A Way With Women. Jule McBride

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      His gaze flickered over her dainty dress, his voice lowering with a huskiness he was obviously trying to fight. The barely heard words were rough, but there was no mistaking the innuendo. “Do you want me to take some sort of action, Harper?”

      She imagined she knew exactly what type of action he meant. “Of course not!”

      Eyeing her dress, he didn’t look convinced. Only when he touched the screen did she realize she was still running her thumbnail across it. His fingertip brushed her thumb through the metal, the touch lasting just long enough to assure her there was still an electrical spark between them. “Please,” he muttered, “could you stop that? It’s driving me crazy.”

      She couldn’t help but say, “Maybe I like driving you crazy.”

      Everything about him seemed to still at her words. He frowned. “I came over because what you did is wrong, Harper. You know that.”

      Yes, and she also knew that if he studied her neck any harder where the pulse was beating out of control, she’d lose her self-control. “You should be illegal.”

      “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

      Silently, she stared at him, cursing that sudden teasing lift at the corners of a mouth that kept reminding her of how well he kissed. She’d meant to fight how his voice always dropped directly into her bloodstream with a dark ripple, but here she was—heart racing, hamstrings quivering, shaky all over. Trying to regain her equilibrium, she lifted her chin a notch. “It wasn’t meant as a compliment.”

      “No? Then how’d you mean it?”

      Having no answer, she watched in horrified fascination as one of Macon’s big hands suddenly curled over the doorknob. She’d always loved his hands. Huge, slender-fingered and tanned a rich copper, they were a working man’s hands. “Macon,” she managed to say, her pulse staggering drunkenly as he came into the dim hallway, and she stepped back to accommodate him, “I’m sure I didn’t invite you in.”

      “Memory,” he returned. “Never your strong suit.”

      That was rich. Didn’t he recall being with Lois Potts the night he was supposed to run away with her?

      “I’m coming in,” he announced. “It’s hot out there, Harper.”

      “It’s Texas,” she returned evenly as he stepped inside. “It’s hot everywhere.”

      Definitely hotter in here, now that she was sharing the hallway with Macon. And yet he was right. The house was cool and dark. She’d opened the windows last night and drawn the blinds today, and even though Bruce had installed central air conditioning long ago, the house was usually cool enough without it, which was saying something in Texas. Hardly comfortable, though. With Macon crowding the hallway, she couldn’t have been more tense if she were entertaining a burglar.

      Not that Macon was the least bit bothered by her anxiety. Dropping his hat over the newel post, he glanced down the hallway toward the kitchen, then upstairs. When he looked through an archway into the living room, she realized how many of Bruce’s belongings still filled the room. Leather-bound history volumes were alphabetized in glassed cases—although he’d worked as a pharmacist, history was his hobby—and the old-fashioned spectacles he collected were arranged on the mantel. It was an odd collection, but Bruce had possessed a questing mind, a focused intensity that allowed him to see even the knottiest problems through to the end. Sometimes, when he’d caught her lying awake late at night, Harper suspected he’d known she’d never really gotten over Macon.

      “I’m sorry,” she said with a start, feeling renewed determination to placate Macon so he’d leave. “I know you found those letters today. I saw you leave the post office. I…I truly don’t know what possessed me to write them, Macon.”

      Instead of looking relieved at the confession, he pinned her with a particularly unnerving stare. “Harper,” he said flatly, “I’ve known you for years. You always know what possesses you.”

      Oh, not always. She hardly wanted to examine her motives for suddenly caring so much about her appearance lately, for wearing this dress, for instance, or for pulling back her shoulder-length ash hair or spritzing her neck with perfume. “I was only doing my civic duty,” she found herself admitting.

      “My, my,” he taunted, looking genuinely amused. “That sounds so patriotic. I’ll bet the U.S. government is having a meeting right now, wishing they had a few more postmistresses like you, Harper.”

      “Macon,” she returned hotly, unable to stand the way he was mocking her. “You can’t rope in poor, unsuspecting women this way. Most women who responded to your ad need help.” She exhaled an exasperated breath. “You should have read those letters!”

      Tilting his head to get a better look at her, he wedged a boot heel comfortably over a stair step and raised a golden eyebrow, his voice turning silky. “You really think so?”

      She nodded. “Yes, I do!”

      “Hell, yes, I should have,” he retorted. “They were addressed to me!”

      Her heart pounding, she glanced around, her long-smoldering desire for Macon mixing with fury over the dire situations expressed in the letters. “There were pregnant teenagers.” She defended herself. “Mothers without enough money to feed and clothe their babies, foreign women wanting citizenship because they’ve been separated from children in the U.S. Some are so lonely they just can’t take it anymore.”

      His expression was infuriatingly bland, as if the catalogue of horrors didn’t even touch his heartstrings. “Are you lonely, Harper?”

      The words hit a nerve. She’d survived a teenage pregnancy and a mother who’d barely earned enough money to raise her. And yes, damn you, Macon, I’m lonely. Bruce had been gone two years, and Macon’s unwanted presence made it seem forever since she’d been touched lovingly. Why couldn’t he understand? “You can’t play with people’s lives like that!”

      He surveyed her curiously. “Who says I’m playing?”

      “I’d forgotten how impossible you are!” she snapped. No, she’d spent far too much time remembering the heat of his mouth and how his arms felt wrapped around her back. Forgetting her hair was up, she drew shaky, annoyed fingers through it, dislodging further wispy strands. “You have no concept, Macon,” she continued with a soft sigh of frustration. “You’ve never wanted for anything, but some of those women have absolutely nowhere to go.”

      “Then why not let them come here?”

      “Why not?” she echoed, stupefied.

      His voice was a silken thread of danger. “If you hadn’t written to them, they could have,” he told her, his tone so reasonable she was flooded with guilt. “So, do you mind explaining why you’re interfering in my love life?”

      “Love life?” she repeated, the lips she’d glossed with something called Goldust Glitter parting in astonishment.

      His eyes hardened. “Yes, love life.”

      “Since when does meeting strangers through Texas Men magazine constitute a love life, Macon?” Did he think she was jealous? she suddenly wondered. Even worse, was she? Cutting off the СКАЧАТЬ