Rogue's Revenge (6 page)

Enough! Come noon, her mother would be sole owner of the Chance, and the Armstrongs could legally send one mighty Oakes packing.

She let the last bird snatch the remaining bit of crust from her fingers before she arose and headed for the small log cottage Heath and his mother shared.

The inner door was open. When Allison went up the three short steps she could see a small, neat kitchen through the screen and hear music playing softly from a radio on the counter near the sink.

“Heath?” she called through the mesh door. “Are you in there?”

The only answer was the announcer’s voice at the end of the song, telling his listeners not to be deceived by the fine morning. More rain and fog were on the way.

Presented with an opportunity, Allison’s curiosity flared. Easing open the screen she slipped inside.

The kitchen held an apartment-sized refrigerator, stove, and a cozy breakfast nook built into one wall below a window that looked out into the forest. Hand-quilted placemats with a wildflower design decorated its Formica tabletop and matched the seat and back cushions of a rocking chair near the opposite window, the ruffled curtains, and a tea cozy covering a pot on the counter. Framed needlepoint floral designs decorated the walls above the cupboards.

How could the woman who had made this welcoming place also be responsible for the creation of Heath the Barbarian? Allison shook her head and tiptoed down the short hall at the back of the room.

The open door at its end revealed a small, tidy bathroom. Two others, one to her left, the other to her right, she guessed led to bedrooms. Opening the door to her right, she saw a bed covered with a dusty rose spread that matched the window drapes and a mahogany dresser with neatly laid-out toiletries, a large wicker basket of needlepoint materials nestled against its side. She closed the door and turned to open the one opposite.

That room contained a large bed covered with a patchwork quilt, plain white window curtains, a wide dresser with only a hairbrush on its polished surface, a well-filled floor-to-ceiling bookcase against the rear wall, and a chair and desk in one corner.

Papers neatly stacked on the latter intrigued her. She tiptoed over to get a better look.

To her disappointment, they appeared to be purely business, letters from people seeking reservations or information about the Lodge, repair estimates, competitive prices on canoes, paddles, groceries, and the like.

Something pink in the wastebasket beside the desk caught her attention. A letter. She couldn’t resist. She bent and picked it up. The delicate blue handwriting and light scent of expensive perfume assured her it was no business document. Her heart racing, she began to read.

It was a love letter filled with reminiscences of intimate moments spent with none other than Heath Oakes. Allison felt a hot gush of anger crawling up her neck and face. It was signed, “All my love, C.B.” Candace Breckenridge?

Nausea roiled in her stomach. Accusing Heath of this kind of liaison was one thing; finding absolute proof was another.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

She whirled to face Heath framed in the doorway. The piece of pink paper slid from her fingers and fluttered to the floor.

“Nothing…I…that is…”

“I wouldn’t call reading someone else’s personal mail nothing.”

He crossed the room and snatched up the letter to wave it under her nose. “This is none of your business, Ms. Armstrong. None at all.”

“Your turning the Chance into a spa where lonely middle-aged
married
women can live out their romantic fantasies is,” she exploded back at him, although inwardly she was unnerved by his blazing eyes and clenched fists. “This is a respectable lodge, not some…some…”

“So you think this just confirms what you suspected, that I’m a backwoods gigolo who fools around with the wives and partners of the men who come up here?”

“Are you telling me none of what is in that letter ever happened, that this woman is lying? Oh, come off it!”

“Show me where it says we had an actual affair, that we slept together. Go on, show me.”

Allison re-read. He was right. Nowhere did Candace refer to an actual affair. But that wasn’t proof.

“I happen to know this woman.” She glared up into his mocking expression. “She’s much too smart to commit anything to paper that could be used as evidence in a divorce court. You see, Nature Boy, while she might enjoy a two-week fling with you and your muscles, Candace Breckenridge is not about to risk her comfortable lifestyle for you.”

“She never did.” He pulled the letter from her hand and threw it back into the wastepaper can. “Nothing she or I did constituted infidelity. She’s just a lonely, neglected woman who wants to feel attractive and desirable, who wants to be listened to with interest and genuinely cared about.”

