Can't Say No (10 page)

The blade was not exactly in the best shape in terms of sharpness. The sun beat down in a fever of heat, flies buzzed, Bree’s madras shirt and short shorts stuck to her; and blisters formed on her right hand before twenty minutes had passed.

Three hours later, Bree collapsed flat on her back on the front porch of the cabin. She had just enough energy left to turn her head and survey the demolished lawn. Even, it wasn’t. Short, it was. The blisters on her palm were killing her; her throat was so parched she would have sold herself from a street corner for a glass of water; every muscle felt cracked like old leather…and she was grinning like a fool. She’d done it.
Thought you couldn’t handle it, didn’t you, Bree?

Yawning, Bree closed her eyes. In a moment, she would get up. She so desperately wanted a drink; her palm needed first aid; she longed for a bath and change of clothes. To heck with all that, she was so tired she could sleep like a baby.

“
Exactly
where I was afraid I’d find you. Trying to nap in the middle of the day. It’s no wonder you’re not sleeping nights.”

Bree didn’t jump. Familiarity breeds contempt, as they say. If she hadn’t actually
seen
him in several days, Hart had still managed to interrupt every single occasion when she’d tried to get any rest. Besides, her heart instantly recognized him by pumping in and out like a windy bagpipe, even before she opened one eye—Hart not being worth opening two for.

As it happened, he was worth less than one. Gone was the urbane sex symbol in Italian suits. He wore his derelict straw hat sideways, his cutoffs showed hairy legs and he hadn’t bothered with a shirt, just a fishing pole.

His eyes were dawdling over her long legs in the short shorts. “Come on, lazy lady. Leading the life of Riley, it’s no wonder you can’t sleep nights. If so many complications hadn’t cropped up at my place, I’d have been over here before to keep you busy during the day. Like now. Did I mention we’re going fishing? And I see your clothes arrived. No bras in your suitcases?”

If that crack was supposed to bring a rise, it didn’t. And as far as Bree could tell via telescope, Hart couldn’t have too many problems at his place. His harem did all the chores.

When she didn’t move, Hart tsk-tsked. “The bait’s worms. You probably can’t handle that, but I figure you could at least row the boat. Talking yet?”

Why
were all her new dishes put away, when she needed them to throw at this moment?

“You want help getting up, or do you think you can manage that all by yourself?” Hart shielded his eyes with a closed palm, his dark blue eyes peering down at her. “Honey, you have a button that’s undone,” he said politely.

Bree’s eyes whipped open, her fingers groping for the front of her blouse as Hart lazily surveyed her front lawn. “You
did
do a little something today, I see,” he drawled. “I
thought
you’d get off your duff sooner or later—couldn’t just sit around and do nothing forever, now, could you? I’m not a big advocate of industriousness, but when it becomes too much of an effort even to open your mouth, I draw the line.”

Bree sat up furiously, ready to hurl back a slightly blue retort—in mime—but Hart had already turned away. His eyes narrowed on the scythe resting against the cabin wall.

“You didn’t use
that
to cut the lawn?” His head whipped back to her, his dark eyes no longer lazy but suddenly blazing with anger. “You damn fool, you could have killed yourself! The thing’s half as big as you are. Did you ever once think to
ask
someone for a little help? What the
hell
do you think I’m within shouting distance for, anyway?” He added in a low growl, “Let me see your hands.”

She’d show him her hands the next time she had the inclination to dance naked in the village square. He advanced a step; she retreated, bottom first and chin up, into the shadow of the cabin porch. Unfortunately, bottom first and chin up were not conducive to speed.

The next thing she knew, Hart had snatched her wrists and turned up her palms for inspection. “I’m going to kill you,” he announced darkly, “as soon as we wash these and put some antiseptic on them. Go ahead. Give me an argument, Bree.”

Bree struggled valiantly for patience. Some men couldn’t help being insufferably patronizing. On the other hand…He didn’t move for an instant. It was seconds, not minutes, before he pulled her to her feet and propelled her inside to the sink. But in those seconds Hart’s face was inches from hers.

His cheeks were red with rage. He hadn’t shaved, his lion’s mane was crushed beneath his hat…and his touch was infinitely gentle on her hands. A lover couldn’t have touched with more tenderness. She found herself staring, mesmerized.

