Too Hot to Handle: A Loveswept Classic Romance (4 page)

Matt grinned, faced forward, and kept walking.

John Henry began again, raising his voice as he ambled along behind. “What’d Callie say to you, boy?”

“Wasn’t much need to talk,” Matt told him pleasantly. “You know how it is between a man and a woman sometimes. She’s really special. Afterward she invited me to stay for lunch.” They’d reached the back door. Matt opened the screen and stepped inside, blinking to adjust to the difference in the light.

“After what?” John Henry’s barked question was smothered by the sound of the door slamming behind him.

Callie was standing at the table, setting it with red earthenware plates. She took the basket from Matt and placed it in the sink. She’d changed from her overalls to a brightly colored peasant skirt and a loose white top, which only played more havoc with Matt’s imagination as it emphasized the shape of her body.

Matt shook his head. This woman was going to drive him crazy. This woman was—she walked toward him, looped her arms around his neck, and drew his head down to hers—going to kiss him. Her mouth still tasted of strawberries, and his bare chest felt the imprint of her breasts as though there were no blouse between them. He kissed her in return.

“Ah-ah-ahem!” John Henry sputtered as he came inside. “I swaney, Callie. What about lunch?”

Matt dropped his hands and stepped back. He didn’t know what was happening. This wasn’t like him. Standing in the kitchen kissing a strange woman, with her self-appointed protector looking on. He didn’t know what to say. Callie did.

“Oh, John Henry. I didn’t see you there. Sit down.
Lunch will be ready in a minute.” She turned to the sink and began washing the berries. “Matthew, darling, if you want to wash up, there’s a spigot down by the outhouse. I’ve laid out a towel and soap on the old milk churn.”

“How about a bathroom?” Matt asked, realizing that he’d never needed to be by himself to think quite so badly before in his life.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Callie said reluctantly. “We’re rather rustic here. You’ll find the little … bathhouse around the other side of the cabin, at the end of the path. It’s one of those old things that last forever—like you were talking about. Look for the apple tree in bloom and make a right. The house has a sickle moon painted on the door. You can’t miss it.” She wasn’t about to tell him she had indoor plumbing—a perfectly fine bathroom just off her bedroom.

Matt heard John Henry’s snicker as he went back outside.

A few minutes later—cleaned up, his wilted shirt and undershirt back in place—Matt started up the path toward the house. He whistled, feeling like a latter-day Huckleberry Finn. Atlanta was going to be dull, after today.

“Look out for yourself, Mr. Holland!” John Henry called from the door.

Matt heard the thud of hooves behind him and didn’t bother to check out the source by turning around. William was out again, and he apparently didn’t like whistling. Matt sprinted for the back porch, cursing the Saks Fifth Avenue salesman who’d sold him Italian loafers. They just weren’t made for running. John Henry flung the back door open, and he charged inside.

“What do you have to do to make friends with that damned thing?” Matt asked breathlessly.

“Don’t know,” John Henry answered offhandedly. “Nobody besides Callie ever has.”

Callie looked up from the stove. “William likes Lacey Lee. Are you all right, Matt?”

“Sure. I just set a new land-speed record, that’s all.”

“Exercise is good for you. Did you find the apple tree?” Callie carried a pitcher of rich red tea to the table.

“Your directions were perfect. Where should I sit?”

“By me, darling, of course.” Callie sat down and pulled an adjacent chair closer to her own.

Matt smiled smugly at John Henry’s gaping expression. “Who’s Lacey, a female goat?” Matt asked.

“Lacey’s an old friend of mine.” Callie patted the chair seat. “Sit your sweet self down before the alfalfa sprouts wilt. John Henry, you too.”

“Before the what begins to wilt?” Matt asked. He sat down, glancing at his food for the first time. In the center of the plate was a tough-looking pocket of hard bread, filled with green vegetable sprouts. That was the only thing on his plate.

“Looks good,” he lied. Matt glanced up at John Henry and saw him staring at the unappetizing food with a look of sheer disbelief. “What is it, Callie?” Matt inquired.

“It’s a sandwich.” Callie picked up the concoction and took a bite.

“Where’s the bread?” John Henry lifted his and began to examine it.

