Can’t Say No

Chapter Nine

Bree whirled, her fingers scrambling to comb some kind of order to her rain-tangled hair. Hart had a brandy glass in his hand, the amber liquid shimmering in the fading light. He was dressed like a mountain man again, bare feet and dark jeans and a dark shirt open at the throat. Actually, that wasn’t specifically mountain-man attire, but the image was there, in his mane of gold hair and cougar-fierce eyes that seared on hers straight through the darkness and rain.

“Let’s get you inside and dry. Your parents gone?”

“They left for home. Listen, Hart-”

“Listen nothing. Let’s get you into a hot shower.”

Stepping cautiously over the threshold, she shook her head firmly. “I won’t be here that long. I just wanted to tell-”

The thought was difficult to finish when her jaw was dropping. As swiftly as her eyes were taking in the incredible look of his living room, Hart was taking in the look of her bedraggled hair and wet clothes and unconscious shivering. “Shower immediately.”

Good intentions about staying cool didn’t last long. “Hart, you have to stop ordering people around sometime,” she started heatedly, but again lost her train of thought as she stared around her.

“You’re absolutely right, Bree,” Hart agreed, as he nudged her gently through the debris.

And there was debris. Somewhere at base level, there were the cream walls and matching carpet that the original owner must have put in. Maybe there was even a couch. It was hard to tell. Everywhere there were boxes and string and brown wrapping paper. Resting on top of one package was an enameled vase, preciously scrolled in teal blue and rose and gold. A two-foot-tall porcelain elephant was sitting on the floor. An Oriental carpet was half unrolled; Bree could just catch glimpses of its lusciously rich apricot and cream pattern. A harem of carved ivory dancing girls had been scattered on a table. More or less in the center of the floor she saw a legal pad and a pen.

“Where on earth did all this come from?”

“A delivery truck that wasted my entire afternoon. I’m surprised you didn’t hear the noise and confusion at your place.”

“I was out with my parents.” She wanted to get another look, but, fingers dancing up and down her damp spine, Hart was coaxing her down a long hall, imperceptibly pushing. “Look. I am not going to take a shower,” Bree said irritably.

“Okay, honey.”

She glanced up at the rare malleable tone in his voice. He must have recently showered himself, because he smelled like soap. He looked tired, and she half frowned. Hart never looked tired. She didn’t want him to look tired. She just wanted him safely on a different side of the globe from her, but when she parted her lips to start her tactful speech, he draped a hand loosely around her neck and pressed his warm cheek to her trembling cool one. He turned his face, and his lips stroked the spot where his cheek just had.

She’d drawn up such a wonderful set of determined goals over the past few hours. They dissipated like fog in early morning.

As she took a breath, her brain scrambled to salvage a little common sense. His palm settled gently over her ribs, and pushed. One step back, and Hart had the space to close the door between them.

“I’ll bring you some clothes,” he called out. “When you’re done just toss your stuff out. I’ll throw ’em in the dryer.”

Bree closed her eyes in exasperation. A moment later, she opened them to an ordinary bathroom in pale blue-ordinary except for the shiny brass dragon breathing fire at her from over the john.

Hart evidently liked his own things around him.

Her image confronted her in the mirror, and she frowned. The waif in the reflection was shivering violently. Anyone who looked as much like a dead rat as she did had a lot of presumption thinking she needed to call off an affair. And furthermore, there didn’t seem any point in catching pneumonia for a few principles that would still be there a few minutes from now.

Besides, a shower would give her time to prepare more speeches. Flicking on the hot-water tap, she started stripping off her clothes. Ten minutes later, she turned off the pelting spray, dried off and discovered Hart had been in and out in the meantime. A brush and hair dryer had been laid on the counter, and a man’s soft plaid flannel shirt, in dark red and gray, was hanging from the dragon’s nose.

With a rueful grimace, Bree snatched the shirt and outstared the dragon. “You don’t seriously think this is all I’m going to wear around him, do you? You think I’m that stupid?”

The dragon failed to respond.

“I don’t suppose you’re willing to tell me where he keeps his jeans? Or what he’s up to out there in the living room?”

The dragon wasn’t willing.

“I get the nasty feeling you’re trying to tell me I’m on my own here,” she muttered glumly.

