Delilah's Weakness (8 page)

"Amos Chappel," Delilah said hoarsely. "My neighbor."

"Ah. Mr. Chappel. Well, nice meeting you. That’s one terrific neighbor you’ve got here." He grinned one last time and went on into the bedroom. Delilah could hear him whistling beyond the closed door.

She turned slowly back to Amos, not at all surprised to find that his eyes were slits and his lips a thin line of contempt. "Amos," she began, knowing there was really nothing she particularly wanted to say.

"Delilah," Amos said, breathing heavily through his nose, "are you telling me that—that fella spent the night here with you last night?"

"Yes," she said, "I guess he did." The seeds of mirth were sprouting deep inside her. She tried halfheartedly to stunt them.

"In your bed?"

"That’s right." With great effort she kept her face solemn.

"A stranger?" Amos was almost sputtering. It struck Delilah so funny that all she could–do without bursting into guffaws of laughter was lift her shoulders in a helpless shrug. Behind her she heard the bedroom door open.

"Delilah," Amos said, shaking his head sorrowfully, "I’d ‘a thought a lot of things about you, some good and some bad, but I always figured with a little straightenin’ out—a firm hand—you’d make a pretty decent wife. I sure never figured you for a… a…" He struggled for a word, frowning down at the hat he was turning over and over in his hands. Finally, almost triumphantly, he spat out, "…a
strumpet!"

Delilah smothered a desperate gust of laughter only by clamping the tips of her fingers over her mouth. Amos gave her a fearsome scowl, clamped his hat down on his head, and stomped out. When the door slammed, Delilah folded her arms across her stomach and doubled over, helpless with laughter, unable to make a sound.

From behind. Luke took her by the arms and turned her. "Delilah?" His voice sounded puzzled, almost fearful.

"Oh," she gasped, clutching at the soft suede lapels. "Oh, Luke. I can’t…believe…you did that!" Tears were streaming down her face, and she struggled for breath. "Poor Amos."

"Delilah, look, I’m sorry. I thought—"

"
Sorry?
Did you hear what he…what he called me? A strumpet!" And now at last a howl of laughter escaped her. She whooped and chortled helplessly into Luke’s shirtfront, only dimly aware that his body had relaxed, that his arms had gone around her, and that his hands were stroking her back.

Gradually her laughter died into fitful giggles and contented sighs. She felt so good, happy and relaxed, utterly at peace, without a care in the world. Her cheek was pillowed on Luke’s chest, her head fitted perfectly under his chin. Her arms were around his waist. Inside his jacket, the warmth of his body was pervasive and intimate. His hands… His hands were roaming sensuously over her back, triggering involuntary cuddle responses. She moved against him like a cat being petted.

Awareness came simultaneously to them both, with different effects. Luke’s hands slipped down, past her waist, to the taut curve of her bottom, and his body tensed and tightened. Delilah’s tensed too. She stiffened and pushed away from him, whispered, "Oh, Lord," and sank into a chair.

For a few moments there was silence; then Luke sat down across the table from her and reached for a cigarette. "You had me worried there for a minute." His voice was casual, amused. "I thought I’d misread the whole situation when you doubled up like that."

He was releasing her, letting her off the hook, she realized, watching his hands as he tapped out a cigarette, paused, then put the pack away. She was grateful for his chivalry, but still couldn’t bring herself to look at him. "Do you know," she murmured unsteadily, "that in a matter of seconds you managed to do what I’ve been trying to do for two solid years? Do you have any idea how hard it is to discourage that man?" She put her face in her hands, overcome by a fit of giggles that was half residual amusement and half nervous tension. "
Strumpet.
Oh, my." She sighed, exhausted, and finally dared to lift her gaze to Luke’s face.

My goodness, but he is gorgeous, she thought.

He had put on a tie in the bedroom, a dark brown knit that matched his hair and eyes. Against the snowy white of his shirt his skin had a dusky matte texture, his hair a satin sheen. His eyes, without the charismatic twinkle, held hers in a long, sober look. He was so wonderful to look at, she wanted to go on doing it forever. And so, perversely, she turned away, refusing to allow herself to look at him at all.

But still…deep, deep inside her, in the secret hideaway of her emotions, something was aborning. What a temptation it would be to nurture it, to let it grow…

"Delilah—"

"I’ll change my clothes," she said huskily, struggling to rise. "I know you’d like to get out of here."

