Sunflower Lane (4 page)

“What are you doing here?” she blurted.

“Hello to you, too, Annabelle.”

Wes McPhee’s expression didn’t change but Annabelle thought she detected a tiny glint of amusement in his deep green eyes. They seemed to shine like a tiger’s eyes in the night. Probably a trick of the moon, but still . . .

“I . . . I’m sorry. Aren’t you supposed to be . . . in Afghanistan or Tijuana or someplace like that?”

“Keeping track of me?”

Now he did smile. Mockingly, she thought. Back in high school, he’d been like all the other boys, believing Clay’s lies about her. She remembered all too well the way they’d looked at her—all of them. Matt, Tobe, Scooter.

Jeering. Scornful.

Wes had always been something of a loner, an independent spirit even back then, but everyone wanted to be his friend. He was handsome, cool, smart—and somehow
mysterious. Accepted easily in every clique, all the girls tried to catch his eye. The boys had respected him—and yet, he’d kept his distance from everyone.

Well, he
had
been nice to her that one day in biology class. They’d been assigned to teams to dissect a frog, and she’d been paired with Wes. She hadn’t had the stomach for dissecting anything, and was certain she was going to be sick. She must have looked positively green, as green as the frog, because Wes shot her one of those sharp, penetrating glances of his, and then went ahead without a word and completed the entire dissection himself as their teacher graded papers and never looked up.

Annabelle remembered she hadn’t even thanked him. She’d been too busy taking deep gulps of air and trying not to run out the door and barf. She’d never liked science. Or math. She liked daydreaming. And reading. And dancing.

Growing up she usually spent most of her time at the Lonesome Way library or the dance studio in Livingston where her mother had taken her and Trish for lessons.

When she wasn’t reading a book, she was dreaming about being a dancer. On Broadway. Or in a professional dance troupe. Or in a music video.

She certainly hadn’t liked biology. And she hadn’t liked frogs, dead or alive.

Wes hadn’t needed her help doing that dissection. She was never sure whether he was being kind or just indifferent that day when he went ahead without her. She’d suspected kindness, but it was hard to tell with Wes.

Anyway, all that had happened the year Wes started dating Marissa Fields, and before Annabelle had made the huge mistake of going out with Clay. Before the rumors started and spread, fanning out like an out-of-control July wildfire, before all the kids at Lonesome Way High had started believing she was fast and easy.

A slut.

“Everyone in town knows you work for the DEA.” She wiped her hands on her old faded jeans. It took an effort not to stare at him.

Wes was too gorgeous for words. Too big. Too sexy. All that thick brown hair a woman would love to plunge her fingers through. That lean jaw, stubbled with a dark growth of beard, a straight nose, and those piercing green eyes beneath dark brows. Not to mention the hot body that could have starred in a centerfold, except the man the body belonged to looked like posing for a magazine was the last thing he’d ever do.

But anything else? Bull riding, skydiving, battling terrorists in hand-to-hand combat? Oh yeah, he looked like a man who’d step up quickly to volunteer for all of that in a single day.

Fierce,
she thought on a breath. Wes McPhee looked fierce. Like a warrior. Big, tough, strong. Dangerous.

And sexy as hell.

Don’t even think about it,
she told herself, as betraying little sparks of heat flicked everywhere inside her.

Don’t go there. You and men spell disaster, remember?

And this man . . . no way. No how. From the looks of him, he was definitely a lot more than she could handle on her good days, and now that she had all these responsibilities, needing first and foremost to be there for Megan and Michelle and Ethan . . .

Men are bad luck. Bad karma. And bad for you. Get rid of him. Now.

“You work in all the hot spots all over the world, right? Sophie’s mentioned it. So . . . I just thought . . . you were . . . over there somewhere.” She was babbling, but she couldn’t seem to stop. “I didn’t expect to see you here. If you were anywhere, I’d think you’d be . . .” She broke off suddenly and drew in a breath. “Your grandmother. You’re back because of her accident.”