“And you managed all that…on a purely platonic level? Quick, let me look outside. There must be a few white crows around.”

“So now I’m a liar, too.” He turned and sauntered over to his bookcase with amazing, icy calm. “Would you like to borrow a book while you’re here? I’m a fan of murder mysteries. I’m sure that somewhere in my collection you’ll find a scenario that matches Jack’s death to a T. Then you’ll be able to promote me from gigolo and liar to killer.”

He swung back to face her, his move swift and catlike. His eyes had narrowed, his lean bronzed face gone hard and cold.

“I never said…suggested…” Her heart bumping against her ribs, she began to back toward the door.

“No, but you thought…and thought…and thought.” He slammed it shut, then held her trapped against it, his hands on the panel on either side of her head, towering over her, making her shrink before his pure animal power. “Let me add a bit more color to the picture you’ve painted of me.” His tone became dangerously soft. “I have a criminal record. I’ve spent time in prison. Do outlaws turn you on, Allison Armstrong? Do they?”

He was all but touching her now, so close she felt she was drowning in smoldering amber pools and a rock hard wall of muscle and sinew. His nearness frightened her, excited her, left her gasping.

“Don’t…” The word was a strangled whisper. Her heart raced out of control, partly in fear, but mostly—she hated herself for it—in wild anticipation. She remembered his kiss, that earthy, head-spinning, belly-turning kiss on the floor the previous night, and her knees turned to mush.

“What do you really believe about me, Allie?” He astonished her with his use of the pet name her grandfather had given her years ago. “In your heart?”

“I think…” she breathed softly, looking up at him with what she hoped was a beseeching look. “That I couldn’t hate you more.” She lunged out with both hands and a knee.

“Ahhhh!” He stumbled backwards, and she yanked open the door.

“I believe you’re a conceited, money-mongering ape!” she yelled as she ran, stumbling, out of the cottage.

Chapter Five

She paused a few yards from the cottage and glanced back to see if he was pursuing her. He wasn’t. She threw back her shoulders, sucked in a deep breath, and gave herself a figurative pat on the back.

I showed him. He won’t mess with me again. Wobbly knees and pounding heart be darned.
I showed him who’s in charge around here.

A smug little smile on her lips, she headed for the boat house. As she made her way over the root-roughened foot path carpeted with pine needles, childhood memories flooded back, and she slowed her pace. She and Gramps had walked this trail so many times when she was a little girl. Sometimes she’d put her small hand in his large one and enjoy the sense of warmth and security. Other times she’d skip ahead of him, making him laugh at her antics.

When she reached the boathouse, she pulled his jacket about her and sat down on the weathered old park bench near its open doorway. In spite of the sunlight bathing her in a soft pool of warmth, she recognized the cold nip in the air that characterized the early reluctance of spring in this country. With a sigh she turned up the woolly collar, stuffed cold fingers beneath her armpits, and cuddled into a corner. She needed time to think, time to straighten out the tangle of thoughts and emotions Heath Oakes had snarled about her mind.

She gazed out at the river rushing past, glinting in the sun. Jack Adams had loved the North Passage and gloried in all its moods and caprices.

“It was meant to continue forever,” he’d said, his arm about his granddaughter as they’d sat together on this same bench over a dozen years ago. “Like life through a family.”

And she was all that was left to keep their family going. She and…Paul? Somehow she couldn’t bring him into focus as a viable current in the stream that was the Adams dynasty.

A squirrel scampered down a tree trunk and sat up on its haunches in front of her. It stared at her with wide, inquisitive eyes. Memory rushed back…Sammy, the baby squirrel she’d spent hours nursing through babyhood during her last summer at the Chance.

She’d been fourteen the summer she’d found Sammy lying helpless at the bottom of a tree. When she could find no nest to return him to, she’d carried him back to the Lodge. With her grandfather’s help, she’d made a tiny bed for him, a piece of blanket in an empty screwdriver box.

At Jack’s instruction, she’d dug out a doll’s bottle from among her discarded toys and begun feeding the little creature. Three weeks later she and Jack had released a nearly adult Sammy back into the forest, fit and ready for his life on the Chance.

