Rekindled (19 page)

He shot her a surprised look. “Why what? Why did I just drive up, or why am I here?”

“Both.” As Anne’s pulse steadied, she lowered the poker.

“I just got here because I had a late meeting this afternoon and couldn’t leave the city until it was done. I’m here because I need a week’s rest, free of all human contact. All human contact.”

“Why are you here?”

“I just told you.”

“But, why here, in this house?” She was beginning to think straight. He didn’t look like a thug. And he could have taken advantage of her when he was on top, but he hadn’t.

He rubbed the back of his neck, much as she had when she’d first arrived. “I come here often. And I’m sure I booked the weekend with Miles.”

So he did know the realtor. He deserved credit for that.

She relaxed her grip on the poker. “It looks like good old Miles made mistake.” Thinking about it, she frowned. Her eyes fell. Absently she ran faintly shaky finger over the lip he had bruised.

In a single deft move, he had the poker out of her hands before she knew he was there. In that instant, terror returned. She had been duped.

“All right, ma’am. Now you answer my questions,” he ordered.

When she tried to step back, he grabbed her shoulders and held her in place. The discrepancy of their heights appalled her. Even accounting for the fact that she had no shoes on, Mitch was nearly a foot taller.

“Who are you?” he asked with an air of command, even subtle threat.

She began to tremble again. “Anne.”

“From … ?$)

“New York.”

“So”-a smile touched his mouth but went no further-“we’re of the same stock.”

“Hardly.”

Her sharp gaze and clipped response erased his smile. “When did you arrive?”

She resented his questions. She had a rental agreement. This was her place. “I don’t see that this-“

Hard fingers dug into her upper arms, stopping short of a shake. “When did you get here?”

“Early this evening.”

“Why are you here? Both versions.”

He had relaxed his grip on her shoulders, but she wanted out all the way. “Can I sit down? My legs are wobbly.”

He held his hands out to the sides for an instant, then dropped them. The right went to his waist, the left to his pocket. “Be my guest. Sit.”

She retreated to the wing-back chair and watched him add logs to the fire. He used his right hand. His left remained in his pocket. It struck her that he avoided using it.

He approached her again, tall and imposing. “Why did you come?”

She tipped her chin in defiance of his stance. “I’m here on vacation. I arranged it with Mr. Cooper and prepaid for the week.”

“You have proof?”

“Of course.”

“Let me see.”

She scowled. “Why should I show you anything? You’re the one who barged in here uninvited.”

He leaned forward, resting his hand on the arm of her chair, bringing his lips infuriatingly close to her ear. “Get it,” he demanded under his breath, then slowly straightened to let her pass.

Moments later she reappeared to find him studying the fire. He took the paper she offered and skimmed it.

“Looks authentic enough,” he conceded. With a muttered, “That fool,” he turned back to the fire.

“Where’s your proof?” she challenged.

He -clenched his jaw. “You’ll have to take my word for it.”

“No, thanks. I want proof. Or you can just take your things and leave. I didn’t drive all the way up here to share a cabin with a man I don’t know.”

His mouth thinned to a grimace. “Looks like you’re stuck with me, lady.”

She was suddenly angry. “No way! I came up here to be alone, and that’s what I plan to be. If there was a telephone, I’d call the local police to get you out, but there isn’t one, and I don’t relish the thought of driving out in this weather. So I’m asking you to leave like a gentleman.” He stared at the fire. “Who said that I was a gentleman?”

“I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Now, do you leave, or do I.. Her voice trailed off. There was no alternative.

And, damn it, he knew it. Slowly, he turned toward her. “Or do you what?”

Frustrated by the situation, infuriated by his calm, she gave in to the need to shout. Loudly. “Look … Mitch … I don’t know who’s to blame for this fiasco, but I’d like you to leave. It’s been a long day and I’m tired. There’s obviously been a misunderstanding, but I have every intention of spending the week here, and I’m paying for that time right now. So, do you go?”

His expression was unchanged. “Tonight? No.”

“What do you mean, no? You have no right to be here.”

His voice was suddenly as loud as hers. “I have every right to be here, but that’s between Miles Cooper and myself. Let’s get one thing straight.”

