Wishmakers (11 page)

“If that's what you think of me, why didn't you just tell me to get lost when I first arrived? Why have you bothered with me?” She despised the tears that flowed onto her cheeks.

“You know the answer to that. Even if I am the trustee, you have a powerful lot of stock. With a good set of lawyers, whom you already employ, you could make things very difficult for us here.” He had pulled away slightly, yet his arm was still around her, his hand on her shoulder. He was speaking smoothly, reasonably, with no censure in his voice.

“It was decent of you to go beyond the realm of duty and take me to the dance, but you didn't have to go so far as to act as if you enjoyed it.” Hurt was making her voice sharp.

“I didn't have to act—I did enjoy it.”

“Then how different are you from Margaret Anthony? You were bored, and you amused yourself with a naïve, stupid woman who has never been out from under the watchful eyes of a paid staff, who has never had lunch in a public diner, who has never gone to a dance that only got more boisterous as the night wore on, who has never been kissed in a dark car after a date…” Her traitorous voice betrayed her on the last word. She sat shuddering.

“Maggie, I'm sorry.” He tightened his arm, but she remained stiff, her head turned away from him.

“What for? You've a right to your own feelings, just as I've a right to mine.”

“I'm still sorry.”

“For me? You needn't feel sorry for me until I lose my pen. Then I'll be in real trouble!” She had to sniff. She tried hard to make it a small one, but he heard anyway.

“Damn it, don't cry! It was just something I had to say.” His fingers tried to turn her face toward him, and when she held it firmly away, they stroked her cheeks to wipe away the tears.

“Don't!” she exclaimed sharply. “You…you…”

“I said I was sorry, Maggie. I was only—”

“You…popped out my contact!” Her hand grabbed at his wrist.

“You're kidding!”

“No, I'm not. Don't move. It's probably on your hand.”

“Holy hell! What'll we do? We'll never find it in the dark.”

“Do you have a flashlight?”

“In the glove compartment. Can you reach it? Do you think the damn thing is still on my hand?”

Margaret managed to reach the flashlight and put it into the hand of the arm that was around her. Chip fumbled with the switch and flashed the beam onto his hand. The light played over the long tanned fingers with the clean, well-shaped nails, and the wrist with the fine dark hair that came down to the back of his hand.

“See anything?”

“No, but then I've only got one eye. I'm not seeing too well out of it.”

“I think it's gone, princess.”

“Don't call me that!” She pushed at his arms. “Let me out of this car. I don't care if we find it or not.”

“Hold still!” The light flashed up onto her face when she moved his arm. “Hold still! It's there on your face, beside your ear.” He carefully took the tiny, clear disc between his thumb and forefinger. “What'll I do with it?”

“Give it to me. I'll keep it in my mouth until I get into the house.”

“Aren't they more trouble than they're worth?” he queried.

“You're the one who told me to wear them,” she said crossly. She plucked the contact from her fingers with her tongue.

“Careful. You might swallow it, and then you'd really be in trouble.”

They left the car and walked silently to the house. Chip switched on the light and stepped aside to let her enter ahead of him. She knew he was watching her, but she refused to meet his eyes as she walked past him and through the house to the small, barren bedroom.

“I'll build up the fire. We'll have something hot to drink,” he called after her.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“M
ARGARET ANTHONY, YOU'RE
a real loser! What's more, you're an idiot for standing here talking to yourself.”

She grimaced at her reflection in the mirror of the medicine cabinet and washed the tear-streaked makeup from her face. She wasn't looking forward to going into the other room, but it was either that or go to bed and lie there wide-eyed and miserable for hours. The house was cold, damned cold. The only warm place was beside the fire.

Margaret slipped her contacts into the soaking solution and reached for her dark-rimmed glasses. For a moment she contemplated telling Chip to arrange her way back to Chicago, but then she remembered his taunts about the princess in the ivory tower. That was what he expected her to do—run. Damned if she would!

The big room was empty but warm. A cheery fire crackled in the hearth. She had braced herself to meet Chip's appraisal and was relieved to have a short reprieve. She grabbed some magazines and curled up on the end of the couch, not caring that her random selection had been
Field and Stream, Woodsman of the North,
and
The American Rifleman.