The memory brought another into her mind. The memory of how she’d glanced up one day, as she sat feeding Sammy on the veranda steps, to see sixteen-year-old Heath slouched into a James Dean stance against a tree, hips thrust forward, thumbs hooked into the pockets of faded jeans as he watched her.

Something in those intense eyes had sent her adolescent body into a whirl, awakening a myriad of sensations. He’d been the embodiment of every teenage girl’s romantic bad-boy image.

I was one stupid kid
.
Dragging up memories isn’t any good. Heath Oakes was an inner-city hoodlum. All that changed is that now he’s a wilderness hoodlum. As soon as Gramps’ will is read and the Armstrongs are legally in possession of the Chance, I’ll kick him out of my life once and for all.

She got up from the bench and headed back to the Lodge, her strides long and determined.

At noon, dressed in the black suit she’d worn to the funeral, Allison placed a plate of sandwiches on the dining room table. She winced as she passed a mirror. Skirt and jacket looked as if she’d poured herself into them, thanks to that barbarian and his dryer. She’d had no choice. It was the only outfit she had that was suitable for a somber occasion like a will reading. The jeans and tops she’d brought and worn on the plane were far too casual, intended only for comfort after months of business suits and high heels.

She glanced down at the jacket straining at its buttons.
Thanks to that stupid savage, I look like some kind of kinky hooker.

She headed back into the kitchen to check on the coffee. Giving the too-short skirt a downward tug, she pushed through the swinging door.

“Good morning.” Heath stood leaning against the counter, arms crossed on his chest. Dressed in a charcoal suit, white shirt, gray silk tie, and shining black dress shoes, only the below-the-ears hair and weather-bronzed complexion gave evidence of his woodsman persona. His gaze meandered over her from head to foot, one corner of his mouth quirking upward.

“Oh, right!” She stopped short and planted her feet apart, hands on her hips. “Make me look bad, why don’t you. Where was that get-up yesterday? It’s what you should have worn to the funeral.”

“To drive a tractor down a mud bog of a road and shovel in a grave?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Well…” She strode over to the coffeemaker and checked its progress. When she glanced at him, she saw him watching her with that catlike intensity she was coming to know only too well.
It’s as if he can see right down into my deepest thoughts and emotions.

“What are you planning to do once the will is read?” He snapped her out of her inane thoughts.

“Catch the next flight home.” She reached for cups on the top shelf and felt her skirt ride up. Grabbing at it, she stepped back.

“Here, let me.” He brushed past her with a scent of something like the forest after a spring shower. Or a really nice masculine soap.

“How many?” He’d paused with a pair of cups in his hands, looking down at her with those mesmerizing golden-brown eyes.

“What? Oh, four should be enough. I’m not sure if the lawyer will be coming alone. Best to be prepared.” Her words stumbled.
I’m CFO of a major corporation. I’m the first female executive they’ve had in one hundred and fifty years of operation. Now this…this savage is turning me into a stuttering teenager just by smelling half-decent and looking…

“Saucers?” He placed four cups on the counter.

“What? Oh, right, of course, saucers.”

“There you go.” He put them beside the cups but didn’t move away from her. “Now back to our previous conversation. You know I was asking what you’ll do with the Chance.” His words were hard and clipped this time, even as his continued proximity made butterflies burst from cocoons in the centre of her body.

“Still a little cranky from our scuffle this morning, are we?” She pulled herself out of his sphere of control and sauntered across the kitchen to take coffee spoons from a drawer.
Getting back in the game, girl. Good for you.

“Old news. Right now I’m concerned about seeing Jack’s wishes carried out.”

“I assume my mother, being his only child, will inherit everything…except the legendary salmon rod.” She swung to face him. “When she does, she’ll have no choice but to sell. She’s not about to leave my father in order to operate this place, and he can’t relocate here.”

“Jack wanted the Chance to stay in his family.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“You could take it over.” He moved to tower above her. “You’re supposed to be a financial wizard, a pioneer female executive in that company of yours, according to Jack.”