Secretly Yours

by Gina Wilkins

  Annie had gotten to him during the past couple of months. He didn’t know how or when, exactly, but somehow she’d slipped behind his defenses. For the first time in more than a year, he was spending more time thinking about someone else than himself. After all these months when he’d been the one being nagged to eat better and take care of himself, now he was fretting about someone else’s health.

  It must be the vulnerability projected by her slight build and big brown eyes, he mused, crossing his arms behind his head and staring at the dark ceiling. While he knew her fragile appearance was somewhat deceptive, he still found himself feeling uncharacteristically protective toward her.

  It was ridiculous, of course, for him to feel this way. He was no hero. He was hardly in a condition to take care of himself, much less anyone else. He didn’t know what had happened to leave her alone and near-penniless, estranged from her family, but he knew damn well there was nothing he could do to fix it—even if she wanted him to get personally involved, which she obviously did not.

  There had been a time when he would have seen her as a potential conquest. When he’d been attracted to a woman—as he was to Annie—he had pursued her without worrying about where it would lead or what she might need from him. He hadn’t exactly kept notches on his bedpost, but he and his academy mates had competed vigorously for feminine attention. And there had been plenty of women who hadn’t seemed to mind being trophies in their game.

  He wasn’t proud of his youthful record with women, but it was a part of his past that was over now—along with the flying, the traveling, the partying with his buddies. The smug assurance that had come with being young and virile and indestructible—or so he had mistakenly believed. He’d been grounded now, tethered to a place where everything he did was watched and discussed, where every action had consequences, and every careless gesture was analyzed for deeper meaning.

  Even if he was the same guy he used to be—which he wasn’t—and even if Annie was the type of party girl he had once preferred—which she wasn’t—and even if she was interested in a fling with him—which he doubted—he wouldn’t subject her to the gossip being involved with a McBride would entail. Trevor called it the McBride Curse. For some reason the residents of Honoria had found his family fascinating fodder for dinner-table discussion. Annie seemed to relish her privacy too much to enjoy being in the gossip hot seat. He’d always hated it, himself.

  So maybe it would be better if there were no more public dinners. No more near kisses. No more than the pleasantly professional relationship they had maintained—more or less—before.

  Definitely the best plan, he told himself, pounding his pillow and settling back into it.

  Now if only he could stick to it.

  6

  BECAUSE SHE was restless on Sunday morning and had nothing better to do, Annie found herself in the spare bedroom where Trent had left the painting supplies. She thought this room would make a nice study, giving her a place to do her paperwork. She could look for a good used desk, and line the walls with bookcases so she could move the paperbacks out of the living room.

  The house was shaping up so nicely under Trent’s talented hands that she was growing optimistic about how nice it could look eventually. It would take time and money, but she had no other plans.

  Her move to Honoria had been impulsive, and she hadn’t really intended to settle here permanently, but now she was beginning to think she just might. Despite the gossip, this was a nice place to live. With the exception of a few ordinary break-ins and domestic altercations, there was little crime. The house was hers, free and clear, and the money she was earning cleaning and giving piano lessons could be put to good use.

  She was considering eventually opening a studio to give music lessons full time; there certainly seemed to be a demand for that in this area. Cleaning wasn’t such a bad way to make a living, but she had to admit she preferred music, and loved working with children. The other spare bedroom would make a good studio; it had big windows and opened directly off the living room. Of course, it would take a while to earn enough to buy a piano. She thought wistfully of the beautiful instrument she’d left behind when she’d moved out of her parents’ house. Maybe she could rent one until she could afford to buy, she mused.

  Tilting her head consideringly, she looked from the paint cans to the dingy walls of the spare bedroom. Painting didn’t really look so hard. Everything she needed was right here in front of her. Trent had so many other things to do—painting the outside of the house was going to be a major undertaking—maybe she could help him out a little and give herself something to do at the same time.

  She changed into an old, faded yellow T-shirt and a pair of almost indecently short denim cutoffs that she usually wore for working in the yard. Pulling her hair into a messy ponytail, she slipped her bare feet into canvas sneakers and moved back into the bedroom. She carefully covered the hardwood floor with the clear plastic Trent had provided, and lay an open how-to book she’d recently bought in the center of it. And then she set to work.

  IT TOOK SO LONG for Annie to answer the door Sunday afternoon, Trent might have thought she wasn’t home had her car not been parked in the driveway. He was beginning to wonder what was keeping her, when the door finally opened.

  He felt an involuntary grin spread across his face. And then laughter spilled out of him, coming from someplace deep inside, a place he’d almost forgotten was there.

  She looked ridiculous. And utterly, totally adorable.

  Generous splotches of paint decorated her face and hair. He recognized the color—it was called peaches and cream. He knew that because he had purchased it only a few days before. He’d intended it for her walls, not her face and clothes.

  And speaking of her clothes…

  His gaze traveled downward, taking in her tight-fitting, paint-splattered T-shirt and shorts that were just this side of heart-attack length. For someone so lacking in inches, she certainly wasn’t lacking in curves. Or legs. Luscious legs—even smeared with paint.

