Impulsive Gamble

by Lynn Turner

  ‘I do not “pop my cork”,’ Abbie told him in a starched tone. If she’d been flustered before, now she was totally confounded.

  ‘Sure you do,’ he contradicted. ‘When I made that crack about purple eyeshadow, I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised to see steam come out of your ears.’

  Abbie decided to ignore that last remark. She had the uneasy feeling that, somewhere between his startling declaration that he hadn’t expected her to come back to the farm and his insulting reference to her make-up, she’d missed something. Something important.

  They passed through a small dining-room and into an enormous farmhouse kitchen equipped with every labour-saving device imaginable. Abbie came to a surprised halt just inside the room, causing Mal’s chest to collide with her right shoulder. His arm instinctively curved around her waist, his hand closing on her hip for a second before he withdrew it.

  The breath she had just inhaled seemed to snag on something in her throat. She could still feel the warm, firm, disturbingly erotic pressure of his fingers, even after he’d removed his hand. Frantic to hide her reaction to such a casual contact, she hastily stepped away from him.

  Mal strolled past her and went to check the simmering contents of a large pot on the gleaming copper range. When he lifted the lid, Abbie caught a whiff of a rich, meaty aroma that made her mouth water.

  ‘It smells done,’ he said in the lazy drawl that Abbie had already decided was the sexiest voice she’d ever heard. ‘The plates and bowls are in the cabinet above the dishwasher,’ he added as he carried the stew-pot to a round, highly polished oak table at one end of the kitchen.

  Abbie took her time collecting two ironstone plates and matching bowls from the cabinet, lecturing herself about maintaining her professional objectivity. Don’t even think of him as a man, she told herself. He’s just a story … possibly the biggest story you’ll ever have a shot at. If you blow this chance, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.

  Her resolve once more firmly in place, she turned toward the table where Mal was arranging place-mats, napkins and cutlery. He glanced up just as she started forward. The friendly smile that suddenly bared his strong white teeth transformed his stern features so completely that Abbie blinked in surprise. Who would have believed that the creases in those lean cheeks had been hiding a pair of dimples? Abbie experienced a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. So much for professional objectivity, she thought in dismay. No way would she be able to think of this man as just another story.

  When she was only a few feet from him, Mal’s smile seemed to cool slightly, making her wonder if her expression had somehow betrayed her unsettling thoughts. She hastily pinned on a smile of her own. Except hers felt stiff and unnatural; more like a grimace, actually.

  ‘I hope that tastes as good as it smells.’

  Thankfully, her voice sounded more natural than her smile felt. The friendly warmth returned to Mal’s eyes, replacing the thoughtful, almost speculative look that had been there a moment before. Abbie breathed a silent sigh of relief.

  ‘So do I,’ he drawled. ‘My dad usually serves as chief cook and bottle-washer, but he took off for Florida last week to visit a friend.’ A trace of cynicism shaded the word ‘friend’. Abbie would have been willing to bet that his father’s friend was female.

  ‘You and your father live here together?’

  ‘That’s right.’ He slanted her a wryly amused look as he took the plates and bowls from her hands. ‘I suppose it’s just as well he isn’t here. He’d have taken one look at you, and I’d have had to find myself another driver.’

  ‘I take it he’s something of a ladies’ man,’ Abbie said cautiously.

  ‘You could say that. You could also say that he’s a randy old goat, which would be closer to the mark. Would you rather have beer, coffee or iced tea?’

  ‘Tea, please,’ she answered absently.

  His comments about his father had roused her curiosity. But if she started asking questions that he considered too personal, he might retreat behind that tough, macho wall again. Still, she reminded herself, she was here to get a story …

  ‘Are your parents divorced?’

  She asked the question casually, as if she were only making small talk. Mal’s answer was just as casual, ensuring that she was caught unprepared.

  ‘No,’ he murmured as he started back to the table. ‘They never bothered to get married.’

  He was looking straight at her when he said it. Abbie instinctively knew he expected her to be shocked. She was surprised, and she didn’t try to hide it, but she neither blushed nor averted her eyes. His level gaze never wavered from her face.

