By seven, Bree was alternately fussing with tiny glass bottles and eyedroppers at the kitchen table and worriedly glancing at the clock. Normally, she could count on work with her perfumes to get her mind off anything, but this evening she was having trouble concentrating. The balsam and citronella were already in; so were the drops of civet and orange oil. Flipping the stopper from the vial of bergamot, she squeezed the eyedropper and started counting.
Four, five, six…
Her eyes flipped up to the clock again.
Are you really just going to let him come in here and walk all over you again? What are you, a doormat?
Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…
Locked doors hadn’t worked. But then, locked doors were kind of like locked tongues—excuses for inaction. She’d always had good excuses for letting other people direct the flow of her life. Gram would have been…disgusted with her.
Twenty-nine, thirty.
Pushing the stopper back into the vial, she reached for the heated wine. Once she had poured the proper amount of special alcohol into the mixture, she glanced again at the clock, bit her lip and started slowly stirring the fragrant liquid.
Hart…bothered her. It was more than his irritating attitude and pushiness. It was
him.
The man. When he was around, she always felt close to losing control, and Bree never lost control. He’d accused her of anger, and he was right. But anger at herself or at him? It was him, of course. It
had
to be that she was just continually angry at him.
She carried her perfume concoction into the corner where she’d set up the tiny still. It would take days before either of the new perfumes was ready, but the cabin was already filled with the blended soft scents of fruits and flowers. As Bree put away the last of her ingredients, she glanced at the clock again. Eight-thirty, and if he was actually going to arrive by nine…
He was
not
going to find a doormat. Tossing the towel on the table, Bree bolted for the loft steps and took them two at a time. Within ten minutes, she’d burrowed into Gram’s wardrobe and stripped off her jeans. After changing clothes, she made a trip to the old shed, and after that she dragged the old rocker out onto the porch.
By nine, she was waiting for Hart. Dusk had settled around her like a gentle mist; the birds had stopped singing, and animals were sneaking from the woods for a peek into the clearing. Bree’s bare feet were stuffed into a ragged old pair of men’s boots. Her calico skirt was gathered at the waist and reached midcalf; above it she wore a drawstring peasant blouse. A straw hat perched on her head. She was the image of a mountain woman, and Bree hadn’t forgotten the pitchfork on her lap. Maybe she couldn’t talk, but then, they say actions speak louder than words. Hart should be able to figure out the general message.
Her chair creaked violently as she rocked, until she found herself yawning. Nine past, and then nine-fifteen. Flanking her were two citronella candles, ostensibly to chase off the mosquitoes but actually for light—that way she couldn’t possibly miss his approach, even if his car made no sound.
His car made plenty of sound, roaring through the quiet night like a restless lion on the prowl. Instantly, Bree stiffened, laid the pitchfork across her lap just so, and kept on rocking, her eyes narrowed as the car came to a halt fifty feet from her.
When Hart stepped out, her rocker started a furious creaking pace. This wasn’t the lazy Hart of the pond but the polished Hart of the plane. His hair was carelessly brushed back, catching the silver of moonlight, and his shoulders looked mammoth in a cream linen suit—one of those Italian tailored jobs of his. If he’d had a carnation in his lapel, he could have gone to a gangster’s wedding; as it was, he passed for damned gorgeous…and just a wee bit on the formal side, given the wilderness behind him and the occasional cry of a lone cougar.
“Bree?”
With her booted toe, she nudged his rolled-up sleeping bag down the porch steps as he slammed the door of his car. The pitchfork remained at the ready. He hadn’t been dining with any mountain boys, not in that attire. The woman had undoubtedly been breathtaking, and if even for a
second
he thought he was coming here for a free dessert…
“Bree?”
She rocked, her chin cocked at a stubborn angle. Hart stalked forward, his jacket open and one hand loosely in his trouser pocket…at least until his eyes finally adjusted to the candlelight and he caught a good look at her. His expression went blank, but she could feel his assessment, from the tacky straw hat down to the boots. His eyes rested for long seconds on the pitchfork—and being Hart, he had to spend some time scouting out the territory inside the peasant blouse. A poor choice, she should have thought of that.
Still, she figured she’d done a fairly good job of getting her message across…particularly when for a few moments one could have heard a pin drop. Hart just stared with those eyes as dark as the woods behind them, no expression on his shadowed face that she could read.
