This Perfect Stranger. Barbara Ankrum

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СКАЧАТЬ still blocked the newcomer from her view.

      “C’mon in,” Moody invited, still a bit wide-eyed. “Find yourself a seat. I’ll bring ya a menu.”

      “Just coffee,” he said in a deep, baritone voice as he cleared the door, tugging off his black leather gloves one finger at a time.

      The coffee cup poised at Maggie’s lips froze where it was. For a moment, she actually forgot to breathe. Big, was the first adjective that leapt to mind. No less than six foot-three and used to ducking door frames. Drop-dead handsome was the second. No, that was three adjectives, she amended stupidly, unable to tear her gaze from him. Square-jawed, with shockingly blue eyes hooded by thick brows, the dark-haired stranger took in the small café with a quick turn of his head. His gaze locked with hers for an assessing moment before it swept away again. And like a blow to the solar plexus, it left her heart inexplicably racing in her chest.

      He moved with the graceful efficiency of a caged cat, prowling to a table in the corner of the room and sitting with his back to the wall. If this had been the Old West, she would have guessed him a gunslinger, but she supposed he was just another loner on his way to somewhere else.

      Here, machismo was as much a part of the landscape as cattle, but there was no pretense about the pure, unadulterated maleness that lurked beneath the black clothing this man wore from head to foot. His self-contained intensity made every head turn his way as he walked in the room. And her response to it was as obvious and as primal as that of everyone else in the room. Unbidden images tumbled through her—of sweaty sheets and his big hands on her skin.

      She managed to get her coffee cup to her lips, trying to comprehend her completely carnal reaction to the man. It had been years since a man—any man—had made her think of…sex. But this stranger had managed it in the space of ten seconds. And he hadn’t said more than two words.

      Lust at first sight, she thought. It was more than shocking. Ernie was right. She was overwrought. She forced herself to stare at the brownie on the plate in front of her, realizing that she’d lost all interest in it.

      Moody crossed the room in the unhurried way she had and set a cup of coffee down in front of him. “Take cream?” she asked.

      “Just black,” he replied.

      “We’ve got the best hash browns this side of the Rockies and omelettes that’ll make you think you died and went to heaven. How ’bout it?”

      Maggie could’ve sworn the man’s gaze slid longingly at the plates of food being cradled by the old roosters at the counter, before returning to his coffee.

      “This’ll do,” he said, and pulled a long sip as Moody watched.

      “Suit yerself, darlin’. Enjoy.” She breezed by Maggie’s table with a little grin and a wink as she passed. Maggie, who was concentrating on swallowing a bite of brownie, nearly choked.

      “Reckon we ain’t seen the last o’ winter by the smell o’ that air,” old Bill Miller announced to no one in particular from his spot at the counter. “Storm’s rollin’ in.”

      “Ah,” Bob Tacumsa replied with a shake of his gray head, “Just the leftovers. T’won’t be much.”

      “Yeah,” Wit Stacey replied, glancing pointedly at the stranger. “Them Northers blow in all sorts o’ riff raff this time a year.”

      Maggie watched the stranger tap his finger against the rim of his cup, trying to ignore them.

      Moody slapped at the counter with her damp towel perilously near to Wit’s plate of eggs. “And it mostly accumulates at my counter,” she said sharply. “Mind yer tongue, Wit, or you’ll find yourself wearin’ my best breakfast plate.”

      Wit ducked his head and forked in a mouthful of eggs.

      Score one for Moody.

      Maggie glanced back at the stranger. To her dismay, he was staring right back at her through a sweep of dark lashes. She flashed him an automatic smile, then looked away, tamping down a racing heartbeat.

      What was wrong with her anyway? Tightening her hand around her coffee mug, she wished she’d gone straight home from the bank. Instead, she was sitting here fantasizing about a man she didn’t even know, wondering what his smile would feel like against her mouth.

      Lord.

      The bell above the door jangled again. This time she knew who was coming through the door before she saw him because she heard his voice. The sound of it sent a shiver through her.

      Laird Donnelly and two of his men brought the cold air in with them as they swept into the café like they owned the place. Barrel-chested and just as big as the stranger sitting across the room, Laird looked every inch the cattle baron he was. At thirty-five, he owned the biggest operation in northern Montana, not to mention half the men in this town. Maggie slid her eyes shut, wishing she could gracefully slide under the table and disappear.

      “Well, well, if it isn’t Maggie Cortland,” Laird said, strolling her way, slipping off his gray felt Stetson. “How ya been, Maggie?”

      “Laird.” She sipped her coffee and stared out the window.

      “Been keepin’ to yourself a lot lately. Why, we were just talkin’ about you, weren’t we boys?”

      The “boys” nodded like good little soldiers.

      “That’s right. We were wonderin’ why you hadn’t fixed that fence up on the north pasture yet. A couple of your mares wandered onto my land yesterday.”

      Damn him! She’d fixed that fence twice in the last two weeks. Someone had been cutting it, and it didn’t take an rocket scientist to figure out who. “Where are they now?”

      Laird smiled magnanimously. “Your mares? Oh, I imagine right about now, they’re happily grazin’ with my best heifers. I planned on bringin’ ’em on by later today.”

      Her knee hit the table with a thwack and the old roosters jumped as a single entity. “No!” she said too loudly. “Don’t bother. I’ll come get them later.”

      “No hurry,” Laird told her, draping his muscular arm across the high back of her booth. “’Cause from what I hear this hasn’t really been your day.”

      “I suppose I have you to thank for that,” she said without a glimmer of a smile.

      He did though—a wry, foxlike grin that set her teeth on edge. “Me? Hell, I can take credit for lots of things, but makin’ your day bad isn’t one I’d care to claim.”

      Maggie couldn’t actually remember hating anyone the way she did Laird Donnelly. He made her skin crawl. Crowding her the way he was now was something he did for fun. He loved to see the terror leap into her eyes. But she swore she wouldn’t let him do it to her. Not here. Not now.

      Thankfully, Moody interceded, nudging Laird out of the way so she could refill Maggie’s coffee cup. “Why don’t you and your boys have a seat, Laird?” she said pointedly. “Maggie’s not in the mood for talkin’.”

      “Another time then,” he promised with a wink that sent a shiver through Maggie.

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