Albert would kill her if he ever found out she’d let a totally strange man into her house. He’d be right. This guy could be Jack the Ripper. The letter from Marshall Dunn could be a fake. She opened her mouth to rescind the invitation, but he didn’t give her a chance.
“Capital idea.”
Her heart lurched. He had a crooked smile that seemed to work harder on one side of his mouth than the other. His eyes crinkled at the corners. She doubted Jack the Ripper was quite that attractive when he smiled at his victims. But then again, maybe he had been. Every bit that attractive.
Actually Jamey might be the one in danger from her if she didn’t put a cork on her underused libido.
“If you’ve got some eggs and a bit of cheese, I make a hell of an omelette.” He started for the door.
“You cook?”
“A man without a woman eats in restaurants, sponges off his friends or learns to cook.” He waited for her at the door. “And there’s an added benefit. I’ve found that a man who can cook goes a fair way to winning most women.”
“Indeed.” Well, that obviously put her in her place. No man intent on seduction would reveal his secrets. She obviously fit into an older generation marked Not Suitable for Bedding. That should have been a comforting thought. Actually she felt darned annoyed.
“Follow me,” she said in a very peremptory tone, then added perversely, “Mr. McLachlan,” as she walked to her truck.
“I’ve a better idea.” He reached for the motorcycle handlebars. “Ever ride on one of these things?”
Vic froze in her tracks and felt a cold sweat break out. She began to shake her head fiercely and found herself taking two steps back, her hands raised in front of her chest as though to ward off a blow. “N-no, thank you.” She fought to keep her voice level and hoped he had not heard her stammer.
He’d heard, all right. She could tell that from the way he cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “I’m a careful driver. I won’t turn us over.”
Her head seemed to be swinging out of her control. She felt her pulse race and that awful strangling sensation at the base of her throat. Not now, Lord, she thought. It’s just a stupid motorcycle, not a hydrogen bomb!
He reached her in two strides, grasped her upper arm with his good hand and shoved her head forward with the other. “Breathe,” he instructed. “Is there a paper bag handy?”
Beneath the pressure of his palm she shook her head. “I’m okay,” she choked. “Let me up, dammit!”
He released her head, but not her arm.
She met his eyes and hers were blazing. “How dare you!”
“Hell, woman, I know a panic attack when I see one.”
“I don’t have panic attacks.”
“Well, you just did.” He released her arm, but stood too close to her. His eyes were precisely level with hers. He grinned and stepped back. “I know because I had them for six months after this.” He raised his gloved hand. “Couldn’t even stand near the damn tractor. Not very practical on a farm.” He turned away from her, shoved his hands in his pockets and ambled back in the direction of the motorcycle. He was whistling softly under his breath.
She sucked in a single breath and willed her pulse to slow. “What did you do about it?”
“Climbed onto it at two in the morning when nobody was around to watch me and sat there shaking like a leaf until sunrise.” He shrugged. “Threw up twice. Spent all morning cutting the yearling pasture. Must have lost twenty pounds from the sweat.” He looked at her and leaned one hand on the seat of the motorcycle. “Worked for me.” He raised a hand in invitation. “It’ll work for you, too. Come on. You can’t spend your life being afraid.”
She felt the surge of fear again.
“Look at me,” he said softly. “My eyes to your eyes. Your hand in my hand.”
She took a step toward him. His eyes burned into her. He took her hand gently. She seemed to have lost the strength to draw it away. He nodded. “Up you go.”
She backed off a step.
His grip on her hand tightened. “It’s only a machine.”
“My point exactly. It doesn’t care whether it kills us or not.”
“Ah, but I do. Now get on.”
“You first.” Her brain screamed at her in disgust. Surely she couldn’t actually plan to do as he said, could she?
He swung his leg over the seat without letting go of her hand. “Now you. You promised.”
She was astride the pillion and he was pulling her hands around his waist before she said indignantly, “I did no such thing.”