And then he slumped back, drawing a hand over his face. A shudder racked his body. Bree scowled. Another shudder, and suddenly his ridiculous guffaws were filling the night. He stumbled back. He said something, but he was so choked up with laughter she couldn’t make out his words.
With no respect for his suit whatsoever, he collapsed on the grass with his head bent over his knees, laughing in absolutely uproarious humor.
Bree leaped up and hurled the pitchfork off to one side. Funny, was it? She ran down the steps so fast she nearly tripped, her hands on her hips and her hat gone flying. “You…
varmint.
You…”
The croaking voice seemed to be coming from miles away. Bree was too incensed to care. The hoarse whisper cracked and stuttered and creaked like a rusty record, but it gradually gained momentum. “You
skunk!
You egotistical, domineering, patronizing, know-it-all, interfering, insensitive, overbearing, pushy, sneaky…”
The litany just kept coming.
Chapter Seven
Still seated on the ground, Hart wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. Leaning back on his elbows, his mouth twisted in a lopsided grin as Bree hovered menacingly over him. “Honey, you’re talking!”
She was so mad she was shaking, words tumbling out like spilled rusty nails. “How many women do you have up there anyway? Thousands? If you think you’re camping out here again tonight, you’d just better not count those chickens, Manning. You wouldn’t be welcome here if I were a ninety-year-old virgin. I’ll sleep in the same room with you again when hell freezes over. You wouldn’t know a
moral
if you were painted with them. You—”
“Keep it up,” Hart encouraged. “You’re doing terrific, Bree.” He leaped to his feet, grinning hugely. Upright, he let out one more exultant whoop of laughter and started stalking toward her. “Honey, you’re
talking!
”
Bree was not to be diverted. “You wouldn’t know a principle if it shot you between the eyes. You have the sensitivity of an ox. Insensitive? Dammit, you’ve been
cruel.
You’re cruel and you’re pigheaded—”
“You did it, honey! You finally did it!” With another bellow of laughter, Hart tugged off his jacket, balled it up as if it weren’t the most luxurious Italian linen Bree had ever seen and hurled it at the moon.
She lost a little of her momentum, having completely run out of breath and being slightly stunned to see his expensive jacket decorating a bush at the edge of the woods. When she glanced back to him, her eyes narrowed warily and she folded her arms protectively across her chest. He was advancing very slowly, with a devilish grin that boded trouble for her sanity. She backed up a step. And then another. “Hart. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but
don’t.
”
“
You,
lady, owe me a thank-you.”
“A thank-you!”
she sputtered incredulously. “All you’ve done since I’ve met you is interfere and order me around and act like a patronizing, chauvinistic—”
“Hey. You’re talking, aren’t you?”
Actually, she was still retreating, until the back of her skirt rubbed against the porch step. Her tormentor continued to stalk. She put out her hands in a gesture pleading for mercy that would have made a hardened criminal turn chivalrous. Hart kept coming. “Now just
listen
—”
He raised his arms, clearly with every intention of snatching her. She ducked before he could and, grabbing her skirts so she wouldn’t trip, darted out of his reach and down the porch steps. She lost a boot in the process. Feeling like a perfect fool, she raced across the grass and promptly lost the other boot. She had more speed barefoot, but when she glanced over her shoulder, Hart was gaining on her. “Listen. We’re two grown people, for heaven’s sake. You
behave
—”
“
You
stand still.”
Maybe when it snowed in June. Bree ducked and circled and dodged, moonlight streaming through her hair and her heart pounding. Hart might be a powerhouse, but she was faster. The chase sent an exhilarating high through her blood; she felt as if she’d just showered in champagne. It was so silly, so childish…
And when Hart snaked an arm around her waist from behind, she collapsed on the grass—not because he’d used any force, but because she couldn’t continue to run, she was laughing so hard.
They lay sprawled within feet of each other on Bree’s haphazardly mowed grass. Hart’s chest was heaving as hard as hers; his roars of exultant laughter filled the night. His husky chuckles were catching—worse than chicken pox, Bree thought wildly, but he was so crazy, and she felt such deep, endless relief that her speech had returned, and the night was sultry and warm, with no one around—
And she was totally unprepared when Hart’s hands sneaked across and grabbed her. One minute she was flat on the grass, and the next she was sprawled in an ungainly mass on Hart’s belly.