In minutes, her hair was dry, give or take a few damp curling strands around her neck. Inevitably, it looked flyaway soft after its soak in the rain. There weren’t any rubber bands to tame it, although Hart’s medicine cabinet yielded aspirin, toothpaste and antacid tablets. She borrowed an antacid in lieu of a rubber band, gave her hair one last punishing brush in hopes it would stop looking like the mane of a wanton sixties flower child, and padded barefoot down the hall, Hart’s shirt flapping around her bare thighs.

Silence. A tiny snooping foray down the hall later, and she discovered his bedroom. Her lips compressed the instant she walked in. Maybe if they shared one single value, maybe if her life weren’t already totally in flux, maybe if he didn’t constantly infuriate her, maybe she wouldn’t have felt quite so definite about breaking it off with him. His bedroom, though, just added another very good reason why she was headed for trouble if she didn’t. A king-sized bed. Natch. Scarlet satin sheets. A full-length mirror, and a really exquisite oil painting on the wall of a naked woman.

A clock tick-tocked from his bedside table. Briskly, Bree forced her eyes away from the reclining lady. The only reason she was invading this overgrown wolf’s den was to find a pair of jeans. She found a half dozen in the closet. Her eyes whisked back to the satin sheets as she donned a pair of white cords. Honestly. He was a womanizer to the core. He didn’t care about her. There’d been a woman around, so he’d taken the opportunity; it was Bree’s problem entirely that she’d given him the impression she was amenable to a fast, sweet fling. An impression she simply had to correct.

She bent over, cuffing the jeans four times. When she stood back up, she sighed. Unless she held up the pants, they weren’t going to do much for her modesty; she could see clear down to her knees. She grabbed a belt, drew it through the loops, tucked her shirt in and lashed the belt at its tightest notch.

Now, for battle.

Just outside the door to the living room, Bree took a deep breath, rapidly smoothed back her hair for the hundredth time and pasted a serene smile on her face.

Hart clearly hadn’t heard her approach. He was on the floor, straddling a huge box, attempting to balance a vase in one hand while scribbling on a legal pad with the other. He kept turning to study the exquisite ebony-and-gold vase. Setting it down, he reached absently for his brandy glass.

Bree frowned when he gulped down the contents of the glass in several long swigs. Before he’d finished swallowing, he was pouring himself another from a sweat-dripping silver pitcher on a tray on the floor. It appeared he’d already polished off half of the pitcher’s contents.

Still, for a man who had to be inebriated, he handled the vase with delicate…almost loving…care. Momentarily diverted from her purpose, Bree jammed her hands in her pockets and crossed her bare feet in the doorway with a wisp of a smile on her face.

It was like watching a bear playing with butterflies. He looked so rugged and huge, and Lord knew his hands could move at the speed of light…yet the way he touched each item he unwrapped, she could see all the tenderness the man was capable of. He wasn’t smiling. He was concentrating; the furrow between his brows was testimony to that. She’d never seen Hart with his guard so far down. All masks had slipped; there was only a man working-and loving it.

She cleared her throat delicately. “Is this stuff from the import business you told me you hated so much?”

For a fleeting instant, Bree glimpsed a look of almost embarrassed wariness on his features, but his usual lazy smile immediately replaced it. “Once in a rare while I get stuck knuckling under like everyone else.”

“Aren’t you kind of a long way from where you normally do business?”

“I have three stores,” Hart said absently, as he stuffed the vase back in the box, frowning as his eyes scanned the room. “San Francisco, Houston, New York…Sit anywhere, Bree, would you? When there’s a mess-up on quality-particularly with a new supplier-I get stuck sorting out the problem.”

“No matter where you are, even on vacation?” Bree probed carefully.

“Whether I’m on vacation or not, my people would expect to be murdered if they accepted several thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise that isn’t up to snuff. They knew I’d want to see this, especially when we’d anticipated doing six-figure business with this particular supplier next year.” Hart straightened up. “Not,” he added swiftly, “that I care all that much, about the business.”

“Hmm.”

Hart’s brows arched suspiciously. “What’s that ‘hmm’ supposed to mean?”

“Why, nothing, Hart.” For a man who didn’t care all that much, just moments ago he’d looked as though his heart was in his work.