He nodded, his eyes unreadable. “My sister mentioned you have a cabin you’re looking to rent out. I’m interested.”

It was the last thing she expected to hear. She stared at him blankly. “You want to stay in my cabin? But . . . why?”

“It’s vacant. And I need a place to sleep.”

His tone was patient, as if he were speaking to the town idiot. Which he probably thought he was.

“I don’t understand. Can’t you stay at Daisy Lane? Or with Sophie and Rafe at Sage Ranch? Your entire family’s here. I’m sure they offered to put you up.”

“Yeah. They did.”

“Then that’s what you should do,” she told him firmly, and as his gaze pierced her, she suddenly remembered she was wearing her oldest jeans, a hoodie, and a faded gray T-shirt that had a tiny hole at the shoulder. And not a lick of makeup.

“How much do you want a week for the cabin?”

“Wes, this won’t work. There’s no way. The cabin’s in really bad shape.”

Brows lifting, he shot her a smile. “Guess you’re mistaking me for someone who’s particular.”

“Most of the windows are broken. They’re boarded up. It needs paint—badly. And the roof needs patching; the flooring is kind of a mess—”

“I’ll take it.”

Annabelle stared. “Why?”

“Need a place. And as I said, I’m not particular. I’ll only be here a couple of weeks. Unless my family badgers me into staying for the July Fourth parade.”

She did not want Wes McPhee living right down the road—a stone’s throw from this house. She
did
want to rent out the cabin and bring in some extra money, but not now, not in the shape it was in, and not to him.

Clay’s friend. He’d been there in the hallway that day and stepped in. . . .

Seeing him now made her relive the whole disgusting sequence of events.

Of course, she’d encountered all of those other guys—Clay’s whole gaggle of friends—in town regularly ever since she moved back. But aside from Clay Johnson, the others had grown up nicely and seemed like they didn’t even remember all the old rumors. Scooter had even apologized to her for lying about what had happened during
their
date.

They’d all lied, probably to save face with Clay, but the past was the past, and she really didn’t care what anyone thought anymore. The only person she still disliked was Clay Johnson himself. Because he was a creep and a liar and some things never change.

But seeing Wes brought it all back—the deserted hall of the high school that day, Clay’s jeering voice as he shoved her up against her locker . . . and Wes stepping in. . . .

But the past wasn’t the only reason she didn’t want Wes living in the cabin. Sure, the memories of that awful time in her life were one thing, but then there was the fact that she’d sworn off men and she was gun-shy about relationships, to say the least. And Wes McPhee was just too . . . too everything.

Too big. Too deliciously masculine. Too tempting. Too hard-core tough-guy sexy—even that slice of a scar along his jawline was sexy.

Down, girl.

She couldn’t read anything in his face except firm, polite determination to rent her cabin. But it wouldn’t exactly be smart to have him living practically a stone’s throw away. Every time she saw him, she’d probably think about Clay—and that wasn’t good.

Besides, her aunt Lorelei had had an affair with Wes’s father way back when. His mother surely wouldn’t be pleased if her only son got involved in any way, even as a tenant, with Lorelei Hardin’s niece.

Diana McPhee had always been passably polite to her in town, of course, but out of respect, Annabelle tried to steer clear of her.

The last thing she wanted was to upset the applecart now. She had a ton of responsibilities these days, raising three kids, keeping them in food and clothes, and she didn’t need any distractions of the big bad male kind.

Especially from a big bad male who’d almost instantly awakened the tingly waves of heat inside her she’d thought were dead and gone.

“It wouldn’t be right to charge rent for the cabin in its current condition,” she told him. “Later, when it’s fixed up, might be a different story, but you’ll be gone by then—”

“How about you don’t charge me rent?”

Her brows shot up. The man had some nerve. And he just didn’t give up, did he?

