Can’t Say No

Chapter Six

With the sun blinding her, Bree stared grimly at the rusty latch on Gram’s old shed. It just didn’t want to give-she’d been trying for the better part of an hour. She tugged again at the knob, then finally threw her weight against the door to force it open. With an eerie creak, the door swung in, Bree pitching forward with it. In that sudden dank darkness, her shin immediately connected with something bulky and hard. Her skin dented; the old tool didn’t.

Using her entire vocabulary of four-letter words-silently-Bree massaged her aching shin and waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

The past five days just hadn’t been her best. Her luggage had arrived, but so had letters from home. Her mom wanted her to return; she was worried about her, and Bree hated being the source of that worry.

The letter from her ex-boss had disturbed her even more. Marie was blithely ignoring her resignation and lining up projects for Bree to tackle as soon as you’re feeling better. Contec is seriously hurting without you. Bree’s first impulse was guilt for leaving Marie in the lurch; her second was wariness as she reminded herself that Marie was an expert at using guilt to manipulate people; and her third was a feeling of being totally unsettled, a state of mind that still hadn’t left her.

In the meantime, she’d had to buy an entire set of dishes, since she seemed to have shattered all the old ones. And her sleep had been constantly interrupted by her own personal night watchman, Hart Manning. Sleep? There was little point in even trying.

Squinting into the dark corners of the old shed, Bree stepped over an old wooden crate and sighed. The front yard needed mowing. Unfortunately, most of Gram’s tools seemed to have disappeared. A pitchfork was accumulating rust in the corner. Her eyes skimmed over Gram’s old gardening gloves, a small spade, a hand saw, an ancient scythe…but there was nothing remotely resembling a lawn mower or even clippers.

With hands on hips, Bree shook her head. The scythe would have to do, dull and awkward though it was. It looked like something that belonged on an old Soviet flag, but its original purpose a century ago must have been to cut grass. You could always go home, Bree, said a little voice in her head. What exactly are you accomplishing by staying here-you haven’t had any rest; you’re still not talking. You’re worrying your parents, and at least you had a safe, secure job…

Gingerly lifting the scythe from its hook, Bree took it outside and wielded it awkwardly in the sunlight with a stubborn cast to her chin. No. Not yet. For herself, she might still be confused over what she wanted to do with her life, but for Gram…She felt in some indefinable way that she owed Gram something-something that she could pay back only by being here.

But Hart was making it extremely difficult for her to keep her mind on what she owed Gram. He’d showed up every night, once at ten, another time just before eleven, another at precisely ten forty-three. Each time he spread out his sleeping bag downstairs, made an unholy racket settling down, and disappeared before Bree awoke the next morning.

She hadn’t acknowledged that he was there. She’d lain upstairs in Gram’s sensuously soft feather bed, stared at the moon and twiddled her thumbs, fuming. She’d spent hours during the day thinking of what she was going to say to him…when she got her speech back. And she’d spent the hours at night worrying that she would fall asleep and have another nightmare, that Hart would come up to her, that she would behave…foolishly again.

Sooner or later, she’d fallen asleep those nights. There’d been no nightmares, but he was driving her nuts. Or maybe she was driving herself nuts, knowing she wasn’t doing a damn thing about him. She’d seemed to spend her entire life letting things happen to her, letting other people direct her actions; it had to stop. The big stuff takes care of itself if you handle the little things first, Gram used to say.

The yard certainly filled the little-things slot. The grass was knee high and straggly. If the project seemed woefully minuscule compared with the momentous decisions facing her, at least she wasn’t moping around the cabin like an exhausted zombie. Enough was enough.

Bree swung the awkward scythe, by the grace of God saved her left leg on the back swing, and noted without surprise that the blade hadn’t severed so much as a blade of grass. Whipping back her hair, she determinedly tried again.

The blade was not exactly in the best shape in terms of sharpness. The sun beat down in a fever of heat, flies buzzed, Bree’s madras shirt and short shorts stuck to her; and blisters formed on her right hand before twenty minutes had passed.