Avoiding her eyes suddenly, he motioned to the tray. “Ridiculous mess here, isn’t it? Neatness isn’t exactly my thing, and I figured I’d give you one more hour with your parents-there’s another glass, Bree. Want a drink?”

“A small one,” she said repressively.

He glanced up then, with an unholy grin. His eyes clung like tentacles to the loosely fitting shirt and baggy pants. He let out a roar. She scowled.

“How long will it take for my own clothes to dry?”

“Hours. Maybe years,” he announced, and pushed aside a box to give her a space to sit on the floor. Leaning back, he poured a brandy snifter nearly full of amber liquid from the pitcher and handed it to her as she lowered herself, cross-legged, to the carpet next to him.

She took the glass but didn’t sip. She was too busy worriedly watching Hart swallow another slug of brandy from his own glass. A strange confusion was settling in the pit of her stomach; something about Hart this evening was distinctly out of character, but overlaying that was a sharp disappointment that he was such a drinker. She had to give him credit for holding it well. His eyes on her were wide awake, full-of-devil dark blue, and glazed only with an intimate knowledge of her that seemed to transcend huge shirts and baggy pants.

Her mind groped for all her speeches, but her momentum seemed to have dissipated. Maybe plain curiosity was the problem. Certainly it wasn’t that she got a kick out of just being with him. She flicked a spot of lint from her shirt. “So…what exactly are you doing here?”

“Nothing, really. Forget it, Bree. I was just playing around for a couple hours, anyway.” Hart leaned back on an elbow, resting his brandy glass on his stomach. “Everything go all right with your father? I’ve spent a good twenty-four hours debating whether to go over there and make sure you had no more repercussions.”

“Nothing happened with my father. Both my parents are wonderfully civilized people. You just happened to startle my father a little. Do you need any help with what you’re doing?” Now that’s not what you’re here for, Bree. She buried her conscience’s voice as she slid over to sneak a look at one of Hart’s legal pads. The scribbled numbers took up ten pages. “Aren’t you computerized, Hart?”

“Nope, I figure it’s sort of like Custer’s Last Stand. Somebody’s got to hold out against the bytes and power surges that are taking over the world.”

She chuckled, but then frowned. “You mean, you have to catalog everything that comes in by hand?” She shook her head, took another look at the room and grabbed his pen. “You’re going to have to tell me what you want me to do.”

“Strip and do the dance of the seven veils?”

She touched her thumb to her nose and waggled her fingers. “You’ll be up all night if you don’t have some help,” she scolded.

“You think I care about any of this stuff?”

“No, of course you don’t,” she said smoothly. “That’s why you’re doing it on your vacation.”

Hart glared at her. “You were a lot easier to manage when you couldn’t talk.” He motioned to her still-full glass. “And you’re letting a perfectly good drink go to waste.”

He’d finished, she noticed, another one. Not touching her own, she finally bullied him into revealing his antiquated system of checking off numbers against the items and then the prices, which startled her. Hart’s export-import stores obviously handled merchandise of very high quality, all hand-made or hand-carved items, his specialties being jade and ivory. She stopped checking only once, when she couldn’t stop herself from reaching for the jade dragon in his hands. The carving was about six inches tall, with big, soulful eyes and a body the color of emeralds; he was whimsically mean-looking…but not really. “He reminds me of you,” she said impishly.

“Thanks. Can we stop working soon?”

“Soon,” she agreed. As soon as Hart wanted to, actually, but it was perfectly obvious he was worried about the shipment. Several things were cracked, producing massive scowls on his forehead and a muttered string of colorful expletives. Only when they came very close to the end did her throat feel dry. Thirstily, she reached for her glass.

She took a tiny sip and frowned, then took a bigger sip. “Hart,” she said slowly.

“Hmm.”

“This is apple juice.”

He glanced up. “If you want brandy, I probably have some in the kitchen somewhere.”

“You knew I thought you were guzzling brandy like there was no tomorrow.”

Hart pushed away a trail of wrappings and leaned back on his elbows with a grin. “Would you believe I do all my heavy drinking before lunch, just to be different?”

“No. And you deliberately led me to believe you drank only alcoholic beverages,” she accused.

“When was this?” Hart asked with surprise.

