"Go away, you flea-bitten morons! Go lick him, will you?"
She clutched her blanket and tried not to imagine that she might soon be joined by another sleeping partner. Only, Brent might want to do more than lick her face. Maybe he was a crazed sex maniac hiding from justice! A wanted criminal? Peggy lay as stiff as a plank, listening for the sound of stealthy footsteps creeping up on her. She tried very hard to keep a lid on her active imagination.
The rain pounded on the roof, little unseen animals made noises around the windows, and Peggy was sure she heard a distant monster roar. Or maybe it was the lake overflowing its banks and rushing in to drown them all. But those weren't the worst events her imagination came up with. She ground her teeth, wondering what she'd do if he attacked her. Fight back? Run? If so, where to?
As usual, she had plunged too impulsively into a good story. She hadn't planned on spending a night alone with him; she'd just gotten carried away. In the morning, she'd find a way to snoop around. Maybe she could collect enough evidence and make all the suffering worthwhile. The payoff would be a nice, juicy story. If she didn't get killed first. When the footsteps did come, Peggy was too tired to fight him off. Murderer or not.
The fire had died to embers, and she was exhausted from the cold and lack of sleep. She was vaguely conscious of dawn's first light peeping around the edges of the windows as Brent's tall, powerful, shadowy frame stood over her. She thought she was dreaming when he crouched beside her and put out a hand to brush her hair from her cheek.
He said something, just a murmur, really. That didn't scare her, just eased Peggy deeper into sleep. Then he gathered her up in his arms, blanket and all. Peggy roused herself to mutter a terrible threat meant to scare him off.
She could have sworn he laughed. His arms felt wonderfully strong and secure, and Peggy could hear his breathing as her head rested against his chest. Half asleep, she looped her hands around his neck and let herself be carried.
Next thing she knew, she was rolled into the most comfortable bed she'd ever known, and he was tucking her into warm quilts. Then Peggy fell deliciously asleep, with the slightest touch of a human hand lingering on her hair. She dreamed—pleasantly wonderful dreams.
Warm sensations swooped and caressed, her limbs relaxed. The darkness in her mind grew languid and sensual, no longer flashes of frightening past events that had sent a teenage female fleeing from her home. These images were sweeter, gentler.
She woke to the smell of coffee and a rich, yeasty fragrance wafting in the air, and a vague feeling of disappointment. She was alone, and the sound of rain pattered on the roof over her head.
She didn't feel like getting up too quickly. For a long time, she lay in the warm quilts and let her thoughts wander. Mostly retracing what she could remember about being put to bed and which parts of her dream she could make sense of. She decided Brent must have tucked her in when he went off on his fishing expedition. She sat up and realized she was still wearing her clothes. Obviously, he liked fish more than females.
"I should be grateful I wasn't molested,” she muttered. “What time is it?"
She checked her watch and discovered she had slept until noon. That news jolted her out of bed like a rocket. Pushing her tangled hair from her face, she padded over to the railing, leaned her elbows there, and looked down into the cabin.
Brent was sitting at the table, surrounded by heaps of books and papers, a pair of steel-rimmed glasses on his nose, and a pencil tucked behind his ear. But he wasn't studying. He was looking up at her, a cup of coffee suspended halfway to his lips.
"Go ahead,” Peggy coached. “'What light from yonder window breaks?’ That's your line."
A ghost of a grin crossed his face. He put the cup down. “I was thinking more along some lines I recall about a blind man, but we'll skip over that for now. Sleep well?"
"Once I got up here, yes."
Peggy descended the steps and ended up sitting on the bottom one. The two animals dashed up from their snoozing places by the fire and crowded around her, licking Peggy's face and shoving at her hands until she petted them. She fondled their ears, but regarded Brent. Even in a frayed, plaid shirt and nearly threadbare jeans, he looked noble somehow—like an exiled prince from ages past. “You didn't have to give up your bed for me."
"I didn't do anything as gallant as that. When I got up this morning, you looked pathetic—all huddled up on the floor with these beasts. So I took you upstairs."
