Mr. Miracle. Carolyn McSparren

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СКАЧАТЬ turned on the light. “Oh, dear!”

      He followed her inside and made a “humph” sound that seemed half annoyance and half laugh.

      Vic turned to face him. “I’m so sorry. There’s no way you can stay here.”

      “Don’t know why not—the mice seemed to have enjoyed it immensely.” He grinned at her.

      The floor was littered with mouse droppings. Vic had expected dust and festoons of cobwebs. But somehow despite all the careful caulking, the steel wool behind the electrical outlets, the tightly cased storm window, the mice had managed to slip in. No doubt they had scattered when they heard the squeal of the door.

      The floor was tiled in a nondescript gray-brown, and the sofa had been decently covered with brown tweed before it became a maternity ward for generations of field mice looking to escape from the winter’s chill. There was a student desk and chair, a green-shaded lamp, the usual end and side tables, a single bed stripped to the mattress and covered in a thick plastic protector. The mice had made short work of the plastic.

      Vic raised her hands and dropped them in defeat. “This will have to be completely fumigated, repainted and the furniture replaced before you can stay here. I’m not sure a grenade and a flame thrower would help much.” She turned to him. “I should have known—it’s just that there’s so much to do that the things that aren’t critical slip into the background.”

      “It’s a barn, and where there are barns, there are mice. And probably rats and snakes, as well. Comes with the territory.” He seemed remarkably cheerful.

      Vic was embarrassed. What had she been thinking when she’d offered him the room without checking it first? “Let’s get out of here. I’ll call one of the local motels and book you a room for the next couple of nights until I can make this place livable.” She glanced over her shoulder as she reached for the light switch. “If that’s possible.”

      “Don’t worry about a motel. I’ll bed down in the hayloft.”

      “You’ll do no such thing!” He probably didn’t want to admit he hadn’t enough money for a motel. She’d have to think of something else.

      She turned off the hayloft light and waited while he slung his body over the edge of the loft and started down the ladder. He used his damaged hand casually, but carefully, not relying on it to hold his weight.

      She followed. Two rungs from the bottom she felt his hands encircle her waist, felt herself lifted from the ladder and set on the floor. She caught her breath at the suddenness of it.

      He was looking at her, one eyebrow cocked. “I’ve slept rough a good many nights.” He looked down at his body. “It’s the shower I’ll miss. Bit too cold in February to rinse off with the wash-rack hose.”

      Vic gulped at the thought of Jamey McLachlan standing naked on the wash rack.

      “Oh, no. You’d catch pneumonia.” Then, before she thought the words, she spoke them, and wished a moment later she could take them back. “Look, I’ve got a perfectly good spare bedroom under the eaves, and it has its own bath—plenty of hot water. And if you don’t mind sandwiches, I could fix us both something to eat. It’s quite a way to the nearest fast-food place.”

      Albert would kill her if he ever found out she’d let a totally strange man into her house. He’d be right. This guy could be Jack the Ripper. The letter from Marshall Dunn could be a fake. She opened her mouth to rescind the invitation, but he didn’t give her a chance.

      “Capital idea.”

      Her heart lurched. He had a crooked smile that seemed to work harder on one side of his mouth than the other. His eyes crinkled at the corners. She doubted Jack the Ripper was quite that attractive when he smiled at his victims. But then again, maybe he had been. Every bit that attractive.

      Actually Jamey might be the one in danger from her if she didn’t put a cork on her underused libido.

      “If you’ve got some eggs and a bit of cheese, I make a hell of an omelette.” He started for the door.

      “You cook?”

      “A man without a woman eats in restaurants, sponges off his friends or learns to cook.” He waited for her at the door. “And there’s an added benefit. I’ve found that a man who can cook goes a fair way to winning most women.”

      “Indeed.” Well, that obviously put her in her place. No man intent on seduction would reveal his secrets. She obviously fit into an older generation marked Not Suitable for Bedding. That should have been a comforting thought. Actually she felt darned annoyed.

      “Follow me,” she said in a very peremptory tone, then added perversely, “Mr. McLachlan,” as she walked to her truck.

      “I’ve a better idea.” He reached for the motorcycle handlebars. “Ever ride on one of these things?”

      Vic froze in her tracks and felt a cold sweat break out. She began to shake her head fiercely and found herself taking two steps back, her hands raised in front of her chest as though to ward off a blow. “N-no, thank you.” She fought to keep her voice level and hoped he had not heard her stammer.

      He’d heard, all right. She could tell that from the way he cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “I’m a careful driver. I won’t turn us over.”

      Her head seemed to be swinging out of her control. She felt her pulse race and that awful strangling sensation at the base of her throat. Not now, Lord, she thought. It’s just a stupid motorcycle, not a hydrogen bomb!

      He reached her in two strides, grasped her upper arm with his good hand and shoved her head forward with the other. “Breathe,” he instructed. “Is there a paper bag handy?”

      Beneath the pressure of his palm she shook her head. “I’m okay,” she choked. “Let me up, dammit!”

      He released her head, but not her arm.

      She met his eyes and hers were blazing. “How dare you!”

      “Hell, woman, I know a panic attack when I see one.”

      “I don’t have panic attacks.”

      “Well, you just did.” He released her arm, but stood too close to her. His eyes were precisely level with hers. He grinned and stepped back. “I know because I had them for six months after this.” He raised his gloved hand. “Couldn’t even stand near the damn tractor. Not very practical on a farm.” He turned away from her, shoved his hands in his pockets and ambled back in the direction of the motorcycle. He was whistling softly under his breath.

      She sucked in a single breath and willed her pulse to slow. “What did you do about it?”

      “Climbed onto it at two in the morning when nobody was around to watch me and sat there shaking like a leaf until sunrise.” He shrugged. “Threw up twice. Spent all morning cutting the yearling pasture. Must have lost twenty pounds from the sweat.” He looked at her and leaned one hand on the seat of the motorcycle. “Worked for me.” He raised a hand in invitation. “It’ll work for you, too. Come on. You can’t spend your life being afraid.”

      She felt the surge of fear again.

      “Look СКАЧАТЬ