“At the cabin. A few nights ago. You were yelling because I had no hooch or beer or anything you would conceivably drink-”

“Oh. That.” Hart shrugged. “That was sort of a case of doing anything I could think of to keep you revved up, honey. Worked, didn’t it? You slept like a log that night.”

“What little sleep you let me have.”

He grinned. “Come closer and let me check out the circles under your eyes today.” He peered closer. “Good Lord. You’ve practically got ditches there. Who on earth kept you up last night?”

Bree choked on her apple juice. “No one kept me up last night. And don’t try to avoid the subject.”

“What subject?”

“You’re a fraud,” she said slowly. “You’re not only a fraud, you’re a lousy fraud. This…stuff.” She waved her hands expressively over the room. “You led me to believe you never did any work at all, just traveled around the world and collected women.”

“I never said I collected women.”

Bree flushed, aware she’d put her own interpretation on some of his words here and there. “From the character sketch you gave me, I doubted very much that you even knew what your company imported-much less that you got directly involved in quality control.”

“Sometimes, just for kicks, I stick my finger in to make sure everyone is doing a good job.”

“Would you like me to tell you where you can stick your finger, Hart?”

He shook his head sadly. “If we could only regress about two days, when I had you well under my thumb, sexy and silent…”

“Do you have a family?” Bree swung her legs under her, her fists on her knees.

“How did they get into this? Of course I have a family.” He added mildly, “What members didn’t disown me in my younger days.”

“Specifically, did your mother survive those younger days?”

“Mom? She’s a brick.”

Bree had to severely repress laughter. “And your father. The one who despaired you’d ever turn out a productive human being?”

“Dad was a very productive human being. He had me, didn’t he? And three more. He’s more into being happily retired than reproducing these days. None of the rest of the siblings, alas, inherited my incredible good looks. Come on over here, Bree.”

When she failed to move, he tugged at her pantlegs. The harder he pulled, the more the jeans were in danger of slipping down from her hips, in spite of the belt. Bree batted at his fingers, but Hart’s hands were bigger than hers. He wasn’t content until she was sitting facing him, with his legs over hers and a lazy grin within kissing distance. “We’ve been talking too much,” he informed her gravely. “Let’s get you polluted on apple juice, so I can have my way with you.”

She sighed, loudly. “You’re not going to have your way with me, Hart. That isn’t why I came here-and did they all turn out as badly as you did? The siblings, I mean?” She was determined to finish the conversation. As far as she could tell, every single thing he’d ever told her about himself had been a lie. In one sense, she felt enraged, in another like laughing, and in another…she wasn’t at all sure what she was feeling. Danger, at being close to him. And loving being close. And fear that she was coming to conclusions too fast.

It was kind of mind-boggling, watching the transformation of Hart from irresponsible globe-trotter to dedicated businessman. From an alcoholic to a man hooked on apple juice. From articulate cynic to secret softie.

And Hart’s eyes held navy blue glints that kept trying to beguile her, even as he impatiently answered her questions. “Most of them turned out worse. John’s been in law school for about fifty years now. He loves going to school. Jennifer married a doctor, which sounds good enough except that they had to buy into a practice, and with a baby on the way-”

“They were broke?”

“After so many years of medical school? Hell, they didn’t have a crumb in the cupboard. Eric’s the worst. He decided a few years ago to go back to nature. He has a little farm in Vermont. Very picturesque. Very, very picturesque mortgage. They charge gold bullion for land there, you know.”

“Nope, I didn’t.”

“And Eric’s got two kids besides. Twins. Two years old and so damned cute-not that I like kids,” he added hastily. “But when you’re stuck with a couple of nephews, what the heck.”

“You adore them,” Bree said flatly.

“Maybe,” Hart hedged.

“And you’ve been obligated to help your brothers and sisters financially.”

“They’re all in a hurry to get off my hands. A few more years and I can be really irresponsible. Anyway, this conversation has taken a kind of boring turn.” He smiled in such an innocent, disarming way, just before his fingers pulled at the open throat of her shirt and he ducked his head for a view. “You know, I really think this is one of the world’s scenic wonders. Ever seen the Taj Mahal?”

“No. Hart-”

“Lots of white marble, a few fountains. Domed tops. I like your domed tops better. Talk about your architectural wonders.” Thirty seconds later, he had whisked all the wrapping paper away, lowered a startled Bree to the carpet and was straddling her. One of his fingers was busy with the buttons of her shirt as he grinned. “I know a great game for domed tops.”

