It nearly killed her to let him carry the biggest box and her overnight bag. Watching her stiff backside as she marched primly up the path before him, he almost smiled.
But not quite.
Brace knew almost as much about women as he knew about planes. During his stunt pilot days he’d been considered something of an expert. On both. It went with the territory. At the time, he’d been young enough to find studhood amusing. Without even trying, he’d collected more groupies than the star of whatever low-budget epic he happened to be stunting for, and as often as not the film’s female lead headed the pack.
It had been during that period in his career that he’d met Pete and Sharon Bing, a brother-sister team who were just getting started as builders and designers of small specialty aircraft. They’d designed those special choppers for the night-fighting scene in Killing Territory. Sharon had let him know then she was interested, but at the time Brace had been too busy sampling what Hollywood had to offer.
After he’d left Hollywood, finished his engineering degree and started testing for a major government contractor, he’d found somewhat to his amusement that neither his bank balance nor his sex appeal had suffered to any great degree. But by then he’d been older and a lot more selective. By then, too, the world had become a more dangerous place.
That was about the time when Sharon Bing had reentered his life. They’d started going out together. After three months he’d asked her to marry him. Or she’d asked him. Later he was never sure which one of them had brought it up. But the sex had been good, which made two vital interests they’d shared.
It wouldn’t have lasted past the honeymoon. They’d already had that. Some men were husband material—some weren’t. Now, thanks to his recently remodeled physiognomy, he no longer had to worry about it. Most women were turned off by his scars, but a few were turned on in a way that made him angry and uncomfortable. It never seemed to occur to either type that in spite of some extensive reconstruction, he was still the same man inside. Not that he’d ever pretended to be any great bargain.
“One more trip,” the tall brunette announced as she set the first load down on the screened front deck. “I can handle the rest, thanks.”
He hadn’t offered. Now, perversely, he insisted. “I’ll get the rest,” he growled. “Go inside and get warm.”
“First, I’m afraid you’ll have to show me how the generator works. I don’t want to risk another disaster so soon. I usually try to hold it down to one a day.”
The generator. “Look, lady—ma’am—Ms. Jones—”
“Frances. Frances Smith Jones.”
“Right. Look, about the generator, you don’t need to bother. The power’s working now.” Actually, there hadn’t been a full power outage since he’d arrived on the island. A few blinks and a brownout or two when the wind kicked up. Tough on compressors, but as everything on the island was rigged with trip-out switches, it was no major deal. “All you have to do, Ms. Jones, is throw the breaker. The box is behind that door. You want me to do it for you?”
His arms were crossed over his chest, and so were hers. It occurred to Brace to wonder if she was as skilled at reading body language as he was, and for some reason the notion amused him.
She stood her ground like a veteran, though. He’d give her full marks for guts.
“I’m perfectly capable of dealing with a switch box, Mr. um... But perhaps you’d better show me about the generator just in case.”
“They’re only used for backup. You won’t be here long enough to need it.”
An arc welder couldn’t have thrown off any more sparks than her eyes did. Blue fire. Lavender blue fire. Unfortunately, to a man who’d made a career of living dangerously, it was a sure turn-on.
Brace took two steps back, his own eyes growing wary. Oh, no. No way was this woman going to get to him, lavender blue eyes, long legs, wide, soft, vulnerable mouth or not. He needed a woman right now like he needed another hole in his head.
Or another plate in his skull.
“Let me know when you’re ready to pack it in, Ms. Jones. I’ll run you over to the marina. That way we’ll both be sure you get there in one piece,” he said, one hand on the doorknob.
Frances smiled sweetly. “You’re too kind,” she said through clenched teeth as he quietly closed the door.
Kind. Yeah. Sure he was.
Three
By evening the clouds had moved in again. The wind howled like a roomful of tomcats, but at least the rain held off. Frances gulped down two more aspirin, eyed the sacks of staples still waiting to be put away and decided that if her sinuses didn’t stop giving her fits, she was going to trade them in on a new set. Evidently, salt air and ocean breezes weren’t quite the panacea they were cracked up to be.
And another thing—she’d always heard that being on the water was a terrific appetizer. One more old wives’ tale shot to blazes. Her stomach kept telling her it was hungry, but when she offered to feed it, it rebelled on her. Nice going for a professional dietician. She couldn’t even tempt her own palate.
Maybe her headache had put her off her feed. The trouble was she needed to get started on proofing the copy she’d brought with her for Fancy’s Kitchen, her monthly cooking column—the last column she would write before her resignation took effect—and she couldn’t even bring herself to do that.
As for working on Fancy’s Fat-Free Favorites, her collection of low-fat recipes, she was already two weeks past her deadline. If she didn’t wrap it up and get it into her editor’s hands soon, the market would be flooded with low-fat cookbooks and her publisher would find a loophole in her contract and make her return her modest advance.
Her extremely modest advance. And she needed the money. She’d received a third on signing the contract, with another third promised once the final manuscript was approved, and the last to be paid on publication. She’d been so thrilled when they’d accepted her proposal—she’d only sent it in because her editor at the magazine had pushed her to do it. He’d liked the idea of having a published author doing his food column, and Frances had liked the idea of anything that would take her mind off her dismal home life.
And now here she was, with nothing but time on her hands—no carping demands, no whining complaints, no dirty dishes, unmade beds and un-run errands waiting for her attention the minute she stepped through the front door. No reason at all not to dig in and get the job done, other than that she felt like the very devil.
Maybe she could sell her publisher on another idea—Fancy’s Recipes From Hell.
By evening she hadn’t seen a single soul. Evidently, she and Flint-Face were the only two people on the island. Not a particularly happy thought. What was his name, anyway? Racetrack? Railway? Bridgeman?
Whatever.
Frances had never been particularly gregarious—actually, she’d never had time to consider whether she was or wasn’t—but she wasn’t exactly a hermit, either. The eldest of five children, she was used to being surrounded by people. Her mother had died when she was seventeen, and Frances had been forced to curtail her own