  Her hands fisted at her hips, where his attention had lingered. “Don’t laugh at me. I’ve been painting.”

  “So I see. Um—did you leave any paint for the walls?”

  Her lips twitched as she glanced down at herself. “I did splop a bit, didn’t I?”

  “Yes. I would say you splopped.” Dragging his gaze away from her legs, he glanced beyond her. “Um…”

  “It doesn’t look bad,” she said, sounding defensive again. “I was very careful, and I followed the directions in the instruction book.”

  “Hey, it’s your house. Paint your heart out.”

  She smiled again. “Come see what I’ve done. And feel free to make all the snide remarks you want.”

  Did she really think he’d do that? he thought as he followed her to the spare room where he’d left the painting supplies.

  She stepped into the room and turned to him a bit defiantly. “Well?”

  She’d definitely been working in there a while, he thought, taking in the evidence of paint pan and rollers, several different-size brushes, a few paint-smeared rags and the ladder standing against one wall. Seeing the ladder, he frowned at the thought of her working in here alone.

  Despite the clutter, she’d made a good start on the job. Three of the four walls had been scrupulously covered with a first coat of peaches-and-cream paint, a marked contrast to the one dull grayish wall waiting for her attention. Some paint was splattered on the plastic drop cloths, but she’d been very careful. The open instruction book in the center of the floor amused him. He could picture her painting a few strokes, running to check the directions then painting a little more.

  “It looks good,” he conceded, aware that she was still waiting for his reaction.

  She beamed as if he’d just compared her work to Van Gogh’s. “You really think it looks good?”

  “I said so, didn’t I? What made you decide to start the job yourself? I thought Sunday was your day to get so
me rest.”

  “I get bored if I’m not doing anything,” she admitted. “And I found painting very relaxing.”

  He moved a little closer to her on the pretext of examining the job more closely. “It’s going to take another coat.”

  “Yes, I know. I’ve decided to paint the trim a pale cream color. What do you think?”

  “Whatever you like.”

  She propped her hands on her hips and surveyed her work again. “I think it’s going to look great. It’s amazing how much difference fresh paint can make.”

  His eyes had turned to her again, though he was trying not to stare at her beautiful bare legs. He was unable to resist reaching out to touch one of the many strands of hair that had straggled out of her ponytail. Paint liberally dotted the strand, as well as the rest of her hair. “Did your instruction book not recommend that you wear a cap?”

  “Yes, but I don’t have one. I tried to be careful, but when I stood on the ladder and reached above my head to get the top part of the walls, paint sort of showered on me.”

  He still didn’t like the thought of her standing on that ladder, though he wouldn’t have minded seeing her on it, stretching to reach the highest places, her snug shorts riding high on her…

  Hit by a wave of hunger that shot straight to his groin, he cleared the picture from his mind and spoke in a tone that was gruffer than he’d intended. “You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck.”

  “I was careful.”

  He slid his hand from her hair to her cheek, his thumb tracing a splotch of dried paint just above the dimpled corner of her mouth. “If I’d known you were going to wear a gallon or two, I’d have bought a couple more cans.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I haven’t looked in a mirror, but I can feel the paint drying on my face. I guess it looks pretty bad.”

  Actually, it looked delectable. And he was battling an almost irresistible craving for peaches and cream. “No,” he muttered, lifting his other hand to cup her face between them. “It doesn’t look bad at all.”

  A wave of pink tinted the fair skin beneath the paint. Her eyes widened, as if she’d just that moment realized how attracted he was to her. How tempted he was to do something about that attraction.

  She had gone very still beneath his hands, her face tilted upward, her unpainted lips slightly parted, her small, perfect breasts rising and falling with her quickened breathing. He wanted to kiss her so badly that he could already taste her. He wanted to press her against the freshly painted wall behind her and touch every inch of creamy skin revealed by her enticing outfit. And then he wanted to strip away the T-shirt and shorts and explore the parts of her that hadn’t been exposed to the paint.

  Her lips trembled as he stared at them. He had to either kiss her or move away.

  For one of the few times in his admittedly reckless life, he chose the safer option. He dropped his arms and stepped back, shoving his hands in his pockets.

  Appearing suddenly self-conscious, Annie looked downward and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

  Trent cleared his throat, still not entirely convinced that he wasn’t going to lose the battle of willpower and reach for her again. “Want some help finishing up in here?”

  She looked at him again. “What…now?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve got a couple of free hours. Might as well finish this room since you’ve made such a good start. It’s a fast-drying paint. By the time we get this other wall painted, the rest will be ready for a second coat. We should be able to finish everything but the trim today.”

  “You’re sure you don’t have something else you’d rather be doing?”

  What he would rather be doing was out of the question, if not completely out of his mind. “Let’s paint,” he said.

  Her smile looked almost natural. “Okay. We’ll paint. Um—by the way, why did you stop by today? Was there something you needed?”

  He’d almost forgotten his excuse for coming over. Maybe because he’d known how lame it was even as he’d started his truck and headed this way. “I, uh, was going to take the measurements of those broken boards at the back of the house. Once they’re replaced, I can start getting the outside ready to paint.”