“Your eyes did. Now put your feet behind mine and hang on tight.”
She closed her eyes, gripped his waist and leaned her head so that her cheek lay against his shoulder blade. She smelled the leather of his jacket and felt the crazy quilt of cracks against her face.
The engine sounded like a 747 coming in for a landing.
They were off up the gravel drive.
She barely had time to register the feel of taut ridges of muscle that ran along his rib cage before he stopped the bike.
She only realized she’d had her eyes closed when she opened them. They were right in front of her cottage.
“This is your house, I presume?”
She gurgled something affirmative. Her stomach churned. Please, God, don’t let me throw up on him.
“Told you I wouldn’t kill us,” he said.
Her fingers seemed locked together in some sort of muscle spasm. He whispered over his shoulder. “You can let go now if you like.”
“Oh, God,” she breathed, and released him.
“It’s pleasant to have you plastered against my back, but it might make walking difficult.” He swung his leg forward over the handlebars, twisted and slipped his hands under her elbows. “Dismount the way you’d get off a horse.”
Obediently she swung off. He held her for a moment at arm’s length. “There, that’s one down. I’ve an idea we’ve a few more to go.”
“A few what?”
“Barriers.”
CHAPTER THREE
A TUBBY BASSET HOUND and a Labrador retriever with a gray muzzle met Vic at her front door with evident delight. Jamey hunkered down instantly and fondled them both. “Aren’t you the lovely boys, then?” he said. The dogs nearly wagged their bodies in two.
Vic stepped around dogs and man and walked into the living room. She was still shaking from the ride on Jamey’s motorcycle. She’d been scared, but elated, too.
“My niece, Liz, took the two Jack Russell terriers with her to Florida,” she said, “and a friend is keeping her parrot. He’s not fond of me.”
“Can’t imagine any creature not being fond of you.”
“Unfortunately my cat views the parrot as an entrée.”
“Cat? Where?”
“You probably won’t see him. He used to be a barn cat until he got an ear torn off in a fight. Now he’s a house cat, but he’s peculiar. Hides from strangers.”
“Does he really?”
Vic turned and saw Jamey—still squatting on the floor—with a large one-eared gray tabby climbing up his shirtfront to butt him in the chin.
“Oh.”
“Have names, do they?”
“The basset is Max, the Labrador is Sam and the cat is Stripes. We don’t go in for fancy names much around here.”
“We don’t at home, either.” He stood with the cat in his arms. Vic heard the purr from across the room. Surely a man so good with animals couldn’t be Jack the Ripper, could he?
“Going to call Marshall Dunn now? Check on me?”
His ability to read her mind was disconcerting. “It’s almost four in the morning in England, isn’t it? Marshall would kill me if I woke him now.”
“He probably would. But he’ll be up by six to watch the lads ride his Thoroughbreds across the Downs. You can call him before you go to bed.” He grinned over the cat’s head. “And push a chair under your door if you’re nervous.”
Vic felt he
r face flush. She’d been thinking of doing precisely that. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Come on upstairs. I’ll show you your room.”
“Let me bring in my kit from the bike first.”
“Sure. I’m amazed you can carry a saddle on a motorcycle.”
“Easy. Set the roll bar up in back and strap the saddle to it. I can carry as much in the side holders as you can in the trunk of your average car.”
She watched him open the various holders, extract a pair of duffel bags and bring them in.
“Now I’m ready for that shower,” he said. “Then I’ll make you an omelette fit for a queen.”
“I’m a perfectly adequate cook, thank you.”
“You may be the world’s greatest chef, but I owe you for the job and the bed. Sit. I’ll find my way. You put your feet up.”
Instead of following his advice, she went to the refrigerator, checked to see that she had plenty of eggs and “a bit of cheese,” as well as English muffins. She poured herself a glass of white zinfandel, set another glass on the counter for Jamey and headed for her bedroom.