“This is the bread. It’s pita bread. It’s made like a pocket, to hold the filling. I make my own mayonnaise,
thanks to Esmeralda’s eggs, and grow my own sprouts.”

“You’ve done it now, J.H. You’ve gone too far with this manhunt thing,” John Henry said rhetorically. “She’s getting revenge.” He squinted at Callie. “Every farmer in the valley grows sprouts like these, Callie. But as far as I know, they only feed ’em to the cattle. What’s this brown stuff?”

“That’s wheat germ. It gives food a nutty taste.”

“Well, well,” John Henry said drolly. “I thought for a minute it was dirt. You can’t eat this goat food, John Henry,” he muttered under his breath. “She’s doing this for revenge.”

Even though she’d heard every word, Callie asked, “What was that you said, John Henry?”

“Nothing. I was just talking to myself.”

They sat in silence for a minute, chewing laboriously. Matt looked around the cabin. There was a cozy living room, with one cushioned rocking chair and a very large overstuffed couch in front of an enormous rock fireplace. Plump, colorful pillows spilled from the couch onto a braided rug. Through a door he could see a giant spool bed with a bright red-and-yellow quilt.

“Somebody around here thinks big,” he commented, noting that everything was just the right size for a man. For him, perhaps. It was a delightful, enchanted place. Enchanted, yes. Nothing else would explain why a suave and socially prominent multimillionaire was wearing a filthy shirt and eating wheat germ and alfalfa sprouts in a log cabin at the base of a north Georgia mountain. Callie Carmichael had cast a spell over him.

Her voice interrupted his whimsical thoughts. “I
get the feeling that you don’t like your food,” she told John Henry. “What about you, Matt?”

“Well, I can’t say it’s something I have every day for lunch,” he admitted as he closed his eyès and took another bite.

“No? And what do you usually have for lunch?”

Matthew choked, swallowed the half-chewed green sprouts, and washed them down with a large sip of iced tea. At least the tea tasted like iced tea was supposed to taste. “I usually have a light soup and a spinach salad,” he answered, wondering how he was ever going to eat the rest of the sandwich. “Some times I skip lunch and work out in my private gym.”

She smiled benignly. “This is healthy, even if it is boring. Now, if you’re still around for supper, I have a nice yogurt custard planned. Yogurt and bran mixed with fertile eggs and a few other goodies. I just love experimenting with new dishes.”

John Henry stood up abruptly. “I just remembered, Joe Reed is bringing his car by for a brake job at one o’clock. I’d better skip lunch, or whatever this is, today. You understand, don’t you Callie?”

“I’m afraid not, John Henry. I made this lunch as a thank you for the awful trick you pulled on Matt and me. I thought you deserved something special.” Callie stood up. Through barely open lips, with the precise diction of a marine drill sergeant, she ordered, “Eat it.”

John Henry looked at Matt helplessly, and Matt had to repress the urge to laugh out loud. John Henry sat back down and took a bite of his lunch. Satisfied that he’d gotten the picture, Callie hid a grin and went to the sink to wash and hull the strawberries. She knew the bowl of fresh whipped
cream she had in the refrigerator would make up for the alfalfa sandwich John Henry was gamely swallowing.

After he grumbled to himself a couple of times and managed several more bites, she relented and added, “Of course, John Henry, if you’d like me to wrap that in tin foil, you could take it along. But you’d miss out on the strawberries and whipped cream.”

“Never mind the foil. I’ll carry it like this.” Shortly after the scrape of his chair legs had died away, John Henry was halfway down the walk. With Matt peering over her shoulder, Callie peeked out a window and watched the old man give the rest of his sprout sandwich to William. Even William seemed a little tentative. Laughing, Callie collapsed into her chair, and Matt watched her with gleaming eyes.

“Do you really know how to make yogurt custard, Callie?”

“No, but I’ve been intending to give it a try. It surely must be better than the stuffed grape leaves that I tried the last time I was in a gourmet-health-food phase.”

“What’s wrong with plain old steak and potatoes?” Matt sat down and rested his chin on one hand.

“Oh, I never cook the same thing twice,” Callie said seriously, “and I’ve already done both of those. You know, this bread is a little stale. Well, no matter, William will eat it.”

“No wonder he’s weird. It’s his diet.”