  ‘Stew’s getting cold,’ he said in the same matter-of-fact tone. Then, unexpectedly, he flashed a crooked, boyishly appealing grin. ‘Sit down. If you promise not to fall asleep, I’ll tell you the story of my life while we eat.’

  Abbie dropped rather heavily into the chair. By the time Mal was seated at her right, she had managed to control her stunned reaction. Just my luck, she thought as he started ladling stew into her bowl. Malachi Garrett offers to tell me the story of his life, and here I sit without a tape recorder or a notebook.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Silence followed Mal’s last, astonishing remark. He must have been joking, Abbie decided as she opened her napkin and spread it on her lap. It would be expecting too much to believe he’d been serious.

  She shifted her attention to the bowl of stew in front of her.

  ‘This is delicious,’ she declared in surprise when she’d swallowed the first rich, perfectly seasoned spoonful.

  Mal sampled the stew. He looked a bit surprised himself. ‘It’s not half bad, is it?’

  They ate in silence until the worst of Abbie’s hunger had been satisfied. Back to business, she thought as she helped herself to more stew.

  ‘So … when do I get to hear the story of your life?’

  He slanted her a brief, enigmatic glance. ‘Leave some room for desert.’

  Was he trying to sidetrack her?

  ‘I don’t usually eat dessert. Have you always lived here?’

  He stopped eating to frown at her. ‘Don’t tell me you’re one of those idiotic females who’s always on some kind of fad diet.’ He sounded disgusted. ‘Counting every calorie, afraid you’ll gain five pounds and won’t be able to stuff your behind into a pair of sixty-dollar designer jeans.’

  Abbie patted her lips with the napkin before she answered. ‘I’ve never dieted in my life. I don’t often eat dessert because I don’t happen to have a sweet tooth.

  And how much I pay for a pair of jeans is nobody’s business but my own.’

  Garrett lifted his glass of tea in salute. ‘Touché,’ he drawled. ‘Have you always been so …?’ He trailed off, frowning slightly. Abbie inferred that he was searching for just the right adjective.

  ‘Outspoken?’ she suggested. ‘Assertive?’

  ‘Assertive.’ He repeated the word thoughtfully, testing it. The right side of his mouth lifted a centimetre, allowing her a brief glimpse of one dimple. ‘Close enough.’

  Close enough to what? Abbie wondered, but she didn’t ask. ‘Yes, I have always been assertive. And outspoken. I tend to say what’s on my mind, and when I see something I want, I go after it.’

  She expected him to make some response, probably sarcastic. Instead, he gazed at her solemnly for a few seconds, then merely nodded and started eating again. Abbie hadn’t a clue about what he was thinking.

  ‘You dislike assertive women, don’t you?’

  ‘I dislike self-centred, aggressive women,’ he corrected as he reached for another slice of bread.

  ‘And how would you define the difference between assertive and aggressive?’ she asked casually.

  Mal shrugged. ‘You just described yourself as assertive. You say what’s on your mind, and when you see something you want, you go after it. But you aren’t the kind of woman who’s determined to get what she wants at any cost. For in
stance, I can’t see you using people who think of you as a friend. Or stabbing them in the back,’ he added after a second’s hesitation.

  Abbie experienced a twinge of something that felt uncomfortably like guilt. Obviously, he credited her with possessing some scruples. She wondered what his opinion of her would be when he discovered that she was using him and the predicament he was in to get a story. She refused to dwell on the possibilities, telling herself that her Malachi Garrett exclusive was all that mattered.

  ‘Did some woman do that to you?’ she asked. ‘Use you, or stab you in the back?’

  He gave her a wry look. ‘You can add blunt to assertive and outspoken.’

  He didn’t sound annoyed, and he hadn’t told her to mind her own business. Abbie decided to press for an answer.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘And persistent,’ Mal drawled. He laid his spoon on the plate beneath his bowl and sat back in his chair. Then he just looked at her.

  He probably thought she would be intimidated by that unrelenting stare, and back off. If that was the case, he had another think coming. She stared right back at him.

  ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’ she challenged. ‘Some woman used you or disappointed you in some way, and you haven’t trusted a female since.’ She waited for a reluctant admission that she was right.

  ‘If you’re sure you don’t want dessert, have some more stew,’ Mal suggested amiably.

  She refused with an impatient shake of her head. ‘No, thank you. You’re hot going to answer me, are you?’

  She thought she saw a glimmer of amusement in his hooded eyes. Damn the man! Obviously the direct approach wasn’t going to work with him. She could ask him questions till she was blue in the face, and he would simply ignore the ones he didn’t want to answer. All right. She’d just have to switch tactics. She collected their dishes and cutlery and started carrying them to the sink. When Garrett realised what she was doing, he pushed his chair back from the table and came after her.

  ‘You don’t have to do that.’

  Abbie sent a smile over her right shoulder as she placed the dishes on the counter next to the sink. ‘I don’t mind. You did the cooking.’

  He looked surprised, but he didn’t argue. He leaned against the counter and watched silently while she unbuttoned her cuffs and rolled up her shirt sleeves.

  ‘Where’s the washing-up liquid?’ she asked, hoping to distract him.

  Instead of answering, he stepped away from the counter and closed the distance between them in one smooth, gliding movement. Abbie instinctively tensed; for what, she wasn’t sure. A second later his hands settled on her waist from behind.

  ‘What—’

  Before she could decide how to complete the question, he had moved her a couple of feet to the left and was squatting on the floor next to her right leg. His shoulder nudged her thigh as he opened the cabinet beneath the sink and took out a bottle of liquid detergent.

  ‘Here you go.’ His long frame unfolded and he stood beside her. Too close beside her. Abbie could feel the warmth of his body, smell the tangy scent of the shampoo he’d used. Then he removed a towel from the drawer he’d opened.

  ‘I’ll dry and put away.’

  The offer surprised her. Then she remembered that he and his father were bachelors. She hadn’t seen any evidence that a woman was or had recently been in residence, and he had referred to his father as the chief cook and bottle-washer. She wondered who was responsible for the other household chores. She couldn’t imagine Malachi Garrett running a vacuum cleaner or sorting and folding laundry. They probably had a cleaning woman, someone who came in once or twice a week to change the sheets and tidy up after them.

  Absorbed in her thoughts, she reached for the stack of dirty dishes and started to lower it into the suds. The next thing she knew, Mal’s fingers were locking around her wrists. He carefully guided her hands back over the counter, then pulled them away from the stack of dishes.

  ‘You almost scalded yourself,’ he explained when Abbie stared at him in mute astonishment. ‘The thermostat on the water heater is set for a hundred and fifty degrees.’

  Her lips parted on a silent gasp. She had no way of knowing how tempting she looked at that moment—eyes opened wide in startled comprehension, full, soft lips parted invitingly. She was intensely aware that he hadn’t released her wrists. His grip was firm enough to hold her when she made a half-hearted attempt to pull her hands free, but not so tight that it hurt. Abbie was fairly certain that he could feel her accelerated pulse. She made a second, more determined effort to tug out of his grasp. The pressure of his fingers increased slightly, letting her know that he wasn’t ready to release her.

  ‘Could I please have my hands back?’ Her voice was a little shaky, and more than a little breathless.

  ‘In a minute.’ In contrast, Mal’s voice was deep and alarmingly steady. His fingertips began to gently stroke the insides of her wrists. He couldn’t have missed the way her pulse leapt in response.

  ‘The dishes …’

  ‘They aren’t going anywhere.’

  Her heart sank in dismay. He had suddenly switched to a husky murmur so sensual, so blatantly seductive, that certain areas of her body began to tingle with awareness.

  As if he knew, he smiled into her eyes.

  Abbie struggled to resist her strong physical response to him, telling herself that to allow any kind of personal relationship to develop between them would be disastrous. She must remain objective!

