Caught by Surprise (8 page)

“You can leave it inside.” With a slight movement of her head she indicated the house behind her. “Come on. I’ll fix your tea.”

“Tea sounds fine, Melisande.”

Brig’s gaze followed her as she turned and went swiftly to the door, her bare feet padding delicately on the porch’s creaking, whitewashed boards. Her feet were beautifully shaped and fine-boned. Slender blue veins crisscrossed the tops. He frowned as he felt blood pounding low in his body. It was going to be a long day, if he reacted this strongly to something as ordinary as feet. But then, nothing was ordinary about Melisande.

Her living room was a cluttered, likable place filled with family photographs, overstuffed furniture, and heavy, plain bookcases. Brig put his guitar case on a chintz-covered couch and trailed after her to the kitchen, where a bay window looked out on the majestic forest in the backyard.

She pointed to a small table in front of the window. “Have a seat.”

“Yes, Melisande,” he said quaintly, and folded his sturdy frame into a chair.

Millie could feel his eyes on her as she lifted a copper tea kettle from the white stove that was older than she was, then poured steaming water into a pottery mug. Her fingers trembling, she dunked a tea bag into the mug and brought it to the table. Her body felt like a tightly wound toy that was simply waiting for his touch to set it in motion. It was going to be a long day.

“Here,” she said bluntly, and thumped the mug down.

“Easy, now, easy,” he murmured. “Don’t get skittish.”

“Quit provoking me.”

“I’m sorry, m’dear.”

She put her hands on her hips. “The hell you are.”

Still sitting down, he put his hands on
his
hips, then arched one brown brow at her. “You’re right. I’m not sorry.” Taken back by his honesty, she faltered for words.

“Shush,” he ordered. “I’m not gonna lay a finger on you, but I’d be less than a man if I didn’t enjoy the view.”

She gestured toward her loose clothes. “I didn’t mean to provide a view.”

He turned toward the window, clasped his hands on
the table in an attitude of peaceful reverence, and stared out. In an absurdly royal voice he intoned, “The trees are just
ex-quis-it
”

Millie sputtered with a combination of frustration and traitorous laughter. “That’s a terrible imitation of Prince Charles. Drink your tea, you Aussie hound. How about a biscuit with jelly and butter?”

He angled around a bit in the chair, his somewhat battered nose lifted high, his hands still clasped, his mouth drawn in fastidious concentration. “Thank you
ever
so kindly.”

“Right,” she muttered, smiling despite herself.

Afterwards they climbed to the roof and worked at reducing the huge oak tree to a limbless trunk. Insects sang in the woods around them, the sound as vibrant as summer, rising in operatic choruses and then falling to a mere whisper. The humidity made Millie’s clothes cling to her body, and every time she glanced at Brig she was treated to the heart-stopping outline of his legs and hips under his own clinging clothes.

He bent over a massive limb, the chain saw roaring in his hands, wood chips flying. His forearms were corded with straining muscles. Sweat trailed down the center of his throat and disappeared under his white T-shirt. He’d discarded the outer shirt almost immediately. His expression was content. He was the kind of man who enjoyed using his body to the fullest. He raised his head for a moment and winked at her. She winked back, smiled tentatively, then looked away.

They worked together in silent harmony, surrounded and secluded in a sensual springtime world with no one but each other for company. Millie wondered if Jacques and Melisande had worked together like this, quietly, enjoying each other’s presence, feeling the rich promise of the day and the hinted excitement of the night.

A knot twisted under her breastbone. She would share no nights with Brig here, no matter how much he tempted her. Jacques and Melisande knew they
were together forever. Millie knew only that she’d never forget Brig when he left.

But when he stopped working and stripped the T-shirt from his torso, she had to force her eyes to remain on the saw clutched in her hand. She continued cutting a small limb, desperately focusing on the back and forth motion. Even when she heard him thump the chain saw down and walk toward her, she didn’t look up.

“Melisande.”

The low, rebuking way he said her name told her immediately that he recognized an avoidance technique when he saw one. She straightened and squinted up at him, trying to appear nonchalant.

“Yes?”

He had folded his T-shirt into a square. Slowly he cupped her chin in one hand, then smoothed the soft cotton over her face. “You’re all persplre-ee. Take a break and let me wipe you down,” he murmured. Hypnotized, she simply stood still. He moved the T-shirt over her face, dabbing at her cheeks, drawing swathes of sensation across her mouth.