She’d moved her enormous old bedroom furniture down from the big house. Other than unpacking enough of her clothes to work in, she’d done precious little else. There was not a picture on the wall nor a knickknack on a table. Cardboard boxes sat stacked in every corner. The bed was made up with sheets, pillowcases and quilts, but she hadn’t bothered to put on the dust ruffle. There didn’t seem to be time these days for more than eating, sleeping and working horses.
She sat down on the bed, pulled off her paddock boots and her heavy socks, wiggled her toes, sipped her wine and lay back on the bed for just a moment.
“YOUR DINNER’S READY, lass,” a soft voice said.
Her eyes popped open and she sat up so quickly her head spun.
Jamey McLachlan stood in the doorway—no, lounged in the doorway. His skin glistened and his wet hair shone like an otter’s pelt. He wore fresh jeans and a bright red crewneck sweater with the sleeves pushed up his muscular forearms and only the one glove on his bad hand. He was barefoot.
Suddenly she felt very grubby. “Uh, give me a minute. I must have fallen asleep.”
“I hated to wake you. You looked so peaceful.”
She swung off the bed, pointedly shut the bedroom door in his face and walked into her bathroom. Yuck. She had probably slept with her mouth open and snored like a walrus. She repaired as much damage as she could and joined Jamey in the kitchen.
“You’re as good as your word,” she said half an hour later over the remains of omelette and green salad. “That was delicious. I didn’t realize I had any lettuce that wasn’t growing penicillin.”
He picked up the plates and took them to the sink.
“Nope,” she said. “I’ll clean up. You must be worn-out from riding a motorcycle all day.”
“I’d say it’s a toss-up which one of us is more tired. And remember, boss-lass, you said you intend to work me hard.”
“So I will, but you’re not on kitchen patrol. Go to bed. That’s an order.”
He saluted smartly. “Aye, aye, Captain.” At the kitchen door he paused. “Thanks for taking me in. I promise you Marshall will vouch for me.”
“No doubt.”
She waited until she heard his door close, stuffed the dishes and utensils in the dishwasher, turned it on and went to her bedroom. Marshall would be up by now. She laid her hand on the telephone.
Then she withdrew it. So long as Jamey McLachlan slept under her roof, she’d rather think he was everything he seemed. If Marshall had reservations, what would she do? She couldn’t kick him out in the middle of the night.
Still, better to have him upstairs where she’d hear him if he went out than have him at the stable. He didn’t look like a drug user, but there were plenty of drugs in the locked medicine cabinet that the average druggie would thoroughly enjoy. And there was plenty of tack worth stealing. No. She’d check him out in the morning. “Stripes?” she whispered. “Ready for bed?”
The cat did not respond. So he was hiding, after all. Just a fluke that he’d come to curl around Jamey. Somehow that made Vic feel a little better.
She propped her slipper chair under the door handle before she got ready for bed. Just in case. As she lay awake, she could hear Jamey moving about over her head.
She was used to unexpected company. Riders from other parts of the country who came to town for horse shows often wound up sleeping in her bedrooms, on her Hide-ABed, even in sleeping bags on the floor. Some of them she knew well, and some she knew hardly at all. They, like Jamey, were friends of friends. Sometimes the only recommendation they brought was verbal.
Male or female, it never seemed to matter when there were four or five or more.
This was different. She was much too aware of Jamey McLachlan—a lone male sleeping upstairs. Nude.
Now where had that come from?
Okay, so he looked like the sort of man who slept naked. She’d never find out. Unfortunately she could imagine. She rolled over and dragged the pillow over her head. Just when she’d thought her hormones were under control, they started going berserk. Jamey McLachlan wasn’t the only one going middle-aged crazy.
VIC CAME INSTANTLY AWAKE as she always did in the morning. The clock read six-thirty. She sighed. Time to rise and shine. Horses to feed and water, stalls to clean, horses to put out in paddocks and bring in again, the endless grooming and exercising to get through, then a couple of lessons if the weather warmed up enough. Kids arriving after school. Clients checking on their horses. Then more feeding and haying and watering.