  His grip on her wrists suddenly went slack. She reluctantly acknowledged a twinge of disappointment, but before she could berate herself for not feeling relieved his hands slid up her arms and his fingers curled around her shoulders. Abbie stiffened in reaction to the unwanted thrill that shot through her. Mal seemed to hesitate, then one of his hands moved to her chin and gently lifted it. He frowned when he saw the distress in her eyes.

  ‘Relax,’ he said in a gruff murmur. ‘I’m just going to conduct a little experiment. I promise it’ll be quick and relatively painless.’

  Abbie’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Experiment? What kind of ex—’

  She didn’t get to finish the question. His mouth closed on hers with a tenderness that took her completely by surprise. His lips were firm, yet gentle, asking for a response rather than demanding one. His hand released her chin so that his fingers could follow the line of her jaw to her ear, where they explored each curve, ridge and hollow with a thoroughness that sent shivers down her spine. Eventually he abandoned her ear, but Abbie’s relief was short-lived, because the next instant his fingers burrowed into the hair at her nape and began to lightly massage her scalp. Meanwhile, his other arm slid around her shoulders, while he stepped forward and deliberately pressed his body against hers.

  Her hands instinctively found their way inside his shirt. His muted growl of pleasure was all the encouragement she needed to wrap her arms around his waist.

  Her fingers leisurely explored his back, lingering to examine the smooth ridges of his ribcage and the length of his spine. A small but annoyingly insistent part of her consciousness warned that this was madness, sheer lunacy; that she was risking everything.

  Mal ended the kiss so abruptly that a soft moan of complaint slipped past Abbie’s lips before she could stop it. One second they were wrapped around each other, and the next he was several feet away, reaching for the dishtowel. He looked perfectly composed, damn him—calm and in complete control. Abbie stared at him dazedly for a moment before she collected her wits and hastily turned back to the sink. Not trusting her voice, she didn’t say anything.

  ‘I get the feeling you didn’t think much of my experiment,’ Mal drawled.

  Abbie stopped scrubbing long enough to give him a frosty glare and then returned her attention to the dishes. When she didn’t respond to his remark, he heaved a sigh that sounded, to Abbie’s ears, just a bit vexed. She gritted her teeth and shoved a bowl into his waiting hand.

  ‘You were wrong, y
ou know,’ he murmured.

  ‘About what?’ she asked tersely.

  ‘When you said I’ve never trusted a female since.’

  He spoke in the same matter-of-fact tone he’d used when he told her his parents had never bothered to get married. Abbie instinctively knew that his show of nonchalance was a smoke-screen. And that casual ‘since’ had been a tacit confirmation that she’d been right about the woman in his past. Her interest quickened, but she didn’t say anything. If she started talking, he might stop.

  ‘I trust you, Abigail Prudence Kincaid,’ he said in the same offhand tone. ‘If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be driving me to Washington.’

  Abbie was foolishly touched by the admission. She deliberately injected a trace of sarcasm into her reply to conceal the fact from him. ‘You don’t have much choice, though, do you? If you want to win this bet you’ve made, you have to trust me.’

  A wry smile flitted across his mouth as he took the second bowl from her hand. ‘True.’

  His candour was a pleasant surprise. Abbie impulsively decided to press on. ‘Who was she?’

  She wasn’t at all prepared for the indulgently amused look in his eyes as he leaned back against the counter and crossed one ankle over the other.

  ‘Which one?’

  Abbie floundered in confusion. ‘What?’

  ‘Which “she” do you mean?’ he drawled with exaggerated patience.

  ‘The one who caused you to have such a rotten attitude towards women,’ she answered bluntly. ‘Was it your mother?’

  His lazy amusement vanished, to be replaced by what looked like genuine amazement. ‘My mother? Why on earth would you think—? Oh, I see. You’re wondering if I hate all women because my mother deserted me as an infant or something.’

  The very thought of his mother deserting him made Abbie’s throat feel tight. Her reply was a silent shrug as she rinsed a plate and passed it to his waiting hand.

  Mal accepted it with a negative shake of his head. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but my mother isn’t to blame for my rotten attitude towards women. And, to set the record straight, she didn’t desert me or my father.’