Three hours later, Bree collapsed flat on her back on the front porch of the cabin. She had just enough energy left to turn her head and survey the demolished lawn. Even, it wasn’t. Short, it was. The blisters on her palm were killing her; her throat was so parched she would have sold herself from a street corner for a glass of water; every muscle felt cracked like old leather…and she was grinning like a fool. She’d done it. Thought you couldn’t handle it, didn’t you, Bree?

Yawning, Bree closed her eyes. In a moment, she would get up. She so desperately wanted a drink; her palm needed first aid; she longed for a bath and change of clothes. To heck with all that, she was so tired she could sleep like a baby.

“Exactly where I was afraid I’d find you. Trying to nap in the middle of the day. It’s no wonder you’re not sleeping nights.”

Bree didn’t jump. Familiarity breeds contempt, as they say. If she hadn’t actually seen him in several days, Hart had still managed to interrupt every single occasion when she’d tried to get any rest. Besides, her heart instantly recognized him by pumping in and out like a windy bagpipe, even before she opened one eye-Hart not being worth opening two for.

As it happened, he was worth less than one. Gone was the urbane sex symbol in Italian suits. He wore his derelict straw hat sideways, his cutoffs showed hairy legs and he hadn’t bothered with a shirt, just a fishing pole.

His eyes were dawdling over her long legs in the short shorts. “Come on, lazy lady. Leading the life of Riley, it’s no wonder you can’t sleep nights. If so many complications hadn’t cropped up at my place, I’d have been over here before to keep you busy during the day. Like now. Did I mention we’re going fishing? And I see your clothes arrived. No bras in your suitcases?”

If that crack was supposed to bring a rise, it didn’t. And as far as Bree could tell via telescope, Hart couldn’t have too many problems at his place. His harem did all the chores.

When she didn’t move, Hart tsk-tsked. “The bait’s worms. You probably can’t handle that, but I figure you could at least row the boat. Talking yet?”

Why were all her new dishes put away, when she needed them to throw at this moment?

“You want help getting up, or do you think you can manage that all by yourself?” Hart shielded his eyes with a closed palm, his dark blue eyes peering down at her. “Honey, you have a button that’s undone,” he said politely.

Bree’s eyes whipped open, her fingers groping for the front of her blouse as Hart lazily surveyed her front lawn. “You did do a little something today, I see,” he drawled. “I thought you’d get off your duff sooner or later-couldn’t just sit around and do nothing forever, now, could you? I’m not a big advocate of industriousness, but when it becomes too much of an effort even to open your mouth, I draw the line.”

Bree sat up furiously, ready to hurl back a slightly blue retort-in mime-but Hart had already turned away. His eyes narrowed on the scythe resting against the cabin wall.

“You didn’t use that to cut the lawn?” His head whipped back to her, his dark eyes no longer lazy but suddenly blazing with anger. “You damn fool, you could have killed yourself! The thing’s half as big as you are. Did you ever once think to ask someone for a little help? What the hell do you think I’m within shouting distance for, anyway?” He added in a low growl, “Let me see your hands.”

She’d show him her hands the next time she had the inclination to dance naked in the village square. He advanced a step; she retreated, bottom first and chin up, into the shadow of the cabin porch. Unfortunately, bottom first and chin up were not conducive to speed.

The next thing she knew, Hart had snatched her wrists and turned up her palms for inspection. “I’m going to kill you,” he announced darkly, “as soon as we wash these and put some antiseptic on them. Go ahead. Give me an argument, Bree.”

Bree struggled valiantly for patience. Some men couldn’t help being insufferably patronizing. On the other hand…He didn’t move for an instant. It was seconds, not minutes, before he pulled her to her feet and propelled her inside to the sink. But in those seconds Hart’s face was inches from hers.

His cheeks were red with rage. He hadn’t shaved, his lion’s mane was crushed beneath his hat…and his touch was infinitely gentle on her hands. A lover couldn’t have touched with more tenderness. She found herself staring, mesmerized.

