of the tile counters, sipping his coffee, but he straightened automatically as she entered the room, dressed in a comfortable-looking navy blue sweat outfit and tennis shoes, her hair pulled back from her face in a ponytail. Her face was shiny, as if she’d just washed it, which made her look about eighteen, although he knew she was about ten years older.
“Did you find the milk?” Avoiding eye contact with Paul, Mrs. Thorne directed the question at Hank, who sat at the small, two-person corner table.
“Sure did,” Hank said, “and the sugar.”
“Well, good,” she said, pouring herself a cup, taking a sip and then venturing a quick, sideways glance at Paul. The kitchen was small, there wasn’t a lot of room for maneuvering, so she stood close. He could smell fresh soap and some flowery kind of body lotion. For a moment, he felt light-headed.
“It’s good coffee,” he said, trying to remember how to be pleasant. He wanted this job, for more reasons than the obvious one, and it was, so far, not a done deal.
Out of nowhere, a small animal appeared in the doorway, something dirty and floppy in its teeth. Paul frowned. He’d never been a fan of Yorkshire terriers—rats with hair, he’d always thought of them—and his opinion was now reinforced as the runty-looking thing seemed to realize there were two newcomers in the kitchen. Dropping the toy from its mouth, it began a ferocious, high-pitched, extremely irritating round of barking.
The woman looked down at the tiny dog at her feet, then scooped it up into her arms. “It’s okay, baby,” she cooed, which made it stop barking and begin whimpering, an equally unpleasant sound, to Paul, anyway. “Bailey’s a little upset,” she told them. “We had some kind of nocturnal visitor and he got scared.” She caressed the animal some more. “You want a treat?” she asked him, then got a dog biscuit out of a nearby jar.
Paul watched her stroke the small animal’s head, scratch it behind its ears. Her hands were pretty and slim, her fingers long, with short, unpolished, efficient-looking nails. He sure wouldn’t mind those hands stroking his head, those fingernails scratching his skin, in all kinds of places.
At the image, he felt his body stirring. Damn. He really hadn’t expected his hormones to do a dance in Kayla Thorne’s presence. Although, he knew none of it showed; he’d trained himself to keep all emotion out of his expression, all physical reaction to a minimum. But now, as a free man—for the present, at least—it sure wasn’t easy.
Not that it had anything to do with this specific woman. In his state, she could have been any female of the species. On top of that, there were too many other sources of stimulation this morning not to have some kind of reaction. He’d been locked up for four years, and now here he was, on top of a gorgeous mountaintop. There was an endless expanse of forest all around, not to mention fresh, clean air, a warm kitchen, even freshly brewed coffee.
And the woman. His groin tightened even more with a fierce desire that nearly took his breath away. Yeah, most especially the woman.
She wasn’t the first female he’d encountered since being released five days ago. But it had been a long, long time since he’d been intimate with one, and at the moment, Kayla Thorne was provoking a reaction far stronger than anything he’d expected.
He didn’t like it. Not at all.
He angled his body away from her. “This place is pretty old,” he said, steering the conversation toward safer territory and figuring he’d score points if she thought he really did know what he was doing. “A hundred years or more, I imagine.”
“It was built in 1895,” she said.
“Just move in?”
“Hell no.” Hank answered the question cheerfully from the corner table. “Property has been in the Thorne family forever.”
Mrs. Thorne correctly read Paul’s one raised eyebrow. “Walter, my late husband, said he liked to keep it just as he remembered it as a child, before garbage disposals and subzero refrigerators.” A small, fond smile lit her face. “He was happy here, with his grandparents, every summer. A golden time, he called it.”
Damn, she had a great smile, Paul observed, attracted to her genuine niceness. Then he ruthlessly banished the thought from his brain. He had an agenda here, and none of the softer emotions were welcome. Besides, he no longer believed in much of anything having to do with men, women and possibilities.
Too close, Kayla thought. She was standing way too close to Paul Fitzgerald in the small kitchen. Despite the impersonal chill of his gaze, his big body radiated enough energy to power an electric blanket, and it was warming her up. Setting Bailey down, she said brightly, “I think the kitchen is a bit small for all of us, so shall we go outside?”
She swept past both men and out into the garden that covered the entire area between the house and the driveway. Whew, she thought, as the cool morning air hit her. If she had a folding fan, she’d flutter it in front of her face, that’s how hot her cheeks felt.
Hot now, shivering earlier, all in Paul Fitzgerald’s presence. But why such a strong reaction? He terrified her, that was why, she told herself. But was that all it was?
No, she was forced to admit to herself. Standing next to him in the kitchen, she had felt an odd kind of—what? A connection with him. Not to mention a quivery, shuddery sensation in various body parts. There was a name for it: chemistry.
Hello and welcome to good old-fashioned lust.
No! Her mind rebelled. How could that be? Paul Fitzgerald had the personality of a serial killer. Heck, he might even be a serial killer, for all she knew. And while there seemed to exist women who found potentially violent, dangerous men a turn-on, she was definitely not one of them. Never had been, never would be.
It was the lack of sleep, she told herself. Her fragile emotional state since Walter’s death. This, whatever it was between her and Paul Fitzgerald, was an aberration, and would soon pass. She fervently hoped. And she could help it along by not hiring him.
There! she thought, mentally brushing her palms against each another in job-well-done fashion. She’d made her decision. Fitzgerald was history. She was sorry if he needed the job, but her own peace of mind had to be her first priority.
The men had followed her out the kitchen door, and now the three of them stood along the fenced-in compost heap that was situated in the shadow of a tall pine tree. “I hate to sound stupid, Mr. Boland, I mean, Hank,” she said with another bright smile, avoiding Fitzgerald’s gaze, “but are there bears around here?”
“Bears?”
“I heard something last night. It woke me up, and I guess Bailey wasn’t the only one who got scared. I must have fallen asleep listening for it again.”
“Bears?” Boland repeated, scratching his head. “Could be. We’re on the edge of wilderness up here, you know. Or it coulda been a coyote, even a raccoon.”
“Are raccoons heavy enough to make the porch creak?”
“Well now—”
“There’s your culprit,” Fitzgerald said, cutting him off, crouching down and picking something out of the compost heap. “Chicken bones.”
“Excuse me?” Kayla said.
“If you
