The Cupcake Queen. Patricia Coughlin

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СКАЧАТЬ silence left her guessing whether his comment had been intended to put her at ease, or tick her off. She had no patience for guessing games when she was the one doing the guessing. Fortunately, her dealings with men seldom involved guesswork. Among close friends, she boasted a nearly flawless track record for assessing and categorizing a man, any man, within minutes of meeting him. That was one more reason it annoyed her that this particular man refused to stay where she put him.

      He succeeded in shifting her impression of him yet again by opening her car door for her. It wasn’t only that he did it; it was the way he did it…smoothly, effortlessly, as if the gesture were ingrained, rather than performed to impress. It wasn’t what she expected from a man who would paw a woman he’d never met to amuse his buddies.

      To her chagrin, he insisted on accompanying her to the house where she was staying and waiting outside while she packed and settled her bill. That accomplished, she followed him the twelve miles from town to the road that accessed his land. A sign reading Canine Training Camp marked the private road in white block letters on a black background. No logo, no wasted words. Pretty much like the man himself, she mused.

      The road they turned onto was paved but narrow, so narrow in places that tree branches scraped and slapped her car windows. Since it was late October, most of the leaves had already fallen, blanketing the ground with a patchwork of fiery red and gold. Here and there a tree clung defiantly to its last few leaves, refusing to surrender to nature.

      Olivia was on the side of the rebel trees, even if theirs was a losing battle. How long could a solitary tree hold out against a force so much stronger and more relentless? A rueful smile curved her lips as she contemplated the man at the wheel of the truck hurtling down the road ahead of her and acknowledged an even more portentous question: How long could she?

      “Six weeks…max,” she muttered to herself. Surely Dan what’s-his-name would recover and be back at work sooner than that. Maybe a lot sooner. Please give me the— She frowned. Give me whatever it takes to put up with Owen Rancourt for as long as I have to.

      A white house came into view on her right. The main house, she decided. Olivia wasn’t sure what she had expected, a log cabin maybe, or a crumbling old farmhouse. Definitely not this. For one thing, the sprawling one level home wasn’t that old. It also wasn’t crumbling. Not even close. With its brick front, glossy black trim and freshly mowed lawn, it appeared fresh and well tended. A front porch with several wooden rockers at one end added a welcoming, almost old-fashioned touch that an architect might decree was at odds with the style of the house itself, but somehow it worked. But then, why should Rancourt’s home be any easier to pigeonhole than he was?

      The house was situated on a small rise. She parked where he indicated, and as she got out of the car, she was able to make out the shapes of a group of smaller structures a short distance away. What she didn’t see in the fading light was what she feared most, marauding packs of dogs. Maybe her luck was changing. Rancourt had said he needed help getting ready for the next training session. Maybe there wouldn’t be any dogs around till then. Except Romeo, that is.

      A slight shudder rippled through her as she recalled her up-close-and-personal view of his teeth earlier. Then she remembered what followed and groaned inwardly. Was it possible for a dog to bear a grudge, she fretted? Maybe she would never have to find out. If her luck truly was changing, perhaps Romeo wouldn’t be feeling up to coming home until she’d done her time and was out of there. A sudden bark, echoed by another and another put a quick end to her delusions of changing fortune.

      She glanced around to pinpoint the direction of the barking and caught Rancourt watching her. The knowing arch of her brows did not deter him. He wasn’t smiling or frowning, but it would be a mistake to describe his expression as vacant. On the contrary, he appeared alert and interested, intensely so. Owen Rancourt made no secret that he was thinking, she realized, only of what he was thinking about.

      The barking persisted.

      “Dogs,” she said simply. Idiotically.

      “What were you expecting?”

      She shrugged. “Dogs.”

      “Good. I’d have hated to disappoint you right out of the gate.”

      He turned, lowered the rear of the truck and grabbed a thick coil of cable. Looping it over his shoulder, he reached for another. Next he rummaged through a box of what looked to Olivia like metal clamps and similar junk. Guy stuff, and slightly below dust on the list of things she found interesting. The rear view of the guy himself was a different matter.

      It was with considerable interest that she took advantage of his preoccupation to check him out. Her gaze roamed over his broad shoulders and long legs. She liked the way his faded jeans rode low on his hips. As much as she would prefer to disdain every last thing about the man, she was forced to admit he had a nice butt. And great thighs. But then, Neanderthals often did. It was somehow linked to the excess of testosterone pumping through their veins, and other places. A private theory, but one she fully expected science to someday confirm. As a rule she wasn’t much attracted to Neanderthals. But for some reason, tonight she was…

      Losing it. She must be if she was secretly ogling Rancourt and enjoying it. It was simply because she’d been away from civilization too long, she assured herself, turning away and shifting her attention to the shadowy terrain below. It was nowhere near as captivating a sight, and she felt suddenly restless. What she wouldn’t give for a glass of chilled chardonnay. And a cigarette. Which was telling, since her last smoke had been in the girl’s lav her junior year at Covington Prep.

      Behind her, the sounds of clinking metal persisted. She was about to tell him to hurry it up. Her feet hurt. If she’d known when she was dressing that morning that she would be chasing a renegade cat through bushes, she would have worn boots with a low heel. She hoped Izzy had turned up safe and sound. Not wanting to dwell on the other possibility, she wiggled her toes and heaved an impatient sigh that evolved into a yawn.

      Not only did her feet hurt; she was exhausted. And grimy. She closed her eyes and could almost feel herself sliding into a deep tub of hot water, almost smell the fragrance of the soapy bubbles caressing her from shoulders to toes. She couldn’t wait to get to her cabin and collapse.

      The slamming of the truck’s tailgate made her jump.

      She turned to tell him it was about time, but his nasty expression stopped her.

      “Don’t worry about lending a hand,” Rancourt said, biting out the words. “It took a while, but I’ve got it all under control now.”

      The sight of him weighted down with cables, more bulky stuff clamped under both arms, made her even more glad she’d bitten her tongue.

      “Sorry,” she said. “Do you want me to take something?”

      She reached out. He took a step back.

      “No. It’s been a long day and I’d rather just leave well enough alone.”

      “I probably should at least carry my own bag.”

      “You definitely should carry your own bag,” he retorted. “But you can get it later, when I show you your cabin…and when I’m not standing around holding an extra hundred pounds.”

      “Sorry,” she said again. “I guess I just got lost in…the view.”

      She gestured in the direction of the foothills in the distance.

      “Figures. СКАЧАТЬ