her, despite Brody’s gruff manner. He’d all but accused her of lying, but he’d been right. Perhaps that was what had annoyed her so much. It would be a cold day in hell before she would admit it.
She took out fresh clothing and wandered next door to the bathroom, delighted to find a small basket of little toiletries on the vanity next to a pile of fluffy towels. She put the plug in the tub and added some salts, breathing in the fragrant steam. Summertime or not, after a full day’s travel added in with the time difference, a hot bath sounded like luxury itself.
An hour later, refreshed and dressed with her damp curls framing her face, she made her way back downstairs to dinner.
Brody was in the kitchen. And he was mashing potatoes.
Lucy stopped at the bottom of the stairs, watching the scene without being noticed. His hat was off, his dark hair lying in fine whorls around his skull, his dark T-shirt clinging to his wide shoulders with each push of the masher. Behind him Mrs. Polcyk wielded a set of electric beaters, whipping cream in a clear, cold bowl. Lucy’s mouth went dry at the sight of his muscles flexing as he lifted the huge jug of milk and dumped some into the pot, scooped up some butter on a spoon and stirred it all together with a sure hand.
She really had been without a date too long. Because the sight of big Brody Hamilton whipping potatoes was doing things to her insides that she hadn’t felt in a very long time. He was tempting. So physically powerful that her body betrayed her, and when he smiled at Mrs. Polcyk, a dimple popped in his left cheek.
Oh, my.
He reached over Mrs. Polcyk’s head for a serving bowl and muttered something; Lucy nearly laughed out loud as he then skillfully dodged an errant female elbow that came flying his way.
She’d had time to think while in the bath and she knew that Brody had been right. She had been deliberately hiding something and it was natural he’d be suspicious. There was no way for him to know that she’d rather have her old life back than be ensconced at some cold stone palace in Europe. She’d also realized she needed to volunteer information about the stables and not herself. It was all a matter of slanting the focus to put him at ease.
She’d made a promise, and she wouldn’t go back on it. Even if it was the last thing she’d wanted.
Brody put the bowl on the table and turned, spying her standing by the stairway. His happy, unguarded look faded as he saw her, and she wondered why it was he disliked her so much already. “Dinner’s on,” he said blandly.
Mrs. Polcyk took a platter of chicken to the table, followed by vegetables and a boat of golden gravy. “Please sit down, Lucy,” she invited.
Lucy took the chair at the end; for some reason it seemed like the vacant spot. Brody took the other end while the housekeeper perched herself in the middle.
Mrs. Polcyk dipped her grayed head and to Lucy’s surprise began a prayer in a language she didn’t understand.
When it was over Lucy lifted her head and met Brody’s eyes. Something warm passed between them, something that spoke of a unity and recognition even though they were strangers from different lives.
And Lucy knew she had to back away from it as fast as she could. Nothing good could come of it. She couldn’t get close to Brody Hamilton.
She couldn’t allow herself to get close to anyone.
CHAPTER THREE
BRODY woke to moonlight tracing a pale line along his bedroom wall. He rolled to his back, rubbing a hand over the stubble on his face.
He’d been dreaming of her. Dreaming of her corkscrew hair falling over his hands the moment before he pressed his mouth to her defiant lips.
He raised up on to his elbows, shaking his head a bit in the dark. He wasn’t a man prone to dreams, especially about women he’d just met. But something about Lucy pushed his buttons. She was stubborn and abrasive, and damned smart if he were any judge at all. Carrying a chip on her shoulder the size of Marazur.
Yet there was something behind it. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was in the way she’d looked at him just before dinner tonight; the way their eyes had met after Mrs. P.’s saying of grace. She could be as icy as she pleased, but there was something about her that called to him.
And he would ignore that call. Her life was vastly different from his, and there was no way he’d forget it. Once burned…Well, that had been enough for him.
It was crazy, thinking about her this way. It was ridiculous to even admit to himself that he felt a physical attraction to her. It’d come plain out of nowhere and had hit him square in the gut. He’d disputed it to himself earlier but there was no arguing with the dream.
He rose from the bed and moved to the open window. Cool, crisp air fluttered over his skin. The hot, dry breezes of July nights were gone; in their place were the cold, clear nights of August, chill and full of stars. The air rushed in through the screen and he let it clear his head.
Then he saw the light.
The windows at the front end of the barn gleamed in the inky blackness. And he was positive he’d turned everything out before going to bed.
He pulled on his jeans in brisk, quiet movements. He carried his boots in his hands and crept down the stairs, checking his watch as he went. The luminescent hands gleamed at the two and the four—two-twenty. When he got to the door he saw Mrs. P.’ s jacket hung precisely beside his denim one. He snagged the latter, shoved his arms in the sleeves and slid out the door into the brisk night air.
He crept toward the barn door, which was opened a few feet, letting out a rhombus-shaped slice of yellow light. A quiet shuffle sounded; someone was definitely inside. He turned back toward the house for a moment, suspicion forming in his mind. Lucy’s room was dark, no light from the bedroom windows at the west end of the house. As another shuffle sounded, he turned again to the barn.
She’d arrived today and now someone was in his barns in the middle of the night. Coincidence? He didn’t think so.
What was she up to? What could she possibly be looking for? Brody exhaled slowly. All important records were locked in the office up at the house. And she likely knew that. Which meant…
Which meant she was sneaking around his horses. Tampering, sabotage—whatever she was doing he was going to put a stop to it right now.
He squeezed through the opening between door and wall and slowly made his way through the shadows, toward the office. A light was on inside, but another shuffle told him that whoever had turned it on was no longer inside. Instead the sound came from a stall on the right. He held his breath…there was the sound again, followed by the hollow echo of shifting hooves. Pretty’s box. The horse she’d met earlier. His heart gave a heavy thump.
Brody squared his shoulders, took four silent, long strides that took him to the stall door.
It, too, was open.
He slid it open wider, bracing himself for who or what he’d find, inhaling and filling the doorway so whoever was inside would have to go through him first.
A woman’s voice stopped him. “It’s not fair” he heard over the sound of shaky breaths. “You’re the princess, Pretty. Not me.”
Not