“No wonder you’re so stuffy. It’s your diet.” She was having a hard time keeping up the light banter. His eyes were following every motion she made. Her heart rate had never completely returned to normal
since his first touch, and now her heart began to pound erratically. Her mouth felt dry, and she knew it was caused by the intensity of his gaze. Suddenly the room seemed too small and much too intimate.

“Well, looks like you get John Henry’s berries and cream.” Callie scrambled to her feet and took the crock of fresh whipped cream from the refrigerator. She divided the berries into two bowls and ladled on a mountain of the fluffy white topping. “Let’s go out on the porch, where it’s cool, to eat this.”

“Fine,” he agreed, following her, though he had his doubts that the temperature between them would get any cooler.

Callie stepped out onto the porch and took a deep breath, drawing the sweet scents of late spring into her lungs. Matt had invaded her little house, and she didn’t like the tight feeling he stirred up in her. Suddenly her little game had become serious.

She stood at the top of the porch steps, leaning against a post as she spooned berries and cream into her mouth. Matt stood in the doorway of the house, watching her. She didn’t think he even tasted what he was swallowing. She wasn’t certain that she was tasting much either. The silence stretched out, and Callie searched for something innocuous to say.

“What are you thinking?” she blurted out.

“About what?”

“Anything. Your departure from sane living here this morning.”

Matt couldn’t have told her what he was thinking. As he watched her stand there with the sunlight behind her, he was enraptured by the vague outline of her body through the skirt and blouse. “I was
thinking,” he told her in a distracted tone, “that I’ll skip all the bargaining and offer you five thousand dollars for the Fiesta. This is very important to me. Please,” he said softly. “You could complete my collection.”

“Me?” she questioned impishly. Sweet heaven, Callie thought. For a second she’d actually wished she was what he was talking about. “I thought you collected cars.”

“That too,” he said seriously. “A real collector never turns down a choice item, Callie Carmichael, even if it’s something he’s never collected before.”

Matt geared the Corvette down to a respectable speed on the mountain road, and wondered who was more surprised at his decision to skip the company’s weekly staff meeting and drive back to Sweet Valley—Phil, the secretaries, or himself. Breaking his own unwritten law, he’d turned the meeting over to his partner and taken off. He’d gone against everything in his conservative, serious nature by doing that.

But Callie Carmichael was different from anyone his conservative, serious nature had encountered before. She was not only sexy, but also down-to-earth and outrageous, different from any woman he’d dated, and certainly different from the woman who’d shared his name until a few years ago.

Callie disdained money and routine comforts, which amazed him. And she seemed to have some inner secret for living. That fact intrigued him. She’d threatened
him, kissed him, and filled his heart with her laughter. He was more convinced than ever that she was a witch who’d cast a spell over him. He knew very little about her, and he intended to find out more.

Matt grinned. Somewhere along the line she’d formed a bad opinion of wealthy men. Maybe he’d teach her a lesson about making impetuous assumptions. Obviously he couldn’t deal with her on a normal basis. If money and charm wouldn’t change her mind about the Fiesta, he knew exactly what he intended to barter for the car. Himself.

“Callie? Caroline Carmichael? Are you home?”

The deep male voice blended into Callie’s thoughts as she stretched grapevines onto a rack behind the house. She dropped her garden shears. Matt Holland. Callie started running, filled with an excitement that shocked her. She heard noises, then Matt’s voice again.

“Get back inside that fence!” he yelled. “Don’t you come a step closer, William. I’ll … William, you pain in the—William, don’t you lay a horn on my car.
William!
”

Callie rounded the house in time to see William plant his feet and make a running attempt to remove Matt’s shiny white Corvette from its spot in front of the herb garden.

William’s head hit the grille with a thud. He stopped, shook his body, and revved up for another try. The second assault was more damaging. By the time Callie reached the road William had bent the grille into the radiator and water was puddling beneath
the Corvette. One headlight was cracked, and there was a long scratch down the driver’s side.

Callie gasped. Matt was furious. He stood in the driver’s seat, out of William’s way, his fists clenched as he looked from his prize automobile to William and back again. William seemed to be smiling in defiance. Matt was casually dressed—casual by his standards, she assumed—in sharply creased designer jeans and a yellow sports shirt. Callie thought he looked like a yuppie admiral sinking with his Corvette ship.