It was becoming an effort to keep hating him, in spite of his harem on the hill. The man had a magic quality, the ability to fill her world when he was around, blocking out everything else. He was worse than a sliver—worse than a
bad
sliver. He got under her skin and stayed there, saying aloud things she’d been thinking herself: that she’d been lazy, that she couldn’t talk because she’d been running away from life, that it was about time she
did
something about herself. Really, he was a very cruel man. She ached for Gram and she was confused; everyone wasn’t a bulldozer like Hart…but he made her feel that those were only excuses. In her heart, she agreed with him.

She didn’t
like
the man. She just felt…attracted to him, like a bee to honey, like a magnet to metal. Maybe she was just experiencing a bad case of loneliness? Regardless, this was definitely the first chance she’d had to get back at him for his patronizing bossiness, the only
real
reason she trailed after the ranting bear, toting two fishing poles while he carried the open can of worms. As they approached the pond, she saw a canoe, tugged up on the stone beach and outfitted with a tackle box and two pillows.

Fishing, was it? A tiny smile of triumph hovered on Bree’s lips, but she masked it when Hart turned to her. “You get in first, lightweight,” he ordered. “And don’t get all prissy about baiting the hook. I’ll do it for you.”

So kind. Bree stepped into the freezing water with bare feet, and lifted her leg carefully over the side of the canoe.

“Put the pillow behind your back,” he ordered. “And leave the paddles alone, with those hands. I’ll handle that.”

Orders, orders, orders. Bree leaned back against the boat cushion, crossed her legs and savored the warmth of dappled sunlight on her cheeks as she anticipated the comeuppance she knew was awaiting Hart. She’d watch him fish, all right. The pond was fed from melting snows on the mountaintops; a thin stream of a silver waterfall constantly kept it filled. Fish, however, did not spontaneously appear just because there was water. There were
tons
of places to fish in the area, but this was not one of them—unless Hart had stocked the pond in the last few minutes.

“Now…” He shoved off, lifted a dripping leg inside the canoe and settled lazily, facing her. After he got them out to the middle of the pond, he lifted the dripping paddle inside and just let the canoe sway to and fro in the breeze. He reached for one of the fishing poles and frowned at her. “You’re going to get your nose all sunburned.”

Before she could stop him, he’d flipped open a tube of white cream and dabbed a streak of it on her nose, nearly tipping over the canoe in the process. “Better,” he said with satisfaction. “There are sunglasses in the tackle box if you want them.”

Attaching a worm to his hook, he cast his line in the water, stuffed a pillow behind his back, pulled his hat down and did a reasonable job of looking as if he were taking a nap. Which was exactly the kind of fishing Bree suspected Hart knew how to do, being such a self-proclaimed expert at laziness.

Determinedly, she reached for the other pole. He
wasn’t
sleeping, or he wouldn’t have suddenly tipped back his hat in time to grin at her as she reached for the worm with her mouth all screwed up as if she’d just eaten an unripe persimmon. Gram had never baited Bree’s hook for her; Bree was certainly capable of doing it herself, but that didn’t necessarily mean that she had ever liked worms.

Having nothing better to do, and certainly wanting to sucker Hart along on this “fishing” expedition of his, Bree expertly cast her line and snuck a glance at Hart…who appeared to be napping again. He missed her move—a cast five thousand times better than his own. It hardly mattered, since there weren’t any fish, but it was a point of pride. She was sick to bits of his constant accusations that she failed to
do
anything, as if she were an incompetent little ninny.

While he napped, she cast and recast, slowly reeling in her line, whirling it around her head to toss it into the water again, her hook landing
exactly
where she aimed it. The fool might just learn something, if he’d open his eyes. Only when she made an unobtrusive attempt to rub off the gob of white cream on her nose did she realize he was awake.

“I wouldn’t,” he said mildly. “You know I’ll just put more on. We can’t have you broiled like a lobster, lazy one.” Hart sighed, throwing one leg over the gunwale of the canoe. “This is the life, I swear. Sun, surf and a silent woman. What more could any man ask for?”