  He could have taken the measurements Tuesday, of course. He really didn’t even need them at all. The boards could be measured and cut on site fairly easily. The simple truth was, he hadn’t wanted to spend the day alone. And he had been drawn to Annie’s house as if she were a magnet pulling him there.

  She moved toward the paint. “I suppose we should get started.”

  “I’ll be right back,” he told her, walking to the door as a sudden thought occurred to him.

  He was gone only a few minutes. When he returned, he came over to her and smiled. “I’ve brought you something,” he said, showing her the Atlanta Braves baseball cap he’d retrieved from his truck. “Maybe it’ll keep you from completely covering yourself in paint.”

  “I don’t want to mess up your cap,” she protested.

  He settled it firmly on her head. “I’ve got plenty of caps. This one’s yours now.”

  She smiled at him. “Thank you, Trent. That’s very—”

  “Do not use the word sweet.”

  His growled warning made her giggle. “Okay, I won’t use the word. But you can’t stop me from thinking it.”

  He could stop her, all right, by kissing her until her brain emptied altogether. Tempted again to try just that, even though it would probably earn him a slap in the face, he made himself step away from her. “Let’s get to work.”

  “Don’t you need a cap?”

  He pulled a battered Georgia Bulldogs cap from the back pocket of his jeans and tugged it onto his head, pulling the brim low to protect the lenses of his glasses as much as possible.

  Trent wouldn’t have expected that painting a room would actually be a fun way to spend an afternoon. It had been so long since he’d actually had fun that he almost didn’t remember how. But Annie approached the job with such eagerness and enthusiasm that he couldn’t help but enjoy working with her. He even found himself using his somewhat rusty laugh again, more than once as the hours passed.

  Being with Annie was fun, he concluded, even if they were doing nothing more than spreading paint on her walls.

  It wasn’t easy concentrating on the work when she was so close. It wasn’t easy keeping his eyes on the walls when they wanted to wander in her direction. It certainly wasn’t easy keeping his hands on the paint roller and off her delectable legs.

  He managed, somehow, even when he ended up steadying the ladder while she stood on it, stretching high to reach the places above her head. He’d tried to convince her to let him do that part, but she’d insisted she wanted to. She’d never painted before, she reminded him, and she was enjoying it. And even though he suspected her real motivation was to protect him from putting too much strain on his back—a direct hit to his ego—he couldn’t resist her request to let her have her fun. So, he stood beside the ladder, one hand braced on the side, and focused his attention firmly on the wall instead of on the enticing curves at eye level.

  She stretched a bit farther than he considered safe, and he put out his hand to keep her from tumbling off the ladder. “Be careful, Annie. You want to end up headfirst in the paint can?”

  That made her giggle again. “I’m not going to fall. But it’s really sweet of you to be so concerned.” She stressed the word deliberately.

  He gave her a warning look from beneath the brim of his cap. “You know that word irritates me, don’t you?”

  Her grin was downright cocky as she leaned against the top of the ladder and gazed down at him. “Yeah? So what are you going to do about it?”

  He looked at the wet paintbrush in the pan at his feet. “I could always prove once and for all that there’s nothing sweet about me.”

  She hefted her own brush. “Is that a threat, pal?”

  He slid his hand up her leg, something he’d been wanting to do
ever since he’d first seen her in these shorts. He made himself stop just above her knee. “Just take my word for it,” he said huskily.

  He felt a quiver run through her, saw her eyes darken and her cheeks flush. He didn’t know if he should be pleased or dismayed to realize that he wasn’t the only one fighting attraction here. Despite the monk’s life he had lived during the past months, he remembered how to recognize the signs that a woman was interested in him.

  Annie was definitely interested, he decided. But she seemed to be resisting every bit as hard as he was—and for good reason, he reminded himself, reluctantly removing his hand from her leg.

  “Ready to come down?” He helped her off the ladder, carefully keeping his touch light and impersonal.

  She moved a bit too quickly away from him, then made a production of studying their handiwork. “It looks fabulous, doesn’t it?”

  He nodded, still gazing at her.

  “Goodness, look at the time. You must be starving.”

  He hadn’t realized it until that moment, but he was hungry, actually. “I’ll stop for takeout on the way home. Let me help you clean up here first.”

  She shook her head, her ponytail swishing beneath the baseball cap she had so carefully kept clean while they painted. “You start the cleanup. I’ll start dinner.”

  “Don’t bother. I—”

  “It’s the least I can do after all you’ve done today. What would you rather have? Pasta or omelets? Carbs or proteins?”

  “You cook, you choose.”

  “Pasta, then. I always take pasta when it’s my choice.”

  He made a mental note of that weakness as he gathered together the brushes for cleaning. He never knew when it might come in handy.

  They ate with the scent of fresh paint surrounding them. Annie had scrubbed her face and hands, but hadn’t yet showered or shampooed her hair. She’d removed the cap, but still wore the scraggly ponytail and grubby clothes—and Trent still thought she looked beautiful. So beautiful that he hardly tasted the excellent pasta dish she had prepared in an amazingly short time.