It was becoming an effort to keep hating him, in spite of his harem on the hill. The man had a magic quality, the ability to fill her world when he was around, blocking out everything else. He was worse than a sliver-worse than a bad sliver. He got under her skin and stayed there, saying aloud things she’d been thinking herself: that she’d been lazy, that she couldn’t talk because she’d been running away from life, that it was about time she did something about herself. Really, he was a very cruel man. She ached for Gram and she was confused; everyone wasn’t a bulldozer like Hart…but he made her feel that those were only excuses. In her heart, she agreed with him.

She didn’t like the man. She just felt…attracted to him, like a bee to honey, like a magnet to metal. Maybe she was just experiencing a bad case of loneliness? Regardless, this was definitely the first chance she’d had to get back at him for his patronizing bossiness, the only real reason she trailed after the ranting bear, toting two fishing poles while he carried the open can of worms. As they approached the pond, she saw a canoe, tugged up on the stone beach and outfitted with a tackle box and two pillows.

Fishing, was it? A tiny smile of triumph hovered on Bree’s lips, but she masked it when Hart turned to her. “You get in first, lightweight,” he ordered. “And don’t get all prissy about baiting the hook. I’ll do it for you.”

So kind. Bree stepped into the freezing water with bare feet, and lifted her leg carefully over the side of the canoe.

“Put the pillow behind your back,” he ordered. “And leave the paddles alone, with those hands. I’ll handle that.”

Orders, orders, orders. Bree leaned back against the boat cushion, crossed her legs and savored the warmth of dappled sunlight on her cheeks as she anticipated the comeuppance she knew was awaiting Hart. She’d watch him fish, all right. The pond was fed from melting snows on the mountaintops; a thin stream of a silver waterfall constantly kept it filled. Fish, however, did not spontaneously appear just because there was water. There were tons of places to fish in the area, but this was not one of them-unless Hart had stocked the pond in the last few minutes.

“Now…” He shoved off, lifted a dripping leg inside the canoe and settled lazily, facing her. After he got them out to the middle of the pond, he lifted the dripping paddle inside and just let the canoe sway to and fro in the breeze. He reached for one of the fishing poles and frowned at her. “You’re going to get your nose all sunburned.”

Before she could stop him, he’d flipped open a tube of white cream and dabbed a streak of it on her nose, nearly tipping over the canoe in the process. “Better,” he said with satisfaction. “There are sunglasses in the tackle box if you want them.”

Attaching a worm to his hook, he cast his line in the water, stuffed a pillow behind his back, pulled his hat down and did a reasonable job of looking as if he were taking a nap. Which was exactly the kind of fishing Bree suspected Hart knew how to do, being such a self-proclaimed expert at laziness.

Determinedly, she reached for the other pole. He wasn’t sleeping, or he wouldn’t have suddenly tipped back his hat in time to grin at her as she reached for the worm with her mouth all screwed up as if she’d just eaten an unripe persimmon. Gram had never baited Bree’s hook for her; Bree was certainly capable of doing it herself, but that didn’t necessarily mean that she had ever liked worms.

Having nothing better to do, and certainly wanting to sucker Hart along on this “fishing” expedition of his, Bree expertly cast her line and snuck a glance at Hart…who appeared to be napping again. He missed her move-a cast five thousand times better than his own. It hardly mattered, since there weren’t any fish, but it was a point of pride. She was sick to bits of his constant accusations that she failed to do anything, as if she were an incompetent little ninny.

While he napped, she cast and recast, slowly reeling in her line, whirling it around her head to toss it into the water again, her hook landing exactly where she aimed it. The fool might just learn something, if he’d open his eyes. Only when she made an unobtrusive attempt to rub off the gob of white cream on her nose did she realize he was awake.

“I wouldn’t,” he said mildly. “You know I’ll just put more on. We can’t have you broiled like a lobster, lazy one.” Hart sighed, throwing one leg over the gunwale of the canoe. “This is the life, I swear. Sun, surf and a silent woman. What more could any man ask for?”