The sudden midnight gleam in his eyes filled her vision, and then cool, smooth lips rubbed at first gently on hers, then settled in like a famished man for a Christmas feast.
Bree made a muffled, startled sound. Hart ignored it. Silence suddenly vibrated through the night. Then in the distance, an owl hooted and the wind restlessly whispered through the new green leaves, but there was really just Hart, the sound of his uneven breathing. The sound of hers.
A dozen things made it difficult for her to regain her common sense. The grass, for instance. The sweet smell of grass and earth surrounded her. And other things also interfered with her mental functioning. Hart’s breath smelled like peppermint—she could taste it. She could taste the whispers in the woods. Really, she could. And her hair was all tangled in Hart’s hands, curling around his fingers, and her eyelids were suddenly too heavy to stay open. And his mouth…his mouth was the real reason she couldn’t move. His lips were slanted over hers, greedily sapping her common sense, making tender, wooing, teasing promises…
All blood drained to her toes and was replaced by warm whipped cream.
“So sweet, Bree…so sweet.” Shards of moonlight gleamed in Hart’s eyes as he tilted his head back. He just looked at her.
Only the way he looked at her made her skin flush. And her skin was already so hot she was plenty flushed. “Listen,” she said vaguely.
“Not just this minute, honey.” He bent to place a row of kisses, a very neatly aligned row, from the tip of her ear, down the vulnerable cord of her throat. Along the neckline of the peasant blouse. One finger slipped the blouse off her shoulder. His other hand was sliding up the calico skirt, from calf, to knee, to thigh, to…
“Hart.”
“Busy,” he murmured.
An understatement. Bree’s fingers tangled in his hair when his chin nudged the peasant blouse on the swell of her breast. She sucked in a shallow breath. Hart…knew what he was doing.
A rush of sheer hot-blooded lust cascaded through her bloodstream. Lust was just the kind of feeling that Bree had always avoided. Lust was sort of an animalistic craving; it was depraved, immoral, don’t-care-about-tomorrow, wicked.
Exactly the way she felt. Good old responsible Bree was deserting ship, and the waters were very deep, very dark, lusciously inviting. It was really all Hart’s fault. By rights he should have been a selfish, take-her-quick kind of lover. Instead, he was clearly trying to make her believe he’d never encountered a breast before.
He traced with a fingertip. He explored with his lips. Then his tongue. He fitted the orb in his hand; he rubbed the tip with his thumb; he took the tip in his mouth and sucked and lapped until—for absolutely no good reason, except that she’d never considered doing it before—she ducked her head and softly bit him on the neck.
Hart chuckled. “You like it just a little bit rough, Bree?”
Before she could breathe, he’d wrapped his arms around her and they were rolling, over and over, down the slope of the spongy lawn. Grass caressed her back, then caressed his. Moonlight played in her eyes, then his. Even as they tumbled, his lips claimed hers with a fierce, sweet pressure; their legs tangled and for seconds at a time she felt the intimate weight of him, the power of him, the man of him.
She breathed in that scent of danger, but there was no time. Roughly, swiftly, his hands were possessively traveling over spine and bottom and thighs; her heart was racing, racing…A shocking little tap on her bottom was followed by a soothing circular rub of apology. Breathless, they suddenly rolled to a stop. Bree was on top of him, her breasts crushed against his white shirt. She was breathless and dizzy and as on fire as she could ever remember.
And Hart’s eyes were open, a half smile on his lips. “And sometimes do you like it just a little bit soft, Bree?”
He pressed a kiss on her forehead, as soft as a butterfly and slower than a languid awakening from sleep on a winter’s day. Two more kisses settled on her eyelids, closing them effectively. Hart shifted, cradling her as he turned her on her side, his lips moving in slow motion, tenderly teasing, savoring. Very gently, he claimed her hand and coaxed it down to his thigh. Very gently, his palm glided over her stomach and ribs, pausing to cover and knead a breast, treating the swollen flesh as though it were infinitely fragile, infinitely precious. Very gently he kissed her nose, her lips, her hair, and traveled down to the nape of her neck. Her heart pounded, not gently at all.