His hand reached for hers, but he didn’t touch her. She looked at him, half–fearful. "What?" she asked.

"Please." His eyes looked almost black. She settled slowly back in her chair. "Listen to me for a minute, all right? Hear me out before you start arguing."

She stared at him without comprehension, and he took a deep breath. "I have a proposition for you. How would you like a hired hand? For the duration of your lambing season, room and board, no strings attached?"

It seemed a very long time before Delilah could think of anything to say. He might have been speaking Swahili, for all the sense his words made to her. Finally she decided he must be making some sort of obscure joke.

"Um–hmm, I’d like that," she said, beginning to nod. "And then I’d like to win a sweepstakes and be a five–foot–seven blonde." She managed a dry sound that was only half laughter.

Luke’s hand moved toward hers again. "I’m serious."

"You’re serious." Now anger became an ingredient in her confusion. She snatched her hand out of danger and stood up. "That’s just great. What did you do—get rid of Amos just so you could take his place?"

"Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t mean to make you mad—"

"Mad?
Me?
I never get mad." She had started for the sink, but now returned to clutch at the back of a chair. With icy control she said, "What I really am is curious. That man who just left here has been trying for two solid years to worm his way into control of this place by offering me free hired help—free this, free that. I thought his price was too high. Now I’m wondering what your price is. What do you want from me? Are you going to tell me there’s natural gas under my land? Hot water, maybe?"

"What an interesting possibility," Luke said in the same mildly reproving manner that had made her feel so childish this morning. "I’ll have to look into it."

"Over my dead body." She straightened and sniffed. "I don’t need your hired hand any more than I need Amos’s."

"Or any more than you need legs," Luke said quietly. He leaned back in his chair and regarded her steadily. A slight smile played about his mouth. "But I don’t think you understand. I’m not trying to give you a hired hand. I’m offering to work for you."

Seconds ticked slowly by, uncounted. Delilah lowered herself carefully into the chair and placed her hands palms down on the oilcloth. She felt a giddy urge to laugh. "Um, excuse me. You’re telling me you want to work for me? For nothing?"

"Not for nothing. For room and board."

"One of us," she said crisply, "is losing his mind."

He moved, shifted in his chair, and it was as if he’d released a charge of pure animal magnetism. The air crackled with it, and Delilah found herself staring at the knot of his tie and remembering with full sensual recall the feel of his warm neck against the backs of her fingers. Dragging her gaze away with an effort of will, she gave a dismissive sniff and said lightly, "Well, I’m sorry, but I seriously doubt you’re qualified for the job anyway."

"Oh, yeah?" His eyes smiled at her, quietly confident. "What makes you think that?"

You’re too beautiful, she wanted to say.
You smell too good. You make me feel like Annie Oakley.

Instead she snorted. "Oh, for heaven’s sake, be serious. Talk about overqualified! And look at yourself. Sheep ranching’s hard, dirty work."

"Don’t let the tie fool you," Luke drawled, his eyes glittering. "I’ve worked oil rigs since I was nine."

"What about recently?" she muttered doubtfully, adding, "You told me you were a city boy."

"I’m a fast learner." He shifted again, becoming placating, as though she were an intractable child. "Look. Delilah. What’s the problem? You need help, and I owe you."

"Oh, no. No." She stood up with an angry gesture. "Look,
Mr. MacGregor
…" She emphasized his name, reminding them both of who he was and where he really belonged.

As she began to pace, rubbing defensively at her arms, her reactions zigzagged from anger to disbelief, and finally to unease. He seemed serious, so either he was completely crazy or he wanted something from her. But what? What could a stranded executive, a man she’d never heard of before in her life, possibly want from her? She took a deep breath, preparing to be reasonable.

"I don’t mean to be rude, but you have to admit that you sound a little crazy. You are an executive, aren’t you? You’re so busy you fly your own plane to get where you want to go, and yet you crash–land in my pasture and the next day offer to work off the damage personally? I’m sorry, but I know executives. If you thought you owed me anything you’d offer to pay me off, not work. Executives value their time above anything in the world."

Luke laughed good–naturedly. "That’s true enough, unless the executive happens to have more time than money."