He watched her. His body looking relaxed, but his eyes alert and intense. “I hope you didn't mind."
Peggy wasn't the type to thank anyone for their kindness, even if he did look like impoverished nobility. So, she didn't.
Instead, she said, “As long as you behaved yourself, I didn't mind a bit."
The grin reappeared—brief, but definitely real. Peggy decided that a smile made Brent's face look years younger. He took off his glasses and cast them down across the pages of paper, avoiding her look as if he wanted to keep the unplanned smile to himself.
At that moment, Peggy noticed that he'd shaved. His hair was still ragged, but he'd taken the time to scrape the whiskers off his face, and he looked clean-cut. Almost adorable. He had a pronounced dimple along one side of his mouth, she noted. No doubt, he'd once been a beautiful baby. Or a ladies’ man.
Brent pushed his chair back, then propped both his waffle-soled shoes on the table and clasped his hands loosely behind his head. From that position, he seemed to enjoy the picture she made, perched on the step with her hair all over the place and his two guardian creatures demanding affection from her. Peggy ducked her head and avoided his gaze.
After a moment, he said, “The storm's still in progress, so I didn't go fishing. There's coffee, but that's about it for breakfast until the bread's finished."
"Bread? You're baking bread?"
"Very few merchants make deliveries up here. You want to eat, you make it yourself. Can you hold on a little longer?"
Peggy's stomach growled at that moment, but she hoped he hadn't heard it. “I'll have some fruit. What are you doing?"
He glanced at the paper-strewn table, apparently able to forget instantly that she was a female just fresh from his bed. “Ordering some books, actually. It's the kind of job I save for a rainy day. I figure I have to take you back to civilization as soon as the weather breaks, and I'd like to mail these requests on the same trip. Saves time and fuel."
"What kind of books are you buying?"
"All kinds. It's going to be a long winter."
Peggy got up and shooed away the animals, then went to the table and selected a piece of fruit from the bowl. Biting into it, she fingered the book catalogs he'd obviously been thumbing through. Science seemed to be the topic he preferred—biology mostly. That and poetry. Looking for further clues, she tried to be casual.
She became aware of Brent watching her, however. He didn't move from his relaxed pose, but she knew his attention was riveted upon her. She felt grungy, of course. Her hair was a tangled nest, she'd washed all her makeup off the night before, and her clothes were not only dirty from her fall in the woods, they were rumpled now, too. To top it off, she noticed her fingernail polish had chipped. And maybe—just maybe—she had started to smell.
Her fragrance must have turned him off suddenly, too, for abruptly, Brent swung his legs off the table and got up. For an instant, he towered over her diminutive frame, and Peggy fought to control a hot blush that crept up her face. Terrific. I'm alone with Prince Charming and I've run out of roll-on.
Brent turned and strode into the kitchen. “I'm going to be busy for a couple of hours.” He poured himself another cup of coffee from the pot on the woodstove. “There's a lot of paperwork to get accomplished, and I'd like to get it finished before the storm quits. I assume you can occupy yourself for a few hours?"
"Oh, sure.” Humiliated, she bit into the fruit again. Around a mouthful, she said, “I've got tons of work to do. Don't let me get in your way."
/> He nodded, frowning as he tasted the coffee. “Right."
* * * *
With her turning pink and looking unforgivably tousled, Brent felt like a complete idiot. She probably thought he was nuts. He'd come damn close to reaching out and touching her as she stood beside the table. Had she seen that? The urge to pull her into his lap and peel off that fuzzy pink sweater had been overwhelming. Damn! Why couldn't he make himself stop thinking about her that way? In a minute, she was going to notice the rising bulge in the front of his trousers.
Keep your distance. So, when Peggy followed him into the kitchen, he bolted out of her path and made straight for his worktable. He sat down again and realized he was sweating. How could he let a woman do this to him? He shook his head woefully.
