re all out of underwear. Gee, Dad, we’re not animals. We don’t want to stink, ya know!”
A flash of wry amusement flitted across Ransom’s lips. “Now there’s a news bulletin.” Gesturing toward the house, he suggested, “You’d better get back and watch those pancakes. Sara and I are getting hungry.” He graced Sara with a glance. “Aren’t we.”
She was startled to be included in the conversation. A second passed before she realized she was expected to answer. Disjointedly she rasped, “Uh, um, yes.”
Tag thrust his chin up jerkily, his expression still downcast. “See ya, later.”
The boy began walking, but was halted by his father’s voice. “Say, Tag, for some reason I just got an urge to cook dinner. Would you rather have barbecued chicken or broiled halibut steaks?”
The youngster swung back around, his green eyes wide with surprise and delight. “Barbecued chicken.”
Ransom smiled. “Okay, fine.”
With that decided, Tag headed off. Sara watched him gallop over a low rise before she faced her host again. When she did, she was surprised to see that he was watching her. There was a suspicious quirk at the corners of his mouth. “Is that what you wanted to tell me?” he asked.
She nodded mutely.
A bright sparkle of humor at her expense invaded his eyes. “Thanks for the news.” Moving past her, he began strolling away.
She detected smugness in his tone and frowned. Aware that he was leaving, she hurried to catch up with him and admitted, “Okay, so you were right and I was wrong. I hope you’re happy.”
“Happiness is a relative thing.”
Exasperated by a week of this man’s cryptic remarks, she cried, “What does it take to make you happy?”
“Are you writing my biography, Sara?” he asked evenly.
“You don’t trust anybody, do you?”
He shifted to face her, his features hardening. “You’re very close.” His words, though quiet, were menacing. “But you’re not quite on the mark.’’
“Look, I admit I don’t know everything about your situation, but I know there’s something wrong between you and Tag, and I’d like to help if you’ll let me,” she persisted, her voice rising with her frustration. “Talk to me!”
“You’re right, Sara. You don’t know my situation.” His manner distant, he cautioned, “Stay out of it.” Indicating the direction of the house, he reminded, “Those pancakes will be ready soon. We’d better go.”
As he tramped away from her, so tall and remote, Sara stared after him in complete bafflement. He simply refused to allow her any slack at all—no trust, hardly even civility. That was tough to take, especially after the flash of genuine warmth he’d revealed Sunday when he’d pressed her back onto the earth and kissed her.
With great effort, she shook off the giddy feeling the memory brought flooding back, vowing she would not let herself dwell on things that might have been. The incident was behind her—a foolish moment that fortunately hadn’t gone too far.
But now she found herself in the difficult position of struggling to be indifferent to Ransom while unexpectedly being filled with a grudging admiration for him. He’d managed to get the kids to do things voluntarily that she hadn’t been able to get Lynn to do in years of shouting and threats. She shook her head, at a loss.
EIGHT HOURS LATER, Sara was still reeling from the change that had come over the children. It appeared that the time without clean clothes, dishes or variety in meals had created a craving for order. The inside porch walls were gleaming with a new coat of white paint, and the blue-tile floor in the kitchen had been mopped to a sparkling glimmer. The clutter was gone, and the whole house smelled of pine cleanser.
The place wasn’t ready for the cover of Disinfected Dwellings Gazette, but the chaos was vastly improved. It was clear to Sara that Lynn and Tag would have done almost anything for barbecued chicken. If she’d only known that years ago. Unfortunately, in Andover, Kansas, there was always a chicken take-out place or a pizza parlor, so no child was ever forced to eat out of cans if she had a couple of dollars. Here, though, there was no choice. It was either cook or starve.
Sara smiled inwardly as Lynn trudged by with another load of dirty clothes. “How’s it going?” she asked.
“Fine,” Lynn groused, but Sara could tell from the tone of her sister’s voice and the lightness of her step that she was not as angry about this tidy turn of events as she let on.
“I thought I’d make peanut-butter pie for dessert,” she called, knowing Lynn loved Sara’s recipe.
The girl spun around dropping a shower of odd socks in her excitement. “Really? Would you?”
Sara smiled. “Sure. It’s been a while.”
Lynn grinned. “Wow. Barbecued chicken and peanut-butter pie. I’m so happy I could kiss a skunk.”
Sara shook her head at the horrible image Lynn’s remark evoked, but she couldn’t help laughing. Her laughter sounded strange to her ear, and she wondered how long it had been since she’d had a good laugh.
After a moment, she realized Lynn was laughing, too. Sara watched her sister double over with it. What Lynn had said hadn’t been that funny, but they were both laughing hysterically. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that they’d finally learned to appreciate each other a little more. Lynn had learned that she’d taken Sara for granted. And Sara... What, exactly had she learned? It was in there, deep inside her subconscious. All she had to do was dig it out.
Perhaps it was the simple truth that she’d been too protective of Lynn. Looking at her younger sister now, dragging a big load of clothes toward the washer, she realized that, being human, Lynn appreciated a little freedom. Sooner or later, if left to her own devices, she naturally would’ve reverted from the disgusting slob she’d been to a civilized human being.