“You weigh at least a ton, and I didn’t come here for this.”

“Now, Bree.” He flipped open two buttons, in spite of her hands chasing after him. “To hell with domed tops. Ice-cream cones. That’s really what they remind me of. Do you lick your ice-cream cones from the top or the sides?”

His tongue flicked over a nipple. The helpless laughter rippling through Bree abruptly died. His soft tongue strayed down to the side of one breast, lapping at the circumference as if he were indeed savoring vanilla ice cream. Or maybe chocolate. Or maybe wild cherry.

“Unlike ice-cream cones, the more you lick, the less they disappear. Have you noticed that phenomenon, Bree? They’re swelling up,” he whispered. His eyes lifted distractedly to hers. “Also, they’re not at all cold. One might even go so far as to say-”

“Hart. Sex is a serious business. Do you have a straightjacket I could conveniently put on you for the next five minutes?”

He shook his head. “Honey, you’re such a mental mess. Who on earth gave you your sex education, anyway? Sex is fun. I thought we covered all this two nights ago.” He glanced down at what his hand was covering and started chuckling. “We did. Cover this. Extensively.”

“You still have work to do,” Bree said desperately. How had things gotten out of hand so fast? Maybe her prepared speeches were in a mental rejection pile, and maybe they belonged there, but she still didn’t want an affair based only on sex…even if her heart was kicking in approval at a thundering rate.

“All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

“A stitch in time saves nine,” she shot back.

“An apple a day keeps the doctor away.”

Bree frowned up at him. “What do apples have to do with anything?”

“I thought you wanted to quote proverbs.”

She closed her eyes disgustedly. A mistake. Hart promptly leaned over to kiss them. Lips softer than silk brushed the delicate flesh of her eyelids, then grazed her cheekbone, then burrowed into her rain-softened hair.

He was doing it again, she thought dismally. Making her smile, making her feel intensely desired, making her believe there could be absolutely nothing more right or delightful than fooling around with him. Ice-cream cones, damn him.

His lips teased the corner of her mouth, nipping and gently biting until she parted her own. He waited then, eyes soft and silent on hers before he moved. His tongue flicked at the entrance of her lips, then thrust in, filling every secret moist corner. He withdrew it, then thrust in again. And again. With a helpless, almost angry little murmur, Bree surged closer, rubbing her hips against his, a capitulation that she could no more have helped than breathing.

“Honey.” Hart raised his mouth. Not far. “I know you’re hot for my bod, but try to slow down a little. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

If it weren’t for the dance in his eyes, she would have killed him. Actually, it was probably because of the dance in his eyes that she wanted to. “Manning. Hasn’t one single woman in your life ever taught you to shut up?”

“Nope. That’s going to be up to you.”

Bree took a breath, a vulnerable softness suddenly haunting her eyes. “You know, the only reason I came over here was to tell you I didn’t want any more of this.”

“Tell me, then,” Hart encouraged. Putting an elbow on both sides of her face, he cupped his chin in his hands, giving her all his encouraging attention.

“I just did. Affairs just aren’t my thing, and I really don’t think getting involved with you is…wise,” she ended lamely.

“Honey, you seem to be terribly confused. We are involved. And you like it just fine. You’ve been trying not to laugh for the better part of half an hour.”

She bit her lip. “Hart, stop making this so hard-”

His eyebrow flickered up. “You’re the one who made it so hard, honey.” He shifted his hips expressively.

“Hart.”

“You’re right. Let’s get serious, Bree.” Using an arm for leverage, he vaulted off her and, when standing, reached for her hand. She took it and raised herself up beside him, her lips still throbbing faintly from the pressure of his. The suddenly disappointed look in his eyes startled her. “If you really want to get serious that fast, we can move immediately to the bed. I’d planned on a little lengthy foreplay, but if you’re that hot, honey-”

“Could you just once stop talking?”

“Will you stop thinking so damn much? Arms up for my Valentino act.” He raised her arms himself, hooked them around his neck and slid one arm around her and the other under her thighs. “This is the carry-off-to-the-sunset scene. Although it’s my best guess that guy ended up in traction,” he murmured, just before his mouth crushed down, obliterating any chance of her reply.