One silly East Coast bimbo on the premises, and suddenly, he was thinking like a sex maniac. Of course, he couldn't concentrate on his work after that. He tried to focus on the book catalogs, but he kept catching glimpses of Peggy out of the corner of his eye. She poured coffee, peeked under the towels at the rising loaves of bread, and then proceeded to stroll around the room, sipping coffee between bites of fruit, unmindful that her presence had sent his senses into a hormonal fever.
She took her time studying all the bookshelves, and when she bent over once, Brent realized the seat of her pants was still dusted with dried mud. He nearly groaned. He couldn't tear his gaze away, couldn't even close his eyes and blot out her curvaceous behind.
Trying to intellectualize himself out of that flow, Brent imagined that the mud marks were some kind of Rorschach test, but all he could think about was what lay underneath the fabric. He wondered if he'd forgotten how to get a woman out of her pants. Had there been any innovations in lingerie since he'd last been in a position to notice? She turned around and caught him looking again, so Brent manufactured a frown.
He was feeling angry with himself, not her, but Peggy didn't know that. She spun away hastily. A few minutes later, she escaped out onto the porch. She stayed outside for nearly a quarter of an hour, and Brent relaxed. You're an adult, not a stupid youth. She'd be gone as soon as the rain stopped. He'd just have to grit his teeth until then. The lecture didn't help.
Peggy burst into the cabin from the back door. “Hey!"
Her face shone, and her eyes sparkled, and Brent felt his body react as if she'd torn off her clothes and flung herself into his lap. She looked excited and lovely. Her voice vibrated with laughter. “There's a deck out here."
He glowered at her. “What?"
She faltered when she saw his expression. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt. I just—I didn't notice the other porch last night. It sticks out over the water. It's really pretty."
"I know,” he said. “I live here."
Terrified only momentarily, Peggy snapped, “Well, excuse me for living. I'll shut up now. Go back to work."
He tried. He really did. But most of the afternoon, he shuffled papers and rattled the pages of catalogs, but he could not concentrate. First, Peggy dragged her makeup out of her briefcase and spent fifteen minutes touching up her face in the wicker-framed mirror that hung in the kitchen. Then, she spent ten minutes brushing the brown mane of her hair until it gleamed. Next, she pulled out a bottle of nail polish and curled up on the floor by the fire, painting her nails and blowing on them through puckered-up lips.
Brent found that procedure particularly excruciating. He got up from the table and stomped around the kitchen, slamming drawers and dropping utensils, and finally jamming two bread pans into the oven to bake. He nearly broke the timer on the stove with the violent wrench he used to set the baking time.
Undoubtedly aware of his pique, Peggy quickly located a book on one of the shelves. She curled up on the sofa, opened the novel, and settled down with a sigh. Watching her read would have been easy.
Except, she pulled off her socks and used her bare feet to massage the partly wolf canines, who had begun to act like a pair of lovesick calves over her. As Peggy became absorbed in her book, she enslaved the beasts and sent Brent into a frenzy of frustration.
He surged to his feet at last. “I'm going out.” He was too wrought-up to stand another minute alone with her.
He strode out the back door, aware of her mystified stare. He spent an hour storming around in the rain, glaring at the sky and wishing the clouds would dry up and blow away before he did something really stupid. He'd been through some dark times before, but this kind of frustration was different—sharper somehow. More immediate.
Why did it have to be this female who had come to his prison? A female whose business was blabbing? It was ridiculous, really. He'd managed to control himself before—to protect his family, to champion a cause worth any sacrifice. He refused to let himself be undone by an impish, little female who just happened to have a luscious mouth and soft skin.
When he returned to the cabin, his disposition remained unimproved. Brent found Peggy still curled up with her book. He saw at once it was a romance novel, probably one his mother had left there years ago.
Peggy was too caught up in the story to notice his entrance. But when he slammed the door, she started and looked up, and he could see tears glistening in her eyes. Hastily, she threw the book down and got up, wiping her eyes to obliterate any sign that she'd been weeping over some sappy story.
She stuck her chin out stubbornly. “I'm starving. The timer went off while you were out, so I took the bread out of the oven, and now I can't stand it anymore. If you don't want to eat, I'm going ahead without you."