Right now, Sara was facing a Lynn Eller who was much more mature than the pouty, defiant high school girl she’d known a week ago. It was a minor miracle.
She also had another thought, a flicker of recognition, that she didn’t like, but knew she must consider. Perhaps the nursing career she’d been so fervently saving for hadn’t been Lynn’s dream, after all. Quite possibly it had been only her dream all along. She’d never actually asked Lynn what she wanted to do. Of course, Lynn was young. What did she know?
A noise at the door caught her attention, and she turned wiping impetuous tears from her eyes. The sight of Ransom standing there, backlit by the sun, made her breath catch in her throat. When he took a few steps into the room, Sara could see that his lips were parted in a dazzling display of perfect white teeth. His smiling eyes seemed even more compelling and magnetic. “What’s going on here?” he asked.
Lynn filled the breach with a giggly, “I said I was so happy I could kiss a skunk. And it struck Sara funny.”
Ransom’s gaze moved from Lynn to Sara, his eyes sweeping over her approvingly. “I never suspected you were a devotee of skunk humor.”
Her smile faded a little under
his warm inspection. “I, er, can take it or leave it, I suppose...” she mumbled, oddly tongue-tied.
“Sara’s going to make us peanut-butter pie,” Lynn inserted. “You haven’t lived till you’ve tasted her peanut-butter pie.”
Ransom considered Sara with eyes gone breathtakingly serious. “Well,” he murmured quietly, “apparently my life begins tonight.”
FOG, LIKE A SHROUDED demon, held St. Catherine Island in its clammy grip all day Wednesday. Sara made her way out to the rose-colored volcanic-rock airstrip, hoping against hope that old Krukoff’s plane would somehow miraculously make it through. But ignoring the old postal-service motto, Krukoff did not deliver in rain or sleet or snow—or cursed, darned, rotten fog!
What was she going to do? She hadn’t counted on spending another seven days with Ransom on this tiny island. She’d made it through one week, but she’d started out despising the man. Now she was wavering between admiration and downright affection. What an idiot she was! Ransom Shepard was a detached, untrusting, wealthy president of a corporation. They had nothing in common but a mutual imprisonment on a remote, befogged isle. She was a waitress with little education, and sadly lacking in the social graces required by a multimillionaire’s wife.
Wife! She was aghast at how far some twisted part of her subconscious had gone with its fantasizing. Wife indeed! She spun away from her hazy view of the runway and began to head back in what she thought was the direction of the house. Another week! How could she survive it?
When she’d first met Ransom, she’d wanted to slice up the good-looking rogue and feed him to the fish. She wished she could conjure up a healthy loathing for him right now. She’d give anything for an unrelenting urge to spit in those devilish gray eyes. He might be aloof and skeptical of strangers, but once he kissed a woman, she stayed kissed— though for her own peace of mind she might prefer to return to the status of stranger.
And as for the kids, they were clean, well-behaved and doing chores without being asked. Still unable to believe it, she shook her head, and as she did, her damp curls brushed her cheeks. She ran a distracted hand through the wet riot of dark mahogany curls, blushing hotly with the memory of Ransom’s teasing compliments about her hair.
She didn’t know how many more of those light gallantries she could abide and still manage to evade the tempting trap of his allure. Last night during dinner, he’d been a charming companion. And the barbecued chicken had been heavenly. She’d spent an enjoyable evening laughing and talking naturally with him, and she’d found herself drawn even more strongly to the complicated, intelligent man.
Sara hoped desperately that he wouldn’t turn that infernal smile on her this next week, or move toward her with that easy fluid stride, or glance at her with those sinful silver eyes.
She vowed she would resist his attraction with all her strength. Drat it! Nobody would dare suggest that Sara Eller didn’t have strength of will. She’d raised Lynn single-handedly against tough odds, hadn’t she? Surely remaining chaste for one measly week couldn’t be a major problem.
A dark figure with a set of powerful shoulders appeared in the mist. Sara blanched as the shadowed form loomed before her. There was no mistaking Ransom—this towering phantom in the mist—prowling toward her with the grace of a jungle beast, though the fog prevented her from seeing his features. She shivered with unwanted excitement and took a protective step backward.
“Give up?” he queried softly.
Her eyes widened. Give up what? she mentally retorted, visions of her morals being cast carelessly aside for one fiery interlude in his arms. “If you mean the plane,” she stated weakly, “I suppose I must.”
“What else would I mean?” he asked, drawing nearer.
She shuddered as their eyes locked. He was even more strikingly handsome than she recalled, his hair curling damply over his forehead. “W-why, n-nothing, nothing at all,” she stammered.
His face seemed to inch closer, and Sara had the feeling he was going to kiss her. With a gasp, she stumbled a single step away, her body disobeying traitorously when she told herself to run. All she could manage to do was implore him with her eyes. They mustn’t! She mustn’t!
His kisses were too addictive, and she didn’t dare allow herself a second taste. “No...” she whimpered, breathing in his scent as it mingled with the damp salty air. Unhappily she noted that her body had begun to tilt toward him against her will.