She was flipping pages with shaking hands when Chip came into the room carrying two steaming mugs. He set one of them on the table beside the couch.

“Here's something to warm you up—a lumberjack toddy.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. She turned a page and stared at the colored picture of a flock of birds in flight and a highly polished rifle.

“Do you plan to load your own shells this year?”

“Uh…what?” She glanced up at him and automatically pushed her glasses farther back on her nose. “I couldn't shoot an animal if I were starving to death!”

He reached down and took the magazine from her hand. “Then this isn't the reading material for you.” He gave her a dry smile. “Have you ever been fishing?”

“Once, in Acapulco. We went out on a boat and Daddy caught a big swordfish. I felt sorry for it and wanted to let it go, but they said it would die anyway because it had been hooked so deeply. We had our picture taken with it, and Daddy had it mounted on a board.” She shivered, remembering.

Chip sat down on the couch and stretched his long legs out in front of him, then drew them up and removed first one boot and then the other. He was wearing ragg-wool socks. No wonder he doesn't feel the cold, Margaret thought resentfully.

Glancing at him in a secret, sidelong inspection, she concluded that Chip Thorn was almost unbearably attractive in his snap-fastened plaid shirt and tight jeans. That type of clothing suited him. She wondered vaguely what he'd look like in a business suit. Handsome, she grudgingly decided. He was like a chameleon; he would adapt to any environment or situation. As if becoming aware of her gaze, he slipped an oblique look at her and she turned away. He was something far beyond her comprehension: a man a woman would love or hate but never be indifferent to. It was a shred of comfort to know he had enjoyed kissing her. The blood in her veins raced crazily as memory flashed back to those moments in his arms. She picked up the warm mug and gulped, immediately coughing and groping blindly for a spot on which to set the cup down. It was taken from her hands.

“Easy. That's a pretty strong drink.” His hand patted her gently on the back.

“What…is…it?” she gasped.

“Whiskey, sugar, ginger, and hot water. Sip it slowly and it'll warm you clear to your toes.”

“I wanted to be warm, not on fire!” She felt her heated blood begin to gather in her cheeks.

His hand made circles on her back. “You okay? You really are a babe, aren't you, Maggie?”

“If you know so damn much, you tell me!” She was in no mood to be teased.

He smiled into her eyes and pushed her glasses up on her nose. “Smile for me, Maggie. You've got a beautiful smile. Why are you so stingy with it?”

She gave him an overbright smile, showing all her teeth, and she saw the laughter twinkling in his eyes. Before she knew what he was doing, he had lifted her legs up and across his lap and was removing her shoes.

“Hey—what—?” she choked in surprise.

“It's easier to relax with your shoes off. Didn't anyone ever tell you that?” He slipped the pumps off her feet and gently dropped them to the floor. One hand rested on her ankle, the other on the bottom of her foot. “They're cold!” he said with surprise, and he began to rub her feet and ankles vigorously.

“Of course they're cold. Nylons and open-toed shoes weren't designed for warmth,” she snapped, wishing desperately for the strength of mind to blot out the sensuous tingle of his stroking fingers. She swallowed hard and, without thinking, asked, “Why do you live in this barn of a house? It seems to me you'd want to live closer to the office.”

It hadn't come out exactly as she'd wanted it to, and he answered defensively.

“What's wrong with it? It may not be what you're used to, but I doubt if there's a house in the state that is.” His grip on her feet tightened. The charm had left his face, and his lips twisted sardonically. “In case you haven't noticed, this house is far more comfortable than that of any of our employees.”

“How would I have noticed? I've not been in another house. I only know that this one is damned cold.” Their eyes met in a piercing glance. She picked up the mug and sipped at the warm drink. It was surprisingly good when taken in small doses.

“You think this is cold? You should be here in January when the temperature gets down to twenty-five below.” She looked away from him and tried to swing her feet off his lap, but he held them and continued his massage.

After a few minutes he lifted her legs from his lap, saying, “Why don't I make us another drink?”

A sharp feeling of apprehension struck Margaret as she watched him leave the room. His very presence was beginning to mean everything to her.