Occasionally Vic wondered what kind of life normal people had.
She sat on the edge of the bed, checked her address book and put in a call to Marshall Dunn. If he was going to be in his office, now would be the time to catch him.
“Dunn here,” came the gruff voice.
“Marshall? It’s Victoria Jamerson from America.”
“Ha! So Jamey chose you, did he?”
“What do you mean, chose me?”
“He called me last week from Kentucky, asked me to express him some referral letters. Wanted to stay in the south for the winter. I gave him Charlie Wright in Ocala, Meg Harwood in Southern Pines, Ted Russelwhite in Phoenix and you. Frankly I thought he’d pick Florida.”
“Essentially the same letter?” Vic asked.
“Mm. Essentially.”
“Why me? I’m hardly a high-profile operation.”
“Don’t remember, really. Maybe he mentioned he wanted to see Graceland or the Mississippi River or something. He seemed very pleased when I mentioned your name.”
“Did he now? Can you really vouch for him?”
“As to his honesty, absolutely. Knew his stepfather for donkey’s years. Jamey idolized Jock. Had a run of bad luck the last few years, what with his hand and losing his wife and brother that way. Not surprising he’d want to get away for a while, especially given his heritage.”
Vic had been caught short by the mention of the death of Jamey’s wife and brother and had planned to ask Marshall for particulars. That is, until his last words caught her attention. “What do you mean, given his heritage?”
“Suppose they do prefer the open road, really. In the genes or something. Surprising he stuck it out in Oban this long. With his parents gone, there’s nothing to hold him in one place any longer.”
“Marshall, I do not know what you’re talking about, and I am growing increasingly exasperated.”
“Ah. Well, of course, you can tell by looking at him, can’t you? The earring, I mean. Dead giveaway. Amazing man with horses, though, and as I say, always been as honest as the day is long with me. Excellent reputation that way.”
“Marshall, what are you talking about?”
“Well, of course, Vic, everyone knows he’s a Rom.”
“What the hell is a Rom?”
“Vic, old thing, the man is a full-blooded Gypsy.”
“So?�
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“Don’t get me wrong, Vic—I like Jamey enormously. Glad to write his letters for him. Turned a couple of my hard-case Thoroughbreds into winners. But let’s face it, old dear, whatever veneer Jock McLachlan gave him when he gave the boy his name, he’ll never be a gentleman.”
Vic was too stunned to speak. And then too angry. Finally she simply shook her head at the telephone. “Marshall, your attitudes belong in the twelfth century.”
Marshall rumbled his great laugh. “Possibly. Still, they do me well enough. As for Jamey, enjoy him while you’ve got him. No doubt he’ll be moving along in a month or so. Now, I hear you have a new nephew-in-law and a grandniece. Tell me about them.”
After several more minutes Vic hung up the phone, sat back against the pillows and decided she would do precisely what Marshall had suggested. If a moss-backed bigot like Marshall Dunn considered Jamey McLachlan honest and competent, who was she to question?
Twenty minutes later, dressed and ready to meet the day, she moved the slipper chair from under her doorknob and went to the kitchen to start the coffee. Apparently Mr. McLachlan liked to sleep in. She started up the steps to call him and was met by Stripes coming out of the open door of his room. The cat stalked downstairs, tail erect.
“You spent the night with him, you fickle thing?” Vic said. Then she noticed the dogs were gone. She glanced out the front door and across the porch.
The motorcycle was missing, as well. How could she not have heard him leave? Was he gone already? Along with the silver, perhaps? Or the drugs? She paused at the kitchen door and saw a piece of paper from the memo pad beside the telephone propped against an empty mug. She walked over and picked it up. In an obviously European hand, it read, “Coffee is fresh. See you at the yard. J.”
“The yard?” Oh, yes. The British word for stable.
And that was where her truck had spent the night—in front of the barn. She’d have to walk down.
Mr. Miracle (Harlequin Super Romance) Page 3
