radiologist, had evolved into a date of ear tonguing and crotch palming—from her—that he would rather forget.
Not Shanna. He’d be the one tonguing and palming. Lean limbs, that skin slick and damp…
Booting a pinecone off her stoop, he raised a hand to knock. No use denying it. The sight of her spun something between them.
The door flung open.
Her sapphire eyes were cool. Cool as the jewel they emulated. “Hey, Doc. Come to see if I’ve cut and run?”
Michael shoved off a flicker of displeasure. So she held grudges. He understood. Grudges held off pain. Thumbs catching his jeans pockets, he asked, “May I come in?”
“Why? As you see, I’m not going anywhere. I realized I do need this job.”
“I’d like to talk.”
“About what?” Her tone dipped below ice-blue, like the blouse she wore. “We said it all this morning. I stay out of your hair, you stay out of mine. When it’s over we’ll say adios and that’ll be that.”
“Dammit, Miss—”
“Drop the formalities, Michael. I’m just the hired help not one of your associates at the clinic, not a patient.”
He’d have preferred Mike—and the way it seared the air from her lips. Shifting, he stared down the hill at the barns. “I shouldn’t be taking my problems out on you.”
“Better me than your niece.”
He looked at her. She had such pretty eyes. “You don’t mince words, do you?”
“Seldom.”
Again he observed the barns and fields. “I never used to be like this.”
“Tragedy changes us in ways we don’t expect.”
And the tragedy I’ve seen in your eyes? “You’re different.”
“From who?”
“Most people.”
“Is that good or bad?” Her tone gentled.
He studied her soft mouth. “Good. Very good.”
“Well, that’s a first. Come in. I’ll put on a pot of tea.” She gestured to his hand. “That poor marigold needs water.”
She headed for the kitchen, leaving him to close the door—and to watch her backside in cropped denim pants. Baked chicken and a medley of spices hailed him. She could cook.
“Supper at three in the afternoon?”
“I skip lunch.” She pulled down the oven door and checked the meal. “So I try to eat early.”
He wandered around the tiny living room. “Next to breakfast, lunch is the most important meal of the day. There’s a saying that goes: king, prince, pauper. It’s how you should treat daily meals.”
This time her laughter was rich and a little smoky and floated into his belly. “I hate to put a crimp in your diet plans, Doc, but I eat when the growlies arrive. For me that happens twice a day.”
“You’re too thin.”
“Well,” she huffed. “Sorry if that offends you.”
“It doesn’t.” He liked her frame just fine. In fact, inordinately so. But he couldn’t snub his observations—from a medical viewpoint.
He looked around. It was the first time he’d been in the cabin since long before Leigh died. What he saw shamed him. The place was old. The walls needed painting.
“Would you like some chicken?” She tossed oven mitts on the Formica and readjusted one of the two barrettes holding back her hair. Her arms were graceful as a figure skater’s. He imagined them around his rib cage, his neck.
“You can’t live here.”
“Beg pardon?”
“The place is a dump. My sister—” How to tell her the cabin had been Leigh’s responsibility and that since her death he’d neglected it. Just as he neglected the animals, the books…Jenni.
“It’s not so bad.”
Not bad? One of the curtains hosted a foot-long tear. He hated to think of what lurked behind the doors of the bathroom and two bedrooms. Even after the maid’s cleaning.
Shanna took a brimming bucket from under the sink.
Striding into the narrow kitchen, he tossed the flower on the counter. “The sink’s leaking?”
“Good one, Doc. You get the prize.” She handed him the bucket. “Would you empty it in the toilet, please, while I put on the kettle?”
Just like her not to mention the condition of the house. He headed for the bathroom and dumped the water. About to leave, he stopped and looked. This was her space. Her secret space. Female essentials mussed the narrow, beige Formica around the antiquated sink and lined the chipped tub. Two blue-and-yellow combs, a big tube of hand lotion, glycerine soaps stuffed in a woven basket, a wooden tree strung with those ear danglers, Scooby-Doo lip balm— He did a double take. Scooby-Doo? Snorting softly, he shook his head. She was a rare something, this Shanna. And you’re in trouble, Rowan.
“Toilet working okay?”
He whipped around, the bucket clanging against a drawer. Arms crossed, she leaned in the doorway, one bare ankle slung over the other. Behind him the tiny round window let in the day’s light, tipping her cheekbones with rose.
“Yes,” he said, voice gruff. “It works.”
She smiled, glanced at the counter where he’d tarried. “Find anything interesting?”
He stepped toward the doorway. Her smile faded. A bouquet of meadows in summer caressed him. Oh, yeah. All woman. Easy angles, sweet-eyed. “Maybe I have.”
Her nostrils flared. “And it would be…?”
Today, three filigree chains swung like wind chimes from each of her tiny lobes. He tapped a trio. “Just…” You. “Little things.”
“Is there one in particular you favor?” Those blue eyes ringed in black swallowed him.
He perused the edge of her jaw, the line of her throat. “There is.”
A snippet of air against his knuckles. Hers.
Once, twice, his thumb grazed the satin of her neck. He tilted her chin. Her sweet mouth. Waiting for him. God, decades down the road he’d look at her features and be captivated. Still.
Paralyzed, he stared. Giving one woman, this woman the rest of his life? Out of the question. He wasn’t about to chance fate. Fate could involve kids. Fate had taken his parents’ plane into a mountainside. Left him and Leigh orphaned.
Like