“You’re pink,” he whispered. “You look sexy as hell.”

When he stroked the material down her throat, she closed her eyes and tilted her head back. Brig’s thumb caressed the pulse point under her chin. His voice came to her dimly, through the roaring In her ears. “You’re too hot, love,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t want you to faint.”

She opened her eyes and looked at him, feeling groggy. Her pulse had been fine until a moment ago. Now It raced so hard that she could barely think. Millie reached out and placed her fingertips under his chin. His skin was slick and burning, the blood pounding beneath her touch. “Seems to me,” she said huskily, “that we’re both too hot.”

“There are ways to take care of that.”

She nodded, picturing the way he had In mind, seeing them both naked on the pink satin sheets of her bed. “Iced tea,” she said vaguely. She drew her hand away from his throat. His fingers were still curved against
her neck, their effect so powerful that he seemed to be touching her all over.

One corner of his mouth lifted in a rueful smile. “Iced tea’ll have to do for now.”

He let his hand trail along her neck to the collar of her shirt. Millie waited breathlessly, only half-wanting to protest, as his fingertips continued downward. He touched the curve of her breast, feathered his hand over it, then brushed his thumb across the imprint that couldn’t be hidden by her bra or shirt. Millie nearly groaned as her nipple tightened instantly, betraying the loss of her last shred of willpower. The breath cascaded out of her lungs in a low, shuddering, “Stop.”

His eyes challenged her while his thumb circled and tantalized. “If you really don’t like it, all you have to do is move away,” he instructed hoarsely.

Millie made a strangled, angry sound at his confident intuition. She’d show him. She pushed his hand away and took two large steps straight back—right onto the thin sheet of plastic covering the hole in her roof. They both realized her mistake. The plastic ripped like a piece of paper.

“Melly, grab my hand!” Brig yelled.

He lunged for her, but only succeeded in grabbing a wisp of her hair as she plummeted through the roof. Brig’s blood turned to ice water as he watched her hit the corner of her bed and slide to the floor in a limp heap.

He grasped the sides of the hole, slipped both feet into it, and lowered himself into her bedroom. He let go and dropped feetfirst onto her bed. With a cracking sound, the slats under the mattress and box spring gave way, dumping a corner onto the floor. Caught off balance, Brig landed on his rump and slid down beside Millie.

She lifted her head weakly and looked at him. “You make a heckuva entrance,” she managed to say before she closed her eyes and moaned. “SuperAussie to the rescue.”

He grasped her head between his hands and scrutinized her white face. “Where does it hurt?”

“Here.” She raised a hand and touched the side of her head.

“You musta hit a rafter, love.”

“No, it’s where you pulled my hair out.”

He drew one hand back and they both looked at the strands of blond hair caught between his fingers. “Caveman,” she teased, her eyes squinted nearly shut. Millie shifted slightly, then winced. Immediately he slipped an arm around her and turned her so that she could lean against his chest. Millie let her head drape back on his bare shoulder.

“What is it?” he asked tensely. “What hurts, you tough Sheila? Speak up.”

“I’m little, that’s all. I got the breath knocked out of me, and I don’t have that much breath to lose. Just give me a minute to recuperate.” Brig stroked her hair and kissed her forehead as she inhaled shakily. “Are
you
all right?” she asked.

“Sure. Landed on my butt. That’s the toughest part of me.”

She chuckled. “You should have landed on your hard head.”

His voice was taut with self-rebuke. “It was my fault that you fell through the roof.”

“Sssh. You didn’t exactly push me, Brig. Forget it.”

He sighed. “You sure do bounce good.”

“An admiral told me the same thing once. I fell out of a tree trying to retrieve his wife’s pet ferret.”

Brig propped her against the side of the bed and crouched by her legs, straightening them out slowly. “Does anything hurt yet?”

“Nope.”

“Move your toes.” He cupped the toes of her bare foot in his hand. She wrapped her big toe and second toe around his forefinger and gripped hard. “Strewth! Let go, you monkey!”

Smiling, she pulled her foot away. “My brothers taught me to pinch with my toes.”