Bree might have asked for a little less ego on the part of her companion. Weren’t his little darlings on the hill enough for him? A silent woman, indeed. He obviously loved it when she took his verbal bait, so she refused to show by even a flicker of expression that he was getting to her. Setting down the pole, she leaned back against the cushion and…

Relaxed. Dammit, she was relaxed. She knew darn well she looked bedraggled in the wrinkled madras blouse and old shorts. Her hair hadn’t been brushed in hours; she wasn’t wearing a bit of makeup…but somehow all of the tension of the morning was stealing away, replaced by a somnolent sense of well-being. The steady slip-slop of the boat, the sun’s warm, soothing rays, even Hart’s own laziness seemed to be infecting her. A few days ago at the airport she’d felt so terribly raw, inside and out. It occurred to her how rarely she didn’t feel on, even for her family and friends, playing roles and fulfilling expectations. But with Hart…well. For someone who’d already seen you at your worst, you hardly felt obligated to put on airs.

Trailing her good hand in the water, Bree threw back her head and felt the sun beat down like a healing balm. She wasn’t exactly attracted to him, she thought idly. It was more fascination. Any woman would undoubtedly feel some of that fascination.

It was those midnight-blue eyes, for one thing. The phrase bedroom eyes was such a cliché still, if she were ever inclined to take a man to bed because of a pair of eyes, those were the pair. The way his lips parted in a lazy, unbearably sexy smile; the sheer blasted mischief he wore for an expression half the time. The touch of his hands, the tender way he kissed, the manner in which his mouth and body moved in an embrace, pulling her in like an intimate undertow, making her forget rhyme and reason and…

Hurriedly, Bree mentally catalogued Hart’s safer physical attributes. Hairy legs, and Lord, they were hairy. Big feet. Bony knees. The shoulders of a mastodon. The silliest cowlick in the center of his head…

He suddenly lurched forward, pushing his hat back from his forehead, grinning at her. “You’re relaxed, Bree, aren’t you?”

She nodded warily. Why did that sound like a trick question?

“I knew you would be, if I got you out on the water. I thought to myself, She’s smarter than that-she’s lived here before and will know damn well there aren’t any fish in the pond-but when I saw you casting, I knew we were home free. When you think about it, someone has to buy encyclopedias from the door-to-door salesmen. Now, don’t get upset. That wasn’t meant as an insult. It’s an absolute delight to find a woman who’ll follow a man’s lead in this day and age…”

Hart sighed. Bree parted her lips to let out a detailed torrent of abuse…and when her vocal cords refused to respond, something inside her snapped. Mindlessly, she threw her weight forward, and the canoe precariously tipped.

“Easy-” Hart yelled.

Easy nothing. Frustration boiled up like a witch’s caldron inside her; she’d give a fortune for a working tongue. Unthinkingly, she leaped to her feet, saw Hart’s hands grab wildly for her, felt the canoe lurch violently…

And the next thing she knew, she was over her head in the water. Icy water. She surged to the surface, batting furiously at her curtain of soaking hair, and swirled around until she spotted the canoe. Treading water and gasping, she took one look at Hart-who was leaning back against his cushion, roaring his head off-and determinedly swam toward the canoe.

“Now, Bree…It was funny. Where’s your sense of humor?”

She pushed. And pushed. The canoe rocked wildly in the water, but refused to capsize.

“It won’t work, sweetheart. You know how canoes are made. Easy to tip from the inside-good heavens, didn’t you know that?-but not that easy to overturn from the outside. Oh, shoot,” he said mildly. “I seem to have made you angry again.”

Abruptly, Hart dropped his crooked grin. In the middle of the sunlit pond, his eyes held hers, blue and fiercely compelling. “And you are angry, aren’t you, honey? Yell. Go ahead. Scream at me, Bree. Don’t you want to tell me what you think of me, sweetheart?” he whispered like a teasing taunt. “Come on, Bree.”

She sent a furious wave splashing in his face, and then whirled around, starting a rapid crawl toward shore. She heard him sputtering for an instant. Not nearly long enough.

“Don’t you want to fish anymore?” He called after her, almost managing to sound disappointed. “Never mind, I’ll see you tonight. I’ve got a dinner date, but I’ll be there around nine. Lay out my sleeping bag for me?” He added in a roar, “And put some more antiseptic on your hand!”

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.