Bree might have asked for a little less ego on the part of her companion. Weren’t his little darlings on the hill enough for him? A silent woman, indeed. He obviously loved it when she took his verbal bait, so she refused to show by even a flicker of expression that he was getting to her. Setting down the pole, she leaned back against the cushion and…

Relaxed. Dammit, she
was
relaxed. She knew darn well she looked bedraggled in the wrinkled madras blouse and old shorts. Her hair hadn’t been brushed in hours; she wasn’t wearing a bit of makeup…but somehow all of the tension of the morning was stealing away, replaced by a somnolent sense of well-being. The steady slip-slop of the boat, the sun’s warm, soothing rays, even Hart’s own laziness seemed to be infecting her. A few days ago at the airport she’d felt so terribly
raw,
inside and out. It occurred to her how rarely she didn’t feel
on,
even for her family and friends, playing roles and fulfilling expectations. But with Hart…well. For someone who’d already seen you at your worst, you hardly felt obligated to put on airs.

Trailing her good hand in the water, Bree threw back her head and felt the sun beat down like a healing balm. She wasn’t exactly attracted to him, she thought idly. It was more fascination. Any woman would undoubtedly feel
some
of that fascination.

It was those midnight-blue eyes, for one thing. The phrase
bedroom eyes
was such a cliché still, if she were ever inclined to take a man to bed because of a pair of eyes, those were the pair. The way his lips parted in a lazy, unbearably sexy smile; the sheer blasted mischief he wore for an expression half the time. The touch of his hands, the tender way he kissed, the manner in which his mouth and body moved in an embrace, pulling her in like an intimate undertow, making her forget rhyme and reason and…

Hurriedly, Bree mentally catalogued Hart’s safer physical attributes. Hairy legs, and Lord, they
were
hairy. Big feet. Bony knees. The shoulders of a mastodon. The silliest cowlick in the center of his head…

He suddenly lurched forward, pushing his hat back from his forehead, grinning at her. “You’re relaxed, Bree, aren’t you?”

She nodded warily. Why did that sound like a trick question?

“I knew you would be, if I got you out on the water. I thought to myself, She’s smarter than that—she’s lived here before and will know damn well there aren’t any fish in the pond—but when I saw you casting, I knew we were home free. When you think about it,
someone
has to buy encyclopedias from the door-to-door salesmen. Now, don’t get upset. That wasn’t meant as an insult. It’s an absolute delight to find a woman who’ll follow a man’s lead in this day and age…”

Hart sighed. Bree parted her lips to let out a detailed torrent of abuse…and when her vocal cords refused to respond, something inside her snapped. Mindlessly, she threw her weight forward, and the canoe precariously tipped.

“Easy—”
Hart yelled.

Easy
nothing.
Frustration boiled up like a witch’s caldron inside her; she’d give a fortune for a working tongue. Unthinkingly, she leaped to her feet, saw Hart’s hands grab wildly for her, felt the canoe lurch violently…

And the next thing she knew, she was over her head in the water.
Icy
water. She surged to the surface, batting furiously at her curtain of soaking hair, and swirled around until she spotted the canoe. Treading water and gasping, she took one look at Hart—who was leaning back against his cushion, roaring his head off—and determinedly swam toward the canoe.

“Now, Bree…It
was
funny. Where’s your sense of humor?”

She pushed. And pushed. The canoe rocked wildly in the water, but refused to capsize.

“It won’t work, sweetheart. You know how canoes are made. Easy to tip from the inside—good heavens, didn’t you know that?—but not that easy to overturn from the outside. Oh, shoot,” he said mildly. “I seem to have made you angry again.”

Abruptly, Hart dropped his crooked grin. In the middle of the sunlit pond, his eyes held hers, blue and fiercely compelling. “And you are angry, aren’t you, honey? Yell. Go ahead. Scream at me, Bree. Don’t you want to tell me what you think of me, sweetheart?” he whispered like a teasing taunt. “Come
on,
Bree.”

She sent a furious wave splashing in his face, and then whirled around, starting a rapid crawl toward shore. She heard him sputtering for an instant. Not nearly long enough.

“Don’t you want to fish anymore?” He called after her, almost managing to sound disappointed. “Never mind, I’ll see you tonight. I’ve got a dinner date, but I’ll be there around nine. Lay out my sleeping bag for me?” He added in a roar, “And put some more antiseptic on your hand!”