Neither said anything for a long while after he returned with the hot mugs. He put more wood onto the fire, replaced the screen, and sat back in the recliner.

Margaret was feeling more relaxed now. The drink was warming her, as Chip had promised. The soft glow of the lamp behind the couch, the dancing flames in the hearth, and the music coming from the stereo Chip had turned on all added to the feeling of time suspended. She let the music wash over her. It was the score from a romantic movie. She would have guessed he'd prefer countrywestern. They sat in companionable silence and sipped their toddies. When her cup was empty he took it from her hand, placed it on the table, and sat down beside her on the couch.

“Talk to me, Maggie.” His eyes gleamed through halfclosed lids, and Margaret felt her heart jump as his appreciative gaze wandered over her face. “You have lovely eyes,” he murmured.

“Not as lovely as yours,” she said, obeying a totally reckless impulse.

“I can hardly believe you're real,” he said huskily, his voice promptly making her heart turn flip-flops. “How could you have come out of that place as sweet as you are?”

“What do you mean?” It seemed to her she was always asking him that.

“Sweet. That's the only word to describe you.”

“Are you sure you don't mean—”

He quickly put his fingers over her lips. “I mean sweet. May I have this dance?”

“I'll have to check my dance card,” she quipped.

He reached for her glasses and placed them on the table beside her mug. “You won't need these. I like to look into those shining green pools and try to figure out what's going on in that mind of yours.”

“I can't see six inches past my nose,” she protested.

“I won't be any farther away than that.” He smiled at her, a warm, almost loving, smile and pulled her to her feet. She melted into his arms without a trace of nervousness. They moved slowly to the romantic music. He rested his cheek on the top of her head. Margaret was so enchanted by the magic of it all that she was afraid to speak lest the spell be broken. She relaxed against him, oblivious to everything but the feel of his arms encircling her, the hard strength of his hands that lay flat on the taut swell of her hips, pressing her to him with urgent force.

“I don't really like this feeling I have for you,” he whispered into her hair, and she wasn't quite sure she'd heard correctly.

“You don't want to like me?” she asked, her heart hammering crazily against his chest.

“No,” he whispered huskily. “I was all prepared to dislike old Ed's spoiled darling.”

“And now?”

“Not spoiled, but still a darling.”

She was slowly losing the ability to think rationally. Her arms encircled his body, glorying in the feel of his hard warmth. “Do you think I may be a little drunk from the whiskey? I should be saying something like ‘Unhand me, you cad.’”

“You haven't had enough whiskey to be drunk. So why aren't you kicking and fighting and calling me a seducer of innocent maidens?” His lips were nuzzling her ear, and they felt so good she pressed against them.

“I don't know.” She tilted her head back so she could look at him. “Did you ply me with drink so you could seduce me?”

“Uh huh. Are you going to resist me?” There was a teasing glint in his eye.

“I haven't decided,” she readily admitted.

He held her tightly in his arms, scarcely moving to the music. “I want to kiss you with your arms about my neck, feel your breasts against me, and hold your hips in my hands. Okay? Then you can decide if you're going to that cold little room or staying with me.” He brought his hands around to clasp hers and guide them upward. When they were moving on their own accord he wrapped his arms all the way around her so that his hands rested on the sides of her breasts. “You're a delicious armful, Maggie. Maggie, Maggie, puddin' n' pie, kissed the boys and made them cry.”

“That was Georgie Porgie, silly.” She laughed softly and, in complete disregard of the common sense that told her she was acting wanton, unrestrained, and foolish, she placed soft little kisses on his neck.

“It's no wonder they cried!”

His fingers lifted her chin, and a sweet, wild enchantment rippled through her veins as his mouth moved over hers with warm urgency. The desire to push her fingers through his hair was irresistible. It was so thick and so soft, like the mustache that had swept across her cheek and was now pressed tightly beneath her nose. Her head was spinning helplessly from the torrent of churning desires racking her body. The intensity of these feelings was strange to her, and she was powerless to control them. The sensations were heightened when his tongue caressed her lips, sought entrance, and found welcome. The male hardness pressed against her was an erotic stimulant, arousing her, taking her over, and making her want the physical gratification of uniting with him in the most intimate way.