He grinned. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. The thing is, I like my own space. I’ve retired from the DEA and want to decompress before moving on to the next stage of my life. I’ll only be around a couple of weeks. So how about you let me stay in your cabin, and in exchange I’ll do some repairs for you. As many as I can get done while I’m here. Then I’m heading to Wyoming to meet up with a buddy of mine, and you can rent it out to the next drifter who comes along. We’ll call it even.”

“You . . . want to fix up the cabin?”

“Sure. I’m sticking around for my grandmother’s sake, but I don’t have anything else to do here. I’m used to being busy.”

Yeah, I know. Busy catching drug dealers and shooting terrorists. Being a hero.
Everyone knew of the danger and courage it took to be a DEA agent.

She was sure he’d have scars all over his body from bullets or knives or whatever. For a moment, staring at his powerful frame, lean and packed with muscle, she wondered how many scars there were, and where exactly . . .

Don’t. Don’t picture him naked. Don’t even go there.

“Bad idea?” he asked, and she realized she hadn’t answered him yet.

“I . . . I’m not sure.” Since when had she become so indecisive? She didn’t want him renting out the cabin, and living so close by. On the other hand, she probably wouldn’t see him all that much—and if he’d do the repairs, she could actually rent it out when he left.

The extra money would sure come in handy.

She had three children sleeping upstairs who’d all be going through growth spurts soon enough—she needed to get over herself and be practical.

“You’ve got a deal.” She drew in a breath. “Wait here—my nephew and nieces are asleep and I don’t want to wake them. I’ll just pop inside and get you the key. I can’t take you down and show you the place tonight, because I can’t leave the kids alone. But it’s only a quarter mile behind the house. There’s a dirt track; you just have to follow it. It’s pretty rough, and hard to see at night—”

“Not going to be a problem. I’ll find it,” he said with some amusement.

“Just remember, it’s not in great shape.” Turning, she hurried up the steps of the porch, opened the screen door, and held it as she looked at him over her shoulder.

“There’s heat—at least, I
think
it’s working. And there’s a small countertop refrigerator. The shower works; I’m pretty sure of that. And you’ll find a set of clean linens and towels in the old bureau in the bedroom—”

“No fears. I’ll make due. In the morning, after I take a good look around, I’ll head over to Merck’s for supplies. You can give me a list of what you need done, in case I miss anything.”

“You’ve thought this through.” She found herself relaxing, even smiling suddenly, realizing that maybe, just maybe, this could be a godsend. In a couple of weeks, when Wes
left, she might actually be able to rent out the cabin. The timing would be perfect. If she found a paying tenant, she’d have an extra windfall by the time school started in the fall, when she’d need to buy the kids their school supplies, books, and clothes.

“Hold on a minute—I’ll get the key.”

Wes stared after her as she disappeared inside the old ranch house. Wow. A knockout blond beauty in snug jeans, with the golden brown eyes of an angel, and curves that would bring a preacher to his knees.

Whoa. Down, boy.

Annabelle Harper had been hot as a teenager, with her mass of blond curls, those magnificent honey-colored eyes, and that tall, leggy figure, but now . . .

Now, even in an old T-shirt, hoodie, and jeans, she was absolutely, drop-dead stunning. All that curling blond hair tumbling around a delicate, wide-eyed face. A lush mouth it would be mighty sweet to taste.
Oh, man
.

It had taken all of his self-control not to stare at her breasts and imagine how much fun it would be to skim his hands and his mouth all down that slender, sensuous body. . . .

Look, but don’t touch, pal,
he warned himself as she whipped back out the door a moment later, a lone key clutched in her hand.
No sleeping with the landlord.

Not that he had much chance of that, not with three little kids running around.

Not to mention the biggie—who her aunt was. There was no way he’d touch Annabelle Harper. Even if she wanted him to—which seemed highly unlikely.

Fact was, she’d seemed in a big hurry for him to leave.