His eyes darkened to a charcoal green. “I don’t want you here any more than you want me here, but for tonight, at least, we’re stuck with each other. We’ll work something out in the morning.”

“But you can’t stay here tonight.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m here!”

“So?” His eyes were hazel again, calmer, strong.

A flush warmed her cheeks. “I thought I’d made it clear that I wasn’t part of a conspiracy. Well, let me take it one step further.” Her breathing faltered, but she let loose with what she’d been trying to tell the whole world for weeks. “I’m not interested in you, or any other man. Can you understand that?”

“I hear you. I’m not sure I believe you.” Audacious eyes fell from her face to her neck to her breasts. Mockery faded when he looked at her wedding band. Frowning, he drew himself up straight. “I think I’ve had it. Good night.” As he brushed past her, she grabbed his arm in alarm.

“Where are you going?”

“To bed.” His words were blunt, his tone chilled.

“Oh, no, you’re not.”

He arched a brow. “Are you going to stop me?” Slowly he looked down at the white-knuckled hand on his arm.

She released him fast. “But you can’t stay here!” He continued on toward his bags. Unable to think of a better course, she followed. “I said, you can’t stay! There must be some place in the village.”

Piling luggage under his right arm, he headed wordlessly for the stairs. Abruptly, he stopped, turning his head only enough to call over his shoulder, “I assume you’re sleeping down here?”

She had no power, no power at all. “Yes, but you have to leave.”

He turned to face her. His smile was polite, his eyes frosty, his voice cool. “I will in good time.” Taking the stairs two at a time, an astounding feat, given his bulky burden, he disappeared into the attic, leaving her at a total loss for words.

Anne didn’t budge. Her arms hung limp at her sides, her bare feet were flat on the floor, her eyes were glued to the attic door, which closed with a resounding bang. Even the faint sounds from within-the scrape of a chair leg, the creak of the mattress under one bag, the thud of another on the floor, the jangle of metal hangers on a wooden rod-failed to move her.

A crick in her neck finally brought her back to reality. Hands bracing her lower back, she rolled her head in a circular motion in an attempt to release tension.

Bizarre. Bizarre situation. A real-life drama in place of a fictional one, discarded now on the floor by the fire. But there wasn’t a thing she could do. She could agonize over it for hours, but that fact wouldn’t change.

Retreating to her bedroom, she closed the door tightly and propped a chair against the knob the way her heroine had done in Chapter Six, or thereabouts. Quickly, she slipped into a long flannel nightgown, pulled her hair from its knot, and took refuge under the bed’s heavy quilts.

Despite the chair at the door, she wasn’t frightened. Not really. Mitch’s story irritated her, but it was believable enough. Or, rather, he was believable. There was something about him-his intelligent manner of speech, his clean appearance, his refined air-that spoke of breeding. Granted, he’d been pretty crude at the start. But even that could be explained away. He seemed neither malicious nor vengeful, only angry at the rental agent’s error.

What to do? She had no choice but to sleep on the matter. Come morning, a solution would be found. It would have to be found. This was her week. She wasn’t sharing it.

But sleep eluded her. She cursed the two cups of coffee that she’d had, the unfinished paperback, the creaking that came from the room above her. She finally fell into a restless sleep, only to be awaken at intervals by the creak of that bed. It was nearly dawn when she realized that she wasn’t brooding about Jeff for a change. On that ironic note, and thoroughly worn out, she slept soundly.

What seemed only moments later, she was jolted awake by a thunderous noise in the kitchen. Livid, she bolted out of bed, whipped the chair from the door, and stormed toward the source of the racket.

“What, in God’s name, was that noise?” she shouted, rounding the kitchen door in time to see Mitch picking up the first of a scattered mess of pots, pans, and metal utensils that covered the linoleum by the stove. He wore a navy velour robe that barely touched his knees, and was barefoot like her. And disheveled. And very, very cranky.

Shooting her a sidelong glare, he bellowed, “What kind of housekeeper are you, piling things in the cabinet like that? Did you really expect them to stay put once I opened the door? And where in the hell is the orange juice press? My Lord, woman, get to it and clean up this mess!”