How did she do that? Make him feel like a dope for doing nothing but minding his own business?
"All right,” he said. “Let's eat."
He had a jar of butter in a cupboard, which he got out and opened while Peggy armed herself with a large knife and began to slice the bread. He slathered first one piece, and then another with the butter. Peggy took hers out onto the porch, and after a moment's hesitation, Brent followed her. The animals hurried past him and prostrated themselves at Peggy's feet.
* * * *
She sat primly on the steps, watching the rain and eating her food. Nose upturned, she nibbled the crumbs from her fingers with the daintiness of a kitten. Brent slouched into a big chair and watched her tongue until he could barely stand it. She could have been eating cardboard for all he knew—he was fascinated. With her nose tipped still higher in the air, Peggy went inside and returned with a second slice of bread for each of them.
Brent took her offering without thanking her. Peggy turned around and ate her portion while perched on the railing of the porch, just above the water, her back to him and her bare feet clinging to the bottom rail. Her brown hair stirred in the misty breeze. The rain made a silver curtain before her.
Gold and silver, that's what she looked like. Both metals still highly valued on both their planets. She finished her second piece and licked her fingers clean. Then, abruptly, she spun around and broke the silence.
"Look,” she said, “I'm not exactly delighted about being stuck here, you know."
He couldn't answer because of the butter stuck to the roof of his mouth.
"I'd really like to go home,” she said, warming up. “I'm not exactly thrilled about your lifestyle, Brent. I hate the sleeping arrangements, for one thing. The bathroom is unmentionable, too, and your two guards won't leave me alone. The food isn't bad, but the company stinks."
Brent found his voice. “I didn't invite you here."
"No, but you could at least muster some good manners. I'm not looking for sparkling conversation. I just think you could be a little nicer."
"I've been nice. I gave you my bed, didn't I?"
She flushed. Perhaps she remembered more about that episode than she'd let on before. Lucky for him, he'd been able to withstand the urge to crawl into bed with her once he'd rolled her under the covers.
She said, “One bed does not a nice person make."
"Oh, for God's sake, I—"
She said, “You
weren't so bad last night. We talked at least! But today—"
"You talked last night. I listened."
Her gaze snapped up. “Was I boring?"
"Oh, I enjoy hearing about empty-headed celebrities and their ridiculous problems!"
"Don't try to impress me with your intellect, please!” She pointed her finger at him. “I know your type, heartthrob. You're a snob!"
"Where do you get off calling me names? I don't have to be nice to you. It's out of human kindness that I haven't thrown you off this island! You want charming company, go back home and find a down-and-out actress to kick!"
She stood up, eyes blazing. “I don't have to listen to this! Stay out here and be a grouch! See if I care. I'm going inside to finish my book."
"Take my handkerchief,” Brent cracked. “I don't want you sniffling on the pages."
She wheeled on him angrily. “I suppose you never cry over books, do you, Brent?"
"You haven't any concept of the things I've cried over."
She braced heir hands on her hips. “Try me."
His admission had been reckless. Brent gripped the arms of the chair and vowed he would not be tricked into saying more. Already, he felt foolish—foolish and angry. “Some things are none of your business, Peggy. I'm not one of your precious celebrities. I'm an ordinary person, just like you. I'm not asking about your deprived childhood, am I? I deserve the same courtesy. So stop it!"
She looked angry for a moment, tight-faced and quivering. Suddenly, she began to pace. “Okay. Maybe we've both got a couple of things we'd like to keep to ourselves. Maybe I tend to look at everybody like they're a potential story. But look, I can't stand being ignored!"
Her voice rose and broke. “I'm not a criminal! I'm a person. Don't do this to me, Burnt."
Brent felt a pang of guilt. She looked scared and out of place, and he could see that Peggy was dying inside.
Feeling like a heel, he said, “Don't call me Burnt."
"Brent,” she corrected. “I really can't stand it. I'm a people person. I can't handle you sulking all afternoon. My dad did that all the time, and it always ended up with me getting smacked. Give me a break, will you?"
Isle of Intrigue Page 4