“Remind me to thank the blokes,” he told her wryly. Brig bent his head and placed a smacking kiss on her toes.

Millie eyed him askance. “My feet are sandy.”

He shrugged. “A little sand never hurt anybody.” Then he dropped her foot, made a great show of wiping his mouth, and groaned, “Where’s the John? I think I have to throw up.”

She laughed a little and shoved him with her foot.

“Want to wrestle, do you?” he asked, relief written in his expression. “If you hadn’t just walloped the floor, I’d show you a thing or two.”

“Excuses, excuses,” she challenged, grinning. Millie leaned forward and shook her fist at him. “I grew up wrestling with two mean brothers, and …” Her teasing bravado faded and she sat back gingerly.

“Melisande?” Brig got on his knees and grasped her shoulders. Her green eyes were dark with discomfort.

“Must have pulled a muscle in my back.”

“Damned fightin’ woman,” he grumbled anxiously. “Don’t know when to sit still.”

“Be quiet, hound.”

He got up, rigged the boxspring and mattress back into place using the slats that hadn’t broken, then squatted beside her and put his hands under her arms. “Up you go, love. Squawk if it hurts.”

“I definitely will.”

But he was so careful and so strong that he raised her to a sitting position on the bed’s edge without jarring her back at all. He knelt in front of her, his hands sliding down to her waist. Millie raised her arms tentatively and stretched.

“It’s just a twinge,” she said truthfully. “It’ll loosen up in a minute, and we can go back to the roof.”

“I have my doubts. Lay on your stomach and let old Doc McKay’s magic fingers do some massagin’.”

Millie studied him shrewdly. He apparently had no intentions other than to rub her aching back. “Okay.”

His hands were deliciously strong on her sides as he
helped her turn and arrange herself face down on the rumpled bed. She felt very vulnerable.

Brig sat down beside her and stifled the thick, inarticulate sound of pleasure that rose in his throat. She looked so tempting with her blond hair tossled on a white pillow etched in pink eyelet and her head turned to one side so that he could see her flushed face. He wondered if her complexion would look that way after sex, then reminded himself sternly that she was hurt.

“Excuse me, love,” he said, and with no more than that warning he pulled the back of her T-shirt up to her neck. “Excuse me, love,” he said again, and deftly unhooked her bra.

Millie gasped lightly. “Your apologies are suspicious.”

His accent deepened. “Ah, but me heart’s good.”

He flattened his hands beneath her shoulder blades and stroked down to the top of her blue-jean shorts, enjoying the smoothness of her skin. With one forefinger he traced a tiny dark mole in the small of her back. “Beauty mark,” he noted softly. “Beautiful back.” Brig, pressed his fingers into the area just above her shorts and rubbed small circles.

Millie shifted languidly, wishing that he didn’t make it so easy to forget caution. His touch untied her muscles and drew sensations from low in her body.

“Do you know what’s best for this kind of muscle strain?” he asked.

“Ice pack,” she murmured, and found that her lips had trouble forming words. What was the man doing? Mesmerizing her?

“Nope. Moist heat.” He bent over and placed his damp, hot lips into the curve of her back.

Millie shut her eyes tightly and willed herself to protest. The words were almost spoken when he slid his mouth up her spine, dabbing each vertebra with the tip of his tongue. Speech, she realized quickly, was an impossibility. Nothing had ever felt so good.

Brig stopped at the base of her neck and nibbled gently. Then he reversed the journey, tracing her spine back down to the edge of her shorts. When he circled
her beauty mark with his tongue, she simply moaned and gave up.

“You can stop doing that in about a million years,” Millie whispered.

“No harm in it, eh?”

“Plenty of harm. But I’m only human.”

“Female human. Without a doubt.” He began kissing her shoulder blades, his breath brushing her skin in warm puffs. The fingers of one hand trailed up and down her spine. “Woman with all sorts of womanly feelings.” His fingers curled around her waist and stroked upwards to the sides of her breasts. She shivered as he rubbed lightly. “Melisande,” he whispered in a husky tone, “this part of you is so soft and delicate.” He chuckled, the sound strained. “I’ve got just the right hard parts to go with your soft ones.”

Millie tried to take a breath, only to hear a shallow, ragged sound. “Stop. Oh,
please
, stop.” She raised her head and pushed clenched fists into the bed.