Friends who knew Anne to be easygoing, even-tempered, understanding, and accommodating would never have recognized the spitfire she suddenly became. It had been too long a day yesterday, too long a night last night, too disturbing an ordeal for months, for an ounce of poise to survive.

Dark eyes flashing, she confronted him. “You clean it up. I didn’t make the mess, and I’m not your slave! It happens that I didn’t touch that cabinet when I arrived. Put your blame on whomever you please, as long as it isn’t on me! And what right do you have to wake me up? This is my vacation, or didn’t you hear that last night?” Only a deaf man could have missed a word now. Goaded by his indignant stare, she ranted on. “This noise was enough to wake the dead. Not that I needed anything as loud as that to disturb me. Your twisting around up over my head all night was bad enough! Just because you have insomnia doesn’t mean that I have to have it!”

His stare was chilling. “You wake up in a lovely mood, don’t you? Very different from my usual women.” He looked her over, head to toe. “That’s quite an outfit, also different from my usual women.”

Naturally, Anne had left her robe hanging in the closet. Whirling on her heel, hair flying out behind, she returned to her room, put on the robe, then, with a wave of weariness, sank down onto the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, face buried in her palms. Inhaling deeply, she tried to still the throbbing at her temples. His women. His women, indeed. She wasn’t his or anyone else’s.

The sorrow of that thought deflated her. If Jeff could only see her now!

Ashamed, she gathered up a towel and soap in the hope that a long, hot shower would ease her tension and improve her mood, and for a short time it did. The water pressure was strong, sending steamy trails over the taut muscles of her neck and back. Rich-lathering shampoo left her hair squeaky clean and shiny, hanging in damp clusters about her shoulders when she finally emerged, toweled herself vigorously, and returned to her room.

Half an hour later, wearing a navy sweater, jeans, and sneakers, she headed for the kitchen to make coffee. It was already hot on the stove. To her surprise the floor was free of debris, the offending cookware stacked neatly in the cupboard.

She smiled a bit smugly. So he had cleaned up himself Take that, male chauvinist pig! And he had made himself scarce.

Helping herself to coffee, she took a seat at the table. Despite the outburst, she had actually slept until ten-thirty. Now she heard footsteps on the stairs and the slam of the bathroom door. All she had to do was to wait until he finished his shower and dressed. Then they would face their dilemma like adults.

When the shower started, she relaxed back in the chair, combing her still-damp hair with slender fingers, spreading it out over her shoulders to dry. Her gaze was drawn through the three-sided window of the breakfast nook to the backyard. She hadn’t seen it the afternoon before and found instant pleasure in the rustic scene, the well-kept lawn, the scattering of maples and pines, the intermixing of apple trees with fruit hanging ripe and ready for picking. The morning mist had begun to burn off, speared here and there shafts of sunlight.

The scene was exactly what she had hoped to find, so peaceful and quiet, that she was unprepared for the roar behind her.

“You used up all the hot water! Damn it, don’t you have a considerate bone in your body?”

Mitch stood in the door of the kitchen, dripping wet, wearing nothing but a towel around his hips.

For a second, she couldn’t breathe. He was incredibly well built. Arms and shoulders of granite flanked a chest that was tanned, sinewed, and matted with fair hair made darker by the water. His stomach was flat and firm, his slim hips a solid start for muscled thighs and lower legs.

Swallowing convulsively, Anne forced herself to look away. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t realize there would be a shortage.”

“Didn’t realize?” he mocked loudly. “Well, next time, realize. I like my showers long and hot, too!”

Annoyed that he was annoyed, since this was her house for the week, she took a mouthful of coffee and then nearly choked. “My God,” she cried when she finally swallowed, “this coffee is like mud! What did you put in here? Or should I ask”-her eyes narrowed-“how much of my coffee did you put into that pot? I don’t see any groceries of yours around here. Make yourself right at home, thanks a lot.”

His anger faded. Lips twitching, he leaned nonchalantly against the doorjamb. “Why shouldn’t I make myself at home? I plan to spend the week here.”

She sputtered out a furious laugh. “Oh, no, you’re not.” She rose quickly, forgetting every good intention to keep calm. “You’ll have to find another place. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble, what with your delightful personality and winning smile.”