“No?” He inquired. “I would have thought you’d welcome this parka. Your jacket isn’t warm enough for our weather.”
She blinked in surprise, perceiving belatedly that he had been about to place the coat around her shoulders. Avoiding the possibility of his touch, she took the coat and slipped it on. “Thank you,” she whispered, plunging her shaking hands into the pockets.
One corner of his mouth twisted up. “And I thought we’d gotten along so well last night.”
He was right in his mild censure, of course. She was acting like a foolish schoolgirl. They had gotten along well last night. This immature craziness would have to stop.
“We did,” she assured him, regaining her poise. “It’s just my job—I’m worried about losing it,” she fibbed.
“I’m sorry the phones are out, Sara. And I’m sorry Dorf didn’t send the plane back for you,” he offered close to her ear. “Sorrier than you know.”
His melancholy tone was real. For once, there was no guile or teasing in his remark. Odd, but she had the feeling he was every bit as unhappy about the fog and Krukoff’s absence as she.
He took her elbow to steer her away from the airstrip, and she chanced a furtive glance sideways at him. It startled her to see that he was quietly considering her with a brooding expression.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“WOULD YOU LIKE to walk on the beach?” Ransom asked as they headed toward the house.
A tremor of nervous anticipation shot down her spine. The last thing in the world she wanted was to take a walk with this man. She wanted—no, needed—to get away, far away. But she knew that asking again whether Krukoff might make the trip once the fog lifted would only lead to another of Ransom’s caustic comments. She might as well face the fact that she was stuck on St. Catherine for another week. With a sigh that made no mystery of the fact that a stroll with Ransom was not at the top of her wish list, she murmured, “We might walk right into the ocean and drown.”
His chuckle was strangely warm within the chilly cocoon of the fog. “Your enthusiasm is inspirational, Sara.” Changing direction slightly and pulling her along with him, he added, “We’ll be able to see well enough. Trust me.”
She shifted her gaze ahead. There were no trees or buildings to use as landmarks—only the undulating tundra grasses and flowers, and a low bush here and there. It was true, though. She could see well enough not to drop off into oblivion without a yard or two of warning. “I thought you wanted me to stay the hell away from you.” She bit her tongue. That little comment had come out of nowhere and had nothing to do with walking in fog. She swallowed, pulling her hand from his arm, praying he would let it pass without a tormenting remark.
He laughed curtly. She should have known; this man could never let anything that would serve to humble and distress her pass. “Ah,” he murmured, “you remembered. My words come back to haunt me.”
Surprising her, he retrieved her hand and replaced it along the inside of his elbow, curling her fingers over his arm before he let them go. “You’d better hold on. The way down to the beach is rocky.”’
She didn’t pull away again, but endured his contact. Even the touch of his sweater mattered more to her than she dared acknowledge. Working for a verbal rift that would distance them emotionally, she charged, “Most women would recall a remark like that, don’t you think?”
“You mean especially coming on the heels of my crude pass?” he asked, his tone more questioning than mocking.
She looked at him, trying to gauge his disposition. Was he teasing her again, or was he act
ually curious about her opinion? “Yes, especially coming on the heels of your crude pass,” she repeated tightly.
“Was it that crude?” he inquired.
She couldn’t tell by the sound of his voice if he was mocking her now or not, but she was sure he must be. Irked that he seemed to find so much pleasure in embarrassing her, she said, “I would think a man of your experience and education would be able to tell the difference between crude and gentlemanly behavior.”
He came to an abrupt halt, forcing Sara to stop, too. When he peered down at her, his eyes were narrowed, his mouth hard. “You would think a man of my experience and education would know a lot of things, wouldn’t you?” He grinned then, but though the show of teeth and his chiseled good looks were always a striking sight, the expression on his face was ominous. “Yes, you would think that,” he said before beginning his trek again, dragging her with him.
Sara was confused. It was strange, but it seemed he wasn’t reacting to her reproach as much as reproaching himself in some way. “What are we talking about?” she asked, bewildered, as they strode through the encompassing mist.
They reached the cliff. Ignoring her frustrated outburst, he instructed, “Take my hand and follow close behind me.”
He headed down the steep rocky path as Sara clutched his fingers. She put aside her irritation in favor of trying not to fall to her death. In reality, it would be impossible for her to tumble the fifty feet without slamming into Ransom first. This stalwart man, clad in snug jeans, a white turtleneck sweater and hiking boots, would not be easy to budge, no matter how ungainly her descent. He seemed at home picking his way along the craggy path that led to the beach.
“I’ll have to let you go for a minute,” he said. “Hold on to that outcropping until I find better footing.”
She did as he instructed and watched him scramble down about three feet to a ledge. When he was settled, he surprised her by reaching up and grasping her waist. “You’d better let go now. This wasn’t meant to be a game of tug-of-war,” he said, reminding her that she had a death grip on the jutting rock. Feeling stupid, she let go. Her only excuse was that she was so startled by the electric current that flared through her at the intimate contact of his hands on her waist, she’d frozen.