It was as if someone had activated a dimmer switch, Delilah thought. Although he was smiling, the laughter didn’t touch his eyes.

"I’m…having a little trouble with the courts. My company’s temporarily shut down. A little forced vacation, you might say."

"Oh, come on," she snapped. "And there’s nothing in the world you’d rather do with your vacation than herd sheep? You live in Mammoth, right? Maybe you hadn’t noticed, but the skiing isn’t too shabby up there this time of year. Or wait—maybe the bright lights are more your style. Reno’s just a short airplane ride over the mountain. And, for that matter, where were you going when you crashed? You must have had something—"

"How’d you get to be so damn cynical?" Luke exploded, then reined himself in with visible effort. "Look, I don’t understand the third degree. You’re looking a pretty good gift horse in the mouth, it seems to me. You have a big problem here, and I thought—"

"You thought I’d jump at the offer?" Delilah paused in front of him, incredulous. "Mr. MacGregor, I don’t know you from Adam. I’ve known you less than a day, and your story is, excuse me, more than a tad farfetched. I can’t buy it, and I can’t figure out what you really want from me, and that makes me very nervous."

Luke smiled at her, and his voice acquired those husky, spine–tingling dissonances. "Would you believe I fell madly in love with you at first sight and just want to be near you?"

"No," Delilah said, unmoved. "I wouldn’t."

He hesitated just long enough, allowed his gaze to become just intense enough, to start a shiver on its way down her spine. Then he gave a shrug that seemed to say, "It was worth a try." He said blandly, "I’ll bet you’d believe me if I said I just wanted to jump your bones."

She managed to keep her voice at the opposite end of the temperature scale from her temper. "I wouldn’t believe that either."

With real curiosity he asked, "Why not?"

"I’m sure you don’t have to go this far to find a presentable set of bones, Mr. MacGregor."

"Okay, can we cut the ‘Mister’ stuff? My name is
Luke."
Now he had a stubborn, implacable look—the look of a man bent on getting what he wanted.

It occurred to Delilah there might be a darker side to the charming Luke MacGregor, even a ruthless side.

He started to rake his fingers through his hair, encountered his injury, winced, and made an impatient gesture with his hand. "I’d just like to stick around for a while, that’s all. I thought I could pay my way and help you out at the same time." He got up from the table and strolled to the window. Again he touched the wound in his scalp, then dropped his hand to his side.

Every move he makes is graceful, Delilah thought, watching the pull of expensive fabric across his shoulders. She was beginning to think she’d have been better off with Amos. At least she knew what he wanted.

"Mr. MacGregor," she ventured, swallowing a dryness in her throat. "Are you running from the police?"

"No!" He looked at her in surprise, and then smiled. "No." He went back to looking out the window. He seemed pensive, subdued. It occurred to her that he was deliberately making himself seem less vibrant, less alive. Less threatening. "I like it here, Delilah. I could use a place like this right now. Quiet, peaceful, no internet, no phone—"

"No phone!" She pounced with the air of one crying, "Ah–hah!" "I thought you
wanted
a phone."

"To call out," he said pointedly.

"Then you
are
trying to avoid somebody." She took a deep breath. "Mr. MacGregor, it seems to me
you
are the one who needs a favor."

Seconds ticked slowly by. He isn’t a very good liar, she thought, noting the tension in his shoulders. She wondered if he would decide to tell her the truth, and whether she’d be able to tell if he did.

Crossly, and with a touch of embarrassment, he said, "All right. When I, uh, landed in your field, I was on my way to see someone."

A woman, Delilah supplied silently.
Of course.

Luke coughed and continued in a reluctant mutter, "She wants me to get married."

"Married?" He’d managed to surprise her. And was she just a tiny bit disappointed?

He nodded solemnly. "Immediately, if not sooner. She’s very determined."

"I don’t believe it," Delilah murmured disgustedly.

Luke looked pained. "Believe it. You don’t know how persistent Glenna can be when she gets obsessed with something."

Delilah gazed sourly at him. It wasn’t his story she didn’t believe—his voice had the unmistakable timbre of sincerity. She couldn’t believe she’d been taken in by his charm and good looks. He was a cowardly, egocentric jerk. "Have you tried just telling her you don’t want to get married?" she asked tartly.