Two Hearts, Slightly Used. Dixie Browning

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      Embarrassed, she stole a quick glance at him. Forbidding was the first word that came to mind. Mad as the dickens was the next. And yet there was something oddly compelling about the set of his features that had nothing at all to do with his expression.

      He was scowling—or maybe it was a permanent condition. It occurred to Frances that it was probably a good thing Jerry had reached her first. She wouldn’t trust Flint-Face not to stuff her into a sack and throw her overboard.

      “She ran outta gas,” Jerry said cheerfully.

      “If she’d asked before stealing my boat,” Flint-Face retorted, “I would have warned her to check the levels first.”

      Frances resented being talked around, as if she weren’t even there. “I’m sure you would,” she snapped. “You warned me about everything else. As for stealing your boat, it was the only one there, and I was told there was a boat for the use of the cottagers.” Without waiting for a response, she turned to the younger man. “Jerry, do you know anything about generators? Could I possibly persuade you to—”

      “I’ll take care of it,” Flint-Face cut in. His voice reminded her of the ropes she’d used to tie up at the marina. Hard, rough, showing definite signs of wear, but none of weakness.

      “Sure thing. He can check you out, ma’am. Prob’ly won’t need it, though. Power’s been real steady lately.” He switched tanks and offered to fill the spare and leave it at the marina to be collected later, and Frances shrugged and left them to it.

      At least she was no longer in danger of drifting out to sea. Jerry had thrown out an anchor, and Flint-Face kept his motor idling against the current. She waited, appreciating the sun’s meager warmth on her cold backside while the two men fiddled with hoses and tanks and stainless steel fittings.

      Finally Flint-Face shut off his outboard and tied his smaller boat behind her larger one, which meant, she surmised with an inward groan, that she would have the dubious pleasure of his company for the run back to the island.

      Jerry veered off with a cheerful wave, sending a spray of icy water over the bow of the red runabout where Frances huddled. Sighing, she wiped the salt from her eyes. Thanks, Jerry, she thought wryly. I needed that. Having mastered so many new skills in a single morning, never mind that she’d run out of gas, her ego might have been inclined to come creeping out of hiding for the first time since she’d learned that her entire eleven-year marriage had been one giant fiasco.

      “By the way, I don’t believe we ever got around to introductions, did we? I’m Frances Smith Jones.” She addressed the lean, rigid back, which was bent over the controls.

      Silence.

      Fine! If he wanted to remain anonymous, that was just fine with her. If there was one thing she was no longer interested in, it was men. Not under any circumstances. Not in this lifetime!

      The outboard sputtered and caught again. As it settled down to a steady roar, the tall, scowling man turned and seated himself in the stern, facing her. It occurred to Frances that his eyes were exactly the color she’d always imagined an iceburg to be. Clear gray, without a glimmer of warmth. Every bit as hard as flint, if not as opaque.

      As for the rest of him, it was...interesting, she decided. Jaw far too aggressive, cheekbones far too angular—there was something odd in the angle of them, too, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. As for his mouth, at the moment it looked as if he’d just bitten into a lemon. She was tempted to smile at him, just for meanness.

      His nose was beautiful. Under the pale, watery sunlight, she could see a fine network of scars on the left side of his face, but before she could even wonder about it, he said, “Ridgeway. What the hell did you think you were doing, stealing a boat when you don’t even have sense enough to check the levels?”

      Quite suddenly the headache she’d been ignoring all morning clamped down like a hat that was three sizes too small. Through clenched teeth, she said, “I didn’t steal your boat, Mr. Ridgeway. I borrowed it. I was told on good authority that the boats were for the use of the cottage owners and renters. As for checking levels—I assume you mean the gas tank—you’re right. I should have checked. Next time I will. I seldom make the same mistake twice.”

      He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again and looked away. Fortunately the roar of the outboard precluded any further conversation, which gave Frances plenty of time to wonder what the luggage she had left back at the cottage was doing in the boat they were towing.

      And then they swerved sharply and headed toward the marina. “Wait!” she yelled above the noise. “What are you doing? Where are you going?”

      “The marina!”

      “But I’ve already been there! I want to go back to the cottage!”

      “No way, lady. Come back in a few months.”

      It was impossible to argue over a roaring outboard. Irked beyond bearing, her head pounding furiously, Frances crawled back to where she could make herself heard. She jammed her face as close as she dared and yelled, “Listen, I don’t know what your position on Coronoke is—head jackass, at a guess—but my uncle owns that cottage, and he gave me the key and told me I could stay there until I’m good and ready to leave! It’s not my fault that this Maudie person I was supposed to check in with is in Utah, but Maudie or no Maudie, I’m here to stay! So you can just damned well take me back to Coronoke right now, or I’ll have you brought up on charges of—of— Well, I’ll think of something!”

      If he weren’t so damned ticked off, Brace might have found her amusing. She wasn’t as old as he’d first thought. Nor as unattractive. Although, at the moment she looked as if she’d been drawn through a keyhole backward. Opinionated women were not his favorite species, not even when they had eyes the color of bruised violets and a mouth that looked naked and vulnerable and—

      Brace swore silently. Maybe he hadn’t recovered as fully as he’d thought from having his broken carcass plowed into a cornfield along with several million dollars’ worth of twisted metal.

      Abruptly he changed direction. The woman, who’d been kneeling at his feet, yelped and would have fallen hard against the gunwale if he hadn’t caught her with one arm.

      Against a background of salt water and exhaust, she smelled like cut grass and flowers—sort of spicy and green. She felt like a bag of bones, even in a down-filled parka.

      “Sorry,” he muttered, pushing her away. He checked the boat he was towing, more as an excuse to look away from her face, which was entirely too close, than for any other reason.

      Even over the roar of the outboard, he could hear the ragged intake of her breath. It occurred to him that his own was none too steady. It was a crazy reaction. He put it down to being celibate too long.

      What the bloody hell had happened to all the peace and quiet he’d been promised? This place was supposed to be so far off the beaten track, nobody but duck hunters came near it between January and March. Maudie had warned him he’d be talking to Regina, the resident raccoon, before he’d been there a week. It had sounded like just what the doctor ordered.

      And now, thanks to his eagerness to get rid of Ms. Smith Jones, she had about half a dozen loads of gear to haul back up to her cottage, and with his newfound conscience dogging his heels like a blasted shadow, he was going to have to offer to help her haul it.

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